9781940740065

by Paul B. Kohler

  “We’ll stop at a local village,” Emmett said gruffly. “I drove past it on the way in. Nobody will question me. After all, I’m from this time. I can head to town, get some supplies. You both can get some rest.”

  Peter tightened his grip around Julie. How did Emmett know about them? But it seemed that more and more people were coming out of the woodwork, declaring they knew exactly what he and Julie were up to. He shuddered.

  Julie spoke, apparently noting that Peter was too involved in his own revolving thoughts to respond. “That sounds wonderful, Emmett. Thank you for your help today. You saved our lives.”

  She shrugged toward Peter. He knew they were both at a loss for what to do, and they were also mentally and physically exhausted. They needed to regroup, to heal.

  The Jeep rushed down the country road. Dust revolved all around them. Emmett suddenly took the Jeep in a crisp turn, skirting it among a cluster of trees. In the distance, they could see a small town. “Best if we walk from here,” Emmett said with authority. “We don’t want any questions asked about this Jeep.”

  He popped out from the front seat and rounded back, then opened the trunk and removed a few bags. Peter walked steadily away from the car with Julie, his muscles and bones aching. Peter’s head was throbbing. He held Julie’s hand as they walked, feeling so grateful. He’d thought he’d never feel the sun on his face again; he’d thought he’d never feel her fingers clasped in his. He was so grateful for this moment of human interaction, he felt he could cry.

  The town was one of the smallest Peter had ever seen. All the buildings were uniquely French, with beautiful facades and decorative window shutters. A bakery stood on the left-hand side of the street, a single café on the right side. He watched Emmett as he gestured toward them, asking them to follow him up some steps to the right of the bakery. If he hadn’t known where to look, Peter was sure he wouldn’t have seen them.

  Haggard, they walked up the steps, smelling the bread baking just beyond the wall. Peter’s mouth was watering. He realized that they hadn’t eaten in days. He clutched Julie’s hand in his and felt her shaking. They were so close to survival.

  Emmett opened the door and revealed a very small flat. A double bed was pushed toward the wall, and sweet, cool country air whipped in from the field through an open window. In Peter’s eyes, this was paradise.

  “I’m going to head downstairs, grab some food, fill a bucket of water,” Emmett said, nodding to them.

  Peter couldn’t comprehend how this man had found them, or why he was helping him. But there was so much, in this lost timeline, that he couldn’t readily understand. “Thank you, Emmett,” he murmured. He turned to see Julie fall delicately onto the small bed, looking out the window at the green fields as she stretched out and relaxed. Her profile was so beautiful in the light. “See you soon,” he said to Emmett, distracted.

  Emmett was already gone, hurrying down the steps on his way to save their lives once again. Peter walked toward this beautiful woman—who held her hurt arm with her other hand—and draped his arm around her slim waist. He kissed her cheek, tasting the dirt, the salt from her tears. “Everything’s going to be all right now,” he told her, knowing full well that his words were empty—that they were still trapped in an empty age, in a different timeline.

  CHAPTER 11

  Peter and Julie lay together on the sagging bed in the small room above the bakery, smelling the delicious smells and falling into a dreamlike state. Peter touched Julie’s cheek, loving the way she lay there, half-asleep and almost smiling. Even after all they’d been through together, there was still such passion, such heart behind her face. The Nazis couldn’t rip that away from her.

  After an undeterminable amount of time, they heard Emmett clamber up the steps. He knocked on the door first—a polite murderer, Peter thought—before entering. Peter rose and walked toward him, stumbling a little, to help him with the groceries.

  A baguette. Delicious éclairs, filled with chocolate and crème. Fruits and vegetables. “There was a market down the road, and I couldn’t resist,” Emmett said, smiling. “Fresh cheese, as well. I hope you like Brie.”

  Peter’s stomach rolled over. He ripped at the bread and placed a great slather of the soft cheese on top, then brought it to Julie. Julie took a bite and her eyes rolled back in her head. “Oh, god,” she murmured.

