Sins of the Flesh

by Fern Michaels

  André himself tied the German to his chair, the knots in the stout rope cutting deeply into the man’s wrists. He made no sound. He was alive and they needed him. For what, he didn’t know, but whatever it was he would help them, for he wanted to stay alive to tell Ilsa how much he loved her.

  “We get warm, we eat, and then we dispose of these miserable excuses for human beings. How nobly they died for the Third Reich. Pigs! Swine! You should all die with that paperhanging bastard. If I ever hear the words Heil Hitler again, I will shoot to kill on the spot!” André cried passionately.

  Mickey had heard it all before, so many times that she found herself drifting into sleep with the warmth of the fireplace at her back. These hard-fighting Frenchmen gave voice to their thoughts because they felt so helpless against the German machine. Now she would sleep, her belly full of the thick greasy sausage and heavy black bread. When she woke she would cook for the children and make up parcels of food to take with them.

  For three days they ate, slept, and ate again and again as they waited for the children, whose arrival was delayed because of the heavy snow. The German named Kort did as he was told, sending out his dispatches and receiving others. The deciphered messages made no difference to their situation, Yvette pointed out.

  Mickey was busy cutting turnips and cabbage into the soup pot when she heard Kort ask André a question in his broken French. “If I tell you a safe way to get over the mountains, will you let me go free?”

  Mickey finished her task and walked over to the German. “Why do you think we would believe anything you say? There are Germans all along the border. We’ll find out our own way. The German hasn’t been born that I would trust,” she said viciously. “Unless, of course, you want to come with us,” she added.

  “No…yes…If that is what is necessary for me to remain alive, I will go with you. Your guide.”

  “No!” Yvette shouted.

  “Why not, Yvette?” Mickey said. “Think about it. He could carry the food and, from time to time, the children when they tire. He is strong, burly, well fed, and he’s lived well on our land and our food. I think we should take him. I think he should pay for our country’s generosity. Look how strong he is, my friend. He’ll be better than a pack mule. We will load him down so heavily he cannot escape. And”—she wagged a finger under Yvette’s nose—“he will walk in front of you.” To the German she said in a voice she could have used to discuss the weather conditions, “My friend hates Germans; they slaughtered her husband in Paris because he walked in front of the commandant. She held him in her arms and watched him die. She watched that same commandant kick her husband in the ribs when he didn’t die fast enough.”

  Kort stared up at Yvette and in the whole of his life had never seen such hatred. Fear crawled around his belly, but he knew he would do what these two women asked of him, do it gladly if they allowed him to live. “I will give you no trouble,” he said.

  “André?”

  “As you say, he will be better than a pack mule. I say take him, but watch him.” Later he would tell Mickey to kill the German bastard the moment they set foot on Spanish soil.

  Nine children arrived the following day, cold and hungry, but warmly dressed for the bitter weather outside. Mickey and Yvette bustled about ladling out food and spreading blankets and pillows by the fire. Young Gage had proved to be an apt scavenger, looting the village houses in anticipation of the children’s arrival.

  If we could only stay here for the winter, Mickey mused as she stared at the sleeping children. There was certainly enough food in the root cellars and plenty of firewood. And more than enough Germans to go around. Her thoughts were bitter and angry as she stared at the defenseless children.

  “I’d say the oldest is eight, possibly nine,” Yvette whispered. “I wonder which ones we’ll lose.”

  “Yvette, for God’s sake, we haven’t even left yet and already you’re worrying about…about…”

  “You’re thinking the same thing, don’t deny it, Michelene,” Yvette said calmly.

  A sound, foreign to their ears in the small church, startled them. The men at the table stopped talking, and André ran to the door, his rifle in readiness, Gage on the other side. When they heard the sound again, it came from the direction of the children.

  “It’s all right; one of the little ones is making sounds in his sleep,” Mickey said quietly as she made her way to the little group of children. One boy with golden curls was sleeping on his side, his hand under his cheek. An angel, Mickey thought, a sweet little angel no more than five or six that God was going to put to the test. Bitter tears scalded her eyes.

