Peach (16 page)

Volker had spied on them on Sunday afternoons after they’d washed down a crate of beer together, rolling half-naked on the sagging bed, her fleshy breasts hanging slackly over her sides. His father lay on top of her, desperately trying to contain them in his small hands while he heaved up and down, grunting. It always excited Volker seeing her breasts like that and he would shut himself in his room, standing on the chair anxiously inspecting his erection in the slab of unframed mirror on the wall, pulling on it desperately, hoping it would grow larger, and exciting himself until his sperm splashed stickily across the glass.

Volker’s member stirred expectantly as he surveyed himself now, remembering Lais in the thin amethyst dress she’d worn last night, how it clung to her taut high breasts and the curve of her hips. He imagined her long slender legs that would end in a delicious warm triangle.

Volker put his hand on his groin tentatively, fingering the buttons on his fly. But no, there was no time for that. Tonight he would ask Lais de Courmont to have dinner with him. And if she knew what was good for her, she’d better accept. She was up to something, he was sure of that. It was
exactly what
, that he wasn’t sure of.

He had kept his eye on her—and the other de Courmont women—for the past month; he had them followed when they went to Monte Carlo or Nice, and made it a point to call on Leonore unexpectedly in the kitchens or her office. He kept watch on Lais out by the swimming pool and in the
cocktail bar at night, and he even had young Peach followed on her way to school.

Kommandant von Steinholz’s intelligence man suspected the baker, Gaston, of being involved with the Resistance and Volker couldn’t understand why the man was still at large.
He
would have thrown the fear of the power of Nazi Germany into the whole community by sending a Gestapo truck in the middle of the night to arrest Gaston, with a judicious bit of violence to show them they meant business. A few bleeding skulls would mean a few less Resistance workers. But von Steinholz wanted to play a waiting game and see where the trail led him. Kruger sniffed contemptuously, patting the revolver at his waist. The Luger was as much his badge of power as the captain’s insignia on his hat. With the Luger close at hand, he was in command. Snapping a smart “Heil Hitler” to himself in the mirror he marched to the door.

In the bar the pianist thumped out hearty German drinking tunes while a group of half-drunk young officers, fresh from the war-zone in Africa, sang along laughing nervously and slopping beer over the ivory keys, which the pianist wiped away every so often with an immaculate linen handkerchief. Volker’s glance dismissed their antics as normal as he searched the bar for Lais. Her usual stool waited, empty. Strutting to the bar Volker demanded to know where she was.

“Sorry, Captain,” replied the barman, “she hasn’t been in tonight.”

Fuming, Volker consulted his watch. He liked to dine promptly at eight. Ordering a beer, he took up his position by the empty stool. Of course Lais wouldn’t want beer, she always drank champagne—a woman’s drink, he thought contemptuously, ordering the barman to put a bottle of his
best champagne on ice. The clock ticked towards eight and still Lais hadn’t arrived. Kruger looked around the emptying bar nervously. Ordering another beer, he decided to give her until eight thirty.

Ferdi von Schönberg sat opposite Lais in the Café de Paris in Monte Carlo watching her devour a mound of tiny pink shrimp with sighs of enjoyment. Beneath Lais’s brittle façade there was a childlike quality that brought out the protective instinct in him. He’d felt it when he’d first met her as von Bruhel’s mistress. Everyone was aware of von Bruhel’s reputation as a sadist and it was even rumoured that somewhere in the past among the trail of broken women, there had been at least one with whom he had toppled over the brink into murder. Only von Bruhel’s brilliance as an army intelligence officer had saved him from prosecution—that and his wife, a mature and charming lady from a socially prominent Bavarian family reputed to be close to those in power.

Lais finished the last shrimp with regret and drained her glass. Ferdi signalled the waiter to refill it and she looked at him suspiciously, aware that she was just the tiniest bit drunk. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” she demanded, placing the glass firmly away from her.

“I’m not sure that I have anything to do with that.”

“What do you mean?” Lais leaned forward, staring into his eyes. Marvellous eyes, they were green in this light.

“Getting drunk is your own choice, no one else’s.”

She sat back, considering his statement. “True,” she said finally, “but sometimes there’s no other way.”

