by Sarah Sundin
A rock jabbed his ribs as truth jabbed his brain. They knew him as he was now, not a goof-up but a leader.
Roger opened his eyes. He’d changed. Could his dream change too?
38
January 15, 1945
The nurses sat in the cellar of a home in the crossroads village, silent but exultant. Kay studied the small window at shoulder height that opened to the alley behind the house. The orange glow of sunset filled the cellar. Only a few more hours and they’d head to the coast, where the boat was scheduled to arrive around two in the morning.
The inside door to the cellar banged open, and Giovanni scrambled down the narrow steps, wild-eyed, and he spoke to Enrico in quiet but frantic tones.
Kay’s breath stilled. She stood and joined Roger, Mike, and the partisans.
“What’s up?” Roger asked.
Enrico’s dark eyebrows drew together. “A German patrol is in town, searching house to house. They come from the west. Two soldiers search, one driver in the car.”
“Man alive.” Roger ran his hand through his hair. “We’re only about six houses in.”
“We need to leave now,” Mike said.
“No.” Roger grasped his copilot’s arm. “That’s what they want. They want to flush us out. We need a plan. Kay, get the ladies ready. Keep it quiet.”
Kay’s hands felt numb, but she nodded. She returned to the nurses.
“What’s going on?” Vera asked, a bit too loudly.
“Quiet.” Kay squatted in front of them. “We have to leave very soon. A German patrol is in town. We’ll have to move fast. Get ready.”
“Oh no.” Georgie clapped a hand over her mouth, and her eyelids fluttered. “We were so close.”
“We still are. Get ready and stay calm.”
Mellie squeezed Georgie’s shoulders. “We will.”
Georgie lifted her chin. “Yes, we will.”
The ladies put on their outerwear, looped musette bags around their necks, and piled the few remaining barracks bags by the window.
Kay returned to the men. The map was spread on a table upside down, and Roger was drawing a map of the village on it. The town was shaped like a Y, with the long leg pointing to the sea. Blocks represented the houses, with a bunch of dots in one house on the long leg—where they were now.
Roger beckoned her close to the map. He traced an arrow running from the back of the house, down the alley, connecting outside the village with the main road to the sea.
“That’s our route,” Kay whispered. “Won’t they . . . ?”
Roger pressed a finger to his lips, his brown eyes serious. He traced a second arrow running from the back of the house in the other direction and into the street in front of the German car. “Diversion,” he wrote.
Kay’s breath quickened. The partisans would do that for them? Just so they could escape?
Roger pointed to the house next door, drew two swastikas inside and one in the car, then he retraced the diversion arrow.
Kay nodded. They’d time the diversion when two of the Germans were inside.
Roger ended the diversion arrow close to the car, drew an X, then mimed honking a horn. The driver would make a racket, but he’d wait for his colleagues before he chased the partisans.
He pointed to Kay then to the window. That was the signal to escape. Kay nodded and wiped her palms on her trousers.
Starting at the X of the diversion, Roger drew a line heading inland through town, branching at the fork in the road at the piazza.
All right. That might work. The Germans would chase the men—two of them—and they’d go in two directions. As Italians, they could blend in and evade capture. Meanwhile, the Americans could escape to the sea.
Someone stamped upstairs.
Kay startled.
Roger stared at the ceiling, then motioned to Enrico. Oh no, was Enrico part of the diversion? He was just a boy. They couldn’t let him.
Then Roger turned to Kay and laid one hand on her shoulder. His eyes—she’d never seen that look in them—as if he were memorizing everything about her, and so firm, so fond, so sad. He pressed his lips into a straight line and headed to the window where Enrico waited.
Terror ripped through her heart. Good Lord, no! Not Roger! He couldn’t be part of the diversion.
Kay dashed after him, grabbed his arm. “No,” she whispered.
Roger faced her and nodded. He took her by the shoulders and leaned close to her ear. “Need two to divert.”
She shook her head, over and over. No, not him.
