Across the table sits a scrawny girl who accompanied one of von Groth’s men to lunch. When we first sat down, I despised the way she fawned over her German date, remarking on how the sunlight made his medals sparkle, but I understand now. She shoveled the meat and potatoes into her mouth the second they touched her plate, and now she eyes the uneaten food sitting on mine. If she is starving, can I judge her for accepting the German’s invitation? Where do you draw the line between doing what is right and doing what you must to survive?
One of the men tosses his leftover meat to a stray dog prowling the edge of the yard. The scrawny girl looks as though she might cry.
After half an hour of listening in on von Groth’s conversations, I need to use the lavatory. I’ve held it as long as possible, not wanting to go inside the woman’s home, where I am certainly not welcome, but now it’s bordering on an emergency. I excuse myself and walk to the door of the cottage.
I step tentatively into the main room, which feels dark compared to the bright sunlight outside. There’s a fireplace in here, but not much else; the Germans must have requisitioned her furniture. I feel sick at the thought of her living here alone with a man like Essig.
I find the woman in the kitchen doing dishes, her back to me. She scrubs a pot with unnecessary ferocity. Or perhaps it is necessary.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but may I use your lavatory?”
She stops scrubbing.
“It’s down the hall on the right.”
On my way to and from the toilet, I pass a framed photograph of the woman and her husband on their wedding day. Where is he now? Dead, possibly. Or suffering in a German prisoner-of-war camp, while another man makes himself at home in his house, with his wife.
I have to pass through the kitchen in order to leave the cottage, which means walking past the woman as she puts away her pots and pans. I keep my head down as I go by.
“Filthy German whore.”
She spits out the words like machine-gun fire.
I don’t stop. I careen toward the door, feeling like I’ve been shot through the heart. If only she knew the truth about me. . . . If only she knew what we have planned. . . .
Being in the presence of von Groth for the rest of the afternoon is nearly unbearable, but I keep up my smiling facade. Somewhere, a bomb is being built that will fit into a suitcase, which will pass into the hands of a seemingly innocuous waiter, who will plant it next to von Groth’s table on the evening of May 31st. This is the thought that keeps me going, when all I want to do is rescue this woman from her miserable existence: that in a matter of weeks, Walther von Groth will be dead.
Chapter 17
Alice
“That’s you?”
I can’t believe what the man just said. He’s the missing link to Adalyn. And to Gram. My heart’s beating so hard, I think I’m going to pass out, and Paul brings over a chair just in time for me to collapse into it.
“Yes,” the man whispers. “It’s me.” There’s a jagged scar on his jaw that moves when he talks.
Where do I even start? What question do I ask first? I’m so overwhelmed, I start to giggle. What is wrong with me? Paul gives me a sideways look that politely suggests I might want to pull it together. Whew. Okay. This is really happening.
“What’s your name?”
“Luc Pelletier.”
“I’m Alice Prewitt.”
I’m on the verge of exploding from excitement, but I can’t tell how Luc is feeling. I don’t know what I expected to happen, but it’s not this. He doesn’t reach out to shake my hand. In fact, he’s not even looking at me—he can’t take his eyes off the photo.
“I’m sorry,” Luc says in a thick, raspy voice. His bottom lip trembles. “I just need to step outside for a moment.”
“Do you need me to help you find the restroom?” asks one of the two men.
“No.”
His face contorted in a strange expression, he gets to his feet and makes for the door a little unsteadily. The other man rushes over to make sure Luc can manage on his own, and Luc waves him away. The man walks back, frowning.
“I’m very sorry,” he says. “We have never been to one of these gatherings before. Luc has never wanted to come. I don’t know why not.”
“So how do you two know Luc?” Paul asks.
The man picks up the photo Luc had left on the chair. He points to the boy with the star on his chest and the butterfly balanced on his finger. “This is our older brother, Arnaud.”
“It is?” I feel like I’ve been knocked off my feet all over again.
