by Margi Preus
PERDANT AND JULES ARE STILL NO CLOSER TO THE CHTEAU
The road had grown more like an oxcart trail and less like a road and finally ended in a rocky field.
“What is this?” Perdant said between his teeth. “This is not a road! First we go one way, then another, then backtrack . . . We’ve gone up and down a half dozen little roads, and now we end up here—where there’s nothing. I know you know how to get there. You’re deliberately misleading me!”
“It’s just that I never go anywhere by car!” Jules said. “It’s different than striding straight off across the fields. It’s so much more complicated when you have to follow roads.” He drew little zigzagging motions in the air with his finger to indicate the complexity of it.
Perdant put the car into reverse, jerked it into a three-point turn, then bumped back along the uneven trail until it again transformed into a proper gravel road.
At some point Jules was really going to have to tell the policeman how to get to the château. Then how was he going to prevent him from getting there?
Jules’s fingers brushed against the sandpapery sugar lumps in his pocket; he remembered hearing that you could damage a car engine by putting sugar in the gas tank. How much sugar? How long did it take? How could he possibly get these lumps into the tank?
He cleared his throat.
Perdant looked at him.
“Maybe if I get out and take a look around, I’ll get my bearings,” Jules said. “Also, I gotta . . . Well . . . I drank a lot of tea before we left.”
Perdant groaned, pulled over by the side of the road, and shut off the engine. Jules got out and shut the door. Without the puttering of the motor, the quiet of the night was tremendous. It was so big, it was like a thing, Jules sometimes thought. It was like having been swallowed by a gigantic but benevolent monster, and all the stars were its many teeth, the Milky Way its long tongue.
The moon had yet to emerge from behind the hills, but its imminent arrival was heralded by a yellow glow on the eastern horizon.
A perfect night for a parachute drop, Jules thought with disappointment. No matter what happened now, he would miss it. If he kept Perdant busy and out of the way, which was what he should do, he’d miss it. And if he didn’t keep Perdant from finding the place, and they ended up at the château, well, then everybody would miss it—and it would be his fault for not keeping Perdant away.
Jules walked to the back of the car, aware of the sound of his shoes against the gravel, and placed himself facing away from Perdant and the car.
I could just make a run for it, he thought, looking out at the curving hills that disappeared into the darkness. Just take off up and over the hills and disappear.
Sure, Perdant would be pissed off, but so what? Perdant was always sort of pissed off. The policeman’s promise to get Jules’s dad out of a POW camp? Even if he did have that kind of clout, which he didn’t, Jules knew Perdant wasn’t going to get Jules’s father out of prison, because his father wasn’t even in prison. He was at that château with a whole bunch of other maquisards right now.
And it was up to Jules to make sure Perdant didn’t get there.
He tilted his head up toward the big dark vault of the sky and considered the multitude of stars spilled across it. Spilled like sugar in a gas tank, he thought.
He glanced over his shoulder at the car. He could make out Perdant’s square shoulders rising above the driver’s seat and the back of his head as he looked straight ahead.
There was no way to unscrew the gas cap without him noticing, Jules realized. No way. So he stood a while longer, gazing up at the stars and imagining eating a dessert of whipped cream and strawberries, and after a time, he heard a car door slam.
“How much tea did you drink, anyway?” Perdant said. “You’ve been at it so long that now I gotta go.”
Over his shoulder, Jules watched Perdant crossing to the other side of the road. “I hope you know that the friends you probably think you’re protecting by leading me on this wild-goose chase are not so innocent,” Perdant called over his shoulder. “Some of your friends are engaged in some very serious criminal activity—the kind of lawbreaking that could get them killed!”
“Who?” Jules called to him.
“That redheaded fellow, for one,” Perdant said, stopping a short distance in front of the car and turning his back to Jules. “The Scout.”
