by Lou Cadle
“Don’t even talk about that.”
She smiled. “I forgot. You don’t like heights.”
“Top of a horse is about as far up as I want to be.”
She had started taking out the second hem. “Have you had a chance to ride since coming to England?”
“Once. But it wasn’t the same.”
“No cowboys in England,” she said.
“Something like that.”
The second hem’s stitching came out easier, or she had learned the trick of doing it, and she handed him the trousers. “Take yours off and let me see.”
He laughed.
It took her a second to understand the alternate interpretation of what she’d said. “See how much material I should turn up for the hem,” she said, making herself sound stern.
“Yes, ma’am.” He held out his hand and she tossed him the uniform trousers. He went behind the stairs to change and came back in a minute. “At least they fit well at the waist. Otherwise, I couldn’t run in them.”
“Come into the better light here.”
“There’s quite a crease where the old fold was.”
“We can run it along the edge of a stair. Not as good as pressing it, but it’ll be dark enough at midnight to hide the imperfection.”
“Hope I don’t run into some Ober-whatever who’ll yell at me for improper dress.”
“It’ll be in German, so you won’t even understand he’s yelling.”
“Officers always make themselves understood, even in other languages.”
“You’re an officer. So am I,” she said, tugging at the bottom of his trousers and crawling around to check out what she’d have to do.
“We’re officers because of circumstance, you and me. Not because of inclination.”
He had a point. “I don’t long to order others about.”
“What would you be if—?” He snorted in amusement. “Sorry. I know, I know. Nothing personal.”
“Take off the trousers again. I know what I need to do with them. Too bad the end isn’t finished well. Otherwise, I wouldn’t hem them at all. They are nearly the right length.”
He changed and came back to where she sat on the floor. Instead of handing her the German trousers and backing away, he squatted down next to her. “Thank you for doing this.”
“I’m not busy otherwise.”
“Except for trying to help me with French and so on.”
“In twelve hours, that probably won’t matter. You’ll be hidden away with your prisoner, and soon after that, a day or two at most, I’ll radio in and you’ll be jumping into a Lysander, taking off once more for the land of English speakers.”
He said, “I’ll miss you.”
For a moment, she thought he was going to lean in and touch her face again. But he thought better of it. Maybe he read something in her expression. It was a terrible idea, succumbing to the lure of a romance, or to lust, at such a time. Yes, he was attractive, and yes, she did like him. He was a gentle, kind soul, with intelligence and a sense of humor.
They stared at each other for long seconds, but neither bridged the space between.
“You know—” she said, just as he stood and spoke.
“I have a quest—” And then he stopped. “You first.”
“No, it was nothing.” She was going to lecture him—or herself—about how in a high-pressure situation, when death seemed around any corner, it was normal to cling to any sign of life. Sex was an urge toward life in the face of death. But it was a distraction that might bring death nearer. She didn’t say any of that, for she was not in the mood to hear herself lecture, not on this topic. “Go on.”
“I was hoping that maybe, when all this is over….” He gestured around the room, but he meant France, the war, everything. “I’d like to call on you.”
“I can’t tell you my name. And you shouldn’t tell me yours either.”
“We can agree to meet. The first of the month after the peace is declared. In London. At Kensington. Do you know the Peter Pan statue?”
She did know it. But she hesitated. She was unlikely to live until the peace was declared. He shouldn’t make any plans that included her. For the second time, the thought of dying here troubled her. A spark of life had awakened in her, alluring. Dangerous.
He misunderstood her hesitation. “Are you involved? Married?”
“I don’t know.” She had no idea why she told him the truth.
“How do I convince you, then? I’d like for us not to lose touch.”
“No,” she said. “That’s not what I meant. I meant I don’t know.”
“Then—” he began, frowning. And he grasped what she had meant. “Oh. I’m sorry.” He turned away and cleared his throat. “When?”
“Over a year ago.” She shouldn’t say even this much. What had come over her?
“It must be bloody hard.”
“I’m not the only one. Husbands, wives, mothers, fathers. A lot don’t know. A lot received the same flimsy I did. Thousands are missing.”
“But you don’t love all of them.”
She hadn’t cried over it since her meeting where she learned Reg was very likely dead. She’d toughened up after that. But she wanted to cry now. Instead, she bit her lip and turned to her sewing.
He let her gather herself before he spoke again. “I’d still like to keep in touch. And meet him, when he returns. I’m sure he’s a good man.”
“He’s probably dead,” she said. “Very probably. A million to one odds against his having made it. In a year, I would have heard. Were the news good, I’d have heard.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged and bit her lip harder. The needle blurred for a moment, but she managed not to allow a tear to fall.
“I find myself wanting to ask more questions. How and where, but I know you don’t want to talk about that. Security and all.”
She nodded without looking up. Just sew, Antonia. Needle in, pull, tug snug, needle in again.
A few minutes went by and then he said, “I like Kensington. One of my favorite places in London, though I haven’t had much time there. I’m not much for cities at all, but if you force me to be in one, give me a good park.”
