All the lights above us, p.17
All the Lights Above Us, page 17
So when that silly old general handed her a pair of pants and a soggy pair of combat boots, insisting she wear something “more proper for running around a battlefield,” she almost howled right in his face. She probably would have if she wasn’t so damn proper. Risking a battlefield to get to her endangered daughter was one thing. But Adelaide had never worn pants in her entire life. She especially wasn’t keen on taking them from some wounded man, or a German prisoner, or wherever in hell he had managed to scrounge them up on such short notice.
Neither the general nor Wade would hear any protest or excuses, though. They didn’t care a whit about what made her uncomfortable, or what she deemed inappropriate. They at least had the decency to turn around while she stepped into the horrid things, which were plenty loose on her old frame. The boots felt heavy and unnatural on her dainty little feet.
She continued pleading for her dress even after Wade dragged her away from the general and the battle-swept coast. She still cursed the pants as they walked back through the countryside that had already put her through enough for one day.
And Adelaide got the most annoyed when she noticed how much easier it was to keep her balance in these strong shoes. The deep treads bent the muddy terrain to her will. She couldn’t ignore how nicely the pants moved with her body, helping her along instead of constricting her. The deep pockets also allowed her extra room to stash things—Henning’s compass, and some rations Wade had given her.
As they ducked into a vast field decorated with a lush, blooming tree, Adelaide had to face facts. They weren’t so bad, these pants. She actually kind of liked them.
Wade walked beside her in agitated silence, probably afraid of provoking another “regal” temper tantrum about her attire. He constantly scratched the back of his head. Either because of the tension or the nits infesting every inch of his body. Tapping on the butt of his rifle with nervous fingers, he tried whistling a cheerful tune, but his lips were too dry from nervousness. He broke into a childish grin instead.
“So, where’s the nearest brothel?”
Adelaide stopped in her tracks. The vulgar comment didn’t shock her. But the sloppy boy’s smooth, delicate, and near-perfect French sure did.
She raised her eyebrows. “You speak French?”
“I had a small bit in school.”
“Sounds like you had a big bit. Enough to charm a French working girl at least.”
A squawk of cowboy laughter emerged from his hairless gut. It wasn’t nearly as sophisticated as his French. “You’re a little pistol, aren’t you? Nobody warned us about that.” He gave her a smile that could tame anyone, even an old-fashioned girl like Adelaide.
She fought like hell to hide the grin threatening to burst across her face. After all, bringing this boy along was the last thing she had wanted at the time. But he had gone out of his way to prove himself, hadn’t he? He even stood by her in the face of reprimand or worse from a superior officer. And now he showed a sense of humor, here in a place where nothing felt funny. It was refreshing in a way. None of the soldiers she had encountered in the last four years had cracked a smile. Throughout the German occupation, a sense of humor had become the rarest treasure in France.
“So tell me about this charming accent of yours, Wade. What part of America is that from?”
“Southern.”
She nodded. This time she couldn’t stop the smile from poking through her prickles. Before he got the best of her, she turned her back on him and pressed through the field.
Wade followed close on her heels. “So what’s your daughter like?”
“She doesn’t work in a brothel, so don’t get any ideas.”
Wade giggled. He swung his rifle over his shoulders and hung his wrists over each end. It was another sign of his loose army discipline, and a terrible way to carry a loaded gun.
Adelaide prepared to give him a lecture on the subject, but he beat her to the punch. “Well, you must be a pretty darn good mother, given what you’re putting us both through to get to her.”
It brought Adelaide to another abrupt halt.
She had been a mother all her life, ever since her own had neglected her. Day in and day out, all Adelaide did was mother. But no one had ever called her a good mother, at least not to her face. She couldn’t even say the words to herself in the mirror, because without the validation, she didn’t know if they were true. She could only do her best and pray that it was enough. Through every sob, every heartache, every argument, and through every motherly lesson, Adelaide yearned to have someone tell her what she so badly needed to hear.
Those precious words were hard to come by, though. Georgette certainly didn’t pay her many compliments on her motherhood. Neither did her husband. Lord knows her own mother had nothing to say on the subject. Even those German boys never used those words.
It was one of many things about motherhood that made it so hard. The only performance notes Adelaide ever got were the angry ones.
A good mother …
While she let the words soak into a vulnerable place, the boy shuffled his feet. He reached into the ether for something to encourage her. “You mothers are braver than any soldier, and that’s a fact. I think my ma would do exactly what you are if the boot was on the other foot.”
Adelaide kept careful guard of her heart as she took a step closer to him. “And what would you do for her, Wade?”
The question startled him. “I … well, what do you mean?”
“Do you love your mother?”
He didn’t need more than a split second to answer. “Well, shoot. Of course!”
“And when is the last time you told her so? Or told her she was a good mother?”
Wade’s face turned pinker than the flower blossoms in that nearby tree. He heaved a gusty sigh. “You’re right, Mrs. Paquet. She annoyed me some. The looking over my shoulder, the watching my every move. It’s why I joined the Army. I wanted to be my own man. I didn’t even tell her I had signed on … I should have been better to her.”
