Chapter 7

Spring 1938

T he Hautes-Alpes in southeastern France loomed ahead, their rugged peaks reaching into a milky-blue sky. Fir trees with snow-covered branches lined the narrow, winding road that seemed to stretch endlessly through the mountains. The recent snow had melted in the valleys but clung stubbornly to the hills, while the highest peaks remained shrouded in white. I couldn’t believe my luck when Henri invited me along. ‘Come away with me, Nancy,’ he’d asked just last month, having borrowed a friend’s chalet for five days.

A cabin in the Alps, the great outdoors—there was a first time for everything. ‘What will we do?’

‘It’s the Alps, ma chérie. We go walking.’

‘Oh, well, I don’t mind walking. And in the evenings, we can dine out.’

Henri laughed. ‘There is nowhere to dine unless you do not mind a long car journey. We prepare our own meals there. Just think, Nannie. Good food, candlelight, the warmth of a crackling log fire, and you in my arms.’

I smiled, though I hoped he didn’t expect gourmet cooking from me—my culinary skills were limited.

Marie had laughed when I told her. ‘You’ll be driven mad with boredom, Nancy. No nightlife.’ Her words made me smile even now. ‘I suspect Henri has some other plan for you,’ she’d mused.

I glanced over at Henri. He seemed happy, free of work worries. I didn’t mind what we did, as long as we were together.

Marie’s parting words echoed in my mind: ‘What girl doesn’t want to be taken care of? You’re so lucky, Nancy.’

I gazed around at the imposing fortress of mountains. So many women fell into the trap of giving their hearts away too readily, only to be let down, left with hurt and broken pieces. I’d grown up with broken pieces and was still trying to fit them back together. ‘You’re just an old sceptic,’ Marie had said. But I disagreed. Women shouldn’t rush into things. No matter how many times Henri asked me to move to Marseille, my answer remained the same: no. Why change something that worked?

***

Val-des-Prés was a tiny village with a quaint church nestled in the heart of the Hautes-Alpes, close to the Italian border. A few houses lined the narrow road, their designs as varied as the people who lived in them. White sheets flapped in the breeze on a washing line in someone’s yard. An older man in a black beret nodded a greeting as he squeezed past us on his ox-drawn cart.

Picon sprang onto my lap, yapping excitedly, his nose pressed against the window, his little tail wagging furiously. He’d never seen such beasts before. Henri had been here before, though he was careful not to disclose with whom. There were always so many ‘friends’ in his life.

‘Nous voilà,’ Henri announced as he pulled into a long, winding drive. Just beyond a sharp turn stood the timber cabin with green-painted shutters. A climbing rose twisted up and over the doorframe, its gnarled stems blistered with fresh buds. The breeze stung my face, the air icy.

‘Come on,’ Henri said cheerfully. ‘I will show you around. You will love it.’ He almost skipped to the door, fumbling in his jacket pocket for the keys.

Inside, a spacious hallway ran the depth of the house, and a rustic wooden staircase wound up to an upper landing. The kitchen boasted a large cooking range, with pots and pans hanging from a rack above, bundles of lavender nestled among them, their purple blooms releasing a sweet, floral scent.

A scrubbed pine farmhouse table sat in the middle of the room, an ornate silver candelabra at its centre. A bottle of red wine and a basket of fresh fruit waited at the end of the table. ‘There should be some food,’ Henri said, opening a few cupboards. ‘Pierre is so generous. We have fresh bread, cheese, meats, and wine.’ He slipped off his coat and draped it over a chair. ‘It is a little cold, perhaps. I shall light a fire to warm things up.’

‘Good idea.’ Goosebumps prickled my arms, and I kept my coat on as I followed Henri into the living room. He crouched by the hearth, dipping into the log basket for firewood. Red velour chairs and a sofa surrounded an oak coffee table, their plump ivory cushions inviting. Not a speck of dust lay on any surface.

I tiptoed across the parquet floor to the large window, smoothing a hand over the peach chintz curtains as I gazed out at the garden. The rugged, snow-covered mountains stretched into the clouds, cocooning the valley. Henri sneaked up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, nuzzling my neck with butterfly kisses.

