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“I know. But I can’t help feeling responsible for what happened. Did he tell you why they”—my voice splinters, and I nod to the café where the other resistance circuit member is—“why they killed him?”
“They suspected him of collaborating with the local resistance group. They arrested him. It’s unknown what, if anything, Pierre may have told them.” She smiles and laughs, but the sound is strained at best. It’s not enough to fool anyone. “There’s a chance he didn’t tell them anything. They didn’t break him. They haven’t arrested anyone else in the area yet, so maybe it means they don’t know who was working with him.”
“I hope you’re right about that.” Because while the Cashmere network has maintained a level of anonymity vital for keeping those who are part of it safe, the resistance group in the area has grown since I arrived in France. It’s not about a member only knowing one or two people in the group. Too many members know too many other individuals in it.
And that might lead to the downfall of us all.
There is no sign of Johann when I arrive at the vineyard. While I wait for his return, I focus on cooking the evening meal and pretend I’m home in Bristol, preparing supper for my imaginary husband and children.
I imagine my husband entering the kitchen and wrapping me in his arms from behind. Him swaying us in time to the music on the radio. Him kissing me on the cheek while our children are playing and giggling in the drawing room.
I imagine my sister, my brother-in-law, and my adorable nieces and nephews arriving for dinner. The squeal as the girls run off to play with their dolls.
The front door bangs shut, and I’m unwillingly dragged back to my present reality. Heavy footsteps approach. I don’t have to turn to know who they belong to. It means Johann will be the one I see when I do turn around, not an SS uniform.
Relief eases through me. But it also means I will have to face a man who is angry because he thinks I betrayed his friends.
But instead of thinking of the last time I saw Oskar and his family, it’s Pierre’s image in the village square, his life no longer part of him, that flashes in my head. I close my eyes, forcing away the tears that have resurfaced.
“Did you know him?” Johann’s voice is low and gentle and free of accusation. Is he talking about Pierre? Does Johann know I was in the village? Did he see me?
Still unable to look at him, I nod. There is no point pretending I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Everyone in the village knew him.” My voice cracks, and I will myself to be stronger.
The SOE recruited me not only because I am fluent in three languages. They were impressed with my inner strength that isn’t so easily dented, other than during the whole kerfuffle with my sister and fiancé. But even then, I didn’t curl up in a ball and become a useless lump. I continued to prove my worth to the WAAF, the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force.
“I’m sorry about your friend.” The sincerity in Johann’s tone is almost my undoing. It would be easier if he were a callous monster like those men who killed Pierre. Then I could hate him like I’m supposed to.
I nod again because I know he is sorry, but that doesn’t change anything. The SS killed Pierre because they had evidence linking him to the local resistance group.
I turn to tell Johann the meal is ready, but his expression stalls the words. Hope lights his eyes—or I assume it is hope.
“Is it true, what you said?” he asks. “Are my friends going somewhere that will keep them safe?”
“That is the plan. The plan is for them to escape to freedom so Sonja can grow up in a world that doesn’t know hatred towards Jews.” Or a world that knows less hatred than what the Nazis stand for.
“Perhaps they will go to America one day?”
“If that’s where they wish to go, maybe that’s where they will end up. After the war.” As long as they’re not captured on their journey to Portugal—their first destination after going over the Pyrénées Mountains. A ship from there will take them to wherever they are headed after that. It is the same escape route the downed pilots travel.
“Thank you.” Johann’s mouth curves into a relieved smile, and the tension in his body appears to lessen.
Our gazes lock, and my breath comes a little faster than normal. There’s a fluttering in my chest that doesn’t belong there, and the longer we stare into each other’s eyes, the more it intensifies.
I cannot explain it. Cannot explain this intense connection between us, especially after the devastation of the day. Or perhaps that is why I feel it. A connection has been steadily growing between us since the day I learned his sister’s life was at risk in Austria because she is deaf. With everything we are dealing with—the loss and the fear—it makes sense that things between us have dramatically shifted.
“The meal is ready,” I finally tell him.
“I’ll eat with you,” the gruff voice that doesn’t belong to Johann says.
Jacques is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, eyeing Johann as though he isn’t sure what to make of him. Distrust still scars Jacques’s features, but ever since he found out Johann was hiding a Jewish family in the barn, his distrust for the man has softened slightly. Hearing the news the other day his son Yvon is still alive also helped ease the tension. Until Johann relayed the news to me, Jacques had no way of knowing if his son was among the living.
Johann offers him a quick smile, accepting the olive branch, and heads upstairs.
He returns a few minutes later in clean clothes that do not belong to him. I’ve never seen Johann out of his uniform. The shirt is made for someone a bit smaller. The cotton skims his muscles like a second skin. The trousers reach his ankles, but that doesn’t appear to bother Johann.
“Yvon’s clothes,” Jacques mumbles by way of explanation, digging into the stew.
“They were on the bed. I hope it’s all right with you if I wear them for the meal.”