He pointed at Giovanni, at the group, at the window. Giovanni would be their leader. They did need someone who spoke Italian. That left Enrico . . . and the Americans.
Tears filled Kay’s eyes. Roger would never ask his men to sacrifice. He’d do it himself. “I’ll go with you.”
“No,” he murmured. He gestured with his head to the ladies. They needed her.
Her love and her grief welled up and melded together. She placed her hands on his chest and tapped dot-dash-dot . . . R, her Roger, the man she loved, the man she’d always love.
His eyes scrunched up, and he mashed a kiss to her forehead, stayed there, his fingers tapping on her shoulder.
Kay struggled to concentrate on the message with his warm lips full on her forehead, with grief straining at her heart.
K, he tapped.
She nodded gently so as not to end the kiss.
He drummed out a message, his fingers insistent. R-U-N.
She gulped back a sob and tapped, Y-O-U-T-O-O.
Roger broke away and climbed out the window. Gone, just like that.
Georgie slipped an arm around her shoulder. “He’ll be fine, sweetie,” she whispered.
Kay slapped her hand over her mouth. She’d never see him again, would she? He wouldn’t live the day.
Roger crept down the alley with Enrico, heading inland, creamy plastered houses on one side, a rough stone wall on the other. Everything inside him ached from Kay’s despair. But he had to do this so she could escape. If there were any other way . . .
He gritted his teeth. There wasn’t. Enrico had offered to go alone, but if the Nazis caught him, they’d torture and execute him. With two of them, they stood a better chance, and Enrico had scouted out hiding places this morning. Always thinking ahead, that kid.
They turned down a narrow passageway to the main street, down broad stone stairs.
Enrico peeked into the street, popped back into the passageway, and held up one hand. Roger pressed back against the cool wall. An eerie silence enveloped the village. No one would dare provoke the Germans.
His heart hammered out a rhythm he hated, the rhythm of fear. But he had to do this. Lord, let this work. Let the women and my crew escape. Please.
His stomach squirmed like a worm on a hook, which was what he was.
Enrico peered around the corner and raised one finger. The Nazis must have entered the house next door to the hiding place. Now to make sure they were well inside.
Roger set his hand on Enrico’s shoulder. They might not see each other again. The boy faced him with dark eyes wide. He might be brave, he might be bold, but he was still a frightened little kid inside. Roger squeezed his shoulder. “Grazie, il mio amico.”
One side of his mouth twitched up. “Prego.”
“Let’s go.”
The men sauntered down the street toward the German car. With Roger’s red hair and American pilot’s crush cap and leather flight jacket, he had to be a mighty tempting worm, even in the falling twilight.
He strolled closer and closer to the jaws of the Nazi fish. The closer he got, the lower the chance of escape.
Roger poked a loose cobblestone from the road with his toe and kicked it down the street.
The fish snapped. The driver looked their way. Stared.
“Now!” Roger stopped in his tracks, turned, and sprinted down the road.
The car honked.
Run, Kay! Run. And Roger ran, harder than
he’d ever run before, despite his weakened condition. They crossed the triangular piazza at the fork in the road. Enrico ran right, Roger went left. Lord, keep the kid safe.
But Enrico was young and fast, and he could blend in with the locals.
Roger dashed down the narrow curving street, counted off the buildings to his hiding place, then went down two more, where a cellar window sat at street level. He kicked in the window. A great crash, the tinkle of falling glass, a scream.
“Take that bait, you stupid stinking fish.” He hurried back to the building Enrico told him about, an abandoned bakery. Roger tested the door. Unlocked, thank goodness. He stepped inside and shut the door.
Yeah, it was a bakery, all right, with a long counter, a big double brick oven, and crates and barrels. Enrico told him he could hide in a barrel.
Maybe a scrawny teenage boy could fit inside, but not Roger Cooper.
He glanced around frantically. The oven?
His stomach turned. He’d never been claustrophobic, but an oven?
Shouts rang out down the street.
