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The train slows as we approach the next station. We have several more stops to go before we arrive in Dijon. My body is coiled tighter than an overwound rubber band, and my heart beats louder than the never-ending shots from a machine gun. I try to think of happier times to keep the fear from my expression.
I dare a glance at Todd. He must have sensed my turmoil. Our gazes cross, and I can see my fear mirrored back at me. It only takes a second to understand why.
“Tickets and papers.” The German voice barks in French from behind me.
I make a show of removing my ticket andcarte d’identitéfrom my handbag so Todd understands what the soldier wants. And I pray with every ounce of me the enemy doesn’t ask him questions.
Todd starts to turn his head as if calculating if he can escape before the train begins moving. I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head, ignoring the rule of pretending not to know him. Todd won’t stand a chance if he gives the German soldier reason to believe he’s about to flee.
The soldier approaching from behind me steps into view. Without looking at his face, I hand him my ticket and forged papers.
He examines them and hands them back. I almost close my eyes in relief, but it’s too soon to feel any sense of the emotion. The soldier approaching from the other direction is almost level with Todd’s seat.
Other than the sharp-commanding voices of the two soldiers, a heart-thumping silence has fallen over the train car. I lower my gaze to my hands in my lap. They weren’t shaky when I handed my papers to the soldier, but now a slight tremor grips them as I wait to see what happens with Todd’scarte d’identité. The Gestapo recently captured the person who forged the papers in my part of the network. This is the first time we will see if his replacement’s work stands up to scrutiny.
What if the papers don’t appear authentic to the soldier? What if Todd does something to raise suspicion, or worse yet, cast it on me?
I’m not the person who usually escorts fallen pilots along the escape route. The only time my safety is dependent on the actions of another person is when I attend parachute drops. And that…and that is nothing like what I am now facing.
“Papers!” The soldier’s German accent drips with arsenic arrogance and sends a shudder clamouring up my spine.
My gaze flicks to Todd. He hands the soldier hiscarte d’identitéand his ticket. His expression is calm, no hint his papers should require thorough inspection. No hint his actions require deeper reflection. His expression is that of someone who has done this a hundred times and has nothing to hide.
And for the first time since Todd arrived on Jacques’s doorstep, hope flickers to life that he’ll make it back to London alive.
Seconds tick by. The soldier keeps inspecting Todd’s papers. Fuck. Fear and anger swell in me that the new forger’s skills might be subpar. Or that the soldier is taking longer than necessary because, maybe, Todd appearstoocalm.
Shouts rise from the platform outside the window. I whip my head towards the ruckus. A valise lies open on the ground. An officer is removing garments from it and tossing them to the side.
A whistle shrills from farther up the platform. The soldier holding Todd’scarte d’identitéand ticket shoves them at him, and the two soldiers rapidly depart the train.
For a heartbeat, it feels like everyone in the train car takes a collective breath, the strain of the soldiers on the train being too much.
A small amount of tension that had coiled inside me when the soldiers boarded the train eases. And I allow myself a long exhalation, even though we’re not safe until the train starts moving. Starts moving without the soldiers on it.
The train eventually lurches onwards. The remainder of the journey to Dijon is free of drama, and we arrive there without further delay.
We depart the train, and I indicate with the slight nod where we must go. The only way out of the station is through the inspection line. There is no way to avoid it.
Todd walks to the queue. I follow him, keeping several people between us. An unearthly silence has settled over the station, except for the hiss of the train, the slap of spit-shined boots against stone, and the bark of impatient commands. It’s quiet enough to hear thedeath-death-deathpounding of my pulse in my ears.
One soldier at the front of the line searches through valises while the other one inspects travellers’ documents. With each second that Todd and I stand in the queue, my body becomes colder.
We shuffle forwards like cows at milking time. A soldier asks for Todd’s papers, but it’s clear the soldier doesn’t normally speak French. He’s just repeating the memorised command.
Todd hands them to him.
The soldier scans the documents, passes them back to Todd, and waves him on.
An older man and two women are ahead of me in the queue. The soldier checks their papers and lets them through. I hand him mine. Thedeath-death-deathof my pulse is now louder than a bass drum.
I keep my gaze on his insignia. There’s a time to pay attention to someone’s face, to memorise it. This isn’t one of those times.
He nods me through, but it’s not enough to quieten the pounding in my chest, to warm up my body. That will only happen once I’m safely back at the vineyard.
Todd continues to the exit. I stop, pretending to read the German propaganda stapled to the bulletin board.
I have to bury the urge to rip the poster off the wall and toss it into the rubbish. The station could be swarming with collaborators ready to turn on anyone they view as a threat to the Reich.
