“They were walking along the road, by the base.” He gesturedback the way he’d come. “I was speaking to the soldier at the gate when they came by, and I said hello—I remembered Blaise. He reminds me of myself as a lad, so eager to learn all he can about aircraft. They returned the greeting but didn’t linger. I admit I was a bit concerned—three children walking on such a busy road, you know. So I followed them at a distance to make sure they got home safely. They went into a house about a mile past the base. Stone cottage. The woman who answered the door looked like she was the other boy’s mother.”
Marcel didn’t have to try to feign the relief, the gratitude, the high emotion threatening to choke him. He reached out a hand. “Thank you. I’m in your debt.”
“Nonsense.” But he reached out the window, shook. “Family is the most important thing. I will be praying for your wife and her mother.”
“Thank you,” he said again. And again felt a wriggle of guilt, this one bordering on hysterical. Would this Nazi officer really pray for Zelie? Lizette? And what must it be like to be the Lord, receiving such prayers from a German who seemed to have a decent heart, while his comrades were hunting her down? How did the Lord sort through such tangled prayers?
With all-knowing wisdom. And praise to him that Marcel didn’t have to try to sort it out. He stepped back, waved another thanks, and got in the Renault as the jeep trundled off.
His mother shut her door a second before he shut his, a syncopated rhythm. “And you were going to chide me for asking him.”
His breath curled around a chuckle. “God must have whispered in your ear.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” She crossed herself, punctuating it with, “Thank you, Lord.”
Marcel turned around in the road and drove toward and then past the Luftwaffe base. Sure enough, a mile beyond it he could make out a stone house, slivers of light glowing behind blackoutcurtains. He pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. Another prayer, and he and his mother both got out.
He knew the chances were slim that anyone would send two children off with a strange man, hence his mother’s presence. He drew in a fortifying breath and knocked.
Mère chafed her hands together. He’d rushed her away from Marseille so quickly, she hadn’t grabbed her gloves. But she’d been a good sport about it and had been all smiles at the prospect of children in her home for Christmas.
The door opened, and a woman who looked around his age stood there, question on her face. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m looking for—”
“Monsieur Marcel!” Elise came flying from somewhere, squeezed past the woman’s legs, and launched herself at him.
Habit took over from the many times his little cousins had done the same in Paris. He swept her up and settled her on his hip. “There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Her arms snaked around his neck and held on. “Grand-maman left me with Madame Trideau, but Madame got cross when she was late coming back. Then Madame Garnier showed up at the house with Blaise, and Madame Trideau said I would have to go home withheruntil Grand-maman got home, and shestillhasn’t come.”
“I know.” He rubbed a hand over her back and nodded to Blaise when the boy came into view as well. Marcel directed his gaze to the woman he assumed was Madame Garnier. “Thank you for taking care of them. Lizette’s...” He hesitated, not knowing what to tell her.
His mother jumped in before he could decide. “Been in an accident, and Zelie with her. They were in no place to tell us where to find the children, so we’ve been at our wit’s end, looking everywhere we could think.”
“What happened to Maman?” Blaise pushed forward now, panic in his eyes. “Is she all right?”
Marcel held the boy’s gaze. Zelie had trusted him with the truth—how could he do anything else? “I don’t know, Blaise.”
Madame Garnier’s frown looked more confused than concerned. “You’re their mother’s...?”
“Friend and colleague. Marcel Laurent. And my mother, Mathilde.”
Now the woman’s eyes went wide. “You’re the concert pianist! Elise was telling us you were teaching her piano... I admit I thought she was telling tales. We have your records.”
“Ah... I am, yes.” He never knew what to say when someone announced that, especially if they didn’t go on to claim theylikedhis records.
Elise’s head lifted from where she’d rested it against his shoulder, and she sent a glare at the woman. Then turned back to him. “Are we going with you? To see Maman?”
“I want to go to Marseille with you.” Blaise’s gaze dared him to argue.
As if he’d want to. Marcel nodded. “That was my plan. If it’s all right with you,madame?”
Madame Garnier stepped back, shrugging. “I have no say, really. They obviously know you and trust you, and if you’re here at their mother’s behest...”
She hadn’ttoldhim to make sure her children were protected. But she didn’t have to. He nodded.
“Well then. Let’s gather your things, children. Do come in, Monsieur Laurent. Madame. Out of the cold.”
