by Amy McAuley
Over her shoulder, Denise says, “I have an idea. We’ll have a picnic.”
“But I have a gut feeling that the trucks are practically on top of us.”
“We’ll stop there, by that brook, like we did before.” As I pull alongside her, she says, “We can’t speed past the German trucks without arousing suspicion.”
We veer off the road and continue across rough ground. The handlebars bounce in my hands, jarring my entire body. Denise, the lucky one with a bike all to herself, speeds ahead of me. I grunt and groan my way forward, desperate to catch up. That’s what I get for trying to be a hero.
At the brook, Denise runs with her bicycle to a nearby cluster of squat evergreens, and then she hurries back to a shady patch of flat ground near the water. I drop the pilot off there and I hide my bike with Denise’s. By the time I get back to them, they’ve laid out the parachute like a picnic blanket on a carpet of velvety moss.
We sink onto the silk and sit ramrod straight, looking nothing like relaxed picnickers.
“Why are we waiting for the Germans?” the pilot asks.
An uneasy giggle prickles up inside me. Why are we sitting out in the open and not hiding? The plan that made perfect sense a few seconds ago is falling like one of my aunt’s cakes when her boys stampede through the kitchen.
The pilot inches away from me. “Why are you smiling?”
Denise and I snatched up a perfect stranger, ranting about Germans and trucks that he hasn’t seen any evidence of, and carried him off on our bicycles. For all he knows, we’re setting him up to be captured. And here I am, grinning at the poor guy like a lunatic, when in truth my nerves are unraveling a little.
“Places, everyone,” Denise whispers. “We’re relaxed, we’re having a brilliant good time, we are on the lookout for fun, not Germans. Ready, and … action.”
We fall into laid-back poses just as the trucks speed into view.
Without turning my head, I keep one eye on the trucks. “They’ve spotted us.” The stiff smile at my lips barely moves when I say, “I sure hope they keep going.”
The trucks slide through my peripheral vision.
“They’re not leaving,” the pilot says, in English, and far too loudly. He might as well wave a sign that reads I’M THE AMERICAN YOU’RE LOOKING FOR! “They’re coming back.”
His trembling legs jerk. I grab hold of his flight trousers as his seat leaves silk and yank him back to earth.
“If you run, you’ll get us all killed. Calm down.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
The trucks reverse and come to a stop. The driver’s door of the second truck swings open. A soldier steps down to the road. Pebbles crunch beneath his heavy boots. He straightens his glasses, carefully analyzing each member of our group.
Unless by some miracle he stops walking, we are finished. I chew the inside of my mouth, counting each crunching footstep.
Standing tall, arms stiff at his sides, he calls out to us in perfect English. “Have you seen an American here?”
Fear clangs through me. We all speak and understand English. While Denise and I are trained to gauge our responses to the unexpected, I’m not so sure about the pilot. If he falls for the soldier’s trap and shows a hint of understanding or fear, the jig is up.
“Watch yourself, pilot,” Denise whispers out of the side of her mouth. “And bloody well keep your mouth shut.”
“Have you seen an American here?” the soldier repeats. “An American pilot?”
Denise shrugs and calls back, “Pardonnez-moi?”
“Vous avez vu un pilote américain?” he says, in the same calm monotone he’s used since he first spoke.
From inside the truck, another soldier is keeping an eye on us. I watch him reach for the door handle.
Without saying a word, Denise scrambles to her feet and sashays to the soldier. I pick up the odd muffled word as they talk, but it’s not enough to get a good read on their conversation. The soldier’s knotted expression slackens. The rigid contour of his back slumps. Unbelievably, he waves good-bye to Denise and boards his truck. On a surface level, I notice the trucks pull away. The core of me is stunned, overcome with relief.
Denise marches back, arms swishing back and forth. She plunks down next to me and promptly falls over.
“Oh my gosh, are you all right?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I just need to catch my breath.” She lays an arm across her eyes to block the sun. “I’ll bet you thought his English was spot-on. He went to school in New York City.”
