A corporal with red hair stood alone near the rear of the truck, all of his attention on Apollo. Emma watched him reach under a fence to dig a ground-fall apple from the grass, holding it toward the giant horse. His flattened palm told Emma this soldier had grown up on a farm. Then he nuzzled Apollo from the side, and she was sure of it. He knew enough not to put his face before a draft horse’s head; one toss of Apollo’s neck to shoo a fly and the man could have a broken nose. Also he appreciated the comforting scent of horse, his face close to the animal’s flank.
What Emma smelled, however, was opportunity. Slipping out of her harnesses, she ducked to the front of the truck. With one step onto the front bumper, she peered down at the engine. The front portion hissed, a thread of steam rising from an open reservoir of some kind. But there—she spied the thing she was seeking, a length of hose, and grabbed it with both hands. The rubber was hot but not unbearable. It required several pulls back and forth before one end released. Then she tugged and twisted till the other end came free.
Emma was stuffing the hose under a cloth on her cart, when the red-haired soldier cleared his throat.
“Why, hello, m’mselle,” he said. She turned and he had both hands on his hips. He wore a wide smile, but it was not a friendly one. The corporal spoke her language well enough that she could hear the menace in his voice. Had he seen her hiding the hose? “Hello say I to the pretty girl.”
“Good day,” Emma replied, sliding one arm into its harness.
He was at her side in an instant, holding the remaining harness so that she could not slip it on. “Why such a rush, m’mselle? Doesn’t she like soldiers?”
Emma kept her gaze to one side. “My grandmother is ill. I must go help her.”
“Your grandmother.” The soldier nodded, strolling his eyes up and down her body without concealment, assessing as if she were a cow at auction. He smiled again, the same sick grin. “I know this one. You are Thalheim’s girl, eh?”
“I am no one’s girl.”
“Aw. And such a pretty face.” He reached one finger up to touch her jaw, and then to press it till Emma’s head turned. “Pretty profile, too.”
Emma could feel heat coming off the back of her neck. Her mouth filled with the taste of acid. She risked a glance. He wore a pistol on his belt. “Actually I belong to Philippe. My fiancé.”
“Eh, but you forgot him for one moment there. When you said nobody’s girl.”
She needed a different track, something to turn him. “I saw you were skilled with the horse. Did you live on a farm?”
While wrapping one hand around her wrist, as if to measure its circumference, the corporal nodded with mock sadness. “So far from everyone. So far from the nearest pretty girl. And now this m’mselle shows up, right here.” He stepped back abruptly, jolting her away from the cart so hard that she stumbled. “And we are far from everyone. Just like the farm.”
Emma recovered her balance and tried to pull her arm free. But he had a grip like a vise. “Let me go.”
He dragged her toward the back of the truck. “The other corporal went for us a tow. He won’t be return for hours.”
“I mean it,” Emma said, twisting. “Let me go.”
The corporal yanked her against him, chest to chest. “First, one little kiss. Then we discuss.”
“That’s enough.” The voice came from the front of the truck, turning them both. Guillaume stood there, seeming as large as a tree.
“I order you to leave,” the red-haired soldier said.
Not answering, Guillaume strode the length of the vehicle with an iron look in his eye. Emma pulled away, realizing that she could do so because the corporal had released her wrist. He reached to unclip his pistol, but Guillaume slammed him against the side of the truck. Emma heard the wind go out of him like a punctured tire.
Guillaume twisted the corporal’s arm till the shoulder dislocated. The soldier cried out feebly, his wind still gone, wheezing as he fell to his knees. The veterinarian took the pistol, emptied its bullets into his hand, then stuffed them in his pocket. He grabbed the soldier’s arm and lifted, making him scream.
“Can you hear me, you mouse?” Guillaume said. “Can you understand me right now?”
The soldier moaned but nodded.
“You have an army, so you can be any kind of damn fool you want. But you do not trifle with this one, do you hear me? This woman, you leave alone.”
