The Unlikely Allies (9 page)

She glanced over to see Lars speaking rapidly to Eva, and then the couple turned and ran toward her and Rolf.

“Come on, Rolf,” Lars shouted, “we’ve got to stop them!”

As the two men raced away, Eva tried frantically to follow them, but Mallory caught her. “You can’t go with them.”

“Yes I can! Let me go, Mallory!”

But she held on tightly, and finally Eva grew still.

“Come help me get this wedding dress off, Mallory. I’ve got to be with Lars.”

“Where is he going?”

“We’ve been expecting this invasion and have plans all laid out. We’ve organized a resistance, and Lars and Rolf have gone to set things in motion. But you must stay out of it, Mallory. This isn’t your fight.”

With her heart heavy, Mallory followed Eva to the church’s bridal dressing room to help her. She knew that the world had suddenly changed—her world and the world of the Norwegian people. Adolf Hitler had stretched his evil arm out once again to bring terror to an innocent and helpless nation.

****

Six weeks later, Eva came into Mallory’s room without knocking. Eva and Lars had been generous enough to offer Mallory a room in their house for as long as she cared to stay.

Strain marked Eva’s face as she said abruptly, “You’ve got to get out of Norway, Mallory.”

Mallory stared at her friend. The last few weeks since the wedding had gone by like a whirlwind. The paratroopers had quickly secured the airport, and transport Junkers had flown in with German storm troopers, who had taken Oslo. The Germans had struck all along the coast at Bergen, Trondheim, and at Narvik with their blitzkrieg tactics. The invasion was ruthless, and although the Norwegian army had tried to defend their land, the coordination of air, land, and sea forces that Hitler had mobilized had struck the country like a sledgehammer.

“What are
you
going to do, Eva?” Mallory asked.

“We’re going to keep working with the resistance, but you need to get out of Norway—if you can.”

“But what will happen to the little church among the Lapps? I can’t leave now.”

“The Germans won’t bother the Lapps. Nobody ever bothers them. They wander where they please. They don’t have anything that the Germans want. Someday when this is over, you can return to them.”

The two women talked briefly, and then Eva said, “Sigrid is going to have to leave Norway too, and you’d better leave with her.”

As soon as Eva left the room, Mallory stood for one moment thinking, then went to her radio and switched it on, her jaw set. After it was warmed up, she began trying to reach Africa. She gave her call letters, and almost at once she heard her father’s voice greeting her.

Without preamble, she summarized the latest news in Europe. Her father urged her to return home. He was worried for her safety.

“Dad, I can’t come home now. I can’t leave my friends.”

With those words, Mallory knew she had made her decision. She would stay in Norway. She would help Eva and those engaged in the underground war as best she could. And she would return to her church among the Lapps. The world was at war now, and so was Mallory Anne Winslow.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A Meeting in Paris

As Rachel Mindel stepped outside of the Sorbonne library, she paused and glanced upward. A thin moon lay askew low in the south, and the Milky Way made a dull silver river against the sable blackness of the sky. During that instant a strange feeling touched her—a stray current of something out of her past, a half-warm regret and a pale sentimentality. She hesitated for a moment, conscious that she was longing for her homeland, but Czechoslovakia was a long way from Paris. With a quick shrug of her shoulders, she moved down the front steps.

The cool September air that filled Paris was laced with the city’s odors, and as Rachel moved down the murky streets, lit only partially by feeble lamps, she could not shake off her yearning for her homeland. Paris was too big and busy, and after several months here, she was weary of the bustle of the thousands of people that swarmed its streets. She longed to walk in the woods next to her home, to watch the sunlight run fresh and fine against the towering trees, and to smell woodsmoke as it tinged the fall air.

Some of the streetlights were out, she noticed, and the ebony night spread itself over the street. She quickened her pace, for this dark street of Paris was no place for a young woman.
They say the human body is more muscle than anything,
she thought,
but that’s wrong. We’re made of memories, and most of those are snarled and tangled like a line on a fishing reel that has to be cut away because no one can
straighten it out.
It was typical of Rachel Mindel to have such thoughts, for a poetic strain ran through her. There was also a strain of humor, and she smiled at her own thoughts as she hurried toward the next streetlight.

She never saw the man who stepped out of the alley and grabbed her arm with a powerful hand. She was whirled around before she knew what was happening. She smelled the rank odors of the man’s body, and terror ran through her like a jolt of electricity. She opened her mouth to scream, but before she could make a sound, another hand closed on her slender throat. “Don’t scream,” he said in rough French. “Gimme your money.”

Rachel struggled, dropping her purse and striking at the man’s face, but he only laughed, pinioning both of her hands in his. He threw his other arm around her and laughed coarsely. “I’ll have your money, and I’ll have you too!” he growled in a hoarse whisper. Still holding her, he stooped over and grabbed her purse before dragging her back toward the open maw of the alleyway.

“Help me! Please, somebody help me!” Rachel managed to cry out, but her voice sounded pitifully thin.

“That’s right. Go on and holler. It’ll do you no good.”

Her assailant’s grip was frightening. He was as strong as a gorilla, and Rachel felt herself dragged along helplessly. She kicked at him and screamed, but her voice was cut off when the man grabbed her throat again and cut off her air so that her voice trickled off into a faint protesting murmur.

Suddenly from behind her, a man’s strong voice broke through the darkness. “Turn the woman loose!”

Rachel was whirled around, her assailant still gripping her tightly. She could see only the outline of the other man, enough to know that he was tall. “Please help me!” she begged.

“Let her go, you brute!”

Rachel was released so suddenly that she staggered and nearly fell. She saw a gleaming flash, and narrowing her eyes, she saw that her assailant had drawn a knife. He held it out
in front of him and laughed deep in his throat. “Come on, hero. I’ll gut you like a fish!”

