Violins of Autumn (15 page)

With a spritely spring in my step, I march to him, saying, “Good morning, sir. How are you?”

“I am well, thank you.” He stands more at attention now than he did the whole time I spied on him. “I would like to see your papers, please.”

My fingertips try to discern the size and shape of my identification inside the bulging interior pocket of my jacket.

“Here is my
carte d’identité
,” I say, still smiling as though I have nothing to fear.

My trembling hand pulls the correct identification paper from my jacket. The handoff seems to happen in slowed time. The guard
reaches toward me. He secures the card. I could swear that he does. Believing he has it in his grasp, I release mine.

The card twirls to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” I say, bending down to retrieve it. “Clumsy me.”

My fingers wrap around the card. Everything will be fine, but only if I focus. If I stay calm. I’m on top of the situation. There’s no need to be nervous.

As I rise to hand over my identification, I watch, too shocked to react, as the notebook supplied to me by the SOE slips from my pocket. Flapping open, it falls through the air, the pages rustling as if to taunt me. And then it lands, right on the guard’s boots.

He picks up the notebook and examines the nondescript cover from every angle.

I took all necessary precautions, I’m sure of it. Any and all pages that shouldn’t fall into enemy hands were removed and burned.

He flips the cover open to the first page.

I wrack my brain for its contents. Is he looking at my doodle of the ducklings? Or the coordinates for the factory?

After memorizing this location, did I tear that sheet from the book? I must have. But within a matter of seconds I convince myself that the page is still there and it’s about to give me away.

“What a beautiful dog,” I blurt. “May I pet him, or will he bite?”

I gauge the guard’s expression as he closes the book and returns it to me. My heart still beats with life and my hands aren’t cuffed, so I guess he didn’t find incriminating evidence. I quickly return the notebook to my pocket along with my identity card.

“She will bite you if I tell her to,” he says.

My eyes widen with fear. He’s about to sic a vicious Nazi hound on me.

His smile helps me breathe a little easier. Even though I don’t doubt for a second that the dog will tear me to shreds if commanded to do so, the guard is just toying with me.

“Yes, you may pet her. Let her sniff your hand first.” Addressing the dog, he says, “Zucker.
Hier!
” The dog obediently stands and takes her place next to the guard’s leg. “Zucker.
Setz!
” he says, and she sits at attention.

I hold my palm to her nose, leery of her fangs. “Hello, Sugar.” With a quick pat to her head, I say, “You’re a good dog.”

“Zucker does not speak French. She speaks only German.”

I laugh. “Oh, I see.”

“Do you speak German?” the guard asks. “You translated the dog’s name.”

“I speak only a little German.” My mind spins, grasping at details and memories, no matter how small, to rework my cover story. “My name is Adele Blanchard, but my grandmother’s maiden name was Ackerman.”

He excitedly points to his chest. “Ackerman is my family name!”

“Is it really?” I say, cringing inside. “What a funny coincidence.”

“Where in Germany is your grandmother from?”

One of my teachers at boarding school was a proud German woman named Olga Ackerman. Whenever students asked her for personal stories, she always gave the same reply: “Germans are a formal people. We do not make idle chitchat,” and her mystique grew. We took it upon ourselves to create a thrilling life story for her that was sure to become legend.

“She grew up in Heidelberg,” I say.

“I am from Speyer!”

I smile along with him, as if I understand the significance of that.

“Perhaps we are related,” he says. “You said your name is Adele?” He extends his hand to shake mine. “My name is Gerhard. Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you, Gerhard.”

We met only moments ago, and already Gerhard and I are chatting like friends. He doesn’t behave like a German soldier. And he doesn’t look like one, either. His dark hair, sleepy, almond-shaped eyes the color of army fatigues, and strong, handsome nose give him character, but in a regular-British-bloke kind of way. If he traded his uniform for civilian clothes, he’d fit right in at the London pub where I worked. Maybe not all German soldiers are mindless zombies with no will of their own, performing their duties without question. I almost wish he were a typical soldier. At least then I’d know what to expect from him.

“What brings you to this area?” Gerhard asks.

