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It’s been almost two weeks since the lieutenant was brought to the vineyard with an injured leg. Once his leg was healed enough to bear his weight, he began walking in the barn, preparing for his upcoming journey into Spain. But he has also been resting as much as possible. The journey promises to be gruelling.
There are no guarantees he’ll make it that far. The escape route between here and the Pyrénées Mountains is laden with danger. Walking through a pit of angry vipers is safer than travelling to the mountain range. And a deadly snake bite is preferable over being caught by the Milice or Gestapo or SS, all who are hungry to capture anyone siding with the Allies.
And once he crosses into Spain, his next worry will be the Spanish guards. If they capture him, they’ll hand him over to the Germans.
All any of us can do is take precautions and pray for the best.
A series of emotions flicker and flare on Todd’s face. Relief. Anticipation. Anxiety. We’ve discussed in detail the dangers he’ll be facing on the French and Spanish sides of the border. “That is good news. As much as I’ve enjoyed your company, Carmen, I’m ready to go back to ridding us of Hitler.”
He flashes me his charming, one-sided grin that I’ll miss once he is gone. But the sooner I get him away from here, the safer Todd and Jacques and I will be.
“I’ll take you to the train station and travel with you to Dijon. From there, your guide will escort you on the next part of the journey. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
“What about my identification?”
“I have forged papers for you. But your inability to speak French beyond the few words and phrases I have taught you might be troublesome.” His atrocious French accent won’t fool anyone. “As long as the French-speaking Germans don’t try to engage with you, you should be safe. Remember, neither myself nor the other escape-line guides will sit with you while you’re on public transportation. We also won’t acknowledge you. And you should avoid watching us. We cannot risk being seen with you if something should go wrong.”
“I understand.” He lifts the spoon to his mouth. I procured some additional food for him from the black market. It’s not much more than a few scraps of meat in his soup and some bread. But it’s more than most people get to eat.
“Do your best not to look suspicious, and everything will be all right.” It’s an empty promise. We both know that.
Todd finishes his food and climbs back down the ladder into the hiding space. I close the trapdoor, throwing him into darkness, and push the straw bales on top of it.
I go outside. The warm midday sun paints patterns on the ground through the young leaves on the nearby trees. I cycle into the village, leave the bicycle outside the bookshop, and go in. The bell above the door rings, the sound sweet and crisp and welcoming. The shop is empty of people other than the owner, a short, balding man in his late fifties with glasses and a hooked nose and a ready smile.
I return his smile, pretending for a moment a war isn’t raging outside the quiet confines of the walls. “Bonjour, Monsieur Joubert. Do you have a book you recommend for today?”
He nods, and his gaze darts to the large window that overlooks the village square. “Yes. I have a poetry book you might enjoy.” He tells me the title, even though the name doesn’t matter.
“Thank you.” My smile this time is shared with a secretive nod, a message that goes beyond the simple act of gratitude.
I walk down the aisle to the poetry section and remove a book of verses from the shelf. Then I walk to the next section, pull out a thick book, and flip open the cover. The carved-out compartment contains a folded piece of paper.
I remove the paper and return the book to the shelf. The aisle isn’t in view of the shop window, so I unfold the paper and read the message. To the casual reader, the message contains nothing of value, other than some idle female gossip.
I refold the paper, making it narrower than it was when I found it, and slip it into the tiny opening in the hem of my skirt.
I take the book of verses to the counter and purchase it. Monsieur Joubert asks about Jacques as if I really am his child. He knows better. He knows Jacques only had the one daughter. The daughter who died several years ago.
“Thank you for everything,” I whisper so he knows what I am talking about.
“You’re welcome, Angelique. I just wish I could do more.”
The shop door opens, and Madame Lavigne enters, her grey hair twisted back in an elegant bun. Her expression is wary and worn. The same expression most people wear these days. It’s hard to know whom to trust. But her distrust seems to dial up a few notches every time she sees me.
And I have yet to determine where her loyalties lie when faced with the benefits of the Gestapo’s blood money.
“Say hello to your father,” Monsieur Joubert says, giving me a quick out.
I tell him I will, nod my greeting to Madame Lavigne, and hurry out of the shop.
Jacques is still in the vineyard, tending to the grapevines, when I arrive at the safe house. I go inside and walk up the creaky wooden steps to my bedroom. The bedroom that once belonged to his real daughter.
I shut the door and pry the coded message out of the slit in my hem. Then I carefully pull up a small portion of floorboard under the rug, revealing a long and narrow hiding spot that’s about the length of my arm, from elbow to fingertip.
The first thing I do is check that the large amount of money—money Jacques doesn’t know about—is still there. The SOE gave it to me to help fund my work in theCashmerenetwork. The gold compact Major Maurice Buckmaster gave me the day I departed from England is also there. All his agents receive something valuable to remind us there will always be a link back in London, ready to help us in our difficulties. And the gift is something we can pawn on the black market if necessary.
I remove the supplies used for decoding messages and carry them and the half-melted candle from the bedside table to the desk. The next twenty minutes are spent deciphering the message from the bookshop. And the relief at what the message says is a welcome lightness in my chest.
