Violins of Autumn (Lisette de Valmy)

by Amy McAuley

  I stare at the round moon through the windshield.

  Pierre slides down the length of the seat. He stops short as our bodies are about to touch.

  Our last kiss was spontaneous. There wasn’t time to think, or overanalyze the situation, or work myself into a nervous tizzy: all things I’m doing this time around. Being this close to Pierre seems to knock the sense from my head. I can’t think straight. My stomach knots. My palms sweat. But when I’m with Robbie, everything between us feels so natural. I can’t look at him without smiling. I miss him when he’s not around.

  Now I’m hopelessly confused. I didn’t expect to come here and fall for anyone, much less two different men who couldn’t be more unalike. How can I have such strong feelings for both of them?

  Pierre strokes my hair. “Your hair is very pretty.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “It was the first thing I noticed about you. I like the way it shimmers in candlelight.”

  His finger trails my jawline.

  “You have a scar here,” he says. “Were you badly hurt?”

  I keep the memory of that day buried deep inside me.

  “Yes, I was badly hurt.”

  “I also have a scar.” He brings my hand to his face. “It reminds me every day that I could not save the life of my father.”

  We look into each other’s eyes with understanding. His hurt mirrors mine.

  While we’re huddled together in the quiet truck, apart from the rest of the world, I will let Pierre see the real me.

  My heart pounds as I unclasp the top two buttons of my blouse. I lay his hand over the bony lump that will forever remain at the crook of my collarbone.

  “I was in an automobile accident.” I haven’t said those words or replayed the worst moments of my life for years. “My brother and I were goofing around in the backseat on the way home from the barber. I teased him about his haircut. I hurt his feelings, but I didn’t mean to. I remember the sky, changing color to a strange grayish green. A storm whipped up out of nowhere. A crack of thunder startled my mother, and my brother and I laughed. Sheets of rain streamed down the windows. I couldn’t see anything but rain. Suddenly, the car seemed to float on air. My mother said, ‘Oh.’ That was her last word, calm as can be. I don’t really know what happened after that, I only remember a man in a fedora carrying me from the car, through the downpour. Then I woke up in a hospital room. A nurse told me my mother and brother—” Tears flood my eyes. I cover my mouth, shaking. “They were dead.”

  Pierre wipes tears from my cheeks. He knows not to say anything at all. His strong arms wrap around my back. I lay my head against his chest. Caught somewhere between the sadness of our past and the uncertainty of the future, we can only hold on to each other.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Wake up, Adele.” Denise’s vehement shake to my shoulder jars me awake. “The BBC won’t be silent much longer. You don’t want to miss the announcement.”

  I fly out of bed fully clothed, clumsy and half-asleep.

  “It’s like Christmas morning,” Denise says as we race downstairs to the kitchen. “I can’t believe you were able to sleep.”

  Madame LaRoche stands in the middle of the kitchen, repeatedly sweeping the same patch of floor. I take the broom from her hands, alarmed by the dark circles beneath her eyes, and lead her to the table.

  In the corner nearest the radio, Pierre reclines on a kitchen chair, snoring.

  The radio flickers to life. In a flash, so do we.

  “This is the BBC Home Service—and here is a special bulletin read by John Snagge.

  “D-day has come. Early this morning the Allies began the assault on the northwestern face of Hitler’s European fortress. The first official news came just after half past nine, when Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force, usually called SHAEF, from its initials, issued Communiqué Number One. This said, ‘Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied naval forces, supported by strong air forces, began landing Allied armies this morning on the northern coast of France.’”

  The day we’ve all been waiting for, D-day, has finally arrived. We scream with excitement, hugging and wiping happy tears from our eyes. The energy in the room is astounding. All the pent-up fear and anxiety we hold inside day after day exhales from us like stale breath.

  The Allies are coming. France will be free.