She appreciated his attempt to shift to light conversation.
“I have to confess, I can’t sit through a whole night of theater. Or music. I’m having a hard enough time sitting in this one room and never seeing the sky.”
“Prison would be hard for you, I think,” she said. She was relieved that it came out in a steady voice.
He laughed a little, which surprised her.
She looked up and him and he shook his head. “I don’t think prison is easy for anyone.”
“People who do nothing but crossword puzzles and listen to the radio might tolerate it better.” She managed a small smile. “Than a cowboy.”
“Sheep, actually.”
“I must have missed that. I assumed cows. Do they have a word like ‘sheepboy’ in the Americas?’”
Now he really laughed, his head flung back, abandoning himself to it. He was wiping his eyes when he spoke again. “No. Just ‘rancher.’”
“My mental picture must change now.”
“Less rugged, right?”
“Dots of white on the horizon, not brown.” She was almost done with the second hem. “I have a confession that may make you hate me.”
“What’s that?”
“I hate lamb. Can’t bear the taste of it.”
“Not too fond of it myself. I know what goes into making it. That might be the reason. But don’t spread the rumor about me.”
“Loose lips sink ships,” she said. “Or sheep ranches.”
“I’d deny it anyhow, ma’am.” He affected a cowboy movie twang.
“Here. Try these on one last time. And then I want to draw you a map of town, in case we get separated. And then we should nap if we can.”
“I doubt I can.” He took the trousers from her.
“Close our eyes
and rest, then. We might not sleep until almost dawn, depending.”
“I know.” He went back behind the steps to change, came out and showed her the German trousers.
“I’ll work on those creases from the old hem next. But it’ll do.”
“It’s a fine job. And how about I work on the creases while you draw me a map of town?”
“You’ll need to memorize it. We will burn it when you have.”
“Why?” He came out, dressed in his own clothes again. Or the clothes SOE had given him, rather.
“You don’t want to get caught with it.”
“Beatriz—or whatever you name really is, and I know, you won’t tell me.” He shook his head. “If I’m caught in a German uniform, unable to speak more than twenty-five words of German or French, I fear the game is up, rather. Don’t you think?”
“Don’t get caught,” she said.
She had probably broken the rules a half-dozen times with him today, but one she would not break was showing him where other safe houses were. She didn’t mark the message drop sites, or the bakery, or the barn outside of town—none of that, though she physically ached with the urge to. She wanted him safe, but she only marked this house, the cathedral, and a monastery in town. “Sometimes, I was taught in England, the Brothers will hide someone. Or the Father.”
“All right,” he said. “I don’t speak Latin either.”
“Let me teach you a few phrases in French then.” And she let him commit the map to memory while she taught him how to ask for sanctuary.
Neither of them slept. But they did finish their bread and berries and lie down in the dark, each with their own blanket, and wait for 9:30 to come, and Claude, and the kidnapping.
Chapter 22
The mood in the car was tense. It was a risky plan. To be caught in uniform was to be known as a spy. So much could go wrong.
“What if they don’t come?” she asked Claude. “What if he decides to go home with an officer to his villa or—?”
“If he never shows up here, we’ll try tomorrow, as they leave the hotel in the morning. Or when he leaves, on the road outside of town, the morning after that. But it would be better to do it at night.”
“Much,” she said. “I’m not questioning your plan, Claude. I’m nervous.”
“I hope he is drunk,” said Edgard. “Or that they all are.”
“The others won’t be drunk,” she said. “Not the driver. Not the guard.” She interpreted for Bernard.
Bernard said, “I wouldn’t think so. And unless he has changed, I doubt very much that Hesse will be stinko.”
“What is this stinko?” Claude said.
“Stinking drunk,” she said in French. “Very drunk.”
“Plastered,” Bernard suggested in English. “Squiffy. Flossicated.”
“You’re making up those last two,” she said.
“No. Although ‘squiffy’ is a lesser drunk than ‘stinko.’”
Claude said, “In French, we say this.” And he proceeded to offer a half-dozen slang terms for ‘intoxicated.’ Edgard, catching the topic, suggested two more.
“Lathered. Poggled,” said Bernard.
She was glad to see them relieving some tension. She felt the deflation of nerves, almost a physical change in the atmosphere in the car. She was not worried at all that it would make them lax during the operation. It was good to joke, beforehand and after, if there were anything to joke about by that point.
“Men,” Genevieve said to Antonia, disgusted.
“I know,” she whispered. “They are adorable, are they not?”
“Huh. I think you’re drunk,” Genevieve said.
It was almost true. She was drunk, on fear, on hope. What Bernard had said to her this afternoon was working on her, changing her. The more she wanted to live, the less she wanted to die. She reached for her locket with the L-pill, to remind herself of her obligation, but her hand did not make it that far.
“It’s just another operation,” she said to Genevieve, but she was talking to herself as much as she was to the girl. “You have completed many successful ones.”
“A lot more than you,” she said, which was the simple truth.
