Page 15 of After Paris

Chapter Fifteen

Hauptmann Otto Wolfgang

Monday, December 30, 1940

9:00 p.m.

I stood at attention in my dress uniform at the German embassy in the H?tel Beauharnais. It was in the seventh arrondissement, near the Right Bank of the Seine. My waistband had grown snug, a sign I’d enjoyed too much French food in the last few months. The city was a delight, and I refused to be shy about devouring its fruits.

My commander had ordered me to wait here for Cécile, who was arriving with Henri Archambeau. The couple was late, but Frenchwomen had a reputation for their dramas and imprecise schedules. And if there was a woman who epitomized Frenchwomen, it was Cécile.

The mansion’s interior would be impossible to describe to anyone who hadn’t been to Paris. A white marble entryway gave way to parlors trimmed in gold. Each wall showcased intricate murals of bare-breasted nymphs, angels, and goddesses. The furniture, trimmed in gold and upholstered with the finest silks, was flush against the walls to give the guests plenty of room to mix and mingle.

I wondered how a modest man, the son of a farmer, could find himself attending such a lavish event. I’d joined the Nazi Party for a job, never realizing it would carry me to such heights. Before the war, I would never have been welcome in these elite circles or an event like this. The war had changed everything for the better.

The men wore their pressed uniforms, Iron Crosses, medals, braids, sidearms. Jodhpur-style pants tucked into knee-high black leather boots so polished they reflected the chandelier light. Many wore the red-and-black swastika armbands with pride.

The women wore the finest silks and furs. They styled their hair in loose curls, painted their nails and lips red, and encircled slender necks with diamonds. Some women were the officers’ wives, but many escorts were younger and French. Though German women were far superior, a Parisienne was a delight to see and enjoy.

There was a flurry of whispered conversations by the main double doors. Cécile’s escort, Monsieur Archambeau, helped her remove a black fur-lined cape, and when he did, a hush fell over the room. Green silk skimmed her curves and tiny waist. But what drew my attention was the cutout. It trailed from her neckline down between her breasts. Her dressmaker was indeed clever, and her indecent mind had me shifting in my too-tight jacket.

Immediately, several colonels and a general approached Cécile, their cheeks pink like lads in short pants. When she smiled, all of them melted. If given the chance, almost every man in this room would have taken her upstairs now.

A tall, lean man with crisp blond hair and blue eyes extended his elbow to her, and she accepted it with a grateful smile. He was Oberst Johann Schmidt. He was a Luftwaffe colonel who’d distinguished himself by downing twenty enemy planes. A battle-hardened man didn’t have patience for parties like this, but Cécile had transformed boring into exciting.

Henri Archambeau remained behind, pleased to chat with several men wearing uniforms and others in ties and tails. The French peacock was looking for money for his next film and using his lead actress to win over hearts and minds.

I moved into a room where a string quartet played. Oberst Schmidt swept the actress into his arms before she could grab a glass of champagne. The two were waltzing on the dance floor, moving in perfect time as if they’d been a couple for years. The oberst pressed his hand into Cécile’s back, trapping her close. He held her slim hands in a loose grip that nevertheless suggested he could snap bone in the blink of an eye.

When the song ended, Schmidt escorted her toward a waiter bearing a silver platter with champagne flutes. The oberst plucked two glasses from the tray and handed her one. He stood close to her, and if she took a half step backward, he closed the gap. Several times, she stole searching glances, but Monsieur Archambeau was nowhere to be seen.

I moved toward the couple. “Excuse me, Oberst , but Henri Archambeau has a request of Mademoiselle Cécile. There’s a director he’d like her to meet.”

The oberst ’s smile vanished, and those cold steel blue eyes cut across me. In a different place or time, he’d have struck me to the ground.

Cécile placed her hand on the oberst ’s chest as if taming the beast roaring inside. “Henri is on the verge of closing a deal. He wants to make an introduction. I won’t be long.”

The oberst captured her hand, kissed it, but held it tight. “I’m counting the minutes.”

“Good. I’d also like another dance.”

Her words softened Oberst Schmidt’s hardened features. He noted the time with a glance toward a gold mantel clock.

As we moved away, she took a long drink from her flute. “Where is Henri?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean? You said he wanted to see me.”

“I thought you might wish a break from the oberst .”

She guarded her expression. And I couldn’t tell if she was angry or relieved. “I’ve seen you on the set every day, Hauptmann Wolfgang.”

I was pleased that she’d remembered. “I’m the monitor for Continental Films.”

She leaned a fraction closer. “Does that make you a spy?”

“A spy works in secret. I’ve never hid my job or intentions.”

She sipped more champagne, and the tension arching her back eased. “Ah, I’m glad you explained the difference.”

We stepped out of the parlor into the main hallway and the long marble stairs. “I see Monsieur Archambeau. I’ll speak to him. Thank you for the rescue, Hauptmann Wolfgang.”

“My intervention wasn’t intended as a rescue.” But, of course, that was what it was. And by intervening, I’d come to the oberst ’s attention.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said, smiling. “But thank you.”

“My compliments to your dressmaker.” It was a bold statement that crossed too many lines.

“I’ll tell her.”

My mouth had gone dry. “Good evening to you.”

She stared with an intensity that jumbled my thoughts. “I trust you’ll be close.”

The hints of a rich perfume swirled. “Of course.”

Her lips spread into a bright grin. I’d seen that smile on the movie screens when I watched her last film, and it was intoxicating. Mademoiselle Rousseau was too severe to smile with such charm. But I imagined if she did, it would be brilliant.

With long, manicured fingers, Cécile brushed back an already-perfect lock of hair. “It’s nice to know I’ll always have a shadow protector, Hauptmann Otto Wolfgang.”