9781940740065

by Paul B. Kohler

  Julie walked toward her, unafraid. She didn’t smile, choosing instead to speak with gentle authority. “Mademoiselle,” she began. “Je suis d’un mission secrete des americains. J’ai eu un petit accident, et ton pere a assisté beaucoup. C’est tres gentille.”

  Peter tried to follow her words. She’d said she was on a secret American mission, that the doctor had helped her a great deal after her accident. Peter tried to make his face look calm and nonthreatening as they stood in the doorway.

  “Alors. Maintenainent, nous sommes coincés ici. Nouse avons besoin d’aller a Oradour-sur-Glane. C’est tres important.” Julie’s eyes pleaded with the young woman who stood scowling at her.

  Finally, the young woman lowered her knife. She spoke gently toward Julie. “Vous n’etes pas les espions, oui?”

  “Non, non,” Julie said, shaking her head. She wasn’t a spy.

  The young girl bit her lip, clearly having some sort of inner struggle. She gestured for them to follow her into the cottage. Inside, the doctor was sitting in a grand chair. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was slightly open. He was sleeping.

  The house smelled like baking bread, like aging wood. Peter gazed around at this intimate portrayal of 1940s France, of the way the war had ripped into simple people like this and changed the very way they lived their lives.

  The woman felt beneath a cupboard and brought out a key that she took to Julie, placing it in her outstretched palm. “Pour la voiture,” she said. “Si vous plait. Allez.” She gestured for them to leave, all at once. Her eyes had begun to grow dark and frightened once more.

  The doctor in the corner let out a long, strong snore. “Maintenant,” his daughter said again. Now.

  The three Americans hurried out of the cottage into the clean, fresh air. Julie held the key in her hand, and they wound around to the back of the cottage, where they found a sad-looking yellow car. They bounded into it, with Peter in the driver’s seat. Emmett sat next to him, and Julie sat in back.

  “God, Julie. That was perfect. Just amazing,” Peter said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know what you were saying half the time.”

  Julie glowed in the back seat, but got down to business immediately. “We need to get going. Allez-Allez!” She hit the back of his seat hard, forcing him to place his foot on the gas pedal. The car made a creaking sound as he turned the engine over, spinning the wheels forward. Peter breathed a sigh of relief as they picked up speed. He wasn’t sure if they’d gone through all that for nothing.

  The French countryside began to glide past them at an alarming rate. Emmett pointed out a castle on their right hand side, one that had stood the test of time, of war. Peter gazed at it, knowing they were getting closer and closer to a terrifying future. Everything was about to change.

  Peter’s heart skipped a beat when he turned the corner, giving them a better view of the surrounding countryside. At the foot of the castle, tents stretched throughout the field. Nazi soldiers stood in ranks, practicing drills, pumping their knees toward the sky. Peter, Emmett, and Julie watched them in silence for a moment before Julie spoke.

  “You know, I really think things have escalated much more quickly than Applegate suggested.”

  Peter nodded. “He said there wouldn’t be much activity for many more months, that our trip up to Oradour-sur-Glane would be generally uneventful.” He swallowed. “Clearly he was mistaken.”

  “Or that’s what happened in the old timeline,” Julie said, still gazing out over the field. The gray uniforms seemed so foreboding in the midst of all the green grass. They had marched until the grass—and all of Europe—had died beneath their feet. “I don’t think we can take anything like that into account anymore. Historically significant dates are no longer dates at all. Things have begun to change.”

  Peter knew she was right.

  They continued north until the Nazi army was out of sight, all of them still pondering the weight of what they finally understood. They were in a gray area of history. They didn’t know what was going to happen when they arrived at their destination—or even if the now-future events would allow them to complete their mission.

  They kept their eyes on the horizon, not at all certain it would arrive.

  CHAPTER 13

  They reached Oradour-sur-Glane just before nightfall. The beautiful French town seemed like a ghost to Peter. Soft light glowed from the windows; children were playing in the streets. Old men and women sat out at cafés, their bodies curved over their wine glasses and cheese plates. The whole place seemed like a memory, stripped from an idealistic old movie.