  I stagger backward to the wall. A swell of emotion sends me running from the kitchen. I hide in the larder, nauseated and mortified by my reaction. My trembling legs go as rubbery as if I had just completed a marathon bike ride. I sink to the cool cement floor.

  There’s a quiet tap on the door, and Denise says, “May I come in?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The door creaks open and shuts with a soft click.

  “You’re shaking like a leaf,” Denise says. “This isn’t like you.”

  Every time my concentration slips, I see the same bloody, wretched scenes playing over and over again in my mind like horrific movies.

  “Adele, I don’t understand. This is a momentous day.”

  “We’ve been told so many times that the Allies would storm the beaches. We’ve looked forward to this day. But I never stopped to think about what that means. I know it’s a time to celebrate, but what if thousands are dying as we speak?”

  “Adele, we can’t think about it that way. D-day is happening. There is no turning back. We need to stay positive and strong to help the Allies reach Germany. We are going to pull through our time here and come out the other side together, me and you. I can’t have you folding like a house of cards now, or else I’m doomed.”

  Denise puts out her hand.

  Staying positive won’t wipe the terrible images from my mind. The boys and men storming the beaches aren’t nameless, faceless soldiers. How many are people we know? Patrons from the pub, schoolmates, neighbors, the cute Canadian soldier from my aunt’s Christmas party, or my brother’s friends who dreamed of one day enlisting in the army? What if Robbie rejoined his squadron in time to help with this attack? The thought of him back here engaged in bloody battle nearly makes me sick to my stomach.

  I stand without taking Denise’s helping hand, feverishly hot and clammy with sweat.

  “I just need some time alone,” I say, hurrying past her. “I’ll be upstairs.”

  Denise nudges the bedroom door open with her foot. A charcoal-gray kitten rests in her bent arm, peering at me with eyes as round and black as buttons.

  “Smudge and I came to see if you are all right,” she says.

  “Yes, I’m okay now.” I sit up in bed. “Is Smudge allowed in the house?”

  “Nobody has to know.” Denise sits cross-legged on her bed. Smudge wanders in circles on her lap, staggering round and round until sleepiness gets the better of her. She curls up in a ball and promptly falls asleep. “Claire thinks this litter is about six weeks old. Smudge is my favorite. She’s the runt, which makes her even more darling. I wish I could take her home with me.”

  The kitten’s contented purring crosses the divide between our two beds.

  “I’ve never seen a cat that small before,” I say, watching the rise and fall of a ribcage not much bigger than a walnut. “I like to draw animals, but I’m not good with them the way you are.”

  “I wasn’t always this way.” Denise’s hand gently glides along the curve of Smudge’s back. “As a child, I loved to hunt with my father.”

  The Denise I know wouldn’t dream of harming an animal.

  My legs swing over the side of my bed. “You hunted, Denise?”

  “Yes, but when I was eleven I shot a bird. When I went to retrieve it, I saw the poor thing on the ground, still alive, petrified and suffering. Only moments earlier it had been soaring through the sky quite happily, not hurting a soul. I had to put it out of its misery, and it was just awful. I practiced so that could never happen again.”

  “Is that why you were the best shot out of us all?”

  “Th
at’s why.”

  She lifts the sleeping kitten to her chest, cradling it in her hands—hands that could shoot a man in the heart from three hundred yards.

  “Smudge and I had ulterior motives for coming to see you,” Denise says, getting to her feet. “Pierre sent me. He’s waiting for you in the barn.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re sabotaging the factory tonight.”

  I leave the bedroom with Denise. By the time we reach the kitchen I’m jittery with nervous excitement.

  At the sound of the front door opening, Pierre’s attention snaps away from the stack of photos he’s carrying from the barn. Denise and I meet him in the middle of the yard.

  “Adele, I just realized there is a dog in this photograph. How did we miss this? We didn’t discuss a dog.”

  “I thought I mentioned the dog in my notes,” I say.

  Denise jumps in to say, “I’ll return the kitten to her mother.”

  The expression she gives me as she sneaks away seems to wish me good luck.

