Violins of Autumn (23 page)

Martin Cammerts, still peeved with me for breaking ties with him in front of new recruits yesterday, nearly blew a gasket when he heard I’d handed another bicycle to the Germans. Denise was quick to point out that at least I held on to that one for more than a week. He was reluctant to give me another bicycle, to say the least, but he did. It’s a bit beat up and not as spiffy as
the last one I lost. Cammerts also telephoned Bishop’s contact in town to let him know Denise and I were headed back to him, but he did so grudgingly, not keen to do us any more favors.

Once again, Denise and I are on the road. German troops, vehicles, and supplies are all over France’s major roadways, scurrying north to reinforce the Nazi-held front along the shores of the English Channel. Denise and I mapped out a different route to Madame LaRoche’s farmhouse than the one we used to reach Paris.

“Bloody hell!” Denise smacks the handlebars hard enough to crack her fingers. “I left my good blouse on Marie’s wash line.”

“We’re not going back to get it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know it. Onward not backward, that’s my motto today. You won’t find me adding extra kilometers to this blasted ride.”

Over the course of a month, without realizing it, I’ve become an expert cyclist. I’m flying on the trip back to Madame LaRoche’s, as if I sprouted wings. Denise is matching my pace, but thanks to the close friendship she developed with the comfortable divan in the attic while hidden away with her radio, the ride is taking a toll on her. We hope to reach the farm by nightfall without stopping like we did last time, but the stiff upper lip Denise wore throughout the day is setting as rapidly as the sun into the valley.

“Listen to that,” she says.

Not wanting to be outdone by her doglike sense of hearing, I coast on my bicycle, listening. “I don’t hear a thing.”

“I know. Isn’t it wonderful? Absolute silence for the first time in weeks. I could soak it up like a sponge.”

“I thought I had tuned out the air-raid sirens,” I say. “But now that they’re gone, I guess I must have been aware of them after all.”

“Sometimes the sirens and screaming of planes overhead
reminds me of the Blitz all over again. The bombings went on for months, but remember the terror of the first day?”

“Of course,” I say, thinking back. “It’s been almost four years, but I remember as if it were yesterday. It was a sunny day like this when it began.”

That September 7, we planned to celebrate Aunt Lib’s birthday at the home of her best childhood friend, Emma Berkshire. My uncle wasn’t fond of Emma’s tendency to gossip, and my cousin Paul swooshed a hand behind his backside, saying, “She has too much wind. You may wish to hold your nose, Betty.”

As we turned down Emma’s street, my aunt said, “Not a cloud in the sky. I couldn’t ask for a more peaceful and beautiful day than this.”

At that, the air-raid sirens began to wail.

“Oh now, look what I’ve done,” she said.

Uncle Edward calmly said, “It’s likely nothing. Another military target only.”

“Daddy, I hear aeroplanes,” Philip said. “A lot of aeroplanes.”

My heart slowed, along with my plodding feet. “I hear planes too.”

Our small motionless group watching the sky steadily grew as the drone of planes became unmistakable.

“Mum, look!” Philip’s eyes went wide with wonder. “Here they come, up the Thames.”

“My God,” Uncle Edward said. “There must be a thousand of the buggers.”

Across the sky, three formations of German warplanes made their approach, shearing a calculated path toward us like a plague of roaring metal locusts. They blotted out the sun, shrouding the city in a shadow of impending catastrophe.

From the planes, bombs began to drop.

Chaos erupted in the street. Small children watching the sky with innocent curiosity began to scream, as their mothers lost all composure above them.

Uncle Edward gripped his wife by the shoulders. “Take the children to the public shelter. Stay there until I come for you.”

We lost him to the frenzy. And we ran. Aunt Lib dragged her terrified sons behind her. I followed, keeping an eye on the bobbing royal-blue hat she wore on special occasions.

Inside the shelter, I sat next to my aunt and cousins. I drew my knees to my chest to fill as little space as possible. All around me, children screamed.

“I want Daddy,” Philip whined when the ground beneath us began to rumble.

The squalling inside the shelter and the explosions within the city reached a shared crescendo. I wrapped my arms tighter about my legs, held on for dear life, and willed myself to stay strong for my much-younger cousins.