Jules stopped paying attention. He had suddenly realized his opportunity. Not bothering to button his fly, he took the few steps to the back of the car and, crouching, quietly unscrewed the gas cap. He set the cap on the rear bumper, dug in his pockets for the sugar lumps, and fed them into the tank as fast as he could while keeping his eye trained on Perdant’s back. When he saw Perdant zipping up, he hotfooted it into the passenger seat. He was sitting idly rolling the window up and down when Perdant got in and slammed the door.
He looked over at Jules and said, “Have you remembered how to get to the château?”
“Yes, I think I have my bearings now,” Jules said.
“Good,” Perdant said. “Because if there are any more shenanigans, I’ll send you to jail, where you belong.” He threw the car into gear; it lurched a bit and, toward the back of the car, there was a little clunk.
“Did you hear that?” Perdant asked.
“Hear what?”
“That clunk.”
“Clunk?” Jules said, remembering the gas cap he’d left on the rear bumper.
“Yes, clunk!”
“Probably a rock.”
Perdant clenched his jaw but pulled ahead and turned to Jules.
“So, which way?”
Jules pointed behind them.
Once again, Perdant maneuvered the car around on the narrow gravel road and headed back the way they had come. Shortly after they turned around, the front driver’s-side tire bumped up and over something, causing the chassis to rock unevenly.
“These roads!” Perdant muttered.
“Terrible,” Jules agreed, wondering what the gas cap looked like now.
TO THE CHTEAU
Céleste met Sylvie and her bedraggled group of young men at the gate to the château. When Céleste had met Léon there before, she’d assumed the place had been unoccupied. This time, they were stopped by a voice shouting, “Halte!”
A young man Céleste didn’t recognize emerged from behind the gate posts. He pointed a rifle at them and demanded a password.
“Put that down!” Sylvie said so sharply that Céleste jumped in surprise. “We want to see the boss.”
“Only one,” the sentry said. “Which one of you is in charge?”
“She is,” Sylvie said, pointing at Céleste.
Céleste started to protest, but the guard took her arm, said, “Come with me,” and guided her through the gate, along the gravel drive, and past a small herd of grazing goats. They climbed the stone staircase, still elegant in spite of the moss and wildflowers growing in its many cracks and fissures. Inside, a few lanterns glowed, revealing carved pillars and painted frescoes under the crumbling plaster.
The sentry told her to wait in the foyer while he went outside. Céleste stood for a few moments watching bats performing dizzying acrobatics in the vault of the high ceiling and listening to pigeons cooing in the rafters. The place was clearly not entirely uninhabited!
The sound of men’s voices—shouts, cheers, laughter—drew her to an open window. Outside, in the almost-darkness, she beheld a bunch of grown men leaping about like schoolboys. What on earth was going on? she wondered, until she noticed the soccer ball being kicked from foot to foot.
Their voices rang like bells against the rocky hill that rose behind the château. The happy sound seemed to come from far away—as if seeping through a crack in the wall of time, a memory from her childhood, or perhaps from some time in the future.
She watched the sentry approach a few of the men and speak for a few moments; then they followed him back to the house. When they entered, she saw that one
of them was Léon, wearing a scruffy beard.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered. “You were supposed to bring us a suitcase, not a bunch of kids!”
The suitcase! Céleste had forgotten to retrieve it! “I’ll bring it later,” she said.
“We might not be here later,” Léon said.
“I’ll get it to you,” Céleste insisted.
One of the older men Céleste recognized as a blacksmith in Les Lauzes approached them. He seemed to be the leader.
“There’s been a raid,” Céleste said quickly before he could kick her out.
“A raid? Was it Perdant?” asked the blacksmith. His voice echoed in the empty foyer.
“No, it was Germans,” she said. “We think Gestapo, but plainclothes, so we don’t know for sure.”
“Perdant’s at fault. He tipped them off,” said one of the others.
“I’m not so sure about that . . .” Céleste said. “He didn’t seem to know anything about it. Some people say he had warned the house that it might be targeted.”
