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“We can’t do anything until the baby is born,” he says. “And no infant should be on a crowded ship with God knows what being transmitted. Besides, I can’t just abandon my country. I need to stay and fight.”
I dig my hands in my hair. It’s all still make-believe to them. They see the future as survivable because it’s human nature to assume you’ll be the exception…but World War II held far fewer exceptions than any of them can dream.
“Henri, I read about this when I was home. It’s so much worse than even I knew. There will be internment camps for the Jews in France. Two big ones right outside Paris, and all those people will get deported to the concentration camps I told you about in Germany.”
His eyes close. “Is there anywhere safe aside from America?”
“Switzerland, if you can get there. At least get yourself south, to what will be the free zone, and figure things out from there. It’ll buy you some time.”
He nods, sighing heavily. “How long do we have, before it starts?”
“The Germans will cross the Meuse on May thirteenth. After that, nothing is safe. They don’t just bomb Paris. They fly low over the civilians trying to escape and shoot them as well. And then they take over and you’re trapped.”
“I will be eligible to take leave again in the spring,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to go before then anyway. I have no idea how hard it will be to find lodging, and I can’t risk it with a newborn.”
It’s all about the baby for him. No crowded ships because of the baby. No risking a trip south because of the baby. I’m sure I’d make the same decisions in his place, but that doesn’t lessen my bitterness. It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind him of his carelessness, that he has created a situation that might get them all killed. His sagging shoulders and pallor hold me back. He already knows this is his fault.
Then he does something I’ve never seen him do: he sags against the trellis, as if he’s struggling to stay upright. The color bleeds from his face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, eyes closed and teeth clenched. He is holding his side.
“Is it your wound?”
“It’s fine. I’m just recovering slowly.”
“Bullshit,” I reply. I reach out and pull up his shirt before he can argue. The bandages covering his wound are soaked through—yellow, plus fresh blood as well. “Henri,” I breathe. “You realize your bandages shouldn’t look like that, don’t you?”
He shrugs and starts to pull away but I hang tight to his shirt and begin to pry the gauze loose. His wound is red and swollen, oozing. “It’s infected, you idiot,” I hiss. “How long did you let it go like this?”
“There’s work to be done,” he says.
“And who will do this work for your family next year when you’ve gone septic and died?” I demand. “Get back in bed.”
He ignores me. “I can’t. The harvest is in. This has to get done.”
My arms fold. It reminds me of last summer, when I had no leverage here, no control over the situation. Except this is serious…and I do have some control. I’m glad right now to have this anger in my heart. It makes it easier to use cruelty and threats to get what I want. No, not just easier. It makes it enjoyable.
“Get back in bed or I’ll tell Yvette about us.”
His head jerks toward me. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me,” I reply. “If you think things are tense now, just wait until I give her enough details about the two of us to make her stomach turn.”
He heaves a sigh and wipes at his brow again. No wonder he’s sweating, with the fever he must have from that infection. “She’s pregnant. Please…just don’t. It’ll be bad for the baby.”
As if I care about your stupid baby. I turn on my heel. “Then you’d better beat me back to the house.”
Within seconds Henri is beside me. “I have a farm to maintain,” he spits. “You can’t just blackmail me to get your way.”
I stop and laugh unhappily. “This farm will not be yours in a year, Henri!” I cry. “Don’t you get it? The Germans are coming, and they are going to take everything, and then they are going to kill you and Marie and probably this kid you’re being so precious about, and where will any of this have gotten you?”
His jaw drops, and he looks at me as if I’m a stranger. “This isn’t like you,” he says quietly. “You’ve changed.”
“No shit,” I reply, walking again. “Try discovering that the love of your life gave up on you, three months in. See how much of yourself remains when it’s done.”
I continue inside and he follows. Marie and Yvette glance at us in shock. I’m sure we both look mutinous enough to scare almost anyone.
