by Alan Hlad
As she tried to sleep, a rustling, like a chipmunk had gotten into the attic, caused her to sit up. A cushion she had been using for her head fell to the floor.
Bertie opened his eyes and cleared his throat. “All right, my dear?”
She nodded, lit another candle, and then listened. The rumble of distant explosions. A gust of wind caused the cottage to creak. Seconds later, a flutter. And Duchess swooped downstairs.
Susan shot up, wanting to hold her pigeon, caress her wings, and warm her feathers. But she didn’t want to make the same mistake of leaving her bedroom window open. So she ran upstairs and closed the sash to prevent Duchess from prematurely flying away. Running down the hallway, thoughts of Ollie’s message filled her with hope. Her heart raced. She dashed downstairs and froze.
She found Duchess perched on Bertie’s lap. Her once-exquisite feathers, which had shimmered with fluorescent green and purple, now appeared dull, tarnished like old silver. Despite being in the prime of her pigeon years, she looked haggard. Perhaps it was the candlelight. Or maybe Duchess’s wan appearance was compounded by Bertie’s condition—unshaven, oily hair, shoulder bones protruding under his nightclothes.
“She’s knackered,” Bertie said, staring at Duchess. He coughed into his handkerchief.
Duchess blinked.
“I’m under the weather,” Bertie said to the pigeon.
Susan carefully picked up Duchess, untangling a toenail that had gotten stuck in Bertie’s blanket. She kissed her pigeon on the head, then caressed her wings.
Duchess closed her eyes.
“She’s freezing,” Susan said. She blew warm air over her feathers. After a few minutes of warming her, she noticed that Duchess had fallen asleep. Rather than disturb her rest by unstrapping the canister from her leg, she carefully removed the message and returned the cap. Gently, she placed Duchess on Bertie’s lap.
“It’s too much for her,” Susan said.
Bertie rubbed a finger over Duchess’s back.
Susan stared at her exhausted pigeon and frail grandfather. Determined to mend them back to health, she’d begin by grounding Duchess for at least several days before allowing her to fly again. As for Bertie, she’d continue with his sulfa pills and vapor treatments until his infected lungs were clear.
She squeezed the rolled piece of paper. More than ever, she needed Ollie. She longed for his words, which would give her hope that everything would be all right. As she unfolded the note, a strange penmanship shocked her. Quickly, she retrieved the codebook and began to decipher the message.
“No!” Susan shouted.
“What’s wrong?” Bertie coughed.
Susan shook her head and continued decoding. She struggled to concentrate as she translated the message.
“It can’t be . . .” She labored to breathe. Her legs swayed.
Bertie slipped on his glasses.
Susan handed him the paper, then picked up Duchess and pressed the pigeon to her chest. As Bertie read the message, she prayed that her brain, shaken like a snow globe by the shock waves of exploding bombs, was not interpreting the words correctly. But she knew what she had read. And what it meant. There was no denying that whatever had happened in France had had tragic consequences.
No! Not Ollie! Dread gathered into a lump in the back of her throat, producing the urge to vomit. A cold sweat formed on her neck. He’s alive, she struggled to convince herself. He’ll make it home. But the revelation on that piece of paper was clear. Her hope of him returning to her was lost. Ollie was gone. A spasm of loneliness twisted her heart. Her mind and body gutted, she began to weep.
Bertie lowered the message and removed his glasses. He extended his arms.
Susan released Duchess and buried her head in Bertie’s chest.
“We must have faith that he’s all right,” he said.
Duchess waddled in a circle on the floor.
Susan felt Bertie’s chest heave as he struggled to contain a cough. “What are we to do?”
“First, we relay the message to the RAF.”
She sat up and wiped her eyes. “Then what?”
“We wait.”
“We must do something.”
“At this point, we only know that our Oliver from Maine is missing.”
Hearing the word missing caused Susan to lower her head into her hands.
Duchess perked her head. She waddled across the floor and poked Susan’s ankle with her beak.
She looked at her pigeon. Duchess scratched the floor. Susan reached down to pick up Duchess, but she fluttered to the window and began pecking at the blackout curtain.
