Violins of Autumn (19 page)

I don’t have to think too deeply to remember how Robbie’s lips felt on mine when we shared our first kisses ever with each other, how good it felt to be in his arms after my argument with Denise. And I’ll never be able to forget the pain and confusion in his eyes in our final moment, as if everything was happening too quickly. As if our good-bye didn’t go the way he hoped it would.

I shake myself free of these thoughts as I descend into the valley, welcoming the cooler air.

As I round a sharp bend, a wall of dense fog greets me, having already erased the landscape as if it were merely a pencil drawing. Tendrils swirl across the ground, beckoning. Braking hard, I swerve but keep the bike upright. The tire kicks up a spray of dirt and gravel.

I ease forward on the bike, slower now. I glide through a surreal white dream, with no more than ten feet of road visible to keep me on course, past the occasional eerie shadow of a tree at the road’s edge or the metal carcass of an abandoned car, left where it ran out of petrol to decay or become target practice for fighter planes.

The minutes languidly tick by. Peace fills me. I can’t remember the last time I felt this free, soaring alone, like a bird through a heavenly cloud. Within the shroud of fog, the war doesn’t exist. I might be anywhere I want to be outside of France. I don’t have a high-risk job to do. I’m a girl on a bicycle, out for a ride. For these all-too-brief moments I savor the break from reality.

At last, the fog thins to reveal the crushing truth.

I roll to a stop. In my mind, a rational voice issues a flurry of commands, but my suddenly sluggish reaction time stalls what should be a swift getaway.

Roughly three hundred meters ahead, a German roadblock is
set up on the same bridge that was clear on my first pass earlier in the day. Ten armed men wander the area, talking and casually observing the river. If even a single soldier had been facing this direction as I came cheerfully rolling out from the fog that would have been the end of the road for me, in more than one sense of the word.

Hunkered low, I wheel the bike backward, watching the bridge for signs that I’ve been spotted. I have no idea who they intend to snag at the roadblock. I haven’t seen anyone on this road for miles.

That bridge is the only way to access the road on the opposite side of the river. Rerouting will add half a day to my timeline. And Denise will be forced to postpone her scheduled transmission of messages to those relying on her at London headquarters.

I can’t turn back and I can’t go forward.

At the river’s edge, smooth stones are visible below the surface. Beyond the span of a few strides, murkiness hides the depth. I snap a reed and toss it into the water. The rushing current carries it away in no time flat.

Warm foamy water swirls around my shoes. I drag the bike across the rocky riverbed. Knee-deep, I stop, shaking with fear. I can’t do this. If only I could stay put, right where I am, I wouldn’t have to worry about drowning or the ten Nazi soldiers.

I think of Denise waiting for the messages and the parts she needs to operate her radio. I force my feet to shuffle forward. The river climbs steadily to my waist. I hoist my bicycle above the surface. The message, written on rice paper to make it edible in an emergency, and the fragile radio crystals won’t hold up to water. My arms sag under the awkward weight, muscles aching from the constant counterbalance.

At the center of the stream, intense panic settles heavily in my chest. My legs fight the current. I rest the bicycle on my head, secure a firmer hold on the frame. With a grunt, I hoist it higher, huffing shallow breaths, as cold water corsets my ribcage.

Faster and faster I push through the receding river. When the water level drops to my knees I lower the bike, shuddering inside and out. Able to run at last, I storm the bank on trembling legs. With everything I have left in me, I haul the bike up the steep muddy slope. At the top, I honestly don’t know whether to let loose a triumphant scream or collapse into a blubbering heap.

“You there!”

A German soldier steps out from behind a bramble of wild roses. He gives me a curious stare, not quite sure what to make of the sopping wet girl frozen with fear like a snared rabbit. He must be suspicious of me. People with nothing to hide don’t wade across a river fully clothed while carrying a bicycle. They cross the bridge.

We stare at each other. He’s young, like me. Is he also frantically thinking through training lessons, unsure of the correct next move? If he knew what to do in this situation he would have already done it.

To escape, I have to get the upper hand before he pulls a weapon or calls for help. I throw one drenched leg over my bicycle and settle onto the seat. I eye him up through damp, windblown curls.

