by Heather Webb
BEATRIX ROSE FROM the couch that evening as the cuckoos dinged five times. She stood over her list once more. With a steady hand she crossed off several tasks. She had written a letter to her sister-in-law, leaving the entire estate to her, though she lived abroad in America—there was no one else. She fingered the sack filled with francs to pay the driver. Though the driver knew the area, she didn’t want to leave any detail to chance. She’d be traveling with dynamite, after all. Which meant one thing. Still, she needed Pascal’s maps and she’d have to break into his house to get them. Beatrix inhaled a deep breath. No need to worry. No one would suspect her, a poor widow and . . . and childless mother. The strength of her will gripped her and she balled her hands into fists. She would raid Pascal’s map collection, and hide until it was time to go to the tavern. But first, she had one more thing to do.
One by one, she took the clocks from the shop window and turned them off. They would not go on—she would not go on—and it was time to lay them to rest. She couldn’t bear the thought of them running down slowly and falling into disrepair. After, she snatched the letter opener from her desk and headed outside to retrieve her concealed bag. She slipped the money and a box of matches inside and resealed it. Once she’d buttoned her coat, she walked rapidly to the end of the street, heart thumping in her ears. She was almost there. As she rounded the corner she stopped. A window glowed in a house at the end of the street. Pascal’s neighbor was at home; she would need to exercise extreme caution. She turned up her collar to protect her exposed neck against the wind and continued forward.
The shroud of night descended, and lights began to flicker on inside the homes. She would need to go quickly before the last of the light was gone. With each thwack of heel on pavement, her shoulders tensed. Just two more houses. She picked up her pace, praying no one would see her. The point of the letter opener poked the tender flesh of her forearm. She hoped the tool would do the trick.
When Beatrix reached the drive at the end of the cul-de-sac, her heart crashed against her ribs. She ducked beneath an archway festooned with dead vines, and headed down the gravel drive lined with clusters of dormant trees. Once the house came into view, she diverted from the path. Dew clung to her boots as she waded through the unkempt lawn behind the house. A deep breath steadied her nerves.
No thinking, only doing.
She leapt up the steps leading to a door. She palmed the letter opener and shimmied it into the keyhole. Though narrow, the letter opener did not bend enough to work. She bit her lip in frustration. Perhaps a hairpin? She pulled one from her chignon and jiggled it in the lock. It wasn’t strong enough to dislodge the bolt.
Beatrix descended the steps and walked around to the side of the house. A stack of bricks had been thrown haphazardly in a pile, perhaps to repair a fire pit or adorn a garden. She pushed one over with her foot, contemplating her next move. She could use a brick to break a window on the first floor. It was risky; she might draw the neighbor’s attention, but she had no other choice.
She grabbed a brick and retreated several paces. With a grunt, she hurled it at the center of the lowest pane. The glass shattered with a horrible crash. She cringed and looked about, praying no one had heard it. After a lengthy pause, still nothing stirred. She stared at the opening she’d created. Jagged shards jutted from the window frame. She needed a bigger hole if she was going to crawl through it. Silently, she built makeshift stairs with the bricks, save one. With the last brick, she smashed the remaining shards until the frame looked safe to pass through.
Somewhere a door slammed.
With a lunge, Beatrix hauled herself through the opening. She hit the floor with a thud on top of a pile of glass. Groaning, she peered down at her palms. Blood gushed from a wound on her left hand. She’d need to bandage it, or she’d lose a lot of blood. She scrambled to her feet and looked about the kitchen. An old apron hung on the pantry door. That would have to do. She ripped several pieces of the cloth and tied them across her palm. Once satisfied with her work, she set off to find the maps.
Pascal’s house reeked of mold and dust. For an instant, she wondered if he would ever return; a dangerous thought. It dredged up more than she cared to think about. She pushed the thought from her mind and shuffled through each room, in search of his study. When she found it, she exhaled a relieved breath. Pascal’s desk was covered with maps, tools, and volumes of cartography. A compass and lead pencils lay on top of stacks of notes. Another sheet listed the battles with coordinates. He had been tracking the German troops and the various French brigades.
Perfect.
Somewhere in the house a clock dinged six o’clock. She had minutes before the house went dark completely. With trembling hands she rifled through the maps until she came upon the one that looked most helpful—the outline of the Hindenburg Line and the frontiers of Alsace. Without hesitating, she folded the map in quarters and made her way back through the house. She slipped through the back door and started down the front drive, counseling herself not to run. Doing so would attract attention.
“Excusez-moi?”
She froze.
“Can I help you?” A woman stood in her front yard in her nightdress and shawl, her husband’s boots on her feet. Her poodle tugged at the end of a leash, eager to track the invisible footprints of some small animal.
She must act rational, calm. “I beg your pardon? I’m just out for a walk.”
“What were you doing on Pascal’s property? He isn’t here—” The woman stopped and her eyes widened. “I heard a noise. Something breaking.” She glanced down at the map in Beatrix’s hands, spotted with blood. “You’re a spy!” she hissed.
“That’s absurd.” She kept her tone cool in spite of her racing pulse. “Your imagination has gotten the best of you. I wasn’t on his property.”
