by Heather Webb
Adrien’s face, contorted in pain, flashed behind her eyes. Beatrix cried out and clutched the railing to support her weight. She couldn’t bear it. God, she couldn’t bear it.
That spring day a year ago rushed back again.
“You can’t go,” she had said, voice firm. “I won’t lose you both.”
Adrien buttoned his jacket. “You can’t stop me, Maman. I’m eighteen years old.” He put on his derby hat. “I need to do this. For Papa, for my country.”
“You would serve your father’s memory better by being alive, taking care of your mother and his shop.”
“So the men in this town can ridicule me? Remind me I’m not one of them every day? I’m a Frenchman!” He had stalked to the door and paused to stare at her a moment, disgust twisting his lips. Though he hadn’t said the words, she could read his thoughts: it was her fault. Her blood ran through his veins.
A young woman approached her on the bridge, tugging her young son’s hand. Though the little boy’s cap was askew, his tidy trousers and miniature boots, polished to a shine, reflected his mother’s care. “Madame, are you all right?” she asked.
Had Beatrix shown him—her little Adrien—how much she loved him? Had she held him enough, encouraged him? Did he know how she cherished every moment with him?
“I’m . . . I am . . .” Beatrix stopped, unable to finish the sentence. She tucked her arms around herself.
“May I escort you somewhere?” the woman asked. Concern filled her kind eyes.
“Merci, non.” She strained against the emotion flooding her throat. She didn’t know how to do this, to endure such anguish.
The woman nodded and pulled her son forward. Beatrix watched as they waited at the edge of the bridge for a motorcar to pass. The mother fixed her son’s cap and bent to tie an unruly lace on his shoe. Before standing once more, she kissed his cheek and embraced him. He squirmed in her grip. The mother laughed and stood again, leading him across the street and into town.
Beatrix balled her hands into fists. Her manners, the way she withheld her emotion, was expected. It was her way. When her feelings refused to dissipate, she funneled them into a logical plan. Joseph had teased her about her “Germanic strength and logic.” Looking back, it seemed a polite way of labeling her reserve, her inaccessibility. Only in the privacy of their bedroom by candlelight, or in the odd moment with her son, had she let down her guard and shown her tender side. If she could have just one more day, one more hour . . .
Beatrix scarcely noticed the cold ground, the hum of street noise, the people going on about their day. She would never speak to her child again.
Adrien was gone.
Her stomach curdled and a fog enveloped her, obscuring her vision, distorting passersby on the adjacent street. She felt as if separated from her surroundings; the bridge floated beneath her. She sank to the ground and darkness swept her away.
“MADAME, ARE YOU all right? Madame?” a voice said.
A horn split the air and Beatrix opened her eyes. A young man kneeled beside her, and motorcars and bicycles passed over the bridge. She rubbed her cold-stiffened neck. How long had she been here? Her breath had come in spasms and the nausea . . . she had panicked.
“I am fine.”
He helped her to her feet. “Can I help you home?”
“No, that won’t be necessary, thank you.” She reddened. What a spectacle she had made of herself.
“Very well. Good evening to you.” He tipped his hat and went on his way.
As she watched him bound across the street and out of sight, reality crashed around her once again. She had to prove to her son how much she loved him, to show him her regret. She would find them—the men who killed him—and make them pay for the wrongs they’d done, the lives they had destroyed. The image of dynamite flitted through her mind. A grand gesture of vengeance . . . this would prove where her loyalties lay, and her love, even if she might snuff out her own light.
She had nothing left to lose.
She wrenched her shoulders back, smoothed an errant lock of hair whipping in the wind, and headed back to town. If she wanted to find the regiment that murdered Adrien, she would need information, and she knew just the place to get it: Chez Louis, the tavern on the outskirts of town. She walked by it each time she traveled to town for bread and provisions. Soldiers, military policemen, and the women who sought their attention frequented the place, along with those seeking the latest information from the front. Soldiers went to relax for the day. Their bellies warm with wine, they would spill all they had seen—at least she hoped so.
Beatrix slinked inside the tavern. The odors of smoke and wine greeted her at the door. She shook off the discomfort of being out of place, a woman in a tavern at night. With any luck, she wouldn’t be mistaken for a prostitute. She slipped off her overcoat and slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar.
The barkeep raised an eyebrow. “Madame Joubert, what brings you in tonight?”
She had forgotten Martin worked here. He had purchased more than one of their clocks for his home. She remembered his admiration for Joseph’s handiwork.
“A brandy,” she said.
Surprise registered on his features. “Are you sure you don’t prefer a vin rouge? We’ve got very little brandy on hand, anyway. I’d have to charge you double.”
“Wine it is.” She clutched her hands in her lap. She was out of place, out of time, out of her mind. What was she doing here? She pictured her home with its three bedrooms, all empty, the shop and its cuckoos that heralded their master, the silent phonograph. The silence around her, yet the roaring within. That was why she had come.