In German, I say, “I have grenades. Come near me and I won’t hesitate to blow us both sky high.”

He looks over his shoulder in the direction of the others, and then back to me. After a brief hesitation, he begins a cautious retreat.

“Pretend you never saw me,” I say, pushing off.

Pedaling like mad, I blaze across the field on a course that eventually intersects with the road. Many kilometers later, I pull over to the side of the road to catch my breath. I may not be able to put stars in an enemy’s eyes the way Denise can, but now I know which trick works to get me out of a mess.

I’m a very good liar.

As I ride up to Stefan’s to meet with Denise, I check the surroundings for soldiers hanging about suspiciously close to the house. When the house and courtyard get the all clear, I hop off my bike. I spin it to face the direction of the road, in case I need to make a quick getaway, before leaning it against the vine-covered wall.

Denise opens the door. Her smiling face flinches at the sight of me.

“What happened to you? You look like a drowned rat!”

“It’s a long story,” I say, even though it really isn’t. “Can I come in?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She steps back from the doorway, waving me inside. “Stefan is away until the end of the week. We have the house all to ourselves.”

Patting sweat from my brow, I say, “Nothing like a fifty-kilometer bicycle trip to make you regret a champagne binge.”

“I felt rather under the weather this morning as well.”

I walk toward the stairs, eager to lie down and put my swollen feet up, when Denise grabs me by the arm.

“Adele, last night was not my finest hour. I behaved very unprofessionally. I don’t know what to say, really. I feel as if no amount of apology can make it better.”

“It’s okay.” I’m glad to have the unspoken tension between us broken, no matter how much it embarrasses me to rehash my behavior.

“Please forgive me, so we can go back to being friends.”

“I forgive you. And I’m really sorry too, Denise. Do you forgive me?”

“Of course I do. From here on out we fly right, no more mucking up. Let’s never allow anything to come between us again!” Denise holds her head with both hands. “Lord, I need to quiet down a wee bit.”

We make our way to the attic, which is empty apart from a large, velvet-covered divan, a tattered rug, and Denise’s small stash of belongings.

I remove my notepad from my breast pocket and carefully tear out two sheets.

“Here are my notes from today’s ride: the locations of German troops and garrisons between Paris and Taverny,” I say. “And you don’t need to tell me, I know my penmanship looks like chicken scratch. If you need help reading it, just ask.”

“Fantastic. Headquarters seems to really appreciate your inside information, Adele. They want you to keep up the good work.”

Taken aback by the compliment, I say, “Then I guess I’ll keep taking notes.”

“You really should. D-day is coming soon, I’m sure of it.”

“What makes you think that?” I say, and my thoughts automatically jump to Robbie. If the invasion arrives soon, he could get caught in the crossfire on his way to Spain.

“Things are picking up. In the past few days, Cammerts has sent three couriers to me with info for headquarters. My fingers are worked to the bone,” she says. “I need to change my radio frequency. Did you get my crystals?”

I hand the silk bag over to Denise, relieved to be passing it on.

“Thanks, Adele. You’re a peach.”

My exhausted smile does the talking for me. I shove some scattered fashion magazines off the rug and stretch out, regardless of the dust, as Denise sets to work deciphering the coded message from the silk bag.

When the scratching of pencil against paper stops, I say, “One of my contacts, the doctor I told you about who drove me to Paris, he’s married to a Nazi sympathizer. She was at the Commodore last night. Wearing a German officer.”

“She’ll get what’s coming to her.”

“Do you think so?”

Denise leans back on the sofa with her hands clasped behind her head. Her legs dangle over the armrest. “Haven’t you heard of karma?”

“Should I tell him? The husband?”

“My money says he knows already.”

Eyes closed, I enjoy a few minutes of quiet.

“Do you still intend to spy on that factory tomorrow?” Denise asks.

“Yes.”

“Cammerts and Bishop know nothing of your plan. You don’t
have to go through with it if you don’t want to. It’s not as if you were given an order.”

“I know.”

Denise chuckles to herself. “Pierre really gets under your skin, doesn’t he?”

