Free Nightingale by Aleksandr Voinov Page A

to the side like any other dog. He knew it and resented it, but as a civilian, he was a note in the margins in this company, and that was vital for his survival, too. Any suspicion of something untoward between Heinrich and him could be dangerous, and Yves wished he’d just stayed at home. It was one thing to go to a restaurant—even an expensive one—and another to flaunt their connection in front of the Nazi elite at the Paris Opéra.
    “Von Grimmstein,” Heinrich addressed the other officer, face blank and unfailingly polite, but there was a hint of tension—propriety? Distaste?—in his demeanor. “I don’t believe you’ve met Yves Lacroix yet.”
    Yves swallowed and met the younger officer’s gaze. Von Grimmstein was tall, blond, blue-eyed, not unlike Falk Harfner, but where Falk looked fresh-faced, von Grimmstein looked like he’d overseen executions for most of his life. Cold, not a hint of emotion in those dark-rimmed eyes. His least attractive feature was the sharp, cynical pale mouth that looked like it easily pursed in disgust when confronted with anything even slightly less Aryan than he was. A pagan god of destruction, a machine-man, soulless and proud of it.
    The moments stretched into what felt like a month of dread, and Yves wished he were a child who could just pull on Heinrich’s hand and ask him to go home.
    “He looks southern. Mediterranean,” von Grimmstein said with a hint of distaste. Just where in the hierarchy of racial purity did that place him?
    Von Starck seemed unfazed. “You wanted to talk to me, Herr Hauptsturmführer ?” Was that a hint of sarcasm in Heinrich’s voice? Certainly, going from the man’s last name to his rank did express some resentment.
    Von Grimmstein’s lips moved into a smile as sharp and unpleasant as the whole man. “Would you do us the honor of joining us for a post-opera meal?”
    Heinrich glanced at Yves, who felt his stomach sink. He wanted to shake his head and excuse himself but drew blank after blank what might be a good excuse. Heinrich did not actually consider taking him along, did he?
    “Your French friend must be too tired,” von Grimmstein said with a smirk that said he wasn’t surprised that the French would already falter. Yves wasn’t sure whether to simply take the insult, pretend he hadn’t noticed, or make an attempt at resistance and endure what would no doubt be excruciating, German-speaking company for the rest of the night. Disturbingly, von Grimmstein’s French so far was clean, grammatically correct and soulless.
    Heinrich nodded, seemingly after much consideration. “We’ll follow your car.”
    “Excellent.” Von Grimmstein turned to nod toward some friends who also wore SS uniforms and had gathered to the side. “We’re looking forward to it.” He clicked his heels again and turned like on the parade ground.
    Heinrich watched him closely. “Yves, beware of this man. He’s dangerous. A fanatic.”
    “I gathered,” Yves said, resentful that he was being further involved. “Why did you agree?”
    “Maybe I can see what he’s up to.”
    Murder and mayhem, Yves would bet, but couldn’t say it out loud. “Who is he?”
    “He’s an axe for a man desperate for an axe. Originally an SS enforcer, first into the fray and enjoying himself rather splendidly, considering what I’ve heard about him and his time in Poland. He’s a true believer, a Party member. He’s connected to Abwehr, too. His brother is serving there.”
    “Abwehr?”
    “Secret service types. You don’t want to know.”
    No, actually, he didn’t. Yves was relieved when the bell sounded to end the interval. Dealing with Wagner was easier than with the Nietzschean Übermensch . If only these saviors would, like Lohengrin, step on a boat and sail away into the light. But there was very little hope of that.
    Yet, after Lohengrin had sailed back to the grail fortress under the guidance of the dove, leaving lesser mortals to their fates and Elsa