The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  “Forty-five, fifty kilometers an hour, at best.”

  Hanna grabbed Robert’s wrist and checked the time.

  “That gives us enough time to cover at least a hundred and fifty kilometers, which should put us pretty close to the border. I can’t believe they left you your watch.”

  “Who?”

  “Who? The bastards who took you captive, that’s who. Someday you’ll have to tell me how you managed to get out of there alive.”

  “Oh, I see,” Robert said, darkening. “Next, you’ll be telling me to run along. What the hell are you insinuating?”

  “Not a thing, not a single thing. I was asking sincerely. I’m just interested in hearing what happened to you.”

  “We got snagged by militiamen who drove us out to a house. Titon and I were separated. They beat us like dogs, trying to get us to talk. Obviously, I didn’t say a word, or else I wouldn’t have gotten all these pretty little souvenirs.” Robert slid up his sleeve to show a series of cigarette burns on his forearm.

  “When they figured out I was American, they thought I’d make a nice little gift for the Germans. They threw me in the back of a car. I passed out, so they didn’t even bother with a guard, just the driver. When I woke up, we were driving on a country road. I was close enough to grab the guy by the throat. I told him if he didn’t stop the car, I’d snap his fucking neck. And that’s just what he did.”

  “And then what did you do?”

  “I snapped his fucking neck.”

  “Well . . . good riddance. One less bastard in the world. You’re making me regret letting off that farmer so easily. Not to mention he’ll go running straight to that checkpoint and tell them everything. All right, let’s focus on the task at hand. Enough talk,” Hanna ordered.

  As they drove through the night in silence, one part of Robert’s story was gnawing at Hanna. How in the world did he manage to recover the tandem? But, of course, it wasn’t the only tandem in the world. And in any event, Hanna needed his help and wasn’t going to risk offending the one man who could take her to America and save her life.

  They got lost several times along the way, and even drove straight by Aurignac without realizing. As Hanna searched around for a map, she stumbled upon a pass issued by the militia, thus confirming her suspicions about Germain. She eventually found an old map among the truck’s papers and used it to guide their way, flicking on the small light in the truck from time to time as they drove. She wasn’t familiar with any of the names of the tiny villages they passed, but knew they would be fine as long as they kept heading south and didn’t run into anyone along the way.

  The truck reached Saint-Girons around three in the morning. As they entered the village, they caught sight of a German sidecar parked by the side of the road. Luckily, the men on guard were so groggy and slow moving that by the time they made it outside, all they saw were brake lights fading in the distance. And besides, the soldiers would have most likely assumed that only an authorized convoy would be prowling around so late at night.

  Robert turned the truck onto a steep, winding road that hugged the side of a mountain as it ascended. The vehicle’s clutch struggled with each hairpin bend, until the engine finally gave out not far from the village of Seix. Robert grabbed his satchel and left the tandem behind once and for all, judging that the path ahead would be easier by foot. They shoved Germain’s Berliet off the edge of the cliff, watching as the truck plunged into the rocky Ribaute gorges.

  After a long and arduous climb, the two weary travelers made it to Seix at the break of dawn. Hanna caught sight of a guesthouse and asked Robert if he had any money.

  “Not a cent,” he replied, watching as Hanna rolled up a leg of her pants to reveal a thick strip of gauze wrapped around her calf. “Is that a wound? Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “No. My father had a talent for predicting the future.” Hanna dug under the bandage and pulled out two hundred francs, which she handed to Robert. “Go in and see if they have a room.”

  “Don’t you think that might be risky? With my accent?”

  “It would be even riskier if a woman walked in there to do the talking for her husband, but maybe you’re right. No choice. We’re just going to have to walk straight into the lion’s den and hope that this time we get lucky and stumble upon somebody honest.”

