Книга: An Owl's Whisper

An Owl’s Whisper

Michael J. Smith

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters, other than historical persons, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Robert J. Grabowski

ISBN:1460976312

ISBN-13: 978-1460976319

E- Book ISBN: 978-1-43928-724-8

For my parents.

Acknowledgments

Most novels are born with the assistance of many midwives, each of whom contributes in unique ways to the final product. That was certainly true for my baby, An Owl’s Whisper, and I am pleased to acknowledge their significant contributions. While I gladly share the credit for whatever in the novel works well, I hold my midwives liable for none of its failings.

First and foremost, thanks to my family, Julie, Adam, and Ariel, for unwavering love, support and patience.

My parents, Andrée and Jim Smith, generously shared powerful first person accounts of the occupation and the war in eastern Belgium in the 1940s. Long before that, and more importantly, they imparted an intellectual curiosity and a spark of creativity that unfailingly drove me forward in this writing project and in life.

Ski Grabowski has been particularly devoted to this novel. He did the cover art and tirelessly gave perceptive editorial advice and encouragement, literally from day one.

To members of my writers’ critique group, I owe hearty thanks for their sharp pencils, fine literary sense, and unflagging support. Group members are Venera Di Bella Barles, Sue Bielka, Bill Campbell, Brett Gadbois, Margaret Trent, Harriet Davis, Marcia Rudoff, and Barbara Winther.

My sincere thanks to the kind and perceptive souls who read the novel in varying stages of polish. Each provided helpful, often crucial, feedback. Suzanne Arney, Carole Glickfeld, Jackie Haviland, Robert Potter, Ariel Smith, Julie Smith, Patrice Watson, Trese Williamson, and Kellie Zimmerman.

Finally, I am grateful to people with specific areas of expertise for their generous help. Frank Harding; Hooker County, Nebraska. Danielle Valentiny and Benjamin Stevens; Belgium. Elizabeth Turner and Larry Galpert; child psychology. Norm Hollingshead; opera. Rick Dooling; marketing. Gail Hochman; plot strategy. Sharon Cumberland, Carole Glickfield, David Guterson, Michael Hauge, Priscilla Long, and Bob Mayer; superb Field’s End writing class instructors, all.

Historical context for An Owl’s Whisper

In September 1939 forces of Hitler’s Third Reich invaded Poland, whose allies Britain and France responded with a declaration of war on Germany. In May 1940 German forces drove through neutral Belgium to strike France. In the following weeks, Belgium, Holland and France surrendered and the continental Occupation began. The United States entered the war in December 1941. In June 1944 the Allies made their D-Day landings in Normandy, and by the following September they had pushed Nazi forces back into Germany. Hitler launched a massive, desperate thrust, the decisive Battle of the Bulge, in December 1944. The war in Europe ended in May 1945 with Germany’s surrender.

Contents

Part I: La Folia

On Henri’s Leash

Whispering Owls

Be the Stone

May 10, 1940

Be the Leaf

Filthy and Pristine

Roller Coaster Ride

Red and White

Caspar, Not Marco

Stitches

A Mother

Walks, Together

Poisoned Cheese

Huntress and Prey

Voices in the Vault

Lights in the Night

Prize Fight in Lefebvre

The New Sébastien

Juive, Judas

Part II: Peccavi

The Führer’s Eyes

Smithwycke

Shipped Home in a Coffin

The Changing Tide

Kismet

Henri’s Questions

Crickette and Max

Champagne for Christmas

Geese With Foxes’ Teeth

December 16

^th

and All’s Hell

Ardennes Truck Stop

Tigers in the Woods

Obligations

Across From the Tannery

In Fragrant Water

Picnic

Giovanna’s Sin

Two Hundred Twenty-five Pocahontases

A New Forest

Car No. 1120, Compartment Two

New Home, New Hope

Part III: Heads Is Tails

At First Sight

Bluestem Folk

Opera and

Mardi Gras

A Heroine Surely

Snake

Ghost From the Past

In Sickness

The First Day of My Life

White and Red

White and Black

Who Murders a Dying Woman?

