Violins of Autumn (27 page)

I don’t see a great deal of thought going on behind Denise’s stare.

“Now I ask you, have you given that some serious consideration? Do you understand how vital it is that you remain hidden and safe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent!” He gives her a swift pat on the back. “I’m off. Cheerio, ladies.”

With that, Bishop is out the door. Through the dusty windowpane, I watch him march to the vegetable garden where Madame LaRoche tends to her plants as if they’re the small children she no longer has. She hastily calms her frazzled hair for his benefit before brushing her hands free of dirt.

Denise drops into the chair across the table from me. “I have been here a month without firing a single bullet. It’s not fair.”

“Bishop’s right, though, Denise,” I say. “After the close call you had, don’t you think you should lie low?”

“I’m fine. And I’m not here to hide. I’m here to make hell for the Germans.”

I try not to laugh at her exaggerated pout, but it’s hopeless. A chunk of dry bread nearly lodges in my throat. “Bishop’s gone. See what you can do.”

I smack my chest to send the leftover crumbs down.

“Denise, I almost forgot to give this to you.” From my breast pocket, I remove the rigid square of paper I feel beneath my hand.

She dutifully unfolds it, probably expecting boring notes or instructions.

“Oh, Adele,” she cries. “I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful.”

The sketch of Moxie and the rest of her lazy barn cats snuggling together for a nap in the hay drifts to the table. Squealing, she gives me a bone-squashing hug.

And I hug her back.

Bishop should have taken Denise’s gut feeling seriously. Tonight as we hovered around the radio listening to a waveband not jammed by the Germans, we heard the second code phrase.

“
Blessent mon coeur d’une langueur monotone
.”

Denise leaped out of her chair. “I knew it! Tonight is the night!” She mussed Marcus’s hair with a brisk kiss. “That’ll teach you to take a wager from an intuitive woman. Pay up, my boy.”

With Bishop out of the picture, Denise ignored his order to stay put. She hopped right in the back of the truck with Gus, Marcus, and three men from the group I trained earlier.

Up front where Pierre and I sit, I keep a sharp lookout.

A full night of sabotage awaits not only us, but all Resistance members, no matter how separated and cut off we are from each other. A common goal will unite us for one long night.

“The fifth of June,” Pierre says. “This is it, Adele. This is the beginning.”

The world is about to change drastically, within hours, for better or worse. This is the beginning. But how will it end?

Once Pierre has parked the truck within some trees near the rail line, we unload our supplies and set off toward our targets.

Moments later, when the metal bridge becomes visible in the skyline, Pierre stops our group. With a beckoning wave, he chooses me as his demolition partner, and I follow him.

Under a muted aubergine sky, Pierre and I creep through grassy reeds as tall as my shoulders, our Sten guns slung across our backs. Denise and the Maquis men crouch in the forest out of sight, awaiting the all clear to plant charges along the bridge.

Rail sabotage creates short-term headaches for the Germans. Demolishing bridges throws a bigger monkey wrench into the works, since more men, equipment, and time are needed for the repair. Our plan is to blow the bridge we’re approaching and derail a trainload of Nazi soldiers at the same time—as long as the explosives, timers, and detonators don’t malfunction, and the train runs on time, and the line hasn’t already been blown elsewhere, and luck remains on our side. That’s not too much to ask, right?

The low bridge is an easily accessible target, but as Pierre and I discover on our patrol, it’s guarded by two sentries.

We sneak back to Denise and the men.

“Two guards,” Pierre whispers. “You see the helmet of one”—he points to the top of the slope where the bridge began—“the other is outside the gatehouse. Denise, take the bike and ride in from the opposite direction. Draw their attention to you, far down the rail. Gus and Marcus will be in position at that time to take care of them.”

A short time later, Denise rides back. When the going gets rough she jumps down and pushes the bike the rest of the way.

“Gus and Marcus took care of the sentries,” she says. “The others have begun work on the bridge. I can do a recce patrol of the area if you’d like.”

“Reconnaissance. Good idea,” Pierre says. “Don’t be away long. Adele and I will be finished soon.”

