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Jacques unfolds from the wingback chair and leaves the room. His movements are slow, and his footsteps falter as if each step causes him pain. If not for the war, he wouldn’t be forced to manage the vineyard on his own. He would have his son here helping him. He would have capable men doing the physical labor. My heart aches for everything he has been forced to endure.
I turn and find myself in Johann’s arms once more.
“I only hope my friends and their daughter finally find the happiness they deserve.” His words are murmured at my temple.
I don’t dare tell him the anti-Semitic feelings so widespread in Europe are not much better in England. The only difference is the atrocities occurring in the concentration camps don’t exist in Britain. That king and country aren’t forcing them to wear a star on their arm, shutting down their businesses, or preventing them from studying at university.
England is still the safer alternative to where they were living, but the distrust for Jews due to the lies told to the German people will also haunt them in my homeland. Hitler’s poisoned words and politics had been embraced by many in Britain before the war, and the distrust only grew with time.
I don’t tell Johann any of this. I just let him enjoy the knowledge his friends are safe. It’s all I can give him. He’s still in the dark about the fate of his mother and sister. Even I cannot help him there. It’s impossible to know where they went and if they are still alive. It’s impossible to know if we can save them too.
Just as it’s impossible to know if we will be able to save ourselves, if we will survive the war.
September 1943
France
* * *
I sit up in bed a little too quickly and a wave of nausea hits me. It feels like I’ve been tired for too long, almost since the war began, yet lately, it seems almost more so—as if the hounds of sleep are always nipping at my heels.
Johann is away for the next few days, and it’s the new moon. That means I will hopefully be sabotaging a railroad tunnel tonight. Sleep won’t be happening until after the job is finished, which will be sometime after two o’clock in the morning.
I breathe slowly through my mouth, and the nausea gradually subsides. Taking care not to move so fast this time, I stand and get ready for the day. Memories linger in my thoughts of the past two months following the grand ball in Paris. Memories of stolen moments with Johann, the tender words spoken between us, the embraces, the kisses, the quiet lovemaking. The walks to the pond to watch the sunsets. The murmured discussions about a future together—a future based more on dreams than reality.
I greet Jacques and prepare porridge for him from the small quantity of oats we have left. It’s runnier than either of us would like, but it’s more than most people get these days. It’s been nine weeks since Johann learned that Oskar and his family are safe. Nine weeks he’s been breathing a little easier. The same cannot be said for the rest of us.
I sneak a little extra helping of my porridge into Jacques’s bowl. He has plenty of work to do in the vineyard today, and he needs as much energy as he can get. All I need is more sleep.
“Would you stop giving me all your food?” he grumbles and starts coughing. The cough began a week ago and hasn’t relented yet. If anything, it’s getting worse.
“I’m not giving it all to you.” I show him the contents of my chipped bowl. “See?”
He gives me the gruff look I’m familiar with when it comes to his expressions, and I cannot help but smile. Nothing gets past this man.
“You need it more than I do,” I amend. “I’m going to drop by Dr. Deschamps’s office tomorrow and tell him your cough isn’t getting better.”
“It will be fine. I don’t need to see no doctor.” He glares at me, making his opinion on the topic clear. I shake my head. As long as I’m living under his roof, it’s my job to keep him alive until his son is freed from the German POW camp.
“You should eat more,” Jacques says. “You’ve got lots of bicycling to do today.”
Tonight’s sabotage requires I cycle a fair distance. The satellite network in the area where it will take place recently lost one of their members. I am her replacement for the mission.
I allow Jacques to spoon the extra porridge I gave him back into my bowl. He’s stubborn, and this is one battle not worth fighting. Fortunately, porridge is one food that doesn’t make my nausea worse.
Nausea. Exhaustion. I’ve been blaming them on my late nights, the nightmares, and the lack of food, but what if…I count to when I roughly remember my last menses. With everything going on, I’d lost track of it.
I’m late, but that is understandable with the stress of my job and the diminished food supply. Even the food Johann provides isn’t much. It’s not designed to feed all three of us. It’s only meant to benefit him.
The fatigue and nausea are easy to blame on the consequences of war, but those two symptoms combined with tender breasts can mean only one thing. Bloody hell. I’m pregnant. About eleven or twelve weeks if my maths is correct.
I draw in another slow breath. It’s all I can do not to weep and curse out loud. I had hoped to one day be a mother, but not now. Not in the middle of the war. Not when the world is filled with ignorance and hate. Not when I have a job to do to help stop the Nazis.
But since there is nothing I can do about the dilemma for now—I have a mission to get to—I eat a spoonful of porridge and push all thoughts of the pregnancy aside. “I won’t be back until tomorrow,” I tell Jacques. I don’t tell him where I’m going. He doesn’t need to know.
“Be careful.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. He focuses on eating his food. We both do.
We finish our meal, and I quickly clean the dishes. Jacques heads to the vineyard. By the time I leave the house, my stomach is a bit more settled. Settled enough that I’m able to pedal the seventy-five miles to the safe house where I am staying the night.
