by Erika Robuck
* * *
—
Her reception squad is less than ideal.
Joining her and Eugène in the dark are a stout woman with apple-round cheeks, a bald man with slanted eyes and a large nose, and an old man slowly bringing up the rear. When she sees the deep grooves in his gaunt, smiling face and the twinkle in his pale eyes, she returns the smile of the man from the train. He removes his black beret and bows to her.
Eugène introduces her as Diane, but the peasants don’t offer their names.
The three sad, poor little musketeers, she thinks.
She tries to imagine them wiring bridges with explosives, and defending power plants with guns, but she can’t. She hopes there are younger, more able-bodied resistors in hiding who didn’t want to risk themselves for a drop they didn’t believe would happen. Still, this team is better than nothing.
The night is crisp and clear, dazzling with stars and celestial light. In another life, Virginia would have run barefoot through the dewy grass, but tonight she’s terrified. This is her first drop attempt, and she’s heard horror stories of planes shot down and Nazis waiting in ambush. Every cracking stick makes her sweat, and the shadows seem to be alive.
Taking a bracing breath and plunging ahead, she leads them to the hedge bordering the field, where the plane is scheduled to drop its loot. If the plane arrives, that is. She can’t bear to think of the loss of credibility she’ll suffer if she doesn’t deliver.
The bald one starts to light a cigarette, but she shakes a finger at him. They can’t draw attention to themselves. He grumbles, puts it away, and folds his arms across his chest, rocking back and forth to keep his blood moving. The woman takes out a flask and passes it around, improving the collective mood considerably. The sweet scent of cognac reaches Virginia’s nostrils and burns off after a long draw that lights a fire in her. The old man thanks the woman, then turns to Virginia.
“How will the plane find us?” he whispers. There’s no malice or disbelief in his voice, only genuine curiosity.
“The Lysander is a scrappy little flier,” she says, leaning close to him. “They fly low and slow, using the reflection of the moon on rivers to navigate to drop zones. When we hear the drone of its engine, we’ll form a diamond and hold our flashlights to the sky. The pilot will drop the container in the center of our formation, and then off he’ll go into the night.”
“Fantastique,” he says.
Seeing the outline of the old man’s beret against the sky brings a sudden smile to her face, reminding her of her best recruit from her Lyon mission.
As a member of the Sûreté, or French National Police, her recruit was quite a coup—a man bold, courageous, and reckless enough to work as a double agent for the Allies. From inside the police station, he’d helped her with intelligence, mock interrogations, and prison breaks. After he was forced to escape France, Virginia sheltered him in a safe house in Madrid—where she was stationed for her second mission—and helped arrange his passage to London for official SOE training. Since his return to London, the few times she and her recruit had been able to meet on weekends in pubs, Louis—as he was now code-named—would wear a beret, which he’d make a show of removing and holding to his heart when he’d see her. Louis is due to be dropped back in the field any day now—maybe even tonight—and she can’t wait to see his bright, young face.
“How long does it take them to get here?” says Eugène, scowling. They convened at eleven, and it’s now almost twelve thirty.
“Three to five hours,” she says. “Depending upon wind conditions and avoidance of antiaircraft units.”
“Humph,” Eugène says.
They continue to wait, huddling together for warmth, watching the surrounding areas for movement. Listening. One o’clock comes and goes. The bald one unrolls his cigarette and chews the tobacco inside, spitting at intervals. The cognac has been drunk. The stout woman dozes. Two o’clock arrives.
“I’m out,” says Eugène.
As Virginia is about to protest, she hears a droning sound.
Elated yet unable to believe their ears, they stand and look to the sky. In the moonlight, as the droning gets louder, she can see the tracks of tears on the faces of her drop team. Eugène turns his gaze on her, and it’s filled with gratitude. She smiles and bows her head to him.
I told you, she thinks. You are not forgotten.
She directs the group to assume their positions, and they spring to action. In spite of the low temperature, as soon as their flashlights shine toward the sky, she’s soaked through with sweat. The noise, the signals—they can wake sleeping beasts.
She soon makes out the form of the Lysander as it flies low over the countryside. Once it draws near, she flashes her light four times. After a few moments, she sees the flicker of the pilot’s light in the cockpit, followed by the dark form that drops from the plane, parachute slowing its descent. They switch off their flashlights and converge upon the container, staying back until it lands with a slam, right on target.
Over the next hour, they pry open the cylinder and work to unload and hide three hundred pounds of supplies in the hay cart. There are biscuit tins, canned fruit, Spam, aspirin, guns, ammo, and the promised bridge explosive kits with French-language instruction books. Virginia sees how her helpers’ demeanor has changed, how energized they are, how full of purpose. They seem younger and stronger than they were when the night began.
“Diane,” whispers the old man. “This is for you.”
He tosses her a book with her name written on it.
Crossword puzzles, in French.