“She wants to leave,” Bertie said.
Ollie’s not there to receive a message. She clasped her hands to keep them from trembling.
Duchess stretched her wings and took flight. She circled the living room and darted upstairs.
A moment later, Susan heard pecking on her bedroom window. She glanced at the ceiling. When the noise stopped, she thought Duchess had given up, until she saw her swoop into the living room. Instead of landing, Duchess flew headfirst into the blackout curtain.
Susan gasped.
Duchess dropped to the floor.
“Good Lord!” Bertie said.
Susan went to pick up Duchess, but she shot up and fluttered. The pigeon darted again for the window. The thud of Duchess’s body striking the curtain caused Susan to scream.
Stunned, Duchess flapped one of her wings, propelling her sideways into the wall.
Susan scooped her pigeon into her arms. She stroked her back. But her touch only seemed to make things worse. Her wiry legs wriggled. Her talons scraped Susan’s forearm. “What wrong?”
Duchess jutted her head.
For the next hour, Susan tried to calm Duchess. She rubbed her wings, tempted her with food, which she didn’t eat, and blew warm air over her plume. And each time she thought her pigeon had calmed down, she released her grip only to see Duchess dart into the curtain and fall to the floor, now covered with a blanket to protect her from being injured. She’d even tried placing her in a basket she’d retrieved from a loft. But the confinement only made Duchess beat her wings against the cage. With few other options, Susan resorted to wrapping her pigeon in a towel.
Bertie struggled to stand from his chair. His weak knees wobbled. He grabbed his walking stick, dust-covered and propped against the fireplace, and hobbled to Susan.
Susan, swaddling Duchess, looked up from her seat on the floor. The sight of Bertie, relenting to use his walking stick, caused her eyes to water. “She’s gone mad.”
“We must let her go,” he said.
“But she’ll fly away. She doesn’t have the strength.”
Bertie coughed, then took a moment to catch his breath. “If she stays, she’ll hurt herself.”
Susan sensed Duchess fidgeting. The mission, it seemed, had turned her pet into a wild bird. Through tear-filled eyes, she looked at Bertie and knew they had no other choice.
Bertie worked his way across the living room, having to stop twice to rest. Reaching the window, he pulled back the blackout curtain and undid the latch. The window screeched open.
The cold air seemed to settle Duchess. Carefully, Susan unwrapped the towel to find that a tail feather had fallen out.
Duchess looked up, her golden eyes shimmered with candlelight.
“Please, don’t go.” Susan caressed her pigeon.
Duchess blinked. She leapt, flapped her wings, and flew into the night.
CHAPTER 47
AIRAINES, FRANCE
The staccato rhythm of rain on the barn roof slowed to a stop. Ollie’s breath, penetrating the cold air, produced a puffy mist. Morning sunlight spilled through cracks in the boards.
He’d spent the night alone in the barn, with the exception of Madeleine stopping in at one point. Without speaking, she’d placed his jacket over his shoulders, set a blanket at his feet, and returned to the cottage. And for the next several hours, he deliberated over the no
te. Boar wrote the message, he repeated to himself. But a voice deep inside his head continued to remind him that Madeleine, not Boar, had been the first to retrieve Duchess.
Ollie’s body shuddered with anguish. He shook away images of the message and thought of Susan—her eloquent stature, the exquisite curvature of her cheekbones. A flash of their trip to Clacton-on-Sea and the way she had enlightened him on the history of pigeons in war, making him realize how little pilots, especially crop-dusters, knew about flying. The way their knees slightly touched as they sat on the sofa together, sending a tingle up his spine and making him forget, at least for the moment, about the loss of his family. He admired her bravery as bombs fell on London, her unwavering belief that her mission would enable Britain to win the war. And her tenacity to carry on, no matter how bad things got.
Ollie struggled to maintain his faith. As he reached into his jacket to reexamine the message, he heard the plodding of hooves. He stepped to the barn door and peeked outside to see a large wagon being pulled by a pair of bristly mules, vapor spewing from their nostrils. Holding the reins was a priest, Ollie assumed, considering the man was wearing a dark-brown clergy robe with a hood pulled over his head.