“I’m visiting friends. I don’t travel often, so before I return to Paris I want to sightsee as much as possible. I stopped here because I was curious about the factory. I didn’t expect to find such an impressive building in the middle of the countryside.”

“It is even more impressive on the inside. Would you like me to take you on a tour?”

“A tour?” A warm bead of sweat rolls from my temple and joins the many others drenching my hairline. “But there are guards. Am I allowed inside the factory?”

“Ordinarily, no one is permitted inside without a pass,” he says, “However, they make an exception for schoolchildren like you, for field trips.”

Schoolchildren? How old does the guard think I am? My identity card clearly states an age of twenty-two. I think back to our meeting. The notebook drew his attention away from the ID check. He didn’t actually look at my identification.

“I’ve never been inside a factory before.” Excitement threatens to burst out of me like scorching rays of sunshine. “A tour would be very nice, thank you.”

“Okay. Can you come back in three days? The same time you arrived today?”

“Yes, I think so.” I wave. “Good-bye, Gerhard, I will see you then.”

“Good-bye, and have a good afternoon.”

I begin walking down the road toward my bicycle, when suddenly Gerhard calls out, “Adele, one moment please!”

The excitement drains out of me. How did I stupidly fall for his story? A field trip to a German-operated factory? Oh, I could just kick myself for being so gullible.

I spin around on my heels. “Yes?”

“I saw your drawings. In your notebook. They are quite good,” he says. “If it is not too much trouble, could you please draw a picture of Zucker? In exchange for the tour? She is a good dog, more intelligent and obedient than some people, and so much like the dog my sister and I had as children. I believe you could capture that. The drawing would make a lovely gift for my family back home.”

“Yes, I would be happy to draw her,” I say. I run back, raising my camera. “I will take her photo, so I have an image to work from.”

Gerhard and the dog stand side by side, at attention, and I position them within the viewfinder. Only Gerhard smiles.

I snap the photo of my canine subject, set against a backdrop of the factory’s front entrance. The best shot of the day.

“I am finished,” I say. “I will see you in three days.”

We say good-bye once again. I hold back a smile all the way to my bike. As I ride away, the exhilaration building in my chest, like soda pop under pressure, bubbles out in a fit of uncontrollable giggling.

I did it.
Take that, Pierre! I’ll be the best spy you ever saw!

That pledge brings a hard lump to my throat. A memory unexpectedly rushes back to me. My tenth birthday. The day I said those same words to my brother.

That afternoon, my mother called me to the kitchen to bake a mystery cake. The kind of cake Nancy Drew would love. It didn’t surprise me that she clipped the recipe from our local newspaper. She wanted to fit in with all the other American mothers. She’d even dropped her accent. Sometimes I begged to hear the voice of the girl she used to be.

Behind me, the back door rattled open. My brother rushed through the kitchen to set an armload of books and boxes on the table. Rocking on his heels, he grinned at me like he was up to something.

“Whatcha got there?” I asked, edging closer to the pile. My mother frowned down at me, a reminder that slang words belonged outside. “I mean, what do you have there?”

He wiggled the lid of the box free. Inside was a metal device with gadgets and a small light bulb on it. A plaque below the bulb displayed puzzling patterns of dots and dashes.

I leaned forward on my elbows, too excited to remember my manners. “What is that?”

“It’s a Fleron telegraph signaler. Nick and I saw an ad for it in
Boys’ Life
. We’ve been saving nickels since February. That’s why I couldn’t go to the movies with you.”

So that was the reason. I was worried Tom didn’t want me around anymore.

I leaned closer. “What’s it do?”

Tom flipped to the magazine advertisement and read it to me. “Thomas Edison and many a great man started his career as a telegraph operator. Every boy that expects to get to first base in scouting or in life should know the Morse code.” He turned the page sideways. “See, right here it says this signaler is the latest and easiest way to learn the code, and no Scout can afford to be without one.”

“Wow.” I held my finger over the signal lever. “Can I try it?”

Tom pulled the device away, even though an understanding of Morse code was one of the most important skills a person could have to get through life! What would I do if he wouldn’t let me practice on his signaler?