Whiskey in the Afternoon

Wallener

An Owl Whispers

Knowing Heads From Tails

Off the Hook

Part I La Folia

On Henri’s Leash

Eastern Belgium, October 1937

Walking from the car, fourteen-year-old Eva Messiaen struggled to keep up with the man clutching her wrist, the man she called Uncle Henri. She looked at Caspar, the small gray dog pattering at her side, and smiled at his floppy right ear, smirking there next to its soldier-straight mate on the left. Henri’s tug pitched her gaze back to his hand and doused the sparkle in her eyes. She peeked at her dog. We’re both on a leash, aren’t we, Caspie? Then she winked. But not for long. She wasn’t surprised when the dog glanced back as if he’d been thinking the same thing.

Eva followed Henri through the green wooden gate of a crumbling wall, to the pathway that led to the Convent School of St. Sébastien. Treading the path’s moss-ringed flagstones, Eva counted them off, alternating French and German in a quiet singsong. “Une. Zwei. Trois. Vier. Cinq. Sechs. Sept—”

Henri jerked her to a halt. “I warned you!”

Tears welled in Eva’s eyes. “But uncle, I was only playing a game with the numbers.”

“Games are for children. As are tears.” Henri touched his swagger stick to her cheek. “Don’t ever forget why you’re here.” As his eyes darted to the convent’s dark windows, he froze. Lips pinched, he slowly lowered the rod. “Oh Eva, don’t cower. Would I strike you over a little slip of the tongue?” He slapped the stick on his leg.

Eva knew better than to answer his question. “It was careless of me.”

Henri tucked the rod under his arm and glanced at the convent. “Just remember—they can’t always be watching.” He smiled like a gambler laying down his winning hand. “You won’t test my patience again, will you?”

She bit her lip. “No, uncle.”

They covered the remaining flagstones briskly and climbed the three slate steps to the convent’s massive, tin-inlaid door. Henri set down Eva’s valise. He put on his pince-nez and glanced at his pocket watch, then he pulled the doorbell cord. When Caspar scratched behind his ear, Henri jerked the thin leather leash from Eva’s hand and tied it to the handrail.

Eva caught her reflection in the long window next to the door. She glanced down to the embroidered bottom of her cream-colored dress, showing beneath the hem of her gray wool coat. And up to her slender face, framed by oak-blond tresses that spilled from of her maroon beret and tumbled over the black velvet of her collar.

When Caspar whimpered, Eva stooped to pet him and saw Henri tapping his toe as he did so often. Nothing was ever quick enough for him. Or good enough. The tapping was a physical echo of the impatience she’d seen early that morning as they sat waiting in the car as Pruvot, his driver, changed a flat tire. To fill the time—every minute must be full, according to Uncle—he had quizzed her on minutia of the history and geography that gave their destination, the village of Lefebvre, its centuries-old status as a carrefour, its strategic importance. Eva too had been impatient, but just to get a first glimpse of her town.

Even with the delay, they had arrived while the village was still sleeping. With Henri as guide, she spent the morning studying Lefebvre’s every nook, even pacing off distances. She sketched it all in her notebook. Henri made a special point of the grand stone bridge, the Pont de Pierre, spanning the River Meuse. He repeated what he’d been telling her all along. “Like the Rhine, the Meuse is a wall dividing, dominating the land of northern Europe. The Pont de Pierre and the bridges in Liege and Namur are gates in the wall. Who controls these gates, controls Europe.” Before they left Lefebvre, he tested her to be sure she’d committed every detail of the town’s layout to memory.

After finishing in the village, they’d made a stop on the drive to St. Sébastien so Henri could show her a hillside path overlooking the military post and materiel warehouse at a road-rail intersection just outside Lefebvre. They counted the men of the Belgian army garrison lounging there in the yard, smoking and playing cards. Then, as they approached St. Sébastien, Henri gripped her arm and said, “The army post, the bridge, the transport lines. That’s why Lefebvre matters so. We’ve shown much trust, placing you here, Eva. Be worthy of it.”

