by Dan Walsh
All three of them sat there for what felt like several minutes to Jack. He thought he saw at least some wetness in the old man’s eyes, but a few moments later, it was gone.
Finally, he looked at Jack and said, “How did you learn about us? About…your brother?”
Jack was just about to answer when Elliot spoke up. “You needn’t worry. Our father didn’t break his forced silence, the silence you extorted from him all these years. It happened quite by accident. Tell him, Jack.”
Jack explained about the framed picture on his father’s dresser that he’d thought was him all these years. About knocking it over and reading what it said on the back. A few other details about his conversation with his dad.
“Did you hear that, Grandfather?” Elliot said. “Our father was so afraid of losing the pittance of an allowance you sent him each month, that even after Jack had uncovered the secret himself, he said Jack would have to come here to find the answers to all his questions on his own.” Elliot stood, took two steps toward his grandfather and said in an even more forceful tone, “I want you to hear this. This extortion arrangement ends now. Do you hear me? You will not penalize him a penny. In fact, starting this month, you instruct your accountant to send him four times the monthly allowance from now on. Even with our setbacks here, I know that’s a small sum for you. If you do not do this, I promise you…I will never set foot in this house again until it’s to arrange your funeral, and long before that I will give an exclusive interview to the Times, laying out this entire sordid affair. You will finish up your days in utter loneliness and isolation, and whatever remains of your reputation will be in tatters.”
45
Elliot had dropped Jack off at the hospital the following day just after 3PM. The balance of their time with the Earl of Bainbridge was odd and strained, to say the least. When Elliot had finished his rant, their grandfather just sat there staring at them for the longest time. He didn’t say a word.
Finally, Elliot had said, “Right then, I’ll let you return to your favorite chair while I give Jack a tour of the house and estate, seeing as he never got the chance to be here before today. Dinner still at six?” Grandfather had nodded that it was. Elliot and Jack left him a moment later.
Just before the grand tour, Elliot briefly apologized to Jack for subjecting him to that exchange but added he’d felt it was necessary, so Grandfather could feel the full impact of his words. He didn’t bring the subject up again for the rest of their time together.
It had been a fascinating tour. When he made the effort, Elliot could be an animated storyteller. He didn’t just mention the various points of interest; numerous times he added an interesting note of family history or a pleasant personal memory. On a couple of occasions as they passed a mirror, Jack caught a glimpse of the two of them walking together. Both times, the image startled him. It was so surreal. Here he was, walking with his long-lost twin brother, through the historic family mansion, a place in which Elliot obviously felt right at home and where Jack couldn’t have felt more like a stranger.
Still, he enjoyed it very much. By the time his head hit the pillow that night in a palatial guest room, at least Elliot no longer felt like a stranger. Jack’s thoughts as he’d drifted off to sleep alternated between worries and prayers for Renee’s safety, to pleasant thoughts about the way Elliot had defended Jack and their father that afternoon.
But now, Jack was back in the real world, hobbling with his cane through the hallways of Royal Herbert Hospital toward his room. Along the way, he had searched for and found the nurse who’d promised to hunt down that letter from Renée.
He found her and she said she had found it late yesterday afternoon and placed it on the little table next to his bed. Jack hurried toward the ward. When he reached it, his eyes instantly shot to that table. He made a beeline for Renée’s letter, sat in his chair and opened it up.
My Dear Jack,
It pains me that I was unable to share these words with you in person, but circumstances would not allow it. I tried to call several times but could not get through. I did send a similar letter with a longer explanation of what’s happened to Elliot, figuring a letter would get to him first. Hopefully, he has already spoken to you and explained these things for me.
I only have a few minutes before the family friend who contacted me comes to pick me up and take me back to France. It is late and quite dark. The clouds that were here all afternoon have turned off both the moon and the stars, so our Channel crossing should be safe. So please don’t worry.
As you know, I have been overwhelmed with concern about my mother’s welfare, as well as Philippe. My family friend brought the first news that I’ve heard since I left France months ago. Sadly, the news was all bad. I hope when you hear it, you will agree I had no choice. Philippe had to flee or else he would have been forcibly sent to Germany as slave labor. My mother has no one to care for her now but, worse than that, I cannot bear the thought of her being mistreated by an SS Colonel who, I’m told will soon occupy our home.
I know there is some danger for me returning home but, as you know, I left France to escape danger and, look, London is being bombed every night. Hundreds are killed every week all around me. I would be in more danger if I had stayed put. And you, my Love, will be in far more danger than I every day, the moment you are released to fly missions again.
So please, try not to fear for my safety very much. Since these circumstances are unavoidable, I have to believe the Lord will take care of me as I pray He takes care of you.
I must sign off. My friend is here, knocking on the door. A moment ago, I referred to you as my Love. I hope you will forgive me for being so bold. But I felt I must say it. I must tell you how I feel, Jack. Neither of us knows for certain what the future holds, whether one or even both of us might perish. I will be praying every day against this but, should the worst come, I could not bear it if I didn’t get the chance to say how much I have grown to love you. I think about you at least a hundred times a day. When I am with you, I am the happiest I have ever been. And when we are apart, I am in constant longing to be with you again.