“No other way?”

“To get through the day, of course. Or rather, the night.”

Ferdi waited for her to amplify the statement but she chose not to.

“Tell me,” Lais said, hoping to provoke him, “what’s it like to be an officer in the German Army? A conquering hero?”

Ferdi shrugged. “I’m simply a man doing a job. I have no choice in the matter. Like the French, I was called upon to do my duty for my country, whether I agree with its policies or not.”

Lais looked at him in surprise. No Nazi ever breathed a word of criticism of the regime. Perhaps he was trying to trick her into talking by pretending to be sympathetic? Somehow she didn’t think so. Not with those calm clear eyes, and that firm mouth. Ferdi von Schönberg looked the image of the ideal Aryan. Tall, with a well-muscled body that spoke of potential power and silky smooth Nordic blond hair, he seemed a thinking man, quiet, calm, authoritative. And gentle. “You shouldn’t be saying things like that,” she told him.

“I know. But it’s the way I feel. I thought you would understand.”

He did suspect. Now she knew it!

“The night of the party,” said Ferdi, “the night before von Bruhel died. You went to the library very late, remember? The room was dark, only one lamp left on over the desk where von Bruhel had been working. I couldn’t sleep. I’d gone into the library and poured myself a brandy and I was sitting there, in the big wing chair in the corner, thinking. I suppose I must have fallen asleep. I woke up when you came in. I watched you go through von Bruhel’s papers, making notes.”

Lais stared into his eyes like a rabbit paralysed by oncoming car lights.

“It’s all right,” he said gently, “if you hadn’t killed him, I think I would have.”

“But I didn’t kill him!” Her voice was rough with shock.

Ferdi shrugged. “Then I’m grateful to whoever did. Von Bruhel was a monster.”

“What are you going to do now?” asked Lais, snapping open the gold cigarette case with her initials in tiny diamonds and taking out a cigarette with shaking hands. Ferdi leaned forward to light it.

“Why should I do anything? Von Bruhel deserved all he got. And I’m not in the business of spy-catching. Besides, I’m in love with you.”

“Love?” queried Lais, bemused.

“I’ve loved you since the minute I first saw you at the house in Paris, leaning against the piano listening to Cole Porter. I wanted to peel away the lines of bitterness from your mouth, and make your eyes smile again without that watchful mask. I wanted to hear you laugh, Lais.”

The cigarette burned forgotten in the ashtray, as she listened. She had accepted Ferdi von Schönberg’s invitation because for the first time in months she had felt the thrill of a sexual attraction. Ferdi was a very attractive man. But what he was saying had taken her completely by surprise. “Go on,” she commanded.

His hand gripped hers across the table and his voice mesmerised her. “I want to unpin your hair and let it flow in the wind, I want to swim naked with you in the warm sea, I want to stroke you and soothe you until all the painful memories are gone and you are a girl again, with all your life in front of you and no ugly stains in the past. I want to make love to you, Lais, and I want to love you.”

Tears trembled on her lashes. “I don’t know about all that,” she whispered. “I don’t understand love.”

Ferdi smiled at her, his firm hand steady over her trembling one. “Then isn’t it time you learned?”

*  *  *

Volker Kruger paced the gravel car-park in back of the Hostellerie angrily. It was almost midnight and she wasn’t back yet. Yet her car was there, the blue de Courmont for which, to his intense irritation, von Steinholz provided petrol coupons. As the lights of a car approached he stepped back into the shadows, but it wasn’t her, just a group of young men who’d been out on the town and were boasting to each other of their conquests in some back-alley bordello. Trembling with anger, Kruger recommenced his pacing, determined to wait until she returned.

At one thirty-five by his watch, a small Citroën drove slowly down the slope from the road, crunching across the gravel and stopping within feet of his hiding place. As the lights were extinguished he could see the silhouettes of two figures inside the car. Then the two heads merged in a kiss. Kruger held his breath, peering into the night to see who was with her, for he felt sure it was Lais. The driver’s door opened and a tall man got out, walking round to the passenger side to hold the door open for his companion. As Lais stood up the man’s arms slid around her. He held her so close that Volker thought they were one. Still he couldn’t see who the man was. The couple began to walk across the gravel towards the Hostellerie, arms around each other and her head resting against him. Keeping to the grass so as not to be heard, Volker followed them curiously.
Who the hell was he?

