Just Another Girl on the Road

by S. Kensington

  * * *

  Farr limped to Katrinka’s hut, but it was empty. Going outside, he spied her sitting cross-legged on a small rise.

  “You OK now?” He sat down next to her. Exhaustion lined her face, but she gave him a shy smile.

  “I came out here where I could breathe and look up at the stars.”

  “So, they’re still up there? All’s right with the world?” He hadn’t felt this tongue-tied since high school.

  “Isn’t it beautiful.”

  He looked up, catching his breath. Thick clusters of brilliant, tiny lights prickled the blackness, all the way down to the horizon. It gave him a dizzying sensation.

  “I used to sit on deck of Le Flâneur, feeling the sea surging beneath me, with the full moon coming up over black water. Straight onto me and my rice mat.”

  He moved a bit closer, inhaling the faint scent of her hair. It reminded him of faded roses in his mother’s garden. He was so damned tired. “That sounds nice.”

  “I felt part of it all. I felt safe. On Le Flâneur, and under those stars, I felt it was OK, even if there is nothing else.”

  There was a sadness in her voice, and he let his arm fall around her shoulders. When she turned, he kissed her.

  She drew away. “You never told me your name.”

  He hesitated at the breach in security, but what the hell. He knew her name. She knew Nye’s name; soon they’d be one big cozy family. “It’s Wolfe.”

  “Wolf?”

  He spelled it. “My mom loved Mozart. My full name is Wolfgangus, but you will never, never call me that.”

  “Is she…?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

  “So, your father raised you?”

  “I guess he did his best. He drank.”

  Why was he telling her all this? It was better to forget. The old man was dead now, his last act of violence self-inflicted. They’d buried him next to Farr’s mother in the town churchyard. Their graves just far enough apart so that if his father’s raging arms should thrust from the earth, he would be unable to harm the gentle woman slumbering next to him.

  He kissed her again, with sudden urgency.

  She shook her head. “I am so tired.”

  He pulled back, feeling incredibly stupid. “I can hold you.”

  “Yes, Wolfe, please hold me. Hold me tight.”

  He held her tight, tucking her body into the curve of his side and wrapping his arms around her. They were both asleep in moments. He was too tired to even be hard.

  * * *

  The next day, Nye called Katrinka into his cramped office. She’d slept late. He stood up when she entered, motioning for her to take a seat.

  “I have something here for you.” He pulled an object from a basket on the floor and grinned as her face lit up. “It’s your knapsack. Raphael found it, and your necklace too.”

  She took the knapsack, quickly undoing the buckle, and pulled out a tattered book. She placed this on her lap as he handed her the necklace, draping the delicate chain over her fingers. A miniature silver vial and a medallion of a running boy were suspended from it.

  “My jasmine!” She turned away from him, lifting her hair. “Can you help me?”

  Leaning across the table, Nye fumbled awkwardly with the clasp, very aware of the vulnerability of that small neck. He managed to fasten the hook, just above the tattoo of a tiny swallow, etched in the curve of her shoulder. He had an identical but larger one on his upper arm.

  “And my book, remember? You used to read this to me on the ship.” She held up the worn copy.

  “You made everyone read that to you. It was a real blessing when you could finally do it yourself. I can still recite parts of that story by heart.”

  She laughed and rose from her seat. “Thank you, Wills.”

  Nye stood as well, speaking quickly. “Trinka, are you all right now?”

  “Yes. Quite all right.”

  “Good. Excellent.” He hesitated. “I want to tell you… that is, I need to let you know. Raphael made an appointment for you early tomorrow, for what we’d talked about. He can take you. He has the morning clear.”

  It had been one hell of a job to find those few hours free.

  Her smile faded. “Yes, of course.”

  “Right, that’s settled then. Come back this afternoon, and we can go over things.”

  She nodded and walked out of the door into the sunlight.

  * * *

  Farr had spent the morning decoding in one of the distant outbuildings and then sending out coded messages to London with details for the upcoming drop. The camp was expecting a large amount of ammo with the delivery, and HQ needed the specific coordinates. The supplies would be distributed evenly among the small bands of Maquis.

  He’d just finished when Katrinka showed up, standing in his doorway. They both stood, grinning at one another.

  Jesus, if he was going to get hard just looking at her…

  He spied the small pack. “What have you got there?”

  “Oh, my knapsack. Wills remembered and has given it to me.” She sat down on a small stool, and Farr dragged his chair over, sitting close.

  “He also gave me my necklace. My mother had one just like this.” She lifted the silver chain from where it nestled between her breasts. Carefully releasing the vial’s diminutive plug, she waved the opening under her nose and let out an appreciative sigh. “Smell it.”

  He took a whiff. The aroma wafted into his nostrils; dazzlingly intense and sensual. “It’s wonderful,” he admitted. “What is it?”

  “Egyptian jasmine. My Papa Emerson was in Cairo once and came across a peddler selling small vials of oil. He told us these oils kept their fragrance for thousands of years. He selected jasmine because of my mother’s name. Yujana means ‘jasmine’ in Burmese. She was given the name because of her fair hair.”

