Violins of Autumn (18 page)

At the next table, the officer seated behind me begins to complain rather loudly. Paris doesn’t have quite the spark he
anticipated. I eavesdrop for a while, snickering over his blundering use of the French language.

“Where is the life?” he asks. “The joie de vivre I heard so much about? I ask you, where is the party?”

That final question, enunciated for dramatic effect, receives a big laugh from his tablemates. How clever of him to expect a party in a country squashed beneath Germany’s thumb. How funny to demand joy from people living without fuel and light and heat and hot water. Everyone I’ve met since coming to France has friends and loved ones who were taken away or killed.

“Where is the party?” My fingers clench into aching fists. “You should have come before you were here.”

Marie coughs a mouthful of champagne back into her glass. She covers her gaping mouth with her hand, looking at me with complete shock.

Denise grabs my forearm so tightly it’s sure to bruise. She sends a seductive grin over her chair’s headrest. “Please forgive my naughty friend, she’s only teasing. Champagne makes her ever so cheeky.”

The hint of depravity in the officer’s laugh makes my skin crawl.

Denise presses against me. “That wasn’t funny. We’re lucky that soldier is intoxicated enough to overlook such a comment.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

Things are steamrolling out of control. I never should have come to the bar. Denise seems at home in a place like this, but I’ve waded into territory I’m not cut out for yet. I’m floundering and about to take Denise and Marie down with me.

In that same moment, I become aware of anti-British jokes darting around on the other side of me.

“Denise, we’ve been here an hour and a half. We really should go now.”

“Yes, we’d better leave. You’re two sheets to the wind.”

It becomes clear to me that we aren’t meant to get out of this bar without a fight, when one of Ludwig’s friends, an ugly duckling whose name I didn’t bother to remember, stands at the head of our table, his hand raised to mimic holding a cup of tea, pinkie out. In a near-perfect, effeminate British accent he says, “I’m off to fight for my king and country.” On any other day the impersonation alone would be enough to send Denise flying over the table. Not content to leave it at that, he follows up with a slur against homosexuals and wraps it all up with this little bow, “We Brits love to have our arses handed to us on silver platters.”

I sit tight as a coiled spring, waiting to intercept Denise before she can tear the ugly duckling to unidentifiable shreds. Feathers are about to fly.

Denise stares at her empty champagne glass. She doesn’t budge.

Like a pious figurine, Marie presses her delicate porcelain-white hands together on her lap and stays perfectly still, her stunned gaze locked on Denise and me. I promise to be eternally grateful if the prayer coursing through her mind receives a swift response.

Things go on that way for the three of us for a heart-stopping minute, while the festive mood outside our little bubble doesn’t take so much as a hit.

During our SOE training at the manor, our ability to handle anti-British sentiment was put to the test. It’s a surefire bet agents will encounter it in the field, not only from the Germans, but from the French. Anti-Allied propaganda posters and leaflets
litter Paris. Some trainees, unable to take the mock bashing lightly, cracked and started shooting their mouths off.

Denise must have held up well enough during those tests, but it’s one thing to deal with fake insults in a training session led by a fellow Brit and quite another when the insults come from the mouth of a soldier whose maniacal leader has partially destroyed your hometown and continues to bomb it on an almost daily basis.

A murmur whistles out from between Denise’s clenched teeth. “Get me out of here before I do something I’ll regret.”

I stagger to my feet. “Thank you for the lovely evening. We have to be going.”

Karl, the only boy in the group who speaks French well, comes around to pull my chair out for me. “Must you leave so soon? Stay and talk some more with me. I can see you home after curfew.”

“No,” I insist. “I enjoyed talking to you, but we need to catch the train.”

He gives me a peck on the cheek. “It was nice to meet you, Anise. See you another time, I hope.”

“My pleasure to meet you all.”

I grab Denise’s arm. Marie scrambles up to grab the other one. For a slim girl, Denise certainly is hefty. I stuff her new handbag into her hands.

One step at a time we inch closer to the exit and Mrs. Devereux’s table, with Denise wedged in the middle of our slow, tipsy procession. I untie the silk scarf from my neck and fasten it around my head to shield my profile, then pretend to study the artwork on the walls. As I pass the wife’s chair, her distinctively catty voice can be overheard.