The sound of the convent door groaning open snapped Eva’s attention back to the moment. A tiny, young nun, panting for breath, stood in the doorway. Sister Mouse. Her size, her face, her scuttling way made clear to Eva she could have no other name.

Sister Mouse wiped her hands with a small towel and nodded repeatedly. “Oh, Monsieur Messiaen, forgive my tardiness. I was pulling bread from the oven. What a pleasure to see you on such a lovely autumn afternoon. Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you, Sister Martine.” Henri removed his gray bowler and eased Eva into the dark corridor before him.

Eva closed her eyes and silently mouthed Martine, not Mouse.

After smiling at Eva and glancing at the valise, Sister Martine’s gaze stuck on Monsieur Messiaen. She looked honored to have shown him in. Eva had seen it before. They all fall for him. She thought about what it was that snared them. Not physical stature—he was slight. Eva glanced at his round face, sandwiched between a shiny, bald pate and a red bowtie and starched collar. Glanced at the carefully-trimmed moustache riding over a mouth tight and gray as a pencil line. At the small ears that looked pinned to the side of his head, and the eyes sparkling like quicksilver behind his pince-nez. The gold watch chain decorating the vest of his blue flannel suit, and the red rosebud boutonniere on his lapel. She put it all together—he had the look and bearing of a prime minister.

Henri cleared his throat.

The nun’s eyes fluttered. “Oh, excuse me, Monsieur. You’re here to see Mother Catherine?”

“If that’s possible.”

“But of course, Monsieur. For you.” The nun opened the door to a small room off the corridor, and her tiny hand, extending from the broad sleeve of her habit, arced an invitation. “If you and Mademoiselle would please make yourselves comfortable in the reception parlor…” She scurried off into the darkness.

They sat on a maroon-striped sofa. Eva stared at the swagger stick in her uncle’s hand. She wanted to memorize its physical details. So that the next time she caught herself admiring his cleverness or his dedication to the cause, she could picture it and recall what he really was.

A glare from Henri brought her back to the moment. Careful not to turn her head, she let her gaze wander the dark paneled walls and ceiling: The walnut desk and chair across the room. The old wall clock with its carved frame and cream-colored face and plodding tock, tock, tock. The doe eyes of the sad lady in blue and gold in the age-cracked painting that hung above the desk. The cross over the door.

Eva was reflecting on the face of the crucifix’s Christ-figure, so fatigued, so forlorn, when a stately nun—the antithesis of Sister Mouse—swept into the room. She offered Henri her hand, nodding a genteel bow. “Ah, Monsieur, how nice to see you again.” The gesture was more storybook chateau than rustic convent school. Eva imagined a newsboy, hawking papers on a busy corner the day this nun took her vows: Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Princess Trades Crown for Veil. Is Banished to Belgian Backwoods. Extra! Extra! Eva coughed to suppress a smile.

“Mother Catherine, allow me to introduce my niece, Eva, unfortunately just last month orphaned in her hometown of Reims.”

Eva curtsied. She kept her gaze down as Henri had directed. Until Mother raised her chin with a fingertip.

“Mother,” Henri said, drawing the nun’s focus back, “I require your help.”

“Monsieur Messiaen, you’ve been so generous to us this past year, you’ve only to ask.” Mother’s fingertips migrated to Eva’s cheek as she turned back to her. “You have our sympathy, my dear.”

Eva chanced a smiled Thank-you.

“You see, Mother,” Henri said, “I promised my dear brother that I would attend to Eva if ever the need arose, and alas, so it has. If you were to take her, she’d be properly schooled and I could visit often. I’d insist on making another contribution to fund your important work. Shall we say six thousand francs?” He took out his checkbook and a thick ivory fountain pen.

The nun’s lips moved silently. “Oh, Monsieur, it would be a pleasure to have dear Eva here at St. Sébastien. And such a generous donation would mean so much.”

