by Amy McAuley
I like that he expects me to keep certain things about myself private. “I’m from Connecticut. What about you?”
“All over. Birmingham, Alabama, mostly.”
“You don’t sound southern,” I say, glancing at the soft curves of his moonlit profile.
I spot the hint of a smile as he says, “Like I said, I’ve lived all over.”
“Do you have any siblings, other than Sarah?”
He turns to look at me and his face fades into my shadow. “I have five older sisters. I’m the baby.”
The dead weight of Denise’s arm crashes down on my ribs. With a grunt she rolls onto her side, as if her subconscious is wrestling with her sleeping body to give Robbie a snappy comeback. I elbow her until she concedes and rolls the other way.
“Five sisters. That must have been hell.”
“Only when they forced me to dress up like a girl and play Amy whenever they reenacted Little Women.”
Giggling as quietly as possible, I say, “You had to play Amy? Why didn’t they let you be Laurie?”
“My sister Beth insisted on playing Laurie. Figure that one out. One of the March sisters had her very own name, but no sir, she had to be a boy. I had to pretend, dressed as a girl, to marry my own sister dressed as a boy.” His laugh is good-natured. “I believe the word that’s coming to your mind is disturbing.”
“No, not at all,” I say, and it’s Robbie’s turn to elbow me. “All right, it is a smidgen disturbing, but it was nice of them to include you. Don’t forget, Amy was the prettiest sister. Not many girls would be willing to give that role away.”
“I bet you would. You seem more like Jo.”
If there’s one character I hope to be like, it’s rebellious, outspoken Josephine March.
“I can’t decide.” I become aware of every poke and prick of the straw beneath me. “I might like to play Jo.”
The cloud finishes with the moon and moves on; two ships passing in the night.
“Denise was right.” Robbie’s breathing quickens. The parachute flutters when he turns away from me. A stream of cold air slips between us. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“You shouldn’t have come to France?”
“I shouldn’t have left home at all. My whole life, my sisters were so protective of me. I thought I could prove something to myself. How could I have been so stupid to believe I was brave enough?”
I smile at the back of his head in the hopes he can hear it in my voice. “I bet there’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity. I wonder if any of us knew what all this would really be like.”
“Fellows from my squadron have been killed in action,” he says. “The night before my mission I got a real bad case of cold feet, thinking about that. I couldn’t sleep worth a darn. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to go back home. The sergeant came in to talk to me. By the time he left I was raring to go. I don’t know how they do it. They make you think you can do anything. Full steam ahead on the mission and you’d better believe you’re ready for it, even if you’re not.”
I understand completely. And I envy his freedom to talk about feelings I keep hidden.
“My first time out and I got shot down. This was to be an adventure. Meet some girls, get some kills. Go home and settle down with a family. I can’t stop thinking that I got myself into this mess. My birthday’s next month.” He sighs. “I’m not putting this right.”
He was nearly killed today with his seventeenth birthday within arm’s reach. Here I am, practically the same age only he doesn’t know it. The harsh reality he faced today resonates through me too.
“You’re putting it right,” I say.
“They tell you your life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die. Except after those rounds of flak hit, my first thought was that I should have eaten more of the good breakfast before final briefing. Then the plane went into a steep nosedive. I couldn’t pull up. I saw wheat fields, thick black smoke, and fire. I was in big trouble. And I wasn’t sure how to use my parachute. I prepared myself to die in that plane, Adele. I said good-bye—” He takes time to collect himself. “I said good-bye to my family.”
I imagine him inside the cockpit of a flaming plane as it careens toward the ground, believing he might never see his mother and sisters again.
“You must have been so scared.”
“I’ve never been so afraid in all my life. You’re supposed to die old,” he says. “I’ve never even kissed a girl.”
I bring my hand out from beneath the parachute and tentatively trail down the rough sleeve of the work shirt Louis lent him, until I feel the back of his hand. He turns his palm up in approval before I can ask if he minds, and we hold hands.