Adelaide felt a familiar, sharp blade inside her. “Yes, you should have. Mothers mother, Wade. It’s our job.”
He sniffled to hide his shame. “I know that alright, believe you me. I wasn’t here five minutes before I horribly missed what I had all along.”
Any remaining bitterness against this boy crashed into the cellar. For the first time since she had met him, Adelaide gave Wade a gentle smile. She stroked his smooth cheek with her fingertips. The gesture she always used to give its receivers a simple message.
If you need a mother, here I am.
Before they cemented their bond, a flurry of gunshots broke out from a tree. They sent up a frantic puff of flower petals, clawing the green grass into mud.
Adelaide yelped as a sharp blast hit her wrist, and a painful sting penetrated her skin.
Wade knocked her off her feet and into some undergrowth nearby. Then he reached for his rifle and got down to business, exchanging hurried shots with the mystery enemy up in the branches. Fizzling tracers flew everywhere and slashed at the flowery beauty of the tree.
Adelaide cowered and watched from her hiding spot. She was impressed by how agile that scrawny little boy was, blind in one eye or not. He had every command over that rifle. The full fury of his bulging muscles popped out. His pleasant, childish face molded into a very serious and menacing man. Wade certainly wasn’t the weakling she had taken him for.
He was also a pretty good shot, because the gunfire up above them soon fell silent. The branches cracked in the tree, and a body thudded to the ground.
Wade kept his gun ready, making sure the German-uniformed body wouldn’t move. Then he spit into the grass. “Damn snipers. Brass warned us they’d be a menace.” He turned to Adelaide. “Alright, darlin’. You can come on out now.”
Adelaide crawled from her hiding place, cradling her bloody wrist against her bosom. It wasn’t a lethal wound, but bursts of pain still blasted through her entire body. She also had nothing to stop the bleeding.
When he saw the wound, Wade’s warrior face dissolved back into the gentle American farmer. “Oh, you poor little thing.” He wrapped his strong arm around her stooped shoulders, and he helped her sit down on the grass. He knelt next to her and rummaged through his kit bag. One by one, he pulled out medical supplies.
With all the tenderness in the world, Wade took her injured wrist into his oil- and mud-stained fingers. He ripped open a little packet and dumped a strange powder onto the bloody laceration. Then he bandaged it up with slow and careful movements so he wouldn’t cause her any more pain. The entire time, he cooed and whispered that everything would be alright.
Adelaide bit down to hold her tears in place.
Wade saw them anyway. “Don’t you worry none, it won’t kill you. This powder here will keep it clean and the gauze should stop the bleeding. You’ll be just fine.”
Adelaide just nodded in reply. She knew she would be fine. Fear hadn’t started the tears rolling. Wade had. He couldn’t have known it, but he gave her something no one else in this world ever had.
He mothered her.
Adelaide absorbed the tender way he dressed her wrist. She reveled in his gentle whispers and comforting words. Her insides tingled from his maternal touch.
She remembered how many times she had fallen as a child, but she never got kisses from her mother. When someone broke her heart, her father never comforted her. Her husband was all business and no romance. She yearned for all of them to love her and be proud of her, and perhaps they were, but they had never shown it to her.
Wade only needed one pack of powder and a single strip of gauze to tend a soul wound she feared would never heal. He also taught her something she should have known all along. A good mother didn’t have to be around all the time. She just had to be around when it counted.
Georgette’s desire to have a life outside her child didn’t mean she would fail as a parent. It didn’t make her any less of a mother. When that baby was hurt, when she burst into tears, Georgette was always the first to scoop her into her loving arms. She dropped everything when her child cried for her. Georgette couldn’t be there all the time, but when she was there, she was there all the way.
Adelaide couldn’t stop the tears this time. They spilled down her cheeks, and one dripped onto her fresh gauze.
A good mother …
Adelaide may not have gotten everything right, but she must have done pretty damn well overall. She had raised a courageous, fiery, and very strong daughter who rose to every challenge. Georgette handled the changes of this crazy world a lot better than Adelaide ever had.
Wade put his hand on the back of her hair. “There, all better.” With a wink, he leaned in and kissed her wounded wrist.
Adelaide managed a girlish giggle through her tears. “Lucky you. Not one day in France, and already you kiss a French girl. Too bad I’m not better looking.”
He laughed and got to his feet. He reached both hands out to help her too. “Nonsense. Women are like fine French wine. They only get better with age.”
Adelaide stood on legs that felt stronger, and she brushed some loose grass blades off her heavy army pants. Pants that, make no mistake, she had grown terribly fond of. Wade walked her safely through the field, and she looked up.
A familiar little church spire, surrounded by farms, peeked out from the horizon. Although it swarmed with U.S. troops and even an army tank or two, it gave Adelaide a second shot of badly needed relief.
“Georgette …”
Flora
CAEN
By the time Flora returned to Geraud’s building, she had worked up a sticky sweat.