Henri raised a hand, silencing Mother Catherine. “There is one thing. I hope it shan’t be a problem. Eva loves to walk in the countryside. For her to have these little walks, perhaps before classes in the morning—that wouldn’t be a problem, would it?”

“But of course it wouldn’t. I encourage a healthy regime for every girl.”

Henri bent to write the check. When Eva tugged at his sleeve, he scowled. “Oh yes, there’s Caspar, Eva’s mutt. It’s just outside. Might you keep the dog, too? Apparently it’s quite dear to her. Maybe it could stay in the old stables and be fed with table leavings?”

“Caspar? We’ve never had a male resident at St. Sébastien. But what rule has no exception? Certainly we welcome Monsieur Caspar, too, if he matters so to Eva.”

Caspar staying, Henri leaving! Eva felt like singing it.

“It’s settled then,” Henri said as he handed Mother the check. He turned to Eva. “Now, my little sweet, come walk your uncle back to the motorcar and see me off.”

Stepping from the convent door into the autumn air, Eva and Henri heard the squeals of the dozen girls playing soccer in the grassy area near the stables. Weaving through the mob with the ball was the small nun, Sister Mouse, a whirlwind despite her heavy habit.

Eva paused to watch.

Henri put his hand on her shoulder. “You’d like to join the game, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh uncle, could I? It would be the perfect chance to meet some of…” Eva felt her uncle’s grip tighten. She turned slowly to face him.

“Christ, Eva, here just forty minutes and already you forget everything.” Henri leaned close to her. “You are not to be social. Not to join in. You must be invisible—so dull no one cares to notice you. Can I make it any clearer? Be plain wallpaper, damn it.”

Eva jerked her shoulder from his grasp. “Half the time you tell me I’m special. Selected from hundreds, you say. The other half, it’s ‘Eva play the dolt.’”

“You are special,” Henri growled. “You and my other girls. How many times must I explain? Special enough to seem dull as dishwater—” He grinned. “—while secretly seeing and hearing everything. You’re so much more than those you deceive. Why can’t that be enough?”

Eva glanced back at the girls. “Should I be proud that I deceive them, uncle?”

He squared his shoulders. “What’s the difference between a lie and the truth? Tell me! They’re the same. Both just…sounds. Mere vibrations in the air. What matters is the outcome. Remember this, young lady—deceit in the cause of progress is good. Be proud of what you’re doing.”

“Yes, uncle.” Eva closed her eyes. “But playing…is it a sin?” She shrugged. “Look at them. It’s natural.”

Henri looked incredulous. “Playing…natural? It’s childish! A luxury.” He turned to the side and spat. “A weakness. You don’t need it. Not with so much to do.”

“Perhaps I don’t need it—” Eva looked down, then back at Henri. “—but I want it.”

Henri’s face turned scarlet. “You should be ashamed! Selfish worm. You speak of the importance of our cause, then you put your own little wants first.” He dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief and suddenly looked tender. He gently brushed her cheek. “Eva, commitment is hard, but you’re strong. You can do it.” He wiped her tear with his thumb. “I can depend on you, can’t I?”

Eva opened her mouth to speak but stopped. She swallowed and bowed her head. “I’ll do whatever the cause requires.” She looked squarely at Henri. “Depend on me, uncle.”

Henri nodded sharply. “Good.” He glanced at the soccer players. “We’ll leave playing to our enemies.”

Whispering Owls

For two and a half years, Eva remained true to her pledge to be plain as wallpaper. But by March 1940 her resolve was flagging. Perhaps it was the new decade’s dawn. Perhaps it was the springtime air. Being on Henri’s leash now seemed like parroting Latin declensions—not so much difficult as pointless. And approaching her seventeenth birthday, she’d had enough.

One sunny morning, on her way to the stable to pick up Caspar for a walk, she spied a soccer ball left out from the previous day’s recess. Eva turned her face to the sun and felt its warm caress. She filled her lungs with crisp springtime air. And she decided that today she’d leave her notebook in its hiding place behind the loose stone in the stable wall. She picked up the ball and ran into the building to fetch her dog.

