9781940740065

by Paul B. Kohler

  Peter was surprised when he saw the farmhouse. It was far enough away from the town that it had been hardly affected by the attack, but for one thing. The shockwave from the bomb had struck the front windows. They were all smashed, sending their glass into the charming home.

  Julie burst through the front door and laid the young girl on the couch, tucking her tangled hair around her face.

  Peter watched her, longing to interrupt the silence between them. He wanted to reassure Julie, but he didn’t know how. He was just so goddamned grateful that she was alive. She shouldn’t have lived, he knew. He shouldn’t have, either.

  “The mother—”

  “Dead,” Julie said. She rubbed her nose with her finger, like a nervous tic. “I blacked out for a moment and woke up in time—in time to grab Marion. The entire room was on fire.” Her voice quivered. “We didn’t save them, after all,” she groaned.

  Peter wrapped his arms around her. “You saved her. You were meant to be there. She survived in the previous timeline, which means—which means everything happened the way it was meant to.” His words were meant to make her feel better, to make her feel like she’d done the right thing. But her eyes were dark, her expression unyielding.

  “Where’s Emmett?” Julie suddenly asked, turning her head to look out the window. The fire in the city had sent a huge ball of black smoke into the air. Everything was gray, cloudy. So unlike the morning had been.

  Peter hung his head, explaining Emmett’s fate. Julie nodded. “It’s just us, now,” she said. “What do you think we should do?”

  “Continue with the mission. We have to. We’ve made it this far,” Peter said, wiping at the dried blood on the side of his face. Emmett’s blood. “You know where they’re stationed?”

  Julie nodded. “South of town. Marc told me.”

  “We should go as soon as possible. And then get the hell out of France.” Peter swallowed, eyeing the sleeping girl on the couch. He knew they’d have to bring the girl with them to find the Vichy, to find the memo-maker. She didn’t have anyone. But perhaps after they returned, they could find someone to raise her, to help her on her journey. After all, if Julie’s grandmother didn’t live through this, then Julie’s timeline was all out of whack. Then her mother wouldn’t be born. And Julie wouldn’t be, either. She’d never be born to kill her father, to go on this mission. To grow to love Peter.

  Julie and Peter cleaned up, washing the blood and soot from their faces at the sink. They hardly spoke. Peter began to regain his strength, and reached for the baguette that the family had been meant to eat for lunch. In a way, with each bit he ate, Peter felt he was robbing them of the life they had been meant to live. This farmhouse was going to fall to ruin. It was going to turn to nothing.

  Julie wiped the young girl’s face and arms, and Peter wrapped her in a blanket. As the late afternoon fell around them, they began to walk south of the city, where they knew members of the resistance were located. There, they would find the memo-maker. They would tell him to promote Operation Sledgehammer. The plan to covertly replace the memo had long since been abandoned. After this latest timeline anomaly, they just needed to convince him to make the appropriate recommendations. The French could be strong. This way, the terror that Peter had just experienced firsthand could be over. Families wouldn’t be ripped apart.

  Peter knew what the three of them looked like as they approached. Their clothes were blood-splattered; they looked lost. A member of the resistance walked toward them, holding his weapon in his hand and looking at them with worry. He spoke to Julie. “Ca va?” he asked, gesturing toward the child.

  “Oui,” Julie replied. Her eyes were serious. “J’aime bien a parler avec Oscar Gionnoccaro.” Peter nodded, remembering the memo-maker’s name, as well.

  The man eyed her suspiciously. “Pourquoi?” he asked. His eyes darted.

  “J’ai un importante message des les americains,” she said.

  “On ne peux pas entrer,” the soldier answered. Dusk was falling around them, and the conversation felt ominous, like a grand pause before more battle, more murder.

  “Alors, il peut venir ici,” Julie argued.

  The man thought for a moment. He nodded curtly and spun around in a single motion, retreating back toward his comrades. He spoke to another man, who considered his words for a moment. They marched back to the center of the great tent village that stretched over the countryside. Peter and Julie stood quietly next to each other in solidarity in this strained moment.