The sentry guards I saw only moments ago patrolling the tracks are no longer alive. Here one instant, gone the next; their deaths ticked off a checklist of tasks. But it’s us or them. I can’t afford to think too deeply about what we’re doing.

Destruction brings Pierre and me together like a couple of cogs in a well-oiled machine. With the rail line explosives rigged, Pierre hides in the gulch with the detonator while I race back to our meeting place in the woods.

I crouch low between the trees, lay my gun across my lap, and wait. Before long the only light comes from the stars, the moon, and lamps hanging above the gatehouses.

Within one of the rotting logs that litter the forest floor, a deathwatch beetle bangs its head against the wood in search of a mate. Superstitious people like my aunt believe the noise, which sounds remarkably like the ticking of a watch, foretells an impending death.

I think bad omens are a load of hooey.

The rumbling of a train grows louder, drowning out the beetle. I fight the urge to stir up some action too soon.

Then, as if from a magical door in the forest, a uniformed German soldier appears on the field not ten feet from me. I hold my breath, watching him with curiosity and fear.

He considers a point in the distance. Noiselessly, I lean forward.

Spying between two trees, I catch sight of a dark form, a woman on a bicycle, gliding alongside the tracks.

The soldier kneels to one knee. He nestles the buttstock of his weapon into the crook of his shoulder.

My hands don’t need light to see. They go to their places, as if the gun is an extension of my body. The silenced barrel of my Sten rises in front of me.

And I hit my target.

I see the explosions take place through a gauzy veil of dreamlike shock. I stagger around the body of the dead soldier, aware enough to remember that if the gun’s silencer touches my skin it will burn.

The first train car shoots off the tracks and lands overturned in the gully. In a chain reaction, the cars slam into the one next in line. The bridge collapses with great grinding and screaming of metal. Bursts of flame gobble up the darkness. In the new light, shadows materialize out of nowhere, dancing across the field and trees like evil spirits.

Denise has left the tracks to join Pierre. They emerge from the reeds and run to me.

“We have done it,” Pierre says.

Terrified soldiers flee the burning train, leaping from windows and doors of the tilting, mangled cars.

Pierre grabs my hand. “Adele, are you well?”

“I—” I run my tongue along my lips. “I need a drink of water.”

“I have a canteen in the truck. We must go.” Pierre begins to pull me along, but then he finds the soldier in the grass. He shines a light in my face. “What happened here? Did he hurt you?”

I lower the blinding beam from my eyes. “No, I’m fine. He didn’t even see me.”

“Good.” The tender pats to my back steadily grow more professional. “Good work.”

Further explosions rock the train.

Pierre slings the German’s machine gun over his shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re wasting time.”

He holds my hand all the way back to the truck, not once letting go.

Pierre parks the truck around the side of the barn. The back doors slam shut.

There’s a chipper rapping at my window.

“Tell Denise to go in the house without you.”

My stomach flips, as if we’re on the downward coast of a Ferris wheel.

I partially open the door. “Go on without me, I’ll just be a minute.”

“But why—” Denise peers back at me with saucer eyes. “Oh, I see.”

As I shut the door, I hear her call to the men heading toward the barn, “All right, let’s give these two some privacy.”

I stare at the round moon through the windshield.

Pierre slides down the length of the seat. He stops short as our bodies are about to touch.

Our last kiss was spontaneous. There wasn’t time to think, or overanalyze the situation, or work myself into a nervous tizzy: all things I’m doing this time around. Being this close to Pierre seems to knock the sense from my head. I can’t think straight. My stomach knots. My palms sweat. But when I’m with Robbie, everything between us feels so natural. I can’t look at him without smiling. I miss him when he’s not around.

Now I’m hopelessly confused. I didn’t expect to come here and fall for anyone, much less two different men who couldn’t be more unalike. How can I have such strong feelings for both of them?

Pierre strokes my hair. “Your hair is very pretty.”

“Do you think so?”

“It was the first thing I noticed about you. I like the way it shimmers in candlelight.”

His finger trails my jawline.

“You have a scar here,” he says. “Were you badly hurt?”

I keep the memory of that day buried deep inside me.

“Yes, I was badly hurt.”

“I also have a scar.” He brings my hand to his face. “It reminds me every day that I could not save the life of my father.”

