Violins of Autumn (16 page)

“Sure.” Holding the letter at arm’s reach to catch light from the window, I say, “‘Liza had the baby. Mama says he’s the sweetest, most good-natured baby around, just like you were. I don’t know about that. You, good-natured? Only teasing! How does it feel to be an uncle? Do you feel older? I don’t feel any different now that I’m an aunt.

“‘Mama can’t write to you today, she’s helping Liza tend to baby William. But she’ll write again tomorrow. She wants me to remind you to be a good boy and above all be a gentleman.’” I read the next lines to myself first, otherwise I won’t be able to keep my voice steady when I read them aloud. I take a breath and say, “‘Keep your head high. We miss you like the dickens. Stick it to the Germans and come home safe, Bub! Lovingly, Sarah.’”

I set the paper on his blanket.

“What a nice letter,” I say, but Robbie’s head doesn’t rise from his kneecaps.

I don’t know what else to say. It’s heartbreaking to see him this unhappy. I scoot down the cot until we’re side by side, put my arm around him, and lay my head on his shoulder. No matter how long it takes, I’ll sit right here with him until he feels better.

After a few minutes, his hand squeezes mine.

“You’re lucky to have a family that cares about you so much,” I tell him. “You’ll see them again.”

Nodding, Robbie folds the letter over the card and tucks them under his pillow.

“My oldest sister, Liza, had a baby,” he says. “I should have been there. I should be at home, helping out, and I’m not.”

“I’m sure they understand. You left to do something really important. And really brave. They’re pulling for you back home.”

He nods again and says, “Thanks, Adele,” but he doesn’t seem convinced. “I think I just have too much time to think down here.”

This dreary cellar has become a prison cell. Robbie is bright and sweet by nature, and being trapped down here all day is sending him to dark places.

“I can fix that,” I say, pulling him up from the cot when I stand. “Let’s get out of here. Do you have your identification?”

He pats his shirt pocket.

I lead him by the hand from his hidden room. At the cellar door, I say, “You’ll have to follow my rules. No talking. If somebody asks you an offhand question like ‘Have the time?’ don’t toss back an answer. I’ll do all the talking. Don’t gawk around like a tourist. Look at me. Don’t dawdle. Walk as if we have a destination in mind. Got all that?”

“I think so.” Robbie shields his eyes against the onslaught of sunlight. “I feel like a bat leaving its cave in the middle of the day.”

“You’re evolving into a creature of the night,” I say in a spooky voice. “Now,
shush
.”

Near the end of the laneway, he says, “Adele?”

He managed to string out my name into four syllables and a three-note vocal range. I smile at the pronunciation and say, “Yes?”

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “I, um—”

I lower his hand from his eyes.

“I don’t know how to say this.”

“But we’re outside now,” I say, glancing up and down the street. “Tell me later.”

His mouth opens to say something else, even though I warned him not to.

“Robbie, you know the rules. Is what you want to tell me important enough to get shot and killed over?” He considers this for a few seconds, but since I already know the answer I say, “Didn’t think so.”

Arm in arm, we walk briskly to the Seine, never slowing to take in the sights or linger in one place long enough to attract more than a passing glance. Whenever we find ourselves in the presence of German soldiers, I lay my head on Robbie’s arm. We stroll past like a lovesick couple with eyes only for each other.

I direct Robbie with a tug on his arm. We cross the avenue, dodging a steady stream of bicycle traffic, to connect with a cobblestone lane. We pass a handful of shops and a bistro before the road lets out onto a quiet residential street. Within the bustle of background din behind us, I pick out the faint clatter of a chair scraping against the rutted bistro patio. The noise might have been innocent, but the hastiness of it—as if the patron leapt up—triggers my suspicion.

I pull Robbie by the arm, upping the pace. We’re walking targets, parading about in plain sight, in danger at all times.

A bristly feeling, like the static that makes my hair stand on end in winter, creeps up the back of my neck. I look behind us. A lone man is walking against the flow of the pedestrians, who are traveling in the direction of the shops. As he weaves through the crowds, I catch only glimpses of his clothing.

“I think we’re being followed,” I whisper.

