Post by Wing on Nov 5, 2006 10:11:09 GMT -5
Alright, you guys pestered me enough, so here we go...
This is the first part of Chapter 3. Second part featuring Erwin coming up when I finish it, which should probably be soon assuming no meteors plunge into my house or little elves steal my laptop. (But if they do, I shall hunt them down to all ends of the earth, so fear not in that case)
Consider yourselves fortunate: this is NOT yet posted on FictionPress! *gasp!* You're getting a sneak peek.
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Lucie Rommel was an early riser by habit. Every morning she went through her daily routine of waking, washing up, having a quick breakfast, and checking the meager garden in the back that she had planted in hopes of raising some extra food in addition to the closely rationed supplies that arrived at the family’s cottage each week. Gardening, it turned out, really wasn’t for her—she lacked what many referred to as a “green thumb” and just didn’t have the patience for endless weeding and watering and so on. It was tedious, but she was gradually getting used to doing it, she told herself firmly.
By the time she had finished gardening, the mail had arrived, and in the absence of the usual maid who was on a weekend’s holiday she went out to get it herself and read through the two letters from her husband over a cup of tea at the kitchen table. Both were brief and sounded irritable even on paper—he was not feeling his best, to say the least.
Lucie sighed and folded the last letter carefully along the creases Erwin had originally put there, sliding it back into its envelope and pondering the situation on the coast. Ever since the Allies had invaded, Erwin’s letters had been short, hurried snippets of thought, and although he constantly implored her not to worry about him he also confided how frustrated he was becoming—at the Führer, at the dull-wittedness of those around him, at the Allies who seemed to know everything.
If only there was something she could do…but there wasn’t. Lucie had a better understanding of what was going on at the front than most civilians, and she knew what security was like at the French border now. Even if she could go visit Erwin, he wouldn’t have much time to see her, as he had made clear in the first letter she had read. Almost unconsciously, she opened it up again and read over the hastily scribbled note once more.
Dearest Lu,
The Allies have made another push on the northern end of things. Needless to say, I’m extremely busy right now, and this was nearly the last straw. I had to split Gauser’s battalion in half to hold a makeshift defense at the point of breakthrough while frantically requesting more troops, but there are none to be had. Headquarters is an absolute madhouse, and even dreaming of leave seems over-ambitious at the moment, I’m afraid, but I’m thinking of you and Manfred constantly. I hope the two of you are doing all right.
Shaking her head silently, Lucie replaced the letter and rubbed her forehead, leaning back in her chair and cradling the mug of tea in her hands. She always wondering with some dry amusement if it would be easier if Erwin didn’t always fill her in on the military situation in every one of his letters—she already worried enough about his health and safety without having to be concerned about the movements of his troops, but it was far too late to do anything different. She found she preferred knowing what was going on from her husband the field marshal rather than the newspapers twisted by propaganda, and in all honesty military matters interested her and made sense, at least most of the time.
Picking up the newspaper on the table anyway, she set down her cup and spread it over the table. A large picture of Josef Goebbels frozen in mid-cry, his fist raised dramatically, glared at her from the front page beneath a headline recounting the details of Goebbels’ latest speech. Lucie had met the Minister of Propaganda once at a dinner she and Erwin had been invited to after the two had met—Erwin had liked Goebbels well enough because of his role in what he considered an important part of modern warfare, but Lucie had found his silkily smooth presence unnerving and hadn’t cared for him. Glancing with some apprehension at the long block of text beneath his picture, she turned the page and skimmed through a few articles without much interest.
The next page was about Erwin’s defense of the coast, and there were several pages praising his foresight about the Normandy landings (which had originally been scoffed at as paranoia, Lucie thought wryly) and a few pictures of the heavy, spiked iron girders he had ordered set up along the beaches that were now being called “Rommel asparagus”. Lucie smiled at the larger picture at the bottom of Erwin and several of his officers, all of whom she knew well, inspecting an artillery battery before the invasion. He had looked tired even then, but he had been putting up with it, smiling for the camera with every bit of energy he could muster. Now…now he was giving in to that exhaustion, and he wasn’t trying to stop it either. It was as if he was giving up, but Erwin didn’t give up. He kept at everything with the stubbornness of a bulldog until it was through—at least, he had until now. Lucie had never seen him like he was now.