“I saw you! Just stepping off his lawn. What are you holding? If you have nothing to hide, show me,” the woman demanded, placing her hands on her hips.
Beatrix remained glued to the spot. “I don’t owe you an explanation. It’s none of your business.”
“Very well. Have it your way. I’m going to the police!” The woman turned on her heel, stumbling in her overly large shoes. In her clumsiness, she dropped the leash and the poodle bolted toward the line of trees behind the house. “Léo, you come back here this instant!” She waddled across the lawn as fast as her boots allowed.
Beatrix darted down the street at full speed. She didn’t care if she looked guilty. She had to get out of there—now. Even if the military police didn’t arrest her for breaking into Pascal’s home, they might detain her for being German, should they discover the truth. Oh, Joseph, she pleaded. Rescue me from this life.
She ran to the beat of her heart.
FOR TWO HOURS Beatrix had shivered in the dark, ducking behind buildings downtown, hiding from policemen, until her toes and fingers grew numb. When she could take it no longer, she slipped inside a church to warm herself. At half-past two in the morning, she walked to the tavern, toting her bag. Her heart thumped in her ears as she tucked herself against the building. When a shiny black Alva chugged down the street, she breathed a sigh of relief. He came. She climbed into the mysterious man’s car and silently handed over the packet of bills.
“We can’t take a direct route, you understand,” he said. “There are MPs crawling all over the place.”
“MPs?” She stared at the back of his black fedora.
“Military police.”
“Do what you must,” she said, gingerly placing her bag next to her on the seat. “Just get me to Strasbourg.”
The car trundled over moonlit country roads. No one dared break curfew, and certainly no one else was foolish enough to drive along the front line. With each bump she glanced at her bag. Though she could not see the dynamite, she felt its power pulsing in the air around her.
If the driver only
knew . . .
The next instant, the man slammed on his brakes. “Merde.” He swore under his breath.
Beatrix leaned forward. “What is it?”
“A checkpoint ahead.”
The car beams poured over a pack of soldiers spread out in a fan, guns poised.
The driver hit the steering wheel with his hand. “I knew I should have gone the other way. Merde!” This time he yelled it. “If we get through this, we’ll veer east of St. Die and slip through the border that way. If not, it’s been nice knowing you.”
Her stomach sank to her toes. If they searched her bag, they were both finished. She had to think fast.
He peered over his shoulder at her. “Relax and don’t say anything. I’ll try to talk us out of this.”
Blood raced in her veins. She had made it this far, and she wasn’t about to let some criminal mess this up for her. She clasped her hands in her lap and her spine went rigid. Think, Beatrix.
The car pulled to a stop and two soldiers flanked the car. One tapped the driver’s window.
The driver cranked it open. “Bonsoir. What can I do for you, fellows?”
The soldier smirked. “You’re in violation of curfew. Why are you on the road?”
Beatrix blurted, “We apologize, monsieur, but my sister is dying. If she doesn’t sign the proper documents in time, our estate will be lost.”
As in Germany, nothing mattered more to the French than carrying on the family name and securing inheritance for the next generation.
She dabbed at her eyes as if to stop tears from flowing. “Please, she has only hours left. We’re racing the clock.”
“Where are you headed?” the solider growled, unconvinced.
“St. Die,” she said quickly. The last French town before Strasbourg. “She lives in an apartment there, alone.”
The soldier leaned his head in the car window to check for suspicious items. His eyes fell on her bag.
Beatrix’s stomach knotted.
He paused as if to ponder the bag’s contents, then his eyes passed on, dismissive of its lumpy smallness.
“Traveling near the front line for the sake of your heirs, eh? That’s noble of you, lady. Stupid, but noble.”
She bristled at the soldier’s retort. Her heirs that did not exist.
The soldier huffed and straightened. Cupping his mouth with his hands, he shouted to the others waiting for instruction. “Family property. Someone is dying. Headed to St. Die. Let them through.” He stepped away from the car.
She leaned against the seat and exhaled.
The driver rolled up his window and drove on, past the barricade. “I told you to keep quiet,” he said, words laced with anger.
“I saved us.”
He nodded. “That you did.”
They rode on in silence. Though the sun rose, clouds crowded the sky and light rain pattered against the windows. Fitting, as she would go out in fire and the rain could wash it all away. Another hour gone, and the Alva pulled to a stop on the side of the road. Beatrix awakened from a sleepy haze. A patch of trees framed a field running parallel to the deserted road. No houses loomed, no church spire or rooftops. Where were they?
“This is as far as I’ll go, lady,” the driver said. “Any closer and we’ll be too near the Germans for my liking. If you head east through the trees, you’ll be able to walk along the road. After about ten kilometers, you’ll reach Strasbourg.”
“Thank you,” she said, opening her car door.
He turned to look at her. “Bonne chance. You’re going to need it.”
“I have nothing left to lose,” she said, voice hoarse.
He took one look at her face and removed his derby hat, pressed it to his chest. “It’s a devil of a war.”
She met his gaze evenly. “It’s a devil of a life.”