  Finally, the memo-maker, a Frenchman named Oscar Gionnocario, stepped out from a large, open-sided tent. The man pointed toward Peter and Julie, standing in the distance. Gionnocario nodded and advanced toward them, unafraid. His chin was high in the air.

  “Bonsoir,” he said, nodding politely. “Vous etes americain?” he asked.

  Peter stepped forward. “Oui.”

  “I speak English,” Gionnocario said, nodding again. “Please. Proceed with what you must say.”

  Peter’s heart was beating fast. This was it. This was why they were there. Was it worth it? “We must tell you. You’re considering an operation. Operation Sledgehammer.”

  “It doesn’t matter what we send, now,” Gionnocario replied. His voice was strained. Peter wondered if he’d had family in the destroyed town. “Oradour-sur-Glane was destroyed. It is done.”

  “No.” Peter shook his head. “You must tell Churchill to proceed with Operation Sledgehammer. It will make all the difference in the world.”

  “Why should I?” Gionnocario asked. His eyebrows rose high on his face. His eyes were cat-like, alarmed.

  “It is of great urgency to the Americans and to the greater French army to proceed with the operation,” Peter said. His voice was hushed. He adjusted the girl in his arms. She slept on. Would she ever wake? he wondered. “If you don’t want things like that—entire towns destroyed in one afternoon—to happen again, you must tell Churchill that Operation Sledgehammer is essential for the end of the war.” Peter swallowed. “You must.”

  Gionnocario thought for a moment. He bowed his head toward Peter and Julie. The moon had appeared over them, then, giving the entire scene a sort of surreal sense. “I appreciate this sentiment. I will make greater consideration over the operation and what it will do for my country.”

  Peter nodded. “It’s the only option. You don’t have many. Not after today.”

  “Truly not,” the man said with a sigh. He leaned toward Julie and kissed her hand. “You must be strong, my lady,” he said. “It is the time to be strong.”

  “You be strong,” Julie said, her voice full of passion. “And change the damn memo.”

  The man listened as she explained the virtues of the operation he was considering, and how critical it was to ending so much death and destruction. So much pain. She and Peter took turns pleading their case for nearly an hour.

  Finally, Gionnocario spun back around. He marched back into camp vowing to change the memo that night, putting an appropriate cap on Julie and Peter’s mission in France. Peter draped his arm around Julie as they walked back from the moonlit field. He helped her lay Marion in bed, then they watched her sleep for a moment, holding hands in the darkness. They were missing so many people, that night. It was just the three of them left.

  The couple lay together in the guest room, Julie stretched out on Peter’s chest. They listened to the beating of each other’s hearts for a long time into the night, feeling the enormous brevity of being alive.

  CHAPTER 16

  Peter awoke the next morning, noting that somehow, he was still alive, and sweating in the sheets. Julie’s side of the bed was empty. He swung his feet to the floor, holding his head in his hands. His legs ached from all the running the previous day on the battlefield.

  He heard something from the other room. Concerned, he grabbed a shirt and flung his arms through it, then rushed toward the source of the sound. He found Julie leaning over a small pot, vomiting. She brought her hand around,
waving him away.

  “Can you give me a minute?” she asked.

  Peter didn’t want her to feel this way; he didn’t want her to be ashamed. He wanted to take care of her. But he obeyed her wishes. “Please. Tell me if you need anything,” he said.

  He walked from the bathroom and peered into Marion’s room. The little girl was still sleeping, surely not wanting to return to this treacherous world without her parents. He wondered what they would ultimately need to do with her—if they would need to take her to Paris, to an orphanage. A small part of him feared Paris, of course. He knew that the Nazis had taken over much of it, if the timeline had stayed true in that part of France.

  He made the bed swiftly and washed his face, waiting for Julie. Finally, she appeared in the doorway, her face flushed.

