Violins of Autumn (24 page)

He yanks the sheet away, like a magician unveiling a trick.

“It’s a motorcycle!” I cry, although I’ve never seen any motorcycle quite like this one, with its sleek all-black frame, shiny chrome, and golden detail on the gas tank. “It looks like a machine from the future.”

“It does, doesn’t it,” he says, “It’s a Saroléa, from Belgium. It was my father’s.”

“I bet it can go really fast.”

“It can,” he says, and I didn’t think it was even possible for him to smile this broadly. “I doubt it will start, but if it does, do you want to go for a ride?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. All the two-wheeled vehicles I’ve ever ridden travel only as fast as I can pedal them.

Pierre straddles the seat and slams the kick-starter with his foot. The motorcycle roars to life, sputtering and rumbling, but starting on the first try.

“Well, I guess this means we’re destined to go for a ride,” he shouts over the motor. “Climb on behind me and hold tight.”

I look at the seat, the impossibly small space I’m supposed to
fit myself onto. I climb on behind Pierre and mold my body around his. Squeezing tightly to his ribcage, I press my face against his back as the motorcycle rolls through the double doors. His sweater smells of gun grease, and the farm, and campfire smoke.

At the road, Pierre calls out over his shoulder, “Are you ready?”

I raise my head to say, “I guess so.”

As if it’s been let loose from a slingshot, the motorcycle shoots across the countryside, ripping through the solitude. I open my eyes briefly to watch the landscape whiz past at exhilarating and frightening speeds. Wind whips my hair against my cheeks. Squealing from the thrill of it all, I squeeze Pierre so hard I think his ribs might crack.

Pierre lays his hand over mine, pressing it against his chest to keep me safe. His strong heart pounds beneath my palm. Gripping each other tightly, we speed away.

With the motorcycle beneath us, no one is a match for Pierre and me. Not the Germans. Not anyone.

Madame LaRoche’s radio, a black box about the size of a bread-box, sits on the kitchen table. Denise, Pierre, Bishop, and I hover around it like moths to a flame, elbows rudely resting on the tabletop. If we accidently get too close in our excitement and bump the radio, the signal crackles to incoherent fuzz. Denise is a real stickler about keeping our distance. Pierre has ignored most of her warnings tonight, and I swear she’d slug him if Bishop weren’t watching.

Madame LaRoche, the only one of us who seems able to eat throughout the nine o’clock news, brings spoonfuls of creamed soup to her mouth and sips her wine.

“London calling with messages for our friends,” the radio announces. We take a collective breath, as if to ensure none of us further muffles the already static-filled broadcast. “
Et voici quelques messages personnel
.”

Personal messages to other circuits of the Resistance fill the
kitchen: “John has a long mustache.” “The sap runs in springtime.” “Over the mountains, there is a comfy inn.” “The nurse has found the cure for Michael.”

What we hear next sends our breaths out in a collective gasp.

“The long sobs of the violins of autumn.”

“
Mon Dieu!
” Madame LaRoche says. Soup dribbles back into her bowl.

Pierre shushes her.

“
Je répète
,” says the announcer. “The long sobs of the violins of autumn.”

The messages continue, but I don’t think any of us are able to pay attention.

“Did you all hear that?” Bishop says, as if needing confirmation that what he heard was real. “This is the word we’ve been waiting for. Our Allied boys are preparing to storm the beaches. The next week is imperative. It is our time to shine.”

Pierre’s foot anxiously thumps the floor in spite of the hand he laid on his knee to keep the leg still.

Bishop places his hands on the table. “German reinforcements of fifteen thousand men each are at the ready in the south. Those troops are about to reroute to the landing beaches. Our goal is to make that process a confusing, muddled mess. With their phone lines down, they will have a right devil of a time trying to coordinate. We will make life absolute hell as the troops advance north. We will make life absolute hell as they retreat. We will do everything in our power to help the Allies drive them back to Germany. This is what we are here for, folks. We are about to make history.”

Hot and shaky, almost drunkenly overcome with pride and anticipation, I fan my face with my hand.

Bishop turns to face Pierre and then me. “Tonight, the two of you are to blast phone lines to the local German garrison. Pierre, you know which lines I’m speaking of?”

