Page 73

Gerhard dismissed Schmidt and entered the living room. He didn’t question why she was playing the music of a banned composer. Instead, he put his hat on the sideboard, took his seat at the table, and poured himself a drink.

It was forty-eight hours before Operation Dijon, so she guessed he was preoccupied. His sullenness was nothing new. She continued to play.

“You are playing more these days,” he said.

“It helps me cope with my grief,” she said, sharply.

He drank his wine and rubbed his face. Fleetingly, she felt sorry for him, locked inside himself as he was. Loneliness was a painful-enough prison without having loss for a cellmate.

“That’s good,” he said.

For some reason, his comment made her want to stop playing. As if he was giving his approval, and she didn’t want or need it. She closed the lid and went to the kitchen for their food. She set his plate in front of him and started towards the other end of the table.

“Sit here,” he said, pointing to the seat closest to him.

Her throat constricted at the thought of sitting anywhere near him. “Why?”

He glanced up at her without raising his head. “Because I would like to feel as though I’m eating dinner with my wife this evening.”

She set her plate on the table and sat down as he instructed, hating that she conceded so easily. He poured her a glass of wine, finished his own glass, and refilled it.

He started to eat. “How was your day?”

His interest surprised her. She took a drink to settle the edge that rattled her. “It was the same as most days here.”

She heard a faint noise: a muffled cough or a sneeze. He seemed not to notice. The sound came again, and he studied her.

“Is Astrid still not well?”

Her mouth was dry. She released a tight breath and wetted her lips. “She’s a bit brighter.”

“Nanny told me…”

Johanna froze. What had Nanny said?

“…that they’ve been exploring the garden. If Astrid has a cough, is that wise?”

He had heard the noise from the cellar and thought it was from upstairs. Johanna picked at the food on her plate, clattering her fork harder than was normal. She couldn’t face eating anything, for fear the food would get stuck in her throat, and she hoped the noise would be a distraction from any other strange sounds. “The weather has been better. I thought it might do her some good.”

“And what about you? You haven’t caught it?” He piled food into his mouth.

“Apparently not.” She sipped her wine. “If you could get hold of more antibiotics, I’m sure that would help Astrid.”

She smiled like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, relieved that Nanny hadn’t said anything that might make Gerhard suspicious. Nanny hadn’t known about Astrid’s alleged cough; that was one of her and Astrid’s little secrets, along with a kitten with a French name and the woman in the cottage with a baby. Astrid had been excited to play the illness game as it meant she didn’t have to face her father.

Gerhard swallowed his food and slugged his wine. “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise. The situation is changing, Johanna. We cannot get hold of the things we need for our soldiers.”

“Is this something I should worry about?”

He frowned and pursed his lips. “This is war, Johanna. There is always uncertainty. However, I’m confident that everything will be resolved in the next few days.” He finished his wine and refilled his glass.

Johanna was sure he was referring to the planned operation. “Does this resolution have something to do with the increase in armoured convoys over the past few days?” She was pushing for information in case there was something that might help the Resistance.

“I’d rather spare you the details. It’s for your own good. Suffice it to say, we are embarking on a strong offensive so there are large deployments to support the front line. The Americans appear to be trying to thwart our efforts, but rest assured they will not prevail.”

“Are we still safe here?” she asked, because he hadn’t answered the question directly.

He stared at her, through her, consumed by his “important work”. She was, and would always be, an inconvenience he had to endure. He let his fork drop idly onto his plate, wiped his face with his napkin and threw it on top. “I believe so, yes.”