by Lou Cadle
“Don’t lose your caution.”
“For my fellow Résistance members, I will not. But if they capture me the day before liberation, and I give my last breath to kill a hundred Nazis, I will die a happy man.”
“Don’t die. Your family wants you to live to celebrate the liberation. I want you to live too.”
He embraced her by grabbing her arms, giving her la bise, the double kiss on the cheeks, with great enthusiasm. “This is the best of messages.”
“Yes,” she said, though she didn’t entirely share his feelings. Her own were mixed. “I will come back to town at dawn a week from tomorrow, then. To Madame’s shop?”
“Yes, unless I find a better spot for you, and she will give a message to you about that. Until then.” He dropped her arms and shook her hand with a hearty double-pump.
“Don’t forget to send me a helper tonight, or two, if you can spare two. No later than midnight.”
“I will remember. Vive la France.”
“Vive le Résistance,” she said.
All that day, Will faded in and out of sleep. Madame Formoy brought them an omelet for dinner, and Antonia handed her two extra rolls.
“I can’t take your food,” she said.
“We’ve taken yours, and your hospitality. I will be gone by the morning,” Antonia told her.
“I also have this for you,” she said, and she handed over a folded square of material.
Antonia shook it out and found it was a woman’s blouse, out of fashion, but once nice.
“You used yours to bandage him,” she said.
“I can’t take this.”
“It doesn’t fit me,” the old woman said. “You may as well get some use out of it.”
“Thank you,” Antonia said. She would have bought herself another once she was back in town, but she would not offend the woman by refusing this gift.
“You must keep yourself safe,” she said. “And keep my Claude out of trouble, would you?”
“I will do my best. He is a brave man.”
“Some fail the test,” she said. “But others rise to the occasion.”
“As you have,” Antonia said. “Thank you again.”
The old woman discounted the praise with an abrupt gesture and left.
Once again, Will didn’t want to eat. She didn’t force him. It would be hard enough for him riding the tiny plane if the weather was at all bad over the Channel. She didn’t want the plane’s crewman to have to clean up after him.
The airfield was near to this road, so that made walking easier. She left in what she thought was plenty of time, but he was slower than even the day after he’d been tortured.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I can’t walk.”
“It’s the fever,” she said, hoping that was all it was. At least she wasn’t carrying any baggage this time, so she could help him along.
“I wish you’d come with me.”
“You know I can’t.” With the news about the invasion, even more of her wanted to stay here and make life difficult for the Nazis. She had made the commitment, and even if a piece of her heart wanted to stay by Will’s side, she would do her duty. But her heart was torn—not as it had been, torn to pieces, but in a new way, a better way. She had two things she cared about now. Her Résistance cell and her duty was one, and this man was the other.
After so many months of emptiness, it was a fullness of heart she hardly knew what to do with. It felt good, but it terrified her. She wanted to cling to all of it, and she wanted to push all of it away.
“You’re thinking.”
“Does something grind in my head when I do, Mr. Engineer?” she said. “Perhaps it needs oiling.”
He managed a quick laugh before he had to gasp for air. She wished she knew what was wrong inside him. She hoped it was nothing worse than a mild infection and that they could fix it in hospital back in England. “No grinding. I can just tell. You worry a lot.”
“There is a lot to worry about.”
“Are we close?”
“Not far at all. It’s past the next farm, and down a path to the right, and that path goes downhill slightly. The field could be boggy, but it hasn’t rained at all in the past week so I think it will be all right.”
“A Lizzie could manage a bit of bog.”
“I’m sure that’s what will come for you.”
“I don’t deserve anything bigger.”
“You don’t want anything bigger. Small targets are harder to hit.”
He nodded, and they kept on, slow step after slow step, through the moonlit French countryside. It stuck her that, under different circumstances, it might have been a romantic walk.
But if the circumstances were different, cars would be speeding by them, and people would smile and wave at them. And in other circumstances, she’d never have met Will to walk alongside.
They reached the field and she let him sit on a fallen log at the edge of it while she checked the ground for obstacles that might present a problem for the plane. When she returned to him, she saw Genevieve was there, holding on to a bicycle.
“Bon soir,” she said to the girl.
“Is this happening?” she responded, as if irritated to be here.
“Do you have someplace you’d rather be?” The girl disturbed the small pocket of contentment she’d been feeling with Will.
“It’s pointless work, of little use,” Genevieve said. “Here’s your new torch. I have one of my own.”
Antonia interpreted for Will.
“Not without use to me,” he said, in not quite grammatical French. “Not at all. Thank you very much for your help.” He used the formal “you” with her, elevating her status to that of an equal adult.
And Antonia supposed she was, in a way.
“It’s nothing,” the girl responded automatically. “Anyway. Where are they?”
Antonia took out her watch and checked it. “We should set up in about fifteen minutes. They might be early. But they are not due for almost a half an hour.”
“I have a white torch. Where do I go?”
“They’ll land into the wind.”
“I know that,” she said, surly as always.
“I’ll set up the red light first,” Antonia said.
“Why not have him hold it?”