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Not as beautiful as you.’ He turned me around to face him, cupping my chin in his hand. ‘I am so happy to be here with you, Nannie. We shall spend the perfect week together.’ He kissed me, a kiss that made me feel wanted, safe. How was that possible?

After dinner, we sat together in front of the fire, staring into the flames while nursing glasses of cognac. I swirled the amber liquid, warming it before savouring a mouthful—notes of vanilla, dark chocolate, and hazelnuts tantalising my taste buds. A dog barked outside, an owl screeched, and the fire crackled, spitting sparks as the logs shifted in the grate. Henri’s arm around my shoulders felt strong, safe, drawing me close. In that moment, I felt as if I were observing from outside myself, a sepia photograph of a couple lost in time. It was heaven, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to dream. Henri reached out, took the glass from my hand, and set it down on the table with a clunk.

‘It is late,’ he said, standing up and pulling me to my feet. He kissed the tip of my nose before leading me up the wooden stairs to the main bedroom. The brass bedstead gleamed beneath a satin floral bedspread. Henri crossed to the window and drew the curtains. I stood by the bed, waiting as he moved toward me.

‘You are so beautiful,’ he whispered, sweeping a loose curl away from my face. ‘I shall remember this always.’

‘Remember what?’

‘This perfect moment, of course. You make me so happy, Nancy.’

I wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his neck, savouring the warmth of his embrace.

‘Je t’aime.’

‘I love you.’

* * *

Golden light streamed through the thin bedroom curtains. I lay in bed, half-asleep, squinting at the brightness. Henri wasn’t beside me. The house was silent. Memories of the night before filled my mind, and my heart skipped a beat. Henri loved me. Lying in his arms, his warm skin against mine—I blushed at the thought, a mix of joy and unease sparring inside me. Life was so unpredictable. I reminded myself to take it one moment at a time. Outside, birds chirped and tweeted, their incessant chatter breaking the quiet.

I dragged myself out of bed, slipped on my pink silk robe, and padded downstairs, my bare feet icy on the cold wooden floor. The scent of coffee greeted me halfway down. Henri sat at the kitchen table, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘There you are,’ I said, planting a kiss on his mouth.

‘Good morning, sleepyhead.’ He grinned. ‘You looked so peaceful that I could not bring myself to wake you.’ He slipped an arm around my waist, gently pulling me onto his lap as he poured coffee into a cup. ‘We have croissants for breakfast, with a choice of strawberry or blackcurrant jam.’

Picon leapt from his basket and trotted over, sitting at my feet, his brown eyes pleading. I tore off a piece of croissant and offered it to him. He wagged his tail furiously, his delight clear. I sighed with contentment. This gave me a taste of life with Henri, and I wondered what it would be like if we were married. We sipped our coffee in companionable silence, just happy to be together. But reality loomed. In a few days, we’d return to work—Henri to Marseille, and me to Paris, chasing stories. Life was just one long story, wasn’t it? We all had our parts to play. The key was to enjoy the present, to appreciate each moment, because none of us knew what was coming next.

* * *

That summer, Henri took me away to Cannes for a week where we spent time with our friends, Emma Digard and Emmanuel, the owner of the Hotel Martinez.

‘Henri thinks the world of you, Nancy,’ Emma said one evening over dinner, her smile warm and knowing.

My heart fluttered, a soft glow spreading inside my chest at the thought of him.

‘I’ve never seen him like this before,’ she added, hitching an eyebrow as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

‘Well, we get on well, but I don’t think he’s serious.’

‘Really? That’s not how it seems to us. He would make the perfect husband.’

Her words ventured into private territory far too soon. I didn’t doubt her sincerity, but Henri hadn’t once mentioned marriage. He’d asked me to move to Marseille, but that was different. Fortunately, her daughter Micheline sprinted over and pulled me away just in time. I glanced at Henri, who was deep in conversation with Emmanuel. Emma’s words echoed in my mind: The perfect husband. But was Henri ready for marriage? Was I? There was so much I wanted to do. Next month, I was taking a short trip to Germany and Austria to see for myself what was happening across the border. Life was perfect as it was, and I had no desire to ruin it by complicating things.

