They paged through the storybook, trying to decipher the French words, when a shadow fell across them. A woman around Heidi’s mother’s age stood nearby, watching them read the storybook. The woman held a matching sack. Paul jumped to his feet, snatched up their own sack, and dropped the book behind him on the bench.
The woman smiled.
“A little light reading, no?” Her German was heavily accented.
Paul returned her smile. “I think it is a warning to beware of wolves.”
Chuckling lightly, the woman sat on the bench and waved Paul back down. “You are American, yes?”
“I am, yes, and my lovely companion here is German.”
Heidi’s eyes widened. His lovely companion? She must look like something Fritzie had been playing with. Her last bath was a dip in the Mosel two days ago. Her scalp itched and her hair felt like straw. Her braid must look like a bird’s nest. Her dress needed a good washing and ironing. Lovely?
The woman nodded. “I am Madeleine. Normally my husband makes contact, but this is not expected. Come, you will stay at our home. Henri will make arrangements with his own partners, you see? You will still be safe.”
Paul rose to his feet. “Sounds good to me.”
As they fell into step with her, pushing the bikes, he mentioned the incident with the beret.
“Oh, dear. I’ll be sure to remove the beret. Whatever fills the bag is incidental. The bag itself is what is important.”
“So the storybook about the big bad wolf isn’t a warning to be careful who we talk to?”
Madeleine shook her head with a laugh. As they walked, she explained that Henri was a doctor. “As he sees patients and makes house calls, he can pass messages and plan meetings. He has even treated Germans. We are not sure if this means they trust him or if it is their way to keep an eye on him.” She shrugged. “We use their visits to our advantage.”
At home, they met Madeleine’s two children. Monique was about sixteen and blushed a fiery red when she saw Paul. He kindly turned his attention to her younger brother Rene, dropping down on the floor to help him build a model airplane.
While Paul entertained them with humorous anecdotes of flying in the B-17, Heidi tried to help Madeleine and Monique prepare supper. Madeleine showed her a scrap of paper. “Here is a recipe for a Chinese egg soup shared by a refugee family early in the war. It’s not too bad.” She smiled. “Best when one is hungry.”
Heidi wasn’t hungry. Her hands shook so badly, she had difficulty pouring water into a glass. Madeleine laid a hand over hers. “You rest, cherie. Rest now.”
Heidi sank down on a chair. France. They’d made it this far. Germany was behind them, and yet they still weren’t safe. The faces of her family paraded across her vision. She turned away before the others noticed the tears that fell.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Troyes, France
Friday, June 23, 1944
In Troyes, they had to separate. Heidi stayed at one home while Paul was quartered further down the lane. He sat inside the house that evening with the young wife and her baby while her husband chopped kindling outside with their toddler. A truck pulled up and several German soldiers jumped out.
The wife blanched and immediately swept all of the pots and pans out of a bottom cupboard. Grabbing Paul’s arm, she pointed to the cupboard and pushed him down. Did she actually expect him to fit into the tiny space?
She did. Giving him no opportunity to protest, had he wanted to, she wedged him inside. His backpack was thrust in with him.
His muscles cramped in the effort to hold still in his contorted position inside the confined space. He hardly dared to breathe as the soldiers burst in and searched the house. With his circulation cut off, his limbs grew numb. The baby wailed just as Paul’s leg involuntarily kicked the side of the cupboard.
When the Germans left, the couple had to pull Paul from the cupboard and leave him on the floor as his blood rushed to his extremities. An agony of pins and needles stabbed him as feeling returned. The woman busied herself scouring the bottoms of all her pots. Her cleaning frenzy had kept the Germans from searching the cupboard.
Paul pointed in the neighbor’s direction. “Heidi?”
The husband looked out the window and shook his head. “No trouble.”
He beckoned Paul to follow him into the living room. He pulled away a chair and swept back a rug. A trap door was uncovered. With difficulty, he raised it up. Pointing into the chasm, he nodded to Paul. “Sleep there.”
