Once More Unto the Breach

by Meghan Holloway

  Alfonse glanced back and forth between Charlotte and me. “There are no guarantees, but he was alive when I saw him months ago. When word of Normandy came, they left in haste. You were told differently?”

  Charlotte spoke for me when I remained silent. “We were told he disappeared after Vel' d’Hiv.”

  “Oui, it was necessary. Owain cut all ties afterward with those he had known before who were…not involved in his work. It became too dangerous after Vel' d’Hiv.”

  “My son is not Jewish.”

  “No, he is not. But what he is doing goes against the edicts of this Nazi France.” His lips curled over the words.

  I glanced at the trunks and art against the wall. “I must find him.”

  Alfonse followed my gaze. “As you can imagine, what Owain is doing is dangerous. It is something he is willing to die for and he would not want you to endanger him—or yourself—by seeking him.”

  “You must know something of what took place between Owain and me.”

  Alfonse hesitated, but the boy spoke from the corner. “Owain would not want you here. He told my father of you, of how you cast him out. I listened.”

  “Pierre!” the older man hissed.

  I met the boy’s defiant stare. “I do not need to be reminded of an exchange I had with my son by a young whelp who knows nothing of my family.” My voice was even, and he flushed and looked away.

  “Please, forgive my son. He is a boy and is therefore ignorant in many ways.”

  “If you know what happened between us, then you must know how imperative it is I find him. As a father, you understand this.”

  Alfonse rubbed his mustache and looked to his son. “Oui. Yes, I understand this. But I can only tell you what I know. He would never tell me more than the first rendezvous. He said it is better if no one knows the entire route in case of capture.” He gazed at the wall lined with trunks and art, but I did not think he saw them. “His cargo…it is precious. Do you know Forêt de Fontainebleau?”

  “I do,” Charlotte said.

  “There is a small town in the south of the forest, Larchant. To the east of the town lie marshes. There is a ruin of a church at the edge of the marshes…”

  __________

  “Look there.” Charlotte pointed up the river. “That is one of my favorite sites in the city.”

  The spire of the cathedral was black against the overcast sky, and the bell towers stood behind the spire like solemn sentries. I leaned against the stone rail of the bridge beside her.

  “I used to draw this eastern view of Notre Dame often. I love the flying buttresses. Did you know they prevent the walls from falling outward? Something so beautiful, and with such an essential purpose.”

  Owain had wanted to be an artist as a boy. Paper and pencil had always been tucked into his pocket, and he had set more than one quilt alight drawing in bed after he was supposed to be asleep. I wondered if that was part of what drew him to Paris.

  She tucked a loosened lock of hair behind her ear. “I own my ambulance, and I have access to the hospital’s petrol reserves.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck, the unease that had been lurking since last night blooming into suspicion. We had not even known one another for a day. And yet she made this offer and knew my son’s name. I hid my suspicion under the guise of curiosity. “Why are you in Paris?”

  “I came to study at the Sorbonne in ’36.” She pointed north. “Dionne’s place is near the university, and I lived with her for a time. She and I are cousins. I was finishing my studies when we heard word that Poland was invaded.” She shrugged. “May came swiftly, and then when the bombs fell in June…I suppose I hoped the Parisians would take up arms…” What appeared to be disappointment tightened her face for an instant before she shook herself. She was, after all, American. Aside from we Celts, I had never met a people more ready to fight for their homes. “Well, so it was. I wanted to do something, and the American Hospital needed people for the Ambulance Field Service.”

  “That was brave of you.”

  She made a noncommittal sound and was silent for several moments, gaze on the cathedral. “Do you know what my work with the hospital has largely amounted to?” She did not wait for my response. “Not a hill of beans. For four years, I have helped tend the hogs since the garages at the hospital were converted to sties. I’ve planted so many vegetable gardens I have lost count.” She held her hands out before her, studying them with an absent look on her face. Her hands were small and fine-boned, and callouses marred her palms. They looked grossly out of place on such elegant hands that appeared better suited for white lace gloves, playing the piano, and holding a teacup. She looked up at me and that direct gaze was gray once more.