Cannes sweltered in the midday sun, palm trees shimmering along the promenade against the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. It was a fashionable destination, with lively nightlife and a reputation for glamour. Long, lazy days in the sun, and balmy evenings dining on terraces before slipping into the casino, brushing shoulders with the rich and famous. I didn’t mind the casino, but it wasn’t my idea of fun.

Soon, I found myself disinterested in placing bets with the chips Henri gave me. Instead, I opted to spend my evenings at the Palm Beach Hotel whiling away the hours over drinks while chatting with Miracca, the manager. He had so many entertaining stories about the rich and famous people he’d encountered during his career, and it certainly beat playing poker. Besides, it was perfect fodder for my greedy journalistic mind.

Life with Henri had become as smooth as silk. Yet sometimes, during the night, he’d groan and thrash around in his sleep, radiating heat like a furnace. Last night, he muttered, ‘Non, non. Fire!’ When I asked him about it, he dismissed it as nothing more than a dream. A bad dream indeed, but of what? I knew Henri had served in the Great War, though he never spoke of it. It seemed there was still much to learn about him.

September 1938

Nuremberg lay under a heavy veil of swastikas, masking the beauty of its ancient streets. Cobbled lanes, half-timbered houses, and stunning architecture stood in stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere. Richard hailed a cab and helped the driver load our luggage. Marie climbed in next to me, and as we drove through the busy streets, I couldn’t help but notice how normal everything seemed—aside from the heavy military presence.

That evening, after a pleasant meal surrounded by German officers, we retired to the hotel’s cocktail lounge.

‘Careful what you say. We’re surrounded,’ Richard whispered, nudging my arm.

‘I have eyes.’ I smiled back at him, linking my arm through his as we found seats in a discreet corner. The lounge was brimming with SS officers, their excited chatter and raucous laughter filling the air. More officers arrived, glancing our way as they passed to a nearby table. One of them looked straight into my eyes. He was tall, with white-blond hair and striking blue- grey eyes—piercing, yet oddly warm. A gentle grin tugged at his mouth, and I swallowed, returning a polite half-smile.

‘Would you look at that?’ Marie said. ‘Everywhere we go, you attract admirers.’ She laughed, stubbing out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray. I placed a cigarette in my holder, lit up, and took a drag, feeling a little vexed by Marie’s flippant comment. It wasn’t something to make light of, especially here. The last thing I wanted was the attentions of a Nazi. I exhaled a cloud of smoke, glancing back at the German officer. He stared at me with an intense look, as he tried and failed to hold my gaze.

‘Your dress is gorgeous,’ Marie said.

‘Thanks. I saw it at Georges. It was a bit pricey, but I couldn’t resist. Now I’m nearly broke.’ I smoothed my hand over the midnight-blue silk of my evening dress as Richard ordered drinks. Behind us, the officers burst into laughter. I reached for my whisky and drank it in one fiery gulp.

The resident pianist, splendid in black tails, played Raindrops by Chopin. I’d heard it before and liked it—eloquent, haunting, and sad. Somehow, it felt fitting here. The German officer continued to stare, and I felt my cheeks tingle, my skin crawling like it had years ago when a boy hurled maggots at me for a prank. It was rude to stare, and annoying, too. My heart sank as he rose from his seat and strode toward me.

‘Good evening, Fr?ulein. I am Obersturmführer Erich Hartmann. May I have this dance?’ He held out his hand, a smile playing on his lips.

I was well and truly on the spot, and the old fight and flight mechanism kicked in as my heart raced. After a moment’s hesitation, I put down my cigarette and smiled politely. ‘Of course.’ I took his proffered hand as he led me to the dance floor. Refusing would have offended him, drawing unwanted attention, something I wished to avoid. Besides, perhaps I could glean some useful information.

