URDOS, FRANCE
ALONG THE SPANISH BORDER
Zelie peeled off her stockings and tossed them onto the pile with her skirt, her blouse, her coat. Cold air blasted down the mountain pass, raising goose bumps all over her body, covered only by her underthings now.
Henri had given up on being a gentleman and averting his eyes yesterday as she played contortionist, trying every possible position to fit herself into the jute mailbag that was only two feet by four. Zelie had finally found the most likely position, but even her lightweight blouse increased her size too much. The fabric kept catching in the zipper.
She eyed the bag, chest heaving. It was the only way. Her name and photograph had been sent to policemen and Wehrmacht officers all over France—she needed to get out of the country, fast. But all her papers, real or forged, had been confiscated. The courier they’d found yesterday verified her worst fears—nearly everyone at the villa had been arrested along with her mother.
Maman had friends in high places after her years as a diplomat’s wife. She’d find a way to leverage them. Zelie’s mind still screamed with the need to get to Cannes and make sure Blaise and Elise were safe, but she couldn’t. If she tried it, she’d lead the Nazis right to her children.
She had to trust that their friends wouldn’t abandon them. So here she was, staring at a mailbag that was going to be her very uncomfortable home for the next two hours, while the Citroën was loaded onto the train that would go from Urdos into Spain.
They would search the car, he’d said. But not the mailbags. They weren’tallowedto search the mailbags, not once he affixed the Vichy seal to them.
“If there were a better way, Zelie...” Henri’s voice was an apology.
“I know.” She shook it off and climbed into the back seat of the car, where the bag waited for her. She crouched inside it, tucking her head and torso over her knees.
Henri worked the zipper up and over her, bit by careful bit. It scraped, and the closed zipper dug in.
“I’ll cut the air holes now.” The worry in his voice was not encouraging. “Be still.”
She didn’t even twitch her nose when he felt for it, then slit a hole directly under it. Another in front of her lips. Cold mountain air slid in.
“How’s that?”
“Good.” An exaggeration, at best, but there was air, if she kept her breaths shallow enough. Her chin dug into her chest. She’d rather hoped she’d misremembered the discomfort of the position, exaggerated it, but...
“Here’s the seal.” Something pressed against her back. “All right. Let me arrange the other mailbags around you.” Rustling, heaving, and the seat bounced as the other heavy bags took theirplaces, leaning against her and disguising any odd bumps. “Two hours, Zee. That’s all. Then you’ll be free.”
She tried to nod before remembering she couldn’t, and that he wouldn’t have been able to see her even if she had. “All right.”
A little physical pain, that was all. She wasn’t in a jail cell, like her mother and so many of her friends.
Marcel’s face flashed into her mind, through the darkness. The courier who’d found them had said he hadn’t been captured with the others. Neither had Vivi or Gustave or any of the agents not at the villa.
Did that mean Emile hadn’t given themallup? Or that they’d been rounded up separately, later?
She prayed the traitor had spared his kin. Left a few of them free.
Henri opened the boot, some thumping ensued, and then it closed again. A moment later, she heard him get into the driver’s seat and turn the engine. “Are you doing all right?”
“Yes.” Her hip twinged—not uncommon. The surgery she’d had as a child hadhelpedwith the displacement, but it was always the first thing to protest too many hours in an uncomfortable position. But she was used to it. She could manage.
By the time the car rolled up an incline and then slowed to a halt as the sounds of a rail station filtered through the jute, the twinge was an outright ache, and her neck objected heartily too. She hadn’t practiced holding the position yesterday, only fitting into the bag.
What if the inspectors could tell at a glance that hers was no ordinary mailbag and searched it, even though it was illegal? She’d tumble out in her underwear and end up in prison anyway.
Thank God, Emile hadn’t named Henri. If he’d been on the list, they’d have no escape.
She knew from Henri’s explanation what happened here. He’d driven up to a siding, and a crane would maneuver the automobile onto the flatbed of a railcar. In her mind, a million things could gowrong with that, and she’d end up suffocating in an upside-down Citroën as it rolled down the mountain, but she quashed the fears.
Optimism. She needed optimism. And luck.
Faith,a voice said in her head, sounding an awful lot like Marcel.This requires more than luck. This requires faith.
“Bonjour.”The greeting barely reached her ears, the voice unfamiliar.