  “Julie. Are you all right?” Peter asked. He sat on the bed, tapping it to ask her to sit beside him. She was so frail-looking in that moment. He was worried that maybe she had contracted some 1940s disease that hadn’t been wiped out yet.

  She sat next to him, and he rubbed her back, feeling a small quiver in her spine. What was going on?

  Julie cleared her throat. She was preparing to speak, and then she closed her lips once more, shaking her head.

  Peter tried to fill the empty tension in the room. “I was thinking we could take the girl somewhere safe. Do you know of any towns around here—towns with orphanages? I didn’t think we were too far from Lyon.”

  Julie turned toward him, her eyes flashing. “My grandmother isn’t going to grow up in an orphanage,” she said. Her voice sounded weary, far away.

  Peter’s mind lurched. Would they need to bring the girl back with them, to the United States? He cleared his throat. “I want her to be safe, just like you. But we need to go back to our own time, to allow the timelines to work themselves out.” He placed his hand on hers and she clung to it, nodding. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you.”

  Julie turned toward him. “Peter. I’m going to stay behind. I’m going to raise Marion. It’s the least I can do.” She shrugged, her eyes pleading with him.

  Peter felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He had to convince her that this was a tremendous mistake—that she was robbing them both of something truly special: this relationship they’d built together.

  Peter brought his hand to the back of her neck and gazed into her eyes. She’d been his guiding force ever since this adventure had begun. “Julie. You know I can’t let you do that,” he said. “We had a mission, and it’s finished. You know what Applegate said.”

  But Julie shook her head vehemently. “Fuck Applegate,” she said. Her voice caught in her throat.

  Peter couldn’t say another word. The young girl appeared at the door, creaking it a bit as she entered. She yawned into the light coming through the window. “Bonjour, mes amies,” she said, smiling at them.

  Julie was on her feet, brighter and more vibrant than she’d been only moments before, when she’d hung over that basin to vomit. She lifted Marion into her arms and carried her down the steps.

  Peter remained there, sitting on the bed, gazing out the window, feeling his heart breaking.

  Julie knew that she had to tell him; that she couldn’t leave so many of these things unspoken. She cared for him a great deal. He was the only man she’d ever loved. She’d seen the worry in his eyes; she knew the heartbreak she was causing him.

  She sat her grandmother, little Marion, at the kitchen table and began buttering a piece of bread for her, speaking quietly in French, trying to distract Marion’s mind from her parents. It wasn’t easy, of course. The girl was gradually remembering the events of the previous day, and she dropped the piece of bread on the table. Tears rolled down her round cheeks.

  Julie reached toward her and brought Marion onto her lap, stroking her hair. “Shh. Shh,” she said. “C’est pas grave. Je suis ici.” She told Marion she was there for her, that she would care for her all the days of her life. Julie knew, in her heart, that she was telling the truth.

  A wave of nausea passed through her. She fought it; it wasn’t as bad as the others. The morning sickness had only begun the previous week. She remembered waking as Peter slept on beside her and rushing to the basin. A moment of surprise had passed through her mind. It was like she hadn’t believed that biology, that life could follow her all the way back to 1943. But here she was: pregnant.

  Of course, she hadn’t taken the birth control pills. She’d loved the freedom: the freedom to be with Peter, to love him in this altered timeline, without worrying. Of course that lack of care, that lack of worry had caught up to her.

  She imagined it, then: the two of them, caring for young Marion, living on at the farm. He’d have to learn better French, certainly, but she and Marion could help him with that. When she was ready to have the baby, they could find a doctor from a local town. They could help build Oradour-sur-Glane back to its former glory—something Julie knew hadn’t happened in her own past.

  Marion leaned back from her, wiping her eyes and asking to go see the cow. Julie nodded, smiling for a moment. Her heart was full of love for this little girl. She carried her outside, imagining Marion becoming the older sister to the child growing in her body. What a family they would make.

