Sisters of night and fog, p.31
Sisters of Night and Fog, page 31
Virginia looks at each of her men while they weigh their choices. Soon, the fair South African speaks.
“I think I’ll stay here,” he says. “I’ve been at prison camps. Death camps, really. They almost killed me. I can’t ever return to that. I’m sorry.”
“There’s no shame,” she says, putting her hand on his arm.
Philippe stares at the man a long moment before continuing.
“If any of us are arrested,” he says, “we must resist divulging anything we know under interrogation for at least forty-eight hours. Enough time for the rest of the group to cover a great distance.”
The men nod.
“If any of you are captured,” Philippe says, “the others are not to intervene. That would gain nothing for us or the cause. Only result in more losses and more chances to expose our network.”
“It’s every man or woman for him- or herself,” says Virginia, giving Philippe a pointed look. “Understand?”
He nods. So do the rest.
After giving two contacts to the South African who won’t be joining them on the road, Virginia and Philippe go to bed. Silently, slowly, they come together. Afterward, they hold each other.
“Forgive me, but I have to ask you,” says Philippe. “Will you stay in Paris? You can go to Mum’s place. Take care of her and Grandmère.”
“No,” Virginia says. “Nicole and Michel will be here.”
“You want to live in the forest, in a tent, for weeks? Months? Eating canned beans. Having no privacy. Surrounded by men? A sitting duck?”
“I want to be with you. Wherever you are. However that looks. When I stayed with the women at the beginning of the war, apart from you, it almost killed me.”
“This is different, Virginia. We’re outlaws. The Nazis will be brutal if they find us.”
“Do you think Paris is safe?” she says. “What about when the bombers come? Or the Nazis destroy the city, on retreat? How long before they declare martial law? And the phone lines are cut entirely? And there’s no food. And we have no way of knowing if the other is all right? Paris is not an option.”
“Then Les Baumées. Stay with the Blancs.”
“Stop.”
She puts her finger over his lips and follows with a kiss. Then she turns and presses her back into him, while he curls himself around her, burying his face in her neck. The long hours of the night feel like an eternity that alternates between the bliss of being warm together in bed, and the agony of knowing the danger ahead. When first light comes, they rise, dress, and fill up on the last of the baguettes, jam, and coffee.
“I’m going after all,” says the fair South African.
“You don’t have to,” says Virginia. “If you’d rather wait for the liberation here, you’re welcome to do so.”
“No, my courage has returned. I feel the hand of fortune with us.”
The group is glad to hear it and continues to prepare. Philippe folds the map to the forest and tucks it in his boot, but Virginia stops him.
“Wait,” she says. “It could get sweaty and fall apart. Besides, you’ve been there, so you know the way. I’ll need the map if we get separated. Give it here.”
He hesitates before passing it to her, but she shows him where she’s picked the lining of her handbag to create a pocket. She folds the map up small and tucks it and the money as deeply into the lining as they will go. Followed by one extra set of clothes she’s able to roll up, and minimal toiletries.
Once they’re ready, an American pilot asks them to pause and join hands in prayer. They do so and, when he finishes asking God for their safety, they look up, eyes glistening.
* * *
—
ONCE VIRGINIA WITNESSES the final duo—Michelle as a nurse, escorting Ebrahim—make it safely on the train at the Gare Saint-Lazare, Virginia pedals back to her apartment building, where Philippe and the last aviator wait. She’s full of emotion as she goes, thrilled at knowing the finish line is almost in sight, and grateful for all the men they’ve been able to help, almost seventy if her count is correct.
She recalls their first, Louis, and hopes his nerves have calmed. She remembers the boy who lit the Nazi’s cigarette with a United States Army Air Corps lighter, and Marshall, who taught her how to jitterbug. She thinks of the very first group at Nesles, with the Hawaiian man, and prays they’ve made it to safety.