The cottage door opened. “Lieutenant,” Madeleine called.
The priest pulled on the reins. The mules brayed, and the wagon stopped.
Ollie, realizing that this must be the guide Madeleine had arranged, left the barn. As he approached, the priest turned and removed his hood, causing Ollie to slow his pace.
A mask covered half the priest’s face, below the eyes. What appeared to be a molded piece of copper was painted a bright flesh tone, a shade or two lighter than the exposed skin on the man’s forehead. Hair clippings, the same dark brown as his sideburns, were glued to form a mustache.
Boar stepped to the doorway and stopped. He glanced at the priest, then turned to Madeleine. “Is this our man?”
Madeleine nodded and walked to the wagon. “Lucien Bellamy, my husband’s friend.”
Boar cleared his throat. “I didn’t expect a priest.”
“He’s a monk, not a priest,” Madeleine said.
Lucien dropped the reins, stepped down from the wagon, and greeted Madeleine by placing a hand on her shoulder.
Ollie stepped to Lucien. “Ollie,” he said, extending his hand.
The monk hesitated, then shook his hand.
Ollie noticed thick scaly scars on Lucien’s forearm. “Did you serve in the Great War with Guillaume?”
Lucien nodded.
“What’s your plan?” Boar asked, keeping his distance.
The monk produced a piece of slate, the size of a postcard, that was hanging from a string around his neck, then scribbled with a piece of chalk.
“He’s taken a vow of silence,” Madeleine said.
“Splendid,” Boar groaned.
Lucien flipped the piece of slate to read, Monastères.
“He plans to smuggle you through monasteries,” Madeleine said. “Until you reach zone libre and eventually Spain.”
“Does he understand English?” Boar asked.
Madeleine nodded.
Boar walked to Lucien. “How do you plan to get us to Spain?”
Lucien pointed to the wagon.
Boar shook his head. “Even if we fill it with straw, the Wehrmacht will search the wagon.” He glanced at the masked monk, then looked at Madeleine. “No disrespect, but he looks like he’s going to a bloody masquerade. He’ll do nothing but draw attention to us.”
“His name is Lucien,” Ollie said. “And he’s risking his life to help us.”
“He’ll get us shot at the first checkpoint.” Boar rubbed his broken eye, as if he were trying to get it to work.
Lucien climbed into the back of the wagon and worked his way to the front of the bed. He gripped a panel and tugged. A false wall opened, revealing a small space of less than two feet in depth, running the width of the wagon under the driver’s bench.
“Clever,” Ollie said. He looked at the hidden compartment, split in half with a horizontal board. The space was far smaller than their hole under the floorboards, but it appeared that there would be enough room for two men. He climbed into the wagon and wriggled into the lower half of the compartment, having to scrunch his limbs.
“It’s ludicrous,” Boar said.
Ollie squeezed out of the compartment, then stepped down from the wagon. “It’ll work.” He took the pistol from his jacket and slid it next to his belt, making certain that the lieutenant could see it. Speaking softly, so only Boar could hear, he said, “Madeleine will be shot if we’re found here. She’s done enough.”
Boar paused, then said, “Sorry about your news, Yank.”
Ollie’s face turned hot. He inched closer and stared into Boar’s lifeless eye. “Take Lucien and the wagon to the barn. Fill the back with manure.”
“Fucking rotter,” Boar hissed. “I don’t take orders from you.”
“I’ve got something to do before we leave.” Before Boar could respond, Ollie walked into the cottage.
Inside, he retrieved a hammer and nails, then began securing the floorboards. The sound of Madeleine’s footsteps, accompanied by the patter of Louis’s hooves, caused him to look up. “If the Nazis show up, I don’t want them to find the hole,” he said, adjusting a board.
Madeleine nodded. She scratched her hog behind the ears, causing him to twitch his tail.
Ollie quickly pounded in the nails. After securing the last of the floorboards, he slid the table back into place.
“N’abandonnez jamais,” Madeleine said.
Ollie turned.
“It means, Never give up,” she added.
