Sins of the Flesh (31 page)

The children and the dog were fed one last time. Trips to the privy were urged, coats buttoned, caps fastened tightly under little chins, and gloves pulled up under coat sleeves. The fires would remain, for no German would care about a church burning down, and the equipment was packed and ready. They would all exit at the same time.

Mickey fastened her eyes on the children. She knew them now, much to her sorrow. Anna with the sad eyes was going on nine and the oldest. Marie, almost the same age, cried a lot, upsetting the other children; she was the only one who wouldn't go near the dog. Bernard was seven, as was Marc. Sophie and Stephan were six-and-a-half-year-old twins who clung to each other and stayed apart from the other children. Sophie's eyes were constantly filled with tears that never spilled onto her cheeks. To her dismay, Mickey had discovered that Sophie was the leader of the two. Max, a solemn-eyed six-year-old, stayed close to his cousin Mariette, who was the same age. Bruno somehow remained outside the group of children, preferring, Mickey supposed, to get his comfort from the warm, furry little body inside his jacket.

Mickey's eyes filled with tears. How unfair that these little ones had to learn at such a tender age that they couldn't become friends with their companions. If a friend died, there would be tears and sadness, an unwillingness to continue, to live another day. God alone knew what had been drummed into their little heads when they started on their journey.

Anna was the toughest. There was determination and defiance in her eyes. A methodical girl, she ate slowly and carefully, and her manners were impeccable. At least once a day she insisted on combing her hair and washing her face. As a result she was neater than the others, and her clothes were also thicker and warmer. Twice, Mickey had heard her chastise Marie when the younger girl broke into tears, telling her to grow up and act like a proper young lady. Marie had only wept harder at the girl's criticism, and no amount of comforting could bring a smile to her face. She was not a robust child, and Mickey worried about her.

Marc and Bernard, on the other hand, were friends from the same province. Like cohorts they whispered among themselves, not caring what orders they'd been given. They ate with relish, sharing their food with each other, although Marc was the more generous of the two. These two, Mickey knew, would be no problem; they would look out for each other.

Sophie and her tears puzzled Mickey, as did Stephan. They were exceptionally close, out of fear, she decided. She had yet to see the color of Stephan's eyes. Both appeared to be physically healthy, and she prayed that their mental condition wouldn't deteriorate with the long trip ahead of them. Sophie was much too young to shoulder the responsibility of her twin. Max and Mariette were little more than babies who sucked their thumbs constantly and should have been playing in a sandbox in the south of France with their mothers looking on indulgently. Although both appeared to be healthy, their eyes were trustful one moment, and filled with a deep sadness the next.

If she had a favorite, it would be Bruno, who was a chatty, sturdy little boy who said whatever popped into his head. If any tricks were to be played, Bruno would be the one to play them, with his mischievous eyes and wicked little smile. The others shunned him, possibly because of the warm, furry little dog he clutched to his chest.

It was time now for what Yvette called the children's marching orders. Standing tall, she saluted smartly to the group of children. “I am your general, and as such you must take my orders. Listen sharply, for our lives are at stake, and not one of us can make a mistake. We are going on a very long, very hard journey. You are soldiers now and must be brave and strong. There will be no talking whatsoever. Mademoiselle Mickey and I will speak only in English. If you speak English, you may talk; if not, you must be silent. Bruno, do you understand what I just said?” The little boy nodded meekly. “And the dog, he must not bark. If he barks, other soldiers, the Germans, will find us.”

“Do not worry, mademoiselle, my dog barks only in French, not English,” Bruno said, grinning. “I am ready, and I wish to be your lieutenant.”

“Then that is what you shall be,” Mickey said with a catch in her voice. “You will walk with me. Remember now, we speak only English from this moment on.”

“Fall in,” Yvette ordered. When the children didn't move she shooed them out the door like pesky chickens.

The German waited for his instructions. “In front of me, all the way,” Yvette said, trying to hide her smile at the way he was loaded down. She felt a moment's grudging respect when the man moved off, his steps sure and firm.

 

Days later, when Mickey and her group stopped at the foot of the Pyrenees, she thought her heart would thump out of her chest in fright. In September the mountains hadn't looked this monstrous, and the children had been older. She gazed at a wall of solid rock, slippery with snow. It seemed to go up, up, up to the snow-capped peaks. The last time she'd been stupid, confident in her ability to conquer the unknown, but now that she knew what lay ahead, she felt stark terror.

