Chapter 26
GRASS
“THAT PAPER-PUSHER,” SAID Albrecht. The train wheels rattled under them. Julien stared out the window, straining to catch a glimpse of the Le Puy road. “Trying to twit me about being rescued by a girl. Ten minutes at Stalingrad and he’d have soiled himself.”
“What else did he say about her, monsieur?” He’d go to her dorm first. Of course if she’d walked into town, everyone would know. But if she hadn’t … ?
“I’ve told you all of it. ‘We cannot release her because she has escaped. She disappeared in transit.’ That’s it.” Albrecht shook his head. “He asked me questions. Wanted to know how long I’d been in town, whether I knew any of the people. I don’t like him. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s opening a dossier on me right now.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Albrecht waved a dismissive hand, his dark-brown eyes fixed on the distance. After a few moments he said, “Thought we had a chance. By his uniform he’s not SS. But he thinks like one. Party member, maybe.” He turned and looked Julien in the eye. “You watch out for him. Tell the girl to watch out for him, if you find her. He has his eye on your town.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d be grateful to hear that she’s all right,” Albrecht murmured. “I will not ask you where she lives, but—if she would come down to Les Genêts and speak with me one time, if she is willing … I will understand if she doesn’t wish to.”
“I’ll tell her, sir.”
Albrecht bared his teeth a little, the scarred side of his face twisting oddly. “He thinks he’s such a German hero. You know what it means, Haas? It means rabbit.”
Julien looked at him. What are we then? Grass? “That’s a last name?”
“They used to call rabbit hunters that.”
Julien nodded. Of course they did.
“Julien,” said his father carefully, “you are quite sure they weren’t lying?”
“The one with me wasn’t. He doesn’t.” Julien sat in a kitchen chair as Mama banged packets and bottles into his Scout bag. No one at her dorm had known anything. The dorm mother had accused him of cruel jokes. The Gestapo told me themselves was a sentence his mouth hadn’t known how to make. “He thought the Gestapo officer wasn’t lying to him. I have to look.”
“Of course you have to look.” Papa stood. “Magali. You go and find Sylvain and tell him to get the other Scouts together, whoever he can find. Tell him what’s happened, tell him it’s a request from me. Get your friends on it too if they’re free.”
“And we search south of town? You’re sure they took the Le Puy road, Papa?”
“I saw them drive away.”
“Julien, here,” said Mama. “Look at these. The brown one slows bleeding. Dosage is written here.” The labels on the little bottles were worn, written in a crabbed hand. “The clear one strengthens the body to fight infection. There’s disinfectant here, and bandages. Did they teach you how to make a splint?”
He nodded.
“There’s potatoes and cheese and water. We’ll be praying.”
“Thank you,” whispered Julien.
It was two when he started, and four o’clock when he dropped to a crouch, sweating, and took his first bite of lunch and swig of water. Another minute and he was up again, his heart lashing him onward, his mind full of her face twisted in pain, of blood slowly soaking into the forest floor. He had crisscrossed the woods south of the river all this time, working his way steadily, checking every bush, every stone. He couldn’t do otherwise. His heart howled for the open road, to run down it at speed till he found her, but she was no fool. She would not be on the road.
He had sent Sylvain and his Scouts onward to search two by two. They would each leave a blaze on a tree where they started so that when he found the first blaze he could run on till he met them, then search beyond them on and on toward Le Puy. He would come to the first one soon, he was sure—but she could be here, she might be here, even so close to Tanieux. He knew her. She would come to her brother and sister like a homing bird. A bird that flew in cover.
She knew the paths down here; she had hidden here once, Magali had said. These open woods around the Les Chênes treehouse, roots knotted underfoot and spreading limbs above, seemed to hold no secrets; there were almost two dozen places now where if you had a rope to throw over a branch you could clamber up and strap yourself in, unseen and held. If you had a rope.
There was only one place, if you had none.
He was almost there.