I quietly laugh, surprised she picked up on that. I don’t understand why I feel the need to prove myself to Pierre. His lack of confidence in our skills irritates me, but plenty of other men probably feel the same way. Why do I care what
he
thinks?

My body, finally at rest after nonstop motion, begs me to give in to the head-to-toe exhaustion I’ve been too busy to notice. Just when I become one with the floor, Denise’s feet touch down next to my face.

“Please don’t tell me it’s time,” I mutter.

“It’s time.”

I sit up. “I need you to update headquarters about my contact, Anna. I’m worried she’s been captured, but I don’t have proof.”

“I’ll let them know she’s gone missing so they can ask around about her. Other agents may know her situation or whereabouts.”

“Thanks, Denise. I hope she turns up safe and sound. I hate being in the dark all the time, don’t you? For all we know, the Germans are picking us off faster than headquarters can replace us.”

“Replace us? Adele, you make it sound as if they’re dropping in machinery parts and not flesh-and-blood people.” Her freckled nose scrunches up. “Do you think headquarters is going with quantity rather than quality?”

“I don’t know. I guess they’d want the advantage of numbers
at a time like this. But I’d hate to think they’re sending a bunch of girls here knowing it would be a death sentence for most or all of us. We’re not disposable. We’re not just numbers.”

Denise shakes her head. “I’m sure they want every one of us to get out of here alive. They’re realistic, that’s all.”

She sets out her transmitter, and we take our places at small windows on opposite ends of the room. Through mine, I watch the street below. Through hers, she places the end of the transmitter’s aerial. At her radio, she turns the Send/Receive and Aerial Matching switches and the Anode Tuning knob to the positions required to transmit on a certain frequency. Head bent in concentration, she taps out her Morse code transmission while I keep watch. I’d prefer to stand by a second-floor window close to our emergency exit, but Denise wants me to keep her company, surrounded by four walls and perched at the very top of the house with nowhere to go but down.

When I’m settled into my familiar place at the window, I zero in on a face unfamiliar to the neighborhood. A man in a trench coat strolls down the sidewalk, glancing at the nearly empty storefront displays. He drifts to a stop directly across from Stefan’s house.

Even though I can’t expect her to perform her job any quicker without making mistakes, I say, “Get cracking, Denise. I think the man across the street is either Gestapo or French militia.”

“Bloody hell.”
Tap, tap, tap
. “How certain are you?”

“His collar is turned up. It looks like he’s concealing a set of earphones. You tell me.”

Her fingers fly. “Watch him like a hawk. At the very least, I need six more minutes.”

Six minutes. She may as well ask for a steak dinner with all the fixings.

The man in the long coat tugs his collar higher and moves on.

“I’ve lost him, Denise.”

“I’m doing my best. Get my pistol.”

I leave my post to retrieve her gun from beneath a floorboard in the corner of the room. After intense SOE training I’m able to handle and fire Sten guns, Bren guns, bazookas, what have you, but the pistol is my personal favorite.

I lick my finger to spit shine the window glass. “Wait, he’s back.”

A neighbor rushes past him, tugging two children, with a baguette of dark bread tucked under her arm. I catch her backward glance as she too recognizes a stranger in our midst.

Again he stops directly in front of Stefan’s home. He leans against a lamppost, doing absolutely nothing—nothing that I can see from my vantage point anyway—for several minutes. My intuitive alarm clangs.

Cheek flattened against the glass, I have only a smudged view of his head and torso.

“If he moves even a hair, I’ll lose him. I can be at a downstairs window in seconds. If you hear the signal, you know what to do.”

I bolt from the attic, pistol at my side. At the second floor I stand next to one of the slender bedroom windows, careful not to send a flutter through the drapes.

The man is nowhere to be seen.

I sidle around a chest of drawers and peer out the other window.

I’ve lost him. If the Gestapo doesn’t kill me, Denise will give it a go.

Slipping into the hall, I listen for the sounds of an impending arrest. Shadows will gather outside the front door. They’ll lurk at
the back to nab us. I imagine an arrest must be loud—cracking wood, throaty commands, the beat of boots giving chase.