“We’re almost there,” Claude said, and he turned off the headlights. He parked them near an alleyway, two blocks away from where they were setting up the false checkpoint. As the car slowed for being parked, Bernard reached out and took her hand in his. She gave his a quick squeeze and dropped it to exit the car.
As had been arranged beforehand, Genevieve and Antonia exited the car and checked for witnesses. Genevieve checked windows and doors overlooking their route. Antonia went into the alley and made sure it was clear for a full block ahead.
Clear. She trotted back and waved everyone out of the car. They should move quickly, while it was safe. She shouldn’t have been surprised when Claude and Edgard pulled from the boot of the car a set of boards. There were two hinged supports and a pair of long boards. Of course, a makeshift barrier for the checkpoint. She carried Edgard’s German rifle while he and Claude carried the boards. Bernard carried his own rifle.
They made it to the fake checkpoint without a problem. There were a couple of lights visible behind blackout curtains, people who hadn’t secured their windows from leaking light onto the alley, but no one had glanced out. It was still before 10:00, so of course not everyone would be in bed. Soon though.
She hadn’t seen the spot where they were going to run the operation. She had to mentally transfer what they’d practiced in the woods to the actual site. The street was not a major avenue, but it was not narrow either.
She saw Bernard fix his bayonet to his rifle. When the barrier had been raised, she would return to Edgard his rifle.
They deployed in roughly the same configuration as they’d practiced in the meadow. Antonia found a spot under an awning arched over a doorway. It cast a shadow from the moonlight, which seemed terribly bright. She was hidden from any casual glance her way. She returned to the group to see if she could help with anything.
The men spent a few minutes putting together the barrier. Edgard had a screwdriver and screws, and he attached the two boards by what must have been pre-drilled holes so that they made quite a long barrier. There was a white line freshly painted all along one end that caught the moonlight. They folded open the hinged supports and set the barrier on them.
No one came along while they did this. She wasn’t sure what they’d do if a car did pass right then. They arranged the barrier in the middle of the road, shifted it back and forth twice, and were finally happy with its placement.
Claude had chosen the spot well. There was even a curve behind them, so that the driver wouldn’t see them until he was a block away from the checkpoint. She tried to imagine what would happen inside that staff car. Would he mutter, “Damn. Checkpoint,” or would he not care? Might he be reaching for his identification as he slowed? She had no idea what they thought at such a moment. Maybe he would be proud that his countrymen were being so security-conscious.
And in the back of the car, would the scientist, Hesse, feel impatient? Be resting his eyes from the weariness of travel and meeting new people, his wits dulled by wine and too much food, and not even notice they were being stopped? And, most importantly, would the guard beside him tense up, reach for a gun, be more alert for trouble? Or momentarily would he be lulled by the idea that there was more security available in those manning the checkpoint?
She had been taught to imagine the enemy’s mindset and adapt her tactics to that. Here, she was just as happy to not be responsible for making the main decisions. She had too little military experience in wartime—and none as the member of an occupying force—to imagine fully what they might all be thinking.
In any case, it was her job to be ready to run up and support Edgard and Bernard.
They were all about to go to their own assigned spots when she saw a German soldier coming down the road, from town, approaching. She reached for her sleev
e dagger and watched, tense. But he said Claude’s name, and she realized it was only the man from the woods, dressed for the part.
Genevieve ran off to the curve in the road, waiting for the staff car. Or for a staff car. There was no way she could know if it was the right one or not. Edgard or the other man would have to determine that when they checked the papers of the men inside.
Ten minutes later, she heard a distant car engine, and it came nearer, but no signal came from Genevieve. She hoped the girl was paying attention.
But the car passed her, and it was a civilian car, an old Citroën, rattling along the rough pavement. It passed her and just beyond the checkpoint it backfired, startling her. It would have made her jump a foot into the air had that happened right by her. As it was, it sent her heart to racing.
No more cars came for a half hour, and she shifted position again and again, squatting down for a short time until her feet began to tingle, and then standing again and transferring her weight from foot to foot. She hoped that Hesse hadn’t taken another route to the hotel. Claude had said this was the most direct, the most logical. Perhaps they should have set up a detour sign along the second most likely route?
Too late to do anything about that thought now.
It must have been after 11:00 when Genevieve’s high whistle sounded again, clearly audible in the moonlit night.
The men moved quickly to their spots and then the car’s engine became audible. She could hear the tires on the pavement.
It passed Antonia. Yes, a German staff car, flag fluttering, with shadowy figures inside. She withdrew her sleeve dagger and tensed. She was on the balls of her feet, weight forward, ready to move.
“Halt!” A German word she knew. The new man called out the order. Then a request for papers, almost the same word in English, German, and French. She knew that to this point Bernard was following along with the words spoken. He had crossed behind the vehicle, staying close, and was now standing by the back door. All those inside could see of him would be his ribcage, his rifle, and his belt.
She was ready to move, ready to see someone pulled out and stabbed, when Edgard backed up and waved the car ahead. Bernard trotted around to join the new man in moving the barrier out of the car’s way.