  Peter and Julie ate ravenously as Emmett got to work making a salad and pouring wine. He handed them each a glass, and Peter sipped at it, allowing the wine to course over his tongue. He could still feel the pain radiating through his body from the torture, from lying on that cot in the cell staring at the barren ceiling. But he felt himself forgetting; he felt his body relaxing. He swallowed the bread; he drank the wine.

  Emmett was whistling as he chopped the vegetables. He didn’t seem to have a real care in the world. Peter considered him, bleary-eyed by the window. He wanted to ask Emmett so many things. But he also felt he couldn’t readily trust this man, even as Emmett nourished them, even as he rescued them from that dreary Nazi prison.

  “Oh. Peter. I know of a doctor in this town. I wondered if you might consider going with me tomorrow to track him down and bring him here to look at Julie,” Emmett said, gesturing toward Julie, whose arm did look worse for wear, hanging down a little lopsided against her hip.

  Julie’s eyes seemed a bit empty; she was falling in and out of consciousness, Peter understood. The mix of pain and wine was forcing her eyes closed.

  “Sounds good,” Peter murmured. He took the glass from her fingers and helped her lie back, positioning the bad arm across her stomach. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. He whispered a few words in her ear: “I’m going to keep you safe.” But he didn’t allow Emmett to hear them.

  Peter walked toward Emmett and leaned against the counter, setting his empty glass next to the wine bottle.

  “Can I tempt you with another?” Emmett asked Peter.

  Peter tipped his head, uncertain of what to say. “Yes, Emmett. Please do.” He listened to the glug-glug-glug as the man filled his glass. They clinked their glasses together, sending a strange dissonance through the apartment.

  “Why are you here?” Peter finally said. The wind had picked up outside, making him feel strange, like he was living in one of his German-occupied dreams.

  Emmett paused, considering. He swirled his wine around in his glass. He cleared his throat. “I’m here to help you on your journey. My mission is to make sure your mission is successful.” His left eyebrow rose high on his forehead. “And that’s really all the information I can tell you at this time.”

  “So you’ve been following us this whole time?”

  Emmett nodded. “I did lose you for a moment, of course. When the Nazis took you. I didn’t expect that at all. Expert work stealing that car though.” He tapped his nose, giving Peter a knowing look. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Peter felt oddly proud. He shifted his weight from left to right, looking down. “Well. It might have been part of the reason we were captured,” he murmured, shrugging. He thought about it, remembering that Manstein had known about their foray through time. How had he known? And how much did Emmett know?

  He began to ask him, then. But Emmett had already turned back toward the window. He shook his head. “You’d better get some rest, Peter. We’ll be leaving in two days’ time, to stay on schedule. I’ve brought your bags from the last town. I picked them up from that boarding house you were staying at.”

  Peter felt his heart sink. He felt like he was on a Ferris wheel, unable to get off. He would have to ride this disastrous, chaotic ride until it spit him to the ground. He turned back toward the bed and curled up onto it, molding himself around Julie. He felt his eyes close serenely; he fell asleep almost instantly.

  The next morning, Peter felt a light touch on his mouth. His eyes opened to the brightness of the window. Beside him, Julie was awake. She was touching his mouth with her pinky finger, gazing at his fac
e. Peter blinked, trying to figure out his surroundings. What a beautiful feeling, he thought. He leaned toward her and caught her lips with his. Their intimate embrace was a moment of solace before he remembered why they were there, what they were doing.

  Peter pulled himself from the bed and shuffled his hands over his face, feeling the dirt and grime from the cavernous Nazi prison. He noted that Emmett had brought them a bucket of water and some soap. He’d set it by the windowsill. Peter picked up a washrag and started dipping it into the water, scraping at his dead skin, the caked blood on his back. Julie brought herself forward on the bed. Without speaking, she grabbed the rag and guided it toward the places Peter couldn’t reach on his own. She scraped the dried blood away lovingly, without hurting him. Peter closed his eyes, feeling the tenderness of her touch. He longed for it to go on forever.

  But it couldn’t.