  As it turned out, luck was on their side. Madame Broué, the woman who ran the guesthouse, was more than just honest. Since the onset of the war, she had sheltered refugees fleeing France as they awaited guides to lead them safely into Spain. Madame Broué had never once turned anyone away from her doorstep. As an innkeeper, she was required by law to keep a register, but she simply left all the clandestine visitors off the list. Her selfless acts were even more courageous considering that soldiers would regularly stop by around cocktail hour to check the register. As soon as Hanna and Robert set foot in the guesthouse, Madame Broué took one look at them—defeated expressions on their faces, carrying nothing but a satchel as luggage—and understood everything. Without a single question, she grabbed a key from a hook and led them upstairs to a simple bedroom, with one large bed and a washbasin.

  “You’ll find the toilet and shower at the end of the hall. You’d be wise to head straight there. You both could use it. Steer clear of the hallways before nine in the morning, and never come downstairs in late afternoon, under any circumstances. You hear me cough from behind the counter? Get back in your room and don’t come out until I say so. Lunch is at noon, dinner at seven thirty.”

  “We can pay for a few days in advance,” Hanna offered. “We only need one meal per day; we’ll be skipping dinner.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll eat two solid meals. When you cross the border through those mountains, you’ll be forced to fast, so you’d best fill up while you’re here. As for money, we’ll see about that later.”

  As soon as Madame Broué had closed the door behind her, Hanna headed straight for the bed. She stroked the surface of the blanket, then lay down with a heavy sigh. “My God, I can’t remember the last time I slept on cotton sheets,” she said dreamily. “You’ve got to come touch this, it’s so soft.” Hanna buried her face in one of the pillows and smelled the fabric, savoring the scent. “That smell . . . the smell of clean things, I forgot how sweet that smell could be.”

  “You enjoy it; I can sleep on the floor,” Robert said, with the grace of a gentleman.

  “You need to rest as badly as I do,” Hanna insisted. “You can sleep right here next to me. I don’t mind.”

  “And what if I do?” Robert replied mockingly.

  In response, Hanna rolled over and playfully whipped the pillow at Robert. He realized it was the first time he had seen the girl smile.

  “First, let’s take our kind host’s advice and go and clean up. There’s no way we’re getting into these sheets when we’re this filthy,” she said commandingly.

  Hanna took her shower first. The water was absolutely freezing, yet the sensation of it filled her with an unbelievable rush of relief. The past twenty-four straight hours had taken their toll on her. She looked down at her feet, badly bruised and blistered from all the walking. Her legs looked disturbingly thin and malnourished.

  They still had a long way to go. France was teeming with dangers, and the passage through the mountains was sure to be harrowing. Yet, the guesthouse was a momentary refuge in which Hanna felt something akin to peace and safety. The thought of a good night’s sleep in a real bed gave her hope, restoring her desire to keep pushing onward. The mountain crossing didn’t frighten her, because she knew that true freedom and a new life in America awaited her at the end of the journey. After all, some of the best moments of her entire life had been in America, on those unforgettable trips with her family. The mere thought of her parents brought the pain of Hanna’s grief back to the surface again. Her eyes were welling up with tears when a knock came at the door.

  “Everything all right?” Robert whispered from the other side.


  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I was worried you’d passed out. You’ve been in there forever.”

  “It’s been forever since I had a proper shower, I was just making the most of it. I’ll let you have your turn now.”

  Hanna stepped out of the bathroom wearing only a towel, which clung to her curves and left nothing to the imagination. Robert couldn’t help but look, confusing Hanna. She had no idea what to make of it. The only other time she had received this kind of attention was in high school, from a boy her own age for whom she felt absolutely nothing. But Robert? Robert was a man . . .

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing. It’s a narrow hallway and I’m trying to get by.”

  Robert moved to make space, but their bodies still brushed against each other as she made her way back to the room. By the time he returned from his shower, Hanna was already sleeping soundly. Robert watched her for a long while. Then, as he finally slipped into bed beside her, Hanna let out a heavy sigh and rolled over. She rested her hand on his chest, her eyes still closed.

