by Kacey Ezell
“My friend.”
Another memory floated up to the surface of the girl’s mind, and Lina reached out with the most delicate of touches to capture it. The train station, light streaming in through the windows. The young woman she’d seen, the other one, walking up, smiling. Her arm through that of a man who held himself stiffly, wariness in his eyes.
“And where would they go, when they left you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, but once again, her memory betrayed her. Lina got the image of waves crashing on the sand and a moon high in the sky. A beach? Which beach?
She hadn’t actually articulated the thought to Nicole, but the girl must have felt the question on some kind of level, for another image came to the fore. A very famous painting of a short man wearing an ancient French uniform, surrounded by furnishings rich enough for a king. Or an emperor.
Bonaparte. Bonaparte Beach, just across the Channel to England. They were going to try and escape to sea!
This time, when Lina met Neils’ eyes, she did smile. She lifted her tea and took another sip. She would relax and listen to the rest of the interrogation, but it didn’t matter.
She had what she needed.
* * *
Another dawn, another safe house. Cosca brought them to a farmhouse just outside of a small village. He’d come to the top of a nearby hill and cut the engine and headlights, then coasted to a stop near the back of the house.
“Be silent,” he warned Evelyn, who passed the admonition down through her connection to the men. She watched as Cosca eased out of the truck and closed his door carefully, so as not to make any tell-tale sounds. The tiny sliver of moon didn’t provide much light, but enough that she could see him walking toward the house as it loomed in the darkness. Seconds ticked by with nothing to mark them but the call of some night bird and the distant roar of the ocean swells. She could smell salt on the breeze. They weren’t far from the coast.
Moments later, Cosca reappeared out of the darkness next to her door. He opened it and helped her to step down out of the truck. Then he led her around to the back, where he gestured at the pile of hay. Evelyn gave him a questioning look, but he merely raised his eyebrows. With an inner sigh, she relented and reached down the lines of her net.
Time to come out, she said. Be as silent as you can, and be careful. There’s no light out here.
There isn’t much in here, either, Abram quipped, just before his head emerged from the noxious pile of hay. Cosca gave a soft grunt and reached up to help him out of the truck. Sean and Paul followed, thankfully without any more Abram-style witticisms. Once they all stood before him, Cosca made a gesture that Evelyn couldn’t quite see and turned back toward the farmhouse.
He wants us to follow him, Paul said. He’d been standing closest to the old man.
Then let’s go. But hang on to one another, Abram said. Let’s not trip or get lost in this darkness.
Once again, Evelyn found Sean’s fingers curling through hers. She looked up and gave him as much of a smile as she could summon. He squeezed her fingers in response.
They followed Cosca toward the building. As they drew close, Evelyn could begin to make out the outline of cellar doors similar to what she had seen growing up near the prairie. Cosca bent down and heaved one of the doors open, then gestured for them to proceed down the stairs inside. At least, Evelyn assumed there were stairs. It was hard to tell in the Stygian blackness.
Paul went first, followed by Abram, then Evelyn herself, then Sean. Cosca brought up the rear and closed the door behind them as soon as he’d descended the two steps necessary to allow the door to fully shut.
Almost immediately, a match flared in the darkness ahead. Evelyn jumped and felt her jolt of adrenaline ricochet through the minds of her three companions.
“Come, quickly,” a soft voice said in French. The match dimmed, then the soft glow of an oil lamp replaced it, spreading light throughout the cellar. “Come in! I am Elise Bertrand, and you are very welcome here.”
As they continued down the stairs, Evelyn got a look at Elise Bertrand. She seemed...soft. Fleshy. She was heavyset with steel gray hair and dark, penetrating eyes. Her smile, though, was warm and bright as she got a look at each of them. With expansive gestures, she shooed them each down the stairs and into a large room. Tall wooden racks lined the walls, and as Evelyn got closer, she could see a few dust-covered bottles here and there. A wine cellar, then, though it looked as if the contents had recently been pretty thoroughly looted. Evelyn supposed that was the way of things in an occupied country.
Madame Bertrand must have noticed Evelyn looking, for she carried the lamp over and gave a soft sigh.
