Violins of Autumn (31 page)

I guide her to the mattress, careful not to put pressure on her back, chest, or upper arms.

“Oh, Christina, what have they done to you?”

She makes several clumsy attempts to lie down. Even with my help, the slightest movements send spasms shooting through her.

“Adele, I think someone gave me up. Until now they’ve never questioned me about anything I had legitimate ties to. Today they knew about my fiancé. They did what they could to make me talk, but I will go to my grave before I breathe a word to them about Thomas.” Shaking her head, she says, “They burned me. What’s next? I won’t talk. Not ever. It will only get worse.” A tear rolls down her cheek. I wipe it away before it reaches the open cut on her lip.

“We will get through this,” I say, showing her the food. “I have something for you.”

“I don’t think I can eat. I’ve lost a tooth.”

I break her portions into bite-sized pieces and feed them to her, as if she’s a helpless baby bird.

I wake after a fitful, nightmare-filled sleep.

Pierre and Robbie visited me while I slept. Overjoyed, I ran to hug them both. “Pierre, you’re alive!” I cried. But he held me at arm’s length, saying, “No, Adele.” Deep red bloodstains oozed across his chest like blooming roses. “We are dead.” I looked beyond Pierre to Robbie, who stood alone in a field, next to a fiery downed plane. He silently backed away, disappearing into ethereal white smoke. I tried to follow, desperate to tell him that we’re meant to be together, but I couldn’t move or speak. I could only watch in agony as he left me forever, with the words “I love you” locked behind my lips.

I keep my eyes shut and turn on my side, craving more rest.

Far below my bedroom window, my cousins run giggling through the yard with Biscuit happily barking after them. Off in the distance, I hear my aunt call, “Boys, time for school. Off you go now.” Once the boys are out of her hair, I’ll join her for tea.

During the night I wedged my whole body against the wall. I roll over to avoid whacking my head on the sloped ceiling. My mattress feels unusually firm this morning. I try to settle into a comfortable position, but no matter which way I move, the mattress has no give. I’ll have to tell Aunt Libby there’s something the matter with my bed. She’ll know what to do. There’s no point in trying to fall back to sleep now anyway, with the rock-hard mattress doing its best to wake me up.

My heart sinks with a sudden and crushing despair.

I can’t bring myself to open my eyes. I’m not at my aunt’s house. I silently sob into the crook of my elbow.

Key. Bolt. Open door
.

“Adele.”

I raise my head, convinced I heard my mother calling me.

Next to me, Christina sleeps, curled into the fetal position. I watch the gentle rise and fall of her ribcage.

“Be quick, Adele. I have news.”

I hobble to the door. My bruised and battered feet cry out with each step.

On the other side of the door Greta says, “I heard the guards talking about you. They are transferring you to Ravensbrück. One of the camps. In Germany.”

She whispers “camps,” as if it’s a secret word she is not permitted to speak aloud.

I lean against the wall, feeling faint. “When?”

“I don’t know. I will try to find out.”

I nod, too downtrodden to do much else.

“I thought you might like to know that many of the guards hold you in high regard, Adele. They respect your strength and honor.”

What does it matter to me that they respect my strength when they’re about to ship me off to my death?

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Greta.”

Sometime within the last day, my legs took it upon themselves to support me for only two minutes at a time. I shuffle back to the mattress before time runs out and curl up beside Christina.

I know precisely why they’re moving me like a chess piece.
They will see to it that if, or when, the Allies roll into Paris, not a single prisoner will be found.

“Seahorse. Seee-horse.”

Christina awakens from her nap to give me a lethargic evil eye.

“Is that a real word? Seahorse?” I stretch it out again. “Seeee-horse. That’s a strange word. A horse that lives in the sea?”

I rub my finger along the dried flakes crusted over my lips. I pry one loose and it comes off in one satisfyingly intact piece. I draw my hand away from my mouth. It blurs in and out of focus.

“How many of my hands do you see here?” I ask, but Christina has already drifted off again. “I’m holding up one, I’m sure of it. I see two.”

The hands swim before my eyes, rippling like waterlogged rubber gloves. They flap at me, open, shut, open, shut.

