Brette was about to close out the browser when she saw that one of the results for Annaliese Kurtz included an image. She scrolled down and clicked on it.
Her breath stilled in her throat. The image was a photo from a Cologne ballet company’s production of Sleeping Beauty, dated 1943. The dancer was identified as Annaliese Lange. She would marry Rolf Kurtz not long after the photo had been taken.
The pose was an exquisitely beautiful bend of body and limbs as Annaliese mimicked death’s graceful but solemn slumber.
Twenty
VENELLES, FRANCE
1944
For the first few days Henri and Collette did not think the American would survive. He spiked a fever even after Simone applied the rest of the sulfa powder. Collette made the poultice of mashed onions to draw out the infection as Marie had suggested, and Simone was tasked with changing the dressings every few hours and laying cool compresses across him to lower his body temperature. The pilot seemed to be in a continual nightmare state, near as Simone could tell, but now and then he would stretch out his arm as if reaching for something. She would take his hand and murmur to him in French that he was all right, among allies, and safe.
Every noise outside the cellar took on new meaning. In the past, if Simone heard a strange noise from above, she immediately crouched into position to jump into the barrel. Henri told her she still needed to do that if the cellar door opened without the signature three knocks. If the American was found and dragged up the cellar stairs to be hauled off as a prisoner of war or shot there on the spot, there was no need for the same fate to befall her, he’d said. But Simone knew she would not leave the wounded American to that kind of end. If the Gestapo came storming down the steps, they would find them both, and the thought of meeting their end together, even though she barely knew Everett, filled her with a strange sense of calm.
Caring for Everett became Simone’s only focus. After five weeks of having nothing to do except ponder the circumstances that had brought her to a wine cellar in the south of France, she found herself suddenly energized with a sacred purpose. Keeping the American alive quickly morphed from a simple request of Henri and Sébastien and the other local Résistance fighters to a solemn and holy duty. They wanted him alive so they could ask him what the Allies were preparing. She just wanted him to live. As she nursed his wounds and cooled his brow, she was reminded of the time she was seven and had a severe case of influenza. Her maman had cared for her with such tenderness, gently massaging her aching limbs, telling her stories, singing lullabies to her. She did these same things now for Everett, talking to him as if he were a child who could hear her instead of a grown man suffering from delirium.
His fever broke in the middle of the night, four days after he arrived. Simone had extinguished the lantern early and had only a candle at the ready for light. She was lying a few inches away when she felt Everett stir beside her.
“Is anyone there?” he said in English. He sounded weak but in his right mind.
“Here, monsieur.” Simone sat up and moved closer to him. She lit the candle and put her palm against his forehead. It was cool.
“Simone?”
He remembered her name. “Yes.”
“How long I am here?” he said in broken French.
“Four days, monsieur.”
“Everett. Please, Everett.”
“You had a fever, Monsieur Everett. But I think you are better now.”
“Comment?” he replied, apparently not having understood what she said.
“You sick. Hot,” Simone said in English.
He replied with a string of English words she did not know. When she said nothing, he said, “Monsieur Pierron?”
“Henri sleeps. It is night,” she said in English.
“Oh. Is there water?”
Simone reached for a flask and poured water into a cup by the light of the candle. She placed Everett’s head in her lap and helped him take small sips.
“Not fast, Monsieur Everett. Only slow.”
Simone put the cup down and settled him back on the straw. She lifted the candle and brought it close to the bandage on his chest, checking to see if it needed changing. It looked dry.
“Sleep now, Monsieur Everett. Morning later.”
“Everett,” he said.
“Everett. No candle now. For tomorrow. Yes?”
He nodded and she blew out the candle. The cellar was instantly black as pitch.
Simone stretched out on the straw next to Everett, with just inches between them.
She heard him turn his head toward her.
“Simone?”
“Oui?”
“What day? What date?” he said in French.
“Oh. I think it is Sunday.”
“June fourth?”
“Yes.”
Several seconds of silence followed before he spoke again.
“Simone?”
“Oui?”
“Merci pour tout.”
She would look back later on that moment and realize that was when she started to fall in love with him. And he with her.
• • •
OVER THE NEXT TWO DAYS SÉBASTIEN AND FRANÇOIS VISITED Everett twice to ascertain from him what the Allies were planning and how the local Résistance could assist.
At first Everett was too weak for a lengthy conversation with men who barely spoke any English. When they came back the second day, they brought with them a man from Aix-en-Provence who had studied at Oxford and was sympathetic to the Résistance. He wanted to help and he knew English. He looked to be about Papa’s age, with a silvery mustache and slightly receding hairline.
Simone helped Everett raise himself to a slight sitting position when the men arrived with several lit lanterns. Henri trailed them, carrying Everett’s camera.
Sébastien crouched down by Everett. He began to speak.