“Yes,” he says. “I am Eugene Michnik.”
“I am Ruben,” says the other.
I remember Adalyn’s diary entry about her Jewish friend sent to the Vel’ d’Hiv. “Your brother . . . was he . . . ?”
“In 1942, our brother and our parents were rounded up with thirteen thousand other Jews,” Ruben says solemnly. “They were taken to the old cycling arena, and then to Auschwitz. They did not survive.”
“I’m so sorry,” Paul and I say in unison.
“Things had been getting worse and worse for the Jews,” Ruben continues. “Our father could not work anymore; we had no bank account; we were not allowed to be in certain public places; and of course, we were made to wear the yellow star. A doctor who knew our father offered to hide us in his apartment. He and his wife had a secret room concealed behind a wardrobe, big enough to hold two young boys, but no more. Our parents took us to their door, hugged us goodbye, and said they would see us again soon. Two days later, the roundup took place.”
“We think they knew something terrible was going to happen,” says Eugene, jumping in. “Otherwise, they never would have split up our family.”
“About a month later, we were taken to a secret home for Jewish children in the Free Zone,” Ruben continues. “They gave us forged documents so we could cross the demarcation line. We lived there for the rest of the war, with other children who had been smuggled out of the internment camps. There were people who taught us music and math and English, and sometimes, if it was safe, they let us play outside.”
“Wow.” It feels like such an insufficient word in response to the brothers’ story, but I can’t think of what else to say. I’m amazed.
“After the war, we were sent to live with a new family in Paris,” says Ruben. “One day, I was at the market, and I saw Luc. He was very thin, and rather sickly, but I recognized him as a friend of Arnaud’s . . . and we have been in each other’s lives ever since. When I was eighteen, and Eugene was sixteen, we moved in with Luc. We lived with him until we each got married.”
“Did Luc ever get married?”
“No,” Ruben answers. “We are his family, for the most part.”
“I wouldn’t say that Luc has been unhappy his whole life,” says Eugene, “but he is . . . haunted, in a way. What happened in the war never fully left him. For years, we’ve tried to get him to come to one of these meetings, but he always said no—he never wants to talk about the war. We had to drag him here tonight, and obviously, I am glad we did.”
“Speaking of Luc,” says Ruben, “where is he?”
We scan the room, but Luc is nowhere to be seen among the remaining Project Geronte people. The event is really winding down now; Corinne is stacking the empty plastic wine glasses and tossing them into a trash bag.
“I’ll go check on him,” Eugene offers. “He might need some help in the restroom.”
With Eugene gone, the rest of us go to the table to help Corinne clean up. We tell her about the incredible connection we made, and her face lights up. She drops everything she’s holding and pulls the three of us into a hug.
“Ruben!” Eugene rushes back into the room and grabs his brother by the shoulder, breaking up our celebration. There’s concern written all over his face. “Il est parti.”
“Quoi?”
“Il n’est pas aux toilettes.”
Ruben’s face falls. Corinne looks confu
sed. I turn to Paul to give me the translation.
“Luc isn’t in the bathroom,” he says. “He’s gone.”
Chapter 18
Adalyn
One more night. That is all that stands between now and the thirty-first of May.
It may as well be an eternity. I cannot get to sleep, no matter how hard I try. Every time I try to close my eyelids, they flutter like the wings of a butterfly until I open them again. I’m too anxious to simply lie here and stare at the ceiling, so I grab my diary and climb onto the window ledge, where I sit with my knees tucked up under my nightgown.
I rest my forehead against the cool glass, remembering how I used to long to see the blanket of lights over Paris again. Now I can hardly picture it in my mind’s eye. I suppose I’ve gotten used to the dark.
In the silver-blue light of the moon, I crack open the cover of my diary and read the first entry, from May 30th, 1940. Exactly four years ago, to the day. I forgot that I found this book while I was looking for bandages. Oh, how badly my feet hurt! And how shaken I was after our journey on the road. If only I’d known then how much worse things were going to get. The only bright spot is that I met Luc.
