A sigh. "Yes."
"Did she kill Lili in revenge because she'd been disfigured at Liberation?"
"N-no," he shouted.
"Isn't she still sympathetic to Germany after being a collaborator, sleeping with you?"
"N-no, it's n-not like that. You have to find her again. Before they do." Hartmuth raised his voice.
Aimee was surprised. "Who?"
"People in the German government. . .." He put his head down.
"Why should I believe you? You were in the Gestapo. I'll never have enough proof to prosecute you for war crimes. The Werewolves erased your past, resurrected a new identity from a dead man. They were masters at that. But deep down I know rats like you live in holes all over Germany."
He rubbed his arm and spoke tonelessly. "I supervised the local French police. They rounded up the Jews from businesses and apartments in every building around here. I worked with the Direktor of the Antijudische Polizei at the Kommandantur. We ticked off sheets when the convoys were loaded. As for shipping them out. . ." He paused, and lowered his voice. "I didn't know what an Auschwitz or Treblinka meant. I found out later. Sarah hid from me but I found her and saved her. All the rest. . .I was one man in a wave that crushed generations. I didn't kill Lili. The only time I ever killed was in hand-to-hand combat at Stalingrad. A little Russian boy aimed a p-pitchfork at me and I sh-shot him. I see that every night when I try to sleep. Other things, too."
"Thierry is your son, isn't he?" Aimee said.
"I don't know. This letter is in Sarah's writing b-but she said," he stopped. "Those eyes, y-yes. . .those are her eyes." He choked. "Sh-she told me we had a b-baby who died as an infant! I j-just find it hard to believe. . ."
"That I'm alive?" Thierry stood in front of him.
Aimee saw something inside of Hartmuth shift.
"Gott im Himmel, I never knew, n-never knew," he said. His head started shaking. "Are you my s-son?"
"Lies! Everyone lied to me," said Thierry. His face contorted in hate. "I had a right to know."
Aimee saw the confusion in Hartmuth's eyes. He wondered if this really was his son. His and Sarah's, conceived in the catacombs fifty years ago.
"Sarah told me the b-baby died!" Hartmuth said.
Thierry, a stream of tears running down his own face, tentatively reached over.
"May I touch you, Father?" he asked in a whisper.
"Look at his blue eyes," Aimee said to Hartmuth. "Claude Rambuteau said Thierry had the same eyes as Sarah."
Hartmuth slowly reached out his trembling fingers, and grasped Thierry's. They held hands tightly. Aimee watched as Hartmuth's hand started to explore Thierry's face. His fingers traced Thierry's cheekbones, how his forehead curved, where his ears brushed his black hair.
Fog curled into the courtyard, dimming the spotlights highlighting Picasso's sculptures. The temperature had dropped but the two men were oblivious. As they spoke, clouds of frost in the afternoon air punctuated their words.
Softly Hartmuth spoke. "Your chin is like my grandmother's, jutting out just a little here." He sighed wistfully as he ran his fingers over Thierry's jawline. "Of course your eyes, coloring, and hair are hers," he said.
"Hers?" Thierry asked, letting the question trail in the air.
"She'll come to me, to us. . ." A fierce longing shone in Hartmuth's eyes. "That's why she's doing this, now I understand. Nothing matters anymore but that we're together. Some crazy coincidence and we've all found each other. I always hoped. But never in my fantasies did I dream we—"
"That we'd be reunited, like some happy family?" Thierry laughed sarcastically.
"No. I never knew you existed. But we are meant to be together," Hartmuth said.
"Father, don't forget what you lived by," Thierry said. He flashed his hand in the light so Hartmuth could see the tattoos circling his hand. "The SS motto—'My honor's name is loyalty.' Those ideals have never died."
"Where do you get this old propaganda?" Hartmuth asked, amazed.
Thierry's eyes welled with tears. "My life is a sacrifice for the Aryan way of life."
Hartmuth shook his head. "She's in danger." His voice had become urgent.
"It's good to know some things never change," Thierry said. For the first time he smiled.
"What do you mean? She's your mother," Hartmuth said.
Aimee moved closer to Hartmuth. "What does she look like?"
"Her eyes are incredibly blue," he said. "She wears a black wig. You have to find her."
"She's a Jewish sow, a defiled receptacle for Aryan seed, that's all." Thierry's eyes flashed with hate.
Aimee was alarmed. "Let's go, Thierry."
Hartmuth looked incredulous. "How can you say that? That's old talk, it never mattered."
Thierry bowed abjectly. "Can you accept me as your son, defiled as I am?"
Hartmuth slapped him. "Your brain is defiled!"
Thierry nodded. "True." He knelt down. "I will purify myself, cleanse her presence from me," he begged. "I will find the Jewish sow. Purge our line for the master race."
Aimee pulled him up, grabbing his arm. She had to get him out of the dank, chill courtyard before he did anything else. She shoved him past the Minotaur, almost tripping over the bench.
"You warped, sick. . .!" Hartmuth yelled.
"I will prove myself," Thierry said as Aimee dragged him towards the back door of the museum.
"Wait. . ." Hartmuth cried but they were gone.
THIERRY JERKED Aimee against the wall outside the Picasso Museum.
"Find her!" he said and was gone.
Cold and tired, she trudged over the Seine to her apartment. Miles Davis sprung on her as she entered her unheated flat. She jiggled the light switch until the chandelier shone dimly, then kicked the hall radiator, which sputtered to life and died.
Chilled to the bone, she went to the bathroom and turned on the chrome faucets full blast in her black porcelain tub. Her father's old Turkish robe, frayed and blue, hung over the heated towel rack. When her apartment's heat failed, she'd warm up in her claw-footed tub; there, her thoughts were released and she could order the compartments of her mind. Put ideas together, make sense of what she knew. She sank into the welcome warmth as her mirror fogged with steam and the sweet aroma of lavender Provencal soap filled the room.
She'd proved Thierry was Hartmuth's and Sarah's son. After Hartmuth accepted that, he'd revealed Sarah had survived and was in danger. Not only did Hartmuth want to find her, a crazed Thierry did, too. Thierry's anger frightened her and she still wasn't any closer to knowing who killed Lili. On top of that, Rene hadn't gotten back to her and she was worried about him.
She heard the click of her answering machine.
"Leduc, answer, I know you're there," came Morbier's voice on her machine.
She got out of the now lukewarm tub, intending not to answer. As she dried her hair, she heard the insistence in his voice. Finally she picked up the phone in her bedroom.
"You don't have to yell, I just got out of the bath," she said.
"Meet me in the Place des Vosges, at Ma Bourgoyne, the cafe with the good apple tarte tatin," he growled.
"Give me one good reason, Morbier," Aimee said in a tired voice.
"Intuition, gut feeling, whatever you want to call it, just that feeling I get that's kept me in this business this long. Get dressed, I'll be waiting." He hung up.
She whistled to Miles Davis who scampered off her bed. "Time for you to stay with Uncle Maurice. I want you safe."
Thursday Afternoon
AIMÉE WALKED THROUGH THE long shadows cast across the courtyard of Hôtel Sully. Dark green hedgerows manicured thinly into fleur-de-lys shapes broke up the wide gravel expanse. This tall mansion, another restored hôtel particulier, gave access to Place des Vosges via a narrow passageway.