Violins of Autumn (14 page)

He pulls out a white flag of surrender. I do a double-take. No, it’s a handkerchief. My embroidered handkerchief.

“You appear to be in a hurry to get somewhere; I’m sorry to bother you,” he says. Pudgy hands twist my handkerchief into a
taut coil. “I wondered if you might like to get a drink. When it is more convenient for you, of course. My name is Georges.”

Oh, Georges
, I think.
If only you knew what a close call you had just now
.

“I’m afraid I can’t.” I coax out a smile. “I have a boyfriend. Thank you for the offer, though.”

The handkerchief unravels limply. “I see. It never hurts to ask.” He stands aside. “I’ll let you get back on your way.”

I take the warm, slightly damp handkerchief from him, not about to use it near my face ever again.

Back above ground, squealing children chase each other through the park, couples stroll hand in hand, friends meet for coffee. Regular life. It still goes on around me.

While a kind man was working up the nerve to ask me on a date, I was working up the nerve to kill him with my bare hands.

On the long walk to Estelle’s, I drop by Cammerts’s apartment to let him know my rendezvous didn’t take place. I doubt he’s in, and I’m right. But if he ran into trouble he would have placed a matchbox on the window ledge outside the apartment door. The sill is empty, so I figure he wasn’t captured. Still, the elevator ride to the foyer seems to take forever, and the whole way down I prepare to be pounced on by German guards the moment the door opens.

I think about visiting Denise next, since she spends so much time by herself, hidden away. The SOE can’t afford to lose a skilled transmitter like Denise, or her precious radio. Although, knowing Denise, she won’t stay behind the scenes much longer since she’s made it pretty clear she hates being stuck indoors.

When I spot a confectioner’s shop, I change my mind about visiting Denise. A certain boy is hidden away too, and I have a gut feeling he’s in need of some company.

Robbie was sent to a safe house owned by a woman who runs an escape route for downed airmen. She, along with a trusted group of assistants, smuggles the men through France, over the Pyrenees Mountains, and into neutral Spain. From there, they’re returned by boat to Britain.

I learned from Marie that ration cards aren’t required at the confectioner’s shop, so I pick up candy for Robbie. I imagine him huddled alone in a dank cellar, craving fresh air and sunlight and someone to talk to. Something sweet might lift his spirits.

As I prepare to leave, a German soldier marches swiftly to the door from the opposite side. I freeze in place, clutching the bag of candy. Did he see me leave Cammerts’s apartment? Did he follow me here? There are no other ways to exit the shop. I’m trapped.

He opens the door, stepping aside to let me pass. “
Après vous, mademoiselle
.”

“
Merci
,” I say as I hurry outside.

The soldier enters the shop. The door swings shut behind him.

I take a good look around, marveling at the number of German soldiers using the street. How, in two weeks’ time, have I become so used to them that they’re a normal part of the scenery?

When I arrive at Robbie’s safe house, the woman who runs the escape line is just leaving through the front door. I meet up with her at the sidewalk.

“Hello, Adele,” she says. “Are you here for the parcel?”

It seems strange to call Robbie a parcel, as if he’s a gift waiting to be shipped away, but in a way it makes sense.

“Yes, is that all right?”

“Certainly. I’m off to pick up food for boxed lunches. The
amount some people eat, it’s astounding. They don’t fare well at all with the rationing restrictions.”

She means American airmen like Robbie, who are taller and broader than the average Frenchman. He’s probably willing to trade his right arm for a slab of roast beef and mashed potatoes right about now.

“Okay, thank you,” I say, tacking on a quick good-bye as I jog down the pebbly path that leads to the cellar door.

At the far end of the cellar, an enormous wine rack conceals a room not much larger than a closet. Enough light filters through the window’s lacework of cobwebs to let Robbie read, play cards, and stay relatively sane.

I find him seated cross-legged on his neatly made cot, hunched over what’s probably his umpteenth game of solitaire. I tiptoe behind him and say, “Hi!”

The sudden jerk of his arm sends a whole row of neatly laid-out cards flying.