The corporal gritted his teeth. “I will have you shot.”
“No. I could kill you now with your own gun, and there would be no witness to speak against me. But I am showing you mercy, because I believe you will obey.” He pointed at Emma. “This one you do not touch.”
Guillaume shoved the soldier on his back; he writhed in the dirt. The veterinarian threw the pistol, tumbling end over end before it fell in the tall grass. He nodded to Emma. “Come.”
Mutely she followed him back to her cart. He waited as she slid her trembling arms into the harness. Apollo ambled up, standing there blinking.
“Which way were you headed?” Guillaume asked.
Emma gestured with her chin.
“The harbor.” He lifted his blue bicycle, which was lying on its side. “I’m headed that way myself.”
She felt wobbly in her knees, but after a few steps Emma recovered her balance. Fear was swiftly displaced by heat. If Guillaume had given her the pistol, there would be one less soldier on this earth. Her mind boiled with how she might have shot him, while the ground passed unnoticed beneath her feet.
Apollo let them go, wandering off in the direction from which Emma had come. The veterinarian matched her pace, not speaking, his bicycle clicking as it rolled alongside. Soon she had resumed her usual clip.
At last he broke the silence. “You know that it is not safe—”
“The one person.” She cut him off. “The one person on earth permitted to lecture me is my father.”
“I think I know why you travel our roads every day.”
Emma increased her pace. “You have no idea.”
“Perhaps. But I know that you could be safer—”
“If I stayed at home. But I will not be staying at home.”
“I would never suggest such a thing, mademoiselle. Some animals cannot live in a cage.”
Emma felt herself softening. This man had healed her father’s livestock many times. And had just rescued her. “What is your business, then? I am glad you saved me, thank you. Though it is a fraction of the penance you owe for my father’s exile.”
“But of course,” he said. And with that, Guillaume stopped walking. Emma did not notice for a few steps, but then slowed the cart by turning sideways. He stood beside his bicycle; it looked like a toy compared with his bulk. “I had something else in mind.”
Emma looked down her nose. “Yes?”
He surprised her then by smiling. “That expression on your face. I can’t decide if it comes from your father or Uncle Ezra.”
“Both men I loved, one who the occupying army murdered and the other who they took away in a cattle car.”
“One day this army will pay for its deeds.”
“How nice to think so,” Emma said, scanning the harbor below. A pair of gulls chased a third, who cried and squawked down the shore. “The Monsignor says that when I die I may go to heaven, too. But neither belief will fill anyone’s belly today.”
“Exactly,” Guillaume said. “That is why I want you to have this.” He reached into the satchel in his bicycle’s basket, producing a long black sheath. “This is a thigh harness,” he explained. Leaning the bike against his hip, he slid out a bright steel blade. “You can strap the weapon safely out of sight. A person would have to grope you to know you carried it. But if the need arises, this knife is high-quality steel, with a gutter along one side for the blood to flow without splashing you.”
“I, well . . . hmm,” Emma stammered.
“You might think to stab in this area,” he continued, gesturing at his che
st. “But ribs make a surprisingly protective cage. It is more effective to plunge the knife lower, here.” He pointed below his sternum. “No protection. And if you can, hook the blade upward so it punctures the important things.”
Emma’s mouth went dry. It was as though her bluff were being called. Was she capable of stabbing someone? The red-haired corporal had made her think so, not five minutes before. But the steel reality of this weapon far exceeded her angry fantasy.
“I don’t want it,” she said at last.
“If you embark on activities that cause people to depend on you, then you have a responsibility to protect yourself.” Guillaume slid the blade into the sheath, placing it in her hands.
The weapon was heavy, and the leather smell reminded Emma of saddles. “I told you.” She spoke more firmly, holding the knife back toward him. “I don’t want this.”
“Yes you do,” Guillaume answered mildly. He threw a leg over the seat of his bicycle, gripped the handlebars, put one huge boot on a pedal. “I heard you tell the Monsignor yesterday with my own ears.”