  “So,” she muttered, “this is what we all heard.” Leaning over, she opened the buttons of the child’s bulging coat. A dog with warm, wet eyes stared out from his nest against the little boy’s chest. Careful not to awaken the sleeping child, Mickey gently withdrew the small dog and held him up against her cheek. How warm and soft he was. His little pink tongue crept out of his mouth to lick at her, hesitantly at first and then lavishly.

  “Mon Dieu! What are we to do with this little rascal?” Mickey demanded.

  The men all looked at one another. There was none among them who had not had a dog as a child. They looked on helplessly, not wanting to be the first to say the dog had to be gotten rid of.

  “Food, Yvette. This warm bundle needs food and some water,” Mickey ordered in a strangled voice. She wiped at the tears on her cheeks, remembering Jake and Dolly.

  At the table the men were making quiet wagers as to whether or not they would take the dog with them over the mountains. The German Kort offered to carry the dog along with his other load, but Mickey ignored him. Of course, he would be eager for the dog to go along, so he could bark and give away their positions. But if the dog’s sense of smell was developed, it could work to their advantage. Puppy or not, the animal would be devoted to the little boy who had carried him through the snow. He would smell danger if it threatened his master.

  Sitting on their haunches, Mickey and Yvette watched the little dog gobble down more food than they themselves had eaten all day. When he was finished he lapped water from a cracked cup, then looked at them solemnly and piddled at their knees. Hearing no sharp reprimand, he wobbled over to the boy with the golden curls and within seconds was snug inside the boy’s coat.

  “This could be a problem,” Yvette said, watching.

  “If we leave him behind, he could die. He’s too little to forage for himself,” Mickey said glumly.

  “Yes, but if he barks when silence is called for, we could all die,” Yvette reminded her.

  “Yes, that is a possibility. We must decide, you and I. The dog is probably the only thing left to this little angel. I cannot be the one to…to…say…I cannot be the one who says he must be left behind.”

  “Well, don’t expect me to be the monster.”

  Mickey smiled. “So where does that leave us?”

  “I guess he goes with us,” Yvette said with a sigh. “We can take turns carrying him. He’s a beauty, isn’t he?”

  “It’s been settled,” Mickey crooned to the little dog who was peeking out of the boy’s coat. He seemed to understand her words. His eyes closed and he was asleep in seconds, safe and secure against his young master’s beating heart.

  It was three days before the snow let up. Three long days for the children to eat and sleep and get warm. Three days to become attached to the frisky pup who was now everyone’s friend, even the German’s. Three long days with enough hours to become attached to the solemn-eyed children who would be Mickey’s charges. They were so little, so young, she thought. She’d laid aside any last doubts about the German even though Yvette hadn’t changed her mind about him.

  Kort didn’t need prodding when it came time to make his transmission. Mickey carefully translated the French words into German, and Yvette stood over him, her pistol pressed against his temple as she watched him make the three-hour transmittal. And always it was the same m
essage: Heavy snow conditions, the village was deserted, and there was no sign of any R.A.F. flyers or French partisans.

  One more transmittal was scheduled for the noon hour, during which Kort was to ask questions and read off a statement Mickey had translated for him. He was to say two of his men spotted tracks in the snow and followed them south, and he had not heard from them since. Mickey and the children would start out immediately, heading north, while the other partisans headed west. They would all have a three-hour start.

  “The question is,” Yvette said, “will they believe him?”

  Mickey translated the question.

  Kort nodded. “I see no reason for them not to believe me. My superiors have a great respect for your Resistance movement. Your people have killed many of my countrymen and given safe passage to many English flyers. They will believe me,” he said defiantly, his eyes on Yvette and the pistol in her hand. For some reason he wasn’t nearly as afraid of the men in this group as he was of this redheaded witch.

