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Frau Neumann broke eye contact. “I will tell Hauptmann Müller to wait for you upstairs.”

Fabienne turned off the main water supply, collected the putty and rags from the garage and headed to the kommandant’s bathroom.

Müller was waiting for her. He watched her as she eased her head and shoulders inside the cupboard under the sink, her body and legs sprawled across the floor. The space around the pipe was small and awkward to work in. She dried the pipe, grabbed putty from the jar and lathered it around the weak joint. She reached out from the space to retrieve another dry rag to tie around the putty. There was a thud and then in the same instant, a sharp pain radiated from the back of her hand.

Her automatic response, to rise sharply, caused her to smack her head on the pipework. “Putain de merde.” Her hand and head throbbed.

“Hurry up,” Müller said, and she felt another sharp pain at the crack against her shin.

She wrapped the cloth quickly around the pipe, took hold of the tin of putty and damp rag, and stood up. Her leg, hand and head pulsed with pain.

He smiled.

It took every ounce of her will to not retaliate. “May I go and help Frau Tussaud, Hauptmann Müller?”

He spat into the sink. “Wipe it.”

She did as he said. She waited to be dismissed, biting her tongue and avoiding eye contact.

“Why are you still standing here?” he said.

She walked away and felt a hard blow to her back that thrust her forward. His foot, she suspected.

“Fucking French whore.”

She continued down the stairs without looking back, and into the kitchen.

Mamie glanced up at her from the mixing bowl. Her gaze settled on Fabienne’s abnormally red hand. “Did you fix the leak?” she asked, frowning.

Fabienne tucked her hand behind her back, forgetting the mark that was sure to be blooming on her forehead. She didn’t want Mamie to worry about her, but Mamie’s expression told her it was too late. “It was tricky, but I think so.” She stored the putty and cloth under the sink, cleaned the rattrap, and tested the spring mechanism. “Müller is dangerous,” she whispered. “You must not be alone with him.”

“That’s not easily done, chérie. Let’s hope the sight of me doesn’t antagonise him.”

Fabienne took the trap down to the cellar. There was a hint of ripening cheese, which she hoped they wouldn’t notice. If they questioned the smell, she would blame it on the damp. She placed the trap in a corner away from the wall to the hidden cave. She spotted the stacked drip trays that had been used when they had the barrels of brandy and crème de menthe. They would work as a cat box. She returned to the kitchen with one and headed into the garden.

Müller was standing at the far end of the house, lurking at the edge of the archway. Plumes of smoke drifted in the air as he smoked, his gaze fixed firmly on her. She found the driest earth and filled the tray. The kitten would toss it everywhere, but that couldn’t be helped. She was sure Astrid would find it funny; the nanny, maybe not so much.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, Frau Neumann was waiting for her with Müller at her side. Her heart thundered, though she had no reason to be in trouble, but the Germans didn’t need justification and she could be shot in a heartbeat. “I think this will be fine for the kitten,” she said.

Frau Neumann stared from her hand to her head and frowned. “Is everything okay, Fraulein Brun?”

Fabienne avoided glancing in the officer’s direction and held the woman’s gaze. “The leak was trickier than expected. I hope it is now fixed.”

He smirked and she couldn’t tell whether the glint in his eyes reflected his satisfaction or insanity.

“I’ll take the tray to Astrid,” Frau Neumann said. She walked out of the kitchen.

Müller stood in the doorway until Fabienne got back to work. He may have given her a few bruises to assert himself, but his behaviour was nothing new to her. When the time was right, she would make him beg for his life. Then she would smile at him as he had at her, and she would slit his throat.

8.

GERHARD WAS LATE HOME again. Every evening had been the same in the three months since they’d arrived, as was his dismissal of both Johanna and Astrid. When she didn’t feel invisible, which was most of the time around him, she felt like an inconvenience.

She sat at the piano, lifted the lid and ran her fingers lightly across the surface of the keys, glancing at the photo of Ralf. How she would love to play but what with worrying about her son on top of everything else, her heart wasn’t in it. If her husband had changed so much over the last two years, she didn’t want to think what might have happened to her precious and impressionable boy. She stared out the window, the snow gathering on the ledge as a blizzard swirled outside. Christmas was fast approaching. Not only was it clearly not going to bring the end of the war, but as a time that should be rejoiced, shared with family, fun and laughter, song and celebration, it would inevitably be another let down for Astrid. How could Johanna make it special for her?

“I’m hungry, Mutter,” Astrid said. She was sitting on the floor playing with Lakritze, who had become cuter and more playful. He followed Astrid like a sheep and Astrid loved him to bits, which lightened Johanna’s heart a little. She was grateful to Fraulein Brun for making Astrid happy, and she’d enjoyed the fraulein’s courage. She wished she could tell her as much.

She closed the lid over the keys and went into the kitchen. “Fraulein Brun, I think it best if Astrid eats now. I will wait for the kommandant.”