  “Have you ever been with a man?” Robert whispered.

  “No,” she replied, with the same hushed tone. “Have you ever been with anybody?”

  “May I kiss you?”

  She at last opened her eyes and let Robert kiss her. She had worried that desire might make him rough, but those fears soon evaporated with his soft and gentle touch. The warmth of his skin and her desire for him overtook her fear. She clung to him fiercely.

  The rustic dining room at the guesthouse had eight wooden tables for lodgers, and lace curtains at the windows. The innkeeper poured heart and soul into providing guests with a satisfying meal, with a young lady from the village serving as waitress. For lunch, Madame Broué served piperade, a traditional Basque dish, for dinner a Spanish tortilla and potatoes, with shortcake for dessert.

  After four days and four nights of rest at the guesthouse, Robert and Hanna had almost fully recovered. Their passionate lovemaking helped, too. Hanna had experienced her first taste of pleasure, and now longed for more. Even if Robert’s lips still hurt from the beatings, he didn’t deprive his young lover of a single kiss. Every time he held her close, Hanna felt more alive, their fiery passion chasing away all the death around them. More than once she smiled to herself, thinking that her newfound pleasure was taking place in a village called Seix.

  One week after their arrival, Madame Broué came knocking at the door of their room and ushered them downstairs to the dining room, where a man stood awaiting them. His name was José, and he was the guide who would lead them into Spain. A secret convoy of ten refugees would set off that night to make the border crossing. The group consisted mostly of university students from Paris hoping to join the French Committee of National Liberation in Algeria. The guide was surprised to learn that Robert hadn’t received help from the Comet escape line, the network that helped smuggle foreign pilots back to safety. Robert explained that he had been out of contact with his handlers since his arrival.

  “Conditions seem quite favorable tonight; the weather’s on our side,” the guide told Robert and Hanna. “Believe it or not, weather up in those mountains can be more dangerous than the Krauts. The German patrols have been scaling back ever since the Allied Forces started landing up north. They fear that more will come from the south and they’ll get crushed between the two, so they’ve turned tail and run. Last year, there were more than three thousand of them up on those mountains, prowling around on the hunt for us. The numbers have dropped quite a bit, but we still have to move with caution. Everyone on this trek is young, so we should be able to maintain a brisk pace. We leave at eleven o’clock tonight. Be ready.”

  Madame Broué provided the two of them with warm clothes for the journey, and when Hanna asked to settle the bill, the innkeeper refused.

  “Hold on to every last centime to pay for the border crossing. It normally runs to about two thousand francs per person, but I talked him down to half price. José is a good guide and someone you can trust. He’ll get you through to Alós d’Isil. When you see the statue of Eve atop the Romanesque church, you’ll know you’re home free. Or very nearly . . . You must be careful while in Spain. The French who get caught there end up at the Miranda concentration camp.”

  The atmosphere at dinner was strange and solemn, and the conversation was kept to barely a whisper. When Madame Broué served the shortcake, the men at the table joined together in a Basque folk song that brought tears to the eyes of all those preparing to brave the crossing.

  The Pyrenees proved far more trying than the guide had let on. José pushed the group to the brink of exhaustion, only allowing for stops when someone actually collapsed, at which point they’d make a brief stop for the group to regain its strength. Although it was the middle of summer, they endured subzero temperatures and biting winds. As they trudged through the snow atop the peak of Aneto, Hanna felt that her feet had frozen through, but she persisted with astounding courage. The students in the group hadn’t fully recovered from the harsh conditions and lack of nourishment on their long, exhausting journey across France. Despite all this, the members of the group looked out for each other in an amazing show of solidarity. Without fail, every time a climber stumbled on the steep slopes, another was there to help them to their feet.

  In the morning, a majestic sun rose over the mountains, leaving everyone breathless. The momentary sense of peace left a lasting impression on the entire group. The climbers pushed on, until the small Romanesque church at last came into view. The guide stopped and pointed out a path leading down into the valley.