I read every entry from the past four years, the sentences coming to life like a movie. Every time I see Chloe’s name, the lump in my throat gets bigger, and by the time I get to the roundup of 1942, my tears are splashing onto the paper. I blot them with my sleeve so the writing doesn’t wash away. All the terrible memories in these pages. . . . Tomorrow, we will make certain that they did not happen in vain. I must remember this, for I am also desperately frightened.
With a hand I can’t keep from shaking, I write another entry in the book. At last, I think I might be growing tired. When I’m finished, I tuck the diary into my desk drawer, among the pencils and coins and bobby pins. Then I crawl back into bed and fall asleep.
My plan is to leave for the safe house at five o’clock, so I can see the boys off before they go. All through the day, I am a jittery mess. Climbing off my bicycle, I lose my balance, and my shopping basket clatters onto the sidewalk. I drop to my hands and knees and pull back the checkered cloth to survey the damage. Oh no—I’ve managed to break the one egg I could find at the market. The yolk bleeds over everything, including my fingers.
Upstairs in the kitchen, Maman helps me wash off my things.
“I’m sorry I broke the egg,” I tell her.
“It’s okay, darling. It was just a mistake. We will make do.”
Could the egg be an omen? No, I don’t believe in such things. Still, there’s this sense of foreboding I can’t seem to shake, and it’s getting worse by the second.
“Maman?” I try to keep my voice steady.
“Yes?”
“A friend from school has become rather close with a German officer, and he has offered to drive a group of us down to the Riviera to celebrate the end of the school year. I don’t know exactly how long the trip would be, or when we would leave, but if I go, there’s a chance I would be away for quite some time. Would that be okay with you and Papa?”
“Well, I would miss having you here with me,” Maman says, “but it sounds like a lovely vacation, darling. You deserve it, what with all the hours you spent in the library this year.”
“Thank you, Maman.” I kiss her cheek. “Perhaps I will tag along, then. We’ll see.”
I probably didn’t need to lie to Maman, but I did it as a precaution in case something goes awry, and we all have to go underground, into hiding. . . . But this will not happen. I’m dwelling on worst-case scenarios, things that are unlikely to happen. I must think positively.
I go to my room to lie down and calm my racing heart, but lying down is no use. My thoughts go to terrifying places. What if the boys are caught before they plant the bomb? They won’t be. They pulled off the attack in Limoges. What if the Gestapo get their hands on them? Even if they torture them, I know they will stand strong. What if the boys are killed? You mustn’t think that way, Adalyn.
I know I don’t believe in premonitions, but something about this one feels as real as black storm clouds gathering in the distance. There is something I must do before I leave. Something I must say, in case I never get another chance to do so. Chloe is hardly ever home these days—usually off with friends instead—but earlier this afternoon, as I was washing up, I heard her come in the door and stomp down the hall. She’s here, right on the other side of my bedroom wall. My heart pounding so hard that I can feel it behind my eyes, I fly off the bed and into the corridor.
“Chloe.” I bang on my sister’s door. There’s no response. “Chloe, open the door.”
Still, there is silence, but I know that she’s in there, because I heard her moving around before I knocked for the first time.
“Chloe, will you let me talk to you? It’s important.” More silence. I knock again, as though it will make a difference. “Chloe, please.”
I try the doorknob. It’s locked. And I only have a couple of minutes before I have to leave. What is she doing right now—waiting for me to go away and stop bothering her? Or is a part of her wondering if she should hear what I have to say?
“Chloe, if you just unlock the door, I can explain everything.” I’m desperate now. I won’t tell her any important details, but I need her to know that I’ve been on her side all along. I need her to know. Just in case. But she won’t come to the door. She won’t answer me at all. This is hopeless. I thump on the door as hard as I can, rattling the wooden frame. “Chloe, for god’s sake, will you listen to me?!”
