“Shot,” he said. “That’s what Hoffmeister has proposed to Berlin. Unnecessary mouths to feed.”
Aurélie couldn’t help it. She hadn’t meant to show her distress but to hear it said so baldly horrified her. The back of her hand pressed against her mouth; she bit her knuckles to keep from crying out.
“It’s abominable,” said Lieutenant von Sternburg. “Mademoiselle de Courcelles—please. Don’t look so. This will not stand.”
“But . . . if Hoffmeister . . .” Oh Lord, how had it come to this, that she was bowing to the wishes of a petty dictator? But he was supreme here. He had the power of force, the only power that mattered now.
Von Sternburg’s face was set. Aurélie hadn’t known he could look so stern. “Hoffmeister answers to Berlin and Berlin will know of this.”
“That Mademoiselle de Courcelles has lost her bedchamber?”
“That Major Hoffmeister is abusing his privileges.” Lieutenant von Sternburg leaned forward, his expression earnest. “I have written to my uncle. He is . . . well placed. Something will be done.”
Aurélie drew back, feeling off-balance, unsure who to trust. He seemed sincere enough, but—these were his people. His commanding officer. “Why should Berlin care?”
Lieutenant von Sternburg’s lips twisted in a rueful smile. “Berlin may not care about widows and children, but they will care that the population is no longer fit to work. The army needs the grain they will sow in the spring.”
“Oh.” That told her.
“And,” said Lieutenant von Sternburg quietly, “one hopes the world still has some decency left.”
He bent and began gathering Aurélie’s scattered belongings out of the mud.
“You don’t—you don’t have to do that,” Aurélie croaked. She could see Dreier watching from the window. This would all be reported back to Hoffmeister.
Von Sternburg straightened, her dresses draped over one arm. “Please. Let me do what I can to make things right. Goodness knows it’s little enough.” His eyes were very blue in his thin face. “You have mud on your cheek.”
Aurélie’s hand rose automatically to her face. “It’s appropriate, don’t you think? Or maybe it should be ashes.”
“If I may?” His handkerchief was large, and white, and smelled of violets. He touched it gently to her cheek.
“Do you really—do you really think your uncle can do something?” It wasn’t what she’d meant to say.
“I will write tonight,” said Lieutenant von Sternburg gravely. “And tell you when I hear. We are not all barbarians.”
See? she could hear her father say. See how easily it’s done?
“Thank you.” Aurélie felt out of place in her own skin, clumsy and awkward. She hadn’t been bred for this, for scheming. “Would you . . . might you help me? With my things?”
Lieutenant von Sternburg bowed, entirely unaware that he was about to be used, betrayed. “Mademoiselle de Courcelles, it would be my honor.”
Chapter Twelve
Daisy
Rue Volney
Paris, France
May 1942
Honor. It was a word Monsieur Legrand spoke often, without irony. He had already said it four times since ushering Daisy into the cramped back room in which he worked, a courtyard annex, the door to which you couldn’t find unless you knew where to look. Daisy noticed because honor wasn’t a word that existed in Pierre’s vocabulary, except as a joke.
“You must be an Englishman,” she said.
“Nonsense. I am French, madame, as French as the tricolor itself.”
“And I say you’re an Englishman. Only an Englishman uses that word in that particular way, these days.”
“Which word?”
“L’honneur.”
Legrand shrugged, and Daisy had to admit that this was indisputably the Gallic kind of shrug, accompanied by a wink even more so. He removed his pipe from the corner of his mouth and sat back in his chair. “I suppose I still have hope, that’s all. A little faith in ideas. French honor is not dead, Madame Villon. It lives and thrives. You only have to know where to find it.”
Madame Villon. The sound of it, coming from this man’s throat, tanned and taut, made her wince. She linked her hands together atop the table. “Call me Daisy.”
“Speaking of English words.”
She shrugged, the same way he had. “My grandmother’s American. As you know.”