“I didn’t mean to burden you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”
I curl closer to his warmth and let the slow rise and fall of his breathing carry me toward sleep.
“Don’t be sorry.”
NINE
“The German bastards are coming!”
I blaze from a deep sleep to wide awake. The sun has just begun to rise. A chilly fog hangs in the air. I scramble out from between Denise and Robbie, unable to place the voice of my awakener. But then I have it. Rat. That mute wisp of a boy shouted in the yard with the gusto of two full-grown men.
From inside the barn comes the cry, “The Germans! They’re coming!”
Denise leaps to her feet as Rat scampers up the ladder, scarcely making a sound.
“What’s happening?” she mumbles.
Blinking like mad, Rat says, “The Germans have an early start on the day. If they find you here during an inspection they will take all Louis has and burn the farm to the ground. Go, go! You may use my bicycle. I have ways of getting others.”
I translate the torrent of French to myself as quickly as Rat blinks. He backs onto the ladder and descends with Denise next in line. Twitchy and anxious, I wait my turn. Robbie gathers his parachute into a haphazard bundle and takes his place behind me. When I check on him, his expression makes it clear he’s hopelessly confused.
“Rat says we have to leave immediately,” I explain. “The Germans are doing inspections and they can’t find us here. You can ride Rat’s bicycle.”
“Okay. I’ll just follow along. I trust you.”
I hustle down the ladder. He trusts me. To keep him safe. To keep him alive. The gravity of what Denise and I have chosen to take on by rescuing Robbie and bringing him with us to Paris, in a country swarming with the enemy, hits me smack in the chest. I let go of the ladder rung and drop the rest of the way, landing with a thud.
When we have our bikes we run with them, still stiff-legged from sleep, into the yard. Tiny beads of mist cling to my face and clothing. Rat and Louis are bent over a bicycle—Rat’s, I guess—around the side of the house. A suitcase has been strapped to the back and another sits at Rat’s feet.
Rat motions for Robbie to join them, and he runs off, swimming in the cinched-up work trousers and shirt that are loose-fitting on Louis. With the parachute packed away and the suitcases loaded up, Robbie pushes the bike to us.
“Merci, Louis. Nous sommes reconnaissants pour votre aide,” I call, genuinely thankful for the hospitality Louis showed us, despite being forced to live on rations and without running water and electricity.
With a curt wave, Denise says, “Yes, thank you.”
We’re back on the road again. At least we got some sleep.
Once we’ve distanced ourselves from the town of Chevreuse, we slow to a pace we can keep up over hours. By the time the sun has burned off the last of the fog, my stomach is growling for food.
“Have anything to eat in that suitcase, Robbie?” I ask.
“Yes. Louis packed some rations for us.”
Denise says, “I’m not hungry, I can wait.”
Not hungry? I don’t believe her.
“Are you still upset that Louis served us goat kid last night, Denise?”
She shrugs without answering the question.
“You know you’re here to kill people. You’re upset about the death of a goat?”
“People do wrong and evil things all the time. That kid did nothing.”
“Didn’t you keep rabbits back home, after the war broke out?”
Denise’s hair drapes over her profile. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
I fall back in line with Robbie, and we continue on without breaking to eat. Luckily, Paris is only a few hours away. I know from studying our map that we’re about to enter the town of Palaiseau. At that point, one-third of today’s trip will be complete.
The farther we ride, the flatter the countryside becomes. We speed along.
In French, I say to Denise, “We’ve seen quite a few German vehicles from a distance today. There will be soldiers in town and we won’t be able to avoid them.” With a sideward glance Robbie’s way, I add, “What will we do then?”
We round a bend in the road. The German soldiers leaning against their truck see us coming in the same instant we see them.
My automatic reaction is panic. I take a breath, pedaling slower, and force myself to relax. Looking guilty or fearful will only raise suspicions.