The clock in the hall chimes five times. If I want to see Luc, then I need to leave right this minute. “Chloe,” I say one last time, my cheek pressed to the door, “everything you’re upset about . . . it’s not what you think. I swear.”
I can’t detect any movement from inside the bedroom. I just hope she heard me.
The bomb is death wrapped in a package you wouldn’t look twice at. One of Luc’s many contacts built it for us. It’s a simple briefcase: black, leather, with silver clasps—the kind of thing a businessman would carry to work. Inside, there’s an explosive powerful enough to take out a whole restaurant, and Walther von Groth with it. The six of us stand around the table, almost scared to get too close.
Beads of perspiration spring up on Raphael’s forehead as he fastens his trench coat. Underneath, he wears a spare uniform provided by Boivin. With it on, he’ll look exactly like any other waiter in the restaurant, except that he’ll be carrying a deadly weapon.
“Better get going,” Geronte says as he checks his pocket watch. There’s a collective intake of breath from the group.
“Run through the plan for me one last time,” I ask them, fear swirling around in my chest.
“We’ll be standing watch to make sure nobody leaves the restaurant,” says Pierre-Henri, gesturing to himself and Marcel, who flashes a confident smile.
“Boivin will let me in the back door, and I’ll go into the dining room and place the briefcase,” says Raphael.
“Better dry that sweat or you’ll give yourself away instantly,” Geronte growls at him. “Those men are like sharks. They can smell one part blood in a million parts water.” Raphael mops his forehead.
“I’ll be waiting at the end of the street in back of the restaurant to make sure he gets out safely,” says Luc. “Once Raph links up with me, we’ll come back here.” He clasps my hand.
He stays holding it as we leave the safe house in waves: first Marcel and Pierre-Henri, then Raphael, with the briefcase; then me and Luc. I decide to walk three-quarters of the way to the restaurant—far enough away that I won’t be seen, but close enough that I’ll be able to hear the bomb when it goes off.
“Tell me something to take my mind off what we’re about to do,” Luc says as we make our way toward the restaurant. With the insides of our wrists touching, I can feel his heartbeat. It’s very fast.
“Remember the first time we met? I was so nervous to meet you, I was convinced I wo
uld forget the password.”
“Of course, I remember. ‘Did you make it here okay?’”
“‘The trains ran smoothly.’”
We both laugh nervously.
“We’re going to make history today,” I tell him.
“Tell me more.”
“And I think the war may be reaching its end.”
“Keep going.”
“Germany isn’t as strong as it used to be. They’re being bombed by the Allies. They’re losing on the Eastern Front. An invasion of France could happen any day now. And the resistance groups are more organized than ever before under de Gaulle. Luc, von Groth admitted to me that he’s worried.”
“My god, I hope so,” he says. “For France—of course—but for us, too. I just want to be with you, Adalyn. Like two normal people who don’t have to hide all the time.”
“I want that, too, Luc.”
We come to a halt. We’re already at the intersection where we agreed I would wait. There’s a bench over there, and no Germans loitering around, at least for now.
We turn to each other. Even with our conversation, the black storm clouds feel like they’re right over my head. Luc kisses me swiftly on the cheek. I need to tell him; I need to tell him what I’ve known since the night we spent on the floor of the empty bedroom. I know he must feel the same way about me.
“Luc, I—”
“Tell me when I’m back,” he begs me. “I already can’t bear to walk away from you.”
I hold my tongue and return his kiss on the cheek. “Okay. Good luck, Luc. I’ll see you soon.”
“That’s right. I’ll see you soon.”
Luc goes on down the road, and I go to the bench to wait. I feel so panicked that I can’t tell if only a minute has passed or an hour. Has Boivin let Raphael into the restaurant yet? Has he planted the briefcase? The sun, my only measurement of time, has disappeared behind the tops of the buildings, and all that remains is hazy pink twilight. Paris settles in for another dark night.
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