Scent of Triumph (21 page)

Danielle smiled sweetly. “If you don’t, I’ll go to your superior officer and tell him I’m your wife, and Nicky is our son. Your Jewish son, you bastard.”

He took a step back as if she’d slapped him again. “Who’d believe you?” he said with a nervous laugh.

She looked up at him, still smiling. She had him right where she wanted him. She moved closer, her lips touching his ear as she spoke softly. “Perhaps you remember Sofia’s birthday party at the lake last spring. Max took a lot of photos with his new camera, Heinrich. Of you and me and Nicky. All of us together. We looked so friendly. I even sent some pictures to my mother. I’m sure you remember, in fact, I have them with me.” She patted her pocket.

“They won’t believe you.”

“Maybe not, but it will tarnish your image, won’t it?” She could see fury flashing in his cool eyes, like a dog that knew when it was cornered.

“What do you want?”

“Good, we understand one another.” She hesitated, aware of the scarce minutes slipping away. Mrs. Penowski would miss her soon. Her heart pounded. She still needed to know so much. “I want Nicky and Sofia. Where are they?”

Heinrich’s features twisted into a salacious grin. “Wouldn’t we both like to know?” He extracted a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

Danielle slapped it from his hand, sending cigarettes flying across the verandah. “Where are they?” she demanded, grabbing his hand.
Damn him to hell! And I haven’t much time before someone discovers us.
Her nails dug into his skin, drawing blood.

He cried out, wresting from her grip. He put his hand to his mouth. “They disappeared. I tried to find them, but I couldn’t.”

“You’re lying,” she snapped. “Don’t lie to me, Heinrich. Where are they?” She lifted her chin and her eyes bored into his. “I’ll do it, Heinrich, I swear to God I’ll do it. I have the photographs. Tell me the truth.
Now
.”

“Shhh!” He glanced behind him. “I swear, Danielle, I swear this is the truth.” He drew a deep breath, clearly anxious to get away from her before another officer stumbled out the door and found them. “I didn’t want to tell you, not like this, but Nicky and Sofia are dead.”

His words rushed in her ears and she felt her heart pound wildly. “I–I don’t believe you.” She stared at him, but he didn’t flinch. “It can’t be.”

Hatred spread across Heinrich’s face and his eyes glowed with morbid satisfaction.

“Sofia was shot with Nicky in her arms.” Heinrich said. “They’re both dead. It’s over. Destroy the photos, go away. You have no place here.”

He finished speaking, but Danielle stood frozen in shock. Her face drained of color, until it felt as white as her bonnet in the eerie moonlight.

Heinrich just stared at her, an expression of pity mixed with fear and hatred.

Still, Danielle stared at him. “Don’t you even feel shame? Is this your idea of a glorious war?” She saw him nervously clench and unclench his hands, just as he had when he was a teenager and was caught lying.

Danielle sensed his vulnerability and she seized upon it.
I must know everything.
“How do you
know
they’re dead?”

“How do I know?” A sardonic grin contorted his face. “I killed them, Danielle. I did it, I shot them both.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “Through the heart.”

Infuriated, Danielle balled her fist and struck him in the face as hard as she could.

He reeled, then caught her wrist and twisted her arm. “Go now,” he hissed, his face reddening with rage. “They’re all dead, I tell you.
Go away
.” He shoved her away and she hit the floor with a thud, her hands scraping the rough wooden planks. He glared at her, then whirled around and stalked through the door.

Danielle sat stunned, her hands burning and bloodied from the fall. Heinrich’s horrible words echoed in her mind, while Nicky and Sofia’s death cries reverberated in her soul.
No, no!
she screamed in her mind.

Mrs. Penowski pushed open the door. “My God, girl, what happened to you?” She looked at Danielle and shook her head. “I can guess what happened here. I knew you were too pretty for your own good. Well, nothing more to do about it.” She helped Danielle to her feet. “Come on, clean yourself up. I need you in the kitchen. We’ll be out of here soon, I promise you that.”

Danielle stood, shaky on her feet. She didn’t resist, didn’t dare tell Mrs. Penowski anything different than what the woman thought she had deduced.
But what did I expect?
she thought numbly.

The rest of the night passed in a haze, and Danielle strained to complete her work.

