Page 84

The soldier looks behind us, at the line of cars now backing up down the road. “Go,” he barks. “Make sure you’ve got a stamp before you return.”

I’m shaking so hard I can barely push the accelerator down, but I manage to drive another twenty minutes, trembling all the while. We need to get out of this car, but I don’t know how we’ll make the journey to Paris on foot. The cash against my skin is soaked with sweat when I finally drive off the road and cut the engine.

“Are we in Paris?” asks Charlotte.

I open the door and throw up in the grass. “No,” I reply. “I think we’ll walk through the woods the rest of the way.”

* * *

It takes us most of the day to travel that remaining few miles. Our suitcase is gone, left behind when it became necessary to carry Lucien in one arm and Cece in the other. “Not too much farther,” I tell Charlotte. “I wonder if there’s anywhere in Paris that still has pastry.”

Her excitement at the idea breaks my heart a little. These children who’ve lost their parents, who’ve spent nearly a year in hiding…they are still children. They still light up at the smallest pleasures and my God what I wouldn’t give to get them to a place where those pleasures were possible.

We stop in the woods to eat, and I tear a bit of bread to feed Cece. The penicillin is already doing its job. She smiles for the first time in weeks when I place a piece in her mouth.

Charlotte rests her head on my chest. “I wish we were home,” she says quietly. She’s had the hardest day of the three children, and I imagine her feet are as blistered as mine by now.

“Not too much farther,” I reply, praying it’s true.

* * *

The city, when we reach it, is greatly changed. Massive swastikas hang from the buildings, and German soldiers patrol the streets, fill the cafes, sometimes strolling arm-in-arm with girls, as if the city is now a luxurious resort destination open only to them.

We pass through Saint-Germain-des-Pres, where Henri and I once spent a lovely day together, bickering and pretending not to enjoy each other’s company. It’s overrun with soldiers now, but for a single moment longing fills me. I want another day like the one Henri and I had. I want to do the things I refused to do with him at the time—a walk through the Orsay, the Louvre, the sculpture garden at the Musee Rodin. I thought at the time that I wanted to save those experiences for Mark. I realize only now that I was scared: I didn’t want to share anything special with a man I already liked more than I should.

It's another mile to Edouard’s church, which is in an undesirable part of the city. People won’t meet my gaze as we walk toward the doors, and inside, the church is ice-cold and in grave need of repair. Edouard is clearly being punished with this assignment, and I can’t say I’m sad about it. I knock on a door to the right of the altar, hoping I might find someone who can lead us to him, and the nun who answers gasps at the sight of us.

“Amelie,” she says. “My God.”

Marie. Marie is here and she’s now...a nun?

“What on earth are you doing here?” she asks, ushering us in. She looks as shocked to find me as I am to find her.

I feel relieved tears stinging my eyes. I didn’t realize until just now how scared I was that we wouldn’t find her alive.

“You’re a nun?”

She flushes. “It’s a long story.” She looks over my shoulder and panic flickers in her eyes. “Henri...he’s still fighting? Or captured?”

I sigh. “He’s been captured, I think, but that’s a long story too.”

As she leads us to a set of rooms in back, my relief at finding her alive is quickly tempered by anger. The past ten months would have been so much easier with her there, or if she’d gotten Cece to England. She is not married, and there appears to be no child—so what was it all for?

“We’ve walked all day and the children need to be fed,” I say stiffly. “Can you help us?”

“Of course,” she says. She removes her headpiece and takes Cece from me. “She’s so big.”

“It’s been ten months,” I reply coolly. “That’s what happens.”

Her shoulders sag. “I had no idea—” She glances at Charlotte and Lucien. “I thought you were in England.”

I’m too tired to stay angry and it’s as much my fault as hers. “Where’s Edouard?” I ask.

She blushes. “He’s giving last rites. He won’t be home until late.”

Home? I understood her fascination with Edouard and even the affair, though Henri did not. But living together like this, while he’s a priest...is a tough sell even for me.

“And Henri?” she asks. “What makes you think he’s been captured?”