The Witch's Grave Part 11

"Shh," she hissed, with a jerk of her head toward the driver.

I knew what she meant-keep my mouth shut or I'd be reported. How did I know that? How did I know I was being forced to attend a party? Yet I did.

Staring out the window again, I watched darkened monuments, parks, churches flash by. The car's headlights, partially covered with tape to lower their brightness, reflected dimly off signs, once in French but now in German. Everywhere, the presence of the n.a.z.is scarred our streets.

This is so weird. I'm still me, Ophelia Jensen, but at the same time, I'm someone else-the woman everyone calls Madeleine. I know what she knows, I feel what she feels.

A sudden bizarre realization hit me.

I'm speaking French, and I don't know French. When I woke, would I still be able to converse in the language? Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I felt like giggling. When I woke, would I still be able to converse in the language? Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I felt like giggling.

Wait, I never giggle.

What's going on? Am I under so much stress that I've begun to suffer from multiple personality disorder? That I'm developing a new persona called Madeleine? What if she decides to make an appearance while I'm awake?

The thought scared me and I tensed-I had enough problems.

Relax, said a voice in my head, go with the dream. go with the dream.

I tried, and as I did, I felt the "Ophelia" part of me fade away as if going into a deep sleep, and the "Madeleine" part take control.

Looking at the back of the driver's head, my hatred of the n.a.z.is filled me, but I schooled my expression to show nothing. Like so many others, my life depended on my ability to hide my true feelings. The effort turned my mouth to dust.

The car slowed as it approached a grand house with iron gates. The gates opened and we pulled into a paved drive. At the entrance, the car stopped and the driver got out and opened my door as a servant opened Giselle's. Pulling my stole around my shoulders, I exited the car as gracefully as possible in my tight gown. With a smile, Giselle linked her arm with mine, and we climbed the wide steps leading to the heavy doors. As if by magic, the doors swung wide at our approach, revealing a magnificent entry, light and bright. A sharp contrast to the black shadows that hung over the city now.

Antique Persian rugs lay scattered on marble floors polished to a mirrored shine. Fine art by some of France's most well-known impressionists hung on the walls. From the salon on my left, I heard laughter and the sound of clinking gla.s.ses.

I thought of the poor gathering in dark rooms, around their meager meals, and my lips twisted with bitterness. A sharp jab in the ribs from Giselle made me remember where I was, and, as I crossed the threshold, I forced myself to smile at the servant taking my stole.

As an officer strode out of the salon toward us, Giselle stepped forward and offered her hand.

Taking it, he dipped his head stiffly. "Mademoiselle, so kind of you to join us," he said in a clipped voice as his cold green eyes appraised her.

Giselle rewarded him with a gracious nod. "Colonel Vogel, it's our pleasure. Thank you for the invitation."

The colonel's focused his attention on me.

Striving to mimic Giselle, I nodded, too. "Yes, thank you, Colonel."

"Ah, Madeleine, no need to be so formal," he replied, lifting my hand and pressing it to his lips. Releasing it, he motioned toward the salon. "Ladies, please join us."

As I followed the colonel and Giselle across the polished floor, I still felt the pressure of his lips on the back of my hand. I fought the desire to wipe away the feeling on my expensive gown.

The salon was much like the entryway. Priceless paintings adorned the cream-colored walls, and heavy crystal chandeliers sparkled in the candlelight. Women, powdered and rouged, lounged gracefully on antique furniture covered in satin, chatting with men dressed in uniforms. Servants, carrying trays laden with gla.s.ses filled with dark red wine, mingled with the guests.

This house was fit for a king...or a conqueror.

We joined a group gathered by the fireplace. And as we approached, I overheard the words "Russia" and "Leningrad."

The colonel's voice rang out over the conversation. "With such charming company," he chided, "let's have no talk of war tonight."

He stopped the servant nearby, and seizing two gla.s.ses from the tray, handed them to Giselle and I. Taking a gla.s.s for himself, he raised it high. "To the Fuehrer," he toasted in a loud clear voice.

Giselle lifted her gla.s.s, and after a warning glance at me, took a drink.

Reluctantly, I tipped my gla.s.s toward her, but holding it to my lips, only pretended to sip. I would not not drink to Hitler. drink to Hitler.

After the colonel's warning, the conversation shifted to the latest gossip from Berlin. Caring nothing about the quirks of the Third Reich's upper echelon, I tried not to look bored.

"Madeleine, you seem very quiet tonight," the colonel whispered at my elbow.