  Emmett burst into the room. He was carrying a fresh baguette, and his face was pinched, serious. “Good morning,” he said quietly. He placed the bread on the counter and leaned against the wall.

  Julie removed the rag from Peter’s back and rinsed it in the pail. Peter watched as the blood formed small trails in the water. “Good morning, Emmett,” Julie said. Her voice was serene, cool. It held no trace of the screeching and screaming she had done during the past few days, back in the prison. “Is something wrong?”

  Emmett scratched his chin. “Maybe. I’ve noticed more activity with the Vichy in both this town and the next one down the road.”

  “Are they looking for us?” Peter asked.

  “It seems they’re not,” Emmett said. He hesitated. “Which allows us to find the doctor today, Peter. To look at Julie’s arm.”

  Peter nodded. “But you’re saying this isn’t a good thing? What could this mean?” Peter asked Emmett, unsure. His brain was still muddled; he needed seventy more years of sleep. He wanted to wake up in the year 2013.

  “That depends,” Emmett said. He ripped off a piece of bread and started chewing it slowly. His eyes looked dead. “It could mean that the Vichy are preparing to ship out. Most of them, this time. A great battle, perhaps.”

  Peter stood. “But there isn’t supposed to be a battle here. Not yet.”

  Emmett bit off another piece of bread, shaking his head. “No certainty in war,” he murmured.

  Peter wanted to grab him, to shake him. There was certainty. There was meant to be certainty. He was from the future; he should know. He took a deep breath and rose, then grabbed a clean shirt from the bag that Emmett had thoughtfully recovered from their last lodging. As he did so, his leather-clad journal dropped to the floor. He picked it up and briefly flipped through the blank pages, settling in on his last entry. After a moment of scanning through his written narration of their trip, he closed the book and tucked it under his pillow, vowing to record some of his thoughts, his horrific memories of the last few days.

  “We should move quickly, then,” he said. “If we’re going to get to Oradour-sur-Glane by tomorrow.”

  Emmett nodded his head curtly. “It’s a ten minute walk to the doctor. You ready?”

  Peter nodded. He followed Emmett out the door, stopping for a moment to peer back at Julie. She was still holding on to her bad arm, wincing a bit. She looked at him meekly, mouthing the words, “Go. Be careful.” She didn’t trust Emmett, he knew. But Emmett was all they had.

  Peter strode outside in his fresh clothes, his back and face completely cleansed. He felt renewed. He walked quickly alongside Emmett, noting that many of the soldiers who had been there only the day before had abandoned their posts for other mandates. In the field beside the town, he could see Vichy lining up, conducting drills. His heart quickened at the severity of the war—a war that hadn’t been at all tactile or real to him in 2013.

  Emmett hardly spoke as they walked. He pointed out small things in the town, saying that his research had shown this was a sleepy place, one that had suffered from the introduction of the Nazi party. A pretty fountain was in the center of the village, turned off. A beautiful Greek statue stood in the center: a naked woman leaning forward, pouring her pail into the basin. But no water flowed. A small chip in her cheek gleamed in the light, showing that she held less vitality and youth than she had in previous decades.

  The doctor lived in a cottage outside of the city. A big old cow stood outside. It mooed at Emmett and Peter as they approached. Its udders were inflamed and drooping toward the ground. Peter reached out to the cow and stroked its head.

  Emmett rapped on the weather-beaten door, and Peter could hear creaking inside the old house. The door opened slowly, revealing the small, timid head of the oldest man Peter had ever seen. The old man lifted his finger toward the two of them. “Qu’est-ce que vous voudrez?” he asked them. What do you want? Behind him stood a young woman. His daughter, certainly. She whispered to her father not to trust anyone, that anyone could be Vichy, could be Nazi.

  But her father turned back around. Emmett explained to the man in rough French that they required a doctor immediately for the assistance of their friend who’d fallen on her arm. The doctor nodded. He turned back around, grabbed his coat and slipped it on. He blinked at the two men before him as if to say, “Lead me.” His daughter grasped the door and watched them go, a worried look on her face.

