She opened her iPad case to type the English translation, but before she could attempt to translate Brigitte’s words, she had to decipher her handwriting.
“You want me to help?” Lucas asked, scooting closer to her.
“You know German?”
“No, but—” he held up his phone—“Google is fluent.”
“As long as nothing is misspelled.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“I can read some German.” The breeze fluttered the letter in her lap, and she lifted it. “Perhaps we can figure out what she wrote together.”
She read Lady Ricker’s letter out loud first—about the stresses of trying to dress her new baby with the clothing rations, about baby’s feeding at 5 p.m., about a gift she was sending in a fortnight.
Then she turned to the note in German and scanned Brigitte’s first line about Frau Terrell. Slowly, with the help of Lucas and his phone, she began to unravel the girl’s words.
SEPTEMBER 1941
Frau Terrell translates Lady Ricker’s letters into broken German and demands I read her words into the wireless, even if they make little sense. So I read about a baby boy. Things that interest only L.R. and, for some reason, the Germans. When her boy sleeps. What he wears. When he goes to London with his mother.
I wish I could go to London with my mother. Wish I could go anyplace without Frau Terrell. I tried to run away this spring, but I never found the town. Now Frau Terrell won’t let me outside.
She hovers over me when I speak into the wireless that one of Hitler’s men left behind. Even though she doesn’t understand my words, she tells me I must be precise.
So I am precise. Except with a word or two. Those I change.
OCTOBER 1941
No matter how hard I work, this house refuses to stay clean, as if we are unwelcome guests under its roof. Frau Terrell found a hammer someplace. And a small box of nails. She sent me up to the roof to fix a board that had fallen over the front door.
I kept the hammer overnight—and one of the nails. While she slept, I nailed down the loose board in my room. Now I won’t worry that she’ll find my letters, buried in the floor.
Frau Terrell only speaks to me when she requires me to work. Like Cinderella and her rotten stepmother.
Girl, fix the roof. Girl, sweep the floor. Girl, read the letter.
I hate being called girl, but my name is my secret.
In the old story, Cinderella clung to hope in spite of the cruelness. And she watered the wishing tree outside her home with her tears. Her voice wasn’t her own inside the house either, but by her tree, she prayed. And a little white dove brought her what she needed most.
Still, I wish I’d never screamed, that night when Roger was here. Wish Frau Terrell didn’t know I could speak.
Frau has my voice when she needs it, but I’ll never tell her my name. And I’ve decided, just this moment, that I’m no longer calling the Terrells by their surname either, even in my mind. From now on, it’s Herr and Frau. Names that mean nothing really.
For Herr and Frau are meaningless to me.
NOVEMBER 1941
It’s autumn now, and I feel more like Gretel these days than Cinderella, lost in the deep woods. Without a Hansel.
There’s no Hansel, but there is a witch in my story. And some days I wonder if she might try to devour me. There’s a look in her eyes, of hunger and rage, so I stay in my caged room alone, with the rats.
In the old fairy tale, Gretel and Hansel are abandoned by parents who led them into the woods. Neither my mama nor papa wanted to leave me—they were taken away—but I know what it’s like to be alone.
Instead of a wishing tree, Gretel prayed to God in the tale. And God rescued her.
There is no candy house here. No hidden jewels to find. But I believe there is a God who can rescue me. So I continue to pray, every night. But sometimes, on the worst nights, when the darkness coils around me, when my door and window are locked and the rats chatter, my mind turns wicked.
I imagine Dietmar with pieces of bread, leading me to this house before he ran away, wanting to be rid of me. But in the daylight, I refuse to believe that Dietmar led me here. And I refuse to believe God will leave me.
I miss Dietmar so much it aches my whole body. I pray he is well. And I pray he returns to me, before more of Hitler’s men come.
When Frau lets me back outside, I’ll wait for my Hansel at the edge of the forest.
So the witch won’t catch him too.
CHAPTER 31
_____
Quenby tucked the letters back into the tin before glancing up at the riverbank. So Lady Ricker’s letter at the archives wasn’t meaningless after all. Her letters, it seemed, were meant for someone other than Olivia.
Closing her eyes, Quenby leaned back against a rock behind the log. It was exhausting, not just translating but hearing the story in Brigitte’s words.
She and Lucas had been working for hours—stumbling, really—through this translation. Several motorboats and a canoe had sailed past on the river, but no cars had passed them on the rural road leading toward Newhaven. For a moment, she felt as if she’d stepped back into the trappings of Brigitte’s world.
In her mind’s eye, Quenby could see the house made of cake and sugar, hidden in the bleak forest. A scared, hungry girl. The witch. In the German tale, the children escaped from the house, their arms full of precious stones and pearls.
Did Brigitte manage to escape? Or had the witch—or Hitler’s men—hurt her?
Sitting up, Quenby reached for another letter, but her eyes blurred when she scanned Brigitte’s German words, grief overflowing again. Unlike Quenby, Brigitte hadn’t had a grandmother left to rescue her.
“It sounds as if Olivia Terrell operated some sort of safe house during the war,” Lucas said, dumbfounded by their discovery.