  As the three of them drove down the street, it didn’t seem to Peter that the war had affected these people at all. He yearned to save that, in a way. He yearned to hold this moment, with Julie—the only living descendant of this paradise—in the back seat, close to his heart forever.

  They parked the car outside of a café, knowing it was too late in the evening to find the man who had written the memos. They could do all of that tomorrow, they agreed. But there was no time limit. They decided to enjoy one last night all together, to process the last few days. They walked toward a café and sat outside in the deepening sunset. A waiter came toward them and delivered three glasses of wine, some baguettes, a cheese plate.

  Peter curled his arm around Julie’s chair and spoke to her as Emmett busied himself with his food. “So. This is what we’ve been working for the entire time. Do you think it looks anything like the model Applegate had back in San Francisco?”

  Julie laughed, tossing her head back. She was so pure, here. She looked just as beautiful as everyone else. “Not even close,” she said, shaking her head.

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Just fine. He popped it right into place.”

  “Incredible.”

  “Who needs modern medicine?” she shrugged, smiling.

  Peter and Julie had been gazing into each other’s eyes for just a few moments before Peter’s stomach lurched at a strange sound. A great blast from a horn—ferocious strength behind it. All three of them turned their attention toward the center of the square, where a young soldier was stationed on the cobblestones. Peter grabbed Julie’s hand, afraid. The man brought the horn back to his mouth and blasted once more. All around them, people had scattered. They stood up from their chairs and scurried inside. All the young men stayed out on the street, reaching for their pistols.

  Emmett leaned across the table, erupting from his chair. “You must hide!” he insisted.

  Peter and Julie jolted from their chairs. In the distance, all the way down the country road, they could see the Nazis. Five Jeeps were headed straight for them, guns positioned toward the historic town. Peter reached down to gather the bags. “He’s right,” he told Julie. “We have to finish the mission. We can’t get in the middle of whatever this is.”

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she cried.

  Peter tugged her inside. “I know. But we’re improvising through time, now,” he said, his eyes intent.

  Emmett stayed out in the street. He reached for his own gun and brought himself alongside the other resistance soldiers, ready to protect the small French town.

  “Why is he helping?” Julie asked as they took refuge in the back of the café, behind a wood-burning stove. They peered around, still in view of the coming skirmish.

  “This is his timeline,” Peter whispered. “This war is all he’s ever known.”

  Julie nodded. The French people around them were huddled close together. Women wrapped their arms around their children, trying not to shake visibly, trying not to frighten the little ones while their fathers and older brothers stood outside, waiting for the coming attack.

  Julie wrapped herself in Peter’s arms. Peter knew she was thinking about her own family. She wouldn’t recognize them if she saw them, but if they died in front of her, he knew she wouldn’t be able to take that pain, that loss. He rubbed her back, feeling the bones of her spine as they shook with the weight
of her passionate cries. War wasn’t fair, no matter whether it had already happened or if it was happening around you.

  The Germans moved closer. Peter could feel the tension growing on the streets. At least a hundred of the resistance men, the Oradour-sur-Glane crew, stood outside, bravely preparing for the skirmish. And then, the first shot was fired. All the women and children gasped in the café, crying out. Shots began to explode back and forth. The line of Jeeps had reached the town perimeter, and the Nazis had bounded from their vehicles and begun shooting.

  Peter watched Emmett as he ducked behind a table and took shot after shot. The men beside him looked calm, steady. Peter lurched forward from Julie and found himself gazing out the window at the terrifying battle—a battle he wasn’t sure had actually taken place in his own dimension, in his historical timeline.

  The men of Oradour-sur-Glane were sure in their shots—country and town boys with good aim. They struck and killed many German soldiers in the street that day, losing only a few of their own. The battle was swift, ending almost too quickly. It was almost a waste. Peter watched as the remaining German men scooped their dead into the backs of the Jeeps and rounded back, toward their home base.