When she passes Jessie-Ann’s building, Virginia prays for her friend and her family, and for Michelle when she passes the flower shop. Virginia says another kind of prayer when she pedals past the Reine Marie, where Daniel poisoned Pierre. And finally, a prayer of thanksgiving when she sees Philippe and the aviator, waiting in the alley of their rendezvous, who fall in behind her on their bikes and begin their journey.
The crowds in exodus provide an element of shelter. Because of the feared coming destruction, there are hundreds of men and women on bicycles and on foot, leaving Paris. If there were cars and babies, it would look the way it did at the start of the war. But most of the children are long gone, and the automobiles are long dry, including the blue baby, gathering dust in the barn at Les Baumées.
Thoughts of that terrible drive with Mum create a deep ache in Virginia’s heart, one of fear for Mum and Grandmère’s safety, along with a desire to return to Cancaval and live her happily ever after with her husband. To invite her own family, and embrace her mother and father, her sister and brother, and get to know her nephew. Will that day ever come? Will Philippe’s family home be left standing? Will anything remain intact after the final battles are fought?
At each checkpoint, Virginia and Philippe allow their man to pull ahead so they’re able to watch if he makes it through. There’ll be nothing for them to do if he’s caught—and they all understand that—but they will at least be able to report to the rest of the group.
They make it in four hours without incident to Dourdan. Virginia’s heart lifts when she sees the men and their guides, scattered about the benches and under the trees of the park where they agreed to meet, eating from the rations they’ve packed. She keeps her smile in check, but the eyes of the others light up when they catch sight of the three cyclists.
“A hundred kilometers to go,” says Virginia.
For the three on bikes, it won’t be so bad, but for those who’ve been atrophying in apartments and in cellars for weeks and even months, some still nursing injuries of one kind or another, they will be tested.
The walkers set forth at intervals in small groups, spread apart to look as if they’re not together, and the cyclists bring up the rear, shortly passing those on foot. The crowds thin and the roads clear, and after an hour, the travelers find themselves alone and tense from their vulnerability. After two hours, some of the men limp. The cyclists give the walkers turns on the bicycles to give their blistered feet in ill-fitting shoes a rest. After three hours, they groan when they see a wall of rain, like a gray curtain, on the horizon. The wind bends the wheat stalks around them, and in no time, they’re exposed in a deluge.
Can nothing be easy? thinks Virginia.
Philippe circles back to the last in the pack and tells the guides he’ll ask at the next farm for shelter. But he returns ten minutes later, shaking his head. Virginia asks at the following farmhouse, but the woman won’t even open the door. The same happens when Michelle tries at the next farm. The fear is palpable.
When Ebrahim spots a shed in the middle of a grain field, they duck through the crops to seek shelter. Shoddily constructed, with gaps in the rotting wood, the structure does little to buffer the sideways rain and wind. The aviators and their guides huddle together for warmth, while some collapse. Two of the men remove their shoes and groan over their great, bloody blisters. They all decide to hang up their socks in the rafters to dry in the gusts. As evening nears, they know there’s no way they’ll make it to the forest, or even their Resistance contacts in Châteaudun, by nightfall.
“Stay here,” says Philippe. “I’ll cycle to the farms up the road to keep trying.”
“Let me go,” says Virginia. “Somehow I don’t feel tired. Just soggy.”
“I’ll take this scouting mission,” he says. “You can get the next.”
Philippe kisses Virginia’s forehead. She watches him cycle off, the feeling of dread rising so acutely it feels as if hands are squeezing her throat. She sits cross-legged on the cold earth. Daniel nudges Virginia and holds out a flask, which she takes with gratitude. The liquor sends a welcome warming sensation down her limbs.
The group passes the flask and Virginia pulls out her map, placing her body between it and a leak from the roof. The rain has stopped, and the sunset tries to push through the clouds, making everything glow a strange shade of yellow orange. Michelle and Daniel move in close to Virginia.
“The last sign I saw up ahead was for Ymonville,” says Virginia. “Do either of you know about where that is on the way to Châteaudun?”