On the walk Eva and Caspar kept the ball moving ahead of them. Until a noisy squirrel in an oak on the edge of the convent grounds snatched the dog’s attention. He dashed to the tree and stood barking with his front paws on its trunk. The fox-red squirrel, keeping just beyond reach, railed back. Eva sat in the sunshine, tossing the ball and watching the stymied duo. She squeezed the ball and felt it pushing back, as if it loathed being flat. In that instant, she knew the contest in her hands reflected the one playing out in her heart since she’d arrived at St. Sébastien.

“Monsieur Le Ballon, no one makes a crêpe of you without a fight. I admire that. But you’re lucky. They never call selfish for following your nature by keeping round.” Eva tossed the ball up and caught it. “Uncle’s always prodding me. ‘Be the trudging ant,’ he scolds. Well, I’ve done it his way for two and a half years, and I’ve had it.” She heard a flutter in the trees and looked up to see small birds flitting from limb to limb, their chirps tinkling like tiny bells. Free. “The wren in flight…that’s me!”

Caspar romped back and licked Eva’s cheek. She nestled her dog and said, “I won’t cry for my childhood. What’s lost is lost. But starting today, things change. Before I accepted what uncle said—that next to the greater good, my wants are nothing. But being myself isn’t betrayal. I needn’t be his plain wallpaper. I can serve the cause without being a good little ant. Maybe even do it better.” She smirked. “And what he doesn’t know can’t hurt me.”

Eva was good to her word. Overnight, like a butterfly emerging from her cocoon, she blossomed socially. It started with stories.

At precisely 9:30 each evening Sister Arnaude padded through the dormitories calling, “Lights out.” It had been so at St. Sébastien forever and the nun’s cry marked the day’s end—until the March 1940 night Eva established Le Cercle de la Chouette Chuchoteuse, the Club of the Whispering Owl. Each of the twenty-six girls in the upper sleeping dorm was soon a member. On those evenings after she formed Le Cercle, it was lights on at 9:35, when Eva lit a candle and called the Whispering Owl members to order in its glow. She’d bring the candle flame close to her face and tell a story.

Some of her first tales were prompted by talk Eva heard one night just after lights out. Danielle, the youngest girl there, had just returned from a visit home. “My cousin told me they make nuns out of naughty little boys! For punishment, they cut off their pee-pees and send them to a convent. Is it so?”

Giggles and howls erupted through the dormitory. An older girl, Isabelle from Paris, said, “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How can you be so dumb, Dani? Everyone knows nuns were homely girls, donkeys who couldn’t catch a husband.”

The girls went along with that, even those who worried they might have a bit of the donkey in them. But not Eva. For her, being popular was enough to make a contention suspect. “Did you say homely, Isabelle? What about Mother Catherine? She’s as far from homely as can be. As for boyfriends, I know of a convent of nuns who all had them.” She looked up at the ceiling and tapped her lips with her index finger. “One of the beaus was even a famous artist. Gather around while I light my candle and you’ll hear about the convent school of St. François D’Assisi. It was located in a hollowed-out fir tree in the deepest part of the Ardennes forest. Four nuns taught there: Mother Swan, Sister Mouse, Sister St. Bernard, and Sister Tortoise. And the students were all tiny wrens.

“Mother Swan was the head of the school. She’d grown up in Paris, a Swan-King’s daughter and spent her days swimming serenely on the River Seine. One spring day Monet espied her there and fell in love. Each morning, he’d watch her glissade into the water. Watch her body slip over the surface as if she were weightless. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.”

Camille was licking the tip of her brunette braid. “What was she wearing, Eva?”

“Just the sunlight.”

“Nothing?” Camille’s eyes were wide.

“Ah, everything,” Eva said. “All she needed. You see, Cami, she was content with herself. And that fascinated Monet as much as did her beauty. His fascination compelled him to immortalize her contentment, painting her graceful glide through Notre Dame’s reflection on the water. When she left to join the convent of St. François, the story goes that he was so dejected he took to painting only water lilies for the rest of his days.”