“It is impossible, Yvette,” she whispered. “I don't even know if I can make it. They are so little, and it is so bitterly cold.” Yvette nodded miserably.

“We must go now,” Kort said briskly. “There is a border patrol less than two kilometers from here. Do not think about how treacherous and frightening it is. Take one step and then another. Do not look up and do not look down. Instruct the children now!”

Yvette bit down on her lower lip. Kort was right. She nodded at Mickey, who shepherded the children into a small knot. She spoke quickly, but her voice was soothing.

Marie hung back, tears streaming down her cheeks. Anna stared at her in disgust. “Leave her behind,” she said in excellent English.

Startled by the girl's words, Mickey turned to face her. “You speak English?”

“And German and Italian, and I understand Spanish,” the girl said soberly. “She is a baby, that one, she cries more than Sophie, and Sophie is only six. She is a coward, she whines and cries and she wets her pants.” This last was said in French. Marie cried harder.

“We have no time for this,” Kort said, his eyes on the sky. “We have to make camp soon, and it's going to snow again. Take some of my load, and I'll sling her over my shoulder.”

Terrified, Mickey led the parade up the beginning of the rocky trail. Twice she slipped, but Anna's stiff arm against her back helped to keep her balance. Bruno trotted along at her side, his little feet nimble and sure on the rocky, slippery trail.

“I am not heartless, mademoiselle, I merely wanted her to realize how important this journey is,” Anna said quietly in English. “I thought if I called her a coward, she would show some spirit.”

“I know that, Anna,” Mickey said, her breathing shallow and labored. “Please, no more talking.”

Yvette's eyes were cold and merciless as she trailed behind Kort and the girl on his shoulder. “How is it you know this path and where the patrols are?” she snarled in broken German to the man's heaving back.

“Because I have a map,” he replied. “I would have offered it to you, but you would have said it was some kind of trick. When we make camp I will give it to you if you wish.”

“I damn well wish,” Yvette snapped. He nodded, and her grudging respect for the German escalated.

When Mickey called a halt a long time later, it was because she herself could walk no farther. Everyone sank down gratefully and huddled together for warmth. “I'm sorry, but we can't make a fire today. Perhaps later on, and even then maybe not. Do not look forward to it. What you are feeling now will just get worse,” she said softly as she parceled out food for the hungry children. An extra portion was given to Bruno for his friend, who lapped it up in the blink of an eye. Grudgingly, Yvette handed Kort his share. Nodding his thanks, he ate quickly. When he was finished he handed Mickey his map. Her eyes widened as she showed it to Yvette in the thin beam of a flashlight.

“We cannot relax until we are above the tree line, and even then I am not sure we'll be safe,” Kort said quietly. “I cannot carry the girl any longer. The terrain will become steep, and it will be impossible not to make a sound. She must walk when we start out. You see, one-quarter of a kilometer from here is a patrol. Sound carries, as do sobs, in the quiet of the night.”

“Are we to believe then that you will make no sound?” Yvette asked, eyeing him contemptuously.

“I am a soldier, madame, I do not kill children. Soon I will be a father myself. Believe what you like,” he replied with an air of righteous indignation.

Mickey volunteered to take the first watch, saying that only her legs were tired; her eyes and ears were keen and alert.

An amused expression on her face, she watched as Yvette strategically assigned everyone his or her own space in the tight circle. She poked Kort to indicate he was to take a position between herself and Mickey.

Satisfied that they were all more or less sleeping, Mickey settled back, her eyes on the trail that crisscrossed the one they had just left to make camp. A quarter of a kilometer wasn't much. She prayed quickly then, afraid to get too involved in supplication for fear she would miss some sound or indication that the patrol was coming closer. She wanted to think of Philippe and Reuben, but she didn't. Instead, she thought about chocolate cake, meadows filled with daisies, and a bright red wagon that Henri had once fashioned for Philippe when he was Bruno's age.

Kort had been right: it was snowing lightly now. Mickey crossed her fingers and offered up another prayer for the snow to ease off. But she knew it was an impossible plea, just as this journey was impossible.

