“She?”
Nye nodded. “You know about the pilot Valentine is bring in tomorrow evening?”
“Yes. But what does that have to do—”
“I want you to take Milou to Marseilles where the pilot will also be waiting. Your father will take them both through to Lisbon.”
“But why doesn’t Milou go with Pascal and the pilot down to Marseilles?”
“Two reasons. Reason one, and it’s a kicker. Last week, a Resistance member was escorting Milou to us by train, just the other side of the French border. Evidently, the man tried to seduce her. When she refused, he sold her out.”
“What did she do?”
“Some German soldiers showed up at their next stop, blocking the exits and boarding the train. She stabbed one of the soldiers, as well as the man who sold her out—”
“Good for her.”
“Yes. Quite.” Nye smiled. “In the confusion, she managed to escape by breaking a window in one of the compartments. She made it across the border to the next safe house. But now she is refusing to get into any train, car, or vehicle.”
“Can you blame her?”
“She’s sworn to walk all the way to the coast if she has to. They managed to calm her down enough to have her agree to use a bicycle, with another agent as escort. She has specifically requested a woman.”
“I’ll do it, Wills.”
“Don’t you want to hear the second reason?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it shall.” He pulled out a map and placed it on the desk between them. He leaned over, tracing the roads. “You should have no problem. Most towns and cities are now liberated as the Allies move northward. Your journey will take you here, through this town.”
She looked to where his finger pointed.
“Lascaux,” she breathed.
Nye sat back, smiling. “Just so.”
* * *
The scrawny American pilot was brought to their school building the next afternoon. When Katrinka and Valentine reported in, the lieutenant was still there, talking to Nye. The major motioned for them to sit down in chairs by the door, while the lieutenant continued his story.
The young officer sat at the table, his back to Katrinka and Valentine, drinking coffee as he described the events of the massacre. Nye could hear the tremor in his voice, but the cigarette in his hand was steady.
The officer explained, “They were rounding up the women and children. Locked them in the town barn, and set fire to it. Shot anyone trying to crawl away. There was a German officer, named Farber. He grabbed a small kid and threw him into an oven. I saw another nail—”
Katrinka gasped, and the pilot jerked around, spilling his coffee. Nye saw the man flush a deep red.
The lieutenant smiled apologetically. “Oh! Sorry, darlin’. Can’t keep my darn mouth shut.”
He paused, turning back to Nye. “So, we got the heck out of…” His voice trailed off with a quaver. His hand trembled now, as he lit another cigarette, forgetting the one already in the tray.
Katrinka crossed the floor and crouched next to him, taking his hand in hers. The man began to shake violently, his head and shoulders clenching over his rail-thin body.
Nye stood, signaling Valentine to leave with him.
“Bloody women. Always do it to us.”
* * *
That night, the pilot’s hoarse cries tore through the quiet building. The major heard it, hesitating over his reports, before slowly making his way up the stairs.
Lying in his bunk, Giraud heard it and finished his cigarette, flicking the stub to the floor with a heavy sigh.
Katrinka jolted awake, listening. Throwing on Farr’s old shirt, she pattered down the hallway to the pilot’s room. Nye stopped in the shadows as he watched her slip through the doorway. He stared for a moment, then turned and walked back downstairs.
Adjusting her eyes to the darkness, the girl felt her way over to the man’s bed. He was sitting up wild-eyed, still half asleep. The smell of stale sweat hung in the air. He swung out at her, but she caught his arm, speaking soothingly.
“Hush. You are safe.” She cradled his hand in hers.
He lay back panting, his entire body bathed in sweat. “I thought—I thought…”
“It’s over. You are safe now.”
He finally focused on her, recognition springing to his eyes. “Darn nightmare. Don’t know what’s wrong with me. Haven’t had one since—”
“Shhh. Do you need anything? May I get you something?”
With immense effort, he calmed himself, attempting a weak laugh. “No, sweetheart. Not unless you can rip this fool brain out of my head and give it a good wash.”
She sat with him until he quieted. His eyes finally closed, and his rapid breathing slowed. Gently, she released his hand and rose to her feet, shivering. The room was chilly. His lids flew open and he grasped her wrist.
“You going?” A barely controlled terror in his voice.
Katrinka looked down at him and made up her mind. “Move over.”
“What?”
“Move over, please. I’m not going to leave you, but it is cold. Move over, and I will lie down with you.”
“Oh darlin’, that isn’t—”
She gave him a gentle shove and slipped into the small bed with him. He didn’t put up much protest.
“Now get comfortable, and I will hold you. That way we can both be warm and you can sleep.”
He seemed immobilized, so Katrinka turned on her side, wrapping one leg and arm around him, nestling her head onto his shoulder. He was so painfully thin.
He could sense her nakedness under the shirt. His arm stole around her shoulder, pulling her close. She could feel the beat of his heart.
“What’s your name darlin’?”
“Katrinka. What’s yours?”
“It’s Tom. None of this Thomas business, just Tom.”