As soon as the quaking ebbed, I got to my feet. “I’m going to find Uncle Edward.”

“Betty, no, we have yet to be given the all clear.”

I ran from the safety of the shelter, directly into a hellish nightmare.

Thick smoke had poisoned the cloudless sky. Fire bells clanged throughout the city. Ash and smoldering bits of the barrage balloons fell through a wispy plaster-dust haze. Some homes had withstood the bombardment with only blown windows and doors to show for it. Others had been reduced to ruin. Rubble of all sorts littered the road.

A tenement building on the corner was sheared apart, the cleaved apartments open to the street as if half of a giant dollhouse. Pretty blue curtains dressed a kitchen window in
one demolished apartment. An upright piano had survived in another.

From a nearby destroyed home my uncle strode through the debris. Over his shoulder lay a wilted woman, her torn dress exposing a shocking combination of blood, bare flesh, and undergarments. Her body swayed. I couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive.

For a moment, the mayhem surrounding my uncle faded. The din became muffled to my ears. I stood rooted in the middle of the street, too awestruck to move, only able to focus on the measured rise and fall of his broad chest, his swift, regimented movements, and the bravery of a true hero. On that day, the horror of the war became a reality for me.

“It was as if the world turned upside-down,” I say. “Nothing was the same after that.”

Denise rides alongside my bike, nodding. “The peace and quiet is about to be turned on its end again. Can you imagine what must be happening in Britain? Ships in the Channel, planes set to go, thousands of men at the ready. It gives me chills thinking about it.”

I think about Robbie. How far has he traveled on the evasion line? At least when he was under our protection I knew his exact whereabouts. Who’s looking out for him now? I wish I could pop in on his journey, just for a moment, to see with my own eyes that he’s all right. There’s no way of even knowing whether he’s alive or dead. It’s the uncertainty that eats away at me the most.

We reach the farm by half past ten, a stunning achievement that has me beaming with pride and Denise wobbling weak-kneed to the bushes outside the gate to vomit.

“I disliked every second of that ride.” She staggers back into the swath of moonlight illuminating the road. “I should check you for rivets. Look at you, hardly out of breath, for Pete’s sake.”

We push our bikes up the darkened lane. Being outside after curfew no longer seems frightening or defiant the way it did before. We’ve done worse.

Just as she did that first night we met, Madame LaRoche throws her arms around each of us in turn. I return the hug, happy to see her again.

“Girls, thank God you’ve arrived safely. Come inside. You must be famished.”

“And crippled,” Denise says.

The kitchen appears smaller, less imposingly grand than before. Her home has lost some of its mystery. In a way, that saddens me.

“A drop is taking place,” Madame LaRoche says. “The men are there now.”

She shoos us from the kitchen to wait in the parlor. We’re immediately drawn to the two matching side chairs.

Denise settles onto the padding. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” she groans. “I fear I may never be able to leave this chair. Also, please tell me your arse hurts as much as mine does or I may never be able to speak to you again.”

“It sure does,” I say. That is no lie.

From behind the glass door of Madame LaRoche’s walnut curio cabinet, the young boy with tousled hair and wiry arms and legs smiles at me from a framed photograph. I give a groggy smile to little Pierre, before admiring her other treasures once more.

Next thing I know, Bishop is in my face, rousing me from sleep.

“Adele and Denise, it’s wonderful to see you. Wake up. Come join us for a drink.”

At the sound of his voice, Denise is on her feet, drowsily mumbling, “Drink, you say? Who’s sleeping?” She rubs the sleep from her eyes with reckless abandon.

We shuffle behind him to the kitchen table. The first person I set eyes on is Pierre. Dressed in denim trousers and a black sweater, with a hint of stubble and his hair wavy with the sweat of dangerous work, he looks more handsome than ever. My cheeks burn and I have to look away.

“Hello, Adele.” He places a wineglass at my place setting and moves on.

I fumble for words and the glass. “Hello.”

A slender, dark-haired woman and a balding man with a prominent mole on his chin, both in jump overalls, sit across from Pierre and his mother, joined by Marcus and Gus.