They all heard the sounds at the same time. Mickey felt Kort grow rigid and knew Yvette had her knife at his throat. All at once she saw Anna spring to the left and clamp a hand over Marie's mouth. She could almost feel the girl's struggles as Anna used one of her legs to pin her in place. Bruno's hand snaked inside his coat to grasp the little dog's mouth. Bernard, who was next to him, also reached in and whispered, “Let me hold his mouth, you rub his belly.”

As the German patrol grew closer, Mickey picked up three voices. She held up her fingers in front of Kort, and he nodded. They were cursing the weather, the mountain patrol, the lack of lusty women, and poor food. The anger in their voices was unmistakable. Mickey cringed, her heart pounding. It hadn't snowed enough to cover their tracks as they'd made their camp. If the patrol used their flashlights or strayed off the trail, they would immediately see her ragtag little group.

Sophie buried her terrified face into her brother's coat sleeve. If Stephan hadn't moved his arm just then, the little girl might have been able to stifle her sneeze, but it exploded from her mouth like a gunshot.

Kort's arms shot out, knocking Yvette's knife from her hand as she reeled backward. Before either woman could stop him he was shouting to the patrol as he whisked Yvette's gun into his hand.

Yvette's eyes were murderous as Mickey prayed, “Please God, have mercy on the little ones' souls.”

Reuben simply stared, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. This couldn't be London. Half the city was gone, at least the half he was in. All around him were bombed-out buildings, sky-high piles of smoking rubble, and plaster dust. From somewhere to his far left he thought he heard a woman cry. He stopped, his boots crunching on the shattered pavement, trying to ascertain exactly where the cry had come from. It was quiet now; the cry, if that was what he'd really heard, had been snuffed out. He looked down and stumbled into a pile of rubble. All about him were crimson bloodstains, and he thought he saw a finger among the rubble, but he was too angry, too appalled at what he was seeing, to check it out.

“You best move smartly, Yank, this is no time to sightsee,” his guide muttered. “The Frenchie you're supposed to meet isn't going to hang around waiting for you. They operate on strict time schedules, otherwise their whole network gets blown to hell. Why the hell you want to go to France is beyond me. You had a soft berth in America, and you're too old to fight.” This last was said slyly, as though hoping to bait the tall American in his official army clothes into saying something. But he was disappointed. No one talked these days. “Go on now, mate, straight down the alley and around the corner is the Press Club.”

Reuben spoke then, his voice harsh and gruff. “What's the man's name? How will I recognize him?”

“He'll find you, not to worry. Get yerself a pint and he'll find you,” the man said, turning to pick his way through the rubble to collect the pound of coffee and round of cheese he'd been promised to escort the American to the Press Club.

There was no electricity inside the club, which probably meant there was no running water either, Reuben thought as he made his way to a table at the back of the room. He'd been told he could get food and wine if he wanted it. He did.

Music played softly from the depths of the room, an American tune he'd heard before but couldn't place now. There was liquor behind the bar—not much, but enough. The stew, when it came, was thin but substantial, particularly when sopped up with several slices of homemade bread. He hardly tasted the sour wine, and he kept his eyes on the doorway as he chewed. Every so often he gazed around the room, surprised that it was still intact. There were chunks missing from the walls, loose plaster on the ceiling, and blackout curtains on all the windows, but an effort had been made to keep things as normal as possible under the circumstances. No matter what, life went on, he thought grimly.

He smoked and waited, waited and smoked. Twice the music stopped, only to start again, a melancholy refrain that worked a kind of magic if you were deliriously happy, which he wasn't. Grimacing, he did his best to tune out the sad words by drinking more wine as he kept his eyes peeled on the door.

The room was filling up now. Conversation wafted about him, some laughter, but mostly he observed quiet men, some in uniform, their faces intent, their voices just as intense. He was the only man sitting alone, he noticed, and no one was paying any attention to him except the waitress, who kept filling his wineglass. When she approached to fill his glass for the sixth time, he waved her away and lit a cigar.

Half an hour later, Reuben pulled out his pocket watch. His contact was four hours late. The word
contact
had amused him when he first heard it. It reminded him of a spy novel, with the contact arriving in the rain, a hat pulled low on his forehead, a sloppy coat belted at his waist. In fact, the studio had made a movie with a character like that. Now, however, he was no longer amused, and this wasn't a movie; this was reality, and he was scared almost shitless.

