Just Another Girl on the Road

by S. Kensington

  Farr took her hand and helped her climb out the window onto the mesh platform. He stooped for his radio, still holding Katrinka’s hand, and they fled down the stairs and through the darkened streets.

  Much later, from the safety of the woods, the man, dog, and girl crawled into a dense thicket of shrubs. Pressed close together, they waited for a sleep that did not come.

  * * *

  Katrinka had suffered a swollen lip, black eye, and broken rib. Purplish bruises covered her torso and the backs of her legs. Raphael took her to a local doctor, who gave her pills for the pain. She did not go out for the rest of the day.

  Farr stayed with her until she went to sleep, then sought out the major. He found Nye sitting in his lean-to shelter.

  Nye looked up from a report in his hands. “Yes, Sergeant?”

  Farr didn’t waste any words. “I want her out of this now, sir. She’s not going on any more damn missions.”

  Nye stood, handing Farr the sheet of paper. Farr scanned the page. The Allies had broken out of Normandy and were now storming cross-country, headed directly for Paris.

  * * *

  The team’s situation changed rapidly. In the next few days, another successful Allied invasion landed along the southern coast of France and funneled north, along the eastern side of the Rhône River Valley. Squeezed between the two advancing armies, the Germans retreated to the north and east in a rush to protect their borders. Others were given orders to fall back to the fortified posts near Saint-Nazaire and La Rochelle.

  London sent out a call for a general uprising of all French Resistance forces in France. The remaining scattered bands of Germans retreated, viciously attacked by small groups of vengeful Maquis. Cut off from the main armies, the Germans were exhausted, starving, and vindictive. As they fled, they inflicted brutal retaliations on innocent villagers suspected of helping the Resistance.

  By the end of August, Paris had been liberated, and like dominoes, other towns began falling into the hands of the Allies. Heavy fighting continued in the coastal cities and in the mountains, but by early September the Deux-Sèvres Department of France was free of German troops.

  The Jeds wore their uniforms all the time now. Both Nye and Raphael went out frequently, meeting with leaders of the outlying communities, and helping to organize supplies and French troops for the new government. Pascal promised the team regular accommodation, as soon as it could be found.

  The fifteenth of September was selected as the official liberation day for Trois Cloches. Katrinka was out delivering radio parts and not expected back until the next afternoon, but Farr set off with Val in the morning, each with a twenty-four-hour pass.

  The town was a riot of celebration, and there were many people milling about, filling the streets with their laughter. Resistance fighters proudly wore their armbands. Collaborateurs were shamed, a few arrests were made, and some female collaborateurs were shorn of their hair. But for the most part, the tone was carefree and happy, and there was much drinking of champagne. Hidden stores were brought out and shared.

  A tipsy young woman came up to Val in the street and gave him a kiss. When she received no encouragement, she gave another warm kiss and embrace to Farr, who heartily returned the favor. Smiling at them both, she continued her way down the street.

  The two men visited every café and bar, rarely having to buy a drink, and by midnight both men were very drunk, their faces smeared by the red lipstick of exuberant, happy women. Stumbling into the last open café, they sank into a couple of vacant chairs, with a bottle on the table between them. Farr slumped back in his seat, grinning.

  Val, who in the course of the evening had consumed considerably more than his friend, spoke first. “That was quite an encounter, yesterday.”

  Farr blushed deep red. He and Katrinka had been engaged in a very private celebration of their own the day before, when Val had stumbled upon them, leave passes in his hand.

  “Shit. Sorry for that. She’s just been so damn happy since the liberations.”

  Val shrugged. “I guess everyone’s gone a bit crazy lately.”

  Farr leaned forward in his chair, thumping his elbows onto the table. “I don’t know what you thought, Val, but I gotta set you straight. Tell me if I’m wrong about this, man. I know you’ll tell me if I’m wrong.”

  “Sure, Farr. I’ll tell you.”

  “Katrinka’s great. You know how I feel about her. I love her.”

  “Serious stuff.”