  “Do you play the piano?”

  My question startled her, but then she gave me that dawn-like smile. “I do indeed.” Her slow drawl thickened. “I can play the piano, draw, paint, sew, and dance. My mother insisted on those. But my father also insisted on making certain I could shoot, drive, and take an engine apart and put it back together again. I could be of use to you.”

  Her smile and sweet voice assuaged the gathering suspicion. That was what would make her dangerous, I realized. I did not know what motivated her, and her very presence imbued trust. Accepting her help would be foolhardy. But it would also speed my journey. “What the boy said was true. I did cast out my son. I told him I did not want to lay eyes on him again until he grew up and took on his responsibilities like the man I had raised him to be.”

  Charlotte straightened from where she leaned against the bridge. “But you’re searching for him now, are you not?”

  _______

  “Here we are.”

  I watched from the doorway of Charlotte’s room at the American Hospital as she ducked out from beneath her narrow bed, a hunk of metal and wires in her hand. My means of transportation was a cantankerous pony and a wagon I had been repairing for thirty years, but I could guess. “You disable your ambulance?”

  “Of course. It’s habit now.” She stood and glanced around the featureless room. Aside from the bed, only a bureau and a sink graced the small space.

  My own rucksack was on my back, and I held the satchel she had packed with a heavy coat, boots, her two dresses—one green, the other a darker shade of blue than the one she wore—and a pair of socks that appeared to have been darned more times than my own. She had rolled her undergarments into the green dress with neither modesty nor fanfare. Her practical nature was appealing, but as I followed her gaze around the room, I imagined this tiny, bereft lodging was a far cry from the life she had known in America. Her smile, though, was wistful when she turned to me.

  “I doubt I will return, and I must admit, I will miss this little room.” She took a deep breath. “Well then.” With the rise and fall of her chest, I noted that though her form was slight, she was shapely. Her figure reminded me of the fiddle I had left by the hearth at home. The children always begged for a song in the evenings. “Shall we be off, then?”

  “Aye.”

  I followed her back through the hospital’s bustling halls, gathering four more satchels of provisions from the store room, and then she led me out to a long row of ambulances. They all looked identical, but she approached one confidently and patted its side as if it were a beloved steed instead of a piece of machinery.

  “Most call their girls Katy, but that is not terribly original.”

  “Is it not?” Katy sounded original enough to me.

  “This is an Austin K2/Y. Hence, Katy.”

  “And you call yours?”

  “The more dignified Kathryn. She takes a little patience and understanding, but she has never let me down.” She lifted the side panel of the hood and leaned within, reinstalling the part she had removed to disable the ambulance.

  “I see. I have such a beast. Her name is Braith. She’s black and white, and she prefers my mother’s flowers to hay and cannot resist mud puddles.”
>
  She chuckled. “Is Braith a Welsh name?”

  “Aye.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Black and white.”

  This time, her head tilted back, and her laughter was a full peal, unrestrained and delighted. She closed the hood and brushed her hair back from her forehead, leaving a streak of grime across her pale skin. “Of course. You are funny as all get out, Rhys Gravenor.”

  I had never thought so, but I could not resist returning her smile.

  She rounded the boxy vehicle, unlocked the padlock, and threw the bolts before pushing the double doors wide and folding out the rear steps. The back of the ambulance was cavernous with two stretcher platforms on either side spanning the length of the interior. The upper stretchers were at the lowest position, hovering over the bottom platform, but I could see cranks at the ends to set them into their higher position.

  It was stifling within, and though the interior was scrubbed clean, there was a faint metallic odor.

  “Incoming!”

  A whine sounded overhead in unison with the warning, and I threw myself over the boy. The percussion of the exploding shell reverberated through me and stole my hearing for long moments. Dirt rained over me and where it hit my skin, it stung as if shards of glass were scraping across the exposed flesh.