“Nice to meet you, Tom.”
He gave a snuffle of amusement. “Nice to meet you, Katrinka.”
It was quiet for a while, and the sound of his slowed, steady breathing told her he was drifting off. Suddenly, his entire body gave a convulsive jerk. He gasped.
She raised her face, and his hollow eyes glanced down at her.
“I’m sorry, darlin’, did I wake you?” He was trembling again.
She half raised herself up, leaning her elbows on his chest, and looked down at him. They both needed to sleep.
“Would you like to make love?” she suggested. “I can always sleep after making love. Maybe it is that way with you as well?”
His voice was thick in reply. “I’ve got a girl back home.”
He was stroking her hair, and she could feel him getting hard. She felt relief—he was still operational. He would survive this war. Perhaps she would as well.
He continued, “But I don’t think she’d mind. I mean, if she knew the circumstances and all. I think it would be OK with her.”
Rolling over her, he leaned from the bed, his hand fumbling in his pack on the floor. “Just want to get this.” He gave a small laugh. “Air Corp takes care of its own.”
She pulled away, watching him peel the small packet open and roll the bit of rubber down his erection. It was as long and skinny as he was. Then she settled back, pulling him on top of her. Smoothing the hair away from his face, she reached up and softly kissed his lips. He circled her in his arms, returning the kiss.
Definitely operational.
There were no more disturbances that night. The major lay awake, staring into the darkness at nothing. Giraud, in his small bed, lit another cigarette. And back in Tom’s room, a few more scars slipped out in the sweat of Katrinka’s body, leaving just the remainders. The ones lying closest to her heart.
In the morning, instructions came
through. A lorry would be by to pick up the pilot after breakfast. Nye put down his coffee and walked upstairs. Coughing loudly, he paused just outside the room.
Katrinka uncurled herself from Tom’s arms, adjusted her shirt, and got up. She passed Nye with a defiant glance, but his eyes were averted. Neither one spoke.
* * *
All was ready. They were waiting for a sign that it was clear to begin. Nye listened intently to the afternoon BBC radio announcements for a signal concerning the German escapee. Had Milou made it to safety or been betrayed again, at the last safe house? There was no word or information coming in.
The newscaster finished his announcement and introduced the final poetry reading of the day; Thomas Moore’s “The Last Rose of Summer”. As Nye listened, he relaxed and let the deep, baritone voice wash over him, filling the room with its sweet melancholy:
“Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone
All her lovely companions are faded and gone.”
Nye called Katrinka into his office. He knew she was expecting some reaction to their morning encounter, but he got straight to the point. He finished the briefing and gave her a map of where their new camp would be located, then paused, glancing up at her silence.
“And Emerson?” Her voice trembled.
Nye turned in his chair, reached into a lopsided wooden cabinet, and pulled out a small, wrapped box. “I picked them up from the priest yesterday.”
She reached for the box, her eyes filling with sudden tears. “Thank you, Wills.” She headed to the door.
He stood. “Trinka?”
She turned.
There were so many things he wanted to say to her. “Come back safely.”
She nodded. “I’ll come back, Wills.”
The major sat down and flipped his pencil onto the table, his eyes drawn to the window. Outside, it was a beautiful fall afternoon. The air was heavy with the faint smell of someone’s cooking. A stray breeze sent a swirl of red leaves tumbling through his open door and across the rough wooden floor. Heaving a deep sigh, the man returned to his work.
Chapter 9
France, 1944
That evening, Katrinka entered a dimly lit café. Selecting a table, she set her knapsack on the floor and glanced around. A few rough-looking men dressed in farm-laborer clothing were drinking at the bar. A woman and her child sat at a table near the window. The child drew on a scrap of paper as the mother ate from a dish of potatoes and onions mixed with garlic. Its pungent aroma drifted through the air. The only other occupant was a pale-faced young woman sitting alone at a table near the door. She was studying the menu.
An aproned woman emerged from behind the counter to take Katrinka’s order of an omelet and brown bread.
A few minutes later, the pale woman walked over to Katrinka, dabbing her eye. Leaning across the table, she spoke in French. “If you please, mademoiselle, have you a handkerchief?”
Startled, Katrinka looked up. The girl had spoken the code phrase, and was waiting. Her dirty, blonde hair was tied up in a scarf, and mascara lined her tired-looking eyes. Was this her contact?
The girl spoke again, a trifle strained. “If you please, have you a handkerchief? I have something in my eye, and it grows tiresome.”
Katrinka replied hastily, “How annoying for you. I do not have a handkerchief, but here is a bit of cloth. It is clean.”
The girl flounced into the seat opposite as Katrinka reached into her bag.
“Merci.” She took the cloth, and with an almost languid motion, made a spiral of one corner, moistening it with the tip of her tongue. Katrinka felt mildly shocked by the sensuality of such a simple act.
The girl dragged a mirror from her bag and dabbed her eye gently. “Ah, voila! I have it. Thank you.” She returned the mirror to her bag. “May I join you? A friend has not come, and I do not wish to dine alone.”