The thumping of footsteps on the stairs jerked her out of her thoughts, and she looked up to see her sixteen-year-old son Manfred reluctantly coming downstairs, his hair tousled from sleep and his eyes bleary. She raised an eyebrow at him. “Finally decided to wake up?”
“Yes, yes,” he said irritably with the long-suffering tone of a teenager forced to put up with his mother. “It’s only ten o’clock, for God’s sake.”
“Only ten o’clock,” Lucie agreed dryly, getting up and fetching him his own mug. She glanced over her shoulder to see that he had stolen her vacated spot and was now peering down at the newspaper.
“Dad’s in the paper again, I see.” Manfred’s sour expression brightened a bit, then fell again as he read through. “It’s basically the same stuff they said about him last week,” he complained. “They just worded it differently. It’s barely worth cutting out and saving.”
His mother shook her head and set a cup of tea down before him, taking a seat across from him and pulling her own drink towards her. “You should be a newspaper editor,” she informed him. “Already criticizing journalists—professional journalists, I might add—at sixteen.”
He glanced up at her, his dark eyes serious. “Mum, I’ve told you. I want to be in the Luftwaffe.”
“Yes, I know,” Lucie said patiently. She had heard this argument dozens of times over the past few months. Several versions of it, in fact. Erwin hadn’t liked the idea—he wanted Manfred, if he did join the military, to join the Wehrmacht—but Lucie knew how much it meant to their son and had managed to convince him otherwise. Both of Manfred’s parents had disapproved the idea of him joining the SS without conference, however. “But what are you going to do after the war, my dear?”
The boy opened his mouth to reply, but shut it abruptly when the telephone suddenly rang and turned back to the paper when his mother rose to get it, rubbing his eyes to clear the sleep from them.
The phone was in the other room, but Lucie had crossed the short space and picked it up before it got to three rings as the cottage was a small one and she was curious to know who was calling at the still relatively early hour. Picking up the handset, she seated herself on the edge of the armchair next to the table that held the telephone and said, “Hello?”
“Hello, is Frau Rommel there, please?”
“This is Frau Rommel.” Another reporter, perhaps. Lucie mentally rolled her eyes and waited for a response.
The voice on the other end suddenly associated itself with a face as the caller identified himself, sounding slightly brighter. “Oh, I’m sorry—good morning! This is Hans Speidel.”
Erwin’s chief of staff. She had met Speidel and his wife and young daughter several times over the past few months since his assignment to her husband’s staff and had found him to be a serious yet likeable person who had a good sense of humor and knew what he was talking about—and what his views were—went it came to politics. “Hello, Hans,” Lucie replied warmly, slightly surprised that he was calling. “It’s good to hear from you—how are you? Erwin asked you to check in on us, I suppose?”
Speidel paused, then replied in a hesitant voice, “Well…I’m doing all right, Frau Rommel, but I’m actually calling on my own.”
Lucie felt a surge of apprehension—Speidel couldn’t just be calling to wish her well, not with the way connections were from France to Germany. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, before asking quietly, “Is Erwin all right?”
On the other end of the line, there was a hiss of static as Speidel exhaled slowly. After an agonizingly long moment, he replied, “No. I’m afraid not, Frau Rommel. I…I have some bad news, but I’m not sure how to break it to you.”
Biting her lip, Lucie glanced into the kitchen were Manfred was now poring over the front-page article about Goebbels’ speech, oblivious to the conversation in the other room. Lowering her voice, she whispered, “Whatever you have to say, Hans, please just say it. If he’s been hurt or…” Her voice broke at the thought of anything worse than that, and she had to swallow before going on. “…or anything like that, please tell me.”
“No—it’s nothing like that.” Speidel was still sounding reluctant. “I—I really can’t think of how to say this right,” he confessed. “Um…I’m sorry if this comes out wrong, but…well…the field marshal’s been kidnapped. Taken, last night, by British SAS paratroopers. We’re not sure where they took him, but as far as we know he’s…well, he hasn’t…I mean, he’s still all right,” the general finished lamely.