No time to be picky. Roger opened the lower oven door. A giant brass pot sat inside, and he slid it out and poked his head in. Long and wide, but only about two feet high. Big enough.
He crawled inside. Wasn’t this how Hansel and Gretel coaxed the witch to her doom? What if someone started a fire?
Roger groaned. What choice did he have? He tried to pull the door shut, but of course the handle was on the outside. He leaned out, hefted the pot back inside with him, closed the door as best he could, and slid the pot in front of the door.
Curled up with his knees to his chest, his head close to the door, he pressed hard against the wall and willed himself invisible.
What a strange place this would be to die. Even his parents, who believed he’d never amount to anything, couldn’t have imagined an ending like this.
Dark, stuffy, no air. Ash tickled his nose, and he sneezed. He couldn’t afford to do that again. He worked a handkerchief free from his shirt pocket and covered his nose.
Someone pounded on a door. Glass smashed, two men shouted in German.
Roger gritted his teeth and pulled his body as far from the oven door as possible. He eased his pistol from its holster. If discovered, he’d shoot and make a break for it.
One set of footsteps pounded up the stairs in the front of the building, and another clomped through the store up front. More glass smashed.
Prayers tumbled in Roger’s head, unintelligible. His nose itched. A sneeze would kill him. He pressed one finger hard against his upper lip until the compulsion to sneeze passed.
The footsteps drew nearer. Pottery smashed, wood scraped on tile.
He held stone-still, one finger on the trigger, another jammed under his nose so hard his eyes watered. Lord, please, make him blind.
Closer and closer. The upper oven door squeaked open.
Roger trained his pistol on the oven door, praying he wouldn’t have to shoot.
The door opened. Light slipped around the edges of the pot. The soldier shoved the pot back, right into Roger’s knees.
He bit back a cry, kept the pistol level. One word and he’d fire.
“Sind sie hier?” a voice said from across the room.
“Nein. Niemand.” The door slammed shut. “Wohin gehen sie?”
“Ich weiss nicht, aber wir werden ihnen finden.” Footsteps thumped back to the street.
A long low sigh fluffed out the handkerchief. Silence, except his own galloping heart.
He was alive! He was actually alive.
A second thrill turned up a smile. They’d followed him and not Enrico. The kid would be fine. The Germans would break into some house and find a family with one extra child. Enrico would have taken off the hat and coat they’d be searching for. He’d live too. Thank you, Lord.
A third thrill, and he stretched out his cramped legs. By now, the girls would be well on their way to the coast, to freedom, to home.
The thrills fizzled out and fell as ash. He wouldn’t be going with them.
39
A car honked.
“Roger,” Kay whispered—a prayer, a plea, a dirge.
Giovanni opened the window, climbed into the alley, and beckoned everyone out. Mike, Pettas, and Whitaker helped the nurses, then shoved out the barracks bags, containing not much more than blankets at this point—and Roger’s kit bag.
Kay gazed around the narrow, twilight-gray alley, her head light, her senses overwhelmed by the blaring horn. The women clutched one another’s arms.
After the men climbed out, Giovanni motioned them down the alley toward the sea.
Away from Roger. The horn stopped honking, voices shouted in German, and an engine revved.
Kay braced her hand against the clammy plaster wall. Run hard, Roger. Please, Lord, let him escape. Enrico too.
But where would they hide? The Germans would turn the village inside out to find them.
Giovanni stopped and held up one hand. He crept down a passageway to the main street. A minute later he returned and continued on the way. The ladies followed the armed partisan, with Whitaker and Pettas behind them, and Mike with his pistol to the rear.
Dread swirled in an oily black pool in Kay’s stomach. If the Nazis caught Roger or Enrico, they’d execute them on the spot.
At the last house in the village, Giovanni again scouted around to the main road. The land lay open for a good hundred yards where the road entered the village. They’d be clearly visible.
When Giovanni returned, he pointed up the wooded hill that flanked the village, then swept an arc with his arm back toward the road.