  “No, there is no mention of a guard dog. Now we have to do away with that dog before the rest of the plan can be put in motion.”

  My scalp tingles with adrenaline. “We are not killing that dog.”

  “What choice do we have? Its barking will bring the night watchman running. If you are too sentimental for this, I can take care of the animal before you get there.”

  “No!” I lay my hand on my tightening chest. “The SOE supplied us with a powerful sleeping draught. I’ll soak a piece of stale bread and feed it to her.”

  “The people of France are starving and you expect me to throw food to a dog? We can easily solve this with a bullet.”

  “If you kill that dog, the Germans will know the explosions were an act of sabotage, not an accident. They could retaliate by killing innocent civilians.” The stubborn resolve in Pierre’s face begins to crumble, and I push forward. “Please, Pierre. My plan will work. I promise you. And if it doesn’t, I will take care of the dog myself.”

  He hangs his head, giving in against his better judgment. “One bark, Adele. One bark will lead to our capture. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, I understand completely.”

  “The plan must come together without a hitch.”

  “It will.”

  The plan has to come off without a hitch. If it doesn’t, I will have to kill Zucker. Without giving it a second thought.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The ride to the factory, down desolate country roads, gives me plenty of time to think. All the preparation I did for this moment is about to be put into action. I should be thrilled. Instead, I’m so wound up I can barely breathe. In one hand I hold a satchel containing the stale piece of bread. In the other I hold a silenced pistol. Of those two things, only one is a realistic solution.

  What do I expect to happen when I reach the fence outside the dog’s holding pen? Do I think I can walk right up, toss her the bread, and watch her fall fast asleep?

  Pierre, Denise, and I sit sandwiched together in the truck cab. Pierre takes his eyes off the road for a split second to glance across the seat.

  “Let’s go over the plan one more time,” he says. “Denise and I will meet up with Marcus and Gus after they arrive with the ladder. We will wait in the trees outside the northeast corner while Adele takes care of the dog.”

  My stomach clenches as I picture Zucker’s black-and-tan face. Her clever eyes.

  “Adele will join the team after the night watchman has passed and continued around the building. We will have approximately two minutes to get over the fence with the gear, pick the lock of the supply room door, and move inside. Adele and I will rig the transformers. Marcus and Gus will rig the assembly area. Denise will keep watch from the trees. At midnight, she will signal once with her flashlight to give us the all clear to exit the building. Two flashes signals danger. If we miss her signal, we are on our own. The explosives will be set with timers. We will have only minutes to get back over the fence and escape the area before it is swarming with SS soldiers.”

  Denise says, “What if we’re wrong to assume the Germans are no longer wasting manpower on guards? What do we do if two sentries are making rounds tonight?”

  “We will move twice as quickly.”

  Pierre drives the truck down a strip of land separating two pitch-black woods south of the village. He cuts the engine within deep shadows. I leave the warmth of the truck, drawing my hands into the sleeves of the soft sweater Pierre lent me to replace my bulky jacket. We remove our supplies, slow and steady, to prevent metal parts from grinding or banging out our position. At the last minute, Denise included her bicycle as backup transportation. That seems like a good idea, now that it’s too late for me to do anything about it.

  Pierre hoists a heavy rucksack onto his back, and we begin the trek to the factory. For a kilometer we keep a brisk pace, marching single file along the roadside, close enough to the forest that we can quickly dive for cover if we have to. Behind me, Denise’s bicycle rolls across the grassy ground so silently I forget she brought it, until the ping of a twig catching in the spokes reminds me.

  A spotlight near the entrance casts a wide glow over the factory grounds. Hugging the tree line, we approach from an area sheltered from the moonlight, well beyond the spotlight’s reach.

  “Adele, we will wait here for your return,” Pierre whispers. “Take your time getting down there. There is no need to rush. You will be more likely to panic and make mistakes if you do. Wait until you feel comfortable. Watch the guard from the shadows. Count the time it takes him to complete his circuit around the building.”