Two guards storm into the cell. I watch them come at me, slow to react. They seize me by the arms.

“No!” My heart feels shrunken to the size of a pea. It trills furiously in my chest. A sudden burst of energy comes over me. I crack one of the guards across the face.

They drag me from the only friend I’ve known in over a month.

“You can’t take me! I won’t go!” My scream comes out a hoarse murmur, as if my vocal cords turned to dust in my throat.

My head droops. Strength drains from my legs. I float down the hall between the guards, neither a ghost nor an angel.

Intense white light fills my vision. I shut my eyes against it, blinded.

Death snuck up on me. Snatched me when I wasn’t looking. It shouldn’t come as any surprise that Death is devious. He says, “Where is Ahren … supposed to … in the van.”

I go forward, bathed in the warmth of the light.

The support beneath my right side falls away. I hear a heavy thump. My eyes open to intolerable light. Another thump. I lurch forward into nothingness, shielding my eyes.

The guards lay on the ground before me. One has a bloody hole for a third eye.

A car speeds toward me. I slide one foot in front of the other, every movement a battle of wills with my twitching muscles. The white light returns. Through a pinpoint I see the car pull up. A door squeals open on dry hinges. Another door opens. Men come at me. I claw the air, aiming above the flurry of shadowy arms and legs. My arms whirl to fight the men off.

I won’t go to the camp. I won’t!

“We’ve got you.”

I wake little by little, wrapped in a soft cocoon of blankets.

My eyes focus on Denise sitting at the edge of the bed, surrounded by a golden aura of candlelight.

From my arm, a small tube travels upward to an intravenous bottle.

The room drifts in and out of focus.

“Where am I? Am I dreaming?”

She holds my hand. Real and true and not a figment of a dream, she says, “Dr. Devereux had a hard enough time getting that liquid into you, don’t waste it on tears.”

I struggle to hold on to the vague image of her face. It blurs to nothingness. I lose it.

“Go back to sleep. You’re safe.”

When I wake next, Dr. Devereux has taken up Denise’s vigil in the chair. Sunshine stealing through the partially drawn curtains has replaced the candlelight.

I look around the prettily decorated room. I’ve been here before, when Dr. Devereux allowed me to spend the night in his home.

He pats my hand. “How are you feeling?”

“As if I slept for days.”

“That is no coincidence. And you have more bed rest ahead of you.” Checking my IV, he says, “It’s a miracle Bishop and I found you when we did. The state your body was in, under shock and dehydration that severe, another day and it would have been too late.”

Too late. My heart aches for Christina and whatever fate lies ahead of her.

I’ve swung from one extreme form of security to another without a link between them. As horrifying as prison was, it became my life. Now, surrounded by comfort and freedom, I don’t know what to make of the change.

“This seems unreal,” I say. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I’m confused, Dr. Devereux. How did I get here?”

“I imagine your rescue must feel as overwhelming as it does a relief,” he says. “Let’s save the discussion of details for a later time. For the time being, know this: you have many friends who are willing to do just about anything in the world for you.”

From the door, Denise says, “One of them happens to be the best shot I’ve ever seen.”

“You shot the guards?”

“Adele, do you know of anyone else who can shoot like that? The kicker is I used a Mauser we stole from a crashed German truck. They probably didn’t bat an eye when they heard shots fired from one of their own weapons. Brilliant how it all came together.” Grinning, Denise says, “Did you know we were coming for you?”

I shake my head, confused. “No. How was I to know?”

Dr. Devereux briefly stops taking notes on a clipboard to ask, “Did you receive the parcel we sent to Fresnes?”

The overwhelming emotions of that day come flooding back. “Yes, I received a parcel.”

“It was a sign from us,” Denise says. “We found out where you were being held. We were working on a plan to free you. Did it give you hope?”

At the time, I thought only about the food, not what its arrival should have signaled to me. I can’t explain that to them, though, without having to relive a moment of savage hunger I’d rather forget.

All I can say is, “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Dr. Devereux says.

“Is that a new skirt?” I say, as Denise passes the end of my bed.

“New skirt? Why, it’s a whole new outfit. One of the bedroom closets is overflowing with women’s clothing. I could live in it quite happily.”

