Never Leave Me (11 page)

‘Then when?' Her shamelessness devastated her.

A grin tugged at the comers of his mouth. ‘When Auge says you no longer need his services. We'll go out for the day, far from Valmy. We'll have lunch and champagne and …' his voice thickened and she trembled against him, ‘we'll make love. There'll be no going back. Not ever.'

She had bent her head and kissed his hands, and he had stroked the satin-soft fall of her hair and had left her, not trusting himself to remain.

A faint frown furrowed his brow as he ran lightly down the stairs and crossed the flagged hall towards the grand dining-room. His interview with Henri de Valmy would not be pleasant, and his interview with Field Marshal Rommel would take nearly as much courage as a straight run into cannon fire. German Army regulations forbade marriage between serving men and subject races. He shrugged dismissively. The German ambassador to France had married a Frenchwoman, and what was good enough for a pot-bellied ambassador was good enough for him.

The sentry on duty clicked his heels and saluted smartly as he strode past him and into the tapestried dining-room. With a wry grin he seated himself at the twenty-foot table, wondering who would be most appalled at his news – the Comte or the Field Marshal.

A report to Rommel lay on the table waiting for completion. It was his personal estimate of the Allies'intentions. When it had been evaluated by Rommel it would be sent with Army Group B's weekly report to Oberfehlshaber West, Field Marshal von Runstedt's headquarters, and from there, suitably embroidered, it would become part of the overall theatre report and would be forwarded to Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, Hitler's headquarters. God alone knew what would happen to it then. There were times when he believed that everything sent to OKW was destroyed unseen. Certainly no notice was taken of Rommel's repeated requests.

His face was grim as he picked up his pen. Rommel needed panzer divisions. No matter how many mines and booby-traps were planted, the coastline could not be rendered safe without the back-up of panzers. But the panzer divisions were being held in reserve far from the coast and the Fuhrer insisted on retaining them there under his personal authority. Von Runstedt could not move them and Rommel, who had fought with such success with panzers in North Africa, could not move them.

Dieter's frown deepened. They needed at least five panzer divisions to counter-attack an invasion. In the first few hours of an assault their presence would be vital. He worked steadily for three hours, forgetting all about Lisette and his personal difficulties, concentrating on the problem of when and where the Allies would attack, and how they would best be repelled.

Rommel had been tense and edgy when he had descended on Valmy. The gruelling hours that he worked and the nightmare suspense of constantly watching and waiting for moves from across the Channel were obvious.

‘There's still no sign of an attack,' he had said, pacing the dining-room fretfully. ‘I'm beginning to think the Anglo-Americans have lost confidence in their cause, Meyer.'

Dieter had not agreed with him. The Allies had not lost confidence. They were simply waiting. And when the moment was right, they would strike. But
where?
He clenched his hands into fists of frustration. Hitler had made it known that he thought it would be Normandy and for once Dieter was in agreement with his Fuhrer. Rommel and the other chiefs of staff still favoured the Pas de Calais.

He leaned back in his chair, ringing for coffee, studying for the thousandth time the aerial reconnaissance photographs spread out before him. Wherever the Allies invaded, they would need air cover and the effective range of their Spitfires was 150 miles. That effectively ruled out anywhere west of Cherbourg. It would be impossible to unload an army beneath steep cliffs and that therefore ruled out further vast sections of the coast. And the sea crossing would, of necessity, have to be short. All of which indicated the Pas de Calais. And yet…

His eyes narrowed. The Pas de Calais was too easy. Too obvious. It was the Normandy beaches that would make an ideal landing site. They were not as heavily defended as the Pas de Calais and the Allies would be well aware of the fact. Certainty, cold and hard, settled deep in his gut and he knew, beyond any doubt, that Normandy would be where the invasion would take place.

But when and where?

In January German intelligence had informed the chiefs of staff that they knew of a two-part signal that would be used to alert the Resistance immediately prior to an invasion. Rommel had treated the information with contempt, but General Canaris had been adamant that the information was correct and that all radio messages by the Allies be monitored with scrupulous care. Dieter had thought it a strange message to indicate the invasion of a continent. The first signal was to be the first line of ‘Song of Autumn'by the nineteenth-century French poet, Paul Verlaine. ‘The long sobs of the violins of autumn'and the second signal was to be the second line, ‘Wound my heart with a monotonous languor.'