There wasn't anyone in the club who was even near his age. The uniforms were all young men whose bodies were lean and hard, soldiers trained to fight. The others looked just as fit and trim, with great reserves of stamina from which to draw. His good life in California just might prove to be his undoing.

By now Reuben was out of sorts, anxiety having given way to suppressed anger. It was the army's creed—hurry up and wait. He was helpless now, dependent on a faceless, nameless Frenchman who would take him into that beleaguered country.

The backpack he'd slipped out of when he entered was at his feet. He rummaged for his notebook and pencil and started to write. Quite a few pages were filled with his cramped writing, enough to send off to Jane to hold for him. The note that was to go in the envelope had been written while he was still on the plane. It was midnight when he licked the flap of the envelope and handed it to the waitress with instructions to give it to the
Times
correspondent when he came in. Eventually it would get to the States, along with packets of photographs the photojournalists sent out when mail moved.

His contact was now seven hours late. Reuben ordered more food and wine, then settled in to wait all through the night, getting up every so often to go to the bathroom or stretch his legs. Once he walked outside, but the acrid smell drove him back indoors. Twenty minutes later a man walked into the club, his eyes searching the candlelit room. Immediately he approached Reuben's table and sat down, speaking rapidly in French, neither explaining nor apologizing for his late arrival. He waved to the waitress for food and wine.

He was young, no more than twenty-five, if that. His eyes were ageless, though, as he stared across at Reuben. It was hard to believe this young man was accepting the responsibility for getting him into France.

His food finished, the man handed Reuben a packet of papers. “They are, how do you say, exquisitely done. Another few days and your beard will be exactly like the one on this,” he said, tapping the false identity card. “From now on we talk only in French. I talk and you listen. It is agreed?” Reuben nodded. “Take this,” he said, indicating a parcel wrapped with string. “Be quick. You will keep your boots…for now, since we have none to give you. This must go, too.” He pointed to Reuben's backpack. “Use this instead,” he said, fishing a moth-eaten wool sack from his own pack. “I will see to transferring the contents while you change clothes.”

The young man, code-named Jean Dupré, dumped Reuben's bag onto the table, sorting through the contents to determine what was safe to carry. The razor and two bars of soap were tossed aside, while socks and underwear stayed on the table. The aspirin were emptied into the bag, the bottle left on the table. Jean was patently surprised to see the brush and comb were French. They went into the bag along with the pencil and pad, but only after he'd scratched off the gilt lettering on the pencil and torn off the top of the pad.

It was September 1 when Jean Dupré led Reuben out of the Press Club. On December 10, three months and ten days later, Reuben was within twenty-five kilometers of Mickey's château in Marseilles.

There was snow on the ground. It was so blinding, Reuben's eyes watered constantly; his eyelashes froze and caked with beads of ice. His head pounded constantly, but he hadn't complained. With only seven aspirin left, he had vowed to endure the pain unless it felt like his head would blow off his neck.

No man with his wits about him would go through what he'd been through the past months, he mused. Sleeping in barns with only rats for company, hiding in garbage Dumpsters that made Jean smell like a flower in comparison. Twice he'd been tempted to kill a rat for food, but he knew that would be madness indeed. He hated everything about France now, and the madman who controlled the country he'd once loved so passionately. Along the way he'd listened to the stories Jean and his compatriots had to tell—horrible stories he wanted to forget. Stories about women and children starving, stories about beaten old men and women, stories about people being carted off in trucks and never seen again. Lines and lines for everything, people, little children freezing in those lines waiting for thin soup or a piece of bread. All he wanted to do now was kill. When he slept, which wasn't very often, he dreamed of killing whole columns of German soldiers; and when he wasn't gunning them down, he was slicing out their tongues, ripping off their testicles, and burning their feet to their ankles. And still it wasn't enough. And when he woke from his nightmares he wrote, quickly, one word running into the next in his frenzy.

After the first month he'd given up the idea of writing his memoirs for the studio. What he was writing now was about truth and feelings and anger. He was obsessed with his writing, his thoughts never still.

He was French now; this was his country, the country that had given him back his sanity after the first war. He spoke in French, his thoughts were in French. He was one of them.