Lucie couldn’t speak. It was as if a rope was slowly constricting her neck, cutting off her airflow and preventing her from calling out. The room swam before her, and she clutched the side of the armchair tightly for support, closing her eyes. Erwin kidnapped, taken who knew where by the feared British commandos that his troops told horror stories about, his whereabouts and condition unknown. He could be locked in the darkest, dankest prison in England right now, or, even worse, left for dead on some nameless roadside with a bullet through—oh, God, please, please say it wasn’t true…
“Frau Rommel?” Speidel tried. He sounded upset, his voice tight with emotion. “Are you all right? I know it’s a shock—”
“I’m here, Hans,” Lucie said quietly, taking another deep breath to compose herself. She was not going to lose her calm right here in the living room while on the phone with her husband’s officer. She was not. “How did this happen?”
And so Speidel told her as clearly as possible, sometimes stopping for a few silent moments before plunging on. Lucie listened without comment, her face expressionless as she stared at the fireplace with the receiver pressed to her ear. She was numb all over, barely comprehending what the general was saying before she was able to focus at the very end.
“…and I told him I was coming too, but he refused to let me. Mein Gott, but he was brave about it, just shook my hand and spoke to me quickly in front of all those commandos while I was just about howling with frustration. I wasn’t nearly as calm as he was, no one was, but I should have done something right then, I really should have,” Speidel said suddenly. “That’s part of the reason why I called—I wanted to apologize. This is really my fault. I could have done something, anything—”
“It’s no one’s fault, Hans.” Lucie was surprised to hear herself say this: part of her was already raging at the general, agreeing with everything he was saying—yes, you should have done something to save him, he was your field marshal and you betrayed him, you let him go, you coward—but the other half was realizing coldly that there really wasn’t anything Speidel could have done besides get himself shot. “Don’t blame yourself. Erwin wouldn’t—won’t—want to know you’re angry at yourself for something you couldn’t have changed.”
“I…he asked me to tell you, right before he left…” Speidel sounded as if he were coming down with a bad head cold, a condition Lucie distantly recognized as emotion. She held her breath during the general’s pause, waiting—
“He wanted you to know that he loves you and Manfred more than anything,” Hans repeated, sounding slightly embarrassed despite himself at being the bearer of the obviously personal message, “and he promises you that he’ll be all right.”
“He doesn’t know that.” The grim statement was out before Lucie could stop herself, and she closed her mouth immediately afterwards, but it was too late—Speidel had heard her.
The general was quiet for a moment. “No, he doesn’t, but I think he will be. Those commandos were professionals, the best I’d ever heard of, much less seen—they wouldn’t have gotten themselves set up in a situation that they would have had trouble getting back to their side, so if they kept to their end of the bargain and he or Günter didn’t try an escape, I think he should be out of danger.”
Out of danger? He’s the prisoner of a hostile army bent on destroying our country! Lucie screamed mentally, but she still managed to keep her cool, and when she replied her voice was still remarkably calm and controlled. “Thank you, Hans.”
“We should know soon, I guess,” General Speidel said morosely. “We’re not announcing it until noon, just to be on the safe side, and if they do send him to England the British will know by tonight. I’ll call you again if there’s any news, of course, and you can always call me here. You have the number, I presume?”
She did. “Yes—are you taking over for…for the time being?”
“No—Field Marshal von Rundstedt’s come down here himself with the investigation, and he’s unofficially taken over headquarters. He’s running everything, brought in half his staff too—all I’ve done today is deliver a few papers and answer a lot of questions.”
The attempt at humor brought no smile to Lucie’s face, as hard as she tried to respond to it as a normal person would. But she couldn’t in this situation, couldn’t when her insides were swimming and her heart ached with fear and rage. Wait until tonight for news of her husband…it sounded simple enough, but already her brain was randomly generating millions of relevant questions as if she were a reporter herself bent on interrogating the general. Not now, she said firmly to herself. Hans doesn’t deserve this. He’s under enough stress right now—more than he’s letting on.