“Ah, my poor cellar. The Boches, they take what they will. But we do not worry, my vines and me,” she said with a knowing smile and a pat on Evelyn’s shoulder. “We will get your men back into the fight, and they will water the soil with Boches’ blood, no? What delicious wines my vines shall make then!”
Unsure how to answer this bloodthirsty declaration, Evelyn gave the woman a small smile. Madame Bertrand clucked and patted her face gently.
“Poor lamb. You look so tired. All of you are tired, I daresay. Come, here in the corner, I have a few mattresses and blankets. It is not much, but you can sleep for a few hours. I will wake you for dinner, and then we shall listen to the radio. If it is a good evening for my friend Alphonse, then it will be a good evening for us, as well!”
Evelyn followed where their hostess led, and soon enough she lay wrapped in warm woolen blankets, curled between Sean and Paul, while Abram sat up for the first watch. They were probably safe here, but as always, it never hurt to be sure. Evelyn let her eyes fall closed, and sleep quickly rose to claim her.
The rest of the day passed in a combination of exhausted napping and punishing boredom for the four of them. The flickering light of their oil lamp served as both a source of illumination and a marker of time’s passage. When the oil level had dropped to about half, Madame Bertrand returned, bringing water, bread, and cheese for them to eat.
“It is a good day,” she said, her smile brighter than the lamplight. “Rainy and dreary. Perfect for your escape, though it will not be comfortable for you, I fear, poor lambs. But we shall see, we shall see. Will it be a good night for Alphonse? Only he can say.” With this cryptic statement and a broad wink, Madame Bertrand left them, exiting through a door about halfway up the wall that presumably led into the farmhouse. The wooden stairs that led to the door creaked with each of her heavy-footed steps, and a tiny corner of Evelyn’s mind wondered if the woman felt at all vulnerable, as if it might collapse. Evelyn certainly would have.
“Why does she keep talking about her friend Alphonse?” Sean asked as he began to spread cheese on a piece of bread. He handed the piece to Evelyn and then looked inquiringly up at the others.
“Beats me,” Paul said.
“I think it’s a code,” Evelyn said. “She mentioned listening to the radio. I imagine ‘Alphonse’ is some kind of code word telling us whether our escape will be happening tonight or not. The BBC does those broadcasts, you know.”
“That’s right!” Abram said, his face lighting up. “And she mentioned it being a ‘good night’ or a ‘good evening.’ That’s got to mean that we would go. Perhaps if we won’t, it will be a bad night.”
“I think you may be right.”
They spoke aloud, in hushed tones, because it seemed to make the darkness outside their circle of lantern light less oppressive. After a while longer, Evelyn found herself dozing again, and she laid down once more. If nothing else, this experience had taught her the value of catching what sleep she could. She was vaguely aware of Madame Bertrand bringing water one more time before the motherly woman began shooing them all awake.
“Come, come!” she said, in that soft, yet intense voice. “It is nearly time for the broadcast. You must all come, to see if it will be a good night for Alphonse.”
She accompanied this last with a giggle that s
eemed more suited to a small girl than a decidedly matronly farmwife. Clearly Elise Bertrand had an adventurous soul and found the idea of aiding allied airmen (and Evelyn, about whom she seemed determined to ask no questions) to be romantic and fun.
So they all trooped up the rickety wooden staircase to the less cavernous (but every bit as ancient-looking) ground floor of the farmhouse. They’d entered the kitchen, for on the far wall, a cavernous fireplace dominated the room. The thing looked big enough to spit an entire heifer and still have room on the side racks to bake a few pies. Nothing roasted or baked there now, though a fire had burnt down to radiant coals. Evelyn found herself wondering if all houses in France had those huge fireplaces.
She hadn’t realized how damp and chill the basement had been until she stepped into the close warmth of the kitchen. Evelyn took a deep breath and smelled something baking, even if it wasn’t apparent in the fireplace. A still-ancient iron stove stood in the corner between the hearth and the adjoining wall.
Whatever is baking must be inside that stove, she thought idly, more to cover the embarrassment of her stomach’s sudden rumbling than anything else.
I hope it’s for us, Abram said. I have no idea how many hours have passed, but that bread and cheese seemed ages ago.