I tug on him to change direction toward the livelier heart of the district in search of a crowd large enough to get lost in. We cross paths with a cyclist who gives us a cordial nod. An elderly woman sweeping her steps ambles into our path, and we jostle her in passing. Robbie wisely keeps his mouth shut and lets me do the apologizing. We’re leaving witnesses behind like a trail of breadcrumbs.

Robbie glances over his shoulder.

I pull him frontward. “Don’t look.”

“But Adele, there’s no one there. We’re not being followed.”

“We are.”

He drops back to get a better look. “There’s a young fella, but he’s not giving us the time of day. He’s entering a shop.”

I put some real muscle into getting him moving again.

“Trust me. And be quiet.”

The active hub of the district appears at the end of the street. Pedestrians are as likely to be German soldiers as anyone else. By walking into a crowd, we’re giving the enemy on our tail the advantage of numbers. One shout and Robbie and I might find ourselves surrounded with no hope for escape.

My impetuous decision to dash for the alley across the street brings Robbie flailing down on one knee. The only pair of men’s shoes available was a size too large. Like a puppy, his big feet are disproportionate to the rest of him. They are not making for a fleet-footed getaway.

“Oh, the misery,” Robbie groans, rubbing his knee as he stands.

Once we reach the cover of the alley, I break into a run. Robbie flaps along next to me. We come out in a shaded courtyard, bound by buildings on all sides but one. There will be no getting at us without first funneling down the alley.

I release Robbie’s arm and take a running leap at the low, crumbling stone wall that fences us in. I vault over the top and land feet together on the other side. Robbie straddles the wall. Wings of fabric flutter open on his pant leg to show a nasty scrape on his knee.

I wave him down. “Anyone coming?”

With a shake of his head, he drops to the ground.

I do a quick visual search for a hiding place. A nearby church will have to do. I loop my arm through Robbie’s. We stroll crosswise through the street to the church.

The alcove behind the decoratively carved archway gives us a shadowed lookout. We nestle into it, jockeying for space. The tight squeeze forces our bodies to intertwine in a hug. Robbie’s heartbeat pulses like a frightened rabbit’s against my shoulder. The warmth of his hand radiates through my blouse. Goose bumps spring up on my bare flesh.

Our eyes meet. He leans toward me, tilting his head.

My breath catches. Robbie has chosen me for his first kiss? What do I do? Do I want to kiss him back?

Without giving it another thought, I stand taller to meet his lips halfway.

But Robbie’s lips carry on past my mouth to my ear where he whispers, “Do you still believe we were followed?”

My cheeks burn. Robbie didn’t want to kiss me after all. And I’d been prepared, excited even, to kiss him back. I could almost cry with disappointment. Dropping to flat feet, I press my back against the wall.

“Didn’t you feel the sensation of being watched?” I say. “His stare was like a rope lassoed about my waist. You didn’t feel that?”

“No, Adele. And if somebody was chasing us, he sure did a lousy job of it, don’t you think? We didn’t hear or see a thing.”

I rest my forehead against the smooth stone wall.

“Hold on,” Robbie says. “He’s climbing over the wall.”

I stretch on my tiptoes. “I can’t see.”

“It’s the fella I saw going into the shop.”

“What is he doing?”

“He’s at the street. He’s bending down, pretending to be preoccupied by something on his shoe. He’s looking for us.” Robbie flattens against the wall. “He’s getting into a bicycle taxi. Here, quick, switch places with me.”

We do a rigid circuitous dance, careful to remain hidden.

I move into position as the taxi rolls away. A cold sweat comes over me.

“Did you get a look at him?” Robbie asks.

“A young man in civilian clothes with a thin build and neatly combed brown hair?”

“Yes, that’s him all right. What do you make of that?”

I honestly don’t know what to make of it. We were followed by Shepherd.

I drop Robbie off in front of his safe house.

“I can’t come in. I have to talk to Denise right away,” I say, turning to leave.

His sad droop can’t sway me, this is too important.

“I’ll visit tomorrow. Promise!”

Denise found housing in a charming stone home owned by a widower, Stefan, whose Jewish wife, a French-born citizen, was handed over by her own sister-in-law and sent to the German work camp on the outskirts of the city. She hasn’t been heard from since.

Stefan often travels to the country for days at a stretch, to smuggle much needed meat and vegetables into Paris for his friends and extended family. This suits Denise just fine. She prefers to go through her day without relative strangers “hanging about and watching her every move,” even if they are sympathetic to the cause.

