The Lavender Garden (32 page)

“Not at all,” Édouard managed, drunk with pain. “I’ll go upstairs and clean myself up.”

“I’ll help you,” said Connie.

“No, send Sarah up to run me a bath.” Édouard grimaced as he began to mount the stairs. “I’m sure I’ll be well in the morning. Good night.”

The three of them watched Édouard make his way gingerly to the top of the stairs. As he disappeared along the corridor, the doorbell rang.

“It will be your brother,” said Connie, hurriedly collecting her coat from the peg. “Please carry on, Herr Frederik, and I’ll see you, Sophia, later.”

Connie opened the door to Falk. With a bright smile, she said, “I’m ready! Shall we go?”

Surprised and gratified by her eagerness, Falk agreed, took Connie’s arm in his, and they walked down the steps to his waiting car. The chauffeur opened the door for Connie, and Falk climbed into the back with her. She could smell his acrid breath, as usual, tinged with stale alcohol. The swastika on the arm of his jacket brushed up against her flesh, and a hand laid itself firmly on her knee.

“Attcchh! It’s good to be away for a while. It has been a busy day.”

“But successful?” Connie asked as calmly as she could.

“Extremely. We caught twenty of them, although sadly they took out their guns and we lost a good officer, who was a friend of mine. Some of them got away, of course . . . but it’s interesting how, when we poke them, they squeal and give us their friends’ names. Rest assured, we’ll find the others who escaped. Now”—he patted her knee—“that is for tomorrow. Tonight, many are safely behind bars and I wish to relax.”

Connie could feel Falk tingling with triumph. As they entered the club, Connie excused herself, walked into the powder room, and locked herself inside a cubicle. She sat down on the lid and put her head between her legs. She felt horribly faint and her breath was coming in short, sharp bursts. Surely, the game was up? When Frederik told his brother of Édouard’s arriving home with an obvious gunshot
wound, Falk’s suspicions would be raised. Frederik may well have left and alerted the Gestapo already.

And this was all due to her—she had broken Édouard’s trust and had, in trying to warn Venetia, compromised his hard-won and fiercely protected cover and placed him in irrevocable danger.

“Oh, God, oh, God, what have I done . . .?” Connie keened. And Venetia—had she been one of the lucky few who, like Édouard, had escaped? Or was she locked up in a cell at Gestapo headquarters, awaiting the dreadful round of the torture SOE and Resistance agents were subjected to? Before they were shipped off to the death camps or, if they were lucky, shot then and there.

Connie left the cubicle and splashed her face in the basin. She reapplied her lipstick and gave herself a good talking to in the mirror. Tonight, Connie knew she must give Édouard, if he hadn’t already been arrested, as much time as possible to recover.

Whatever
it took . . .

•  •  •

Édouard lay on his bed, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder. After his bath, Sarah had cleaned the wound for him and placed on an antiseptic, then a dressing.

“Monsieur Édouard,” said Sarah desperately, “you know you should go to a hospital to have this properly tended to. It’s a flesh wound, yes, but it’s deep and perhaps there’s still shrapnel from the bullet inside you.”

“Sarah, you know I cannot.” He grimaced as the antiseptic stung like a thousand bees. “We must do the best we can here. Has Frederik left the house?”

“No, he’s still in the library with Mademoiselle Sophia.”

Édouard reached for Sarah’s hand. “You know now, don’t you, that it’s almost certainly all over for me? I was seen by at least two of the Gestapo officers in the café. And the rest of the household will be under equal suspicion. I . . .” Édouard tried to sit up but fell back onto his pillows in pain. “Sarah, as we have always planned in these circumstances, you must leave as soon as possible and take Mademoiselle Sophia and Constance down south to the château. The Gestapo could be here for us all at any minute.”

“Monsieur”—Sarah shook her head—“you know I will not do that. I’ve worked with this family for thirty-five years, and I salute your courage and bravery. My husband was shot two years ago by those pigs. I will not desert you now.”

“You must, Sarah, for Sophia’s sake. Please make ready for you all to leave as soon as you can. There’s money in the bureau in the library, and identity papers I have prepared for you all. They will, with luck, take you out of Paris, but you must obtain new papers before you travel further down to the south. There are still many checkpoints on the old Vichy Line. I’ll send word to those I know that you’re coming. They will help you, I—”

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

“Open it. Then do as I’ve just said.”