“What did I say?”
He leaned closer. “That you wanted to kill.”
Chapter 16
They had been ordered to assemble, everyone, no excuses, that morning in April. It was a bluebird day, whole hillsides of apple trees in blossom, pinks and whites and the hum of bees. New ration cards would be issued. Anyone in Vergers failing to attend would therefore no longer receive a share of the permitted food.
Often the occupying army traveled with its dogs, large, unfriendly, brown-and-black animals. At rest they were pretty, with bushy tails and ears that rose and curled like tulip petals. Around the villagers, though, the dogs snapped like wolves, curling their lips to show their teeth. Sometimes the soldiers took the animals for walks in the lanes, and if they passed a villager the dogs would lunge at their leashes. Odette said she would gladly kick one of them, except that it would probably bite off her leg.
That day the dogs were tethered at the edge of the square, one private standing by as they growled and paced as far as their constraints allowed. Leading Mémé to the opposite side, Emma passed Marie and Fleur a step behind the bulk of Guillaume, who was discussing with the Goat whether the soldiers deliberately tormented the animals, to keep them in a constant snarl.
The veterinarian bowed to Emma but she did not greet him. Nor did she tell him about the knife strapped to her leg.
“Cage an animal,” Guillaume was saying, “train it in frustration, teach it subservience when all its breed has ever known is freedom, and you will cultivate creatures like this.”
The Goat nodded. “Maybe they are doing that to us, too.”
Yet all was orderly as the villagers assembled. The Argent couple made a late arrival, but that reflected how they generally kept to themselves. They only left their stone palace on the bluff—mansions on either side commandeered by the occupying army, communications wires webbing in all directions from their rooftops, their home exempt because it lacked electricity—when it was time to join the queue for rations. Everyone observed as the husband became more solicitous to his wife, and her belly grew round as though a half-moon had affixed itself to her spine, which caused Emma to bask in the remaining wisdom of her grandmother. As they joined the crowd now, the young woman’s visible pregnancy inspired the village’s gossiping biddies to draw aside a few steps—so that their queen bee could scold about indulging during wartime in pleasures of the flesh, and the others could tsk and cluck.
At last the Kommandant appeared on the top step of town hall, as stiff as a fence post. Officers flanked him in descending order of rank, Thalheim lowest on one end, the pencil-thin mustache officer on the other. Those two, Emma mused, all swagger and display, but in truth they were pawns.
An officer midway up the ranks came forward and called for quiet. Once the crowd settled, the Kommandant began.
“The rations process has become disorderly,” he said in their language, his pronunciation excellent. “Also there is the potential for corruption. You people do not follow directions.”
“Or choose not to,” Odette muttered, causing a titter among people in her vicinity. The Kommandant raised an eyebrow, and soldiers turned in the disturbance’s direction. Silence returned.
“Today you receive new cards, which will improve our efficiency. One person shall carry the card for a family. We will have order in their distribution this morning, and—”
Another noise interrupted from the far corner, dogs snarling, then a woman’s scream. The Kommandant frowned. Now several dogs were barking, and the woman wailed. The crowd began to murmur, people shifting in place. Thalheim drew his pistol and fired a single shot into the air. The crowd silenced instantly, at which the Kommandant nodded to his captain in approval, but the quiet made one last yelp sound twice as loud.
“What has happened there?” the pencil-thin mustache officer called, standing on tiptoe to peer over the crowd.
Two soldiers came forward, each holding one of Guillaume’s arms. They looked like dwarfs beside him, but the veterinarian did not struggle or resist. “This one, sir,” one of them said. “He killed one of the dogs.”
A gasp went through the crowd. “This is bad and going worse,” Emma said to Mémé, taking her arm. “We need to leave.”
“The animal broke his leash,” Guillaume said. “He bit Marguerite, and was not letting go.”
“Snapped its neck with his bare hands,” the soldier marveled.
“Those animals are the property of our great nation,” Thalheim said. “You have killed the wrong animal.”