We appear to be ordinary young people riding bicycles, a sight the soldiers see every day, and we’re not outwardly breaking any laws. If we don’t give them a reason to stop us, we should be able to ride past them unprovoked.
But we can’t take that chance.
“Denise, you and Robbie have to go on without me. Pretend you’re a couple having a spat and ride around the truck. I’ll divert their attention.”
“No. I won’t leave you.”
“If they find the radio, they’ll shoot us. And Robbie has no papers. It’s the only way.”
Denise lets out a slow breath. “See you in Paris.”
I can’t bring myself to say good-bye.
“Keep your mouth shut, Robert,” she says, pushing off. “I’ll do the talking.”
If the Germans search my suitcase, if they realize my papers are fakes … I frantically contemplate calling out to Denise and Robbie. I’ve been too hasty. I made a mistake.
I watch them ride away and leave me behind.
TEN
“I saw you looking at that girl!” Denise shrieks in shrill French as she and Robbie shoot past the truck. “You pig! You disgust me!”
One of the soldiers steps into the road, his raised hand commanding me to stop. I swallow back sudden nausea.
“Bonjour.” I lower one foot to the road and keep the other at the ready on a pedal.
My best attempt at a seductive smile is only somewhat successful. The other soldier, who looks about my age, gives me a gap-toothed grin. The soldier blocking my path remains as expressionless as granite. Looking past him, I see Robbie glance back at me one last time over his shoulder.
“Geben Sie uns Ihr Fahrrad,” the stony soldier orders.
A well of fear in my chest overflows, trickling throughout my body.
They want my bicycle.
“Je ne parle pas allemand,” I say, stalling for time.
The young soldier steps forward. “We need your bicycle,” he explains in halting French. “We have a flat tire, you see.”
I climb off the bike and begin unfastening my suitcase. They’re not making off with that without a fight.
Impatience radiates from the older soldier, like scalding steam. He grasps my handlebars. My panic grows as a creeping tug-of-war goes on between us. When at last I have my suitcase, the bike goes to him.
Leaving them no time to check me further, I say, “Au revoir,” and march off. The first steps are the most difficult. They won’t let me pass without a search. They’ll shout. Or fire a bullet into the back of my head and be done with it. I put one foot in front of the other, ignoring a fierce desire to run.
But nothing happens. Minutes pass, and still nothing. My relief, pacing in confinement like some caged animal, breaks free. Barely able to think straight, I leave the roadside. My suitcase falls from my hands into the shade of a gnarled apple tree. I crouch with my back against the tree and burst into tears.
I stay several minutes longer than I should. I have to get up. I have to keep going.
I dry my face with a handkerchief, knocking tiny blossom petals free from my hair. Then I continue my journey to Paris, on foot and alone.
Just when I think I’m about to melt in the heat, leaving nothing but a mysterious puddle, sweat-drenched clothes, and a suitcase behind on the road to Paris, a car pulls up. Cars are rare in these times of rationed fuel. Any petrol that goes to the French deprives the German war machine. As far as the German army is concerned, that won’t do.
The car putters beside me, looking like an overgrown slug in a metal shell. The lone occupant, a man, sits huddled over the steering wheel. His twiggy build assures me he’s not much of a threat. Unless he has a gun.
He leans toward the open window. “Avez-vous besoin d’aide, mademoiselle?”
I consider refusing his help, but then my suitcase suddenly seems to hold ten times more weight than before.
“Oui. Allez-vous à Paris?” I ask.
“I am going to Paris, yes. Climb aboard. Do you need help with your baggage?”
I don’t like the idea of my suitcase being outside arm’s reach. “No, thank you. I’ll set my suitcase on my lap.”
“Very well, then.” Regardless, he leaves the car with the ambition of an overeager bellhop, when I’m perfectly capable of opening a car door and taking a seat on my own.
The passenger-side door squeals open on dry hinges. I settle onto the waxy-soft seat.
