Since coming home, though, there were times I caught my father gazing down the lane with a look on his face I could not decipher. It seemed to be a mixture of grief and tenderness. It made me wonder what had transpired in France on his journey to find me.
We were in the hills mending the stone fence in the north pasture on a crisp autumn day when I caught the faint hint of peppermint on the wind. I straightened and turned, searching the slopes.
A woman and dog stood downhill watching us. They stood together like both knew they belonged to the other, her hand on his head as he leaned against her legs.
My father and the boys were further along the fence, so I approached the pair. As I drew close, I paused, moved by the expression on her face and the dog’s as they stared at my father. This was the same expression I had seen on his face when he stared down the lane, and now I recognized it for naked longing.
When I reached her, I could see the effort it took her to draw her gaze from him. Her eyes caught me, the colors as changeful as a winter sky with a gathering storm, and her gaze was straightforward and assessing as she studied me.
A softness came over her face when she met my eye, and the smile that curved her lips was arresting. The smile made her seem lit from within, and what was a pleasant face became striking in its brightness.
I remembered the face from the furtive exchanges of art that had been arranged along her routes to and from the camps outside of the city. I realized I had never seen the smile.
“Owain.” Her voice was warm, and the American accent was low and soft. The poodle was a handsome dog, his black hair trimmed neatly around his face and feet. His tail thumped, and I ran my palm over his head when he stepped forward and nosed my fingerless hand. “I am glad to see he brought you home.”
The words shifted something inside me. “He has watched for you.”
Her gaze moved past me and locked on my father once more. “He told me he would.”
I followed the direction of her gaze. My father had noted my absence and straightened from his crouch. He turned, searching the hills, and I saw the moment of recognition. A stillness swept over him.
The dog whimpered.
“Go on, Otto,” the woman whispered to him, and he launched like an arrow from a bow. He bolted across the field, scattering sheep in his wake.
My father knelt with open arms, and the dog bounded into them with such force and exuberance, he rocked backward. The woman touched my arm and smiled once more before following the poodle, her pace more measured but no less eager.
I called for the boys, and though they stared at the woman with unabashed curiosity, they followed me down the hills. I glanced back once, in time to see my father straighten from embracing the dog, who leaned against his legs and stared up at him with blatant adoration. My father gazed down at the woman as she reached him, and when she walked straight into his chest, he bent his dark head over hers, the color of honey, and enfolded her in his arms.
I climbed over the stone wall and followed the boys home. Mamgu, Sévèrin, and the girls were completing the harvest of their vegetable garden. Sévèrin raised a hand in greeting when she caught sight of me. Today her face was clear and untroubled, free from memories. I would hold her in my arms tonight and for a few hours, all would be well with us. Tomorrow would be another day, and I had learned to take them as they came.
My daughter was festooned with dirt, and she squealed in delight, racing toward me as quickly as her short legs would allow as I crossed the yard. Bess’s young litter of six scrambled after her, barking in glee at the chase. I swept her up into my arms, kissing her plump cheek, and knelt in the midst of the frolicking pups. Bess left her perch beside my grandmother and loped over to keep her offspring in check. I draped an arm over the collie, and she leaned against my side.
I took a deep breath and passed my palm over my daughter’s dark curls. She giggled, tucking her head against my shoulder and filling my ears with the music of her indecipherable speech. Peace, like a waft of smoke from the chimney, slipped between my ribs and settled in my chest, edging aside some of the shadows as it did so.
I knew now why my father loved these hills so, why home was his own lodestone. It had become my haven as it was his as I learned his truth: the open hills kept the memory of tight, dark spaces at bay; the scent of heather and sheep drowned the rank odor of pain and fear; the crisp wind swept away the dark heaviness within chest and mind.
And it was as the woman said: my father had brought me home.
Author’s Note
No engrossing historical fiction tale is accomplished without thorough research and a wealth of resources.
I would like to thank the Military Vehicle Preservation Association for directing me to Ian Young. Mr. Young recommended the movie Ice Cold in Alex and sent me a number of his personal photos to use for my study of the Austin K2/Y, affectionately known as Katy—or in Charlotte’s case, Kathryn.
Ms. Fabienne Gelin was an invaluable resource in Vichy in regards to the history of the libraries in the city. She graciously shared her academic paper, entitled Histoire des bibliothèques de Vichy 1866-2016, 150 ans de péripéties, with me.
The Welsh were instrumental in WWI, and I have my protagonist as part of the 38th Infantry Division. The 38th fought at the Somme in 1916, at the third battle of Ypres in 1917, and was instrumental in ending the war on the Belgian front in the Hundred Days Offensive in 1918. Even though the 38th was originally thought to be poorly trained and ill led (and they were), they eventually were considered one of the army’s elite units. At the beginning of WWII, Wales received thousands of evacuees from London, Liverpool, and Birmingham, and Aberystwyth was a main center for children to be evacuated to from the northern industrial cities. The Heritage and History of Wales group on Facebook, and Mr. Adrian Price in particular, was helpful when it came to the Welsh language I have incorporated into the story.
My aim with ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH was to create a story that is as authentic to the time as it is a gripping story. I spent two years researching before I set pen to paper, and I hope that I have created a tale that feels transportive and immersive. That said, I have taken some liberties throughout the story.
General Patton and his Third Army formed the extreme west front of the Allied invasion of France. The Third Army attacked from Brittany and began a spearhead race across France toward Germany. I played a bit with the dates, but it is still possible that Charlotte and Rhys could have crossed paths with the Old Man and his Third.
