The truck had been where the truck was supposed to be, already loaded with three big barrels of Cognac, the local brandy named for the town. It was just under a hundred miles from Cognac to Limoges, and the first part of that had been easy as well.
Rainy found herself almost relaxing, or relaxing to the extent she could, while crammed onto the narrow bench between Étienne and Marie. The seat had a loose spring that seemed determined to dig a hole into Rainy’s tailbone.
The countryside outside the truck’s dirty windows is beautiful, though bleakly empty to Rainy’s New York City sensibilities. From time to time Rainy asks Marie what is growing in a particular field.
“Grapevines, of course.”
“Ah. Right. I’ve seen grapevines before.” She has, but not being very interested in agriculture Rainy has not quite made the connection between the stunted, misshapen vines and grapes. Or wine. “And what’s this now?”
“That? Why that is maïs—corn—to feed the geese and the ducks and the pigs.”
“Huh.”
It is a boring drive. The only interesting bits come when the road winds through a village, but after a while all the villages look the same. Stone houses, tile roofs, small windows, narrow doors opening directly onto barely-there sidewalks; a baker, a butcher, a grocery store, a café, a shoe store, a dress store, all with small display windows, many with no sign to indicate their function because this area does not get many tourists, certainly not since war came.
“Okay, what’s going on there?” Rainy sits forward, suddenly alert. The field beside the road has armed civilians slouching before it.
“Ah, that is tobacco. It must be guarded.”
“We have a choice,” Étienne says. “We are coming to La Rochefoucauld. There we have a split. We can go left which avoids the town and goes most directly to Limoges. Or we can go through the town and then pass through the forest, where we may come upon elements of our friends, the Das Reich. The Boche hide their tanks under the trees, fearing the RAF.”
“That sounds good,” Rainy says. But she senses something in the way Marie glances at her brother and makes a face.
Sure enough, as they enter the town, Étienne suddenly announces a need to stop off and check on a friend.
“A friend?”
Étienne shrugs. “A person I know.”
“A woman,” Marie says with sudden heat. “A woman who is a collaboratrice horizontale.”
“A what?”
“A horizontal collaborator, a woman who sleeps with Germans.” She spits dramatically out of the window and makes a gesture with her hand like she’s trying to fling her chin at Étienne.
“She sometimes provides useful information,” Étienne says defensively.
“Yes, but to whom?” Marie demands sourly.
Étienne shrugs. “Marianne is a patriot.”
Marie’s response is a snort.
“She may be able to give me information about the Das Reich. It is true that one of her . . . friends . . . is a Sturmbannführer, what you would call a major.”
In the end the decision comes down to Rainy’s need to use the toilet and her desire to stretch her legs. The stop is approved.
Étienne parks in a narrow street near a small, arched bridge over the River Tardoire. The street is walled by limestone and stucco homes built right to the edge of the road. Windows are mostly shuttered, though Rainy hears a child singing through one open second story window.
“There is a café just over the bridge,” Marie says, leading the way as a somewhat embarrassed Étienne knocks on one of the doors. They cross the bridge and Rainy is delighted to see an impressive chateau looming over the town. It is like something from a fairy tale, something a princess might inhabit while pining for her Prince Charming.
So this is France, Rainy thinks. She’d always hoped to visit France, but not like this.
They find the café, a small, dark room smelling of damp limestone, garlic and red wine. There are six tables, only two occupied, and a small bar with no stools.
At the threshold Marie freezes for a moment and Rainy plows into her. It is immediately clear what has made Marie hesitate: one of the tables is occupied by a middle-aged French couple; the other is occupied by three German soldiers, junior officers by the look of their youthful faces, and confirmed by collar-boards with three silver pips. They are the equivalent of lieutenants, Rainy’s own rank.
And they are Waffen SS, as clearly indicated by the twin lightning-flash insignia. They wear camouflage uniforms, not the formal black, and Rainy notes a grease stain on one man’s trouser leg, evidence that they are not on leave or enjoying a day pass, but have managed to escape some sort of field maneuver for a quick bite in town. No doubt the food is better in the café than in the field kitchen.
Three Schmeisser submachine guns lean against the wall by the table.
One of the men, an Untersturmführer with prominent brows and a mangled left ear, looks up. He grins wolfishly at Marie. Then sees Rainy, sees the widow’s black, and nods politely. He tears off a chunk of bread and goes back to his plate of langoustines.
Sitting too far from the SS men will be a signal. So will sitting too close. Marie guides them to the one table that is neither.
Rainy sees a hand-lettered sign pointing to “WC,” the toilets, which are outside in an alley, a Turkish-style squat toilet with privacy provided only by a short, greasy draw curtain. Rainy does what is necessary, all the while in a sort of fugue state, half paralyzed with fear, half working through the odds.
Every part of Rainy resists going back into the café. Of course she knows she must, she can hardly abandon Marie, let alone her mission, but it will not be pleasant eating within a few feet of the Germans.
Back inside, Rainy listens while Marie orders a dozen oysters, two cheval steaks—horse meat, the only meat on the menu—and fried potatoes, as well as white wine and a bottle of mineral water. All perfectly normal and perfectly unremarkable.
Rainy has her back to the Germans and listens intently while seeming to carry on a sort of minimalist, whispered exchange with Marie.
Water, wine and a baguette arrive, and are plopped on the table by the proprietor, who is the only visible staff.
The Germans discuss prostitutes in ways that make Rainy glad Marie does not speak German. Though some notion of what they are so crudely talking about must have penetrated Marie’s consciousness, because she blushes and bites her lip.
The oysters arrive.
The Germans move on to talking about someone named Burkhart, who is apparently a drunk, a loafer, and utterly useless, but knows all the best jokes. The Germans begin repeating jokes and laughing in a deliberately noisy, demonstrative way that makes the older French couple cringe.
The Germans call for another bottle of wine. Their second? Their third?
The atmosphere in the room, never exactly convivial, grows increasingly tense and menacing. Drunk German soldiers are never a good thing; drunk SS are worse. Drunk members of the Das Reich are worse still. Rainy has read the dossiers: the Das Reich fought on the Eastern Front against the Soviet Red Army, where even among the brutal forces in that pitiless fight, the Das Reich stood out for its monstrous treatment of prisoners, civilians, and especially Jews.
The Untersturmführer with the mangled ear is clearly looking at Marie, but also, increasingly, at Rainy.
The oysters are cleared away and the