“Here,” says Daniel, pointing to the paper. “We’re about forty kilometers from Dourdan.”
“So, we have another forty or so to Châteaudun,” says Virginia.
“And then about twenty more to the forest at Fréteval,” says Michelle.
“Can you speak in miles, please?” asks an American.
Virginia looks up to the ceiling, calculating.
“About twenty-five miles to Châteaudun,” she says. “Then fifteen to Fréteval.”
Groans rise around them.
“I know,” she says. “You must keep your eyes on the finish line, boys. Don’t give up now.”
Suddenly, the roar of airplanes screams overhead, and a terrible blast shakes the earth. They jump up to see what’s happening, just as a formation of Allied bombers makes a frightful attack on a target on the horizon, exploding it like fireworks. The aviators cheer and clap as great bangs and whizzes shoot out at all angles. Virginia’s glad they’re not closer, or they’d be done for.
“Atta boys!” yells one of the aviators at an airplane that roars over them.
“Must have hit a munitions store,” says another.
Virginia prays Philippe was nowhere near the bombardment.
Soon, a noise at the door and Philippe’s grinning face gives her reassurance.
“Put your shoes on,” he says, breathless. “We have shelter for the night.”
* * *
—
THE FARMER KEEPING them has white hair to his shoulders, a long, yellowed beard, and very few teeth, but that doesn’t stop him from smiling, even when he looks around the barn and sees the large party. Philippe had told him there would be five people.
“Easier to ask forgiveness than permission,” says Philippe.
The old man struggles to carry a heavy tureen. When Ebrahim, who has slid his bandages down around his neck, rises to help, the man looks at him, wide-eyed, and begs their pardon before he departs. He soon returns with his wife, also white-haired and toothless, bearing two loaves of warm bread, made with white flour. The farmer ushers her over to Ebrahim, and the old woman kisses the young man on both cheeks and presents him with the bread. Virginia catches Ebrahim’s eye, sees the sheen of unshed tears, and has to look away to keep her own from falling.
The bread and creamy potato soup restore them, as does the warmth of the barn. The farmer and his wife whisper prayers over them before they leave them for the night with as many blankets as they can round up and a freshly spread pile of hay that Virginia finds surprisingly comfortable. She’s stiff when the rooster crows the next morning, but well rested and ready to take on the next leg of the journey.
Almost as soon as her team starts, however, she’s sidelined by a flat tire, and when she walks her bicycle back to the barn, she finds that Philippe and one of the aviators still haven’t left because Philippe also has a flat. The farmer again gives from his poverty, allowing them to stuff the tires full of hay and providing some kind of sticky adhesive for the punctures, and they again set out. When the three pass the walking teams and see they’re doing well, they continue forth.
Midafternoon, a cyclist coming from the opposite direction pedals past them at a high speed. He doesn’t stop but shouts something about the road ahead, before he disappears from sight. The old farmer had warned them, the radio said all moving targets are in danger. The Allies don’t have the time or visual capacity to sort out civilians from the enemy. They should take cover whenever they hear planes and avoid the main routes as much as possible. At this point, they wonder if it’s Germans or Allies they should fear more.
Proceeding with caution, the cyclists move to the forefront, and soon come upon a farmer’s truck that has been shot full of bullet holes. Its windshield is shattered, and it has careened into a ditch. There’s not a soul in sight, so they approach the vehicle, looking in to see if the driver is alive. There’s no one in the truck, but Virginia releases a laugh when she spots a half-eaten coffee cake on the dashboard. She points it out to Philippe and the aviator, before reaching in to stuff it in her handbag. They pedal off as quickly as possible.
After several kilometers, Philippe, in the lead, screeches to a halt. Virginia and the airman stop behind him. A German convoy crawls along the main route, running parallel to their road. They turn back and warn the walkers, using the time to hide in a ravine and rest. They eat the hard-boiled eggs the farmer’s wife had given them, along with the remnants of the coffee cake.