“Because he targeted it,” the blacksmith said. “And he’s coming after us next.”
Céleste remembered what Madame Créneau had said about retribution. She knew she must say something, but her throat felt thick and closed, her mouth dry. She shouldn’t be afraid of this man—he was on their side, after all.
“Listen to me,” she said, finding her voice. “No retaliation. You’re to leave Perdant alone. We can’t have anything jeopardize the rescue operation. And you know what could happen if any action is taken against Germans—the SS and Gestapo have demonstrated their willingness to slaughter civilians in retaliation.”
“We’re aware,” the man said, his mouth tight.
Céleste squared her shoulders and planted her feet firmly, looking up at him with her hands on her hips.
The man looked down at her with a slight smirk on his face, which softened into a rather sweet smile and at last broke into a little chuckle. “You’re a fierce little tiger, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she growled, not smiling. “I am.” She hoped he couldn’t tell she was trembling. Before her courage gave out she plunged ahead. “A few fellows who escaped need a safe place to stay. I thought they could stay here. I thought it was empty.”
“Well, it isn’t,” one of the men grumbled.
“It’s just for a night,” she said. “Or two.”
“If these boys are being hunted by the Gestapo or any other German outfit,” the blacksmith said, “they can’t stay around here for long.”
“They’ll be moved tomorrow,” she promised, wondering just how that was going to happen.
PERDANT AND JULES HAVE CAR TROUBLE
The low-lying spots were foggy enough that Perdant had to put the windshield wipers on going through them. In the fog, he doubted; he lost track of what the point of the trip was, what he was doing. He started to question, and it was getting darker, the long summer twilight fading into night. He had only himself, a gun, and a completely unreliable ten-year-old kid with him. What did he think he was going to accomplish?
Then the car would burst out into the clear evening—landmarks reappeared, the familiar shapes of distant mountains, a dark patch of pines, a field of ripening rye—and his courage returned. His resolve returned. He was capable, he told himself.
But now the car lurched and coughed and sputtered like a stage actor pretending to die of consumption.
Ça y est! Jules thought. That’s it! The sugar lumps were working. He wanted to crow! To howl with glee! But he didn’t. He sat on his hands and bit his lip.
Perdant cursed. “Come on . . .” he muttered. He urged the car forward by rocking a little, as if that would keep it moving.
Finally, on an upward rise, the car coughed itself into silence. Jules sat for a moment in smug satisfaction of a job well done. Then he noticed the gas gauge, the needle on empty.
“We’ve run out of petrol,” Jules said, wishing he had those sugar lumps back. He was so hungry! Even one would be something.
“That thing is busted,” Perdant said. “Been busted since I got this car. On the other hand, we’ve been driving around in the hinterlands so long that we probably have run out of gas!” He got out, slammed the door, went around to the front, and opened the hood.
Jules told himself he should stop thinking about the sugar and think about what came next. Would Perdant give up now and just walk back to the village and go to bed? That would be the best-case scenario. So it probably wouldn’t happen like that. Perdant seemed so all-fired intent on getting to the château, he’d probably walk there, Jules supposed.
Here’s how it will go, he thought. Perdant will say, “Come on, let’s walk.” Then he’ll reach in and get his gun—his gun that’s in the glove box.
Keeping his gaze fixed on the hood, which was still obscuring the windshield, Jules gently opened the glove box, slowly reached in, and without taking his eyes off the hood of the car, felt for Perdant’s pistol—it was as he remembered it, barrel facing toward the passenger side, stock facing the driver’s side. It was warm from the engine and heavier than he expected as he slipped it into his jacket pocket.
With any luck, he thought, as the hood of the car slammed down, he wouldn’t shoot his own foot off.
“I don’t think it’s much of a walk back to the village,” Jules said as he climbed out of the car. “I can show you the fast way. And we can try for the château tomorrow.”
“Oh, no,” Perdant said. “No, no. I’m not quitting now. I know you.”