Go down into that black hole? Paul broke out in a sweat.
“Hurry. Sleep there.” The man grabbed Paul’s arm and pulled him toward the hole.
Paul sat down and dangled his legs into the abyss. A stool stood directly beneath the hole. He eased down unto it, then to the floor. Vague shapes loomed in the darkness surrounding him.
“Be quiet.”
Paul looked up at the comment. Overhead, the man’s face disappeared as he lowered the trapdoor. Paul ducked down before it hit him. It was wedged into place, and Paul heard the rumble of the chair being repositioned.
Total blackness surrounded him now. His heart picked up its pace. His fingers tingled and dizziness had him clutching the stool for support. This was akin to being buried alive, what he had avoided during the bombing of Trier.
“You’re a United States airman. A member of the Eighth Air Force. You can conquer irrational fear.”
Talking to himself didn’t help. He needed light. Fishing the flashlight out of his pack, he shone it around. He stood in a root cellar. It had an outside entrance, locked on the outside. The dirt floor looked none too clean. Nothing down here was meant to serve as a bed.
Paul took several deep breaths. He pulled the stool over to the wall, so he could sit with a backrest. He dragged a shaky hand across his face and wiped the sweat on his pants. The flashlight represented a lifeline, but the battery was sure to wear out if he left it on. He tucked it away and hugged his pack in his arms. Reciting the Twenty-third Psalm took less than a minute. The night promised to be long.
What were they doing in there? That small house wasn’t big enough to contain five soldiers. They must have tripped over Paul as soon as they stepped inside. But they hadn’t dragged him out yet, or the family. What were they doing? Having tea and cookies?
Heidi’s hostess pulled her away from the window and covered her hands. “Don’t do yourself harm, cherie. It will not help your friend.”
Heidi looked at the woman, then down at her hands. She’d been tearing her fingernails, one of them right down to the quick.
“Come.” Her hostess led her to a bedroom. She raised the bedspread from her daughter’s bed and pulled out a long drawer under the mattress, revealing a trundle bed. “This will be your bed. If they come, you must hide in here at once. The patrols have been here before and did not find this. You will be safe.”
The woman couldn’t have been more than forty, but she already had liberal streaks of gray in her hair. Because of the Germans, no doubt. Like her. But the woman displayed no censure. She retrieved a manicure scissor and repaired the damage Heidi had inflicted on her nails.
“Have they come here often?” If these homes were suspect, why had they been brought here?
“Twice. At least once a week, they come to this area, always about this time. We joke they have to fill a quota, so they draw straws to see who they will terrorize next.” The woman patted Heidi’s hands. “They have never found anyone.”
If she meant to reassure Heidi, she failed. The German patrols must know something was going on if they kept returning. Her papers identified her as a wanted Gestapo suspect. She couldn’t pretend to be French since she didn’t speak the language.
The roar of a truck engine speeding by indicated the Germans had left. With Paul? Heidi began to rise, but her hostess pressed her back down.
“We must wait. To hurry over now could be interpreted by a watcher as guilt. We will wait to see if the family comes outside. If
they play with their children in the yard, all is well.”
As kind as the woman was, nothing but Paul’s presence would pacify Heidi. If he’d been captured, what would she do? She couldn’t go on to England. She couldn’t go back to Germany. She couldn’t stay here. Where in the world could she go?
The family down the lane didn’t bring their children out to play. The couple came out for a walk. Did that mean they’d left the children behind for Paul to babysit? Heidi’s hostess took her dishpan of water outside to dump. The couple nodded to her. She came back in smiling. “All is well. Now you sleep in peace.”
The next morning, Heidi wrapped Paul in a hug. He patted her shoulder. “It’s okay. We’re all right.”
She leaned back. “You don’t look all right.”