We look into each other’s eyes with understanding. His hurt mirrors mine.

While we’re huddled together in the quiet truck, apart from the rest of the world, I will let Pierre see the real me.

My heart pounds as I unclasp the top two buttons of my blouse. I lay his hand over the bony lump that will forever remain at the crook of my collarbone.

“I was in an automobile accident.” I haven’t said those words or replayed the worst moments of my life for years. “My brother and I were goofing around in the backseat on the way home from the barber. I teased him about his haircut. I hurt his feelings, but I didn’t mean to. I remember the sky, changing color to a strange grayish green. A storm whipped up out of nowhere. A crack of thunder startled my mother, and my brother and I laughed. Sheets of rain streamed down the windows. I couldn’t see anything but rain. Suddenly, the car seemed to float on air. My mother said, ‘Oh.’ That was her last word, calm as can be. I don’t really know what happened after that, I only remember a man in a fedora carrying me from the car, through the downpour. Then I woke up in a hospital room. A nurse told me my mother and brother—” Tears flood my eyes. I cover my mouth, shaking. “They were dead.”

Pierre wipes tears from my cheeks. He knows not to say anything at all. His strong arms wrap around my back. I lay my head against his chest. Caught somewhere between the sadness of our past and the uncertainty of the future, we can only hold on to each other.

“Wake up, Adele.” Denise’s vehement shake to my shoulder jars me awake. “The BBC won’t be silent much longer. You don’t want to miss the announcement.”

I fly out of bed fully clothed, clumsy and half-asleep.

“It’s like Christmas morning,” Denise says as we race downstairs to the kitchen. “I can’t believe you were able to sleep.”

Madame LaRoche stands in the middle of the kitchen, repeatedly sweeping the same patch of floor. I take the broom from her hands, alarmed by the dark circles beneath her eyes, and lead her to the table.

In the corner nearest the radio, Pierre reclines on a kitchen chair, snoring.

The radio flickers to life. In a flash, so do we.

“
This is the BBC Home Service—and here is a special bulletin read by John Snagge
.

“D-day has come. Early this morning the Allies began the
assault on the northwestern face of Hitler’s European fortress. The first official news came just after half past nine, when Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force, usually called SHAEF, from its initials, issued Communiqué Number One. This said, ‘Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied naval forces, supported by strong air forces, began landing Allied armies this morning on the northern coast of France.’”

The day we’ve all been waiting for, D-day, has finally arrived. We scream with excitement, hugging and wiping happy tears from our eyes. The energy in the room is astounding. All the pent-up fear and anxiety we hold inside day after day exhales from us like stale breath.

The Allies are coming. France will be free.

I stagger backward to the wall. A swell of emotion sends me running from the kitchen. I hide in the larder, nauseated and mortified by my reaction. My trembling legs go as rubbery as if I had just completed a marathon bike ride. I sink to the cool cement floor.

There’s a quiet tap on the door, and Denise says, “May I come in?”

“Uh-huh.”

The door creaks open and shuts with a soft click.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” Denise says. “This isn’t like you.”

Every time my concentration slips, I see the same bloody, wretched scenes playing over and over again in my mind like horrific movies.

“Adele, I don’t understand. This is a momentous day.”

“We’ve been told so many times that the Allies would storm the beaches. We’ve looked forward to this day. But I never stopped
to think about what that means. I know it’s a time to celebrate, but what if thousands are dying as we speak?”

“Adele, we can’t think about it that way. D-day is happening. There is no turning back. We need to stay positive and strong to help the Allies reach Germany. We are going to pull through our time here and come out the other side together, me and you. I can’t have you folding like a house of cards now, or else I’m doomed.”

Denise puts out her hand.

Staying positive won’t wipe the terrible images from my mind. The boys and men storming the beaches aren’t nameless, faceless soldiers. How many are people we know? Patrons from the pub, schoolmates, neighbors, the cute Canadian soldier from my aunt’s Christmas party, or my brother’s friends who dreamed of one day enlisting in the army? What if Robbie rejoined his squadron in time to help with this attack? The thought of him back here engaged in bloody battle nearly makes me sick to my stomach.