  “How’d your mother come to have fair hair?”

  “Her mother had a British lover. A missionary.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They died.” She did not elaborate.

  Taking another whiff, she stoppered the vial. “I have to be careful not to waste any vapors, so I don’t open it often.”

  He grinned, but saw she was serious. “And this?”

  Hanging on the same chain as the vial was the wafer-thin silver medallion of a boy, running on tiptoe. He hooked it with his index finger, examining the details.

  Instead of answering, Katrinka pulled out the book, waving it in front of him with glee. The cover was smudged and worn, and Farr could not make out its title.

  “Papa gave me this when we lived in Coronado, near San Diego. Have you heard of it?”

  “San Diego? Yeah. There’s a naval training base out there. So why the book?”

  “In this place, Coronado, a man once lived there who was a famous author. He loved children, and he wrote this book for them. He gave a copy to Papa’s friend. But when she left, she also left the book. Later, Papa gave it to me.”

  Farr took the book, flipping its pages.

  “I learned to speak English listening to Papa read it to me every evening. Do you know it? There is a young girl and her dog. She gets lost from her home and everyone she loves. So she begins a long journey, to find her way back again.”

  Farr looked at the cover, squinting at the title, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. “Son of a gun. I read this when I was a kid.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. It was a favorite for a long time, till I discovered Tarzan.” Farr was embarrassed.

  To regain composure, he again lifted the small medallion from its chain around her neck. “And this?” he asked.

  “Oh, that one. It’s—” but their conversation
was interrupted. Raphael’s rusted Citroën turned into the camp, carrying supplies, and they went out to help unload. Farr hoped for Katrinka’s sake, there would be food.

  * * *

  Later that evening, the major again called Katrinka into his office. Farr watched her go, and when she came out, he could tell she’d been crying. Nye had not wasted any time about it.

  “Are you OK? What was that about?”

  She tried to brush past him, but he stopped her. She turned to him in anger. “How can you stand this all? How can you bear it?”

  He dropped her arm. “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you know about Sébastien?”

  “He told me last night.”

  “Did he also tell you what he wants me to do?”

  Farr nodded.

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him I wanted you out of it.”

  She walked to the stable door and gazed out to the pasture. “You know I can’t do that.” She looked back at him. “And you know why.”

  “Yes. I know why.”

  He hated the part of himself that rejoiced. It seemed so callous. So cruel. They were in it together now, her entire trusting soul rested in his hands. It would be up to him to keep her safe.

  She smiled up at him. “So, where do I begin?”

  Chapter 5

  France, 1944

  Nye sat her down the next day after she returned from the clinic, explaining her job as their courier. He gave her a pistol, showed her how to use it, and took her outside for some practice shots. After watching her first few efforts, he told her he hoped to God she’d never have to use it.

  Katrinka received a new set of identification papers. Her cover would be that of a tutor, servicing scattered farms in the area. The school had been closed for quite a while, and the community wanted an instructor for their children.

  Nye told her of a safe house several kilometers away. The farm was owned by a woman; code name Lucienne, who lived there with her child, Alain, and her grandmother, Jeanne. Katrinka would deliver messages and supplies under the guise of tutoring her son.

  * * *

  She began a few days later with her new identification, along with a map of the area. The team had moved to a roughly structured farm storage building, far off the main roads, and surrounded by thick trees and bushes.

  After a meager breakfast, she set off to Lucienne’s on her bicycle. In her basket she carried a box of grenades, packed tightly inside a large sack of potatoes. Lucienne would distribute them. She passed other women on the road, some on bicycles, some walking, and some riding in horse carts. There were no checkpoints, and the few soldiers she saw didn’t stop to bother her. She wondered if any of the women she passed carried similar packages.

  Katrinka arrived at the small farm mid-morning. Pedaling into the yard, she found Lucienne hanging up a load of washing on the clothesline. Lucienne’s son, Alain, was playing near the smokehouse, swinging from a knotted rope attached to a tree. He would lean back and swoop to the ground, then gather speed and sail up again, his sturdy little legs pointed skyward. She was struck by the serenity of the scene. It was perfect cover.

  As Lucienne approached, Katrinka noticed a hard look in the woman’s dark eyes. She had a masculine face, deeply angled with heavy brows. Her hands were graceful, but chapped and red from the rough farm work. She wore a faded checked dress covered with a stained apron.

  They exchanged certain coded phrases, and the hardness disappeared from the woman’s face. Lucienne took the large sack from the basket. “Please, come inside. I have just made a broth.”

  With a small whoop, Alain hurtled himself from the rope, mid-swing, and scrambled after his mother.

  Katrinka followed them into the farmhouse through a cool, flagged passageway that led to a sunlit kitchen. The heavy aroma of sweet onions and garlic filled the air, and her mouth watered. Lucienne’s grandmother Jeanne sat in a shaft of sunlight at a large wooden table, peeling eggs. As Lucienne made the introductions, the old woman looked up and nodded to Katrinka.