The pity that bloomed on his face, on his sensitive mouth, was more than she could bear. She could hold it all together if she could just not talk about it, not be confronted with others’ pity. Yet here it was, the sorrow again, and the roaring inside.
“It will work out in the end.” Her words fell like stones, hard and cold, lifeless.
“You sure you want to go all that way on foot?” Concern etched lines around his eyes. He looked down at her boots, then assessed her overcoat and gloves.
She forced a tight smile. “I’ve survived far worse.”
“You might find yourself in trouble,” he insisted.
“I certainly hope so.”
Without waiting for his reply, she stepped from the car, clutching her cargo, and headed down the sloping embankment toward the woods. The final leg of her journey, at last. With quick strides across the field, she reached the woods in minutes. When she stepped into its shade, a deep quiet blanketed her. A brisk wind whipped through the trees; the only sound came from the crack of spindly pine boughs knocking together. She watched the ground, intent on each root and rock’s edge peeking above the soil. Should she trip and fall, the unstable dynamite could detonate on impact. Then all would be in vain. All three of their deaths would mean nothing; just a tick on the timeline of history.
She trudged forward for half an hour, hoping she was headed in the right direction. The tongue of her right boot slipped sideways and bunched near the arch of her foot for the third time, and the soul of her shoe rubbed her heel. A blister rose on her toe, growing more painful with each step. She leaned against a tree. Her head throbbed, and her bones ached with fatigue, the sort that could pull her under should she stop for too long. Besides, she might lose her nerve. A wave of self-loathing engulfed her. She couldn’t give up now. What would she be left with? The beginnings of hysteria addled her thinking and wound through her weary body. She was tired, so tired.
A branch snapped.
Beatrix looked up. Who was there? She swiveled around to locate the source; surely a rabbit, or a lost cat from town?
A flash of green uniform and boots ducked behind a nearby bush.
A chill ran over her skin. It was no animal, but a man. She had to go now!
Terrified, she dashed as fast as her legs could carry her. If the enemy captured her, especially a rogue soldier in the woods . . . She closed her eyes against the series of hideous images flickering behind her eyes. She had to get there, to town. The dynamite clunked inside the bag as she ran. The roaring rumbled in her ears.
“You there!” a male voice called.
She wasn’t going to make it. She stumbled forward, catching herself at the last minute. The explosives would blow and take her with them.
“Stop!” the man shouted.
Panic constricted her lungs and she choked on the swell of emotion she could no longer keep at bay. A clearing came into view beyond the trees. The road was just ahead! She willed her legs to go faster. In an instant she was in the open and racing along the road. She could see the fringes of town ahead. Strasbourg loomed. Too afraid to look behind her, she pushed forward, despite the burning in her legs, the rising ache inside. Soon it would all be over. She would never have to feel again.
At last, she reached the streets on the outskirts of town. The footsteps behind her had faded. She threw a look over her shoulder. The soldier stood at the edge of the road, half a kilometer behind her. He avoided the city? He was a deserter then, hiding until he knew his next move, or the war’s advancement. She slowed as she entered town and leaned against the side of a building, panting. After a few minutes, she gathered her courage and continued on.
Strasbourg was eerie in its silence. No soldiers or police marched about; few locals walked the streets. The town held its breath, waiting for something. Beatrix grimaced. She would enliven things shortly.
Ragged with cold and damp, bleary-eyed from exhaustion and longing, she staggered toward a church and collapsed on its steps. She could rest a little while, then make her go
od-byes and blow the first German camp she saw to bits. Sacrifice herself for her love—for the cause Adrien had held so dear. A crippling wave of grief swept up from her toes and burst like stars of white-hot pain. The sobs she had held at bay erupted in her throat and ripped her open. Tears flooded her cheeks, and the sound of screams filled her ears. Was that her? Her body curled around the sorrow. Her sweet Adrien, her little boy. She screamed until her throat felt bloodied, and her lungs groaned under the exertion.
A priest dashed from the church and crouched beside her. “What is it, my child? Let me help you.”
She studied his face, lined with his own suffering. “I-I’m sorry. I am fine.” She wiped her face with her sleeve. “I don’t need your help.”
For a moment he stared at her, then stood. “I will be just inside, should you change your mind. I’ll have hot soup and a blanket by the fire, waiting.”
She nodded, and he smiled faintly before returning indoors.
Cold drizzle fell from the sky, wetting the stone around her. She pitched her body backward and lay across the church steps like a fallen bird—a cuckoo popped from its tower, broken and in need of repair.
Oh, Joseph. She was so alone.
She peered up at the spires of the church, reaching toward heaven. No matter what she did, she couldn’t get them back.
All at once the pulleys in the bell tower whirred and the faint click of cogs and wheels sounded behind its walls. She could envision the hammer, poised in its place inside the tower. The iron bell gonged.
It was time. Time to be heard.
The clock gonged again and again, eleven times in all.
Beatrix pushed to her swollen feet. As the bells silenced, a crowd of soldiers flooded from a building at the end of the street and clapped each other on the back. Confused, she walked toward them, her limbs numb with cold, her insides hollow. Had the Germans decimated another French village?
“What’s happened?” she asked a soldier.