She smiles, tucks it in her pocket, and removes the last item—a black military canteen, brutally cold to the touch. She hands it to Eugène, who takes it like it’s the Holy Grail. The others drag the parachute and empty container to a hole Virginia dug earlier that day. They cover it and disguise the fresh dirt with leaves and small rocks before returning to the cart. The sound of a breaking twig by the hedge causes them to crouch low. A scan of the area reveals nothing. They soon rise, and she grabs one of the poles of the cart.
“We’ll take it from here,” her old friend whispers, waving her off.
“Let me help.”
“An old woman like you should rest,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.
“All right, but be careful,” she says.
Before they go, Eugène clears his throat. He stares into the canteen, from which the frosty steam of dry ice pours, and whispers like one enchanted.
“Mes amies. Come to my house—at midnight—and you will have your reward.”
Chapter 5
The rumbling makes her teacup tremble on the table. She pushes back from her chair, climbs the ladder to the loft, and looks out the window toward the horizon, where a line of SS panzers crawls along the high road. Though she knows her cottage is well hidden, she can’t shake the dread.
Keyed up from the overnight drop, and with only an hour before her morning farm chores, Virginia set up her radio to transmit the drop’s success to HQ and ask if she should make another before moving on. They weren’t receiving a clear signal, and she’d adjusted the antenna to no avail. The weather was fair, so the next likely reason was interference by Nazi RDFs: radio direction finders. Virginia broke down the wireless and stored it as quickly as possible. She won’t bring extra danger to the people risking so much to board her.
Try as she might to suppress it, Virginia feels a surge of affection for her drop team. Eugène and the three musketeers are the nameless and faceless in this war, the anonymous armies of common folks doing the work of secret agents. When they have success, the total transformation it brings can’t be described in words. Virginia doesn’t know how Eugène knows them or why they agreed to such a dangerous activity, but it doesn’t matter. Even if only for a night, their small success is balm, easing her guilt. But her presence puts them in danger, and
she’s needed in other places. She expects a courier from Aramis any day now, updating her on his progress securing safe houses. She’ll make one last transmission, then—if HQ approves it—she’ll move on to her next stop.
There are five tanks and three lorries headed east. She’ll report the numbers to HQ in her next transmission, along with how many troops are left in Crozant and the morale of both the Nazis and the French. With rumors of invasion, perhaps the Nazis are corralling troops to guard the larger cities. Could they be heading to Lyon?
Lyon. It’s only a train ride away.
She can hear the words in her ear as if the devil on her shoulder whispers them.
You’re disguised, it says. You can check and see if any are left from your network.
Though she tries to ignore the temptation, the thoughts continue.
Paris is closer. You can check in with old contacts. And while you’re there, you can hunt the betrayer.
No. Winning the war is more important than winning a personal battle. For now.
She clutches the windowsill, taking deep breaths until the anger passes and the convoy is out of view. Once she’s composed, she makes her way to the farm.
Madame Lopinat is in the yard when Virginia arrives, directing an unusually bright version of her son to fetch an aged wheel of cheese from the shed. When Eugène spots Virginia, he lifts his hat.
“Bonjour!”
Madame looks from him to Virginia with suspicion.
Virginia nods and follows them to the kitchen, where Eugène whistles all the way.
“What’s this?” says Madame. “What are you two up to?”
“You’ll know soon enough,” Eugène says, kissing his mother and leaving them.
The pungent smell of cheese fills the room.
“Fourme d’Ambert,” says Madame. “Eugène said to take it out for a feast. I won’t argue with that, though I’ve no idea where the rest of this feast will come from.”
An idea occurs to Virginia.
“Is this all the cheese you have?” she asks.
“No. There’s a little more.”
“May I sell it?”
“To whom? Every self-respecting farmer in France knows how to make cheese.”
“Nazi soldiers.”
“I don’t want the boches’ filthy money.”
“No, but if I sell it to them, they have things of value I can take from them.”
“Like what?”
“Secrets.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that help end wars.”
Madame’s milky stare bores into Virginia. After a few moments she seems to make up her mind about something.
“You’re free to sell it,” she says. “If you can make Eugène whistle, you must be able to make miracles happen.”
Before Virginia can thank Madame, a noise draws Virginia’s attention to the road. What she sees out the window fills her with rage.
“Bonjour!” calls Aramis from a bicycle.
Virginia storms out of the house toward him, grabbing his handlebars when he stops.
“You fool,” she says. “We shouldn’t be seen together. You’re putting us all in danger.”
His smile dissolves.
“You were supposed to find a courier as a go-between,” she says.
“I was busy finding safe houses—of which I’ve managed to add four.”
“At least come around back.”
An icy rain starts. Once they’re tucked behind the house, Aramis speaks.
“I know you have quite the reputation around headquarters,” he says, “but superwoman or not, I’m tired of your abuse. Ever since our landing, you’ve been unnecessarily cold, critical, and harsh.”
“You’ve no idea the restraint I’ve used with you. You should be thanking me.”