Mrs. Penowski helped her load the truck, and wagged her head periodically on the long drive home.

“I won’t be back to work, Mrs. Penowski,” Danielle told her when they returned to the village.

“I didn’t think you would be, dear.”

Oscar had parked around the corner, waiting for her. When Danielle returned, she told him the entire story before getting into the car. He listened, his rheumy eyes glistening with tears, holding Danielle as her words choked and shook her.

Before today, neither of them had dared to mention the unspeakable.

“Sofia was so ill,” she sobbed. “The poor woman...to die that way.” She recalled her vision at the hospital and realized that it had not been her imagination. “But Nicky...as evil as Heinrich is,” she sobbed, “how could he have killed an innocent little boy?”
How could it be?

“Where will you go?” Oscar gently prodded.

“I’m going back to France,” she said between sobs. “I’ve got to get my baby daughter. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I can’t stand it here, Oscar. The smell of death is everywhere. How can you stay?”

“It’s still my home,” he said sadly.

Oscar made the arrangements and the next day she boarded the train as Frau Werner, once again wearing the yellow flower on her hat and the brightly colored scarf, and clutching her fraudulent passport and traveling documents.

“I suppose I won’t ever see you again,” Oscar said.

Danielle embraced him. “You have my love and appreciation, Oscar, for your efforts and devotion to my family. I know Sofia and Max appreciated it, as do I.”

“Sofia was a great lady. And your husband and son, what a fine family you had. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I shall never forget any of this.” Danielle gritted her teeth. “Never.”

The voice behind her was a mere whisper. “Pardon, Madame von Hoffman?”

Danielle had just entered the wide square of the Place Vendôme, and had spied Nazi soldiers guarding the entry of the Hôtel Ritz, where occupying German forces had taken up residence. Were her parents still there? Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Slowly she swung around.

“
Oui
?” She recognized the Ritz hotelier’s uniform.

“Wait here,” the dark-haired man said, then made his way past her into the hotel.

Danielle watched as Nazis paraded in and out of the hotel, many with German wives, and others with slender young French women extravagantly clothed.

Minutes turned to an hour, and Danielle tried to look nonchalant. The Ritz had been requisitioned and was now under German control, as were many of the grand palace hotels in Paris, including the Georges V, Le Meurice, Lutetia, Crillon, and others. Only the Ritz allowed civilians to stay, and only with
Luftwaffe
commander-in-chief Hermann Goering’s approval.

Danielle pursed her lips. Most likely, her parents had been moved from the hotel on the order of some Nazi officer who wanted their lovely suite. Paris was a mess of fear and confusion and armed soldiers, but at least it had been spared the
Luftwaffe
air attack that had decimated Poland. She prayed her parents were safe.

She noticed an elegant woman attired in a couture suit, layers of pearls, and a chic black hat. It was Mademoiselle Chanel, who was known as Coco, the couturière who lived at the Ritz near her rue Cambon atelier, which was now closed. She sucked in her breath. Marie knew her quite well. Did she dare approach her? Averting her face, she decided she would wait as she’d been told.

Suddenly a man brushed past her, his hat pulled low over his eyes. “Follow me,” he said in a low voice.

After a brief backward glance at the Ritz, she began to follow him at a distance. He darted into an alley beside a brasserie, and motioned for her.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” he said, his accent that of an aristocrat.

“Who are you and where are my parents?”

Instead of answering her, the man withdrew a handful of letters from his jacket, with the address of her brother clipped to the top. “The concierge, a friend of your parents, managed to keep these for you.”

“Where are they?” she demanded, concern rising in her voice.

Evading her question again, he motioned to a delivery truck that had slowed to an idle at the end of the alley. “Get in the truck, and you will be transported safely.”

“Where?”

A shadow of sadness crossed his face. “To your family, at your brother’s apartment, but you must hurry.”

Danielle kissed him on both cheeks, then turned and walked briskly to the truck. The door opened for her, she climbed in, and the young man behind the wheel gave her a sharp nod. “Better we don’t talk,” he mumbled, looking away from her.

Danielle glanced at the letters. One was from Abigail, another from Cameron, and two from Jon, all received before Paris had been occupied. Jon had written, just as he had promised. His first letter was confident, but in his second letter he wrote that one of his close friends had been killed and he had written to the parents.
What do you say?
he wrote,
What can you possibly say to ease their pain?