“I am Sébastien, this is François,” he said in French. “We saw your plane go down and we brought you here. This is our friend, Monsieur Vallot. He speaks English.”
Monsieur Vallot translated.
Everett spoke and then Monsieur Vallot turned to Sébastien. “He says his name is Lieutenant Everett P. Robinson from the 111th Reconnaissance Squadron, Texas National Guard. He is very grateful for what you did and are still doing for him. He wants to know if you have news from the west.”
“News? News from the west of what?” Sébastien asked.
Monsieur Vallot and Everett exchanged some words. “He wants to know if you’ve heard anything today regarding activity on France’s western coast.”
“We’ve no radio in this village! Ask him why he wants to know.”
“He says he is not at liberty to say why.”
Sébastien frowned. “We are fighting the same damn enemy! Doesn’t he know that? Ask him what he was doing flying over Provence. Ask him if an invasion is being planned. Ask him why he was taking photographs.” Sébastien pointed to the camera.
When Monsieur Vallot translated for Sébastien, Everett looked to Simone, seemingly searching her eyes for some kind of affirmation. Then he said something in English.
“He is not at liberty to say,” Monsieur Vallot translated, “but he would very much appreciate your helping him get to Spain or Italy as soon as he can travel.”
Sébastien cursed under his breath.
“He wants to trust us but he’s not supposed to say anything,” Simone suddenly said.
“And how would you know that?” Sébastien replied.
“Because. I just do. I’ve been taking care of him for the last six days.”
“You don’t speak English!” Sébastien barked.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t see how this is for him. He doesn’t know us. We’re not military. He’s not supposed to say.”
“She’s right,” François
said. “He won’t tell us anything.”
Sébastien leaned over and put his face close to Everett’s. “We know you are Recon. We know you were taking pictures!”
“Then you have your answer, don’t you?” was Everett’s translated reply.
Sébastien smiled a half grin. “When? When is the invasion? Can you not even tell us that?”
“He cannot tell you when!” Simone exclaimed.
“We can help you!” Sébastien continued, ignoring her. “We can provide the intelligence! We have the spies. Let us help you! Tell us when!”
Everett responded.
“He wants to know where the nearest radio is,” Monsieur Vallot said. “He knows someone has one in the vicinity. He’s heard it.”
Sébastien snickered. “Tell him we’re not at liberty to say.”
Everett tried to sit up and grimaced. Simone gently pressed him back down.
“You will reopen the wound. Lie still,” she said in French, knowing he would not understand.
Everett closed his eyes as waves of pain washed over him. He muttered something to Monsieur Vallot.
“He said he will tell you more if you go to where the radio is and listen for news from the west and then come back and tell him what you heard.”
Sébastien cocked his head. “You are telling us something happened today, aren’t you, friend?”
But Everett did not answer when Monsieur Vallot translated this.
“He’s tired,” Simone said. “I think you should let him rest.”
Sébastien stood up. “I think you should let us decide what happens next, little girl.” Then he turned to François. “Tell Denis we need the manure truck again. We need to get to Éguilles. Don’t tell him why.” He turned to face the reclining American. “We’ll be back.”
Everett popped open one eye. “Bien.”
The three men left, forgetting one of their lanterns. Simone reached for it as soon as they were gone, nearly giddy at the thought of more light. She set it between them.
“You. Never go out?” Everett said in French and motioned to the world above.
“No.”
“Jewish?”
She shook her head, leaning forward a moment to stuff more straw under his head.
“Résistance?”
She settled back on her bent knees. “My papa. Yes. He was Résistance. And my brother.”
“In Provence?”
“In Paris.”
“Where are father and brother?”
Simone hesitated only a moment. “They are dead. The Gestapo.”
“And your maman?”
“Dead many years, monsieur.”
Everett said nothing for a moment, but his gaze never left hers. “I do not know word I want.”
And Simone did not know which word he was searching for.
He pointed to his uniform jacket, which Simone had folded and placed on the top of her hiding barrel. She rose and retrieved it for him. He pointed to an inside pocket.
“Merci?” he said.
Simone unzipped the pocket and withdrew a slim Bible.
“My maman. She gave me. Look.”
She opened the little book. The whisper-thin pages were printed in English.
“You have Bible?” he asked.
She didn’t know how to tell him she had nothing; not even the clothes she wore were hers. She just shook her head.
“Henri has Bible?”
Simone supposed he did. “Oui.”
Everett placed his hands side by side, palms up, simulating a book. “You and me. Two Bibles. I learn French. You learn English.” She understood. The same book, two translations. The empty hours that stretched before them were instantly infused with purpose.
When Collette brought down their lunch, Simone asked if she could borrow a Bible, and Collette, surprised for a brief moment, said she’d bring one down at suppertime.
Two hours later Sébastien returned. He came flying down the stairs into the cellar, scaring Simone, who was reading by candlelight, and waking Everett, who was napping.