“This way,” Madame Bertrand said, as she stood in a doorway facing the stove and waved them forward. Evelyn felt a slight pang of regret as they filed past the vast wooden work table and out into another room.
Though not nearly as warm, this room also boasted a small fireplace with a cheery blaze, along with several mismatched upholstered chairs.
“Sit, sit!” Madame Bertrand said, and turned to bustle over to the large cabinet on the wall. Evelyn had just settled into the chair when she realized the French woman wasn’t opening the cabinet, she was pushing it to one side.
Sean immediately leapt up to help her, but she waved him off with a clucking sound.
“I am fat, not weak!” she said in French, which Evelyn belatedly translated. “And anyway, it’s on a mechanism. Isn’t that clever?”
Sure enough, the cabinet, which looked as old and permanent as the kitchen hearth had done, slid to the side to reveal a shallow alcove. Inside this alcove stood a plain table, upon which sat a very modern-looking radio set. To the astonishment of the men, Madame Bertrand’s fingers flew competently over the knobs and buttons. Before long, the tinny voice of the BBC radio announcer came through the small square speaker.
“Here we are now,” Madame Bertrand said, and Evelyn felt a shock ricochet through her system, echoed and magnified by that of the men. The woman had spoken in crisp, British-accented English!
“Oh? This is a surprise to you? How delightful,” Madame Bertrand went on, a wicked twinkle in her eye. “I do so love surprising our allies. Yes, children, I am French by marriage, but I was born in Merry Olde England. Did you enjoy my ‘eccentric French farmwife’ performance? I suppose it’s not strictly a performance, as I am all of those things.”
“You’re a spy?” Abram breathed. He seemed the most flabbergasted of them all. Paul seemed to have a policy of never showing his surprise, even when it was clear to all in the net. Sean was a little more forthcoming, but he was usually quicker to roll with the punches.
“An agent, if you will. I work for MI-9. And that is all I shall tell any of you, in case the worst is to happen. Rest assured that if this house is ever raided, there are traps within traps to destroy my lovely radio and all of the other toys I have hidden around. This house has been here for a long time, my dears. And I daresay this is not the first time it’s seen clandestine use in its history.”
Fascinated, Evelyn began to ask more about that, but Madame Bertrand shushed her and turned up the volume dial on the radio set. The BBC announcer informed them they’d been listening to a program called “The French Speak to the French.” There was a brief pause, and then he began to recite his litany of phrases which may, or may not, have meaning.
“Labrosse will bring his catch to the market in the morning...Dumais will meet his wife at the Shelburne hotel gala...The Cyclones have devastated the central plains...Yvonne always thinks of the happy occasion...”
Madame Bertrand let out a sigh and leaned forward to turn the dial down.
“Well,” she said. “This is not such bad news, I suppose.”
“It is not a good night for Alphonse?” Sean asked quietly. Madame Bertrand flashed him her quick smile.
“No, my dear child. But tomorrow night should be. We are delayed for twenty-four hours. So you might as well all get some dinner...and then more sleep, I think. Tomorrow will be a busy night.”
* * *
So, in the end, they didn’t go anywhere that night after all.
Madame Bertrand fed them a kind of thick vegetable stew, with a pie made from preserved fruit for dessert. It was delicious and filling, and possibly the best thing Evelyn had eaten since...well, she wasn’t sure when. Since they’d been picked up by the members of the Resistance in Belgium, the helpers had been incredibly generous to them. They’d been clothed, sheltered, cared for, and fed, and Evelyn had taken all of it with extreme gratitude. The men, too. After being on their own, a simple loaf of bread had seemed like ambrosia of the gods, and even the poorest of fare benefited from that most delectable of sauces: hunger.
That meal, on the other hand, needed no help. As the flavors and scents of honey and fruit and cream soaked through Evelyn’s brain, she realized that among her many mysterious accomplishments, Elise Bertrand was also a gourmet, and quite possibly the finest pie-maker Evelyn had ever encountered.
“Madame,” Evelyn asked in French, as the five of them worked to clean up the kitchen. “I hope I don’t offend, but...may I have the recipe for your pie?”
Madame Bertrand looked over the basin of soapy water at Evelyn and gave a chuckle.
