Page 79
Quinn lets out a low whistle. “Sweet Jesus. She have a sister?”
I laugh unwillingly. “No.”
“Hope you stashed her somewhere safe.”
I fight the uneasy feeling in my stomach, closing my eyes to remember how fierce Sarah was that day the Germans came. When she threw that last knife with nary a glance, but still managed to sever the commander’s brainstem. If anyone can protect herself and our children until I get back, it’s her.
The next morning begins several very long days, as we make our way to the free zone. Once we finally arrive, Quinn starts to cheer and I silence him. “Don’t let the name fool you,” I warn. “Vichy isn’t as free as you might hope. And we have a long walk to the Pyrenees ahead.”
He quiets down, but his unfailing optimism remains firmly in place, which is still far preferable to Price’s weasel eyes, constantly shifting between the group of us. He suggests more than once, under his breath, that Stevens should be put out of his misery. “It would be the kindest thing to do,” he says.
If the situation weren’t so grim, I’d laugh. Sarah killed bad people in order to save her own life and thinks she’s evil and violent because of it. But true evil is surrounding us right now in men like Price, men who kill for selfish reasons and tell themselves it’s heroism. I can’t even judge him too harshly for it. Every day I spend in his company has me justifying reasons to put a knife in his back too.
On the ninth day of our journey—four days behind schedule—we finally see the Pyrenees rising in the distance. This time, I’m able to share Quinn’s broad grin.
“Nearly there,” he says.
I laugh. “We’re still two days from the base.”
“Don’t ruin this for me, Frenchy,” he replies. “I’m picturing a big steak dinner and a pretty girl waiting at the bottom of that mountain and you won’t persuade me otherwise.”
Stevens, his bad foot now dragging audibly behind him, does not share our happiness. Climbing those peaks seems a daunting task even to me, and in his current state I can’t imagine what it will take to get through it. I argue with myself for the next two days, but when we reach the safe house in Carcassonne, I finally pull him aside.
“The journey so far has been easy, compared to what it will be,” I tell him. I flinch, thinking of what it will mean if he accepts the offer I’m about to make. It will add a week or more to the time I’m gone, at the very least. “If you’d like to rest here and gather your strength, I’ll come back for you.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “My son turns three next week, and my wife’s due at the end of the month. I suppose I won’t be there for either of them, but it’d be a hell of a surprise if I were, wouldn’t it? I’ve got to try.”
I give him a brief nod. I disagree with his decision, but it’s not mine to make. “It would,” I agree. “I’ll do my best to get you there.”
We sleep all day by the fire and set out at nightfall with fresh bread and tinned ham in our packs, skirting the main road so we don’t miss the trail that will lead us into the mountains. As sunrise approaches, the terrain grows steep and the air thins. Stevens struggles to keep up, his breathing harsh and irregular.
“Come on, mate,” I urge quietly. “I see the trail ahead, which means we’ll be stopping soon.”
“Not at the rate he’s moving,” snarls Price. “And the Krauts are all over this damn place, so if we’re still out at daylight we’re good as dead.”
“Fuck off, Price, you selfish bastard,” says Quinn. “Where’s your fucking loyalty?”
Price rounds on him as I turn onto the trail. “You shouldn’t even be here. The British government is trying to get us home, not—”
A floodlight blinds us and I jerk to a stop, squinting into the glare. Five Germans stand there, blocking the path ahead, their rifles trained on us.
And then they tell us to drop to the ground.
40
SARAH
January is the coldest month I’ve ever endured. So cold that I can feel it in my teeth if I stand near the window, and so gray it’s hard to imagine there was ever a time when it was otherwise.
I wake each morning feeling as if I’m holding my breath, waiting for Henri’s return. How could anyone survive in this weather for four weeks? Lucien climbs up to the window several times a day with those sad brown eyes of his, ever hopeful that Henri will be walking around the corner. I can hardly fault him—I keep hoping for it too.
Cecelia, my poor sweet baby, is sicker by the day. I really thought she was turning a corner, around the time Henri left. But then the crying began, a heartbreaking wail I can’t seem to fix. She needs real milk, real meat, real fruit. All three of them do. They haven’t had food that wasn’t from a tin for weeks. When the last day of the month comes and goes with no sign of Henri, I know I can’t keep waiting on his return to get us something in town.
And I can’t keep waiting to find out what happened to him.
Before sunrise the next day, I grab every ration card we possess, along with an obscene amount of money, and leave Charlotte in charge of Lucien. I know I should put them in the cellar in case we have visitors, but it’s so cold I can’t stand the thought of it. I promise Lucien chocolate if he is very good while I’m gone, and then bundle Cecelia into her pram. A month ago, she’d have been far too restless to lie down in the stroller the way she does now. A week ago, she’d have wailed until the entire town was staring at us. Now, she doesn’t fight and she doesn’t cry. My stomach clenches into a knot so tight that it hurts as I look at her.
I walk through town in the darkness until I arrive at Roche’s home, on the less savory side of Saint Antoine. I lift Cece from her pram and knock on the door. He looks me over with interest for a moment, and then his eyes narrow and he grasps me by the arm so hard and so suddenly I nearly drop Cece as I’m yanked over his threshold.