Well, he’s knocking again, so I must go. I hope you feel the same. I’ve been thinking for some time that you do but have been unable to express it out of respect for your brother. At the right time, I will say what I need to say to him, but this is the right time to say what I’ve needed and wanted to say to you, for quite some time.
With all my love,
Your Renée
Jack was smiling, on the inside even more. But he was also instantly aware of a growing sadness. To now know for certain that she did love him, and it sounded as if her love was as intense as his own, but then to realize he could not see her, touch her or kiss her. Not now, not tomorrow. Who knew how long these terrible circumstances would keep them apart?
He picked up her letter and reread it again, trying his best to focus mainly on the things she said about loving him but he could not help but wonder…where was she now? What was she doing? Was she safe? He couldn’t do a thing to protect her. She was right in saying she was likely in more danger living here in London than being there in France. But it didn’t feel true.
It felt awful, and he felt helpless.
46
Dainville, a village near Arras, France
Around 4pm
Keeping her eyes straight ahead, Renée walked on the other side of the street past three German soldiers, smoking cigarettes as they sat along the only undamaged section of a short stone wall. It outlined the main road heading into town. She ignored their smiles at first, then their stares. Since arriving back, she only came into town when absolutely necessary and, when she did, she felt constant fear, especially when a German soldier came near.
Now she faced three. One yelled out in passable French, “Bonjour, jolie. Maintenant, je suis amoureux.”
She did not answer or look back. There was only one man from whom she longed to hear such words, and he was back in England. She
wondered what Jack was doing right now. Was he off his crutches yet? Was he still in the hospital?
She side-stepped around some thick ruts in the road, which she realized were actually tank tracks, hardened in mud. As she crested a slight hill, the schoolhouse she’d attended as a girl came into view. Part of the roof had caved in, the wall beneath it a pile of rocks. Rows of desks and the chalkboard were in plain view. It was heartbreaking to see. Half the buildings in town looked the same or worse. Some of them had been built hundreds of years ago. In a flash, the Germans simply destroyed them. They seemed to treat everything that belonged to others with the same indifference. Like children playing catch with priceless treasures.
To Renée, more painful than the damaged buildings were the friends and neighbors killed by German planes. In her village alone, eleven had died in the first two weeks, including three children. She had known every one of them, the story behind each of their lives. Some of their faces flashed in her mind, snippets of conversations. She quickly shut them out before the pain could take hold.
Turning the corner, she looked down the main avenue. She could still scarcely take in the sight. She’d never get used to it, if she lived a hundred years. Bright red and white Nazi flags hung beneath the windows of every government building. German trucks and military vehicles parked along the curbs. Soldiers in gloomy grey uniforms huddled about, rifles and machine guns strapped to their backs, eyeing the townspeople with arrogance and contempt.
Clearly, it was their town now, to do with as they pleased.
Where was the French Army? She’d asked one of her friends that question the second day she had been back in town. Had they even tried to put up a fight? How could they have abandoned everyone so quickly? The friend simply said: “France, as we know it, is no more.”
She thought about her brother, Philippe. She had no idea where he’d gone, didn’t even know if he was still alive. She fought back tears as she neared the town bakery. She would not give the Germans the pleasure of her grief. The aroma of fresh bread greeted her as she stepped through the doorway. The smell was a surprise, like a gift. But even this delightful place bore the wounds of war. The big case in front was still intact, but a bullet hole had punctured the glass.
“Ah, Renée, so good to see you,” Marcel the baker said. “Are you well today? And your mama?” He seemed nervous. His eyes shifted to her left, then back to her face.
“I am fine, Marcel. Mama is holding up, but she is so much weaker than before.” The cover story Renée had used to explain her disappearance and reappearance was that she’d evacuated south when the Germans first came, like millions of others. But now that things had settled down somewhat, she’d come back, mainly because of her mother’s health.
She glanced to the left and saw two young German officers, sitting at the lone table by the window drinking coffee and eating pastries. “I didn’t know you had…customers.” She must choose her words carefully. Many of them seemed to speak or at least understand their language.
“What can I get for you this afternoon?” he asked.
She looked at the case, more than half empty.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I have a fresh oven full in the back. Would you like one loaf or two?”
“Two if you can spare it.”
“For you and your Mama, I will get the two biggest.”
Marcel seemed his usual cheerful self, but she could see the strain etched on his face. How hard to live so close to these intruders every moment of the day. Her home lay on the outskirts of town.
“Here you go, my dear.” He held out the bread in a paper bag. “Give my regards to your Mama. Any news of Philippe? I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“No news.” She glanced nervously at the soldiers. One of them was staring at her. He smiled, as if expressing interest. She looked away. “Thank you. They smell wonderful.” She paid him. “Merci beaucoup, Marcel. Au revoir.” She quickly opened the door, hoping to avoid any advances from the officer.