Quenby nodded slowly. “She must have been part of Lady Ricker’s network.”
“So that’s why she moved here. For privacy.”
“And she used Brigitte’s German to communicate with her friends across the channel,” Quenby said, piecing it together. She glanced back at the abandoned mill, the tangled grove of trees around it. At the slow-moving current of the river. Anyone looking for her would have had to search hard to find this place.
“Perhaps the same person who took the pictures of Biggin Hill photographed a map to the Mill House.”
“I refuse to believe that Dietmar led me here.”
Brigitte’s words tumbled in Quenby’s mind. How was she supposed to tell Mr. Knight that Brigitte had longed for him deeply but he’d never come?
“She thought Dietmar had abandoned her,” Quenby said softly.
“Brigitte didn’t know that Dietmar was trapped too. That he wanted to find her.”
“It could have changed everything for her to have that glimmer of hope for the future.”
“She didn’t lose hope, Quenby.”
But it seemed to her that the girl’s confidence in her friend and any hope for her future was slipping away.
Lucas reached for another one of Lady Ricker’s letters in the tin, scanning the English words about her baby. “You’d think a story on the Ricker scandal would be championed at WNS.”
“My publisher doesn’t see it that way.”
“So write it for someone else.”
“I signed a noncompete, with you and the syndicate.”
He sighed. “Sometimes I hate contracts.”
She began to translate the letter in her hands, written in January 1942, but Lucas stopped her. “How many more letters are there?”
She counted them. “Six.”
“Seems like we need a break before we read more.”
As much as she wanted to continue, he was right. Every lobe in her brain ached. “We could work while we eat.”
He nodded. “Then we’ll phone Mr. Knight, after we finish the translations.”
She smoothed her hand over the top of the tin. The news of
finding the letters would be welcomed, but the contents so far might hurt the man. “What happens if the rest of the letters are just as bleak?”
“Mr. Knight knows this story may not have a happy ending. He wants resolution.”
“But I want a happy ending for him.”
“As we all do.” They started walking toward the Range Rover. “Either way, Mr. Knight will want to know about the letters.”
“I thought you were keeping these kinds of things from him.”
“It’s only the middle of the story, Quenby.”
She slid into the passenger seat, and as Lucas turned the SUV toward Newhaven, she tried to cling to the dream she’d had last night, of the girl picnicking with a God-like man who cared for her. Was it a premonition? Preparing her for the fact that Brigitte had indeed died as a girl? Perhaps she was with Jesus now. No longer hungry or lonely or afraid.
“Before we go to town . . .” Lucas stopped on the side of the empty road, at the edge of the grassy bank. “I think it’s time for you to do something else unexpected.”
She eyed the murky river on their left. “Does it involve swimming?”
“No.” He turned the car off again and removed the key from the ignition. “It involves steering.”
She glanced over her right shoulder at him, horrified. “I’m not driving.”
His arm swept across the dashboard as if the woods and river were on display. “No better place to learn than out here.”
“I can drive just fine, Lucas. It’s the other drivers who won’t want me on an English road.”
He glanced in his mirror and made a grand show of turning around in his seat. “There’s no traffic out here.”
She crossed her arms. Silent.
He smiled. “Think of it as an opportunity.”
“One that I don’t want to take.”
“I’m here to change your life, Quenby Vaughn.”
Her arms were still crossed, but she loosened them. “It sounds like you’re trying to hawk a time-share.”
“If you learn to drive, you can borrow my car to explore on your own.” He dangled the keys in front of her, sweeping them back and forth like he was trying to hypnotize her.
Her arms fell to her sides. “And leave you in London?”
He tapped the steering wheel’s leather cover. “If you master this.”
For a split second, the thought crossed her mind that she’d begun to enjoy Lucas’s company, but it would be more convenient—for him and for her—if she could travel around on her own. Then he wouldn’t have to leave the office to chauffeur.
She eyed the keys. “No wonder you went into law.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’ve fine-tuned the art of manipulation.”
His face grew serious. “I’m fairly certain that I can’t talk you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”
“True enough.” She swiped the keys from him. “I’ll try it.”
He clicked his seat belt on the passenger side as she restarted the vehicle. Then she pressed the accelerator. It felt strange to be behind a wheel again. Stranger still to be driving a car on the left-hand side.
She steered carefully, tires tracing the edge of the riverbank.
Lucas leaned his chair back. “You’re doing it!”
“I guess I am.”
They rounded another curve. “Here comes a tractor,” Lucas said.
Quenby groaned when she saw the red tractor driving toward them. The same one Kyle had been riding to his barn.
She wished she could duck under the console. Would have, actually, if she hadn’t been in the driver’s seat.
When Kyle saw her, he waved. Then he swerved his tractor toward her. It was ever so slight but enough to throw her off. She overcorrected to her left, and the tires hit the mud. Then the grass.
“Go right,” Lucas urged, but it was too late.
When Quenby pressed on the accelerator, the car just roared back at her, the tires buried deep in the sediment.