His face was pasty white, his eyes bloodshot and smudged with dark shadows. He’d combed his hair, but then raked a hand through it. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“What happened?”
She didn’t need to explain her question.
“First, the lady turned me into a pretzel and stuffed me into her pots and pans cupboard. Then her husband pried open a secret trapdoor and shoved me into their pitch-black cellar. That’s where I spent the night.”
“Oh, dear. And you don’t like cellars.” She stroked his arm. Just having him with her again made the day brighter.
“Taphophobia, the fear of being buried alive.” Paul offered a lopsided smile. “They sent me down there after the Germans had been there, like they expected them to return. Maybe it was punishment for giving them a scare. I doubt if they’ll help anyone else in the future.”
Heidi hugged him again. “Will we ever feel safe again?”
“Hmm. Maybe in another month.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Orleans, France
Tuesday, June 27, 1944
A week had passed since their arrival in France. They’d hopscotched their way west from Nancy to Orleans, hiding in the homes of strangers who passed them further along. Sometimes they stayed overnight, sometimes not at all. Sometimes they learned names, sometimes not. Always, time passed slowly.
Tonight in Orleans should be their last before arriving at their final destination to await the Allies. Once again, they hid in a hot, airless attic that promised a restless night. Sweat trickled down Paul’s back as he stared through a dirty window. “They never have anything like this on recruitment posters back home.”
Heidi looked up but didn’t respond. She’d been quiet since Troyes. Dark smudges lined her eyes.
“Are you feeling all right?”
Her eyes widened but she nodded.
“Do you regret helping me?”
“No. No,” she repeated in a stronger tone. “Helping you was the right thing to do.” She rolled the edge of her pallet, and unrolled it. “Will the Allies let me go to England? Or will they send me back?”
All this time, she’d been worrying about that. Paul hastened to her side and took her hands. “Yes, they’ll let you go, but I don’t expect you’ll stay there. If I have anything to say about it, you’ll go to Milwaukee with me when I go home for leave.”
“And stay with Rachel’s family?”
“No, you can stay with my parents. They’ll be glad to have you.”
Hope glimmered in her eyes. He pulled her close, resting her head on his shoulder, his hand stroking her back.
Rachel was gone. No pain stabbed at him. Heidi had filled her void.
“Today you arrive at a hidden camp full of Allied airmen deep in the Freteval Forest,” Jacque informed them as they rode through Orleans in his horse-drawn wagon. “We are about sixty miles south-southwest of Paris. The French Resistance is strong in this area and farmers supply the camp with food. You will have much good company, yes?”
Paul studied the architecture. “Wasn’t Orleans the home of Joan of Arc?”
Heidi sucked in her breath when Jacque immediately turned the horse on a detour to point out a memorial statue of Joan. Jacque seemed pleased that Paul was informed about French history but, while Paul appreciated the chance to see points of interest, the scare of a few days ago made him question the wisdom of a sightseeing excursion.
He squeezed Heidi’s hand and whispered, “As a member of the underground, Jacque would understand the risks of our presence and not take foolhardy chances.”
Heidi didn’t relax until they were back on their way to the camp.
They arrived at the camp at sundown. A pair of sentries hailed them and Jacque bid them farewell as a sentry escorted them into the camp. Men surrounded them to check out the newcomers as the camp leader questioned them. Surprise and suspicion greeted Paul’s mention of Heidi’s nationality.
“I spent three weeks at the German farm where she cared for evacuated children. She knew me from living in America for a time, and agreed to help me. We were betrayed by her cousin though.” He locked gazes with her. “Now the Gestapo’s looking for her. She has to stay with me. I want to get her to back to America.”
The leader shook his head. “She cannot stay in the camp.”
Paul tensed, ready to argue. Heidi gripped his hand with a slight tug. He followed her gaze over the assembly. Dozens of men surrounded them, most clad only in shorts. Pitched among the trees were tents, fashioned from parachutes. Two rough tables flanked a field kitchen. This was no place for a lone woman.