As she left, she heard chairs scraping across the floor. She’d hoped to visit the butchers before heading home but was too afraid the Germans might follow her. She turned left and started down the main sidewalk toward the edge of town, then headed back up the hill. As she hurried along the road leading home, a truck full of German troops raced by. A few stood, made hand gestures and called out to her in German. She didn’t understand the words but understood their meaning. They shouted and laughed until the truck cleared the hill and drove out of sight.
She picked up her pace until she came to a field, then took a shortcut through the field that entered her family’s property on the west side. Five minutes more and she could see their home just beyond the hedges. It really was a beautiful place, even though it had seen better days. The exterior had not received any attention in years. What had once been a manicured lawn and garden was now a completely overgrown field of weeds.
She walked along a hardened dirt path then through a side gate. She was just about to walk behind the house toward the kitchen door when she heard male voices coming from the front, by the driveway. German voices. Men laughing. She ducked behind a bush and peeked around the corner, horrified at the sight.
A German officer was getting out of a shiny black convertible, Nazi flags mounted on the front fenders. A second officer stood up and got out behind him. They walked up the brick steps to her front door. She pulled back behind the wall. At first, the man knocked politely. Then he began banging.
She acted quickly. Her mother was upstairs in bed.
Though terrified, she tried to sound calm. “Hello,” she yelled. “I’m here. I’ve just come from town. I will let you in.” She hurried around the side of the house and up the front steps. She smiled then quickly looked away as she opened the front door and walked inside.
“This is the Bouchard residence?” the older man said in excellent French.
“Yes, it is. I am Renée. My mother and I live here alone. She is upstairs resting. She is quite unwell.”
“I assume someone has told you why we are here. I am Colonel Joachim Fromm. This is my adjutant, Leutnant Hartmann.”
“We have been told, Colonel. You wish to use our home for your…headquarters?”
“Correct. If it passes muster, that is. We are here now to look things over. We won’t need your assistance, for the moment.”
“Fine. If you have any questions, just ask.”
The two officers walked through the foyer into the living room, picking up this thing or that, eyeing the family paintings on the wall, flicking the light switches to make sure they worked. She stayed in the foyer near the stairway, watching, trying not to make eye contact.
“I can see your desk right over there, Herr Colonel,” the younger officer said. “In front of the bookshelves.” He walked over to the deep burgundy drapes. “The room would be much brighter without these.”
He walked past Renée into the dining room on the other side of the foyer. “This room could easily seat twenty to twenty-five people, if we had the right set of table and chairs. This thing will have to go.” The adjutant walked up to her. “Fraulein, tell me, why is this house so empty? On the outside, it is quite impressive. But inside…it is almost barren.”
Renée looked at the Colonel for a moment then back at the younger man. “With respect sir, we had more furniture years ago. But then, my father passed away. Over time, for different reasons, we had to sell many of the better pieces.”
“It’s not just what is missing,” the officer continued. “But what is here. The rugs, the drapes. They are all so thin and worn. And the floors are so dull and cracked.”
“I’m sorry our home doesn’t meet your approval, sir. As I said, our family fortunes are not what they were years ago. But I am aware of many other homes not far from here that I’m sure would please you. Some of them still have some of their staff intact. If you’d like I could—”
“Nonsense,” the Colonel said, joining them in the
foyer. “It’s perfect. Rugs and drapes, fine furniture, these we can replace. What I like is how close it is to the center of town. And the house itself has plenty of room. It is exactly what I want. Have some vision, Leutnant.”
The younger officer clicked his heals together and gave the Heil Hitler salute.
Renée sighed.
“Leutnant Hartmann,” the Colonel said, “walk through the house, room by room, and make a list of what we need. Also tag the things that will have to go.”
“But Colonel,” Renée spoke up, “my mother is upstairs.”
“Which room is she in?” he asked.
“The third room on the right.”
“Leave that room alone,” he instructed Hartman.
Surprised by his concession, she asked, “And Colonel, there are many things your officer may want to remove that have been in my family for generations. They may not have much monetary value and may not be desirable for your purposes, but—”
“How dare you speak this way to the Colonel,” Hartmann said.
Fromm raised his hand and Hartmann fell silent. “Do you have a large room upstairs or some other place we could store them?” he asked.
“We have a large shed out back behind the kitchen. It used to be full, but it is empty now.”
“Does it leak?”
“No.”
“Fine. Hartmann, have the men put anything we remove into the shed, then lock the shed and give Miss Bouchard the key.”
The officer looked stunned but instantly agreed.
“How much time do we have to move out?” Renée asked.
“Oh no,” he said. “I don’t want you to move out. I want you to stay. In fact, you can serve as my hostess.”
Renée was startled. “I don’t think I could do that, Herr Colonel. I know nothing about hosting.”