In the rearview mirror, she saw Kyle turn the tractor around.
Just great.
Chapter 32
Mill House, December 1941
Mama used to sing to her as she fell asleep on Christmas Eve. She had the prettiest voice. A golden thread stitching together each note. Every word.
How Brigitte had loved to hear her mama sing.
There would be no celebrating Christmas in this old house. She wouldn’t even know the holiday was tomorrow except she’d heard one of Hitler’s men wish Frau a happy Christmas before he left tonight. Then, through the crack near her door, where the wood no longer fit into the frame, she’d watched him kiss Frau on the lips.
How could anyone kiss that woman?
Except for Herr. It seemed they deserved each other. They kissed and they fought and then they kissed again. It was like hearing the bombs in the distance—she hardly registered the bombs or the yelling anymore.
Hitler’s man said he was going north. To sabotage an airfield. She didn’t know this English word—sabotage—but she doubted he was up to anything good. He and his friends might dress like the British, but they meant this country and her people great harm.
One day, when she left here, she would tell someone what the Terrells were doing. That these men knew how to find the house. That they talked about this sabotage and the Third Reich.
Most of them pretended she wasn’t there, except when they needed her voice. They laughed with Frau while Brigitte was in her room. Saying it wouldn’t be long now before Germany won the war.
Only one man really noticed her, and that’s because she stole his black fountain pen so she could write more letters. He searched the cottage for an hour but never found it under her floor. Not that stealing was right—Mama would probably have punished her for it—but she had this burning need to write. Almost as strong as her pangs of hunger when their parcels were late to arrive. Or Hitler’s men ate all their food.
On the other side of the channel, someone was listening to her, to know when to send the men. And when the men arrived. The pen, she told herself, was payment for her voice.
Frau thought Brigitte was throwing all of Lady Ricker’s letters into the fire, but she was tossing only the German translations into the flames. The English versions she hid inside her blouse before taking them to her room.
Even last summer, Frau made her build a fire for the letters. No matter how hot it was. No matter that she wouldn’t let Brigitte outside. She still insisted on burning the words.
But these days, Frau didn’t watch her as closely as she used to. Sometimes let her wander in the trees in the cold, almost as if she wanted Brigitte to run again. As if she were the source of Frau’s troubles instead of her husband. Or Lady Ricker.
Brigitte was twelve now, and when Frau let her wander, she searched for a town, for someone like the Belgian monks who could help her escape her prison cell, but it seemed the buildings she saw when they first arrived were all a mirage. Or perhaps it had been a dream. She’d ask the postman, but Frau locked her door whenever he knocked and her window to the outside was still jammed.
She was going to fix the window, so she could breathe in river and pine. And so one day she could run back to Dietmar.
Since there was no place for her to run now, she closed her eyes on these cold evenings and began to dream. Behind the veil of darkness, she could imagine anything. The taste of roast duck and potato dumplings. Gingerbread and Glühwein. The sound of singing that poured from the churches. The lights of the Christmas markets at night.
Any light at all.
Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
All is calm, all is bright.
Brigitte sang the words in her head so no one could hear. Inviting the peace birthed that night to settle into her room as well.
CHAPTER 33
_____
Lucas sprayed pink soap out of the wand, covering his Range Rover with foam in the self-service bay. Thankfully, mud seemed to be the
only damage done to his vehicle, and the soap and water drained that away.
The wand in hand, Lucas rounded the car a second time, holding it like he was some sort of commander blasting a machine gun. He was still fuming, it seemed, about Kyle Logan’s bravado when he helped them extricate the car. The man had embraced his role as rescuer and rural transportation expert, dispensing tip after tip about driving on back roads and how to remove oneself from the clutches of mud.
Lucas was not impressed.
Pink globs bounced off the oversoaped car, landing on Quenby’s sleeve streaked with mud from her fall. She flicked them off. “It’s already clean,” she said from behind him.
Lucas sprayed another round across the hood—or bonnet, as the British called it. “He forced us off the road just so he could talk to you.”
“Oh, please.”
“Seriously, he couldn’t stop flirting with you. Didn’t even care that I was with you—”
“Technically, you’re not with me, Lucas.”
“Of course not, but the man doesn’t know that,” he growled. “What if I was with you?”
“Then you’d have the right to be offended.”
He flicked the switch on the wall, and a stream of water sprayed from the wand. “I reserve the right to be offended either way.”
She crossed her arms. “The right to expunge records. The right to be offended. I need to become a lawyer.” When he turned, a plume of water sprayed over her shoulder, sprinkling down on her clothes. “Lucas!”
He turned back toward the SUV, but not before she saw the smirk on his face. “My apologies.”
“Not accepted,” she said, trying to shake the water off her blouse. “You were the one who asked me to drive.”
He released the trigger, the wand dropping to his side. “I’m not mad at you, Quenby. The guy is an idiot. He could have hurt both of us, fanning his tail like that to get your attention.”
She laughed at the image of Kyle as a peacock. “I’m glad there’s no damage, unless you count my pride.”
Catching the Wind Page 17
