The Paris Agent(99)

Hughie, I love you.

The first doctor swept an impatient glance over the four of us.

“Expose your arm then, please.”

I released Josie’s hand and undid the buttons of my blouse. The doctor quickly measured the liquid, drawing it into the syringe, while the younger man moved along the line and applied tourniquets to Wendy and Mary’s arms. After the older had injected Wendy and Mary, the young man moved the tourniquets forward to apply them to me and to Josie.

When the bald man bent toward me with the syringe, I looked him right in the eye.

“I have a son,” I whispered to him. There was a flicker in his eyes. “He’s a baby—not even three years old. My husband is dead. I am all that child has in the whole world.”

“Very sad for your son,” the doctor said stiffly.

I felt the slight pinch as he punctured my skin. My heart began to race as he injected the liquid. Josie reached to take my hand again. Beside us, Wendy and Mary were watching quietly, both calm and both, so far, still well.

The doctor lifted the syringe to prepare it for Josie, then paused. He reached to the tray and picked up the little vial. He shook it, as if checking to see how full it was, then sighed and sat it back down.

“Is the dose not sufficient?” Josie asked him, her voice strained. He pursed his lips.

“You are small. It will be enough.”

“I feel dizzy,” Wendy said quietly.

“It’s just a side effect from the inoculation,” the doctor said dismissively. “Please wait here, we will just be a few minutes.”

He didn’t look back at us as they left the corridor. Josie and I stared at one another.

“Gosh, that’s making me sleepy…” Wendy said, but she trailed off.

“I feel very strange too,” Mary said, but her voice was coming from a long way away.

“Let’s go somewhere lovely together,” Josie whispered. I closed my eyes, and brought to mind an image of my son. I saw him pink and angry when I held him in my arms the first time. I remembered the milky, sweet smell of his cheeks as I nuzzled him close when I’d fed him in the night. I remembered the feel of his soft body collapsing into my arms after his first triumphant steps toward me, the sound of his laughter when I played with him during the months when my ankle was healing.

I’m sorry, Hughie. I love you. I hope you’ll be free. I hope you’ll be happy. I hope one day you’ll find the truth.

As the room began to grow dim, the images faded too, and I used my very last breath just to love my son.

C H A P T E R 29

JOSIE

Natzweiler-Struthof Camp, Germany

October, 1944

I was still conscious, but my mind was foggy. I could not keep my eyes open.

I was walking down a beach, Maman on one side, Noah on the other. He was holding my hand now. Maman had looped her arm through my elbow. Aunt Quinn was ahead of us, smiling and waving us closer. What does it smell like there, darling? The air—so fresh and crisp, and salty too. What will we eat there, Josie? Ah, we will stop at a kiosk for chips and fish wrapped in newspaper, drizzled with sharp vinegar, and I’ll eat as much as I want but I won’t get sick at all. How do you feel in your heart?

Loved. Wanted. Known.

The fantasy was abruptly interrupted when the doctors came back into the room, talking quietly among themselves. They were speaking German and it was so hard to focus. Two voices, one deep, one higher and breaking with emotion.

“They told me these women were all English or French and had no idea what the injection was. They specifically said we did not need the Gestapo here to do this because there would be no resistance!” The deeper voice dropped to a furious whisper. “I was not expecting to have to argue with them about undressing. I admit—Gustaf, I was thrown by that, and I wasn’t concentrating as I should have been. I think I have given one of them too much—there was not enough left by the time I got to…”

“She is skin and bone,” the higher voice said uncertainly. “Will it be enough to keep her unconscious at least until…？”

The grating sound of metal on metal as the wheel on a trolley squealed, then silence. I was awake enough to wonder what the sounds were, too drowsy to open my eyes at first. Long minutes passed, then the trolley and the footsteps returned. My eyelids were fluttering and the darkness in my mind was receding. The trolley went again. I was barely even dozing now, lethargic but awake. I was still holding Eloise’s hand until they disentangled our fingers. I remembered all over again what was really happening and grief for her might have overwhelmed me.

I hoped she went peacefully. I hoped she was with her husband already, looking down on their baby boy.

I was in an in-between place—my mind wanted to go, but my body kept pulling it back. And was that smoke in the air? No, something so much worse. Something that made my stomach lurch and my heart race.

I opened my eyes abruptly. I was alone in the hallway on the chair, wide awake and panicking. The door opened, and the two men were there, staring at me. The youngest was standing aside from the older again. This time, he looked as if he might cry.

“What do we do?” he said, sounding panicked. He turned to the older man. “There is no more phenol. Doctor, what do we do?”

There was a moment of horrifying silence. They stared at me, I stared at them, and not one of us in that room knew what to do. I flicked my glance toward the other door, the one we’d entered the building through. It was a long hallway—a few dozen feet back to the outside. And even if I made it, where would I go? Escape into the camp?