The German soldier and I were relative neighbors once. I can’t help but wonder about his life in America. Does it weigh on his mind that he now hunts American men like the pilot? And girls like me?
“We had a close call with that soldier,” Denise says. “He kept looking at you two over my shoulder, so I took his attention away by asking all sorts of questions about Radio City Music Hall and the Roxy Theater, even though I’ve only read about them in magazines. We made plans to meet in town this afternoon for a drink, and then off he went.”
“Thanks, Denise,” I say. “It was really brave of you to do that for us.”
I let her rest a few seconds more; all the time I feel we can safely spare.
“If they find out we’ve tricked them, they’ll come back,” I say, standing to leave.
She extends her arm and I help her up.
“Pilot,” Denise says. “Aren’t you coming? Up you get.”
He stares at his lap. His fidgeting fingers twist and pull at each other.
“Are you crying?”
The pilot wriggles backward onto the bed of moss. He goes about gathering the parachute, head bowed.
“What do you have to be crying about? I didn’t see you promising to go out on a date with that German.”
He hobbles away without us, quick even with the limp, in the direction of the road. We don’t have our bicycles ready. Off he goes anyway, without knowing where he’s headed or what he’s storming off to.
Denise chases him down. “C’mon now, pilot, toughen up. I’m trying to protect you. Behaving like a six-year-old child will only get us captured or killed.”
“You’re right, I’m not six.” The pilot’s out-of-kilter stomping slows to shuffling steps. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m sixteen years old.”
Denise slowly spins around to face me. “Bloody hell.”
EIGHT
Our shadows, three dark spires against the dusty road, loom large ahead of us, as if impatient with our decision to walk the rest of the way to the farm. We’re nearly there, having passed an out-of-place stone fence that severs two barren pastures, the final landmark Madame LaRoche told us about.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Denise scan our surroundings. I’m still in disbelief that she had the guts to make a date with the German. She pulled personal information out of him in less time than it typically takes me to lace up my shoes. If I have to, if it means life or death, can I put so many stars in an enemy’s eyes that he won’t notice I’ve gotten away until it’s too late? If not, which tricks will I use?
“What did you say to that German?” I ask her. My curiosity always gets the better of me.
Denise shoots a sidelong glance at the pilot. “I told him he must be more exciting than my boyfriend. And I complimented him. Flattery works every time.”
He fell for flattery. That might be true, but it isn’t the whole story. Denise is pretty, and pretty girls know their power. The beautiful girls at boarding school got away with a lot more than the rest of us.
While I’m at it, satisfying my curiosity, there’s plenty I don’t know about the withdrawn pilot.
“If you’re only sixteen, how’d you get to be a pilot?” I ask.
“I lied about my age.”
So, the pilot and I have two things in common. We’re both Americans and we’re both liars.
“Then how’d you lear
n to fly a plane?”
“Crop dusting.”
No matter his age, his ability to fly impresses the heck out of me. He might not be winning any points with Denise, but he sure is with the girl who grew up admiring Amelia Earhart.
“Ever dream of soaring through the air like a bird? Does flying a plane feel like that? Is it ultimate freedom?”
“Sometimes.”
“Who was Bessie Lou, anyway?” I ask. “You said they killed her.”
“My plane.”
“You named your plane Bessie Lou?” I start to laugh. “Bessie Lou. It’s an unusual name for a plane, don’t you think? It isn’t very jazzy.”
“It’s my mother’s name.”
“Oh.” I stop laughing.
“You love your mum enough to paint her name on a plane,” Denise says, “but then you left her to run off and play war. Do you have any idea how she would feel if she never saw you again? Do you know how devastated she would be? You’re just a child.”
Trapped between their glares, I slowly wheel my bike forward out of the line of fire.
Denise isn’t much older than I am. I didn’t consider that my age might be an issue with her. If she finds out the truth, will she refuse to work with me? Will she turn me in to SOE headquarters?