A narrow path, almost a deer path, slipped like a swift brown thread through the green sunlit woods, curving around trees and old stones this way and that. He gave up beating every bush in this open place and sped up, hope springing up in him like a weed. Could she have gone to ground for a while before daring the town? The tree-house was fifty meters on from here, past two bends. Please. He came around the first one—and stopped, his heart choking, a low, inarticulate sound coming from somewhere in his chest.
She lay facedown on the path.
Her right arm was flung out; her torn skirt clung wetly to her left leg, red and brown with blood. Her face was bone-white, her dark hair spilling across it. A black bruise bloomed on her temple, crusted with blood. Her eyes were closed.
He steeled himself, his heart contracting painfully in his chest. You are going to walk forward. His right hand was out and reaching already, fingertips ready to take her wrist in a wordless plea for one last mercy—but he could not move. You are going to do it now.
Her fingers twitched, the dirty fingernails brushing the earth. Julien covered the space between them in a heartbeat and fell to his knees beside her, his mouth opening and all his breath coming out, a silent scream of hope: You. Here. Élise, here on the forest floor in the land of the living.
His hand reached for her wrist, dared to touch her skin; the pulse beat warm and strong as ever he had dreamed. The other hand brushed hair out of her face. Two dark crusted lines of blood traced down to her jawline. “Élise,” he whispered. “Élise.” Tentatively he took her shoulder and shook it. Her eyelids fluttered. They were so pale. Her eyes opened. “You’re alive.”
She raised her head very slowly and looked at him.
“Élise, oh God—can you walk? We could get you to Les Chênes—I’ll carry you—”
“I—” She broke off, and got her hands under her, and pushed herself up to all fours, hissing through her teeth in pain when the bloody leg moved. She stared down at it, then up at him. “How did I get here? Is this real? Julien, where are Karl and Tova? Are they safe?”
He knelt open-mouthed a moment, understanding who she must mean, understanding just how shaken she must be to use their real names. “Yes! Yes. Let me help you—”
She took his hand and staggered to her feet, her left hand feeling the bad leg. “It’s not broken,” she whispered.
“We’ll go—” He froze.
It was as if his mind had gone out into the woods around them, now for the first time since he’d seen her lying there. He did not know what he had heard or felt, but his hackles rose like a dog’s. He turned down the path he had come up and stared hard through the trees, Élise’s hand still on his shoulder, and the sickness of what he should have known bloomed in his belly as he caught a far glimpse of blond hair.
Fool. You fool. Haas’s eyes on him after telling the truth to Albrecht, eyes like a stalking cat …
Her eyes caught fear from his as he whirled to face her. He spoke without breath, so fast his words almost tripped over each other. “Go on up the path there till you find a rope ladder. Climb it and pull it up after you. I’ll hold them off. Go.”
She did not ask who. Her eyes and her bruise were dark against her white face as she reached into the deep pocket of her skirt, pulled out a short, gleaming butcher knife, and held the handle out to him.
He stared at it for a moment, his mind alive with readiness and fear. With the woods behind him, and the woods around him, and the shad
ows that might be moving in them, and the one man—he only heard one man—behind him on the path. His hand was already in his jacket, grasping the whistle. He saw Duval’s meat-ground flesh, saw Albrecht’s dark eyes above his rueful mouth. He saw Élise standing before him, bruised and filthy, shining like the sun above the clouds. He saw the dark mouth of that staircase, and his throat closed at the thought of what he was about to do.
“Keep it,” he whispered, pulling the whistle out and stuffing it into the palm of her hand. “Blow this if you have any trouble up there. Go.”
Then he turned back on the path.
He heard her go, behind him, her steady, almost silent run. He looked down the path like a tunnel of green and gold light, descending into darkness, then up for a split second into glowing leaves, the last time he must look upward in these woods today. A wordless prayer like a beggar’s burning eyes: Give or I die. He bent suddenly, and threw leaves over the small dark patch of blood on the forest floor.