“I really, really appreciate you calling, Hans,” she said, trying to sound as sincere as she felt. “I’d much rather hear this from you than from spotting it on the front page, and I’m grateful that you tried to stand up to the commandos. That was very brave.”
“It wasn’t enough, Frau Rommel,” Speidel replied bluntly. “But thank you. I only wish I could have done more for your husband.”
“You’ve done so much for him already, General. He writes home often about how helpful you are.” Lucie hoped that bit of information would cheer him up, but there was silence from the end of the line.
“I have to tell Manfred,” she realized out loud, keeping her voice low.
“Would you like me to tell him?” Speidel asked kindly, his tone understanding.
Although the last thing she wanted to do was explain to her son that his father had been kidnapped by the enemy and had been threatened with death if he didn’t cooperate, Lucie knew the answer instantly: “No. Thank you, but I need to do it myself.”
“I understand. My wife knows what happened—if you ever need to talk to someone, she’s always at home, and I’ll try to check in on you whenever I can. I’m very sorry about what happened.”
“Thank you, Hans.”
There was a long pause in which she thought he had hung up, but right before she put the phone down herself the general repeated quietly, “I’m so sorry.” There was a definite click a few seconds later, and Lucie replaced the handset in its cradle slowly, taking several long, deep breaths to compose herself. After a few moments, she got to her feet and entered the kitchen again, sitting back in the seat she had vacated a few minutes ago. Already it felt like days.
Manfred glanced up distractedly at her from the paper. He was still reading about Goebbels on the front page—he was notoriously a slow reader, which had always made Lucie suspect he shared the long-sightedness his father had in his right eye, but his comprehension was excellent. “Who was that, Mum?” he asked absently, running his finger slowly along the printed column as he read.
His mother sighed, reached across the table, and took his hand. Manfred looked down at their clasped hands uncomprehendingly, then raised his eyes again to meet hers with a troubled expression. “Mum…” he began, frowning.
“Manfred, please don’t interrupt me,” Lucie said tightly. “There’s something you need to know.”
This is the first part of Chapter 3. Second part featuring Erwin coming up when I finish it, which should probably be soon assuming no meteors plunge into my house or little elves steal my laptop. (But if they do, I shall hunt them down to all ends of the earth, so fear not in that case)
Consider yourselves fortunate: this is NOT yet posted on FictionPress! *gasp!* You're getting a sneak peek.
__________________________________________________________________
Lucie Rommel was an early riser by habit. Every morning she went through her daily routine of waking, washing up, having a quick breakfast, and checking the meager garden in the back that she had planted in hopes of raising some extra food in addition to the closely rationed supplies that arrived at the family’s cottage each week. Gardening, it turned out, really wasn’t for her—she lacked what many referred to as a “green thumb” and just didn’t have the patience for endless weeding and watering and so on. It was tedious, but she was gradually getting used to doing it, she told herself firmly.
By the time she had finished gardening, the mail had arrived, and in the absence of the usual maid who was on a weekend’s holiday she went out to get it herself and read through the two letters from her husband over a cup of tea at the kitchen table. Both were brief and sounded irritable even on paper—he was not feeling his best, to say the least.
Lucie sighed and folded the last letter carefully along the creases Erwin had originally put there, sliding it back into its envelope and pondering the situation on the coast. Ever since the Allies had invaded, Erwin’s letters had been short, hurried snippets of thought, and although he constantly implored her not to worry about him he also confided how frustrated he was becoming—at the Führer, at the dull-wittedness of those around him, at the Allies who seemed to know everything.
If only there was something she could do…but there wasn’t. Lucie had a better understanding of what was going on at the front than most civilians, and she knew what security was like at the French border now. Even if she could go visit Erwin, he wouldn’t have much time to see her, as he had made clear in the first letter she had read. Almost unconsciously, she opened it up again and read over the hastily scribbled note once more.