  “You bet. About yesterday. I’d been gone a few days, and she was really happy to see me. I mean really happy. One thing led to another, and pretty soon she was goin’ at it under the blanket. I was crazy. I mean, I was just flyin’, you know?”

  “Damn, Farr.” Despite his drunken state, Val felt his own organ hardening. He tried to block out the vision of Farr, with his cock rock hard, and what it had tasted like in her mouth. What it would taste like in his.

  “Next thing, you’re comin’ along with the passes. I couldn’t stop it, man. There’s no way in hell I was gonna stop her right then. Know what I mean? I was at that point.”

  “Damn Farr, you’ve really got it bad.”

  Farr thrust himself back in the chair, grinning with satisfaction. “Yeah. That’s what I know.”

  A while later, the men headed back to camp, both weaving unsteadily. Valentine stumbled over a branch and Farr leaned down, pulling him up, almost toppling over in the process. Val grabbed the man’s face between his two hands and kissed him on the mouth.

  He fell back as Farr exploded, flinging him away.

  “Christ Val!”

  “Sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry man. I—”

  Farr wiped his mouth angrily. “Get a grip, Val.”

  “OK. Right. I’m sorry, I—”

  “OK. OK. Just drop it. Forget it.”

  “Right.”

  Val continued to apologize as he stumbled along, trying to keep up with Farr’s angry strides. When he fell again, Farr hauled him up by the back of his jacket collar. Supporting him with one shoulder, they continued on their way, Val babbling the entire time.

  “You’re the best frien’ a man ever had, Farr,” Val slurred.

  “Shut up, Val.”

  “Right. Have to tell you Farr, you’re the best frien’ I ever had. You’re a swell—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Val.”

  “Right.”

  He succeeded in getting them both back to camp, Val in a semiconscious state and still mumbling. He dumped Val onto his cot, then went back to his own room and began unlacing a boot. It was entirely too much trouble, and he fell back onto his bedroll and slept.

  * * *

  Farr told Katrinka about the celebrations. Another liberated village was having a dance, and she wanted to go. There was a backlog of work, but she had not been able to participate in any of the revelries. Nye told her she could have a few hours with Farr, but he needed to be back before midnight to receive transmissions. Both of them cleaned up the best they could and set out.

  The townspeople had partitioned off a portion of the main street earlier in the evening. A few older men with instruments had stationed themselves in one corner, and a long table that held many plates of food and bottles of wine stood in the other. Katrinka and Farr were hungry. They found a small table with two chairs and ate before the music resumed.

  Almost immediately the men came over, asking to dance with Katrinka. Farr could not dance, and didn’t want to make an ass of himself now. He nodded, and Katrinka was ushered into the throng. He sat back and lit a cigarette, watching as she was swept around in the arms of young Resistance fighters and old farmers. Her feet never missed a beat, seeming to skim over the cobblestones. Her small face was flushed, and her hair shone in the lantern light. He was sure he’d never seen anything so beautiful.

  * * *

  Rapha
el had attended the dance earlier in the evening and had made his way back to camp. It was quiet when he returned to his darkened shelter. Jack was cooing in the corner, and he fished a few grains of seed from a sack to feed him. Then he sat down, not bothering to switch on the lamp, and lit a cigarette, replaying the scenes of the last few hours in his head. The happy faces of men and women. Children running through the streets, chocolate clutched in sticky fingers. Old couples sitting side by side. The end had been so long in coming. Too long.

  He sighed, grinding his cigarette into the dirt with his foot. Getting up from the cot, he fumbled for a moment in the pocket of his jacket, then returned to the bed. He looked down at the revolver in his hands, turning it over and checking the chamber. Satisfied, he reached into a drawer at his bedside and pulled out a torn and wrinkled photograph. He stared at the smiling upturned faces, until they became blurry, gray phantoms on a square of paper. Then he sat back on the bed, put the revolver to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  The song was ending, and Farr watched Katrinka drift back to the table, still doing little steps with the music. He smiled, handing her another glass of champagne. They were working on their second bottle.