  The Oradour-sur-Glane resistance lurched from their hiding places and began leaping up and down, blasting gunshots into the air. “Victoire!” was the word on everyone’s lips. “Victoire!”

  Peter spun around and found Julie’s tear-drenched face. He reached toward her and wrapped his arms around her, spinning her in a circle. “Victoire, Julie,” he murmured, kissing her. His heart felt light. He carried her out into the street, where they met with Emmett. Emmett’s goofy grin was youthful, triumphant. Peter grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him, smiling madly. This man—this man who had saved their lives—had done it once more. “Goddammit, Emmett. What would we do without you?”

  All around, men met with their wives, their sisters. There was kissing; there was laughter. A sense of assurance washed over the three Americans as they walked through the town, gazing at the truly resurrected evening. The moon had risen over the town, allowing the windows to gleam, the puddles from a recent rain to shine.

  “I just—I couldn’t not fight, you know?” Emmett said, then reiterated the events of the previous hour. “I just felt I had to. I was called to.”

  Peter and Julie grinned at him. Julie leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek, making him blush for a moment. “Thank you for protecting my family,” she said.

  On the outskirts of the small village, in the moonlight, they saw a small, delicate farmhouse. Julie stopped when she saw it. Peter could feel her pulse quicken at her wrist. “What is it?” he asked her.

  “That farmhouse. It seems so familiar,” she said.

  The two men followed her as she walked toward it quickly, her eyes bright beneath the stars. She ascended the worn steps, wiping her sweating palms on her dress. She flicked her brown hair behind her back and rapped on the door lightly, carefully.

  The three waited on the steps expectantly. A single tear had descended Julie’s face, Peter noticed. She wiped it away before she thought anyone could see.

  Finally, the door creaked open. On the other side, a beautiful young woman—a woman who looked incredibly like Julie; it was undeniable—greeted them. Her face was a bit worn, a bit tired from the events of the day. “Bonsoir? she inquired.

  “Oui. Bonsoir,” Julie whispered back.

  Peter knew, then. He knew they’d found Julie’s past. Her family. His mind began to panic. Would this mess up the entire timeline? Their entire mission? Applegate had said she shouldn’t find her family, that Peter had to watch her every inch of the way. But he’d been distracted. And with everything so out-of-whack anyway, did Applegate even exist anymore?

  Julie continued, clearing her throat. “Nous sommes les americaines avec un mission secrete de la resistance.” She said they were Americans on a secret mission for the resistance. Peter thought it was a good plan; find shelter somewhere. But here? Was Julie out of her mind?

  The woman nodded, looking at Julie through strained eyes. Surely she felt she was looking into a mirror. She gestured, allowing them to enter. Peter removed his boots at the door, feeling the rough wooden floor beneath his socked feet. Around him, the farmhouse glowed. A fire burned bright in the fireplace. A young girl sat before it, playing with a small doll. The young girl was dark-haired, the most beautiful little girl that Peter had ever seen. She looked like an angel.

  “Marion,” the mother called to the young girl. “Nous avons des visiteurs. Si ti plait, il y a des verres la—” The mother gestured toward the cabinet, where the young girl found some glasses. She set them on the counter, gazing up at Julie.

  Julie bit her lip so tightly, Peter thought she was going to draw blood. She knelt before the young girl as the girl worked. The girl stopped, a glass still in each hand. “Coucou,” she said.

  Marion, the young girl, smiled at Julie sheepishly.

  “I’m sorry. She is quite shy,” the mother began. “And my English—it is very bad.”

  “No. It’s wonderful,” Peter said, giving her a reassuring look.

  The mother, whose name they soon learned was Marie, poured them each a glass of wine. “My husband is still in the city,” she said. “He had to fight today with the resistance.” She handed the glasses out to her visitors.