When we’re off, he says, “I’ll begin the introductions. My name is Dr. François Devereux. I enjoy reading and bird watching. It is a pleasure to meet you on this fine spring day. Now it is your turn.”
I contemplate creating a second false name. In the end, I say, “Adele Blanchard. Thank you for giving me a ride. I think my arms have stretched, lugging my suitcase around. It’s a hot day for May, isn’t it? My hair is hot enough to fry an egg.”
How did he coax so much small talk out of me?
“A young woman shouldn’t be traveling alone.”
“I can look out for myself,” I say, guarding my words more closely. “I had a bicycle, but the Germans took it from me.”
“Taking. They’re quite good at that. They’ll take until there is nothing left for them to take, and even then they will look for more.”
I keep quiet. Expressing anti-German sentiment or any other inflammatory statements around a stranger can get me into a heap of trouble, even if the doctor supports the liberation of France. Spies and collaborators have to pass for ordinary people, so I’m not about to accept his introduction at face value. For all I know he’s not even a doctor, although the car does support him being a wealthy Frenchman of importance.
As the car rolls through the countryside, all I can do is imagine how much longer this trip would take on a bicycle. The country seems so vast. How will I ever find Denise and Robbie again? The worry that we’ve been separated for good pushes to the front of my mind for a moment before I can shake it off. I know the situation isn’t as hopeless as it feels. They’re on their way to Paris. Denise and I have the address of our circuit leader’s safe house memorized. Eventually we’ll catch up to them on the road. And the looks on their faces when my chauffeured car drives past will be priceless.
The thought makes me laugh, more like a goose than a girl, which startles the doctor. He rights his hat.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you,” I say. “I thought of something funny.”
“It’s a nice change to see such a happy person. I know too many who have become dour and fearful, going from one day to the next with a grim face and a cold heart, believing the way of the past will never return. They have forgotten that we live in one of the world’s greatest cities. I don’t like to see it. If we all give up hope”—he winks and says—“all hope is lost. Liberation will
come.”
I want to promise him it won’t be long until he’s free again. But a long fight looms. Paris, spared destruction when France surrendered, might still come under fire. To save him, the country’s beautiful towns and cities might be reduced to rubble as the Allies battle to conquer the Germans.
For the next half an hour, Dr. Devereux happily talks my ear off. I gaze out the window, distracted, gripping my suitcase. Any moment, Denise and Robbie will come into view, pedaling and arguing. Any moment, I just know it.
“We are about to enter the city now.”
Robbie and Denise can’t possibly have beaten me to Paris on their bicycles. The sound of our approaching car must have sent them diving for cover as we crossed paths.
At least I hope that explains their absence on the road. What if they were captured? I don’t want to prepare myself for the worst, but I might have to. Apart from my own capture, it can’t get much worse than losing Robbie, Denise, and Denise’s radio contact with headquarters in one fell swoop.
“Is this your first time here?” Dr. Devereux asks.
“It is, yes.”
“Though the city is large, you won’t become lost. Paris is made for walking.”
“Where is the Eiffel Tower?”
He smiles. “You will see it. Sometimes, believe it or not, you cannot see it even when you are a hundred feet away.”
As we drive through Paris, I come to understand what the word “occupied” means. Soldiers crawl the city like an infestation of ants. The SOE showed us photos of the German uniforms. What a difference to actually witness those uniformed soldiers with my own eyes.
“Where would you like me to take you?” the doctor asks.
I give him the address, changing the number but keeping the street name the same.
Dr. Devereux points out landmarks as we go, but with anxiety clouding my thoughts very little he says sticks with me.
At the end of a narrow side street, he pulls up to a grand stone building.
“Thank you for the ride,” I say.
“Adele, one moment.” He removes a small notepad and pencil from his black bag. Scribbling madly, he says, “If you need me, this is my address.” He rips the paper from the pad. “Thank you for brightening my day.”