“Dieter is taking me to the coast for a romantic holiday,” she
says. “My husband believes I’ve arranged a visit with my sister. Gullible old fool.” In a whisper that isn’t much of a whisper at all, she adds, “That woman’s scarf is gorgeous. I own one similar to it, but hers is an obvious fake.”

Sure and steady, we keep moving. Just when I feel confident we’re in the clear, Denise growls, “This place would be great if it weren’t for all the damn Germans!”

I drag her from the bar without looking back, until cool fresh air brushes my cheeks.

“Denise, what were you thinking?”

She sucks in an indignant breath. “You heard that son of a bitch. I should have killed him when I had the chance!”

Despite the impending curfew, the streets are deserted. Right about this time the theaters are dropping their curtains. The commissionaires will be shouting to the crowds in the cloakrooms to hurry up. The bars, too, are about to empty.

“You’re making a scene, Denise. Stop, please, before somebody hears us.”

Her finger wags beneath my chin. “Do not tell me what to do. Those men, those evil men, are drinking champagne. They are having a party in a city that does not belong to them. With not a care in the world. What will they do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next? Kill wonderful, loving British sons and brothers, and—” Her fists shake at her sides. “Those men in the bar are alive! That is not fair!”

“What does fairness have to do with it? This was
your
idea.”

“You have some nerve, don’t you, Adele? All high and mighty, acting innocent after the fact. I didn’t see anyone twisting your arm; you’re here same as me. What was wrong with you in there? Three glasses of champagne and you become a babbling idiot?”

I glare at her, unable to come back with the truth. How was I to know? Those were the first three glasses of champagne I ever had!

Marie dabs her eyes. “Please don’t fight. Let’s go home for a nightcap.”

“Yes, let’s go, Marie,” Denise says, taking her by the arm.

She volleys unsure glances between Denise and me.

“It’s all right, Marie. You two go ahead.”

I watch them until they’ve traded one moonlit street for the next, Marie’s attentive hand at Denise’s elbow.

In the middle of the street, I stand trembling and alone, trapped within a river of emotions.

So much damage can be done unintentionally, in the blink of an eye.

When I turn to leave, I catch sight of a shadowed figure creeping out from the nearest alley. He pauses. We consider each other. He marches straight for me.

We did lengthy cross-country runs at Wanborough Manor, and mountain treks through the rugged Scottish highlands. At the best of times, stone sober, I can barely walk in the heeled shoes I borrowed from Marie, much less run to save my life, as I’ve been trained. The man giving chase will be on top of me in seconds.

“
Adele, c’est moi
.”

I skitter to a stop. “Robbie?”

“
Oui
.”

The voice matches Robbie, the language does not. The darkened shape steps into a sliver of moonlight cascading between two trees. Even with so little to go on, I recognize him. He runs to me.

When he’s close enough to switch to English, he says, “Why did Denise leave you by yourself out here in the middle of the street?” He draws closer to my face. “Adele, what’s the matter? Are you crying?”

“Denise and I had an argument. I’m okay,” I say, even though I don’t feel or sound the least bit okay.

Robbie’s arm slides around my back. He slowly pulls me into a loose hug. I throw my arms around him with such intensity it knocks him off balance. Hugging tighter, I press my bleary eyes against his chest.

“Don’t worry, it will all work out,” Robbie says in my ear. His hand strokes my hair. “Denise is your friend.”

We gradually part from the hug.

“Feel a bit better now?” he asks.

“I do.” It happened so quickly, but I do feel a little better. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous. Let’s get you back to the cellar.”

“Adele, I’m leaving.” He takes my hand. “Tomorrow. I came to say good-bye.”

I knew Robbie would leave, of course, but it never fully sank in that one day he wouldn’t be here anymore.

My time with the boy who literally crashed into my life has come to an end. There will be no more shared jokes and stories. No more card games. He has run out of chances to beat me at rummy. If only I knew this morning that our walk in the sunshine would be our last happy time together.