Rachel could neither speak nor think clearly, but she saw her attacker move forward with surprising speed for such a large man. The tall man kicked at the other man’s shins, knocking his feet out from under him. There was a dull snapping sound as his left arm hit the curb, and the man cried out in agony.

He managed to pull himself up into a crouch, the knife still in his hand. As he shoved himself upward, the tall rescuer also moved quickly. His leg shot out again, this time much higher, and the impact of his shoe striking the big man’s jaw made a distinct crunching sound. Rachel blinked with astonishment as her attacker was driven backward. He fell over and lay still, the knife falling beside him on the pavement.

“Are you all right?” The tall rescuer asked Rachel, his face shrouded by the murky darkness.

“Oh yes. Thank you so much.”

“Do you want to call the police?”

“No, I just want to get away!”

“Well, I suppose that’s enough. It looks like he’s got a broken arm and a broken jaw. When he comes to, he’s not going to get far. Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

Rachel felt weak and helpless as she realized what had just happened. She stumbled forward and felt the man take her arm. The strength of his grip gave her a reassuring feeling, and when they reached the streetlight, she looked at him. She started to speak and then saw that the sleeve of his coat was sliced. “You’ve been hurt!”

“Yes, he did scratch me a bit.”

“We’ll have to get you to a hospital.”

“It’s not that bad.”

In the pale gleam of the streetlight, Rachel was able to see his face now. He was over six feet, so she had to bend her head back to see him. He was young, in his early twenties,
she guessed, and had strong features—high cheekbones, a broad mouth, and blue eyes that seemed to be studying her.

“We must get you to a doctor,” Rachel said.

“No need of that—”

“Yes, you must have help,” she insisted. Then she had an idea. “My landlady is a nurse. She can see to you if you won’t go to a hospital. Come, I live very close to here.”

The tall man hesitated.

She was a resolute young woman, and when he hesitated, she shook her head. “Don’t be stubborn, now. That needs to be seen to.”

“Well, if you insist. By the way, my name is Derek Grüber.”

“I’m Rachel Mindel. Come along, Mr. Grüber.”

****

Margot Billaud was in bed when Rachel arrived back at her apartment building with the man who rescued her. After banging on her door repeatedly, Rachel managed to rouse her landlady, who threw on an old blue robe and sleepily made her way to the door. Margot was a woman of little imagination, but she was an excellent nurse. She had married late in life, and her husband owned this apartment building, which brought in a good income, so Margot worked at her profession only when she chose to.

When she heard what Rachel wanted, she gathered her medical supplies and brought them up to Rachel’s apartment. She directed the man into the kitchen and asked him to remove his shirt, then to sit on the table under the light. She inspected the four-inch cut on his right shoulder, wasting no time admiring the strength of his upper body. “That’s not a very bad wound.” She glanced at Rachel. “You should have better sense than to walk the streets alone at night.”

She had Rachel fetch a pan of warm water and a clean cloth and began gently cleaning the wound. “What’s your name?” Madame Billaud asked.

“Derek Grüber.”

“You’re not French.”

“No.” Grüber smiled. “My French isn’t very good.”

“Where are you from?”

“Germany.”

As Derek Grüber spoke, his eyes were on Rachel, who was now standing slightly behind Madame Billaud. When he said the word
Germany,
he saw her visibly flinch, with a flicker in her eyes that told him he had hurt her with just a word. He was accustomed to this by now. Being a German in Europe was not easy these days. Adolf Hitler was a man who put fear into the hearts of most Europeans. He reminded them too much of the kaiser and of those terrible days of the Great War. Derek made no sign that he had noticed her reaction.

“What are you doing in Paris?” Madame Billaud demanded.

“I’m a student at the Sorbonne.”

The woman was a quick, efficient nurse, and she had cleaned his wound and was now applying antiseptic. “Does that burn?”

“Yes.”

“It hurts, but you need something to keep it from infection.”

Madame Billaud taped on a bandage, and then she looked straight into his eyes. “I don’t like your
f
ü
hrer,
” she said abruptly, a keen edge to her tone.

“Many do not.” Grüber began to put his shirt back on. As he buttoned it, he said, “I’ll be glad to pay you for your treatment.”

Madame Billaud snorted. Turning to Rachel, she said, “Well, Mademoiselle Mindel, I hope you’ll have better sense than to roam the streets of Paris after dark.” She gathered up her medical supplies, gave the German one strong look of disapproval, then left the room, shutting the door with more force than was necessary.

“She’s a little rough,” Rachel said, “but she has a good heart.”

“I’m sure she does.”

“I attend the university too.”

“Oh really. What are you studying?”

“I’m studying French, as well as music history. I would like to teach when I return to Czechoslovakia. What are you studying?”

“Ah, that explains the accent. I’m supposed to be studying engineering, but I’m taking courses in French literature as well.” He saw her look of surprise. “My father will be unhappy. He thinks literature is for women and small children, not for grown men.” He picked up his coat and put it on. “I best be leaving you now, Mademoiselle Mindel.”

She accompanied him to the door and said, “I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my life, and I’m grateful for that.”

Derek studied her face. Not everyone would find her beautiful, but her face was pleasing to him. Her brown eyes were warm but mysterious, holding back some of what lay behind them. She had wide and clean-edged lips, and her complexion was fair and smooth. He admired the rich auburn gleam of her hair and the gentle slope of her neck and shoulders.

At his obvious admiration, she smiled demurely and a small dimple appeared in her right cheek. “I’ll never forget you,” she said simply. “I wish I could do something to make it up.”

“Do you know anything about French literature?”