“She can’t go back to Germany.”
“No.” The leader inspected her, and she stood taller, her chin coming up. “We will see if she can live with a nearby family. They helped establish this camp, and run a safe house. Their young daughters serve as couriers. They should be agreeable.”
Paul still wanted to argue. If they were separated, how would he know how she fared? How would he find her when the camp was liberated? He watched her leave with a French guide. Father in heaven, she’s in Your hands.
The camp was boring. Paul and his new friends played cards, sat in the sun, talked. Good thing it was summer, or the parachute tents would be unbearable.
Heidi visited several times, assisting the people who provided the camp with food. Their time together was always short, but she seemed to thrive away from the privation in the forest camp.
“I’m learning French,” she told him after the first week. Her hands clenched as she studied the leaves overhead. “Hier, nous avons lavé les vêtements. Demain, nous allons faire du pain.” Lowering her eyes, she grinned at him.
“That’s great. I don’t know what you said, but that sounded great.” He tried not to laugh. She was so pleased with her newfound talent.
A week later, “I’m back in business as a seamstress. I think I’ve mended or re-hemmed something for everyone in the village.” She displayed a well-poked finger. “A thimble would be so helpful. I never worked with farmer’s overalls before.”
It was her report in the second week of August that electrified him. “The British are organizing a rescue force to bring everyone back to Allied lines. Just a couple more days, Paul.”
Heedless of who might be watching, he pulled her close. She was a perfect fit in his arms.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Ridgewell Air Base, England
Monday, August 21, 1944
Deep in conversation in the chapel, Chaplain Kyle Hogan glanced back at the sound of the door opening. After a quick look, he returned to the airman he was counseling. His intended words cut off as he spun around in a delayed double take.
“Paul? Paul Braedel? Oh, man, where have you been?”
Paul chuckled softly, leaning against the wall. “I just got back from my summer vacation.”
Kyle stood rooted to the spot as he gaped at Paul. Finally, he turned to the young man beside him and declared, “This whippersnapper was shot down last spring.” He shook his head as he looked back to Paul. “The prodigal navigator finally sees fit to return to us.”
Paul laughed outright as he pushed off from the wall and met Kyle halfway. Kyle
’s hard hug drove the air out of Paul’s lungs before Kyle pushed him back and looked him over. “Your name never appeared on any lists. Neither did the bombardier’s. I didn’t know what to think. Whether the nose took a hit and you two were killed, or you got out and were killed on the ground, or were wandering around Germany.”
Paul’s eyes lit up as the impact of Kyle’s words hit him. “Wait a minute! The rest of the crew is on lists? What lists? The PW lists? Tony? Floyd? They’re alive? Where are they?”
“They’re alive and in Luft Stalag 3. Most of the gunners are prisoners as well. One was killed and one may be missing, besides the bombardier. But what happened with you?”
Paul sobered as he glanced at the young airman listening wide-eyed beside Kyle. “Roger didn’t make it. A shot came through the nose and caught him in the face.” He was silent for a moment as he relived the chaotic last moments aboard Judgment Day. “I eluded capture. Come to tomorrow’s E&E lecture. I’m told to plan on being the featured speaker.”
“How many missions had you flown, sir?” The young kid didn’t look old enough to be out of school.
“Not that many. What was it, eighteen? Nineteen? I’ll have to think about it. Maybe it was twenty. I was two thirds of the way through my tour. That was a lifetime ago.” Paul shoved his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders. He nodded toward the door. “It looks like the same place, but it feels all different. Going back to work has no appeal. Guess I’ve been loafing for too long.”
Kyle slapped the young man on the back. “Dick here doesn’t have any missions under his belt yet, so you’re way ahead of him. And you can bet we’ll come to hear your talk.”
As soon as the airman departed, Kyle and Paul adjourned to the office. Kyle sat at his desk. “Talk to me.”
Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1) Page 32