Sébastien carried Henri’s bottle of Armagnac and two glasses. Monsieur Vallot was not with him.
He crouched next to Everett, who had risen with help from Simone and now rested his upper body on one elbow.
Sébastien poured the brandy into the two glasses and handed one to Everett. “À votre santé!” He saluted the American with the glass and then downed its contents.
Everett was still holding his glass when Sébastien set his down on the dirt floor.
“À Sainte-Mère-Église!” Sébastien said, smiling wide.
Everett looked to Simone.
“Sainte-Mère-Église is um . . . town in Normandy,” she said in English.
“The Allies landed at dawn. All up and down the coast!” Sébastien said excitedly. “They’ve taken the beaches, Simone. Sainte-Mère-Église was the first village liberated early this morning. The Allies are advancing into France.”
Simone turned to Everett, unable to think of one English word to describe what Sébastien was saying.
But he seemed to understand nonetheless. She could tell he had known this day had been planned. He just hadn’t known if the plan had been executed or had met with success.
Everett looked both relieved and troubled, as though it was too early to celebrate anything and the real battle was only just beginning. But he tipped his head back, drank the brandy, and handed the glass back to Sébastien. “À votre santé,” he said.
“There is more!” Sébastien said, pouring more into each of their glasses. “Rome was retaken. Yesterday. The Axis is crumbling!” He handed Everett the glass.
Everett offered his to Simone but she didn’t like the taste of brandy. And she could tell Everett was guardedly happy with the news Sébastien had brought.
“And now, my American friend, you can tell me what is in store for us here in Provence, eh?”
Everett nodded but said nothing.
“He doesn’t know what you said,” Simone interjected.
“Oh, yes, he does. Tomorrow, my friend. Tomorrow, I bring Monsieur Vallot back, and you and I will get to work.”
He grabbed the glasses and the bottle and left. The cellar door closed. And Simone and Everett were again surrounded on all sides by shadows.
Twenty-one
There were many meetings between Everett, the local Résistance, and Monsieur Vallot after news of the Allied invasion of Normandy had spread throughout the village. The Germans in place in Provence were placed on high alert, and rather than it becoming easier for Simone and Everett in the cellar, their situation became more precarious. Simone had hoped the Allied presence in France meant she and Everett could crawl out of the cellar, but the opposite was true. She was told it was even more important now that she stay hidden and care for the injured American. Sébastien had heard through his intelligence channels that German forces in Marseille were looking for an American pilot who’d survived the downing of his plane by antiaircraft gunfire over Aix-en-Provence. A bounty had been placed on Everett’s head despite the attention that was now riveted to reports of Allied troops marching across Upper Normandy.
When the men had their meetings in the cellar, Simone would scoot to the far wall to stay out of their way and pretend to read. But she listened to everything Everett told Henri and Sébastien and the others.
Everett told them the photos in his camera were to help identify the best places for an airborne landing prior to an invasion of the southern ports of Marseille and Toulon. It had to be a place without Wehrmacht-controlled high ground. He also said a bombing campaign was imminent to destroy several key bridges and cut the Germans off from reinforcement once the invasion started. Then there would be the landing at the coast, at several beaches, but Everett did not know which ones. And he didn’t know
when the invasion would take place. All of that was to have been decided after he returned and his film was developed.
“The invasion hasn’t been authorized by the Allied Combined Chiefs of Staff,” Everett had said on the first day of their meetings. “Nothing will happen until they sign off on it.”
Then there had been much talk of what the Résistance fighters could do to sabotage German operations and weaken their response. Everett asked them to get word to Résistance fighters who had communication with Allied forces that he was alive, and they said they would try.
After the meetings there was nothing left for Everett to do except heal and wait and learn how to speak French.
He and Simone started with the gospel of Luke and slowly and methodically taught each other line by line, word by word, their respective languages. After a few hours of Bible translation, they would draw pictures with a stick on the dirt floor to learn the words that weren’t in the scriptures, like refrigerator, giraffe, and mailbox. At night when the cellar was completely dark, they would take turns telling their favorite childhood bedtime stories in the new languages.
Everett’s wound continued to heal, as did his other injuries. He and Simone would get exercise every afternoon by walking around the cellar, he slowly at first, as they quizzed each other on verb conjugations and tenses.
Their favorite part of the day was the two hours of slanted sunlight that they shared on the stairs from noon to two.
On one sultry afternoon in late July, the cellar, normally cool and dry, was warm and moist. Simone and Everett were sitting on the third and second stair from the top, letting the sun bathe their faces in its audacious heat and brilliance.
Henri had opened one of the casks earlier that day and had brought them a bottle. They sipped the citrus-hinted rosé from teacups.
“How did you end up here, Simone?” Everett spoke in English, as they had agreed that during stair time they would alternate each day which language they would speak.
A Bridge Across the Ocean Page 15