“Of course. It is always better to have company when one eats.”
The girl offered her hand. “My name is Milou.”
Katrinka noticed the worry lines etched around her mouth, and the suspicious look she cast at the drinking men. Her hands were small with rough-cut nails. They shook slightly as she returned the cloth.
The girl leaned forward, whispering. “This is what you must do. Soon, I will leave. You will wait and have your coffee. Later, you will come out and meet me at the village cinema. But if the men follow me out, you must go. Immediately. Do not attempt to find me. Do you understand?”
Katrinka frowned. What was this about? Did she suspect the men at the bar? She stared at the girl’s face.
“Do you understand?” Milou repeated.
“Yes.”
The girl leaned back in her chair, looking more relaxed. The waitress came again to take her order. The rest of the meal was taken up with small talk, mostly about men, and what connards they all were. “Assholes,” she repeated. She lit a cigarette and smoked it with a sultry defiance.
Katrinka was warming to this dirty street urchin. Was it all an act? She remembered Wills’ description and the horrors that had befallen her. Yet here she was, smoking and chatting away like any French schoolgirl.
After their meal, Milou leaned across the table and spoke, her voice tense. “I will leave now and wait for you at the cinema. Have your coffee, then pay the bill.” She rose and leaned down, brushing Katrinka on the cheek with her lips. Then she left.
Several minutes later, Katrinka joined Milou at the cinema. The two girls linked arms as they walked down the street slowly, so as not to attract attention. Now they were out of the café, Katrinka took charge.
“There is a church in the next village. We will walk there and spend the night. There will be bicycles and packets of food. You have your papers? Good. We are cousins returning to our aunt’s home in Marseilles. First, we will deliver my father’s ashes to the village of Montignac. From there, we continue to Marseilles, where a ship is waiting for you.”
Milou glanced at her companion’s face. “Your father’s ashes? I have not been told of this.”
Katrinka did not reply, and they walked on in silence.
“The men at the bar, they remained?” Milou asked.
“Yes.”
“I thought they would come over to us and speak.”
“After you left, one did.”
“Did he. What happened?”
“He followed me out and—”
Milou spun around.
Katrinka pulled at her elbow. “Don’t worry, I was watching. He has turned around and gone back to the café.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked if I wanted a cigarette and a walk along the water.”
Milou laughed. “Really. What did you say?”
“That I had a boyfriend, and he was waiting for me.”
“And do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Have a boyfriend waiting?”
A vision of Wolfe’s pain-lined face disrupted her thoughts. She faltered and said, “I don’t know.”
“Oh, but that is the best kind of boyfriend. The uncertainty! The angst! Does he know you care?”
“I think he must.”
“Mais non! Never let them know.”
To change the conversation, Katrinka asked about her name. “It is very pretty. Is it a nickname?”
“Don’t you know? We never give our names. You have not given me your name. You have not given any name at all.” She studied Katrinka thoughtfully. “You have heard of Tintin, no?”
Katrinka shook her head.
“It is a famous comic here and in Belgium. The boy Tintin is a young journalist, and he gets into escapades so incredible! His dog Milou follows, protecting him, nipping at the heels of his adversaries.” A shadow crossed over her face. “It was a nickname given to me.”
“W
ho—”
“He is dead.” Milou quickened her steps.
Katrinka asked no more questions.
Presently, they reached the church and entered the nave through a side door. It was a cold, dimly lit building, which smelled like wet bones. A priest emerged from the shadows. He was a tall man with sloping shoulders, his eyes disturbingly empty. He led them to a small room off the nave, where a pallet lay on the floor.
“Here is where you will sleep. It is not so comfortable, but it is dry. Down the corridor is a door to the washroom. I will leave you now and return later with food.” After picking up a basket from the corner, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Milou looked about, shivering. “It is very cold.”
Katrinka nodded. She wondered if the food would be hot.
* * *
Later, the priest brought them a steaming bowl of watery broth made from potato skins and root vegetables, along with a few rolls of hard bread and cheese. He also produced a dusty, green bottle of wine.
“You will leave just before dawn. There will be bicycles. I will bring you more bread and cheese for breakfast,” he explained.
They thanked him as he slipped back into the nave.
Milou’s gaze followed him. “He seems troubled.”
“Yes. I think it has been a bad time for his village.”
The women huddled together on the pallet. Milou divided the soup into two chipped porcelain dishes painted with tiny blue flowers. Katrinka sliced the bread and cheese with her knife, and poured wine into tin mugs. Neither spoke for a while; their mouths filled with food.
After a bit Milou sat back, regarding her companion. “So. They told me nothing. Only to meet a woman who would take me to a port in the south, where a ship will be waiting. You are so young. And you are new to this? Are those really the ashes of your father in the box?”
Katrinka stopped chewing and looked down.
Milou spoke quickly, “Never mind; it does not matter.”
Just Another Girl on the Road Page 16
