Unable to keep the disgust out of my voice, I ask, “What do you want?”
He brings his face close, dark eyes boring into mine. “What I want, mademoiselle, is your promise that if you do something like this again, you won’t be so stupid.”
I blink as he lets go of my wrist and sets the forged identity cards on fire. Tears of confusion spring to my eyes, and my every limb goes weak with relief as the paper curls and burns to ash.
“Don’t be cute, Marthe,” he says. “If you’re making false papers, don’t use birthplaces that can be verified. Don’t let people know who you are—protect your identity so no one can give you away. Do you understand?”
I nod dumbly. But then I have to ask, “Without papers, what’s going to happen to the man you arrested?”
“They’ll check if he’s circumcised. He had an unauthorized weapon. They’ll want to send him to Drancy and then some place called Auschwitz.”
Not wanting to reveal Monsieur Kohn’s name, but still wanting to protect him, I blurt, “But he’s French.”
“Good. Then I’ll charge him with being part of a thieving ring, and it’ll take time to get through the court system. Maybe time enough to arrange it so he’s sent somewhere else. It’s the best I can do.”
Poor Monsieur Kohn! It’s a terrible solution, but I can’t think of a better one. “Thank you . . . but I have to know why you’re helping . . .”
“You think I like rounding up people like cattle? Up until now, we knew the camps were harsh—bad conditions. But they were French camps, not Nazi death camps . . .”
“So it’s true.” I almost choke on the words. “They’re killing deportees.”
His expression is bleak. “The Germans claim they’re resettling Jews in the east—but it’s not all Jews they’re taking, and no one hears from these people again once they board those trains. You tell me what I should think.”
I can’t wrap my mind around it. “I don’t know.”
“All I know is that if I quit, they’ll put some gendarme in my place who won’t look the other way. And even I can’t look the other way every time, because if I’m fired, they’ll send me to jail or to Germany. It’s a box. There’s no way out but small acts of defiance.”
I understand the dilemma. Blowing out a breath, I admit, “You scared me half to death!”
“I was trying to. Being scared will keep you from being stupid.”
If I were smart, I’d wash my hands of this whole forgery business now—but with Monsieur Kohn under arrest, getting his children admitted to the preventorium with new papers is more important than ever. I have to start again. New cards, new photographs, new stamps, with only days to spare. Maybe I should ask Anna to help, but then she’d be in danger too. Maybe she would help me, or maybe she would tell . . .
That thought has a venomous bite, and I squash it like a stinging insect. “The baroness is going to have questions. How am I going to explain your coming here? Am I supposed to tell everyone I know something about a thieving ring?”
“No.” Travert clears his throat. “As it happens, there’s a simpler explanation for my visit.”
“Which is?”
“I’ve come to make you an offer of marriage.”
I give him a look that should wither his balls. “Just when I was beginning to think you were a hero . . .”
“You’re too smart to think that.” Travert lights his cigarette. “The age of heroes is over, even if their castles still stand. Nowadays, we’re all just savages willing to do terrible things to get what we want.”
“And you’re saying you want me?” When he nods, my fists clench. “So this is a bargain for your silence . . .”
“Mon Dieu, what does a man have to do to earn your trust? I’m offering a free choice! At least take a little time to think it over.”
I laugh. “You think I need time?”
He winces like my laughter hurts his feelings.
On the off chance he might be sincere, I say, “I’m sorry, but you’ve got to admit, this is out of the blue.”
His dark brown eyes meet my blue ones. “Is it really, mademoiselle?”
I think back.
You’ve always been the most interesting girl in these mountains . . .
Mademoiselle, for you, I can keep a secret . . .
Now he stiffens like a man trying to hold on to his pride. “I have a house. A steady paycheck. Marry me and you don’t have to register for the Service du Travail Obligatoire. What’s more, I admire you and what you’re doing, and if you want to keep doing it—well . . .”