“Geez, Robbie, you’re jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

Shifting sideways to look at me, he says, “Oh, hi, Adele. Don’t think you spooked me, because you didn’t.” The bright red blush climbing above the collar of his shirt and into his cheeks tells a different story. He pats the end of the cot. “Wanna play rummy?”

“Sure.” After I’m comfortably cross-legged, I hand him the bag of candy. “I brought you a treat.”

“You did?” he cries, with all the excitement of a little boy at Christmastime. He frees one candy from its cellophane wrapper and pops it in his mouth. “Mmm, sour balls,” he says, his words garbled by the brightly colored ball of sugar. “Thanks, Adele. How’d you know they’re my favorite?”

Laughing, I say, “I got them because they’re my favorite.”

Robbie passes me a sour ball. I slowly unwrap the candy while watching him deal cards. He really is cute. His fair hair looks so soft. And the single dimple that pops up in his right cheek when he grins always makes me smile. He’s the sort of boy I would have had a schoolgirl crush on, back when I lived in Connecticut. I pick up my cards before he can catch me staring.

“Did they give you forged papers yet?” I ask.

“I’m getting them soon, I think. Since I can’t speak French, my papers will say I’m deaf and dumb.”

“When you get your papers we’ll go for a walk. I’ve seen other girls walking downed airmen around the city. They must be airmen because they stick out like sore thumbs. I don’t know how they don’t get caught. None of their clothing fits them properly. They look nervous. They walk too slowly. They squint at their subway and train tickets as if they have no clue what’s written on them. Because they don’t! But we won’t be like them.” With a nod, I resolve to get him outside for some fresh air. “Don’t worry. I’ll be a lot more careful than those other guides.”

“I’ll bet.”

The musty, depressing cellar already has me craving sunshine. What sort of mood must Robbie be in by now? The sooner he gets his papers, the better.

“It must be awful, stuck down here all day,” I say.

“It’s a lot better now.” He glances away from his cards to give me a quick smile. “I’m glad you came to see me again. After being surrounded by my sisters, and then the fellas in my squadron, I thought it’d be nice to spend some time alone, away from it all, but I’ve never been so bored in my whole life. Now that you’re here, I can finally have a conversation. Sometimes I sing, just to hear words I can actually understand.”

“What do you sing?”

“Ah, nothin’.”

He can’t take back that spilled confession with a nonchalant shrug. I won’t let him. “Sing something for me.”

I lean forward. My unblinking stare commands him to do my bidding. Within seconds he cracks under the pressure and laughs.

“Don’t make me sing, Adele.”

“Just one song, that’s all, then I’ll never ask you to sing again.”

He groans. “All right, fine. But don’t look at me while I’m singing.”

“I won’t. Promise.” I turn right around backward. “Look, I’m facing the wall. How’s that for not looking?”

Behind me, he clears his throat. He inhales a deep breath. The soulful lyrics of “You Are My Sunshine” wrap around me like a hug I want to settle into and never leave. Robbie’s voice is shy but strong, and the melodic sentiment of his singing brings tears to my eyes. After the echo of the final note fades, I keep my back to him until I’m confident my voice won’t break when I tell him how great he was.

“You’re not laughing at me”—he clears his throat again—“are you?”

Pretending to scratch an itch, I pat my eyes dry. I face him and cross my legs again. “No, that was good. Really good.”

His shoulders droop with relief. “Ah, thanks.”

He reaches out to pick up his first card from the stack, beaming his sweet, boyish grin with such happiness. All because I came to visit him.

In hindsight, I shouldn’t have offered to help Pierre and his men by spying on the factory. What will I get in return? More work and more time on my bike, that’s what.

The bright morning sky I woke up to in Paris has dulled to a lifeless steel gray, threatening rain. With my luck a rain shower will drench my notes. I’ll be left with nothing to show Pierre, and no proof that I went through with it.

The area is new to me, and traffic here has been hit or miss all morning. When the roads aren’t bustling with wagons, bicycles, and assorted German vehicles, they’re startlingly empty. Intent on reaching the factory, I whizz past everything in my path, avoiding eye contact that might invite attention or conversation. If the Germans want me to stop, they can take the time to ask me to stop. Otherwise, I’m not braking for anything.