His grip was light as he slipped an arm around my waist, drawing me close. I gritted my teeth, telling myself it was just role-playing, a means to an end. As we moved across the floor, I caught Richard’s eye—he watched us closely. Why couldn’t he have asked me to dance?

‘Are you in Germany on business, Fr?ulein?’

‘Yes, my friends and I are news correspondents with the Hearst Group in Paris.’

‘Ah, my favourite city after Berlin. I’ve been many times.’ He flashed a warm, genuine smile.

He was a handsome man with a gentle voice and kind eyes, but I couldn’t forget the ruthless laws aimed at alienating an entire population. I remembered the haunting images from Spain, images that would never leave me. No matter how charming he seemed, he was still the enemy. When the music ended, his hand slipped from my waist. ‘Thank you,’ I said, forcing a smile.

‘The pleasure is all mine, Fr?ulein. I hope to see you again soon.’ He bowed, then kissed the back of my hand.

I returned to my seat and swiftly downed the brandy waiting for me. The wolf was breathing down our necks here, a breath that would sweep through Europe like wildfire. Surely no one could be that evil—or could they?

That evening, after everyone had retired to their rooms, there was a knock at my door.

‘Richard. What are you doing up? Fancy a nightcap?’

‘You know me too well.’ He breezed in and closed the door behind him.

I poured two measures of brandy. ‘Bottoms up.’

He grinned. ‘That SS officer had his eye on you all evening. I think he’s smitten.’

‘Well, the feeling’s not mutual.’

He downed the brandy in one gulp. ‘I have it on good authority that there’s a lot going on behind the scenes here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘For starters, the Nazis opened a prison camp at Dachau. It’s for political prisoners—those they want out of the way, those unfit for the new Germany. Life in there is brutal. I’ve heard someone was beaten to death, but Hitler intervened in the court case. Regular laws don’t apply in concentration camps.’

I thought of Samuel, the Jewish man we’d met in Paris. Thank goodness he got out.

‘The Nazis have been boycotting Jewish shops and businesses, expecting all decent Aryan citizens to do the same. They’re splitting the population, singling out Jews and others.’

‘Others?’

‘The sick, disabled, Romani people—anyone they consider a drain on society.’ He looked down at his feet. ‘Anyone who isn’t of pure Aryan blood. People vanish, Nance, and no one knows where they go.’

An icy shiver slithered down my spine. Hitler had clawed his way into the Reichstag, into power, and the Nazi Party had evolved into something monstrous. What did he want? To rule the world?

‘Hitler’s a gifted orator,’ Richard continued. ‘He’s got the people in the palm of his hand, convincing them that the Jews are to blame for Germany’s misfortunes.’ He poured another brandy. ‘You know he wrote a book, right?’

‘I’ve heard of it.’

‘I haven’t read it, but I know a guy who has. It’s all in there—what’s happening now, and what’s coming. Everything Hitler thinks, everything he wants.’

I had no desire to read such a book. It sounded terrifying.

‘Germany isn’t safe anymore. Even Americans have been attacked or arrested. They were released, but not before being beaten and forced to spend the night naked in a cold cell.’

Suddenly, I felt homesick. I couldn’t wait to return to Paris—and to Henri.

‘Many see Hitler’s rise as an outstanding achievement, but he’s not finished. His plans are far bigger than anyone realises.’

Germany wasn’t safe. Thoughts of a life with Henri flitted through my mind like sweet dreams, but at least France was still free.

* * *

The Nuremberg Rally was impressive, a grand showcase of Germany’s military might. Soldiers in their finest uniforms goose-stepped in marches, torchlight processions blazed, bonfires roared, and fireworks lit the night sky. This year’s rally was called the ‘Rally of Greater Germany,’ to reflect the Anschluss. It was unsettling to see the thousands of Germans who had swarmed there to see their Führer.

Hitler knew how to put on a show, and the people loved him for it. They waved Nazi flags while larger swastikas hung from buildings, tugged by the wind. The German army marched proudly to the beat of drums as the crowd sang. Overhead, rows of bunting lined the route of the procession. We waited for hours, my feet aching, and then suddenly, the crowd erupted in cheers as they raised their right arms to chant, ‘Sieg Heil!’