I know how those new agents feel, surrounded by new people in a stranger’s home. I wish Denise and I could go back and experience the exhilaration, and even the fright, of parachuting into France all over again. For us, that first night is nothing more than a fond memory.

I sit on a log near the creek, my face tilted skyward, impatiently waiting for billowy clouds to reveal the midafternoon sun. I’m happy to be away from the bustle of the city and back at the farm, but throughout the night I dreamed of the dead soldier’s face as he drowned in front of me, his eyes pleading with me to help him. I woke up in a rotten mood that I can’t seem to shake.

Pierre comes up behind me through the woods. He stands on the end of log, balancing sure-footedly; an indistinct but decidedly masculine form in my peripheral vision.

I saw him watching me from the barn. Each time he came and went, he tossed a glance my way. The man is tireless with stamina to spare, I have to give him that. I don’t know when or if he makes time for sleep.

“Mind if I sit?”

“No, go ahead,” I say.

He settles on the log and leans forward to sort through river
rocks scattered at his feet. I set my chin in my hands, watching the brook—dehydrated to a muddy shadow of its former self—swirl around a mossy rock.

“You’ve been here a while.” Pierre tosses a pebble. It sails in a slow arc. Circular ripples spread out across the water like tiny dartboard rings. “Keeping busy, I see.”

There’s plenty I should be doing. Madame LaRoche asked me to pick strawberries, my bike tires need air, and if I want to freshen up I’ll have to pump water from the well. All I want to do is sit in the forest, me and the songbirds, with nobody around to put me to work.

Pierre pulls a worn notebook, curved to the perfect imprint of his shape, from his back pocket.

“We received word that two code phrases will be relayed to the Resistance during broadcasts of the
messages personnel
. The first phrase will signal the D-day attack on France’s shores within the week. The second will let us know the attack is set to occur within forty-eight hours.”

“What are the phrases?” I ask.

“They sounded familiar, but I couldn’t recall when I’d heard them before. Then I remembered this book of poetry. It belonged to my father.” Fiddling with a damaged corner of the cover, he says, “Everyone who met my father respected and liked him. He had an almost magical knack for machinery. He loved to work with his hands, but he also appreciated art, cinema, and literature. He could talk circles around most people, but in a way that never made anyone feel inferior.”

“He reminds me of my brother. One minute he’d be building a car for the soapbox derby, the next he’d be working out a complex arithmetic problem.” My cheeks tremble, and I worry I might
not be able to hold myself together. For weeks, I’ve thought about my brother more than usual. “He was destined for great things.”

Pierre opens the book to a page marked by a blade of grass. He reads the first stanza of “
Chanson d’Automne
,” a poem by Paul Verlaine.

“Les sanglots longs des violons de l’automne. Blessent mon cœur d’une langueur monotone.”

“The first phrase is,
the long sobs of the violins of autumn
. And the second is,
wound my heart with a monotonous languor
,” I say. “Did I translate that correctly?”

Pierre’s English, which I haven’t heard him speak until now, is weighted down with a heavy French accent. “I prefer,
the long sobs of autumn’s violins
. A slightly different arrangement with the same meaning.” Switching back to French, he adds, “My father was a physical laborer with a sharp mind. The Resistance’s call to violence and sabotage is lovely and poetic. I think that irony would amuse him.”

“Isn’t it incredible?
We
will have advance notice of the Allied invasion. My ear will be glued to the radio, listening for those lines of poetry.”

“The end is in sight.” Pierre tucks the notebook into his pocket. “I will do whatever it takes to help the Allies free my country and the people of France.”

Only a brave and honorable person would make that pledge and mean it.

For the first time, I put shyness aside to really look at Pierre. A fading white scar carves a swath through his stubble, from the corner of his mouth to below his jawline. His eyes appear tired, creased with fine wrinkles near his temples.

“I’ll do whatever it takes too,” I say.

He stares at the brook, lost in thought, then after a moment his slow nod seems to change everything between us. We trust and believe in each other.

Pierre holds his hand out. “Adele, come with me.”

After some hesitation, I let him pull me up to standing. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

The secrecy is making me nervous. Something fishy is going on. At the barn, he leads me through the double doors. We stop next to the grimy canvas sheet draped over the unusually big bicycle. The canvas sheet he accused me of touching when we first met.