“What a scavenger I’ve become,” says Virginia. “Could you ever have imagined me, at the onset of this, picking through burnt-out trucks for food scraps?”
Philippe laughs and shakes his head.
In spite of the difficult circumstances, the group is in high spirits. Michelle and Daniel have not once slowed their pace, and the men with bloody feet say the torn skin they now walk on is less painful than the unpopped blisters were. There must have been some magic of optimism in the farmer’s dinner for them. Or they’re becoming delirious from how exhausted they are, and how close they’re getting to the end of their journey. Either way, it’s a good group. They’ll be easy to live with in the woods.
As they continue on, and afternoon turns to evening, in the far-off distance they spot the grand castle rising over the town of Châteaudun. Though it’s not quite the promised land, they are greatly relieved to see it, especially because the Resistance here works as a link to the forest, and Jean has prepared them for the inevitable arrival of Virginia, Philippe, and their parcels. But the closer they get to Châteaudun, the more sober they grow.
The residents of the town crawl over craters, sifting through rubble. Nazis race about with scowls, pushing around women and the elderly. The guides agree to stand down, turning back and holding the aviators on farmland outside of town, while Virginia and Philippe go ahead, seeking the bakery with the rabbit’s foot hanging in the back doorway, where they’re to make contact with the Resistance. Though Daniel knows their man, Daniel says his own recurring presence in town has drawn suspicion, so it’s best if he waits with the group.
Shell-shocked and war weary, the residents of the town pay little attention to the newcomers. Philippe leads Virginia to a winding street of half-timbered houses, to the bakery of their destination. When they knock at the back door, they’re greeted by a young man with a mop of blond curls and a toddler, with the same mop, clutching the man’s leg. Once Philippe gives the code phrase, the man urges them inside the back room. The aroma of bread and the man’s warm smile put Virginia at ease until it occurs to Virginia how much danger this man and his son are in by admitting them.
“Jean told us to expect you,” the man says. “You’ll need shelter for the night?”
“Oui,” says Philippe. “We have a total of twelve, including guides.”
The man whistles.
“We’ll have to spread you out,” he says. “I’ll take you two to where I sleep, with the Maquis. The rest can be distributed to several farms and houses on the outskirts of town. You probably noticed, the boches are rattled.”
“We did,” says Philippe. “We know the danger we bring, and we’re grateful for any help.”
The man nods.
“Do you think we could get a wagon for the final push to the forest, tomorrow?” asks Virginia. “Some of our boys have walked the skin off their feet.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
The man tells them the names and addresses of three safe house contacts, which Virginia scribbles on the back of the map. He asks Philippe and Virginia to meet him behind the blown-up railway station at seven thirty, then he’ll lead them to where they’ll spend the night. They depart, but on their way out of town, air raid sirens wail. They pull their bicycles under a bridge and huddle together while they watch the sky. When the Flying Fortresses roar overhead, Virginia is elated to see them, all the while hoping she and Philippe don’t die from Allied bombs. They exhale when the planes pass over, en route to another destination.
Philippe has a hard time standing up straight. Virginia takes his face in her hands.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“I will be. I just had a terrible feeling I was about to lose you. Weren’t you afraid?”
Virginia looks in his eyes and shakes her head.
“No,” she says. “Since we’ve joined the Comet Line, I’ve had no regrets. I feel like the boys have been like children to us. And if we die in each other’s arms, at the same time, neither of us will have to mourn the other.”
Philippe wraps her in a hug. They hold each other a long while before they return to the group.
* * *
—
SEPARATING FROM THEIR friends is harder than they could have imagined, even though it’s only for the night. But the blond man reassures them the safe houses are fortresses, and they will all be well taken care of. When they reach the barn, the blond man does a code knock and enters, spreading his arms open like a showman. Before them, in the lantern light, are dozens of young men, smiling, smoking, and passing wine bottles, not one among them without an intimidating-looking gun of some sort slung across his torso.