Hitler made his way to the stage, a short distance from where I stood. I couldn’t understand a word of his speech, but I watched the crowd—noticed their glazed eyes, as if they were in a trance, completely under his spell. As the speech went on, Hitler became more animated, more emotive, his words etched with anger. At one point, his fist punched the air, and the crowd roared in approval. I didn’t understand German, but the emotion in the crowd was palpable. Men, women, and children, their faces flushed with fervour, eyes wide, arms extended in the Nazi salute. An icy chill slipped through me, chilling me to the bone. How could they believe in this cruel tyrant?

When the speech finally ended, the crowd went wild, chanting ‘Sieg Heil’ over and over, their arms still raised. It was unsettling to witness the effect this small man had on the people. They thought he was their saviour, destined to elevate Germany to greatness. It was a relief to return to our hotel, away from the masses, the chanting, and the power-crazed fanatic who seemed intent on creating chaos wherever he went. I couldn’t stop thinking about what we’d witnessed. It had been a monumental display of Germany’s military power and the reach of National Socialism. I hoped the rest of the world was listening because I feared for our future.

* * *

Vienna shone beneath the morning sun, her cobbled streets gathering a few scarlet and gold leaves. We walked from our hotel to Café Louvre on the corner of Wipplingerstra?e and Renngasse, a renowned haunt for the world’s media. Swastika flags flanked official buildings, hotels, and cafés, while posters of Hitler adorned walls, trams, and buses. German soldiers marched everywhere, and some were posted as guards at the entrances of official buildings. The Führer must have been delighted to have conquered the country of his birth.

With the Nuremberg Laws in force, all Jews had been removed from public service, their homes and businesses raided by the SA. Forced to wear the Star of David on their clothing, they were regularly subjected to humiliating acts by the SA or the SS, and thousands were deported to camps.

The café brimmed with people seated at marble-topped tables, many tucked behind copies of the daily newspaper.

‘It’s the place to be,’ Richard said as he pulled out a chair for me. ‘All the journalists flock here.’

As I glanced around, I spotted a table along one wall filled with snacks and pastries. The aroma of coffee wafted in the air. We’d arrived yesterday for a brief stay, curious to see Vienna after the Anschluss.

‘Most of the foreign correspondents have fled,’ Richard said. ‘And many Austrian reporters who worked for British and American press have been jailed.’

The crackle of newspaper pages turning, and the clatter of cups echoed around us. The air roasted with caution amidst hushed conversations and furtive glances. I wondered who among them might be a spy.

‘The head waiter, Gustav, makes a fabulous schnitzel for only two marks,’ Richard said.

‘No thanks. Too early for me. Coffee will do nicely.’ I had no appetite as I soaked up the oppressive atmosphere, wondering about the torrent of fascism sweeping through Europe, hoping to God it wouldn’t reach France. After breakfast, we ventured outside to see the sights. We took a tram to Belvedere Palace and strolled through the gardens. I stood beneath the boughs of an enormous elm, basking in the tranquillity as sunlight filtered through the leaves. Rhododendrons in ruby-red bloom bordered manicured lawns, and a large pond brimmed with water lilies. I walked arm-in-arm with Richard and Marie.

‘Thousands of Jews have fled already,’ Richard said. ‘Of course, the Germans were happy to let them go in exchange for their property and cash.’

‘Why is no one willing to oppose Hitler? It’s unbelievable how governments step aside when the German troops roll in,’ Marie said.

Two SS officers strolled by. ‘Good morning, Fr?ulein,’ one of them said.

Marie smiled and nodded. I breathed in the fresh air, scents of cut grass and damp earth, revelling in the Indian summer as autumn nipped at her heels.

Back in town, we slowly made our way to the station. Members of the Sturmabteilung, or SA, dressed in their brown shirts, khaki trousers, and black leather boots, were everywhere. They had helped Hitler rise to power, disrupting opposition meetings and presiding over halls with their ominous presence whenever he gave a speech. There was no escaping the heavy military presence, nor the shouts of ‘Sieg Heil!’