I run the entire distance to Denise’s until my throbbing shins feel ready to splinter.

Our coded knock—the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony—allows us to identify each other without opening the door. The beats also represent Morse code for the letter
V
—dot, dot, dot, dash. As part of the V for Victory campaign, the BBC began playing the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth to introduce its foreign broadcasts.

Against the weathered wood of the courtyard door around the back of the house, I follow three clipped taps with a heavier final knock. Denise lets me inside, and we sit across from each other at the kitchen table.

“Robbie and I were just followed by Shepherd,” I say, catching my breath.

Her head jerks back in surprise. “The same Shepherd who got himself captured the night we dropped?”

“One and the same. We ran and hid, hoping to draw him out into the open. Robbie saw a man entering a shop behind us, and that same man showed up minutes later. I only got a peek at him, but I know it was Shepherd.”

“Well, if it was him, there must be a logical explanation. He escaped or he was freed after questioning.”

“But why was he following me?”

“Why wouldn’t he follow you, Adele? Maybe he needed help from a fellow agent. Maybe he wanted to talk but couldn’t approach because you weren’t alone. He doesn’t know Robbie. Seeing you with a strange man, he may have thought you were in danger.”

Denise’s reasoning confronts me with possibilities I didn’t consider.

“He didn’t run after us or follow too closely, though. He kept his distance. Why pretend to enter a shop? He wanted to watch us without being seen.”

“I’ll bet he was only curious. Or jealous.”

I don’t know what to think anymore. Did I totally misread the situation?

“Enough with that fretful face,” Denise says. “Don’t worry, if he needed help he would have found a way to get your attention.” She drums her fingernails on the tabletop. “I know just the thing to take your mind off Shepherd.”

I need her to take my mind off the other situation I read wrong, the near-kiss with Robbie. The closeness we shared in the alcove is something I didn’t even know I wanted until it happened.

“Let’s spend an hour at the Neptune Pool!” Denise cheers, as if that’s a brilliant idea. “We’ll relax, get some fresh air.” My disapproving scowl forces her to add, “I know what you’re going to say. You think it’s a bad idea. I wholeheartedly disagree.”

“I don’t swim,” I say.

“Please, Adele, I need some sunshine. I’m withering away in here. We’re supposed to be playing regular French girls. And where are regular French girls on such a beautiful day? That’s right, they’re at the pool.”

“It’s not a good idea,” I say. “And you can’t wear me down, so don’t even try.”

Everywhere I look around the crowded pool deck I see scantily clad French girls and handsome blond men wearing skimpy shorts. Even Denise wears a two-piece bathing suit she bought off the
black market. It covers her navel, of course, but just barely. I know what every man and woman at the pool probably looks like in their underwear now. And that’s a whole lot more than I want to know about them.

A girl runs toward me, squealing, with a soldier hot on her trail. But we’re surrounded by Germans. There’s not much I can do to lend her a hand.

“I have you,” the soldier says, scooping her up.

She bats his chest, putting on quite a show, as if being chased down and conquered by a German soldier behaving like a caveman is something to celebrate.

Denise taps my right shoulder. “Look. Twelve o’clock.”

A soldier picks his way toward us, consulting a small book in his hands.

“Hello, girls. My name is Ludwig. It is sun and beautiful afternoon, I believe, and you?” he says. A nervous smile appears on his face, a rickety whitewashed picket fence of teeth. He searches the book. “Some time you would like a drink?”

“That would be nice, my friend and I would like that,” Denise says, not slowing her clipped pace to help Ludwig understand.

“Fantastic. The Commodore Bar. Do you know it?”

Denise stretches her long legs in front of her to flick the water with her toes. “We do. We will meet you there at nine o’clock. My name is Lise. This is my friend Anise.”

Yet another name to keep track of and answer to. When the war ends, will I remember how to go back to being plain Betty?

“Lise.” Ludwig takes Denise’s wrist. His lips brush the back of her hand. Switching to his native tongue, as though that might impress her, he says, “You are the loveliest woman I have seen in all of Paris.” He turns to me, outstretched hand shaking, and
tacks on a compulsory-sounding “Good day, Anise, it was my pleasure to be meeting you.”