He nodded, realizing how much Madeleine reminded him of his own mother. “You could come with us, pretend to be Lucien’s interpreter. It’d be safer for you in the free zone.”
Madeleine shook her head.
“Please,” Ollie said. “Join us.”
She rubbed Louis’s head. “I must wait for my Guillaume.”
No matter how hard Ollie tried to convince Madeleine to leave, she refused. It was clear to him that she was determined to wait for her missing husband, despite the likelihood that the Nazis, retracing Dietrich’s routine, would eventually return to her cottage. As he walked her to the door, he knew there would be no changing her mind. And he hoped that his efforts to dispose of Dietrich’s body would eventually lead the Nazis far away from Madeleine.
Outside, to his surprise, he found that Boar and Lucien had loaded the back of the wagon with manure and some of the rotten potatoes, too far gone for even Louis to eat.
Boar brushed his hands on his pants and stepped to Madeleine. “This is it, I’m afraid.”
Madeleine, having to stand on her toes, kissed Boar on both cheeks, then watched him climb into the back of the wagon.
As Ollie prepared to say good-bye, a flutter caused him to stop. He turned to see Duchess land at his feet.
The pigeon looked up and blinked.
Boar stared from the back of the wagon. He pressed his boot into a rotten potato.
Ollie picked up Duchess and stroked her wings. Then, like he always had, he opened the canister attached to the pigeon’s leg. His heart sank. “It’s empty.”
Boar crossed his arms. “I think you owe me an apology, Yank.”
Ollie ignored the lieutenant. He caressed Duchess, noticing that she’d lost weight. Her feathers, once lustrous, now seemed tattered. Ollie believed he was to blame for her condition. She’d selflessly risked her life carrying his messages. He wished he could tuck her into his jacket and carry her safely out of France. But he’d likely never make it to the free zone, let alone Britain. Her best chance for survival was to fly out of here, just as she had done before. “I can’t take you with me,” he said to the pigeon.
Duchess’s chest pulsed as she took in air.
As Ollie caressed Duchess, he thought of Susan. A wave of regret flooded his head. He reached into his jacket and removed
the codebook. Taking out a piece of paper, he quickly coded a message, then slid it into the canister and sealed the cap. “I want you to rest with Madeleine. Then fly home and stay.”
Duchess lowered her head.
Ollie stepped to Madeleine. “She’s weak. Two-way pigeons are not supposed to have food and water at the second location, but she needs time to recover.”
“Come on, Yank,” Boar called from the wagon.
“I’ll take good care of her,” Madeleine said.
“I know you will.” As Ollie handed Duchess to Madeleine, the pigeon leapt. He reached, but it was too late. His fingers graced her tail. Her wings brushed his face. Helplessly, he watched the pigeon shoot over the wagon.
Duchess circled the cottage and slowly gained altitude.
“It’s my fault,” Madeleine said.
“No,” Ollie said. “If she wants to fly, there’s nothing we can do.”
“Will she come back?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He watched Duchess disappear over the trees, then stepped to Madeleine. He hugged her, then kissed her cheek.
“Adieu.” Madeleine wiped her eyes.
“I’ll never forget you.” Ollie climbed into the wagon, then slid into the hiding compartment. Boar wedged into the bunk above him. Ollie watched Lucien seal the panel, turning the compartment black, except for a small crack of light near his knee. The wagon rocked as Lucien took his seat. A snap of leather. The mules brayed. And the wagon rolled forward.
CHAPTER 48
ROUEN, FRANCE
It was no more than an hour before the wagon stopped. Without a breeze, the hidden compartment began to reek of manure and rotted potatoes. Guttural German dialect made Ollie’s hair stand on the back of his neck. Roadblock? Wehrmacht? The wagon shook as Lucien shifted in the seat above him.
Someone, Ollie presumed a soldier, said something that made his companions laugh. Ollie heard a hand gripping the side of the wagon several inches from his head. He held his breath. At any moment, he expected the Wehrmacht to notice that the dimensions of the wagon bed were slightly off, leading them to inspect the area beneath Lucien’s seat. Instead, the wagon jerked. The mules clopped at a slow pace. And they continued on their journey.