I feel bad for the pilot. If not for him, it could be me on the receiving end of Denise’s anger.
Madame LaRoche warned us that her brother’s farm has become run down in the five years since his wife’s death, but that didn’t prepare me for what I see when we reach the end of his stone laneway. Curtains hang askew behind cracked windows, a graveyard of rusted metal litters the property, and a scrawny goat has free range of the yard, which is wildly overgrown in some places, chewed to the nub in others.
Denise says, “My mum would throw a wobbly if she saw the state of this place.”
“Bonjour!” The voice booms out of thin air, like the Wizard’s in Emerald City. I certainly feel as if a twister whisked me out of Kansas and deposited me in Oz.
We glance around, searching for the speaker’s hiding place.
“There he is, in the loft,” I say, with a triumphant smirk.
Denise snaps her fingers in defeat, putting her whole arm into it, the way my friend Sylvie used to, especially when I scored higher than her on a test.
We follow a worn path through the tall grass to the barn.
Madame LaRoche’s brother calls from above, “Who has sent you here?”
I crane my neck and stare straight up at the bulbous belly hanging over his pants. “Your sister, Claire.”
He leans forward to peer down at me, surprisingly steady with all that weight thrust out in front. He and his sister share a code phrase, and I forgot to give it to him.
“She said to tell you that the orchards are beautiful in bloom,” I say.
“That they are.” He reclines against the wooden frame. “I am Louis. I bid you welcome. You must be in need of food and rest.”
Denise and I peek at each other, apparently spooked by the same thought. We’ve heard nearly identical words before, spoken by Dracula in one of the most spine-chilling films of all time. The sun is sinking ever closer to the horizon, and we have to spend the night at the home of this chubby man who speaks like a blood-sucking, undead Count.
“Park those bicycles in the barn. Rat is around somewhere; he will help you with your things.” The rounded belly contracts and Louis bellows, “Rat, où es-tu?”
From around the corner of the barn, a wisp of a boy appears, silent and light on his feet, like a feather carried on a breeze. He must have been standing out of sight listening, the little sneak. A boy after my own heart.
“There you are, Rat. All is secure, I take it?”
Rat gives a vigorous little nod.
“Rat is from town,” Louis explains. “I pay him to watch for those German bastards. The boy is a damn fine warning system.”
Rat grins and blinks at us excessively.
“Bring your things up. Rat will help. He’s stronger than he looks.”
We enter the barn and I nearly keel over from the stench of goat droppings.
“Mmmeeehhhhh!”
In the hay-strewn stall next to my bike is a large brown-and-white goat with a flowing beard. Standing on his back, as if that’s the most natural place for him to be, is a baby goat. His back end is black, his front is white, and his face is a mix of the two. Just looking at him, I know he’s trouble.
Denise gently scratches him under the chin. “Oh, aren’t you darling.”
“Mmmeeeehhhh!”
Even goat kids sound like they’re complaining.
When our bikes are set at the side of the barn, Rat scurries around to take Denise’s suitcase. The pilot takes mine.
“Thank you—” Up to that point, I’ve been content to call him only Pilot.
He takes his time sparing me from further embarrassment. Finally he says, “Robbie.”
“Robbie. Thank you for taking my suitcase.”
“You’re welcome.”
The rickety wooden ladder creaks under his weight. “You should feel right at home here, Denise,” Robbie says. Near the top, he sets my suitcase on the floor of the loft and continues to climb. As his foot clears the last step, he adds, “Judging from your manners, I’d guess you were raised in a barn.”
The interior of Louis’s home looks nothing like the depressing pigsty outside. If not exactly clean, it’s tidy enough. By outward appearances, I would guess the house contains nothing of value. How wrong I’d be. When I bring that up at dinner and point to the gorgeous piano in the sitting room, Louis says, “Hopefully the Germans will think like you, eh? Nothing to loot here, they will say.”