Eva scanned the faces of the blanket-draped girls around her. She took the candlelit sparkle of their eyes as a go-ahead.

“In charge of the kitchen was Sister Mouse, a nervous little one, but good with a kettle and a spoon. In her youth, a handsome pigeon named Monsieur Jinx was her beau. After a local cat killed him, Sister Mouse wanted revenge. She moved into the kitchen of a famous restaurant on Brussels’ Grand Place and learned the art of cuisine. She steamed the cat a pot of mussels laced with strychnine. It cured him of pigeon-eating.” Eva winked. “Afterward, guilt drove her to enter St. François. It’s said that everyone there knew her story, and everyone stayed on Sister Mouse’s good side. She slept snuggled in the floppy, furry ear of Sister St. Bernard.”

Clarisse LaCroix, a leggy, freckled redhead from Thieux, had been brushing her hair. Before Eva could begin the story of Sister St. Bernard, she said, “Poisoned food, eh? I had some of that on holiday in Italy one summer.” She grabbed Eva’s candle. “Hey Blondie, you know what animal your fairy tale needs?” Clarisse eyed Mirella, the daughter of an Italian diplomat stationed in Brussels. “Canis italienis! Those Wops—they are animals. You’d think they never heard of hygiene. You see them pissing right into the gutter. Like the other dogs.”

“Clarisse, behave!” pleaded Mirella’s chubby friend, Bébé.

Clarisse glared back and echoed a nasal whine. “Clarisse, behave!”

Mirella jumped up. “LaCroix, bet you haven’t been to Italy since Il Duce came to power. We’re the pride of Europe now!” She put her hands on her hips and thrust out her chin.

Clarisse pushed the candle’s flame toward Mirella and held her hairbrush like a club. “Right, Mirella, and I suppose you’ve made Ethiopia the pride of Africa, too?”

Eva stepped between the two girls, facing Clarisse. “You may choose to admire Mussolini or not. But when the Whispering Owl holds court, she won’t have one girl taunting another.” Eva said it matter-of-factly. “Do behave yourself, Clarisse. Or leave.”

Clarisse blew out the candle and shoved it back at Eva. “Talking owls. A convent of animal nuns. What a pile of merde!” She glanced around the circle of girls. No one met her gaze. Clarisse scowled. “Huh! Go ahead and waste your time. I’ve heard enough.” She stomped off to bed, crawled under the covers, and dramatically pulled a pillow over her head.

Françoise de Lescure leaned to relight the candle. So gangly she was known as Stork, Françoise shared a bond with Eva, one born of their mutual social invisibility. She glanced at Clarisse and whispered, “Careful, Eva. She’s used to running things here.”

Clarisse had been watching from under her pillow. She sat up in bed. “Bet you wouldn’t dare say that so I can hear it, de Lescure.” She shook her head in disgust. “Don’t know why anyone would listen to a dumb Stork.”

Eva faced Clarisse. “I, for one, love to hear her speak. Françoise’s tongue spins out poetry as nicely as Monsieur Kreisler’s violin bow does music.”

“Kreisler.” Clarisse crossed her arms and huffed. “Another kike!”

Eva’s face turned flinty. “At least he’s not in prison. For embezzlement. Like your mother.” Her eyes burned like a leopard’s. “I caught a glimpse of your file in the office one day. No wonder your mother doesn’t visit.”

Clarisse slid to the edge of her bed, but stopped there. Tears welled in her eyes. “Take it back,” she snarled. Then she said quietly, “She’s not in jail.”

“Then tell us why she never visits,” Eva taunted. “Thieux isn’t so far, is it?”

Clarisse glared. “You’re lying.”

“Sure Clarisse, I’m lying.” Confidence danced in Eva’s eyes. “There’s probably a perfectly good reason she doesn’t visit. Come on, tell us why.”