A few kilometers south of the village Pierre showed me on the map, the German presence picks up. I ride on, speeding past
a truck hauling young soldiers. When they hoot crass innuendos at me, I don’t even flinch. I pedal faster.

My confidence doesn’t waver until I crest a steep incline and get my first look at the factory. I slog through the motions of pedaling, gradually slowing to a stop.

Nothing in real life ever plays out the way it does in my imagination. The factory is a multistoried behemoth of a building, bordered by extensive grounds that offer no cover. Two German guards patrol the perimeter fencing and one oversees the locked entrance gate. What’s the sense in riding all this way to spy? Sabotaging this factory looks to be practically impossible.

On a sloping field of wildflowers a few hundred meters west of the wire fence, I lay down my bicycle and sit next to it beneath an old oak.

The lid of my bicycle basket flips open. The apple Estelle insisted I take with me to keep my energy up tumbles onto the grass, followed by the compact Tenax camera I bought from Marie for a few francs more than it’s worth. She already used ten of the exposures. That leaves twenty-six for me. Twenty-six chances to capture the factory’s exterior, and the surrounding area, on film. Estelle and the neighborhood photo developer are longtime friends, which gives me the freedom to photograph images that might otherwise raise alarm bells.

I study the expansive concrete wall and barred windows visible from my perch on the hillside. Photos from this angle won’t do much to help Pierre and his men. To give them the complete picture, I’ll have to move, shooting photographs from all sides. The guards will catch on to my plan immediately. If they haven’t already.

I seriously underestimated the extent of this job. It can’t possibly be wrapped up in one morning. And I was reluctant to come
here in the first place. Now I’ll have to come back another day to gather more evidence? No thank you. Even if I manage to collect photos of the exterior, the interior will remain a complete mystery.

I draw my legs up and wrap my arms around them, discouraged by the futility of traveling all this way. I should ride straight back to Paris without giving this mission another thought, as if I hadn’t agreed to spy on it in the first place. What’s to stop me? I’m not obligated to follow this through to the end. I never have to see Pierre again.

Kneading my temples with my fingertips, I sigh. Pierre expects me to quit. He knew I’d ride away, never to be heard from again. He warned his men that I’m just a girl. And a small one at that.

That does it. I am not just a girl. Somehow, some way, I will get inside the factory.

A mass of leafy ferns sways this way and that, revealing the whereabouts of a creature hidden there. Out hops a plump brown rabbit. He leisurely lops into the open to snack on grass, unaware that his enemy sits only ten feet away.

My hand slips inside my jacket. With the stealth of a hunter, I remove my notebook and pencil. What a challenge it would be to draw him before he catches wind of my scent and bolts. Just as I’m adding the final pencil strokes to his ears, he stands alert, nose twitching. Like a shot, off he goes, darting up the hillside and into the forest, to flee the girl who spared his life.

I tuck the notebook in my jacket and pick up the camera. I snap five shots of the landscape, capturing the factory and the grounds in the distance. Those five shots aren’t enough, but the film can’t be wasted on nearly identical images. I set the camera at my feet. I methodically tear a plucked blade of grass into thin strips while watching two exit doors for activity.

Outside the front gate, the guard paces, his hands stuffed into his pockets. Unlike other German soldiers I’ve seen, he has a relaxed way of moving, without the typical wind-up toy soldier rigidness. Is he bored? Does he wish for a job with more action? How would he react if a naive girl approached him and struck up a conversation?

An idea hits me. It might very well be a horrible idea, but before second thoughts can set in I stroll to the road, taking in the sights like a curious tourist. I capture five more shots of the factory. I pretend to photograph clouds and the pasture across the road. I kneel to take aim at a daisy. I pop the flower from its stem and tuck it in my hair the way innocent girls do in movies. Every chance I get to keep tabs on the guard through the view-finder, I take it. A German shepherd dog sits as still as a statue by his side.

“You, there! Mademoiselle!” he calls. “Come here please.”

I jerk to attention, unable to help myself. Boy, I’ve really done it this time. I’ve gotten too confident for my own good. I force a smile as fear pulls my cheek muscles taut. If there’s any hope of getting away with this tourist act, I have to give it my all.