  “Where’d you learn to dance like that?” he asked.

  “Emerson loved dancing. I wanted to learn, so he’d have me stand on his feet while he danced.” She demonstrated, doing a quick turn around the table. “He would swoop me around the floor just like this, humming, with me clinging to his hands…”

  To Farr’s dismay, her voice cracked unexpectedly, and she began to cry. Long, ragged, drawn-out sobs. Embarrassed, he guided her away from the tables and down the path skirting the perimeter of the village until she quieted. It began to rain, so they decided to start back. Farr noticed they were taking the same route he and Val had stumbled through a few days previously. These liberations were too damn emotional. First Val, now her.

  Arriving back at camp, they passed Raphael’s tent. Farr was shocked to see Nye inside, crouched over an inert body. He looked up as they entered, his face a hideous white in the electric torchlight.

  Raphael lay on the ground with a bullet hole through his temple. His gun was in one hand, the other clutching a photograph. The trembling fingers were finally stilled, and his face held a distorted grimace, as if his last thoughts had been too painful to bear. Katrinka drew back as Farr uttered a hoarse cry, bolting from the tent.

  Farr didn’t know how long he ran. It could have been for a minute; it could have been hours. The woods were damp with rain, and water from the leaves soaked into his uniform. He spied a fallen log and sank onto it, staring down at his hands, smelling the wet earth.

  Sometime later, Katrinka found him sitting there.

  “Wolfe?”

  He didn’t look up. “Go away.”

  He could feel her eyes on him. Then she turned and slipped back into the shadows.

  Farr continued staring at his hands. After a while he slid to the ground. He shut his eyes and lay back, watching through closed lids as Raphael’s face changed like a flipped photograph to the face of his father, and then back again to Raphael.

  Chapter 7

  France, 1944

  Katrinka helped organize a memorial service a few days later. Many of the townspeople came, as well as Resistance members from as far away as the coast. Raphael had been a quiet but strong force with the Maquis; his knowledge of the people and villages helping to ease old grudges and warring factions.

  The rain continued. Nye’s team stood under army-issue ponchos, each with their own thoughts, listening to the words of the priest as Raphael was laid into the ground.

  Wills made a noise, and she glanced up. His face held a kind of bleak desolation that frightened her. He turned away not waiting for the rest, making his way back through the rain.

  For the next few days, a somber cloud of disquietude surrounded the camp. The rain did not let up. Wolfe and Val were immersed in fixing a broken radio, while Wills stayed secluded in his room, working on reports. Rolf lay in the pathway outside Raphael’s tent, making others step around him to get by.

  Three days after Raphael’s death, Katrinka went out to the pigeon hutch to spend a few minutes with Jack and give him his nightly feed. Instead, she found the little bird lying stiff and inert on the floor of his cage. With a cry of alarm, she scooped him up in her hands. He was quite cold. Katrinka sat on the hard ground holding the small body to her breast, and wept bitterly. She was so very tired of this war.

  * * *

  At the end of the week, Katrinka watched as a new soldier arrived in their camp. Lieutenant Giraud was Raphael’s replacement. A former Resistance fighter with the Free French, Giraud was younger than Raphael, fair haired, and high strung. He demanded to be given work immediately, meeting contacts and dealing with the various Resistance leaders. He was efficient, and assignments under his supervision went smoothly. She knew that Wills found him too abrupt and lacking in tact, but he and Nye began working together, assigning the much-needed supplies to various groups.

  Things were returning to normalcy, when Nye called her to his hut one afternoon, having already briefed Farr the night before. Les Sables, a strategic port to the west, had been freed recently after very bitter hand-to-hand combat, with many casualties on both sides. Allied ships were bringing in supplies, which needed to be picked up and delivered. It would take about two days. Then he added the surprise.

  “You’ll recognize the vessel. Le Flâneur.”

  “Papa!”

  “Just so. I suspect the entire thing is a ruse to make sure you’re being properly cared for. So, any good word.”

