Scarlet Chronicles 02 - Hand Grenade Helen by Liliana Hart

Author:Liliana Hart [Hart, Liliana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 1951129857
Amazon: B08KJ2SDMW
Barnesnoble: B08KJ2SDMW
Goodreads: 55991558
Publisher: 7th Press
Published: 2021-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

The Sirens

I met Jakob Novak by accident.

Pierre was quite the playboy and liked by the locals, and there was almost a sense of willful ignorance in the people who occupied the area—they drank and ate and laughed as if their fellow man weren’t suffering just miles down the road at the nearest camp. It was unsettling and left a bitter taste in my mouth, but our role was different here.

We were one of them. And more importantly, the rumors had been spread that the wealth that lined Pierre’s pockets was funding Hitler’s vision. At least, that was the rumor.

I jumped into the fray of nights on the town with dinner and dancing into the late hours. There were no curfews like we’d had in Marseille. And they weren’t strict on rationing. Captain Rolfe enjoyed his comforts, and he found that by letting everyone else remain comfortable then he got everything he wanted as well.

I found Pierre fascinating. He didn’t treat me like other men did. He didn’t fawn over me or stare lustfully. But it was easy to see his mind was brilliant and he was always playing a part. I wasn’t sure if the man—the SOE agent—I spent time arguing with about everything from politics to American baseball was real or an actor. He was an enigma. And the more he confused me, the less I trusted him, because I couldn’t figure him out.

But boy, did he play the part well. I fit easily into his arms when we danced, and our conversations flowed as if we’d known each other our whole lives. It was easy to lean into his kisses and affection so people could see how in love we were.

The soldiers frequented a tavern called the Der Rote Esel—The Red Donkey—and it was loud and rowdy, the drinks plentiful and the music and dancing the kind forbidden by Hitler. And though Captain Rolfe was what Pierre called a “good soldier,” there was a streak of rebellion in him that was in opposition to his leader’s vision. Pierre said Rolfe saw himself moving up the ranks and had aspirations of becoming greater than Hitler. A man like that was dangerous because he had no loyalty and he was a government unto himself, though the reports he sent back to Berlin were no doubt filled with their devotion and allegiance to their master.

It was a night where the Der Rote Esel was filled so that dancing couples spilled out onto the streets. The night was cold and snow fell in lazy flakes, but there was still a sheen of sweat on the bodies pressed close together.

I’d found a rhythm to Pierre’s conversation as we danced through the room. He made deals and brokered trades between soldiers and locals alike, and he did it with the authority of a man who knew how to make life better for people or intrinsically worse. I wasn’t sure if the people of Waldenburg were in awe of Pierre or afraid of him.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he whispered, tucking my hair behind my ear.

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