Dearest Lu,
The Allies have made another push on the northern end of things. Needless to say, I’m extremely busy right now, and this was nearly the last straw. I had to split Gauser’s battalion in half to hold a makeshift defense at the point of breakthrough while frantically requesting more troops, but there are none to be had. Headquarters is an absolute madhouse, and even dreaming of leave seems over-ambitious at the moment, I’m afraid, but I’m thinking of you and Manfred constantly. I hope the two of you are doing all right.
Shaking her head silently, Lucie replaced the letter and rubbed her forehead, leaning back in her chair and cradling the mug of tea in her hands. She always wondering with some dry amusement if it would be easier if Erwin didn’t always fill her in on the military situation in every one of his letters—she already worried enough about his health and safety without having to be concerned about the movements of his troops, but it was far too late to do anything different. She found she preferred knowing what was going on from her husband the field marshal rather than the newspapers twisted by propaganda, and in all honesty military matters interested her and made sense, at least most of the time.
Picking up the newspaper on the table anyway, she set down her cup and spread it over the table. A large picture of Josef Goebbels frozen in mid-cry, his fist raised dramatically, glared at her from the front page beneath a headline recounting the details of Goebbels’ latest speech. Lucie had met the Minister of Propaganda once at a dinner she and Erwin had been invited to after the two had met—Erwin had liked Goebbels well enough because of his role in what he considered an important part of modern warfare, but Lucie had found his silkily smooth presence unnerving and hadn’t cared for him. Glancing with some apprehension at the long block of text beneath his picture, she turned the page and skimmed through a few articles without much interest.
The next page was about Erwin’s defense of the coast, and there were several pages praising his foresight about the Normandy landings (which had originally been scoffed at as paranoia, Lucie thought wryly) and a few pictures of the heavy, spiked iron girders he had ordered set up along the beaches that were now being called “Rommel asparagus”. Lucie smiled at the larger picture at the bottom of Erwin and several of his officers, all of whom she knew well, inspecting an artillery battery before the invasion. He had looked tired even then, but he had been putting up with it, smiling for the camera with every bit of energy he could muster. Now…now he was giving in to that exhaustion, and he wasn’t trying to stop it either. It was as if he was giving up, but Erwin didn’t give up. He kept at everything with the stubbornness of a bulldog until it was through—at least, he had until now. Lucie had never seen him like he was now.
The thumping of footsteps on the stairs jerked her out of her thoughts, and she looked up to see her sixteen-year-old son Manfred reluctantly coming downstairs, his hair tousled from sleep and his eyes bleary. She raised an eyebrow at him. “Finally decided to wake up?”
“Yes, yes,” he said irritably with the long-suffering tone of a teenager forced to put up with his mother. “It’s only ten o’clock, for God’s sake.”
“Only ten o’clock,” Lucie agreed dryly, getting up and fetching him his own mug. She glanced over her shoulder to see that he had stolen her vacated spot and was now peering down at the newspaper.
“Dad’s in the paper again, I see.” Manfred’s sour expression brightened a bit, then fell again as he read through. “It’s basically the same stuff they said about him last week,” he complained. “They just worded it differently. It’s barely worth cutting out and saving.”
His mother shook her head and set a cup of tea down before him, taking a seat across from him and pulling her own drink towards her. “You should be a newspaper editor,” she informed him. “Already criticizing journalists—professional journalists, I might add—at sixteen.”
He glanced up at her, his dark eyes serious. “Mum, I’ve told you. I want to be in the Luftwaffe.”
“Yes, I know,” Lucie said patiently. She had heard this argument dozens of times over the past few months. Several versions of it, in fact. Erwin hadn’t liked the idea—he wanted Manfred, if he did join the military, to join the Wehrmacht—but Lucie knew how much it meant to their son and had managed to convince him otherwise. Both of Manfred’s parents had disapproved the idea of him joining the SS without conference, however. “But what are you going to do after the war, my dear?”
The boy opened his mouth to reply, but shut it abruptly when the telephone suddenly rang and turned back to the paper when his mother rose to get it, rubbing his eyes to clear the sleep from them.
The phone was in the other room, but Lucie had crossed the short space and picked it up before it got to three rings as the cottage was a small one and she was curious to know who was calling at the still relatively early hour. Picking up the handset, she seated herself on the edge of the armchair next to the table that held the telephone and said, “Hello?”