  The children and the dog were fed one last time. Trips to the privy were urged, coats buttoned, caps fastened tightly under little chins, and gloves pulled up under coat sleeves. The fires would remain, for no German would care about a church burning down, and the equipment was packed and ready. They would all exit at the same time.

  Mickey fastened her eyes on the children. She knew them now, much to her sorrow. Anna with the sad eyes was going on nine and the oldest. Marie, almost the same age, cried a lot, upsetting the other children; she was the only one who wouldn’t go near the dog. Bernard was seven, as was Marc. Sophie and Stephan were six-and-a-half-year-old twins who clung to each other and stayed apart from the other children. Sophie’s eyes were constantly filled with tears that never spilled onto her cheeks. To her dismay, Mickey had discovered that Sophie was the leader of the two. Max, a solemn-eyed six-year-old, stayed close to his cousin Mariette, who was the same age. Bruno somehow remained outside the group of children, preferring, Mickey supposed, to get his comfort from the warm, furry little body inside his jacket.

  Mickey’s eyes filled with tears. How unfair that these little ones had to learn at such a tender age that they couldn’t become friends with their companions. If a friend died, there would be tears and sadness, an unwillingness to continue, to live another day. God alone knew what had been drummed into their little heads when they started on their journey.

  Anna was the toughest. There was determination and defiance in her eyes. A methodical girl, she ate slowly and carefully, and her manners were impeccable. At least once a day she insisted on combing her hair and washing her face. As a result she was neater than the others, and her clothes were also thicker and warmer. Twice, Mickey had heard her chastise Marie when the younger girl broke into tears, telling her to grow up and act like a proper young lady. Marie had only wept harder at the girl’s criticism, and no amount of comforting could bring a smile to her face. She was not a robust child, and Mickey worried about her.

  Marc and Bernard, on the other hand, were friends from the same province. Like cohorts they whispered among themselves, not caring what orders they’d been given. They ate with relish, sharing their food with each other, although Marc was the more generous of the two. These two, Mickey knew, would be no problem; they would look out for each other.

  Sophie and her tears puzzled Mickey, as did Stephan. They were exceptionally close, out of fear, she decided. She had yet to see the color of Stephan’s eyes. Both appeared to be physically healthy, and she prayed that their mental condition wouldn’t deteriorate with the long trip ahead of them. Sophie was much too young to shoulder the responsibility of her twin. Max and Mariette were little more than babies who sucked their thumbs constantly and should have been playing in a sandbox in the south of France with their mothers looking on indulgently. Although both appeared to be healthy, their eyes were trustful one moment, and filled with a deep sadness the next.

  If she had a favorite, it would be Bruno, who was a chatty, sturdy little boy who said whatever popped into his head. If any tricks were to be played, Bruno would be the one to play them, with his mischievous eyes and wicked little smile. The others shunned him, possibly because of the warm, furry little dog he clutched to his chest.

  It was time now for what Yvette called the children’s marching orders. Standing tall, she saluted smartly to the group of children. “I am your general, and as such you must take my orders. Listen sharply, for our lives are at stake, and not one of us can make a mistake. We are going on a very long, very hard journey. You are soldiers now and must be brave and strong. There will be no talking whatsoever. Mademoiselle Mickey and I will speak only in English. If you speak English, you may talk; if not, you must be silent. Bruno, do you understand what I just said?” The little boy nodded meekly. “And the dog, he must not bark. If he barks, other soldiers, the Germans, will find us.”

  “Do not worry, mademoiselle, my dog barks only in French, not English,” Bruno said, grinning. “I am ready, and I wish to be your lieutenant.”

  “Then that is what you shall be,” Mickey said with a catch in her voice. “You will walk with me. Remember now, we speak only English from this moment on.”

  “Fall in,” Yvette ordered. When the children didn’t move she shooed them out the door like pesky chickens.

  The German waited for his instructions. “In front of me, all the way,” Yvette said, trying to hide her smile at the way he was loaded down. She felt a moment’s grudging respect when the man moved off, his steps sure and firm.