Sarah walked to the door and opened it. Standing on the threshold was Frederik, with Sophia’s arm tucked into his.

“Your sister wished to see you, Édouard,” explained Frederik. “She’s very concerned for your health, as am I. May we enter?”

“Of course.”

Édouard watched as Frederik, tender as a father, steered Sophia toward the bed and sat her down.

“Oh, Brother, what happened?” Sophia felt for Édouard’s hand and clasped it, her face a mask of fear. “Are you badly hurt?”

“No, my dearest. As I said, it’s only a flesh wound. There was a skirmish and I was caught in the middle of it.” Édouard was aware that every word he uttered could be his death sentence, and his sister’s. Yet Frederik’s eyes were not focused on him, or the tiny pieces of shrapnel that Sarah had painstakingly picked out of the wound and were lying on a dish on his bedside table. They were on Sophia, full of concern.

“Yes, I hear there were a number of raids in the city tonight.” Frederik moved his focus to Édouard, and the two men glanced at each other. “Now, I must leave you. Please, Édouard, if there’s anything you need, you can call me directly on my private line at Gestapo headquarters. Here, I’ll write it down.” Frederik retrieved a pencil and paper from the inside of his jacket and wrote out his number. “Good night, Sophia. Take care of your brother.” He kissed her hand gently, nodded at Édouard, and left the room.

•  •  •

Connie had managed to return to Falk with a smile painted as falsely on her lips as the vermillion adorning them. Falk ate heartily as Connie picked at her supper. He asked her more of her life before the war, about her home in Saint-Raphaël, and her plans for the future.

“I think it’s difficult for us all to plan further ahead until this war reaches a conclusion,” she said as Falk refilled her wineglass.

“But the conclusion is inevitable, is it not?” Falk’s eyes bored into her.

“Of course,” Connie replied quickly, “but until the French people understand what is best for them, these are dangerous times.”

“Yes, quite so.” Falk was pacified. “So, what of your cousin Édouard? He’s an interesting man, is he not?”

“He is indeed interesting,” Connie replied blandly.

“A member of the French bourgeoisie, with a family history stretching back hundreds of years. A family tree full of men of valor, who have risked their lives defending the country they love.”

“His family has indeed been full of brave men.”

“And yet, Édouard has been able to switch allegiance to Germany and its growing empire. I’ve often wondered how, and why, such a man as he should do this?” Falk pondered, still holding Connie’s eye.

“Perhaps because he sees the future as you do,” she enthused. “He knows that the old France cannot survive as it was, and he embraces the Führer’s ethos.”

“Admittedly, our right-wing sentiments are beneficial to wealthy men such as he. But”—Falk sighed—“there have been occasions when others have doubted that his support for our cause is all it seems. His name has been linked to a certain undercover organization of intellectuals and, lately, the Resistance. I, of course, have ignored these comments as gossip.”

“And you’re right to do so, Falk. It seems no one in Paris is not under suspicion from time to time. Perhaps even myself!” Connie gave a small chuckle.

“No, fräulein, I assure you that your record has no question marks against it. Is Édouard home this evening? Perhaps when we’ve finished here, I can speak with him, warn him that his name has been
mentioned to me in a recent Resistance activity. After all, it’s only what one friend must do for another. Édouard has offered great hospitality to myself and my brother.”

“Of course he’ll be there, but it’s so late, he will surely be in bed. Besides”—Connie steeled herself and put a light hand on Falk’s forearm—“I thought tonight was for relaxation?” She tipped her head coyly and smiled at him flirtatiously.

Falk’s eyes cleared and he banged the table. “Yes! You’re right. Tonight is for pleasure. Let us go and dance.”

Connie pressed her body hard against his as they swayed to the music. She accepted his caresses as though she’d been longing for them. She could feel his excitement against her thigh as he kissed her hard on the lips, his lizardlike tongue sweeping around her mouth.

“Let’s go somewhere we can be alone,” Connie whispered into his ear, wishing to take Falk’s mind off his suggestion of visiting Édouard.

“At once.”

Falk called for his car and they stepped into it. Having barked his address to the chauffeur, he lost no time in roughly exploring the parts of Connie’s body that were within his grasp. Stopping in front of a bland apartment block a few minutes from Gestapo headquarters on the Avenue Foch, Falk dismissed the driver and pulled Connie inside and up in the lift to the second floor. As they entered the apartment, Connie was led hurriedly into a darkened bedroom.