  Marion patted the cow’s soft nose, gazing into the doe-like eyes of the creature. The cow chewed at the grass as if nothing had happened, as if no wars raged on. Julie stood beside her, waiting for Peter to come outside. Waiting. What could she say?

  Finally, he appeared beside her, shifting his weight from foot to foot. She couldn’t tell him about the baby, she knew. Not unless he agreed to be with her, to carry on with her in 1943. She couldn’t stand the thought that he would know about this child growing in her womb and decide to stay only because of the baby. She didn’t want to trap him with the news.

  So she began casually. “Peter,” she said. He turned toward her, looking at her with wet eyes, his expression drooping and sad. He didn’t want her to stay. “You can stay here with me. We can be a family, in this other time,” Julie said. Her voice quivered.

  Peter brought his hands up to his chest. Julie could tell he was conflicted. He wanted to stay, she knew. But…

  “Julie. I love you so much.” He shook his head, hesitating. “I just … I have two kids at home, back in 2013.”

  Julie nodded. She smiled through her tears, feeling the weight of his love for her. She brought her lips to his, and they kissed for a moment. Her heart hurt desperately. So much of her wished that time could stop, that she and Peter could live on in this moment, holding each other close.

  This was the only time they had. This was all they could create. This moment.

  She helped him pack, gathering his clothes together and feeling her tears drip down her cheeks. Marion sat in a corner of the room, playing quietly with her dolls.

  Peter paused from the packing for a moment and played with the little girl, making small voices for her toy animals and cooing at her. Julie could tell that he was a wonderful father—that Tori and Brett were lucky to have his love. She placed her hand on her stomach, feeling small flutters deep within. This baby would be here soon, for her. And yet, the timing would be so far away, for Peter. This three-dimensional, living reminder of Peter would be all she could see, forever. She wouldn’t have a photograph of him; she wouldn’t have anything.

  She had an idea, suddenly. She grabbed a small pad of paper and a pencil, and she began to draw him as he played with Marion. She captured his nose, his crooked smile. She captured the beauty of little Marion’s round, lovely face as she and Peter gazed at each other with the intimacy of family, of love. Julie was so caught up in the drawing that she felt jilted when Peter finally stood up and looked at her, bringing his hands together. “It’s time.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Peter kissed Julie good-bye for the last time on the farmhouse porch on the outskirts of the decimated city of Oradour-sur-Glane. Some hesitation in her made him peer at her,
shaking his head. Why were they doing this—ruining something so beautiful? She bit her lip, watching as little Marion told him goodbye, kissed his cheek, and handed him a dandelion she’d picked from the yard. Peter used the last bit of French he’d say in front of Julie: “C’est tres belle,” he said, rotating the flower in his hands. He tried to imprint their image on his mind forever.

  Peter could sense Julie’s eyes on him as he walked away; he could sense that something had been left unsaid between them—that their story wasn’t complete. But he knew that when he returned to 2013, she wouldn’t be there. She would be dead. He pictured visiting her grave, visiting the grave of the little girl, as well. He hoped that Marion would take care of Julie, just as much as Julie would take care of her. He hoped that this strange, cyclical life would bring comfort and joy for Julie. He only wanted her to be happy.

  He tried to shake these death-filled thoughts from his mind; they were elements to be dealt with on a different day, in another time. Soon, he was on the road, walking toward the nearby town. Julie had told him it was only five miles away. He felt a shroud of loneliness follow him as he headed west, wondering what the hell he was going to do now. He tried to imagine being back home in the United States after all he’d been through. In comparison, his old life had always been easy and serene.

  Once he’d reached the nearby town, he found that the Nazis had destroyed much of it, as well. A few people lingered on, walking like ghosts along the cobblestones. He walked meekly among them, feeling almost apologetic for still being alive. He knew he shouldn’t have been.

  Peter found a car parked away from the city street, and he stole it easily. He felt anger growl in his heart, in his stomach at the sheer fact that he had come so far—and yet he hadn’t done a single thing, really. In fact, he felt he had less, then, than he’d had before he left.