  Days later, when Mickey and her group stopped at the foot of the Pyrenees, she thought her heart would thump out of her chest in fright. In September the mountains hadn’t looked this monstrous, and the children had been older. She gazed at a wall of solid rock, slippery with snow. It seemed to go up, up, up to the snow-capped peaks. The last time she’d been stupid, confident in her ability to conquer the unknown, but now that she knew what lay ahead, she felt stark terror.

  “It is impossible, Yvette,” she whispered. “I don’t even know if I can make it. They are so little, and it is so bitterly cold.” Yvette nodded miserably.

  “We must go now,” Kort said briskly. “There is a border patrol less than two kilometers from here. Do not think about how treacherous and frightening it is. Take one step and then another. Do not look up and do not look down. Instruct the children now!”

  Yvette bit down on her lower lip. Kort was right. She nodded at Mickey, who shepherded the children into a small knot. She spoke quickly, but her voice was soothing.

  Marie hung back, tears streaming down her cheeks. Anna stared at her in disgust. “Leave her behind,” she said in excellent English.

  Startled by the girl’s words, Mickey turned to face her. “You speak English?”

  “And German and Italian, and I understand Spanish,” the girl said soberly. “She is a baby, that one, she cries more than Sophie, and Sophie is only six. She is a coward, she whines and cries and she wets her pants.” This last was said in French. Marie cried harder.

  “We have no time for this,” Kort said, his eyes on the sky. “We have to make camp soon, and it’s going to snow again. Take some of my load, and I’ll sling her over my shoulder.”

  Terrified, Mickey led the parade up the beginning of the rocky trail. Twice she slipped, but Anna’s stiff arm against her back helped to keep her balance. Bruno trotted along at her side, his little feet nimble and sure on the rocky, slippery trail.

  “I am not heartless, mademoiselle, I merely wanted her to realize how important this journey is,” Anna said quietly in English. “I thought if I called her a coward, she would show some spirit.”

  “I know that, Anna,” Mickey said, her breathing shallow and labored. “Please, no more talking.”

  Yvette’s eyes were cold and merciless as she trailed behind Kort and the girl on his shoulder. “How is it you know this path and where the patrols are?” she snarled in broken German to the man’s heaving back.

 
“Because I have a map,” he replied. “I would have offered it to you, but you would have said it was some kind of trick. When we make camp I will give it to you if you wish.”

  “I damn well wish,” Yvette snapped. He nodded, and her grudging respect for the German escalated.

  When Mickey called a halt a long time later, it was because she herself could walk no farther. Everyone sank down gratefully and huddled together for warmth. “I’m sorry, but we can’t make a fire today. Perhaps later on, and even then maybe not. Do not look forward to it. What you are feeling now will just get worse,” she said softly as she parceled out food for the hungry children. An extra portion was given to Bruno for his friend, who lapped it up in the blink of an eye. Grudgingly, Yvette handed Kort his share. Nodding his thanks, he ate quickly. When he was finished he handed Mickey his map. Her eyes widened as she showed it to Yvette in the thin beam of a flashlight.

  “We cannot relax until we are above the tree line, and even then I am not sure we’ll be safe,” Kort said quietly. “I cannot carry the girl any longer. The terrain will become steep, and it will be impossible not to make a sound. She must walk when we start out. You see, one-quarter of a kilometer from here is a patrol. Sound carries, as do sobs, in the quiet of the night.”

  “Are we to believe then that you will make no sound?” Yvette asked, eyeing him contemptuously.

  “I am a soldier, madame, I do not kill children. Soon I will be a father myself. Believe what you like,” he replied with an air of righteous indignation.

  Mickey volunteered to take the first watch, saying that only her legs were tired; her eyes and ears were keen and alert.

  An amused expression on her face, she watched as Yvette strategically assigned everyone his or her own space in the tight circle. She poked Kort to indicate he was to take a position between herself and Mickey.