Emotions well up in my chest all at once and come out of my mouth a half-stifled sob.

“I’ll miss you, Adele. I’m falling in love with you.”

Why is Robbie telling me this now, when he’s about to leave
forever? Even if I feel the same way, I can’t tell him so, and it’s tearing my heart in two. I can’t tell him how much he means to me. I can’t tell him about the utter panic I’m feeling now, as I imagine myself walking away from him tonight. I can’t say anything that might sway him to stay here with me. If he stays here any longer, he will be captured or killed. How could I do that to him? How could I ever do that to his family? I pull my hand away.

“Robbie, you don’t love me. In two weeks’ time you’ll be back with your squadron, where you belong. I’ll be just a fading memory. Someone you knew during your adventure in France.”

“No, Adele.” He takes my hand again and holds it firmly in his. “My feelings for you are real. I won’t forget you. Not when I get back to my squadron. Not ever. And when all this is over, I’ll do whatever it takes to find you again.”

His hand cradles my chin. He tilts my head back. My eyes slip shut as he leans in. I stand on tiptoe to meet him halfway.

The kiss is shy, and sweet, and perfect.

“Robbie, you have to go now. Please don’t think about me anymore.”

“But Adele—”

“I mean it. Concentrate on getting home to your family,” I said, falling to pieces inside. “Stay safe.”

“I will. I guess this is good-bye, then.”

We stand in the middle of the street, staring into each other’s eyes. The last good-bye has to be mine. I hold it back as long as possible.

Finally I whisper, “Good-bye.”

I run past the bar to a parked horse-drawn hansom carriage with tears streaming down my face. I give the driver Estelle’s
address as he helps me onto to the seat. He takes his place at the rear, on his raised platform, and shakes the reins.

Champagne sloshes in my stomach, threatening to come back up. Clearing tears from my cheeks, I concentrate on the clomping of the horse’s hooves.

I hope I did the right thing in breaking our hearts.

Twenty-five kilometers into my ride the pounding headache I woke with shows no sign of letting up. I vow to never, ever drink champagne again.

I turn onto a dirt path that disappears into the bush and appears too narrow for even one vehicle to safely travel. When I find an overturned rusted birdcage at the side of the path, I climb off my bicycle and wheel it the length of fifteen strides. Right away, I spot the Queen Anne’s lace wildflowers at the base of a massive oak, marking the location of the dead drop where a top-secret message and hard to come by crystals for Denise’s radio are hopefully hidden.

When I first learned that wireless radio frequency is tuned by crystals, I imagined they were glittering gemstones. But they’re actually a sliver of quartz encased in a black plastic box that plugs into two sockets on the top of the set.

The crystals might not look like treasure, but they are
valuable. Without them, Denise’s suitcase radio—our lifeline with London—is useless.

I lean my bicycle against the tree and sit on a woody seat of thick, exposed roots.

One log among the sticks and branches littered about the forest floor stands out. I’m confident I wasn’t followed, but I don’t want to rush straight to the dead drop and give away its location. Keeping my eyes and ears open, I rest only long enough to catch my breath. If my muscles cool, they’ll tighten and protest all the way back to Paris. And if I sit still too long I’m bound to obsess about last night’s final good-bye with Robbie.

The lichen-covered log looks real enough until I touch it. It isn’t wood at all, but carved plaster, carefully painted to resemble the oak. I wiggle the end of the log free of the base. Inside the hidden compartment is a small silk bag. Loosening the drawstring, I check the contents. The contact came through. The coded message and the radio crystals are present and accounted for.

It’s now my job to guard them on the next leg of their journey.

I cap the plaster log and hide the silk bag in the hollow handlebars of my bicycle for safekeeping. If the bag is discovered during a search, I face instant arrest.

I leave the secluded spot in the woods and set off down the road. For an hour I ride through the countryside, cheeks baking stiff in the sun. Wind whistles through my hair. A river of sweat trickles the length of my back.

The longer I ride, the more time I have to think about last night. I ruined what should have been a fun evening. I imagine Denise is in no mood to see me, but I have no choice but to visit her when I return to Paris. What if I messed up badly enough to ruin our friendship?