Even in the darkness, Jules could see Perdant’s pale finger stabbing the air at him. “If we wait ’til tomorrow, there’ll be nobody there. You know very well where this place is, and you are going to take me there—now. Even if we have to go on foot. Which it looks like we will.”
Perdant stepped around to the passenger side, opened the door, reached into the glove box, opened it, groped around inside, and muttered, “Didn’t I put my sidearm in there? I usually put my gun there.”
He started a frantic search under the front seat, then in the back, until he stopped and pointed at Jules. “La Crapule,” he said. “You scoundrel! Give me the pistol.”
Perdant lunged at Jules, but Jules had learned a thing or two from his goats about dodging, feinting, and other sneaky maneuvers.
He dodged Perdant, then dashed out into the field.
Perdant gave chase as Jules zigzagged through the grass. “You little rascal!” the policeman hollered, but he had to give up calling him names when he ran out of breath. Eventually, he had to stop chasing him altogether and bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping.
“Scoundrel!” he sputtered at the small shadowy figure in the field.
“It’s for your own safety,” Jules called to Perdant from a distance. “If you’re right about that château being full of maquisards.”
“That was your idea, not mine,” Perdant said, panting. “I never said anything about maquisards.”
“Well, what if it is?” Jules said. “If you go in armed and the place is full of them: Boom. You’re dead. If you go in without a gun, they probably won’t shoot you, at least not right off the bat. I can’t promise that, but it’s better than the alternative.”
“So you’re suddenly worried about my safety?” Perdant said, standing up, his chest still heaving.
Jules didn’t answer, but the truth was, he didn’t want them to kill Perdant.
“Well, doesn’t matter,” Perdant said, breathing heavily. “The police are on their way . . . Several cars’ worth . . . Bringing a truck, probably. I’m sure they’ll have no trouble locating the château without my help. Who knows what they’ll do to whomever they find there. Maybe if I was there, I could plead for leniency—at least for any locals who might get caught up in their sweep.”
The two of them stood staring at each other, but in the dark they couldn’t see each other’s eyes, and neither one could tell if the other was bluffing.
P
HILIPPE IS GRILLÉ
Philippe woke in that way you do when you feel first what’s in your heart before your head takes over, and what he felt at the core of his being was that he’d come home. Though he was far away from Normandy, he realized that it was here where he felt most at home—here in this slightly ratty chair, its arms shredded from cats’ claws and its cushion saggy from supporting the weight of so many forlorn visitors.
Madame Créneau had returned from her little junket with Henni and Madeleine to find Philippe asleep in her one upholstered chair. And he woke to see her sitting in a small circle of light, pulling apart an old sweater—he supposed so she could reknit it into something one of the children could wear.
It was as if his mother sat across from him, not exactly knitting, but instead unknitting a sweater. Soon she would look up, smile, exchange a few pleasantries, give him something to eat, and tell him about the next group he was to shepherd over the border to Switzerland. But when he remembered all that had transpired, he slumped back into the chair.
“I am grillé,” he pouted. “Done. Finished. Now that the police know who I am and what I do, I can no longer do this work.”
“Yes, I heard about your arrest,” Madame said. “Thank goodness you were released. Maybe your youthful looks helped. They could hardly hold a child!”
Philippe made a goofy face and said, “They let the nurse go, too.”
“Good,” Madame said, adding, “Put your hands out like this.”
“Are you going to slap my hands?” he asked, sticking his arms straight out in front of him.
She chuckled and began to loop the yarn around his wrists. “No. But, yes, you are grillé,” she agreed. “You are done.”
“Done?” He had expected her to say, “Oh, you can go a different route.” Or something along those lines. Not to tell him he was “done”! Without this work . . . what would he do?
“We’ll find something for you to do,” she said, winding ever more yarn around his arms. “Look how useful you’re being now!”
Philippe looked down at the yarn around his arms. Like soft, fuzzy handcuffs, he thought.