Next she opened Abigail’s letter. She had returned to Los Angeles, and wrote in detail about her charity work. Cameron’s letter held a few words of sympathy for Max, and congratulations on Jasmin’s birth. Danielle smiled at his thoughtfulness.

As they drove, she heard shouts in German from the street outside. How strange it was to hear this in Paris.

She was so anxious to hold Jasmin and to see her parents. A rush of raw emotion engulfed her as memories of Nicky and Sofia and Max flooded her mind. Rubbing her throbbing temples, she closed her eyes, thankful to be so close to the comfort of her parents and Jean-Claude, even though Paris was occupied, even though she dreaded what that occupation meant.

Upon arriving at her brother’s building, she walked upstairs to her brother’s flat, where the door swung open. A neighbor greeted her, a Spanish nurse name Christina. “Danielle? Why, your hair is so dark, I almost didn’t recognize you. Come in,” she said, embracing her.

Danielle returned her embrace. Glancing over Christina’s shoulder, she noticed the apartment was brimming with flowers.
A special celebration, perhaps.
“Where is everyone?” Christina often watched Liliana when Jean-Claude and Hélène went out.

Christina lifted her hand to her mouth and stared at her.

Danielle put her bag down and shrugged out of her jacket. “Where is Jasmin?”

Christina hesitated. “In Liliana’s room.”

“Good, I’ve got to see her.” Danielle hurried through the hallway and pushed the bedroom door open.

Jasmin was sleeping in Liliana’s old bassinet. Relief surged through her.
My baby is safe.
She stroked Jasmin’s fine hair and bent to kiss her smooth cheek. She smelled like sweet milk, and Danielle smiled sadly her. She would never know her brother or her father.

Danielle tiptoed out and closed the door. She walked through the hallway, passing the small kitchen. Flower arrangements were everywhere, even by the sink.
Everything seems so odd
, she thought, massaging her temples.
Or is it just me?

Danielle sat on the sofa and Christina joined her, placing two etched crystal glasses and a bottle of sherry on the table before them. “I thought you might like a drink,” said Christina. “Are you hungry?”

Danielle shook her head. “No, just tired. Sherry would be nice, though. Why all the flowers, Christina? Good Lord, there are so many irises it looks as if someone–” Danielle stopped. Died, she started to say. “Did Maman and Papa have a party?”

Christina poured the sherry, then handed a glass to Danielle. “Then, you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

Christina spilled the sherry as she lifted it to her lips. “Weren’t you with your uncle in Grasse?”

“Why?”

Christina looked distressed. “Didn’t you receive my telegram?”

“No, I must have just missed it.”

“And you haven’t seen the newspapers?”

“No. Christina, what’s wrong?” Blood drained from her face and her hands suddenly went cold.
Irises. The floral arrangements were full of irises.

Christina drained her glass. “
Dios mio
, you’d better drink your sherry. It’s about your family,” she began, grasping Danielle’s hand. She spoke gently, explaining that there had been an accident, a car explosion, on the day that Marie and Hélène had met her father for lunch for his birthday.

Danielle sat stunned. The words washed over her and an eerie calm set in. She grew cold, and it seemed as if her soul had separated from her body, as if she were watching herself through a shadowy haze in a horrible play. She drained her sherry and swallowed hard. Suddenly, the scent of flowers overwhelmed her with the putrid stench of sympathy.
Irises. Funeral flowers
.

Christina took a drink of sherry. “The police deduced that the bomb had been intended for your father’s partner, Louis LeBlanc, a Nazi sympathizer.”

Danielle winced and gripped the arm of the sofa.

“Your father and Hélène were killed immediately.”

Danielle gasped as a sharp, vise-like pain seized her chest.
No, no, no
! she screamed in her mind. “And my mother?”

“Your mother survived,
gracias a Dios
. It was a miracle. She is in the bedroom resting, though she is not, how do I say? She is not really with us, the shock was too much for her.”

The room swirled around, closing in on her. Danielle gasped, gagging on the stench of rotting flowers. Irises: the flower of condolences, the flower of the dead. Her mind was a rushing torment of emotion. A clock ticked in the kitchen, yet with each passing minute, her life, and those whom she loved, ebbed away.
Where would it all end?