“Why on earth would that offend me, child?” she asked, responding in French. “Of course. I’ll write it out for you when we’re finished here. It may not survive the journey home, but at least we shall give a try, hey?”
“I would appreciate that very much, Madame.”
“Oh, it would be my pleasure, child. I’m pleased you liked the pie. It is good, isn’t it? My husband, God rest him, loved my pies when he lived. I would have had to have made two of them tonight!” She gave a small smile and looked down at the work in her hands. Even linked in with the men and deliberately not reaching out, Evelyn could feel the sadness roll off of this remarkable woman.
“I am sorry for your loss, Madame,” she said quietly.
“Oh, thank you,” Madame Bertrand said, giving a mighty sniff and swiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “It is silly, but I miss him still. He’s been gone for nearly ten years! But he was a good man. Such a sense of fun! He would have dearly loved all of this sneaking about.”
“Forgive me,” Evelyn said with a smile. “But I suspect he is not the only one.”
“Yes, well,” Madame Bertrand shrugged, the smile returning to her lips. “It is rather exciting, is it not? Staying one step ahead of the Boches, helping the young, desperate airmen...and you, of course. It helps me feel young again, I suppose.”
“But you are safe, here? You do not worry you will be caught?” Evelyn thought of poor Nanette Cosca and her palpable fear of that very thing.
“None of us are ever safe, my dear child. Safety is an illusion. My beloved is dead, my children grown and gone. All I have left are my vines and this house...and whatever adventures I can conjure up for myself. If I am caught...well...I will count it my duty to both King and Republique to do the best I can to resist. And that shall be an adventure of its own, shall it not?”
Evelyn thought of her own brief time as a captive of the Germans, and the storm lurking in the depths of her mind began to rise up, howling. She swallowed hard and shoved it down, locked it away. She was here, now, with this woman and her men. Without conscious thought, she reached out to each of them as they went about their own
cleaning chores.
Evie? Sean, of course.
I’m okay, she sent in a hurry. I’m sorry, she just...something she said surprised me. I’m fine.
All right, Sean sent slowly. Evelyn kept her eyes on the dishes, but she could feel him looking over at her, concerned. Abram and Paul, too, but they were quicker to accept her assurances. Sean worried.
Sean always worried about her.
And that was yet another thing Evelyn didn’t want to think about, so she finished with the plate she was washing and quickly put it on the drying board before grabbing another.
Only to find Madame Bertrand looking closely at her as well.
“I am sorry,” Evelyn said, giving a little laugh. “I did not mean to go off woolgathering. I was just...you are very brave, Madame. I do not know that I could be so brave.”
“Ah, child, but you are,” Madame Bertrand said, wisdom replacing the mischief in her smile. “You are exactly that brave. Courage is not the absence of fear, my girl. It is moving forward, even in the face of that fear. Never question your courage, American girl. You have it and to spare. I will go copy that recipe for you now.”
And with that, she grabbed a dishtowel, dried her hands, and left. Evelyn blinked, her hands buried in soapy dishwater as she held the last of their dessert plates.
“She’s right, you know,” Paul said into the silence that followed. Whether he’d been actually listening, or just following through the link, Evelyn didn’t know. “You are incredibly brave, Evie. I think you’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known.”
“Me too,” Sean said.
“And me,” Abram said. “None of us would have made it this far without you, Evie. I wish you’d believe in yourself the way you believe in us.”
Whether it was the remarkable conversation she’d just had or the repetition of sentiments from her men, Evelyn didn’t know. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel shy or ashamed at the praise. She’d never been daring or adventurous. Not like Mary. When she thought of courage, Mary’s vivacious personality and vivid beauty came to mind. Either that or the brash bravado that men like her lost ball turret gunner, Logan Ayala, had displayed. It had never occurred to her that quiet perseverance could be brave in its own way. But then her mind flashed back to the calm voice of Carl as he ordered them to bail out, knowing he would probably not survive the crash that was coming. She’d known his fear...she’d felt it in the net. But he’d still forced his voice and his demeanor to be calm and collected. And he’d stayed at the controls in order to give them the best chance of survival. If that wasn’t bravery...