“Well, I won’t be intimidated by you any longer. I’ll do things the way I see fit.”
“You do whatever you like, but don’t do it anywhere near me. Ever again. Now, tell me the safe-house addresses and their code phrases and get the hell out of here. You’re risking the lives of good people.”
He grumbles, fumbling through his pockets before producing a torn shred of paper. He thrusts it at her. She feels as if an explosion goes off in her head.
“You wrote it down?” she says.
“You expect me to memorize all that?”
Virginia’s head aches as she grits out, “You never write anything down unless you’re able to burn it. And you never, ever carry it on you. Now go. You’re a danger.”
“I need to rest. And eat. The trip exhausted me. My knee is still—”
“Now.” Virginia can hardly control the rage bubbling up inside her. “Or my next message will include notice of your elimination.”
He jerks backward as if he’s been slapped. Mumbling under his breath, he climbs back on his bicycle.
Her heart doesn’t stop pounding until he’s out of sight. She decides she’ll cut him off when she moves on by not disclosing her next location. He’ll need to find another pianist.
* * *
—
Not one, but two fat steaks to divide among the six of them. Rich, tangy, decadent fourme d’Ambert. Three bottles of Cabernet Franc that had been hidden and saved for a special occasion. She planned on only drinking one serving, but the glass seems to refill itself, and it brings down her blood pressure.
She learns the three musketeers are on the parish council. The stout woman is married to the bald man. Their son was one of the Maquis killed south of the region. The old man is her father, a widower. Even though they’ve only been in one another’s acquaintance for a short time, Virginia has a fierce longing to protect them and restore their world to right order.
“My stomach might regret this,” the old man says. “But it’s worth it.”
“Oui,” says Eugène.
“Will you be with us long?” asks the woman.
“She means,” says her husband, “can we expect to eat like this on a regular basis?”
The woman giggles and pushes him.
“Probably not,” Virginia says. “I hope we can arrange another drop. But if not, you’re well stocked and you have your marching orders.”
“Thanks to you,” says the old man.
“The others wanted us to pass along their thanks,” says Eugène. “They regret they are not able to meet you but hope to thank you in person after the liberation.”
Virginia bows her head to him and takes a drink, reveling in the blissful feeling of relaxation that follows. She doesn’t tell Eugène that odds are she’ll be dead long before then.
Madame Lopinat dozes in her chair, a smile on her lips, hands crossed over her stomach. Much to the amusement of the group, she starts to snore. The woman touches her arm.
“Go to bed,” she says. “We’ll clean up.”
“Thank you,” Madame says, retiring to her room.
Once she’s gone, the old man turns to Virginia.
“May I ask,” he says, “what has brought you here, doing what you do?”
“All the way from America,” says the woman.
The reminder of Virginia’s accent sobers her. She starts stacking the dishes around her.
“I’m sorry,” says the woman. “I can see I upset you. Please, I have only admiration.”
“To know the world cares,” her husband says. “You can’t know what that does for us.”
“We’ve lost so much,” says Eugène. “Fathers, brothers.”
“Sons,” says the bald man, his voice cracking.
“I speak for all of us,” says the old man, “when I say helping you gave us a reason to hope again. And we’ll do it as many times as you need us.”
Those from her Lyon network said the same thing. An old couple had opened
their doors to the hunted, faked heart attacks in busy places while sliding stealthy fingers into the pockets of collaborators, pilfering ration cards and money for the cause. There has been no word on Monsieur, but Madame is at Ravensbrück, along with a brothel madam who—in addition to providing safe houses, food, and intelligence gathering from her girls’ Nazi clients—had become a dear friend.
A wave of distress washes over Virginia, and she looks down at the table, trying not to break.
“Go,” the woman says. “We’ll take care of this.”
Virginia doesn’t argue. The room has become claustrophobic. As the woman begins to clear the dishes, and Virginia starts to leave, Eugène stops her.
“If I had any doubts about resistance,” he says, “they’re gone.”
“Worth dying for,” says the woman.
“It’s true,” says the old man.
“Absolutely,” says the bald one.
Their words are like cold water thrown over her.
“Do you mean it?” Virginia says. “Because as you all know, that’s a very real outcome.”
All of her people in Lyon had said the same thing—the cause was worth dying for. She has said it countless times herself. But do they really mean it? Does she?
“Take your imagination to the worst place it can go,” she says. “The Nazis go further. When you go home tonight, I want you to think of the worst punishments you’ve heard for resistors. Imagine they’re inflicted on you. After that, if you still think this is worth dying for, maybe I’ll see you for another drop.”
Chapter 6
Germans do not respect personal space. Virginia doesn’t know if it’s an intimidation technique or a cultural difference from Americans, but each soldier she encounters at the market stands close enough for her to smell the musky, virile cologne they wear, even over the cheese she peddles. It sickens her that, while French men and women are rationing soap and starving in their own country, these Nazis are clean and well fed. They plunder French goods like pirates and treat their occupation like a holiday.