  I add my pistol to the satchel and wind the drawstring around my hand. “I’ll see you in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  Pierre and Denise sit on the grass. Within seconds of leaving them they’ve disappeared from my sight. I pick out a concealed spot behind the factory where I can observe the guard, and Zucker’s fenced pen in the corner nearest the guardhouse.

  Just as I hunker into position, the guard appears around a corner of the building. He patrols the length of the back wall, unaware of my presence. I wait for his return, counting the time in sixty-second increments. Five minutes later, there he goes again, marching by my location. His second rotation completes in five minutes, as does his third. Throughout those minutes, Zucker lays stretched out on the ground between a wooden shelter and the fence, occasionally raising her head from her paws to check the security of her surroundings.

  I loosen the drawstring of the satchel. I choose the loaded pistol over the bread.

  After the guard’s fourth circuit, I jog to Zucker’s fenced enclosure. She rises to her feet, warning me to stay back with a low growl. Snarling, her head and shoulders aggressively lower as she prepares to bark an alarm to the guard.

  “Zucker. Pfui!” Stop that!

  She tilts her head, ears alert, listening to the sound of my voice.

  I quickly pull the sleeping-draught-soaked bread from the bag and lob it over the fence. It lands at her feet.

  “Zucker, it’s me, Adele.”

  Crouching, I aim my pistol at her head, nauseated and shaking so badly I’m sure to miss her when I fire. One bark. That’s all it will take. One bark and the beautiful dog I drew and painted will lie dead on the ground.

  Zucker sniffs the crusty heel of bread. In one violent snap of her jaws, it vanishes. Teeth bared, she lunges at the fence. In a drugged stupor, she staggers backward, whining and incapable of alerting the guard. Lurching sideways, she tries once more to reach the fence. Her hind legs give out beneath her. She collapses into the shadow of her wooden shelter—which will hopefully protect her from the blast—before falling into a deep sleep.

  I run back to my hiding spot. After all the stress and worry of the past hours, I crouch on the hillside buzzing with shock and relief over how quickly and easily the plan worked. It came together almost exactly how I envisioned it. I hope that’s a sign that the rest of the night wi
ll go just as smoothly.

  As the guard rounds the building, I silently get to my feet. I meet up with the demolition team, which now includes Gus and Marcus, in the dark where I left them.

  “Everything is going perfectly to plan,” I whisper.

  Pierre hands me the tools to pick the lock.

  “We know what to do, so let’s go,” he says. “Good luck to us.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The sky at our backs bursts into color and light. Effects of the catastrophic explosions catch up to us as we flee across the field. The ground trembles beneath our feet.

  The plan to destroy the factory has gone off without a hitch.

  Our victory can’t be celebrated until we reach the farm, but Pierre slips his arms around my waist in a spontaneous hug that sweeps me off my feet.

  In my ear, he says, “Thank you, Adele.”

  We run the rest of the way back to the truck, and the distance seems half as long on the return trip. I feel remarkable, so full of energy. I could run until morning.

  Denise’s cheerful march alongside her bicycle slows considerably. “Pierre, I see the truck way up there. See the reflection off the bonnet?”

  “I know where the truck is,” he says.

  “What is that other reflection then?” She leans forward. “And that one?”

  “I don’t see what you’re—”

  In the split second before I identify the sounds of gunfire and bullets piercing trees, I think we’ve been invaded by woodpeckers.

  The starbursts of muzzle flashes give away the position of two shooters. I return fire, giving Denise and Pierre the opportunity to run.

  When I catch up, Pierre says, “Go. I’ll hold them off.”

  The forest offers the most cover. We sprint in spurts across uneven ground. On our last go, Denise and I reach the scrubby brush surrounding the tree line.

  Alone in the field, Pierre fires toward a muzzle flash that has been steadily gaining on him.

  “Denise, I have to go back,” I say. “I can’t leave him.”