Across the street, a stormtrooper bellowed at a middle-aged man cowering outside a bookshop. Then, with his whip, he lashed out, and the man doubled over in pain before scuttling into the store. Another stormtrooper, armed with a pot of paint and a brush, daubed ‘Juden’ in large red letters across certain shop windows. Several SA emerged from various stores, carrying piles of goods, which they dropped into the middle of the street. Richard and I froze. I think we both realised what was coming. One brute poured kerosene over the haul and struck a match. Flames erupted, drawing a crowd. Some laughed, while others shrank away, their faces grim. In any other country, this would be illegal, but here, the Nazi ideology was reshaping society. Adrenaline surged through me, leaving my heart racing and my mouth dry. I wanted to scream, to cry out, to grab the oppressors by the throat and throttle them. But here, we were all powerless—for now.

As we neared the station, we rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a jeering crowd. In the road stood several SA next to a large wooden wheel. I looked twice, hardly believing the scene before me. The SA had tied three men to the wheel.

‘Juda,’ someone yelled from the crowd. The SA pushed the wheel forward, sending the men around and around, their cries echoing as they rolled over the cobblestones. The sight was excruciating—partially crushing them.

‘Christ, what the hell are they doing?’ I whispered.

Richard looked at me, his face creasing with concern. ‘What they’re paid to do—bully, intimidate, and torture.’

I’d never witnessed such cruelty, such brutality. Then the stormtroopers whipped and lashed each man in turn. My heart pounded, and my breath caught in my throat. ‘You wouldn’t treat a cat like that!’ I stared at the onlookers, balling my hands into fists. Some gawped, stony-faced, while others laughed and cheered. ‘Why doesn’t someone do something?’ I stepped forward, but Richard grabbed my arm.

‘Don’t, Nancy.’ He gave me a hard stare, holding me back. ‘What are you going to do? They’ll throw you in a cell.’

One of the Nazi brutes whipped one of the Jews tied to the wheel. The whip cracked, and the man winced, pain crumpling his face, and I turned away, tears pricking my eyes. The stormtroopers had created a spectacle of sick entertainment. I bit my lip to keep from crying. ‘Strewth, it’s medieval.’

‘Looks like all the stories are true,’ Marie said, clinging to Richard’s arm.

‘Come on.’ Richard turned away, dragging me with him. ‘Our cue to leave.’

A fire raged inside me, and I made a silent vow. If ever the opportunity arose, I would fight for the innocent, for those oppressed by the Nazis. The winds were changing, whispers of war spreading like wildfire. I hoped it wouldn’t come, but if it did, I swore never to bow down to the Nazis. I would fight until my last breath if it came down to it. At the station, a jostling crowd greeted us at the checkpoint.

‘Camera, please,’ the young officer said in a moderate tone, his eyes narrow.

I exchanged glances with Richard, but the officer snatched the camera from my hands, opened the shutter, and yanked out the film. I watched helplessly as the stormtroopers confiscated cameras from other journalists too. The Nazis were intent on keeping their ruthless tactics secret from the world. Well, camera or no camera, I wouldn’t be silenced. I’d lost my pictures, but I knew what I would write the minute I left.

Hitler had unleashed his poison on Vienna, and the world needed to know. The Third Reich was spreading terror and brutality. It was inhumane, monstrous, and if I could do anything to stop it, I would. For now, my voice would tell the story, but deep down, a greater need stirred—a desire to act, though I had no idea how. The dormant beast of Germany was wide awake and ready to roar.

***

The next few months slipped by. I volunteered for more assignments in southern France, just to see Henri. We grew closer, and even Picon approved, often curling up beside Henri or between us. Marseille felt right. I loved it there, and Henri’s home was comfortable. But that sharp memory of mine held me back, pricking my conscience whenever I became too comfortable. Henri continued in his efforts to persuade me to move to Marseille, and he had no idea how hard it was for me to say no each time. I couldn’t risk losing everything I’d worked so hard for—not until I was completely sure.