‘You don’t find me attractive?’ I brushed a swatch of matted hair from my eyes.
‘You have a sense of humour.’ He smiled. ‘After spending weeks at Montluc? Interesting…’
‘Mmm.’
‘Let’s take a walk.’
I stared at him as he waited for me to move, wondering what kind of interrogation the Butcher of Lyon had in mind for me, and if I’d be able to withstand it.
‘It’s not a question, fräulein,’ he said, but then shouted, ‘Get up!’
We walked to the end of the prison corridor, past a dozen wooden cell doors and into an office adorned with fine furnishings. He pointed to a table with a stiff white linen set for two with china and silver chargers, sparking crystal wine glasses and water goblets filled to the edge with clear drinking water. A bread basket with rolls wrapped in a blue tea towel had been placed next to an antique soup tureen. Barbie poured wine from a decanter and then offered me one of the wine glasses.
‘Please,’ he said, smiling. ‘Drink.’
I took the glass he offered, wondering if it were poisoned or not. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘If we wanted to kill you, we would have done it already.’ Barbie poured himself a glass from the same decanter and took a drink. ‘Please,’ he said again. ‘Have a drink.’
I took one sip only to spit it out like I’d been taught, wine spraying from my mouth. ‘Vin du merde!’ The disgusting, gritty taste of Gamay grapes saturated my mouth—shit wine, as Papa had always called it.
Barbie glared—I had not only spit the wine out but had gotten some on him. ‘You don’t like it?’ he snarled.
I wiped the wine from my mouth with the back of my hand, laughing—a guttural chortle that spread a wide smile on my face. ‘Germans know nothing about wine.’
Barbie sat down in one of two high-back chairs, his dark hair perfectly slicked back with pomade. ‘Tell me more. Please, have a seat,’ he said, pointing to the chair opposite him.
I sat down as he lifted the lid off the soup tureen. ‘Creamed leeks,’ he said, and my mouth watered. ‘I believe you call it… Vichyssoise.’ He ladled a full helping into a wide brimmed bowl. ‘Tell me who you are, and you can have some.’
My eyes absorbed every bit of the soup as if it were in my mouth. Breathing, breathing, thinking about the sun, the grass…
‘How about you tell me who your friend is,’ he said, and I glanced up. A slow smile curled on his lips. ‘Your friend interests you, no? She interests me.’
Barbie put his nose to the bowl and breathed in the creamy, salty vichyssoise. ‘Reminds me of a dish back home.’ He lifted the silver spoon from his napkin and dipped it into his bowl, licking his lips before slurping from the spoon. I swallowed along with him as he rubbed his lips together.
‘All you have to do is talk. That is it.’ Barbie reached over the table and ladled a bowl of soup he meant for me to eat, filling it to the very edge. ‘And this can all be yours.’
I watched him eat, staring at the creamy yellow, telling myself it had been made from pureed maggots just to keep my tongue from lapping it up.
He scraped his bowl clean, padding his lips with a napkin. ‘Ahh… ist gut? Is good, no?’ An unusually long pause followed. He set his napkin down, growling, gritting his teeth. ‘Is good—’ He leapt over the table like a tiger, shoving the spoon in my hand, trying to force me to taste it. Soup sloshed over the sides of the bowl as we battled with each other over control. ‘Eat it!’ he said, the spoon clinking against my teeth as he pried my lips open, pulling back my head, soup spilling onto my chin and face.
Unsuccessful, he stood back, his teeth baring and breath panting. ‘You leave me no choice.’
Barbie opened a set of curtains that ran along the wall behind him, exposing yet another room with two chairs side-by-side with two pieces of rope wound up on the ground. He grabbed me by the collarbone and dragged me toward one of the chairs.
‘You like rope?’ He tied my ankles up, and then my wrists tightly to the armrests.
‘No.’
He laughed.
Another Gestapo officer walked in pulling a woman by the arm. Her head hung low, and her hair had been pulled out in patches.