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I leave the station and head for the outskirts of town. We walk about a hundred yards with Todd ahead of me, but then he stops outside a bakery and looks at the display of empty bread baskets. His shoulders stoop with feigned disappointment. The intentional pause is so I can lead the way without acknowledging him.
The entire time we walk, I’m vigilant of our surroundings. I stop every few minutes so I can check that no one other than Todd is following me.
I eventually pause long enough for him to catch up. “It’s not much farther.” I take hold of his hand and tug him through the opening in the hedge skirting the road.
Two teenagers are on the other side. Heidi is seventeen, pretty, with her blond hair tied up in two long plaits. She’s leaning back against the thick trunk of an oak, gazing at her companion. Christopher’s hand is on the bark above her head, his back to us.
Heidi says something quietly to him and straightens. Christopher casually turns and scowls at us as if we’re intruding.
“Hello, I’m Carmen. And this is Conrad.” I release Todd’s hand.
“You’re late.” Christopher’s sharp tone is aimed to puncture but not wound. His scowl deepens.
“German soldiers stopped the train and checked everyone’s papers.” My words are spoken softly so as not to draw attention should anyone be on the other side of the hedge.
Todd looks between us, not understanding a single word spoken, a concerned frown on his face.
“He doesn’t speak French, does he?” Christopher’s tone is not one of disgust or distrust, but it is resigned that their job has become more challenging and dangerous.
I shake my head, the movement more of an apology than a reply.
“I can speak a little English,” Heidi tells Todd, her English heavy with a French accent. “But I will only use it if absolutely necessary and if no one is around to hear me.”
“I understand,” he replies.
I hand her a small package. She doesn’t ask what is in it. She knows. It’s money to pay for Todd’s journey to Portugal, especially when it comes to crossing the Pyrénées Mountains. The mountain guides charge a fortune for their services and expertise.
I thank the two teens and wish Todd luck on his journey. That’s all we have time to say.
The three of them run across the field. I don’t wait for them to disappear into the tree line before I turn and head back to the train station.
I don’t take the same route I used to travel to Dijon. I board a train that goes in a different direction.
It’s late afternoon by the time I arrive at the vineyard. I change into the dress I wear for doing chores around the farmhouse, tuck my always-with-me ID cardinto the pocket, and I fetch the gardening tools from the shed.
Gardening is the only way I can calm my nerves after coming face-to-face with the enemy. It’s been hours since I was in the presence of German soldiers, but my muscles are still knotted with tension.
I’m busy weeding the root vegetables when the crunch of gravel under moving tyres alerts me to an approaching vehicle. A Jeep. With German soldiers.
My chest tightens. My heart rate picks up. And cold dread spills through my body. There’s not enough time for me to push to my feet and sprint to the fields to warn Jacques.
The Jeep rumbles to a stop in front of the farmhouse and the two soldiers climb out.
Bloody hell, why are they here? It’s too early in the season to demand we give them the limited food we grow, and Jacques doesn’t breed animals. He only has the two older horses, and they aren’t much use to the Germans—unless they plan to eat them.
I remain crouched, weighing the possibility of using the trowel to protect myself. According to my SOE training, anything can be turned into a weapon. But attacking two soldiers with a single trowel seems foolhardy.
The soldiers march towards me. I don’t recognise them. They aren’t the same soldiers who witnessed Pierre kiss me during the last parachute drop.
It’s only as the soldiers draw closer that I straighten to my full height. Both men are taller than me, but one of them has a few extra inches advantage. Both are better fed than most people in these parts. Both are blond. Both are soldiers with the Wehrmacht.
“Papers,” the shorter soldier demands, his body stiffer than an oak.
The other soldier peers at Jacques’s house. If he were from any country other than Germany, he would be considered handsome. I wait a beat for the familiar sneer to appear that I’ve witnessed on so many of his comrades. His expression remains as neutral as Switzerland.
I remove mycarte d’identitéfrom my skirt pocket and hand it to the first soldier. The shorter soldier’s gaze travels over me. He doesn’t leer at me in the way I’ve come to expect from those of his ilk, but he’s still appraising me the same way they all do. It’s enough to make me want to climb into Jacques’s pond and scrub my skin raw.
The other soldier gives me a brief glance, barely acknowledging me, and his eyes shift to the barn. The same barn that housed Todd for the past two weeks.