“Because he’s not well, and I don’t know that he can run fast enough to get out of their way in time. You do know that he was tortured? For many days?”
For once, the girl had no smart answer.
“I’ll set up the red light. Then you come behind me, upwind and stand to the side. Yes?”
“I know the routine,” she said.
Antonia tried to remind herself the girl had had a hard life. She touched Will’s shoulder before she left him, and then she paced the length of the field to a point safely away from the trees. With her heel, she dug an impression into the low grass and set up the red light, pointing it not straight up but at a slight angle. The light she held in her hands, she could adjust in angle as the plane drew near.
Genevieve took a position the right distance away, and Antonia took the final position of the triangle. Moonlight lit the field.
She glanced often at Will, sitting at the side of the field, and once he raised a hand to acknowledge her attention.
Genevieve said, “Here it comes.”
Her hearing was better, younger. Or perhaps Antonia’s had lost something with the explosions at the bridge.
But in a minute, she heard it too, the familiar sound of a Lysander’s engine. She held her light in the direction she thought it was coming from. It appeared then, moving low and slow, and passed over them, getting a look at things. The pilot must have seen the red light just fine, for he came in over the correct approach line. Genevieve held her ground for as long as possible and then dashed out of their way, and a moment later, Antonia did the same, running back to Will.
“Time to go,” she said to him.
“I’m coming,” he said, but he
needed her arm to get up. He was radiating heat.
The plane made a half circle and came to a stop. The second man in the Lizzie opened the door, and he carried out two boxes, stacked. “The bottom one is heavy,” he said, as he drew near her. “I’ll move it over this way so we don’t hit them on the way out.”
“Thank you,” she said.
She and Will were at the door. It was time to say goodbye.
He held onto her hands.
She wished she had something to give him. And then she realized she did. She leaned forward and said, loudly enough, into his ear, “Antonia.” She leaned back to look at him one last time.
“What?” he yelled back.
She leaned in again. “It’s my name. Antonia. And I’ve fallen in love with you, I’m afraid.”
She couldn’t see his face that well, but she could feel the last, firm pressure of his hands.
“Let’s go,” said the navigator, trotting up.
“He’s hurt,” she said to him, taking a step back and letting go.
“Okay, we’ll be gentle. Upsa-daisy, mate,” he said, and he helped Will up into the plane. He followed him in, and Antonia swung the door nearly to. He grabbed it, it shut, and that was that.
She backed up, and then turned to trot away. The plane rolled the whole length of the field, turned at the end, and took off into the wind, pointed away from England. But then it was in the air, and she could hear it make a loop back, and it was headed the right way, west, into freedom.
“What’s in the boxes?” Genevieve, once again at her side, shining her torch onto the boxes.
“Supplies,” Antonia said, forcing her attention away from the plane and its precious cargo. She was surprised she could speak at all. She pried open the top box, unwrapping the corner of a bundle. Bank notes. Thousand-franc notes, this batch. She rewrapped the money. “We need to get some of this to Claude.”
“I have saddle bags on the bicycle.”
“Good. You’ll take a few bundles with you. I’ll get the red light while you go for your bike, and then I’ll get the heavier box and deal with it alone. You take this packet to Claude. Or to someone. Leonce, perhaps. Do you know where he is?”
“I know where Leonce lives.”
“Good. That will do. Go straight to Claude if he isn’t involved in an operation, or to Leonce.” Not that she thought the girl would steal the money. She was a good circuit member and knew what this money could do for them—bribe guards or officials, buy supplies, buy train tickets, disguises, or information—so many things.
They loaded up the parcels of currency into her saddle bags, as many as would fit, and two more were tucked inside the girl’s jacket. There were four bundles left for Antonia to carry.
The girl rode off, and Antonia let loose of her self-control and let a few tears fall, for Will, for the part of her heart flying off with him. She quickly gained control of herself. There was work to do, and if any German or collaborator had spotted or heard the plane, she had to have the guns and herself under cover before they arrived with spotlights and rifles.
She could lift the box, though not comfortably, so she transferred a third of the pistols—American, it looked like—into the empty money box, and took the heavier one to the patch of woods on the other side of the field. She found a good spot not too far in, a depression where leaves had gathered, half rotting over the winter. She tucked the box in, ran across the field for the rest of the guns and money, and carried them over as well. After tucking that one into the depression too, she shone her torch around until she saw a thick fallen pine branch, dragged that over, and put it over the boxes. A smaller limb with dead needles still attached went next. She kicked more leaves over that, and she thought it was good enough. Claude could retrieve it tomorrow. She left the woods, counted ten trees to the left, and used her sleeve dagger to carve a double horizontal line on its bark, like the crossbars of the Cross of Lorraine. That would be enough to explain to Claude where to find the boxes.
Then she ran out of the field and made for the road.
A car was passing when she reached the road, going awfully slowly. She threw herself down behind a fence—not much cover, but it was what she had. The car slowed more. She tried not to move an inch as the purring engine passed.
She was about to breathe out a sigh of relief when the car stopped. A squeak of brakes gave it away. A voice, speaking German, came to her ears.