  Alain seized a book from a small basket on the floor and tugged at Jeanne’s hand. “Read me a book, Mémé,” he demanded.

  The grandmother smiled and rose from the table, leading Alain into the front room.

  Katrinka helped Lucienne serve the soup into two large bowls, and the women sat down to chat. The soup was very hot, and Katrinka waited for the liquid to cool.

  Lucienne’s husband had been sent off to work in the German labor camps, and she had no idea if he was still alive. She spent her time working as a liaison between the Jed teams and the Maquis, coordinating drop zones, delivering supplies, and sometimes housing downed pilots. It was a dangerous job, but the woman carried an aura of calmness that Katrinka found incredibly soothing. If only she could have such peace. She felt herself relaxing for the first time since entering the country.

  The kitchen felt light and airy, with large, open windows. Blue-and-red-painted china rested in rough-sided cabinets. There was a pump at the sink, and various gleaming pots and pans hung from the wall. A scattering of wooden toys lay in a patch of sunlight on the floor. In the corner was a small table, with schoolbooks for Alain. He was just seven years old, and Lucienne said he much preferred to be outside swinging from the tree rope than inside the house studying.

  Katrinka marveled at the normalcy of it all, and wondered what it would be like to have her whole life upended violently and under the occupation of an enemy. She admired Lucienne’s ability to keep her home life as ordinary as possible for Alain and Jeanne.

  Katrinka drained the last bit of soup from her bowl. After making a quick trip to the outdoor bathroom, she requested a few items from Lucienne, who nodded in sympathy. Before leaving, she gave Katrinka three messages that needed delivering to another team, several kilometers away.

  * * *

  Katrinka did not arrive back at camp until after dark, and then had to find Wills. She knew there would be no proper sanitary supplies needed for her menstruation. The most she could hope for would be a few surgical bandages to help absorb the flow. She would ask Wills.

  She found him seated in a corner of the dimly lit shed, studying papers. He looked up and smiled as she entered. When she made her request he reached out for her hand, and his grip hurt.

  “Trinka, sweetheart. Thank God.” Recovering himself he dropped her hand. His face turned a deep red.

  “Absolutely. I’ll check with Raphael in the morning to see—”

  “If there is nothing available, Wills, it’s not a problem. Lucienne told me what she uses, but I thought I would check with you as well.”

  Nye seemed relieved. “Of course. In the meantime, are you…”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I borrowed some handmade ones from Lucienne.”

  She could tell this kind of talk embarrassed him. After wishing him a goodnight, she turned and went outside. Wills had offered her a place in a corner of the small building, partitioned by a blanket, but she preferred to sleep out in the open. It was dry, and the air mingling with the trees had a clean smell to it.

  She had not seen Wolfe at all. She knew messages from London came at night, and these messages had to be decoded, which could take hours.

  She found a spot that was well cushioned with grass and lay down, wrapping the bedroll around her. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she stared up at the constellations, reflecting on Wills’ reaction to her news. She also felt immense relief. It had been a dreaded fear that had always been in the back of her mind since the attack.

  She’d tried telling herself that she would love the baby, no matter what. A child had no control over its parentage. But could she have held it? Nurtured and suckled it? Could she have looked into its eyes, knowing what she had done to its father? She wondered if she could have borne it.

  * * *

 
The following week, Katrinka set out on her bicycle to Lucienne’s with information about a midnight supply drop. The team had moved several times since the debacle at Bouchard’s farm. German checkpoints and retaliatory raids were escalating, and she sensed an edginess to their camp despite its remote location. Farr was away working the radio, and Nye had gone with Raphael to organize the evening’s drop with the local Maquis. A brief cloudburst that morning had turned everything into a pit of puddled mud.

  On the way to Lucienne’s, she met Jeanne coming back from the market, and the two women pedaled to the farmhouse together. As they neared the house, Katrinka noted the darkened windows. Lucienne should be expecting her, but there was no sign of anyone. From the corner of her eye, she saw lights flickering inside the old smokehouse.

  Hairs rose along the back of her neck, as if by static electricity. Quickly dismounting, she hid her bike in the bushes and motioned for Jeanne to do the same. The two women crouched in the darkness. A disturbing emptiness surrounded the place, so the scream that followed was all the more shocking.

  Pulling out her pistol, Katrinka flew silently over the ground to the smokehouse, with Jeanne following close behind. A small figure hung from the rope swing. It was Alain. He was dead, with the rope still wrapped tightly around his neck. Stifling a sob, Jeanne pushed past her and together they lowered the little body to the ground. Jeanne knelt, covering him quickly with her sweater.

  A loud moan jerked Katrinka to her feet, trembling in fear. She raised a finger to her lips and indicated for Jeanne to stay with the body. Creeping to the side of the smokehouse, she leaned against the wall and peered inside.

  There were a few lit lamps, and in the flickering light she saw Lucienne; her body was suspended from the floor, dangling from protruding meat hooks. She moaned again; it was a horrible sound. A wave of dizziness swept over Katrinka, and she fought it down. Lucienne was staring at her from across the floor.