There is no mention of whether Camille Claudel’s work was hidden from the Nazis in WWII. It is likely Charlotte would have never seen the artist’s work and therefore would never have recognized it. In March of 1913, Claudel was institutionalized at the initiative of her brother. Though doctors frequently made a plea to her family to release her, they refused, and she died in isolation in 1943. She destroyed much of her work, though about ninety statues, sketches, and drawings survived. In 1951, her brother organized the exhibition of her work at the Musée Rodin in Paris. In 2017, France opened a national museum dedicated to her work.
The Maison du Missionnaire in Vichy is indeed known for its library, but I appropriated it for my story and the young librarian who betrayed Rhys’s son is entirely a figment of my imagination. I know of no association with the missionary house and any resistance efforts or Nazi collaboration.
The poem quoted in the story is one by Victor Hugo, Demain dès l’aube or Tomorrow at dawn:
Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.
Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour po
ur moi sera comme la nuit.
Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
Translation:
Tomorrow, at dawn, in the hour when the countryside becomes white,
I will leave. You see, I know that you are waiting for me.
I will go by the forest, I will go by the mountain.
I cannot stay far from you any longer.
I will walk the eyes fixed on my thoughts,
Without seeing anything outside, nor hearing any noise,
Alone, unknown, the back curved, the hands crossed,
Sad, and the day for me will be like the night.
I will not look at the gold of the evening which falls,
Nor the faraway sails descending towards Harfleur.
And when I arrive, I will put on your tomb
A green bouquet of holly and flowering heather.
Poodles were used as war dogs by the US Army until 1944. The Germans used shepherds, Dobermans, Airedales, and boxers as war dogs, but as the poodle is a breed that originates in Germany, I took the liberty of creating the character of Otto. My own love of the breed made it necessary to include a standard poodle in the story.
The village of La Balme-les-Grottes exists as do the caves on the eastern side of the town. The magnificent subterranean labyrinths were used by the Resistance during the war, but my incorporation of them—and the massacre of the village—is fictional.
The piano piece Charlotte plays in the farmhouse is Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise. I do not mention whose transcription she plays, as my favorite is Alan Richardson’s, though it was not written until 1951.
The “Monsieur Jaujard” Charlotte mentions is Jacques Jaujard, Director of the French Musées Nationaux. With the help of curators and art historians, particularly Rose Valland, Jaujard was instrumental in the evacuation and protection of the Louvre art collection. He was awarded the Légion d’honneur and the Médaille de la Résistance for his actions, and the main entrance of the École du Louvre bears his name.
“Mongoloid” is a dated term for Down syndrome. I used it in this story because the term “Down syndrome” was not used until the 1970s, and during WWII, “mongoloid” would have been the common term used to refer to the syndrome.
Antibiotics first became available during WWII, and I made specific mention to both penicillin and sulfa drugs in the story. The Dr. Churchill mentioned is a reference to Dr. Edward Delos Churchill, an American surgeon who was renowned for his surgical practice and education.
Klaus Barbie was the head of the Gestapo in Lyon. His title of “the Butcher of Lyon” was well-earned. After the war, he was employed by the US intelligence services in South America. When Henri finds him at the demolished headquarters, it is likely given the timeline of events that he was already in retreat from Lyon to Bruyères. This slight tweak in the timeline was to suit my purposes for the story.
Caspar David Friedrich was a nineteenth century German Romantic landscape painter. Though the man himself died a century before WWII, the use of his work in Nazi propaganda almost destroyed his reputation. I found no evidence that his art was in France in WWII, hidden or otherwise, and my inclusion of his work in the plot is purely fictional.
What Charlotte said to Rhys is true: the Jews had some of the most priceless art collections, but when the Nazi laws rendered the Jews stateless, they lost property rights. Everything they had previously owned was considered ownerless. The Reichsleiter Rosenberg Taskforce (or the ERR) engaged in an extensive and elaborate art looting operation in France. According to documents from 1944, the art seizures in France totaled 21,903 objects. A substantial amount of looted art still remains lost today, but there were numerous efforts throughout the war and at its close to save the art from Nazi possession. I encourage anyone interested in the ongoing efforts to find art looted in WWII to look up the Monuments Men Foundation.
Though the Gravenor Network did not exist, the Marcel Network—and a number of others—did. The Marcel Network is what inspired me to use the plot line of a young man and his wife risking their lives to save children. Syrian immigrant Moussa Abadi was only 33, and his future wife, Odette Rosenstock, 28, when they found themselves trapped in Nazi-occupied France. Risking their own lives and relying on false papers, the Abadis hid Jewish children in Catholic schools and convents and with Protestant families. In 1943, their clandestine organization—the Marcel Network—became one of the most successful operations of Jewish resistance in Europe. By the end of the war, 527 children owed their survival to the Abadis.
About the Author
Meghan Holloway found her first Nancy Drew mystery in a sun-dappled attic at the age of eight and subsequently fell in love with the grip and tautness of a well-told mystery. She flew an airplane before she learned how to drive a car, did her undergrad work in Creative Writing in the sweltering south, and finished a Masters of Library and Information Science in the blustery north. She spent a summer and fall in Maine picking peaches and apples, traveled the world for a few years, and did a stint fighting crime in the records section of a police department.She now lives in the foothills of the Appalachians with her standard poodle and spends her days as a scientist with the requisite glasses but minus the lab coat.
Follow her at @AMeghanHolloway.
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