Laughing, I say, “I bet you—”

I bite down on my quivering upper lip. The roof of my mouth hardens like a tortoise shell, until the pressure is too great. I bring my pillow out to hide behind it, breathing a fusty bouquet of medicinal scents. If I don’t grab a hold of myself, Denise will have to watch me crumble to pieces.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She lowers the pillow from my face. “It’s all right.”

Once the tears start there is no stopping them. For every sad memory of what is lost there’s a joyful one for what remains. Denise smooths my hair, not seeming to notice or care that I’m sobbing huge patches of tears onto her blouse.

“François told me I nearly died at the prison. I wasn’t in my right mind. I wouldn’t have even known. If not for you, Denise, I would have just been … gone. I don’t want to die at seventeen.”

Denise sets her hands on my shoulders and gently puts some space between us.

“Wait.” She positions the pillow behind my back for support. “What did you say?”

“I lied about my age to come here,” I say. “Just like Robbie did.”

Denise’s face crumples and she turns away on the edge of the bed. She stares at the street below through the window.

“When I saw you collapsed in the backseat of François’s car, it scared me half to death. He showed me the horrific wounds they left. I can’t believe what they did to you.” She turns back to look at me, her eyes brimming with tears.

I clasp my hands, pale from months without sunshine, on my lap. “I’m sorry I lied,” I say, sniffling back tears. “People trusted me. They were relying on me. I abandoned them.”

“You abandoned no one. Your courage and silence allowed Resistance activities to continue. It saved many lives, including mine. Do you have any idea how I feel, knowing”—she covers her face—“what they must have put you through to find me and my radio? Please don’t tell me I’m right, I couldn’t bear to hear you say it, but I know that I am. The thought of you being tortured and near death, protecting me all the while—”

Denise buries her face in my blanket, sobbing uncontrollably. After what feels like an eternity, she lifts her head. Crying has washed the prettiness from her pale-gray eyes. Her sunburned nose looks as if it’s been rubbed to a scalded shade of red.

“I thought this was supposed to be a happy reunion.” Denise
passes one of two handkerchiefs on the bedside table to me and contains her sniffling with the other. “These things are terribly unhygienic. How I miss disposable tissues.” Behind the kerchief, she mumbles, “Blasted war.”

I pat my eyes dry, saying, “Denise, between my capture and now, I haven’t heard a thing about the invasion. It was like living inside a bubble. Hasn’t Paris been liberated?”

“No, not yet.”

“But I was about to be moved to a camp in Germany. The Allies must be close?”

“They are.”

“What about Bishop, and Madame LaRoche, and—” When I think of Pierre, I struggle to say, “Pierre’s men?”

“Bishop is Bishop, invincible as ever. Madame LaRoche is holding on, but Pierre’s death hit her very hard. Her daughter, Elise, has gone to live with her.” Denise folds her kerchief into a neat square on her lap. “And the agents Cammerts introduced us to at the café before we returned to the farm? Both are feared dead.”

I close my eyes to take in the gravity of all that has happened since that night at the factory. How could I have been thoughtlessly smug about those agents meeting a bad end?

“Within hours of Pierre’s death, his men armed themselves and joined forces with other circuits to attack an elite Panzer tank division on its way to Normandy. They hounded it for hundreds of miles, doing everything they could think of to slow it down or stop it. Firefights, grenades, you name it. They fought until their ammunition ran out. Big Edgar and Marcus were quite proud of their idea to fell massive trees across the roads and hide anti-tank mines beneath them. They tied up hundreds of
tanks and thousands of men for fifteen days. The entire Panzer division didn’t reach the beaches in time to do much more than twiddle their thumbs.”

I think back to the day Pierre introduced us to a ragtag group of men at the camp, and how little faith I had in them. “Really? They did all that?”

“They did. Bishop believes that was crucial to the success of the Allies’ advance after D-day. Men you trained did that, Adele. They were willing to fight to get their country back, but you helped make it possible for them.” Holding my hand in hers, Denise looks me straight in the eyes. “Don’t you dare feel guilty about a thing, my friend. You are a hero.”