Purple Hearts (Front Lines 3)

The oysters are cleared away and the steaks arrive.

In ten minutes they can be finished and on their way. Ten minutes. Ten minutes in which Marie and Rainy must mimic an innocent pair of young Frenchwomen who have stopped for a quick lunch. Two women who are aware of the Germans, but not overly aware.

Suddenly Mangled Ear pushes back from the table, wobbles a bit to the hooting enjoyment of his compatriots, demands to know where the toilet is, and lurches right into Rainy and Marie’s table.

Rainy glances at Marie and sees fear in her eyes.

“Pardonnez moi,” the German says in barely decipherable French.

“Pas de quoi,” Marie says in a whisper. She looks down at her plate.

“Untersturmführer Fritz Weiss, à votre service, mesdemoiselles. Zwei, er, deux jolies mademoiselles. Pourquoi toutes seules?”

It’s mostly French, not grammatical, but comprehensible. He’s asking why two pretty young women are there alone.

Marie offers their cover story. They are traveling to a wedding, the madame’s wedding, in fact, in the company of Marie’s brother, Étienne, who will be back at any moment.

At this the German grabs a chair, pulls it close, and sits down with them. “You don’t mind? More wine here! The ladies are parched!” He leers openly at Marie’s chest, and she pulls back. Then he turns shrewd eyes on Rainy and asks, “Where are you from?”

“Fouras,” she lies in a hoarse whisper she hopes will disguise her accent.

The Walther is hard against her back. A suicide pill is sewn into the collar of her dress. She can feel the knife strapped to her leg.

The German waves that off. “I mean your family. You’re not French.”

Rainy offers a baffled smile. Marie steps in and says of course she is French, they are cousins.

The German tilts his head to the side. Then he reaches over, takes Rainy’s chin, and turns her face sideways in profile.

“No Frenchie ever had a nose like that,” he says, and now the other two Germans are quiet and attentive, sensing their companion is up to something.

Rainy allows the hand, then, with disdain, pushes it away.

“I know a Jew when I see one,” the untersturmführer says, his voice silky but slurred with drink.

Rainy puts on a baffled look.

The German rests both his elbows on the table and leans close, his breath stinking of red wine and cigarettes. “I’ve seen many a Jew,” he says, watching Rainy closely. “I know the look of a Jew. I know the smell of a Jew.” He has a sudden idea. “Patron! Bring us ham!”

“Ham, monsieur?”

“Something pork. Ham. Bacon. A snout, a trotter, it doesn’t matter.”

As they wait, the air is so tense it vibrates. A small slice of ham appears on a plate. The German tears open a piece of the baguette and carefully folds the ham into it, making a sandwich.

“Eat it, Jew.”

Rainy picks up the ham sandwich and takes a bite.

Jewish but not kosher, you stupid Nazi asshole.

Rainy smiles and renders her hoarse whisper again. “Merci.” Thank you. And proceeds to eat the rest of the sandwich.

The other two Germans now erupt in guffaws, yelling good-natured taunts to their fel

low, who smiles and nods a sort of apology to Rainy. He gets up unsteadily and heads for the back door, toward the toilet.

At that moment, Étienne comes rushing in the front door and in an agitated voice says, “We must go!” and only then spots the Germans.