I carelessly lifted a shoulder in reply. Be charming, be witty, Be charming, be witty, insisted the voice in my head, but it was impossible. insisted the voice in my head, but it was impossible.

"When is Henrick returning?" he asked.

A moment of disorientation threw me. Henrick? Who's Henrick? Henrick? Who's Henrick? Then it hit me, Madeleine-me-we had a lover. Then it hit me, Madeleine-me-we had a lover. Wow-a lover! Wow-a lover! A Swedish businessman involved in selling much needed iron ore to the Third Reich. I hid the surprise on my...Madeleine's face. A Swedish businessman involved in selling much needed iron ore to the Third Reich. I hid the surprise on my...Madeleine's face.

"Next week," I answered quickly to cover my confusion.

Colonel Vogel smiled. "Good. I miss his dry humor." His expression turned to a slight leer for an instant as his eyes wandered to the flesh spilling out the top of my dress. "I'm sure you miss him, too, but maybe for other-"

The colonel's remark went unfinished as one of the servants announced in a loud voice, "Dinner is served."

Offering me his arm, Vogel escorted me to the dining room.

A sideboard laden with food sat along one wall, and the various aromas filled the room. Again I thought of the families doing without tonight while Vogel fed his guests a sumptuous meal. Any appet.i.te I had slipped away.

Vogel led me to the head of the table and pulled out the chair on the right. Masking the disdain I felt, I looked down the table, over the expensive china and crystal, at the other guests. The wine had flowed freely in the salon, and the conversation was becoming louder and louder as they continued to drain their gla.s.ses. The din hurt my ears, and I tried blocking it out by concentrating on the courses spread out before me.

Foie de gras followed by rich onion soup; rack of lamb with roasted potatoes; green beans in a heavy cream sauce; thick, crusty bread; cheeses. I picked at the food that was placed in front of me in rapid succession.

Vogel leaned to his right. "Madeleine, aren't you feeling well?" he asked in a hushed voice.

I grabbed my goblet of water and drank thirstily. Finished, I put the goblet down. "My apologies, Colonel," I replied, giving him a stiff smile. "The room is becoming rather warm, and-"

With a snap of his fingers, he had a servant scurrying toward the head of the table. "Mademoiselle is warm. Open a window," he commanded.

"Really, Colonel, that's not necessary."

Before the colonel could reply, I heard the officer sitting two chairs away say "Drancy" over the noise. Vogel's attention immediately shifted from me to the young officer, who quelled at his glare.

"Drancy?" I asked, drawing Vogel's eyes back to mine.

He waved his hand and let it fall on my wrist. "Don't concern yourself, my dear." He shot the young man a last angry look. "It's merely a holding area for enemies of the Reich, criminals, and malcontents," he answered, with a hard squeeze.

It was as if I'd been slammed back into my body. I could still feel the pressure of Vogel's fingers around my-Madeleine's-wrist. Confused, my eyes roamed my familiar bedroom, searching for rea.s.surance that I was in my own body, in my own time.

Sensing my tension, Lady lifted her head and gave a low growl from her spot by the window. In the gray light, I saw her coa.r.s.e, white hair stand in a ridge down her spine.

"Shh," I whispered. "It's just me."

I think it's just me. I ran a hand over my face. Yup, my nose, my lips. Taking a strand of hair, I held it in front of my face. Brown, not dark red. Thank G.o.d-I'm Ophelia, not Madeleine Thank G.o.d-I'm Ophelia, not Madeleine.

Scooting up in bed, I pressed back against the headboard. These dreams were so fantastic, and not in a good way. They left me feeling befuddled and disturbed. Rolling my head toward the window, I noticed that last night's storm had abated to a fine drizzle. And with it came an oppressive chill.

Rubbing my bare arms, I grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it on. I followed it with a pair of sweatpants and socks. My mind drifted back to the strange dream. What had ended it so abruptly? Oh, yeah, Vogel had told Madeleine not to be concerned about Drancy. He called it a "holding area"? Did he mean prison? A niggle of curiosity picked at me. Knowing I wouldn't be satisfied until I looked it up, I went to my office.

One of the officers had kindly tacked plastic sheeting over the broken window to keep the rain out, but it did nothing to keep out the pervasive damp. Stepping over the broken gla.s.s, I shut the curtains, hoping it would help, and zipped up my sweatshirt.