He had found a book containing Verlaine's poems in the chateau's library and had flicked through them with mild enjoyment. But he did not believe that Verlaine's words would herald the decisive battle for the German Reich. Grimly, ignoring the lateness of the hour, he picked up his pen once more and continued with his report.

At hourly intervals Lisette walked gingerly from the bed to the window and back again, spurred on by the urgent necessity of being able to walk or to ride into the village and speak to Paul. Elise had to be prevented from acting carelessly. If she did so, she would be caught. No information from Valmy would reach the Allies and there would be no future for any of them. She leaned her forehead against the coolness of the window pane, knowing that by serving her country she was betraying Dieter. ‘But not to death,' she whispered fiercely. ‘Please God, never that.' The information would be passed in the hope that it would help an Allied victory. Only with such a victory could they ever hope to live freely and openly together.

At Valmy? Could she ever live freely and openly with a German at Valmy? Knowing the answer she turned, sick at heart, and walked slowly back to her bed. The Rembrandt gleamed palely in the moonlight. Elise, when she had brought up her supper tray, had remarked savagely that all Germans were thieves and barbarians. She had remained silent, knowing too well that treasures that had been stripped and looted from France, and knowing that, while Dieter Meyer was in residence, Valmy's treasures were safe.

The word ‘collaborator'seemed to whisper in the air around her and her eyes blazed. She was
not
a collaborator. She was not working with the enemy for her country's defeat. She knew that she would die and never do so. And she would die, still loving Dieter. The knowledge came calmly and certainly, filling her with inner strength.

She turned to the books that he had left on the bedside table: Zola's
Nana
; a collection of poems by Paul Verlaine; Turgenov's
Father and Sons.
It was a strange collection for a soldier. She picked up the leather-bound copy of Verlaine's poems, noting the feint pencil mark at the side of ‘Song of Autumn', wondering why a poem of unrequited love had so appealed to him, reading until she fell asleep.

Elise woke early. As she moved quietly and efficiently about the kitchen, preparing breakfast, she could hear the faint chime of the church bell in Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts, ringing the Angelus. Another night of curfew was over and it was the 1363rd day of Occupation. She knew that Lisette thought her scheme rash and yet she could think of no alternative. Somehow, some way, she had to gain entrance to the grand dining-room. She removed a baguette from the oven, filling the kitchen with the fragrant aroma of newly baked bread. It had to be done in Meyer's absence. He was far too sharp to fall for any diversion, however skilfully planned. And if Meyer was absent it meant that the ornately carved doors would be not only guarded, but locked.

She reached into a cupboard for a jar of honey. Only Meyer had a key and she had not even toyed with the idea of removing it from his possession to imprint. The lock, when the door was left unguarded, would have to be picked, and picked quickly.

She made herself a cup of chicory and leaned against the stone sink, sipping it thoughtfully. Her ability with her fingers was the reason she had been detailed to Valmy. Her father had been a locksmith and he had taught her his trade. It was a skill that, in her Resistance work, she had put to good use. She wondered how many computations and permutations the lock had. If it was a five-lever lock, it would take perhaps ten minutes to profile, maybe fifteen. Fifteen minutes that she did not have. From the far side of the chateau there came the sound of running feet and motorcycles being blasted into life. She emptied the remains of her chicory down the sink and lifted a heavy, cast-iron omelette pan from the shelf above the stove.

No diversion that she could stage would keep the grand dining-room unattended for fifteen minutes. Lisette's horror had been justified. Yet the alternative would mean the de Valmy's death warrant, as well as her own. The sentry would have to be killed. There would be no disguising that the dining-room had been entered, and spiriting the undeveloped film out of Valmy and out of the district would be a near impossibility.

The door flew open and Marie half fell into the room. ‘There's a house to house search taking place in the village,' she gasped, her bosom heaving, her face white. ‘They're looking for a British pilot who made a forced landing outside Vierville two weeks ago!'