At some point during the second month he became an active member of the Resistance. Willingly he made dynamite charges, helped blow up bridges, knocked out power lines, destroyed water systems, set off homemade bombs that killed Germans. But it was never enough. For every German they killed, three more took his place, but still they continued with their puny efforts, certain the day would come when they would drive the Germans out of France. Reuben became an expert with the garrote, knew the anatomy better than any first-year medical student. He could kill with a blow, with a blade, with his stiffened fingers, and when he walked or crawled away he was glad he'd killed. His network had a saying when they killed a German: This bastard will not father any more bastards. His network's biggest coup to date had taken place a week earlier when they'd wiped out an entire convoy with the help of two other networks. It had been so organized, so meticulously done, Reuben could only marvel afterward that they'd lost just seven members. The honor of the kill went to his network, and there was much backslapping and camaraderie. They now were mobile with trucks and several tanks, along with several cars. Weapons filled one entire truck. Another held ammunition that would go to their storehouse. He'd rejoiced with the others and refused to think of the reprisals.

Jean was shuffling his feet in the snow, looking everywhere but at Reuben. His voice was low and husky, and he spoke now in English. It was his way of complimenting Reuben for the work he'd done with his network. “We part here, monsieur. You are certain you can find your way to the village alone?” Reuben nodded. “You will recognize old landmarks, eh?” Again Reuben nodded. “When you…you will remember where you are to join up with the Monet network. They are searching for the woman you are trying to locate. Perhaps they will have news for you. Here,” he said harshly, “this is a Christmas present early.” He handed over a small parcel.

Reuben removed the wrapping and withdrew a pair of dark glasses. Jean blushed furiously when he saw the American's eyes grow moist. “They come from a dead German major. They will not harm your eyes; wear them over your own. They are for the…the…”

“Glare,” Reuben said, nodding.

“Yes, the glare. Good…good luck, my friend.”

“And to you.” Reuben clapped both his hands on Jean's shoulders. He knew he'd never see Jean again, but his life was richer for having known him even a short while. He wanted to say the right thing, something important and meaningful, to this stalwart Frenchman, but he couldn't find the words. “
Bonne chance,
my friend.”

Then he pressed on, for to stand still too long would add frostbite to his other problems. Now that he had the dark glasses he could travel faster, be more alert.

Five days later Reuben walked into the village nearest the château. Half the shops were nothing but rubble now; the steeple had been blown from the church, and its door hung drunkenly from a single hinge. Staring inside, he could see snow on the pews. He'd gone to midnight mass here once with Mickey, Daniel, and Bebe, sitting in the second pew from the back. When he left he tried to close the door, but it was too heavy, the hinge solidly rusted.

There was blackness all around him as he made his way down the lonely road that would take him to the château. It was going to snow again, he thought sadly, remembering the happy times with Mickey in the snow-filled meadows behind the château. His footsteps slowed as memories rushed to the surface. The chestnut trees were bare now, but he remembered when they were in bloom, remembered kissing Mickey under the leafy green umbrella. If she were at the château now, he'd be able to see smoke from the chimney, but she wasn't there. The entire village and surrounding countryside had been strafed by the Germans.

Reuben dropped to his knees in the snow, his hands folded in prayer. As with Jean, the words he was seeking wouldn't come. He looked down at the whiteness, wondering what it was he wanted to pray for. “Let it be there,” he said over and over as he trudged down the road and around the bend.

The château stood, majestic and ghostly in the darkness, the ageless trees protecting it. Reuben drank in its beauty like a thirsty man in the desert. An overwhelming sense of peace flooded through him. How well he remembered the last time he'd walked away from this magical place. His heart had been breaking, and his eyes were full of tears when he'd looked back, looked back because he had fallen in love here. He should have run back, he never should have left. So long ago, so many years, so much heartache, and all because of Bebe. No, he wouldn't allow Bebe to intrude now. Not here.

The moon sailed gracefully from under its cloud cover, and he saw the trees clearly. They'd taken the brunt of the strafing, but still they lived. He tried to wrap his arms around the closest one, but he couldn't, it was too large. It lived, as did the others, and that was all that mattered.

Slowly Reuben walked through the snow, not sure if he was on the flagstone walkway or not. The front door beckoned him. It wouldn't be locked; Mickey never locked her doors. Once he'd asked for a key, and she'd told him she didn't even know where it was, if there was one. Now the door yielded to the pressure of his shoulder. “Are you ready for this?” he asked himself before he set foot over the threshold, back into his memories.