First they’d have to climb the six-foot-tall stone wall that kept the hillside from spilling into the alley. Pettas and Whitaker made stepping stools of their hands and hoisted the ladies up. Kay waited to go last. She gazed down the alley. Maybe Roger could circle back and join them. But no one entered the alley. Sounds of thumping doors and shattering glass assaulted her ears. Please, Lord, don’t let the Germans find them.
Vera climbed onto the wall, stood, and swung back her barracks bag.
Too much momentum. Kay gasped. Vera tottered on the edge and plunged to the cobblestone road.
Vera crumpled to the ground, cried out, clamped it off.
Kay and the men dropped to their knees around her.
“Vera,” Kay whispered. “Oh my goodness.”
“My ankle.” The brunette clutched her leg, her face writhing in pain.
Kay exchanged a glance with Mike. They had no time for first aid and no mule to transport her.
“Go on without me.” Vera yanked off her shoe and probed her ankle, wincing. “It’s bad. I can’t walk.”
“We won’t leave you,” Mike said.
“You have to.” She gripped Kay’s shoulder and pulled her close, face to face. “Tell Frank I love him.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” Not just because she wouldn’t pass a message from a mistress to her lover, but because she would not leave the nurse behind. “We’ll work it out.”
Mike took Vera’s hand and helped her to standing. Whitaker scrambled up the wall and lifted Vera under the arms, while Pettas and Mike pushed her up.
Then Whitaker heaved Vera over his beefy shoulders and forged his way up the hill. He couldn’t do that for long, but then they could take turns supporting her as she hobbled.
Kay climbed the wall next and scanned the village, desperate for a glimpse of Roger.
Mike hoisted himself up, glanced at Kay in alarm, and motioned her to the protection of the trees.
They threaded their way up through the woods. Leaves slipped under Kay’s feet, and moisture seeped through the holes in her soles. Although they’d left the snow behind at higher elevations, the temperature hovered right above freezing.
Inside she shivered more than on the many treks through snow. Roger.
Over half an hour passed before they returned to the main road. Darkness had fallen,
and they braved the main road, which wound through wooded hills. Whitaker and Pettas linked their arms like a chair and carried Vera, while Mike manned the pistol.
Kay walked at a sharp pace, lungs tight, ears pricked, eyes darting back and forth, searching for places to hide if necessary.
A bang sounded behind them, muffled by distance, retorting through the trees. And another.
Kay wheeled around and sucked in a breath. What was that?
Mike took her elbow, led her down the road. “We need to hurry,” he said in a low voice.
“What was that?”
He didn’t answer, he didn’t look at her, he kept walking, his face unreadable in the darkness. But the tightness of his grip spoke volumes.
Oh, Lord. Oh no. Two gunshots.
Kay gasped and sank to her knees. No, no, no.
Mike pulled on her arm. “Come on. We have to go. We have to get to the boat on time. They won’t wait.”
She stared up at him, her mind dazed, muddy, reeling. How could she go on? How could she?
He squatted in front of her, set his hand on her cheek, and leaned close. “We don’t know what happened. Could’ve been the Nazis firing wild shots at our men and missing. Could’ve been Roger shooting at the Nazis. Could’ve been some farmer putting his mule out of its misery. Might even have been that German car backfiring. We don’t know.”
If so, why did Kay feel as if the bullet had barreled through her heart?
Mike caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Right now, we need to move on. Your friends need you.”
The ladies stood nearby, clumped together, holding each other, hands pressed over their mouths. Yes, they needed Kay to lead them, to escape. That was why Roger had caused the diversion in the first place.
Kay pushed herself to her feet and propelled herself forward. She tried to shove aside all thoughts but escape, but one image persisted, burning into her mind . . .
Roger and Enrico on their knees, hands tied behind their backs, pistols shoved to the base of their skulls.
No, no, no. Lord, no. Kay clutched her arm around her stomach and forced her feet to move, one step, then another.