“Hello, is Frau Rommel there, please?”
“This is Frau Rommel.” Another reporter, perhaps. Lucie mentally rolled her eyes and waited for a response.
The voice on the other end suddenly associated itself with a face as the caller identified himself, sounding slightly brighter. “Oh, I’m sorry—good morning! This is Hans Speidel.”
Erwin’s chief of staff. She had met Speidel and his wife and young daughter several times over the past few months since his assignment to her husband’s staff and had found him to be a serious yet likeable person who had a good sense of humor and knew what he was talking about—and what his views were—went it came to politics. “Hello, Hans,” Lucie replied warmly, slightly surprised that he was calling. “It’s good to hear from you—how are you? Erwin asked you to check in on us, I suppose?”
Speidel paused, then replied in a hesitant voice, “Well…I’m doing all right, Frau Rommel, but I’m actually calling on my own.”
Lucie felt a surge of apprehension—Speidel couldn’t just be calling to wish her well, not with the way connections were from France to Germany. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, before asking quietly, “Is Erwin all right?”
On the other end of the line, there was a hiss of static as Speidel exhaled slowly. After an agonizingly long moment, he replied, “No. I’m afraid not, Frau Rommel. I…I have some bad news, but I’m not sure how to break it to you.”
Biting her lip, Lucie glanced into the kitchen were Manfred was now poring over the front-page article about Goebbels’ speech, oblivious to the conversation in the other room. Lowering her voice, she whispered, “Whatever you have to say, Hans, please just say it. If he’s been hurt or…” Her voice broke at the thought of anything worse than that, and she had to swallow before going on. “…or anything like that, please tell me.”
“No—it’s nothing like that.” Speidel was still sounding reluctant. “I—I really can’t think of how to say this right,” he confessed. “Um…I’m sorry if this comes out wrong, but…well…the field marshal’s been kidnapped. Taken, last night, by British SAS paratroopers. We’re not sure where they took him, but as far as we know he’s…well, he hasn’t…I mean, he’s still all right,” the general finished lamely.
Lucie couldn’t speak. It was as if a rope was slowly constricting her neck, cutting off her airflow and preventing her from calling out. The room swam before her, and she clutched the side of the armchair tightly for support, closing her eyes. Erwin kidnapped, taken who knew where by the feared British commandos that his troops told horror stories about, his whereabouts and condition unknown. He could be locked in the darkest, dankest prison in England right now, or, even worse, left for dead on some nameless roadside with a bullet through—oh, God, please, please say it wasn’t true…
“Frau Rommel?” Speidel tried. He sounded upset, his voice tight with emotion. “Are you all right? I know it’s a shock—”
“I’m here, Hans,” Lucie said quietly, taking another deep breath to compose herself. She was not going to lose her calm right here in the living room while on the phone with her husband’s officer. She was not. “How did this happen?”
And so Speidel told her as clearly as possible, sometimes stopping for a few silent moments before plunging on. Lucie listened without comment, her face expressionless as she stared at the fireplace with the receiver pressed to her ear. She was numb all over, barely comprehending what the general was saying before she was able to focus at the very end.
“…and I told him I was coming too, but he refused to let me. Mein Gott, but he was brave about it, just shook my hand and spoke to me quickly in front of all those commandos while I was just about howling with frustration. I wasn’t nearly as calm as he was, no one was, but I should have done something right then, I really should have,” Speidel said suddenly. “That’s part of the reason why I called—I wanted to apologize. This is really my fault. I could have done something, anything—”
“It’s no one’s fault, Hans.” Lucie was surprised to hear herself say this: part of her was already raging at the general, agreeing with everything he was saying—yes, you should have done something to save him, he was your field marshal and you betrayed him, you let him go, you coward—but the other half was realizing coldly that there really wasn’t anything Speidel could have done besides get himself shot. “Don’t blame yourself. Erwin wouldn’t—won’t—want to know you’re angry at yourself for something you couldn’t have changed.”