As they mounted the broad steps to the big revolving glass doors, Kruger hurried after them. Ferdi took Lais’s arm and they strolled together towards the elevators. The metal grill closed behind them, caging them together and shutting him out and Kruger watched in stunned silence as the lift ascended from his sight.

Punching the elevator button furiously he waited for it to
descend, then, stiff with anger, he stood at attention until it deposited him, alone, at his floor. In the quiet of his room, he cast off the peaked cap, the polished belt, and the smartly tailored jacket. He tugged off the high boots and, fumbling with the buttons, he removed his officer’s grey-green trousers. Kruger stood before the mirror in his socks and baggy army issue undershorts and the vest with the two semi-circles of sweat at the armpits.

Lais was with Ferdi von Schönberg
. Volker’s puny body shook with anger. Of all people von Schönberg represented everything he hated. Ferdi’s father belonged to one of Germany’s oldest and most illustrious families. His mother’s family owned the vast Merker iron and steel works; it was
their
rolling stock that sent Germany’s armies across continents by rail,
their
tanks that waged war in foreign deserts, and armaments from Merker factories that brought German victories. Von Schönberg had had no need to fight his way up the ranks. Why he was still only a major was a mystery to Kruger, though there had been rumours that he was unwilling to accept promotion, preferring to stay with his men in battle than to take the higher rank and stay in an administrative job behind the lines. But Irene von Schönberg, Ferdi’s mother, was a tough old woman who was known to have run her family with a rod of iron after her husband died. Using her influence, she had had her son removed from the front and von Schönberg became an aide to Klebbich in Reims.

It was easy for the von Schönbergs of this world to get the girls. Easy. All Ferdi had to do with Lais was ask. Lais was with him now, in his room. They’d be naked together on the bed. Ferdi would be kissing her, his hands would find the places Volker had only dreamed about. Shaking, Volker ripped off the shorts and vest and surveyed his erection in the mirror.
This
should have been hers tonight. He would
have been so excited that it would have been bigger, big enough to fill her. His hands moved faster and Lais became entangled in images of his mother’s obscene white breasts and flailing legs until he sagged against the glass, sticky and spent.

Lais rolled over in bed, still half-asleep, clutching the pillow close to her, afraid to open her eyes. She felt Ferdi’s fingers trace the line of her lashes along her cheek and smiled. It was all right after all. He was no dream, he was still here, and she could feel his warm breath on her face as he bent and kissed her.

“Good morning, my darling,” Ferdi said, smoothing her tangled hair gently from her face. Her eyes sprang open so suddenly that he laughed. Lais laughed too. “It’s ridiculous to feel this happy,” she murmured against his chest.

“Does the ridiculous feeling mean that you love me?” he asked kissing her again.

Lais knelt over him dropping tiny quick kisses across his belly. “I’d
love
you to make love to me,” she replied between kisses.

“That’s not what I asked,” said Ferdi, groaning as her kisses moved lower. “I love you, Lais. I want you to love me.”

Lifting her head she regarded him seriously, thinking of last night. He had helped her undress, removing each garment
and stroking her body as tenderly as though she were some precious and exquisite art treasure. And when Ferdi was naked and held her in his arms he’d trembled with passion for her, but he’d held back, caressing her gently, kissing her mouth, her eyes, the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat, running the tip of his tongue over her eager nipples, and down her belly. He groaned with passion as his hands opened her yet he waited until her passion matched his. Then he guided her towards his body so that she could feel his desire for her throbbing in her hands and, unable to wait any longer, she’d pulled him towards her. Ferdi was a wonderful lover—like none she’d ever known. Curled against his chest, Lais sighed happily. It had been a perfect endless night of love-making. It wasn’t just sex, as it had always been before, there was no desperate seeking for an ultimate thrill that didn’t exist, and no meaningless unemotional gropings for mutual satisfaction as had happened so often. And there was no reluctant awakening to face herself in the mirror. But was it love? How could she know? “I’ve never been in love,” she told him. “All I know, Ferdi, is that I’ve never felt like this before.”