Martin placed the glass before her without a word. He didn’t need to say anything. How many widows had he seen? How many drinks had he poured for those in need of consolation, in search of some meaning in the cruel caprice of this life? Those who set foot in his establishment came to forget, and his job was to help them do it.
The front door swung open and a boisterous squad of soldiers tripped inside. A draft from the street sneaked in behind them and lifted Beatrix’s hair. She shivered at its stealth, and the cold seeped into her bones. The men removed their hats and took their places at the bar, adjacent to Beatrix.
“Trois vins rouges, Martin,” one said, settling onto his stool.
Once their glasses were in front of them, none said a word. Their day’s work and the news over the wire sobered all well enough.
After several minutes more, the youngest of the bunch said, “You hear? The Allies pushed them back. Broke through the Hindenburg Line. Our biggest victory yet.”
“At the Selle?” another of the men asked.
The young soldier nodded. “This could end the whole thing.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” the man replied. “Every time we think we have the bastards, they rear up again and plow us with something new.”
“They took down a lot of men I knew,” the young man said, drinking deeply from his glass. “Defontaine and Poirier. Some captured in combat as well.”
“Do you know who was captured?”
“Salazar and others. A few unaccounted for as well. You know the drill.”
The bearded soldier nearest Beatrix said nothing during their conversation. Hunched over the bar, he didn’t appear to be in a talkative mood. He turned his glass between thumb and middle finger over and over, lost in thought.
If she wanted information, she’d have to ask. She leaned closer to the silent soldier. “Where did the German troops flee, after the battle at the Selle? Do you think they might still be nearby?”
When the soldier looked up, she startled. Beneath the beard was a face she knew well—Laurent, Adrien’s former classmate and friend.
“Laurent?”
“Madame Joubert?” His eyes filled with recognition, then surprise. “What
are you doing here?”
“Looking for information,” she said quietly.
He stared at her a moment without answering. Finally he said, “I’m so sorry to hear about—”
“Please, can we not discuss it . . . him?” She drank another sip of wine.
“Of course.”
“So this regiment, do you think they’re nearby still?”
“Doubtful. Most of them probably ran like hell. I suspect they took refuge in Strasbourg. It’s their stronghold, and with talk of the war ending soon, I’m guessing much of the army has fled east.”
She cast her eyes down. “I see.”
Laurent seemed to read her thoughts. “It’s dangerous, madame, even if the German army is gone. There may still be troops lingering near the Selle. The line shifts constantly. Towns have changed hands many times.”
“But I can still travel near there?”
“You could, yes, though I would advise against it. Do you mean to . . .”—he paused—“to lay him to rest?” he asked gently. “I’m not sure if . . .” His words trailed off. He couldn’t seem to voice what neither of them wanted to say—it was likely there was no body to bury.
“I’d like to pay my respects,” she said, her lips stiff. Only they weren’t the respects of which Laurent was thinking. Her mind raced. Did it matter if she found the exact regiment? She wanted them all dead. All the Germans. Any regiment would do. If she traveled to Strasbourg, she would need to know the lay of the land. She’d need a map . . . The one at the train station might be of use, but it wouldn’t be enough to view it once. She would need a copy to track her course. She curled her fingers around her glass.
The surveyor, Pascal Thibaut! He would have all the maps she’d need. He lived only a few streets away, but had been called to the front. His house had been locked up since his departure. She gauged Laurent’s trustworthiness, his honesty. He had always been a good friend to Adrien. Would he help her? There was only one way to know for sure.
“And if I’d like to travel east?” she asked. “I assume the train would be too . . . direct?”
He shook his head. “Too dangerous.”
“But”—how to put this?—“I speak German, remember.”
“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. You’re German.” He studied her expression for a long moment. “You could get yourself killed,” he said, voice soft once more.
She swigged from her glass and set it down with a thud. “That’s the least of my concerns, Laurent. How do I get over the border if I can’t take the train?”
“I know someone who might take you, but you’d have to pay him a hefty sum.”
“Money isn’t an issue.”
“It will take me a couple of days to reach him. He’s not the kind of fellow who hangs around town too long, if you know what I mean.”
“A couple of days is fine.” She pushed a franc across the bar top to pay for her wine, and stood. “Here is my address—”
He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Look, if he’ll do it, he’ll meet you here. Outside at three in the morning on Sunday. That’s his routine. He’ll want to be inconspicuous, you understand. He drives a black Alva.”
With gas rationed so strictly, she wondered how this man obtained it. She didn’t care, she reminded herself. She needed a ride. “Thank you, Laurent.” The beginnings of a plan fell into place, but she needed to go home to think.
He helped her with her coat.
“You don’t know what this means to me.”
“We are all desperate in war, madame. I know exactly what this means to you. Godspeed.”
Without pause, she bolted for the door. As she passed the other men, they stared at her, one of them winking. The other soldiers thought she had arranged an understanding with the sergeant. She supposed she had. She stepped into the street, and night enveloped her.