Then he ran downhill and away from the path she’d taken, down into soft ground, going heavily to make sure he left a trail. He ran, listening for the boots on the path behind him, slowing a little. He couldn’t afford to be missed. The boots drew nearer. The man came over the rise behind him: blue shirt, blond hair, hard and focused face, the barrel of a pistol pointed straight at Julien. “Halt!”
Julien halted.
The man came toward him, the blond giant who had opened the door to him in Le Puy today, whose eyes and pistol did not leave him for an instant now. Julien turned at bay, his empty hands outstretched by his sides, and looked his enemy in the eye in silence.
“Where is she?”
“Who?” asked Julien quietly.
“I heard her.” In another moment Julien was on the ground with the man’s knee on his back, his face in the dead leaves. Cold metal pressed against the base of his skull. “Where is she?” the German said softly into his ear.
Julien closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said thickly. He could not stop his trembling. “I was looking for her.”
“I heard her.” The barrel pressed harder for a moment as the man raised his head. “Élise Fournier!” he called out in a ringing voice that carried through the woods. “Zeige dich oder ich erschiesse deinen Freund.” Then in French, “Show yourself or I will shoot your friend.”
There was earth in his mouth, cool and gritty against his tongue. The leaves were rustling overhead. The breeze was warm. His death was cold against the back of his neck as he lay with his face in the dirt and prayed for silence.
He waited for the next sound, and did not breathe.
Chapter 27
THE STRANGEST THING
THE NEXT SOUND was a muttered curse in German.
The pistol left Julien’s neck. There was one moment of joy, like a sweet wind barely rising, before rough hands flipped him over and his breath left him with a cry. The man’s knee pressed painfully into his stomach, a snarl on the cold face above him as the German grabbed him by the throat. “You little French coward,” the man hissed, and his huge fist struck Julien just beside his left eye, snapping his head sideways in a flash of pain and splintered light. Julien’s hands spasmed upward, going for the man’s arms unbidden as if this were a fight, and the hand on his windpipe cut off his breath. His fingers locked weakly around the man’s hard left forearm as, on the other side, the pistol pointed at him again. His knees jerked; white terror filled his mind as he struggled for air. The Gestapo man leaned down, teeth bared, and whispered, “I’ll teach you to fear your betters.”
The hand let go of his throat. He drew in one long, gasping breath, seeing the exultant face above him with its wolf’s grin, blond head haloed in the green and golden light. Then he cried out as the man backhanded him on the same place he’d struck before. In one fluid motion the German jumped to his feet, dragging Julien up by the arm.
“Run!” he snapped, aiming the pistol at Julien and dragging him along. Julien stumbled with him up the false trail he had laid and onto the treehouse path.
They were almost twenty meters closer to Élise before he gathered air and wits enough to dig in his heels. The German was looking back and forth, searching the woods, his pistol gripped firmly but not quite pointing at Julien, and Julien managed to snatch him a little off-balance in the sudden stop. The man cursed him and jerked him forward so hard he almost fell, then pulled him along ten more paces before Julien managed to stop him again, diving to his knees and skidding in the leaves.
They had come over the rise, in sight of the treehouse oak. The rope ladder was gone.
He did not look at the oak. He looked at the ground in front of him, gasping for breath. A boot hit him in the belly, and he doubled over. A hard hand grabbed his right arm; he felt something cold against his wrist and heard a click. He was hauled upward, and the handcuff on his wrist pulled suddenly tight as the Gestapo man locked the other side of it around the lowest limb of a young chestnut above him. The man’s blue eyes blazed at him; he raised his hand to strike again, and Julien flinched. The man smiled slowly, showing his teeth, then put his hands on him and searched him swiftly for weapons, smiled again, and went on down the path at a swift jog, looking left and right through the open woods. Julien stood tethered and sick with fear, his cuffed hand raised in a parody of defiance, forcing himself to look at the ground as his enemy approached the oak.
After twenty seconds he looked up again.
The man had gone past.
Julien stood shaking, taking in deep gulps of air as the broad back receded. His free hand came up to touch his throat, then the tender left side of his face. That was nothing. Nothing. Don’t you know what they do? He’d known nothing.