“
Mein Gott!
I have waited for this ever since I set eyes on you.”

Tearing the clothes from her body and stopping only to remove his jacket, he threw her onto the bed and opened the zipper of his trousers. Connie closed her eyes tightly to stop the tears as he forced his way inside her, kneading her breasts aggressively as he did so. She moved her hips up to meet his to indicate pleasure, so that perhaps this might be over faster.

She listened to him moaning expletives in German, his breath foul on her face. Her dry insides were screaming in pain as he continued to pummel her delicate inner flesh. Just as she was beginning to believe she would faint, Falk gave a roar and collapsed on top of her.

As his breathing steadied, he propped himself up on one arm and looked down at her. “For a French aristocrat, you fuck like a prostitute.” He rolled off her and closed his eyes.

Connie, lulled into a false sense of security, thanked God it had been over relatively quickly.

But ten minutes later, Falk was awake. He looked at her and started stroking himself. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he dragged her across the bed, tipping her off it roughly onto the floor. Swinging his own legs around, he positioned her between them.

“Herr Falk! Please, I—” She could speak no more as he forced himself into her mouth.

“You French bourgeoisie, you think you’re superior to us.” Falk placed Connie’s head in a viselike grip as he thrust into her. “But, no, you women are all the same: whores and prostitutes!”

As the night wore on into a weary dawn, Connie was subjected to a series of degrading and unnatural sexual acts. Throughout, Falk’s tirade on women continued. She cried, she begged, but her words fell on deaf ears as he continued to abuse her. When he turned her over and invaded virgin, intimate orifices not designed for the purpose, the agony was so great that Connie lost consciousness.

She woke to a dim light emanating from the window and found Falk was no longer in the room. Tears cascading down her cheeks, she collected her clothes, staggering dizzily as she did so, and dressed her bruised and bleeding body in them. She checked her watch and saw that it was just after six o’clock. Managing to stand, every step she took making her violated muscles scream indignantly, Connie opened the bedroom door. Looking desperately for the way out, she found herself in the sitting room.

She saw a photograph, one of the only adornments in the utilitarian space. A woman, comely, plump, and motherly, was pictured with two cherubic, young children—miniature facsimiles of Falk.

Connie staggered back to the bathroom to vomit, wiped her face, and swallowed some water from the tap. Then she left the apartment.

A
s Connie stumbled through the front door of the de la Martinières house, Sarah greeted her.

“Madame, we’ve been waiting for you. Where have you been? What has happened to you?” she asked in horror, seeing Connie’s disheveled state.

Connie gave no reply, brushed past her, and ran up the stairs. In the bathroom, she turned on the taps and stepped into the tub, scrubbing every part of her body until it was red raw.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang again. This time, it was Frederik.

“I must see the comte, madame,” he said to Sarah.

“But he’s still asleep.”

Again, Sarah was ignored as Frederik took the stairs two at a time and entered Édouard’s bedroom.

Édouard, eyes bright with fever from a wound that was fast becoming infected, stared at him from his pillows in fear. He did not know immediately which brother it was.

“Monsieur le Comte, Édouard, I apologize for bursting in like this,” Frederik said hurriedly. “But I come to warn you that you and your family are in grave danger. My brother has long suspected you of being part of the Resistance. He came to my office this morning and told me that one of his officers recognized you when members of the Psychology network were arrested at the Café de la Paix last night. He will come any minute to arrest you, your cousin, and Sophia. Please, monsieur, you must leave now. There’s no time to lose.”

Édouard stared at Frederik in shocked fascination. “But . . . why would you tell me this? How can I trust you?”

“Because you have no choice, and because I love your sister. Listen.” Frederik came closer to the bed and stared down at Édouard. “Your hatred of our race is justified, but there are many of us who
have had no choice but to take part in a cause in which we no longer believe. And many more are joining us. Édouard, just like you, I’ve used my position in any way I can to minimize the amount of deaths. I, too, have links with those of your acquaintance, who fight to stop our beautiful countries from turning to rubble, and their history from being ground under the weight of Nazi boots. But now is not the time to talk of this. You must get up and leave the house immediately.”