Part III
Chapter 32
Damn it.
Had Genevieve gotten away? The girl was cautious and clever, a more experienced guerilla than Antonia herself. Surely had she heard any car coming, she’d have pulled the bicycle off the road.
Antonia tried not to think what would happen to the girl if they discovered the banknotes on her. She could not play at being an innocent child if that happened.
Antonia worried about that girl, but she knew she should focus instead on her own perilous situation. Had someone called the German headquarters and reported the plane? Or had they had a stroke of luck and been nearby and heard the sound of it taking off?
She prayed the plane was still in the air. The thought of it being shot down was too horrible to dwell on.
A crunch of leaves made her tense even more. “Yes, there is a field,” the man said, and there were a few more words, but she didn’t catch the meaning. Her German wasn’t up to it. Whatever happened to her tonight, this field was no longer of use to the Résistance. Was the ground soft enough that the plane’s wheels had left marks they could see with a flashlight? She didn’t think so.
An order barked from inside the car made the nearer voice call out a sharp “Ya,” with a lengthy title she didn’t quite catch. Ober-something. The soldier passed her, walking straight back to the field, his feet crunching in the dried grass. She lifted her head just far enough to turn it and looked for the car. She did not see it.
That meant they couldn’t see her either. As the sound of the footsteps faded, she crawled on her belly, scooting along the fence line, away from the sound of the idling car, wincing at every crunch of a leaf. She drew farther and farther away, until the car engine noise faded to nothing. Then she pushed herself up to hands and knees and made better time. She stopped when a cross fence of stone barred her way
Cautiously, she rose onto her haunches, looking behind her for the car. She saw nothing. Best be careful though. She dug around her in the hard ground, looking for a patch of dirt. She clawed some up and rubbed it on her face, neck, and hands. Then she climbed over the stone fence and ran, hunched over.
The moonlight was just enough to see by, letting her skirt around a big pile of cow dung. Ahead was a dark patch of trees. In a shadow at the edge of the copse, she tripped over a stump and fell headlong onto the ground, jarring her jaw and setting her head to ringing.
A little more effort was all she needed. She rolled over and crawled on hands and knees again, feeling ahead of her every few feet.
She found a broad tree trunk and sidled around it until her back was against it and she was facing away from where she’d last seen the car. A cocoon of odor surrounded her, rotting leaves. There was no way she could be seen here.
On a whim, she spoke softly. “Genevieve, are you around?”
There was no answer. The girl must have gotten much farther along the road than this by the time the car passed her. It had taken several minutes to hide the boxes.
Antonia closed her eyes—though that was hardly necessary, as dark as it was under the trees—and thought back over how she’d hidden them. She had done it well. Though a detailed search in daylight might reveal them, they were safe tonight, she believed.
Should she walk all the way into town and leave a message about the boxes at one of the drops?
No, not necessary. Not helpful. The Germans would find the weapons, or they would not, and pushing Claude to send someone to retrieve the weapons at dawn might only get them arrested. Genevieve would have seen the staff car and could pass along a w
arning. In two or three days, Claude could send someone to see if it was safe to retrieve the weapons. Surely the Germans wouldn’t bother posting a guard there for that long.
And if they did, a single guard could be shot.
Not her problem to solve tonight. Her problem was not getting caught in the next few minutes. She sat there, eyes closed, and her mind drifted, back to Will’s hands in hers before he boarded the plane, the warm weight of them. She wished she had been able to see him better, to have that final memory of his face.
He had said memories could sustain you. In her experience, they hurt you. But she was willing to learn a new way. She had given him her real name. If she survived this, he might find her one day.
That would require her surviving. If she didn’t survive, she’d had a few days of joy mixed with her worry and fear. Sleeping next to him, making love, the first kiss on the road, all of those memories were hers, and no one could take them from her. If she were to die, she’d die holding them close to her heart. An inner voice came, as if not her own, saying Make it the line that ties you to life.
The night wore on and, despite everything, she began to drowse. The sound of a car engine brought her alert. In crawling away from the fence, she had drifted several dozen yards from the road, but she still heard the engine clearly. The same car, she thought, going slowly. Searching—searching for her, though they did not know it.
It passed. She waited another ten minutes and then she rose, shedding leaves, and she edged out of the woods. At the line of shadow where one more step meant that moonlight would shine upon her again, she stopped and looked carefully in every direction, and then held her breath and listened. Not a sound, not even a night bird.
Staying as quiet as possible, she approached the road, a line of silver, lit by the moon. She crossed the road and walked along its edge, not far from the weeds there, ready to throw herself into a ditch or behind a bush if she heard a suspicious sound.
But not that car, and no other cars, passed her. She kept expecting the German car to retrace its route, but it did not. Perhaps they had decided they were mistaken. Perhaps they were waiting for daylight to come back and search the field. She made it all the way to the barn, entered to be greeted by the sleepy questions of the chicken, and shushed them. They quieted. They had grown used to her voice, as she had grown used to theirs. In the stall, there were her bags, just as she’d left them, the skirt and new blouse and supplies, and the radio.