The foot of that dark staircase filled his mind. Now you will learn.
He couldn’t fall to his knees. He turned and pressed his face against the smooth trunk of the young tree. He was shaking uncontrollably. Please. Please. Heat and cold washed through his body. Please. I’ve been a fool. Please. Please.
He tried to pull himself together, to slow his breathing. He couldn’t. He shut his eyes tight and saw Élise in the treehouse, Élise, her blood and bruises and her living eyes, Élise. He opened his eyes and the light of the afternoon woods smote him, a rich, glowing patchwork of sun and green shade, leaf-shadow and gold, shifting gently as the leaves moved in the wind: utterly, achingly beautiful.
Please. Keep her safe. Anything, if You’ll keep her safe.
Help me face this. Please.
Leaves rustled. The German was returning, off the path. As the man came in sight, his head went up like a dog’s at a sound from the road. An engine. He pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew it, loud and shrill. Julien heard the engine drawing nearer along the Le Puy road, then, unmistakably, turning into the Les Chênes driveway.
Turning off.
The German continued to search as the sound of an automobile door slamming came through the quiet woods, as boots came down the path. He turned at the sight of a black uniform, hailing his colleague with an upraised hand and a call, then stared and converted his wave to a salute.
Down the path came Haas himself.
Haas glanced from side to side, eyes sweeping the woods, strode up and looked Julien over, then turned a cold eye on his subordinate. He snapped out a few questions, the blond one answering with lowered head. Haas’s eyes narrowed. He took up a position in front of Julien, their faces very close, looking into his eyes. Julien tried to keep still.
“Where is the girl?” Haas said in French.
“I don’t know, monsieur.”
“You will address me as Kriminalkomissar. Why did you look for her here rather than elsewhere?”
“I’ve just been searching all the woods, Kri—Kriminalkomissar.”
Haas’s mouth tightened and he glanced away, saying in the same level voice, “Why was she armed?”
Julien’s breath stopped. Armed? A strange detached part of him wondered what she had done as he tried to look
blank.
Haas stood watching him, eyes narrow, face utterly still. Then half turned on his heel and spoke to the blond one, scanning the woods. The blond one stepped off the path where Haas pointed; Haas went the other way, scuffing the deep leaf mold with his boots as if to find any hollow where a girl might lie hidden. Neither of them looked up. Julien did not look up. His throat was utterly dry. They would run out of places so soon, in these woods.
“God’s going to strike you down,” he croaked suddenly. It was pathetic. It was all he had. “You must know that. How do you keep going?” He swallowed, and his voice grew louder. “Knowing how it’ll end? Is it worth it? Being on top for a little while? And then going to hell?”
The blond one laughed, and did not turn. Haas shot Julien a glance and smiled. They went on.
“You think you’re secure in your power. You have the guns and that’s the end of it. God is not mocked!” shouted Julien. “God comes to judge the earth! He has heard the cries of His people! There’s going to be fire!” His voice went shrill. His handcuffed hand was an upraised fist, his other clenched in front of him. His left eye and cheekbone throbbed, unnaturally warm. He must look such a fool. Haas glanced at him again, and he drew breath. “Stop now,” he said. “Turn around. Change your ways. There’s still time.” Something knotted behind his breastbone as he spoke the words, and his hand strained against the steel that bound his wrist. “You’re not damned yet,” he said, and his voice shocked him, deep and guttural with rage. “I wish you were, I wish to God you were, I’d see you rot in hell before I’d give you a speck of the kingdom. They say the truth has power, well that’s the truth if you like. But God forgives. So you still have a chance. So here’s what I’m saying to you!” He was roaring now, almost hanging by his handcuffed hand as he half lunged forward with each shout. “Take it! Take it while you can! I hate you but God will take you in and I will stand by and salute Him because He’s better than me! I’ll do this God’s way and my father’s way because it’s not your way and I loathe your—” He broke off in shock.
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