  Katrinka had tried to keep the fears about her father in check. She knew of the U-boats and their lethal missions; how little protection the merchant ships had. But now he was here. For the moment he was safe, and she would see him.

  The afternoon before departure, Katrinka went to the village priest in Ange de Feu to collect her mother’s ashes. She would take them to her father in a small, silk-lined box. Emerson’s remains would stay in the church until she could transport them. And there was something else she was taking with her. The situation in France was changing rapidly, and Katrinka wasn’t sure where she would end up. Until she knew more, Rolf would be better off on the ship, and good company for her father.

  That night, she gathered up his food dish and all his favorite toys, putting them in a small box to bring with her the next morning. Rolf watched, becoming more and more agitated. When she had finished, Katrinka sat on her bedroll and called to him. But he refused to come. Instead, he ran to the box and took each item out with his teeth, strewing them around the floor of her hut with short, anxious yelps. It broke her heart. She sat on the floor and pulled him close.

  “Rolf, this isn’t forever,” she soothed. “I’ll be back for you. You’ll love Papa. You’ll love the ship.”

  But he flattened his ears and wouldn’t look at her.

  Wolfe came in later and slipped into the bedroll with her. Then Rolf jumped in. His hairy body contained unsavory smells, and his position lodged firmly between the two of them prevented any lovemaking, but neither she nor Wolfe complained. They all managed to get some sleep.

  At the last minute, Nye was able to go as well. He would be attending a meeting in Les Sables, with a colonel from London HQ. He would take a few hours to go out to the dock and see his old friend.

  * * *

  As Farr stepped aboard the ship, he got his first look at Katrinka’s father. Remi Amparo was a tall man, lean and rough-faced, with a long nose and black mustache trimmed to the outer edges of his lip. Dark eyebrows arched over his deep-blue eyes—Katrinka’s eyes. The brows gave him a slightly pensive expression. He wore his dark hair in a straight cut, which reached to the bottom of his neck, and he had thick sideburns. He smoked a pipe and wore a striped, short-sleeved shirt.


  Katrinka gave her papa the small box, which he took from her wordlessly. Then they went into his office together, and Amparo shut the door.

  Rightly figuring that father and daughter needed time alone, Farr walked through the cramped passageways to Katrinka’s cabin. He entered her small room with some hesitation. This had been home for most of her life, and he studied the contents with curiosity.

  Old photographs in brass frames perched on a railed shelf over her bunk. He picked up the closest one. A young girl was trying unsuccessfully to stuff the arms of a squirming dog into a miniature sailor suit. A young man stood over her, his face creased in laughter. With a shock, he realized it was Nye and Katrinka. He put the picture back on the shelf. Another frame held the image of a dark-skinned boy in long, white robes, standing next to a camel and examining the animal’s leg. There was a gilt-framed image showing a laughing woman with fair hair, leaning over the railing of Le Flâneur. He supposed this was her mother. A man in a rumpled linen suit stood next to her, reading a map. Her Papa Emerson? The last one was a photo of Katrinka as a small child, standing with her father in front of a striped tent. She was in a bathing costume, her bare knees caked in sand. She was looking away from the camera, at something in the distance.

  A roughly carved Buddha with serene facial features sat cross-legged on a cane table. On either side of the wooden figure, sweet-scented joss sticks protruded from brass holders. The railed shelf above the table held a brightly painted paper mache tiger, some scattered postcards, and a jumble of books: Robert Nathan’s Portrait of Jennie, a few works by D.H. Lawrence, and a volume of Japanese poems translated into French.

  An old newspaper photograph of a slim woman with cropped, tousled hair was tacked to the wall. She wore jodhpurs, and a scarf around her neck. She looked vaguely familiar.

  The large tray on a table by the porthole held a stack of maps. He picked one up and saw various islands, with notes of distances in nautical miles jotted in the margins. Someone had circled and made arcs around various coral reefs, and recorded the depth of water surrounding them. Here were Katrinka’s maps of Earhart’s disappearance.