A little warmer, I sat at my desk and booted up my computer. Once online, I typed Drancy Drancy in the search bar. The second search result listed in the search bar. The second search result listed Drancy internment camp Drancy internment camp. In a second I was on the site and skimming the information.

It said Drancy was located northeast of Paris and was originally built as a housing complex but was used as a police barracks. The n.a.z.is converted it to a detention center to hold "undesirables"-Jews, h.o.m.os.e.xuals, and the Roma people-Gitan, or Gypsies, a term considered somewhat derogatory. The camp was opened in August 1941, when four thousand Jews were sent there. Families were separated and young children were torn from their mothers' arms. Children captured by Klaus Barbie in a raid on a children's home were held at Drancy, too.

Bile rose in my throat as I read the next sentence.

The next stop for the prisoners of Drancy, including all the children: Auschwitz.

Fourteen.

Feeling sick, I stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee. Images of children herded into boxcars and sent to gas chambers haunted me. My hands shook as I poured the last spoonful of coffee into the basket, and the grains scattered across the counter. Frustrated, I hit the On b.u.t.ton, and grabbing a dishcloth, wiped up the spilled coffee. While I waited impatiently, coffee cup in hand, for the pot to fill, I stared out the window.

Why were these troubling dreams plaguing me? I could see no connection between them and Stephen's shooting. Pressing on my stomach, I tried to rub the nausea away as I stared at the drizzle running down the kitchen window. The gloomy morning matched my mood. I was more disturbed by the dreams and the images they invoked of lost children than the idea that someone might be trying to kill me. But, But, I argued with myself, I argued with myself, I couldn't change history, I could only mourn the loss of so many. I need to focus on what was happening now. I couldn't change history, I could only mourn the loss of so many. I need to focus on what was happening now.

"You look bleak."

Looking over my shoulder, I saw Abby standing in the doorway.

"I am."

She crossed the kitchen and laid a hand on my shoulder. "We'll get to the bottom of this," she said softly.

I didn't tell her it wasn't the shooting that made me feel disheartened, but my dreams. I wasn't ready to ask her advice until I could make more sense of what they might mean.

"You're right," I answered, my voice sounding tinny. "I'm just feeling a little lost right now."

She gave my shoulder a light squeeze. "I take it you're not planning on going to the library today?" she asked.

"No, I'm going to call Claire and request vacation time." I looked at the clock. "But first I'm calling Darci and telling her to keep Tink there-not send her to school." I felt my heart wrench a bit. "Will you call Great-Aunt Mary?"

"Yes. Don't worry," she said confidently. "They'll be pleased to have Tink."

"Well, then," I said, accepting the reality of what I had to do. "I'd better check the airline schedule. What airport?"

"The closest one to the mountain is in Asheville, North Carolina."

Setting my cup on the counter, I hugged myself and stared again at the somber sky. "Tink's not going to be happy."

I'd made the understatement of the century. After picking her up at Darci's, I fended off her questions as best I could and waited until we were home to give her the news that she'd be leaving for the mountains tomorrow.

There's nothing like a fourteen-year-old pitching a hissy fit.

Tink cried and pleaded to stay, and the histrionics led to the biggest argument we'd ever had. It ended with Tink running upstairs and slamming her bedroom door.

The confrontation left me shaken and almost ready to change my mind, until I saw the patrol car make another slow pa.s.s by my house. Tink would have to accept my decision and make the best of it. This time tomorrow she'd be in North Carolina.

I called Abby and finalized the arrangements. A cousin would pick Tink up at the airport and take her to Great-Aunt Mary's.

After waiting about an hour to give Tink time to calm down, I went upstairs and knocked on her door.

No answer.

I rapped again, then pushed it half open. Sticking my head in the door, I saw her sprawled facedown across her bed, with T.P. curled protectively next to her.

"We need to talk, sweetie," I said with a calmness I didn't feel.

Tink lifted her head and shot me a look over her shoulder. Her eyes were red and puffy, and I felt a pang of remorse. Without a word, she turned and lowered her head.

Okay, maybe you don't want to talk, but I do.

I crossed the room and sat on the other side of her. Reaching out a hand, I made a move to stroke her hair, but she jerked away.

"I know you're mad, but this is for your own good."

She rolled over and scooted up in the bed. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "Who says?"

"Me," I replied firmly, "and Abby."

Her face softened for an instant. "Abby?"

"Yes, the trip was her idea."

Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. "I didn't think she'd she'd betray me." betray me."

"Come on, Tink," I said with a shake of my head. "This isn't a betrayal. We want to keep you safe."