  The men walked slowly on either side of the old French doctor. When the doctor saw the Vichy practicing in the field, he began muttering under his breath. Neither Emmett or Peter understood his words, and the doctor apparently didn’t intend them to. His eyes darted back and forth with certain anger. Peter wondered if the doctor had been involved in the first World War in any way, if he’d grown an intense hatred for war.

  They reached the bakery. Peter helped the old man up the steps, saying, “Pardon,” one of the few French words he knew—one that Julie jokingly said didn’t really count because it was, technically, also an English word.

  Emmett opened the door behind Peter as he made his final, backwards step. He guided the old man into the room. The old man placed his doctor’s bag on the counter, and Peter remembered the sheer brilliance of modern medicine. His stomach clenched. What was this man going to do to Julie?

  The man reached Julie’s bed. She looked up at him and gave him that beautiful smile. “Bonjour, monsieur,” she whispered. Pain glimmered in each of her words.

  The doctor knelt before her and began feeling her arm, touching it with soft fingers. He turned his face up toward Julie and said, “Désarticulé.” And then, all at once, he manipulated her arm with a strength Peter would have sworn he didn’t have and popped her shoulder back into place.

  Julie screamed for a moment and then looked toward Peter in shock. It was over. She moved her arm gently back and forth, kneading at her hand. “He said it was just dislocated,” she whispered. And sure enough, the arm now matched its partner. It was still a bit bruised, but it seemed to be fully operational.

  Julie turned back toward the doctor, who was bustling toward the door. “Monsieur. Merci beaucoup,” she said. “Du fond de mon coeur.” From the bottom of her heart.

  The doctor nodded curtly. He had done his business, and he was ready to head back home. His eyes glazed as he looked at the American men. Then he flung open the door and walked down the steps, his body creaking as he went.

  Julie stood. Her eyes were flashing. She picked up the bucket, still filled with bloody water . She flung the water out the window in a wave of red, and Peter heard it splash against the ground. “Let’s get back on track, shall we, boys?” she asked.

  Peter took it as a challenge.

  CHAPTER 12

  The next morning, Emmett, Peter, and Julie rose early. They sat in the kitchen and pored over the map, noting they were still two hours away from Oradour-sur-Glane, their destination. Peter watched Julie’s slim finger trace the route as she thought, biting her lip.

  “Well. We absolutely cannot take the Nazi Jeep,” she said, refuting Peter’s initial suggestion. “They know
we’ve taken it. It’s not safe.”

  Emmett nodded. “You know, there’s French resistance all through this part of the country. If we explain to them that we must get to Oradour-sur-Glane—for their benefit, only—then I’m certain they’ll help us.”

  “How will we convince them?” Peter asked.

  Julie thought for a moment, tapping her finger against her chin. “That doctor …” Her eyes moved from Peter to Emmett. “Surely he isn’t involved in the war efforts.”

  Peter and Emmett thought of the woman who’d been standing behind the doctor—his daughter. She’d said something about not trusting anyone. She was clearly on the side of the resistance, and even if she wasn’t, she might be their only hope. He began folding the map, preparing for a future he couldn’t predict.

  They donned their traveling clothes, picked up their suitcases, and closed the apartment door tightly behind them, then began their trek back to the doctor’s cottage. Peter said goodbye to this version of paradise, the only place in which he’d felt safe since their arrival in France.

  The Vichy were still in the field, marching back and forth. Their boots seemed to create an earthquake beneath their feet a sensation that was truly ominous. Julie reached toward Peter and held his hand as they walked through the village, feeling the emptiness of the place as it echoed around them. The fountain seemed even more dead than it had the day before.

  The doctor’s shack appeared in front of them once more. The cow mooed at them, just the same as before. Before Peter had a chance to tap on the door, the door whooshed open, revealing the doctor’s daughter. She held a knife in her hand, and her eyes were dark. “Pas au’jour’dui,” she said. Her lips were large, feminine. She was such a strange convergence of fierceness and soft beauty.