A lot of it came from the fires still raging through the city. More buildings had collapsed under their weight. Smoke choked out every town square. People still alive walked about with damp cloths over their faces. They stacked more corpses in every corner. In the rippling hot temperatures, the bodies released a noxious odor. It was incalculable damage, and it would take the city decades to recover. Still, it didn’t compare to the devastation that rocked Flora’s own heart.
Your parents … they’re still alive.
The words rang loud in her ears. Louder than the shouts and wails of Caen’s battered citizens, or the gunshots in the streets. They drowned out the waves of cargo planes and bombers still flying over intermittently in droves. With each step through shattered bricks and broken glass, the words hit Flora harder and faster. Her muscles tightened, and the urge to rip Geraud apart moved through her like a drug and flooded her senses. She didn’t know how she would make him pay for this, but she swore to every living and dead saint that she would.
She swept up to Geraud’s door and slammed into his cramped little flat.
It was the same madhouse as earlier. Some dust-covered men tended to injured people propped against the peeling kitchen wallpaper. They handed them cigarettes and filthy water. They used old shirts to stop their bleeding. Other men huddled in corners and discussed the latest messages coming through the crystal radio set. Some still argued this wasn’t the actual invasion.
She threaded through the tangle of people to reach her so-called protector. Her eyes darted every which way, and her nose struggled for the familiar scent of his particular brand of home-rolled smokes. She nudged a few men rambling around.
“Have you seen Geraud? Where is Geraud?”
None of them answered her, although a few pointed in haphazard directions.
In her frustration, she prepared to turn her temper loose on the next person who crossed her path, but then she heard an awful crack from Geraud’s closed office door. A distinctly female cry followed it.
Flora’s legs grew heavy. That sure as hell didn’t sound good …
She shoved through the crowd toward the office door. Once she reached it, she barged right in.
The sight that greeted her did nothing to calm her nerves. Two men had cornered a frail French girl behind Geraud’s desk. She looked no older than eighteen. She curled into a ball on the splintered wooden floor, shivering from head to toe. Even her golden-colored, curly locks trembled in fear. She screamed again as one man whipped a hard slap across her pale cheek.
Everything happened so fast. Before Flora could think, or question, or shout any objections, the second man wrenched the girl by the shoulders and sprawled her on her stomach. While she struggled against her attacker, the other man hurled himself onto her back.
The girl roared in a feral panic beneath him, but he only mocked her with a cruel sneer. He grabbed a fist full of her hair and yanked her head up.
The girl screamed like a wounded animal, while the man who slapped her scratched a bold, black swastika on her forehead with a piece of charcoal. Meanwhile, the man on her back grabbed a pair of shears and slashed them across her wriggling head. That beautiful curly hair came out in bloody clumps.
Shock hit Flora in waves so strong she wanted to throw up. Yet anger and fright paralyzed her. She searched desperately for Geraud.
Geraud, who had always touted himself as a humanitarian. He spouted countless platitudes about how much he cared for his fellow Frenchmen, how he wanted to free them from Nazi oppression. He would give his life for it if he had to. It made for fine speeches over a sparse dinner table, but in the end, his inaction spoke a lot louder. He did nothing to stop the savage behavior unfolding right in front of him, antics no better than the Nazis he hated so much. He just stood there, with his hands in his pockets. Something like an arrogant smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.
Fireworks exploded in Flora’s head. Her vision went white and sparky with them. She stormed over to Geraud and shoved him to get his attention.
He barely kept his balance. When he met her eyes, he glared. “What are you doing here? I sent you to the hospital.”
She pointed her shaking finger at the violent display. “What the hell is going on?”
“Collaboration horizontale. She slept with a German.”
“Did she give information to him? Betray anyone?”
He shrugged. “No. She just fucked him.”
To keep herself from punching him, Flora locked her hands over her hips. “That’s it?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
Flora turned to the girl. Tears swelled her face, and bloody scratches covered half her bald scalp. More scarlet streaks dribbled down her cheeks.
She didn’t strike Flora as a collaborator. Collaborators wanted to hurt France, betray people, or help and hide the Nazis. They did it on purpose, because they wanted the wrong side to win. The woman’s heartrending sobs, and her painfully young years, painted a different picture. She wasn’t a criminal. She just had a relationship with the only man at her disposal. Perhaps not the smartest thing she had done, but it wasn’t criminal.
As the woman’s cries reached a crescendo, and the men around her laughed like hyenas, Flora snapped inside. She’d had enough. These men had had their chance to run the show. All it got them was a second world war that killed more people than the first one. Then they made the women pay for their mistakes. They treated them like war spoils or property to pillage. They beat them down, took away their rights, abused them, and threw them out of their homes and onto the streets. Then they ripped their hair out and painted swastikas on their faces for nothing but silly, schoolgirl romance.
Flora turned to Geraud with eyes aflame. “Make them stop. Sex with a German was stupid, but not collaboration.”
“Sleeping with the enemy is wrong.”
“Tell that to all the German girls you fucked in the first war.”
The remark caught Geraud like a slap in the face. He straightened to his full height and glowered down at her. “Mind your tone.”