“I…he asked me to tell you, right before he left…” Speidel sounded as if he were coming down with a bad head cold, a condition Lucie distantly recognized as emotion. She held her breath during the general’s pause, waiting—
“He wanted you to know that he loves you and Manfred more than anything,” Hans repeated, sounding slightly embarrassed despite himself at being the bearer of the obviously personal message, “and he promises you that he’ll be all right.”
“He doesn’t know that.” The grim statement was out before Lucie could stop herself, and she closed her mouth immediately afterwards, but it was too late—Speidel had heard her.
The general was quiet for a moment. “No, he doesn’t, but I think he will be. Those commandos were professionals, the best I’d ever heard of, much less seen—they wouldn’t have gotten themselves set up in a situation that they would have had trouble getting back to their side, so if they kept to their end of the bargain and he or Günter didn’t try an escape, I think he should be out of danger.”
Out of danger? He’s the prisoner of a hostile army bent on destroying our country! Lucie screamed mentally, but she still managed to keep her cool, and when she replied her voice was still remarkably calm and controlled. “Thank you, Hans.”
“We should know soon, I guess,” General Speidel said morosely. “We’re not announcing it until noon, just to be on the safe side, and if they do send him to England the British will know by tonight. I’ll call you again if there’s any news, of course, and you can always call me here. You have the number, I presume?”
She did. “Yes—are you taking over for…for the time being?”
“No—Field Marshal von Rundstedt’s come down here himself with the investigation, and he’s unofficially taken over headquarters. He’s running everything, brought in half his staff too—all I’ve done today is deliver a few papers and answer a lot of questions.”
The attempt at humor brought no smile to Lucie’s face, as hard as she tried to respond to it as a normal person would. But she couldn’t in this situation, couldn’t when her insides were swimming and her heart ached with fear and rage. Wait until tonight for news of her husband…it sounded simple enough, but already her brain was randomly generating millions of relevant questions as if she were a reporter herself bent on interrogating the general. Not now, she said firmly to herself. Hans doesn’t deserve this. He’s under enough stress right now—more than he’s letting on.
“I really, really appreciate you calling, Hans,” she said, trying to sound as sincere as she felt. “I’d much rather hear this from you than from spotting it on the front page, and I’m grateful that you tried to stand up to the commandos. That was very brave.”
“It wasn’t enough, Frau Rommel,” Speidel replied bluntly. “But thank you. I only wish I could have done more for your husband.”
“You’ve done so much for him already, General. He writes home often about how helpful you are.” Lucie hoped that bit of information would cheer him up, but there was silence from the end of the line.
“I have to tell Manfred,” she realized out loud, keeping her voice low.
“Would you like me to tell him?” Speidel asked kindly, his tone understanding.
Although the last thing she wanted to do was explain to her son that his father had been kidnapped by the enemy and had been threatened with death if he didn’t cooperate, Lucie knew the answer instantly: “No. Thank you, but I need to do it myself.”
“I understand. My wife knows what happened—if you ever need to talk to someone, she’s always at home, and I’ll try to check in on you whenever I can. I’m very sorry about what happened.”
“Thank you, Hans.”
There was a long pause in which she thought he had hung up, but right before she put the phone down herself the general repeated quietly, “I’m so sorry.” There was a definite click a few seconds later, and Lucie replaced the handset in its cradle slowly, taking several long, deep breaths to compose herself. After a few moments, she got to her feet and entered the kitchen again, sitting back in the seat she had vacated a few minutes ago. Already it felt like days.
Manfred glanced up distractedly at her from the paper. He was still reading about Goebbels on the front page—he was notoriously a slow reader, which had always made Lucie suspect he shared the long-sightedness his father had in his right eye, but his comprehension was excellent. “Who was that, Mum?” he asked absently, running his finger slowly along the printed column as he read.
His mother sighed, reached across the table, and took his hand. Manfred looked down at their clasped hands uncomprehendingly, then raised his eyes again to meet hers with a troubled expression. “Mum…” he began, frowning.
“Manfred, please don’t interrupt me,” Lucie said tightly. “There’s something you need to know.”