The skin tightened across Elise's cheekbones. ‘Will they find him?' she asked tersely.

‘Who knows?' Marie's arthritic fingers plucked agitatedly at the hem of her apron. ‘If they do there will be arrests. Deaths. Someone will talk, and then someone else will talk, and then where will we be?'

Elise cracked an egg savagely into the omelette pan. God willing no one would talk, but if there were arrests the price of silence would be high.

Dieter slammed the telephone receiver hard down on its rest. An hour ago General headquarters had woken him demanding that he instigate a full-scale search of Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts. An arrested Resistance member, under interrogation at Gestapo headquarters in Caen, had given information. An airman was being hidden at a safe house in Sainte-Marie. Dieter had curtly demanded that he be given more details, but had been told that the informant had died under questioning.

‘Imbeciles!' Dieter had snarled to himself, dressing and issuing orders in cold fury. Their brutality sickened him. Subtle and intelligent questioning might have taken longer, but would eventually have yielded far more.

‘Beer hall Nazis,' he muttered savagely as he slammed out of his room, knowing full well that he would have to go into Sainte-Marie himself to supervise the search.

‘Good morning, Major,' the Comtesse said politely as their paths crossed at the foot of the stairs. ‘Everyone seems to be awake exceptionally early today. Lisette is already fretting for Dr Auge's arrival.'

He paused. His car was waiting in the drive. His presence was needed in the village. ‘Perhaps I could see her before I leave the chateau?'

The question was purely rhetorical. The Comtesse froze and then said stiffly, ‘If you wish, Major Meyer.'

He had already turned on his heel and as he took the stairs two at a time the Comtesse fought down a surge of panic, hurrying towards her husband's room, more than ever disturbed by the Major's presence in her home.

Dieter knocked sharply on the bedroom door and entered, relishing Lisette's expression of disbelief and pleasure. ‘Did you sleep well?' he asked, striding towards the bed.

Beneath her nightdress the soft curves of her body were clearly visible.

‘Yes… I …' Anything else she was about to say was left unsaid as his lips silenced hers. It was a long, deep kiss. Fierce and hungry. Infinitely satisfying. When at last he raised his head from hers, there was heat in his eyes.

‘So this is how you look first thing in the morning?' he said huskily, lifting her tousled hair away from her face.

Her smile was happy, sensuous. ‘What an unfair way to find out. Are you disappointed?'

A dimple lurked at the corner of her mouth and he kissed it. ‘No,' he said, pushing the bedclothes aside and easing her legs to the floor. ‘I doubt I will ever be that.'

He drew her to her feet, pressing her lithe young body hard against the length of his. Desire rushed through her so strong and urgent that she gasped aloud, standing on her toes to fit herself more perfectly against him. His fingers tightened in her hair, his happiness so deep-founded that it filled him with amazement. Love had struck him when he had least expected it. In the middle of war, and in an enemy land.

‘I shall speak to your father tonight,' he said, his voice smoking across her senses, brooking no argument. She trembled and he half lifted her against him, breathing in the sweet, clean fragrance of her hair and skin, kissing her with a passion that blinded all reason. The early morning sun streamed in around them, bathing them in golden light, and as he raised his head from hers, looking down into the perfection of her face, he knew it was a moment that would remain in his memory for ever.

‘I love you,' he said fiercely, stunned by the truth of his words. ‘Never forget it,' and then he turned on his heel, striding swiftly from the room, wrenching himself back to his duty and the distasteful task awaiting him in Sainte-Marie-des Ponts. She was still standing in the centre of the room when Dr Auge entered. He had passed the Major on the stairs and, mindful of the situation in the village, had fairly scampered along the corridor and into the comparative sanctuary of Lisette's bedroom.

‘Whatever is the matter, Dr Auge?' she asked, as he loosened his waxed shirt collar, his forefinger trembling convulsively.

‘The village has been sealed off,' he said, looking over his shoulder nervously to make sure that no one was listening behind him. ‘The Boche are conducting a house to house search for an Allied pilot. God knows what will happen if they find him.'