Henri left, leaving her in the crowded kitchen. The men were unshaven, with hollow cheeks, as if they had been living rough in the woods and fields. The kitchen grew stifling with the smell of stale tobacco, old wine, and unwashed bodies.
She scrambled to give them something to eat. First, she brewed coffee and served it with lots of milk. At least there was plenty of that, though sugar for the coffee was scarce.
There was some bread that the German had brought. She sliced the bread and fried the slices in some bacon fat that she had been shepherding these last few weeks. The smell of food seemed to lift the spirits of the men, who began talking more freely to one another. They did not really include her in the conversation, however, but cast looks at her figure in the tight-fitting, worn dress when they thought she wasn't looking.
What else did she have to give them? A few eggs, which she broke, one by one, into the fat, and fried them just until the yolks had started to set. Still, it did not seem like enough. She thought of a can of chopped ham that the German had given her. She had been saving it, but these men seemed to need all the nourishment that she could spare. They were loyal Frenchmen, after all.
She took the can from the cabinet, opened it, and added the ham to the bread and eggs. She tossed the empty can into the midden pail.
It was a meager meal, but the four men accepted it gratefully. She saved a fifth plate for Henri, but did not eat anything herself, saving it for the men.
Henri returned in a few minutes, having tucked the children back into bed. He took his place at the crowded table and ate silently.
When they were finished, the men left their dirty plates at the table and went outside to smoke. Somehow, her precious bottle of red wine went out the door with them.
Henri stayed behind, watching as she cleared the table.
"You're eating better than I thought," he said ruefully. "Where did you get that canned ham? I would not have thought it was possible."
“I have been saving it," she said. "I thought your men could use it."
Finally, he stood and made his way to the midden pail, bent over, and held up the empty tin of canned ham, known as Schinkenwurst, the German equivalent of what Americans called Spam. The can was clearly stenciled with German markings.
"Where did you get this, Lisette?" he demanded in an accusing tone. Moving closer, he practically shoved the tin in her face.
She thought quickly, studying her brother's hard expression. She had coached the children to keep Dieter’s visits a secret, but she wondered if they had let that secret slip. Was it possible that Henri now knew the truth and was only trying to catch her in a lie? “I traded some eggs for it," she said.
"You traded with Germans?" Henri nearly spat the last word. ”Lisette, what are you thinking? They are the enemy."
Lisette felt relieved that her secret was safe — so far. Yet she was still indignant. “What can I say? The children and I need to eat. It is only a little tin of meat, hardly enough to feed us, let alone you and your friends."
"They are not friends," he corrected her. "They are soldiers fighting for a free France."
Try as she might, Lisette could not equate these shabby, leering men with heroes. "If you say so."
"I do say so," he said. He caught her wrist, squeezing it painfully. He pressed the empty ration can closer to her face, filling her nose with the metallic odor of factory-processed meat. "Listen to me, Lisette. You are playing a dangerous game. Stay away from the Germans. First you start trading eggs, but then who knows what else you might start trading with them? You should see how the girls who collaborated with the Germans are being treated in the areas that have been liberated. I would not want to see that happen to my sister.”
Having made his point, he released his grip.
Lisette snatched back her hand and rubbed her wrist. She could only imagine how angry Henri would be if he knew the truth about her German lover.
Glaring at her, Henri tossed the empty tin back in the midden pail.
He had expected her to be cowed, but Lisette found herself struggling to control her growing anger. She was no longer the little sister that she had been before he left. Henri started to leave the kitchen, but she blocked his path.
“Listen to you, Henri! You go away for a few weeks and suddenly you are full of wisdom? Now you are a hero of France? Let me tell you how it is. You left me here alone to tend this farm and your children. What am I to feed them? None of the neighbors bring me food! They have little enough for themselves. What have you brought me tonight but grief and more mouths to feed?"
If Henri had been angry before, the look of rage brought on by her outburst was all too clear. She stared in disbelief at his raised hand. He slapped her so hard that Lisette staggered back against the sink.
"You don't know what you are saying!" he shouted. Spittle flew from his lips. She had never seen him so angry. "You have not seen the things that I have seen these last few weeks, or done the things that I have done. When I tell you to stay away from the Germans, you had better listen unless you want to end up with a shaved head, or worse!”
“What could be worse?”
“In some places they are banishing the girls who took up with the Germans. Sometimes they are beaten to within an inch of their lives. Is that what you want, Lisette?"
Finally, he dodged around her and headed out the door to join his companions, smoking their cigarettes in the dooryard. Passing around her bottle of wine. The shy one named Stefan gave her a furtive look, like a rat eying the cheese.
Lisette's cheek stung, but one did not grow up on a farm without enduring pain from time to time. This was nothing. She stayed behind in the kitchen, to clean up the mess that her brother and the other men had made. The story of my life, she thought.
She just hoped that she could continue to keep Dieter’s visits a secret from Henri. The war had changed him. What might Henri be capable of, if he discovered the truth about her German soldier? Would he stand by if she was punished in public, or would he join in?
Chapter Twenty
Rohde dodged a couple of SS patrols out looking for French Resistance fighters or perhaps American commandos and made it back to the command post in time for a few hours of sleep.
He was up even earlier than usual on that August morning. Not so much as a hint of sunrise had touched the horizon and no birds sang. The air was heavy with dew and smelled of wet grass and plowed earth. Rohde liked mornings because they were full of promise.
He relieved himself in the slit trench near the command post. After a moment's reflection, he took with him the short-handled camp shovel that had been stuck into a pile of earth to freshen the latrine from time to time. He would need the shovel for what he had planned.
He went back and retrieved his rifle, then took the Zeiss telescopic sight from its protective wooden box and mounted it to the K98. He double-checked the mounts, satisfied that the rifle was ready for action. Rohde's last piece of equipment for the day was a bayonet that he liberated from a bunkmate's gear. There was little use for bayonets on the battlefield, but the 18-inch blade would be perfect for what Rohde had in mind.
He stopped at the barn that served as the unit's mess. There, he grabbed a quick cup of coffee and a roll. A few sleepy men were already starting the business of the day, but none of them so much as acknowledged Rohde.
He hardly noticed that Scheider was not there. Rohde felt no regrets. Scheider had thought that Rohde had let slip some nugget and had been only too eager to ambush the American unit on the road to St. Dennis de Mere. He had not counted on the American sniper coming along, but then again, neither had Rohde.