“I ask permission to treat the old woman,” Guillaume said. “She is bleeding heavily and you took our physician away last year.”
The Kommandant was frowning at the entire scene. His speech had been disrupted, when the whole point had been to emphasize order. These bumpkins were so annoying. If not for their bread and brandy, and a few of their whores, a man would be tempted to slaughter them all. The officer to his left leaned closer. “What shall we do, sir?”
“We cannot be permissive,” Thalheim called from his lower step. “They must learn obedience, through punishment.”
“This fellow is useful, though,” said one on his right. “He has treated our animals repeatedly. He saved my horse.”
“We already tolerate that tree-climbing fool,” Thalheim persisted. “Also the old woman with no mind left. Any waste of resources invites disrespect. Sir, here is an opportunity—”
“I am tempted.” The Kommandant raised one hand to quiet his headstrong captain. “I am inclined to excuse this incident as a significant error—but a forgivable one. The property of our army must not be harmed by any person, in any way.”
He waved one hand in dismissal. “Jail him for two weeks. And as for the ration cards—”
“But he has a gun.”
The Kommandant turned toward this new interruption. It came from DuFour, that busybody he had installed in town hall to monitor the villagers. “Who dares to speak out of turn now?”
“In his bicycle saddlebag,” the clerk continued. “A pistol.”
“You worm,” Guillaume growled. A few steps away, Marie clung to Fleur and began to weep. Emma pulled at Mémé but she resisted. She wanted to see.
In a moment a private had wheeled the blue bicycle forward, dumping the satchel in the dirt. He squatted to spread the contents wide: the pistol, two knives, a bag of ammunition, and tight rolls of paper.
“Maps,” DuFour yelped. “He has maps as well.”
“You will pay for this, cockroach,” Odette called from her side of the square.
“Silence,” the Kommandant ordered, though nearly all the other villagers were already quiet. He turned to face Thalheim, whose pistol was still drawn, and gave a curt nod.
“No,” Marie cried, a hand to her mouth. “No.”
Afterward there were many versions of what happened next. The villagers in front of Marie crowded together, which they lat
er said was to protect her from a horrible sight. The people behind her also saw the crowding, but from their perspective it was an act of selfishness that prevented them from seeing. Odette observed nothing, because she had gone to help Marguerite, who herself later insisted that Guillaume had not killed a dog at all, but rather a soldier, and no one contradicted this account because the villagers understood her need to absolve herself from responsibility for his punishment. Ultimately there was no definitive history. Each person told the story that each person needed.
On certain things, everyone agreed. They all saw the Goat slinking away through the crowd. They watched villagers close around Guillaume’s wife and daughter as bees surround a queen.
Thalheim raised his arm higher than he was accustomed, till the pistol was inches from the veterinarian’s face. “Contemplate your mortality,” he said.
Guillaume thrust his chin forward. “What took you so long?”
After the firing of a single shot, after the large body collapsing in the dirt, after Marie wailing on her knees, the Monsignor appeared with his hand-pushed jitney for the dead. He pointed at both soldiers who had been holding Guillaume’s arms, and even with their help it was still an effort to load the veterinarian into the wheelbarrow. The priest paused then, head bowed, making a sign of the cross over Guillaume’s body. His hand trembled in the air.
“What is the trouble?” Thalheim said, wiping his pistol with a cloth.
“No trouble,” the Monsignor answered. “It’s only that I baptized this one.”
“You are not nearly old enough,” the captain sneered. “What kind of fool do you think I am?”
“Not at birth,” the priest explained. “On the day before he was married.”
“Well, he’s in the way now.” Thalheim holstered his gun. “Move him along.”
The Monsignor nodded. “I don’t mean to be a nuisance, but this one is too big. I need help.”
“You people.” Shaking his head, the captain pointed at Pierre. “You. Step in and help here.” As the old man waddled over, Thalheim half turned before checking himself. “A little fewer of backtalk from now on, eh? That collar and cross are less protection than you think.”
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