I think that’s pretty ingenious, but next to me Denise groans and continues to roll peas around her plate with her fork.
After dinner, she mumbles something about goats and then conveniently slips away while the rest of us clean up.
Louis puts water on the woodstove to heat, so I offer to wash the dishes.
“Merci, Adele,” he says. “I read people well. I can see you’re a good girl. The one out there, she’s a strange one. Oui?”
I smile. “Being strange comes in handy in our line of work. I think it’s a requirement.”
Excusing himself to finish chores for the day, Louis ambles to the front door. Once alone, Robbie and I stare around the kitchen, everywhere but at each other. I press my lips together, glaring at the kettle.
Robbie has a pleasant laugh. “What do you know, my mother was right. A watched pot never boils.” As he leaves the table, he asks, “Do you play the piano, Adele?”
“Yes, but poorly.”
He sits on the wooden piano bench. “Any requests?”
With a shrug, I say, “I don’t know. Play what you like.”
His interlaced fingers crack all at once. “Here’s something pretty.”
The notes fade into the background. I stare out the window. Laundry, dried crisp in the hot sun, sways on the line outside. Wood will have to be brought in. The kitchen needs a good sweeping. It’s the least we can do to repay Louis for his generosity.
On my way outside to find Denise, the piano melody strikes a chord in me.
I run to the parlor, saying, “I know that song. It’s ‘Someone to Care for Me,’ from the movie Three Smart Girls.”
Robbie’s fingers pause over the last keys he played. “You’re right, it is. Do you like that movie?”
In Three Smart Girls, three sisters living with their mother in Switzerland decide to run away to New York on an exciting and worldly adventure, to stop their father from marrying a scheming gold digger and get their parents back together.
“I love it,” I say. “Deanna Durbin, the girl who plays the youngest sister, she’s Winston Churchill’s favorite movie star. Did you know that?”
With a boyish grin, Robbie says, “You don’t say. She’s my sister Sarah’s favorite.”
Stashed away in a bottom dres
ser drawer at my aunt’s house is my collection of film memorabilia. Since my aunt knows Deanna Durbin is my favorite actress, topping even Judy Garland, she clipped her profile from a fan magazine for me.
“My aunt took me to a seven-day-long Deanna Durbin movie festival,” I say.
“Gosh, my sister would think she’d died and gone to heaven. She fancies herself Deanna’s long-lost twin. Sarah has a good singing voice and everything, but when she tries to reach high notes”—Robbie cringes through a smile—“dogs cover their ears.”
The thought of a regular girl copying Deanna’s operatic falsetto makes me laughingly cringe along with him. “Then why did you learn to play ‘Someone to Care for Me’?”
“It was my birthday gift to her one year. Let me tell you, people wanted to clobber me for that, but it sure made her happy.”
His thoughtfulness tugs at my heart.
“Robbie, that was very sweet of you.”
I lean against the wall to watch his long fingers trail through the keys. His talented playing seems so effortless, as if he were born to make music.
“Water is boiling, Adele!” Louis calls out from the middle of the kitchen, and I jump, more out of embarrassment than fright.
I ditch my lackadaisical grin and get to work.
Denise’s hand flops onto my face, obscuring my view of the full moon outside the open loft doors. I reposition her arm on her chest as she draws in another rumble. If I can withstand hours of her snoring, I can surely withstand torture and interrogation.
Next to me, Robbie stirs. “Adele. You awake?”
Denise didn’t take kindly to being told she was raised in a barn. She refused to sleep next to Robbie, which forced me to sleep wedged between them. Not that I mind. The warmest spot beneath the parachute is all mine.
“I’m awake,” I say.
For a while, Robbie lies still. Together we watch a hazy cloud cloak the moon.
“Did you want to talk?” I ask. The instant the offer is out of my mouth I make a face at the darkened loft beams.
“I saw Denise with her radio. I know you must be here on a mission of some sort, so I won’t ask you about it.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you American or Canadian? Can I ask that much?”