“Yes, of course,” he says, smiling to me when I catch his eye. “Consider it done.”

Driving during the day is suspect. Driving at night well after curfew, as we are, is lunacy. Only members of the Resistance run the risk, and if they’re caught, the Germans don’t bother to ask questions.

Pierre parks within a forest clearing secluded from the road. “From here, we walk.”

We hoist our supplies onto our backs.

“The telephone lines are two kilometers away,” he says.

I figure we will reach our target in half an hour. All things considered, we should be back at the farm in less than three hours.

Pierre marches ahead, forcing me to keep up. Riding a bike and running are two surprisingly different things, and I’m definitely better at one than the other. There’s no chance I’ll confess to the pain in my ribcage. There’s even less chance I’ll ask Pierre to slow down for me. I will match his speed or collapse trying.

At the main road, we come to the phone lines we’re expected to sabotage. We go about rigging the explosives, one pole to the next. The moldable plastic explosive smells of almonds as I smooth it into shape with my hands.

Pierre rigs the chain of explosives to the detonator and we take our places in the ditch next to the road.

“Ready?” he asks with his hand on the plunger.

I sit back at least another foot to press my body farther into the curve of the gully.

He takes that as my answer, when really I’m about to suggest we’re too close, and cranks the plunger to set off the explosives.

The first blast hits me full-on: an ear-bursting, body-rattling surprise. The wooden pole shears apart at its base and falls across the ditch. The next powerful explosion sends another pole crashing. Spellbound, I watch the poles go down like mighty trees at the hands of Paul Bunyan.

Pierre’s arm snaps around my waist. He lifts me into the air and scrambles backward. The final explosion, a wave of thundering sound, hits me. Everything goes silent except for a slight hum in my ears. I collapse onto my back. My head bounces off the hard ground. Pierre’s body protectively envelops me.

We stay locked in each other’s arms for a moment, cheek to cheek, chest to chest, hearts hammering.

Stubble skims my cheek. His warm breath, so very close to my lips, sends a shiver through me.

I run my hands over powerful arms and shoulders that see work from sun up to sun down. With the weight of Pierre’s body pressed against mine, I feel so protected and cared for. I don’t want the feeling to end.

I want Pierre to kiss me. I want him to
want
to kiss me.

I close my eyes.

Pierre tucks my hair behind my ear. His fingers trail down my neck. He kisses me, softly. I kiss him back. His kisses grow more and more passionate until I have to lay my hands against his shoulders and pull away.

Pierre rolls onto his side. Cold air rushes to fill the spaces where his heat had been. He watches me, his face partially
masked by darkness. A silver thread of moonlight twines through his hair.

If only we could ignore curfew. If only the demolition we caused wouldn’t bring the Germans running. If only the world could go back to normal for a few moments.

If only.

In the dim light, I read Pierre’s moving lips as he speaks too quietly for me to hear.

“Adele, you are the most …”

“Pierre, I can’t—” I begin to whisper. My heart pounds frantically. The buzzing in my ears intensifies.

At my shocked whimper, Pierre’s face lowers closer to mine, his lips moving rapidly. But I can’t hear him, because I also can’t hear myself.

The final explosion left me completely deaf.

Pierre refuses to let go of my hand as we walk back to the truck. We can’t risk becoming separated in the dark.

I slide onto the truck seat. Pierre closes the door for me. The sore spot on my head thumps a pain wave through my skull with every beat of my heart. I close my eyes and apply pressure with my hand, although that does nothing to dull the ache.

Pierre starts the truck. A few kilometers down the road, he brakes within a pale patch of moonlight. I read his lips as he says, “Are you all right?”

I nod, desperate to get back to the safety of the farm, and he drives on.

I’ve proven myself to Pierre. I don’t want to mess that up. The work he believes to be too dangerous for girls isn’t too dangerous for me. If I complain or appear weak, he might change his mind about taking me along on the next sabotage mission. But the loss of my hearing is worrying. I rest my head against the back of the
seat, staring at the darkness outside my window. Will the silence last only minutes or hours? What if the damage is permanent? I can’t possibly work for the SOE then. What good is a deaf spy? On the next moonlit night they’ll send in a Lysander and fly me straight back to Britain.