“Can I read the instruction booklet?” I asked, begging with sad eyes.

“I guess so,” he said. “Don’t bend the pages.”

Mother picked up a book. The cover was filled with bold purple words. “
Secret Messages
:
How to Read and Write Them
. Written for boys and girls who like to exercise their minds.” She set the book on the table. “That certainly sounds like you, Tom.”

“And like me too,” I said.

Her flour-dusted fingers patted my hand. “And like you too, Betty.”

Within Tom’s belongings, I saw his prized Boy Scout code wheel our aunt Libby had sent him all the way from Great Britain. I knew for sure he was up to something big.

“Are you playing cops and robbers?” I asked. “Jailbreak?”

“Nah, a bunch of us are playing capture the flag with Morse code clues.”

“Wow, can I be on your team?”

“I dunno, Betty. You’re too small. You’ll get hurt.”

“But I’m fast! Nobody will catch me. Can I play? Please?”

I squeezed my eyes shut and clasped hands to my chest, wishing with all my might.

“All right, listen. You’re fast and sneaky, so I’ll let you be our spy. Do you want to?”

“Do I!” I hollered, and Mother turned with a warning finger held to her lips.

With the smell of mystery cake hanging in the air and rainbows from the glass drawer knobs dancing about the linoleum at our feet, I gave Tom a tight hug that he didn’t even try to wriggle out of.

“I’ll be the best spy you ever saw!”

We never played that game of capture the flag. On my most memorable birthday we happily celebrated together, unaware that my mother and brother had only days to live.

Today’s the day Robbie finally gets fresh air and exercise. My legs are still sore from yesterday’s ride to the factory and they really need a rest. But I know how much Robbie is looking forward to our walk. I’d hate to disappoint him.

I knock on the side of the wine rack, saying, “It’s me, are you in there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he says.

I enter his hidden room. He’s cross-legged on the cot, hunched over his playing cards.

“Are you ready to go?” I ask.

I walk to the end of the cot when he doesn’t lift his bowed head. He’s not looking at his cards, like I thought, but a letter and a postcard.

I sit opposite him. “Hey, what’s up?”

He hands me the postcard. It looks like a miniature, handwritten newspaper, complete with articles, and a word jumble, and even a comic strip.

“
The Randolph News
,” I say, reading the headline. I skim the articles and smile. “Is this a newspaper from your family?”

“Isn’t it great? My sister Sarah makes them up herself. She keeps me up-to-date on all sorts of stuff. That’s the last card I received before I”—he shrugs, giving me a halfgrin—“well, before I crashed here.”

“I love her drawings,” I say. “And her comic’s really funny.”

He picks up the letter. “When I left for my first flight, I brought along the last letter and newspaper I got from her. I guess I thought they’d bring me good luck.”

I’m so curious to know what’s in the letter. His sister Sarah is a fan of Deanna Durbin, just like I am. Are we alike in other ways? I’d love to know more about the rest of his family too.

“Want me to read you the letter?” Robbie asks, and I realize I’m leaning so far forward I’m practically already reading it.

I sit back, laughing. “Okay.”

“‘Dear Robbie,’” he says. “‘I received your latest letter. I hope you received mine. Sorry if I seemed a bit moody. I had an awful cold then, and Mama said it made me downright miserable to be around. Well! I don’t know about that.

“‘We had Uncle Earl and Aunt Mae to dinner on Sunday. We had chicken and all the fixings. And cupcakes for dessert. Your favorites. Am I making you hungry? Sorry if I am. You probably don’t get to eat that well over there. Am I right? Uncle Earl said to tell you his golf game has suffered since you left. He and Aunt Mae think about you all the time. And they’re not the only ones. See that wet spot on the paper (I circled it with fountain pen)? That’s where Donna Sue’s tear fell. I told her to quit the mush, you’re not
her
brother! But she and Marlene pray for you daily. They’re just sick with worry. My friends are such saps!’”

I frown, wondering about these girls, Donna Sue and Marlene.
They can rest easy. Robbie is in good hands, thank you very much.

Robbie pulls his knees to his chest and rests his head on them. Passing the letter to me, he says, “Can you finish reading it?”