AFTER SEVERAL HOURS in the dark, Beatrix lit a desk lamp in the clock shop. A tent of golden light illuminated the paper beneath it. She ran a hand down the blank page and chose a fountain pen from her drawer. She would do this logically, the way she did everything—make a list of things she needed to do, complete each in an efficient fashion, and execute the plan with precision. There was no room for fault or fluster. Her feelings would be known in time. She would avenge her son’s death—and show them all—the power of a mother’s love. Silently, she made a list.
1.Pack ammunition
2.Gather money
3.Write letter
4.Obtain maps
5.Plot course
6.Journey
7.Target enemy
She rested the end of the pen against her bottom lip. The cuckoo clocks stirred around her and the room filled once more with their music. If peace were on the horizon like the sergeant said, there wasn’t much time. She glanced at the window where morning light crept along its pane. Before long, the town would shake off its slumber like a great, stretching cat and come roaring to life. She must move quickly.
Beatrix walked to her bedroom, flung open the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, and withdrew a small valise, perfect for a two-day trip—or several sticks of dynamite. After closing the chest’s lid, she ran a hand over the fine handiwork on its top. Joseph’s love of woodworking graced every room in the house. Quickly, she locked the chest and her memories away with it. Being sentimental would only delay her.
Beatrix pulled on her coat and walked with measured steps to the shed on the farthest reach of the property. A stream, a thread of the Savoureuse, wound through the woods behind her house. Joseph had enjoyed leading Adrien through the thick of trees to the nook where the beavers built their dam. Year after year, the furry nuisances would dam up the stream, making it impossible to water their vegetable garden. Joseph would jam sticks of dynamite among the gathered branches and blast the creatures’ abode sky-high. The music of Adrien’s voice, full of glee at the spectacle, flooded her ears and she stumbled.
“Focus on the plan,” she whispered aloud while regaining her footing.
When she opened the shed door, dank air puffed from the release of pressure. She stepped inside the dim room, wishing she had brought a lamp. Garden tools and watering cans sat in neat rows against the walls, and half-empty paint cans lined the shelves. Against the far wall, a series of crates and boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling. She looked for the telltale sign of danger painted across the crate’s front. Near the bottom of the stack, two eye sockets and a crudely smiling mouth taunted her. There it was! She set the valise on the floor and shoved the boxes aside until she reached the one she had come for. The lid was nailed shut. She grabbed a shovel and knelt next to the box, careful not to drag her dress across the dusty ground.
“If you can’t be beautiful, be tidy,” her mother used to say. That was the day she had learned what her mother thought of her.
Angling the shovel along the edge of the lid, she pushed down on it with all her weight. The wood splintered just enough for her to wedge the shovel in deeper. Once more, she leaned on the tool. A great cracking rent the air and the lid split open. Inside lay a dozen sticks of dynamite.
Gingerly, she removed each stick and lowered them into her bag. When she reached the few remaining in the bottom of the crate, a viscous liquid pooled around them. She pulled her hand back. That couldn’t be a good sign. Dynamite was unstable as it was. It would be best to leave those behind. She wanted to choose when to detonate the sticks, not have them surprise her. She peered into her bag, now filled with explosives. None were oozing, thankfully, though she wondered if they would detonate properly. She would just have to risk it. She picked up the bag. All she lacked were matches.
After locking the shed, she gathered the remaining items she needed indoors, and stashed her bag behind the bushes out front. If the sticks oozed after all, at least it would be outside.
“Beatrix?” a woman’s voice called, startling her. “Did you lose something in the bushes?”
Adelaide. Beatrix looked up and saw her closest friend, a basket swinging from her arm.
“What?” she asked. Sweat beaded on her brow. “No, I thought I saw a rabbit and set a trap. I’ve had so much trouble with them the last few years.” It was the truth, in part. She’d trapped more than a dozen rabbits who had pillaged her garden last spring. They’d made for good stew.
Adelaide moved closer, within eyeshot of the bushes.
Beatrix’s pulse thumped an erratic beat.
“Are you all right? You seem . . . anxious this morning.”
Beatrix swallowed hard, then bit her tongue to keep the truth from slipping out. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Adelaide’s expression shifted to one of knowing concern. Her friend’s warmth radiated around her, a trait in which Beatrix had taken comfort over the years.
“Would you like to join me for breakfast? I’ve just come from the bakery.” Adelaide presented her basket, a smile upon her face.
Beatrix forced a smile in return, a foreign sensation after so many months. “Merci, non. I’m going to try to rest.”
“I’ll let you to it, then.” Adelaide approached to embrace her.
Beatrix hustled down the path and into her friend’s arms.
Adelaide rubbed her back and said, “Why don’t you pop over later?”
“Thank you. I may, if I’m feeling better.”
“Of course. See you soon.” She turned to go, waving as she walked down the drive.
Beatrix watched her retreating form. It was the last time she would see her friend; she hadn’t thought of that, of the good she would leave behind. There was so little of it, she had forgotten. Emotion surged up her throat once more and she dashed inside, afraid she might lose her nerve. She waited twenty minutes for Adelaide to make her way down the street. Once her friend disappeared from sight, she set off to enact the next phase of her plan.