  Someone shoved past me, pausing to reach down and yank the gas mask from the belt of the injured man I had thrown myself over.

  “Halt!” My voice sounded muffled to my ears.

  Arthur grabbed my arm when I would have gone after the other man. “He’s already dead, Rhys.”

  The boy had begged me not to leave him only moments ago. I hung my head. Dirt littered his sightless eyes, and I moved to brush it away and close his lid but stopped. My hands were covered in his blood.

  “Rhys?” Charlotte’s soft query startled me back to awareness, and I fought the urge to flinch when she touched my arm. “Are you well? You looked as if you were somewhere else.”

  Back in the foxholes, but only in my mind. “Merely distracted for a moment.”

  Her gaze searched my face before she climbed the rear steps into the back of the ambulance. She slid a section of paneling aside over both stretcher bearers. “Once we are underway, the air will circulate.” She pointed to the two vents overhead. “The fans help as well. The smell is always worse in the summer.”

  I handed her the supplies we had gathered—how little we had been able to collect made me appreciate how self-sustaining my farm was—and as she stowed the satchels and bedrolls, I wondered if she were incredibly perceptive or if I were so transparent.

  “I keep the P.O.W. racks filled, but we may need more petrol.”

  “P.O.W. racks?”

  She took my proffered hand as she descended the steps, and after she folded them back into place, I swung the doors to. “Petrol, oil, and water.” She pointed to the padlocked shelf of canisters behind each rear wheel. “Wait here for me, and I will retrieve the petrol orders.”

  The canvas doors of the cab were rolled up and tacked to the frames. There was only one seat, the driver’s, and a spare tire was stowed behind the seat. A door led into the rear of the ambulance, and a crowbar, hatchet, and helmet hung on pegs beside the door. A metal box with a cushion on it served as an extra seat.

  I climbed within and settled onto the box. There was enough room to stretch my legs in front of me, and I leaned my head back against the rear wall of the cab.

  Married. I allowed myself to digest the news. My son had a wife, a woman he loved and to whom he had pledged himself. I rubbed my thumb against the bare base of my third left finger and suddenly wished for the binding of the simple gold band I had not worn in years. It was not practical to wear it while working, and I could not have borne its loss. It sat on my bureau at home next to my photograph of Aelwyd.

  “We will marry one day,” I told her when we were six. I had always been thankful she had found that plan agreeable.

  I heard Charlotte’s approach a moment before she climbed up into the seat behind the wheel. She held up a piece of paper triumphantly. “An order. If the creek don’t rise, we should have plenty of petrol to make it to Larchant and further if need be.”

  The engine stirred to life, and I fought the urge to grip the edge of the door as we began to move. It was not my first time in a vehicle, but I still found the sensation unsettling and slightly sickening.

  She glanced at me. “I studied art and literature at the Sorbonne.” Her hands were confident on the wheel and gear shaft, shifting skillfully and seamlessly. “I spent almost every day in the Louvre before the war. Even when there were still only rumors, they began to move pieces out of the city. By the time the Nazis arrived, the Louvre was practically empty.” She stopped the ambulance and engaged the brake. “It will be less conspicuous if you wait within while I fill the petrol orders.”

  I nodded, mind racing. Charlotte hopped out of the cab and disappeared from sight. I heard a smattering of French and then the vehicle jostled as the back was opened.

  When Charlotte climbed back into the cab, I said, “You recognized the painting in the attic on Rue Pavée.”

  I sat slightly behind her, so she turned in the seat to face me. “The Jews have—had—some of the most priceless collections in Paris. Perhaps in all of Europe, even. But when they were labeled as stateless, they lost property rights. Everything they had previously owned was considered ownerless. There were massive raids.” She tapping her fingers against the wheel. “I did recognize the painting in the secret room. And that connection makes me wonder if your son has been smuggling Jewish art collections before the Nazis can confiscate them.”

