Dressed in just his uniform trousers and an undershirt of white silk, Ritter rose from the bed and moved silently across to bedroom windows that stretched floor-to-ceiling before him. Beyond those windows, a spacious terrace area overlooked the city from the top floor of the building, and the mild night air was soothed by a cool breeze as he opened the glass double doors and stepped outside.
Taking a soft pack of unfiltered Gauloises and a box of matches from his trouser pocket, Ritter picked one out and lifted it to his lips. The match flared and died, and as he leaned forward over that fourth floor balustrade and stared out at the city, the faint, intermittent glow of the cigarette itself was the only visible indication of his presence looking up from the street below. Ritter didn’t smoke often, and never smoked while on duty. The strong, overtly French brand was his personal favourite, and one small benefit of the occupation, on a personal level at least, was that they were far more readily available in France than they’d ever been back in Germany.
Directly below him, the Place de la Concorde spread out to the south, its pair of fountains as stunning in their copious floodlighting as the 23-metre tall Luxor Obelisk that stood at its very centre. The square was the largest in the city, and during the French Revolution, at which time the site had gone by the earlier title of Place de la Révolution, the city’s guillotine had for some time held pride of place where that red granite monument now stood.
He took a long drag on the cigarette and savoured it, smiling to himself in the recognition that things could be a lot worse than the situation he was in at that very moment, and finally released the smoke from his lungs in a long plume that was instantly carried away on the breeze.
The Hôtel de Crillon was positioned at the north western end of the square, and was one of the oldest in the city. One of two identically designed buildings set side-by-side along the northern boundary of the Place de la Concorde, the hotel had actually been temporarily occupied and used as a headquarters by the Wehrmacht , following the declaration of Paris as an open city. Following the cessation of hostilities between France and Germany and the creation of the Vichy government however, the OKW had decided to move further west and set up camp at the mansion neat Amiens, where it had stayed ever since.
The move had been Reuters’ own decision, the Reichsmarschall preferring to remain closer to the coast and their main adversary, Great Britain. He was also of the opinion that his headquarters staff and attendant support troops would be better able to concentrate on their work and generally keep out of mischief well away from the bright lights and distractions of Paris… and from the prying eyes and ears of any potential spies or resistance agents.
During that short period as a HQ, the luxurious reputation of the Crillon had spread throughout the Wehrmacht nevertheless, and it was on that knowledge alone that Ritter had spent a sizeable amount of the money he’d saved from his last three months’ pay on one of the premier suites in the building. From that penthouse terrace, he could see right across Paris’ southern hemisphere — a view that included the magical beauty of the Eiffel Tower, near the banks of the Seine and just a few kilometres to the south-west. If he leaned far enough over the balustrade, he could also look straight down the Champs Elyseé and see the impressive majesty of the Arc de Triomphe an similar distance to the west.
“It’s just beautiful, isn’t it?” The unexpected sound of his wife’s soft voice was a welcome surprise, and he turned to find her standing just outside the glass doors to the suite. Her sheer, summer night dress of fine silk was almost see through, and did nothing to hide her fine figure as dim lighting from the suite behind her left her silhouetted in the open doorway.
“A city that just became a great deal more beautiful,” Ritter observed with an appreciative smile that bordered on the positively lascivious.
Maria walked slowly across the terrace to join him with a crystal flute of fine champagne in each hand, offering one to him as she drew near. As she approached, he instinctively stubbed the half-burned cigarette out on the balustrade and flicked it over the side to fall downward to the street. Maria had never made an issue of his infrequent smoking, but he nevertheless knew full well she didn’t approve, and out of respect for the woman he loved he’d developed a habit during their years of marriage of putting his cigarettes out while she was around almost by reflex.
“Prost…!” She declared in a soft toast, which Ritter repeated, and both drank from their glasses as their bodies pressed together in simple enjoyment of each others’ proximity. Maria moved to lean over the balustrade beside him, and as he turned, he reached out and slipped his free arm around her waist, drawing her close and resting his head gently on her shoulder as they both stared out across the city lights.
“They seem to trust us, at least,” Carl observed softly, turning his head slightly to place a gentle kiss upon his wife’s bare shoulder.
“After what they’ve been through, I’m surprised they’d trust anyone,” Maria replied, her face contorting into a momentary frown as she recalled the story Ritter had told her of what had transpired at the St. Omer farmhouse five days before. He’d carefully omitted many of the more unsavoury details, but what he had revealed had been more than enough to fill her with disgust. She’d also been no less affected by the loss of their own child five years ago than had been her husband, and as a result she’d been just as deeply affected by the plight of the two children that now slept inside the suite.
“I… we… have custody of them both until a suitable permanent home can be found,” Carl began, unsure how Maria might react to that news.
“How long to we have?” She asked immediately, standing back just enough to enable her to turn and look into his eyes with a direct and quite intense stare that clearly told Ritter she was already thinking things through in her mind.
“The paperwork comes signed from the office of the Reichsmarschall himself,” he shrugged. “I should think we’ve as little or as much time as we like.”
“Then I see no reason at all for us to give those beautiful children to anyone else,” Maria shrugged also, the declaration quite matter-of-fact in her own mind.
“My thoughts exactly,” Carl agreed, allowing himself a relieved smile and seeming almost taller as a huge, mental burden of uncertainty lifted from his shoulders. He’d come to feel the same over the last few days, and had been terrified that his wife might have reacted differently, in spite of his own instincts. He was now filled with relief that she had indeed come to a similar conclusion independently from any outside influence. “Antoine tells me his brother’s name is Curtis, but I’ve shortened it to ‘Kurt’ for the sake of the official papers.”
“My father’s name,” Maria beamed.
“My thoughts exactly at the time,” Carl nodded with a wry smile, “but also convenient to perhaps let the Reichsmarschall think it’s in his honour. I doubt it’ll make much difference, but it never hurts to have one’s bases covered… perhaps only for the sake of what others may think…”