  “They fought bravely,” Julie said. She brought her glass forward in a toast. The others in the room clinked their glasses. Then Julie turned her head toward the little girl, Marion—her grandmother—and winked at her. The little girl gave her a secret grin.

  “You’ll all be comfortable in the guest room?” Marie asked, bringing her fingers together.

  “Absolutely,” Peter said. “It will be perfect for us to prepare for the mission.”

  “Un mission secrete,” Marie said, raising an eyebrow. She was so sassy, so French. Peter found himself attracted to her, if only because she was so much like Julie.

  “C’est trop importante pour les hommes, seule,” Julie said to the woman, eyeing Peter.

  Peter tried to work out the words she’d said as the women laughed together, but he found that he couldn’t keep track. He didn’t really care, anyway.

  Marie led them to the guest room, where Emmett situated himself on a mat on the floor and Julie and Peter sat on the bed, whispering together.

  “I can’t believe I’ve found them,” she said.

  “Well, I think we should leave as soon as possible tomorrow to finish the mission. We can’t mess up any more timelines,” Peter replied. His voice was firm. He knew this had all been a very bad idea, even if it was sort of magical here—like a secret portal through history.

  But Julie wasn’t paying attention. She fell into the covers as if in a daydream. Peter kissed her shoulder as she fell into a deep sleep.

  He couldn’t sleep for a long time, filled with fear and curiosity about the coming day. He knew everything was coming to a head. He had to be vigilant. Finally, he surrendered to insomnia and opened his journal to write. As soon as his fountain pen began to scratch along the yellowed paper, his mind was fully engrossed.

  Nearly two hours had passed before Julie rolled over, prompting him to focus on sleep instead. Reluctantly, he obliged, slipping the journal back into his satchel and dousing the light. He was asleep within moments, dreaming once again of his kids and the brutish German soldier.

  CHAPTER 14

  The next morning, Peter woke, blinking into the sunlight outside of the small farmhouse. The bed was empty beside him, and his throat constricted as he realized Julie was missing. He sat straight up, lurching his head left, right, eyeing the simplistic, 1940s style of the bedroom on the top floor. Emmett slept on, dreaming into the late morning.

  Peter raced toward the door, his heart pounding. He cracked it, searching down the hallway, down the steps. He heard a small string of laughter emanating from somewhere far away, and he held his breath, trying to pinpoint the
laugh.

  Sure enough, it was Julie. He shook his head, trying to calm himself. He brushed his hair with his fingers and began to walk down the steps, feeling the rickety house splinter around him. He wondered if they could save this house, if they could save the village by changing that memo. Perhaps they already had, in this altered timeline.

  Outside, in the waking sunlight, he could see Julie, the young girl, and Marie, her mother. They all stood next to a cow. The young girl was showing Julie how to tug at the udder easily, squirting milk into a pan below. Peter drifted through the green grass, feeling completely natural in this environment. He walked up behind Julie, who’d begun to lean down to try her hand at it.

  Marie brightened as he approached. “Oh. Bon matin,” she said, smiling. She looked at him shyly. Peter wondered where her husband was. Had he been injured in the previous day’s short battle? “I hope you sleep well?” she asked him.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, eyeing Julie’s slender fingers as she tugged at the udder and produced natural, steaming milk.

  “Pour le petit dejeuner,” the little girl explained to him brightly. Because Peter had memorized a lot of French words associated with food, these hit him where it counted.

  “C’est tres bien,” he said in his sloppy American accent. Everyone, including Julie, laughed into the bright blue sky.

  He loved seeing Julie like this: so happy, so completely fluid in her surroundings. She’d always held a quiet shadow beneath her eyes—something that told about her wayward past with her father. But during the recent days in France, since they’d arrived in Oradour-sur-Glane, that shadow had nearly vanished.

  She lifted the bucket toward Peter’s face, nodding toward him. “Boire,” she murmured. Drink.

  His eyes were on hers as he began to sip, and the still-warm drink passed his tongue, down his throat. He felt nourishment filter through him. He felt refreshed. “Merci,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.