  I could easily imagine Owain becoming involved in such an operation, but Charlotte’s conclusion was swift and neat. One most likely born of prior knowledge. And I had no way of knowing if her guidance would lead me toward my son or further away. “Were you involved in that effort?”

  She glanced at me sharply. She did an admirable job of clearing any expression from her face, but her brows were expressive. In the short time I had spent in her company, I could already discern a pattern. The knit in her brow smoothed after a moment, and her gaze remained on mine. “Yes. I did not just spend time at the Louvre. I worked there.”

  She said no more, and I sensed no deception in her voice or eyes. But when I asked, “Did you know my son?” her gaze slid away from mine.

  The ambulance’s engine rumbled to life, and she disengaged the brake. “No, I didn’t.”

  I did not know why she lied, I only knew that she did.

  26 June 1940

  Dear Nhad,

  A swastika flag hangs at the Arc de Triomphe,

  and people have fled the city by any means available—automobile, cart, and foot.

  The streets seem deserted. I listened to Pétain on the radio order an end to the fighting.

  And then a week later, I caught a glimpse of Hitler in Montmartre.

  -Owain

  iii

  Henri

  “I will not ask again, monsieur.” I rolled the sleeves down my forearms and rebuttoned the cuffs. “Who was the man here earlier, and what did he want?”

  I had always found fear a far more useful tool than pain. Wariness was evident in the old Jew’s eyes. He met my gaze evenly, though, and said nothing.

  His son, however, had not shut his mouth throughout the entire interrogation, screaming and threatening. “My father will tell you nothing, you traitor. Enculé.”

  I sighed. Children had always tested my patience. Even my own two had known better than to interrupt me or meet my gaze when I spoke to them. I drew my pistol and fired a bullet into his head.

  The father screamed, spittle flying, his face turning red as he strained at his bonds toward the slumped form of the boy. He hung his head, his sobs harsh and broken, and when he looked up at me, the hatred was evident in his dark eyes. I noted it absently. Perhaps once, years ag
o, I would have relished it. But hate, I had come to realize, like war, was simply a fact of existence.

  “You will get nothing from me now,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

  “Then you are of no use to me.” My next bullet pierced his forehead, and I paused a moment to admire how precise the shot was between his eyes.

  It was like a painting, I thought, taking in the scene before me. I was dissatisfied with the composition, though, and holstered my pistol to rearrange the scene. I tipped the son’s chair over onto its side, and then pushed the father’s chair back so that the beam of light coming through the window brought the hole in his head into stark relief.

  I stepped back and tilted my head. The chiaroscuro of the attic, the deep shade of blood pooling around the boy’s head, and the sorrow stamped permanently on the man’s face were beautiful. My fingers itched for a brush. One day, if I made it home from this wretched place, I would paint this while sitting in my vineyard with my dog at my feet.

  Sorrow pierced me when I remembered. Gerhardt would not be there to curl at my feet before the fire every night once I returned home. The man who had shown up at my flat a month ago had tossed my beloved schnauzer’s collar on the table before me. It was matted with blood. Next, he slid a small cigar box toward me, and dread twisted my stomach even before I lifted the lid and found the horror within. That delicate shell of ear was so familiar to me. Had it really been six years since I held Mila in my arms, soaking in my wife’s softness, whispering my love for her in this very ear that now sat gorily before me?

  “I thought you would appreciate the artistry. Didn’t your Van Gogh cut off his ear?”

  Rage swept through me so swiftly and violently I almost lunged across the table and ripped his throat out.

  “That is one ear,” he said. “There are many more pieces of her we can remove and send to you if you do not return what you have taken. You have six weeks.”

  I had two weeks left before their deadline, and I had found everything but the Friedrich collection. Desperation ate at me. Gerhardt’s collar and the small cigar box weighed heavily in my pockets and felt as if they burned through fabric and flesh straight to the marrow of me.