  “We are now in Spain. I wish each and every one of you safe travels on the road ahead and a long, fruitful life.”

  He passed around his beret, and everyone emptied their pockets to pay the guide for his hard work. Although the bounty was far less than had been promised, the man accepted his payment without complaint and started back toward France.

  Four hours later, a pair of shepherds arrived and approached the group, showing no surprise at the strange ensemble. They invited everyone into their home without question, and gave them polenta and sheep’s milk. After the meal and a good night’s rest, the group was ready to hit the road again. They parted ways, and Hanna and Robert continued down a paved road on foot. The couple soon managed to hitch a ride aboard a truck full of Spanish laborers, who dropped them off at a guesthouse run by trustworthy allies. The inn even had a phone that Robert used to call the US consulate.

  Hanna and Robert slept the entire day. A car came for them around dusk, and they were driven through the night to the US consulate in Madrid. Over the course of the following week, Robert was debriefed by a liaison officer. After his identity had been verified, he was offered safe passage to Gibraltar. From there, a boat would take him to Tangier, where he’d be able to board a cargo ship that would carry him stateside.

  Hanna, the officer informed Robert, wasn’t an American citizen and couldn’t come home with him. This drove Robert into a blind rage. He adamantly refused to leave without her. The officer apologized but insisted there was nothing he could do. Robert, however, had other ideas.

  The next day, the same officer officiated their marriage, and Hanna became an American citizen.

  Ten days later, Hanna found herself leaning over the balustrade of a ship, gazing back at the coastline, her past life fading into the distance. Huddled close to her new husband, she thanked him for saving her life.

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” Robert replied, overcome with emotion. “We got through this nightmare together. Without you, I would have given up a long time ago. I’m only alive right now because of you.”

  One of the newlyweds was headed home; the other was leaving home for the unknown. Neither had any luggage, save the satchel that never once left Robert’s side throughout the entire journey.

  31

  ELEANOR-RIGBY

  October 2016, Baltimore

  As we settled in for
lunch, I observed the mixed crowd at the café. A businessman was sitting with eyes glued to his smartphone. A group of teenaged boys huddled close together, interacting only through an online game on the screens of their gadgets. A trio of pregnant women were chatting about baby clothes and buggy brands. A young couple was sitting wordlessly, while an elderly couple had devoured a whole spread of pastries in a show of mischievous indulgence.

  George-Harrison had chosen a spot for us at the bar. He scoffed at my restlessness as I polished off a Cobb salad and a Coke.

  “You’re driving me crazy spinning on the stool like that. What’s there to look at here anyway?”

  “People?” I shrugged.

  “Tell me: What’s your first stop when you arrive in a new city? Where do you go to find your angle?” he asked.

  “Angle . . . what kind of angle?”

  “I mean the angle for your article.”

  “Hmm. I’d say open-air markets are pretty much the only place where people from all walks of life come together. You wouldn’t believe how much you can learn by looking at the stalls and vendors, seeing what people are buying, what they consider valuable.”

  “I believe it,” he said, setting down his empty pint glass. George-Harrison had nearly downed the beer in one swig, and demolished his sandwich in a few massive bites. With most men, I found that type of thing boorish at best and repulsive at worst, but not with George-Harrison.

  He definitely had something classy about him—classy in a raw kind of way, without any calculation or premeditation. That struck me as . . . soothing for some reason, or, even more dangerous, disarmingly sincere. Even when he had been upset earlier, George-Harrison’s voice had stayed level and calm. My ex, the Washington Post reporter, was nothing like him; he never asked a single question about my writing, judging his own work to be much more important. Thinking back, I was blind for so much of the relationship and wasted a lot of time with him. But maybe that was what I really needed then: to tread water in a relationship doomed to fail. That kind of freedom made it easier to keep certain truths at bay.