As the drive wears on, my ears come back to life gradually, picking up the truck’s low rumble, and the air streamlining us, and the mellow tune Pierre sometimes hums when he’s lost in thought. By the time we reach the farm, my hearing seems to have returned completely. The real test will come when one of us speaks, but since I hope to avoid an awkward conversation with Pierre about what went on between us, I keep quiet. Things made a lot more sense in the heat of the moment. Now I’m left with horrible, stomach-clenching guilt that I’ve somehow betrayed Robbie.

Pierre parks in a thatched garage next to the barn. “Adele, I hope your hearing has come back.” I’m the first out of the truck, saying, “Yes, it has. Thank you. Good night, Pierre.” I can’t run to the farmhouse fast enough, glad my hearing is back but wishing I hadn’t heard Pierre end our exciting night on an awkwardly formal note.

Denise wakes up the instant I try to slip into my bed without disturbing her.

“How did it go?” she mumbles.

“About as well as could be expected, I guess. I was deaf for a bit, but I’m okay now.” I lay my arms, prickly with heat and sweat, on the outside of the sheet to catch the cooling breeze coming in through the open window. “And he kissed me.”

That erases all traces of sleep from Denise’s voice. “Who kissed you?”

I calculate how few hours remain until daylight. If I conk out within the next minute, I can squeeze in the bare minimum of sleep required to stay on my toes tomorrow. “Let’s pretend I didn’t say that and get some sleep.”

“Not bloody likely. Spill the beans. Pierre? Pierre kissed you?”

“Yes.”

Turning onto her side, she says, “I bet he’s a good kisser. Those strong silent types usually are.”

“Was he ever.” I sigh.

“On a scale from one to ten, how did he rate? Ten being he made your toes curl and one being he made you retch.”

“He was a solid nine.”

“You don’t say,” Denise says, clearly impressed.

“It was strange. When he kissed me, you know what my first thought was?”

“Am I wearing clean knickers?”

“No.” I laugh quietly, wanting to toss something at her. “I remembered Rhett Butler telling Scarlett that she should be kissed often and by someone who knows how. Did you see
Gone with the Wind
, Denise?”

“Several times.”

I close my eyes and smile as the film plays across my dark lids. “Don’t you love the part when Rhett is about to go to war? And he wants to take the memory of Scarlett’s kisses with him, so he can die with a beautiful memory. Isn’t that romantic?”

Dressed only in her nightgown, Denise streaks across the room, barely able to sob out the words, “I’m going to get some air.”

In a jiffy, my cheerful soar plummets into a perplexed tailspin.

“Now, Denise? It must be half past four. I’ll stop talking if you like, so you can sleep.”

She’s gone before I finish speaking. I can’t help but feel as if I’ve been a terrible friend. While I desperately want to drop into a deep sleep to recuperate from explosions and deafness and my first real passionate kiss, I fold back the sheet and get out of bed.

I pick out sounds of her movements, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the front door, and even though I doubt she wants to be followed, I go after her. Barefoot and dressed for bed, I catch up with her at the woodpile around the side of the house. She sits on the old stump Pierre uses for chopping.

It doesn’t take long for dew to find us. Denise’s teeth chatter and mine clatter an echoed reply.

“You needn’t have come after me,” she says.

“I know I didn’t need to.”

The farm’s sleek calico cat slinks out from around the woodpile, a fresh catch still in her teeth. She dutifully carries the dead mouse to Denise and drops it at her feet.

“Bring me a present, Moxie?” She scratches the cat’s head. “You’re a sweet girl.”

Denise bestowed names on all the cats. She says that every cat, even a barn cat, needs a good and proper name of its own.

“Moxie’s a brilliant huntress,” she says to me, but she won’t look up to my face.

“Denise, do you want to be left alone?”

Moxie nudges the hand that’s gone stationary behind her ears back into motion.

When I step toward the open doorway, Denise says, “Stay! That is … if you want to.”

I roll a stout, uncut log onto its end; an impromptu and uncomfortable chair.

“
Gone with the Wind
was the last film I saw with Simon.” The
fingers on Denise’s left hand, all bare, flick out on her lap. She reins them back. “My fiancé.”