Clarisse turned her back to the circle of girls. She curled up into a ball on the bed facing away and said nothing more.

Eva smiled, victorious. She raised her candle and looked around. “Shall we proceed, girls?”

Bébé tugged on Eva’s sleeve. “I was wondering. About Mother Swan.” She bit her thumbnail. “Since she once had a beau and is so beautiful, maybe she’d still have admirers?”

“Bébé! After they become nuns, they can’t have boyfriends,” Camille said.

“They are people, Camille,” Eva said. “Who can say what goes on in the quiet of their hearts? Anyway, in fairy tales anything goes. So, a beau for Mother Swan? Hmm, let me see.” Eva tapped her index finger on her lips. “Ah-ha! Mother Swan’s boyfriend. There was a fellow who showed up one winter’s day, dressed to the nines and bearing gifts. He had fur white as swan feathers. His blue flannel suit, elegant as a prime minister’s, was decorated with a gold watch chain and a red rosebud boutonniere. He sported a scarlet bow tie and a collar starched stiff as communion wafer. He carried a leather swagger stick—he didn’t ride, but he liked the impression it made. In his sharp teeth he clutched a black and gold Russian cigarette and his eyes danced behind a pince-nez. His name was Monsieur Ermine.”

Bébé looked puzzled. “But an ermine is really just a pretty weasel!”

“A pretty weasel? That’s him, all right,” Eva said.

“Well, how could Mother Swan go for a weasel?”

“The gifts, the regal white fur, the red rosebud. I suppose she couldn’t see beyond them to the teeth.” Eva suddenly felt exhausted. “Girls, it’s late. Next time, I’ll tell you about Sister St. Bernard and Sister Tortoise. And if we have time you’ll hear how the students of St. François started the wren custom of morning song, a practice now delightfully spread the world over.”

As the others were shuffling off, Françoise took Eva’s arm. “How awful about Clarisse’s mother!” She looked at the floor. “You really shouldn’t go snooping in other girl’s files.”

Eva leaned over and whispered, “Between you and me, I didn’t.” She winked. “I made up the embezzlement story.” She poked Françoise’s ribs. “Look, no one ever sees her mother, and Clarisse becomes evasive when people ask why. Way I figure, she must be hiding something. You know, the truth can be more frightening than any fiction, Françie. No matter what fib I made up, I knew only the truth would counter it. I was betting Clarisse couldn’t bring herself to do that.”

Françoise stared in disbelief. “You lied?”

Eva shrugged. “Call it what you like. I wasn’t about to let her get away with what she said about you. I knew how to shut her up, and I did it. Lies that make good are good.”

“Lying is lying, Eva—” Françoise shook her head. “—even when you’re battling a bully.”

“Welcome to the Twentieth Century, dear Françie. People lie all the time. I just made one red-haired tyrant look soft as soufflé. You can’t deny that’s a good thing.”

“All I know is, lying is lying.”

The nuns had all seen Eva’s transformation and marveled at it in conversations among themselves. “Mother Catherine,” Sister Arnaude said, “you always said there was sparkle and glow inside that one, and now it shines forth like Christmas Eve candles. You were right.”

Mother shrugged. “I sensed she was something special. Now it’s there for all to see. What else can I say?”

She did say more to her confessor, Father Celion, Lefebvre’s parish priest and the chaplain at St. Sébastien. Only in the dark medium of confession could Mother voice the truth. “Father, I feel guilty of the sin of vanity and much worse in my thoughts, my musings.”

The priest’s brow rose. “Vanity and much worse? Say more.”

“Father, I refer to my musings about one of our girls.” Mother spoke slowly. Tentatively. “It’s not just me. Everyone’s charmed by her.” She said charmed as if it were sin in itself. “To the other girls—” She was silent for a moment, fighting the urge to say Eva’s name aloud. “—she’s become a sort of pied piper. You recall, Father, our little Danielle l’Hôpital? The one so homesick she’d run away five times? Mademoiselle Piper began telling bedtime fairy tales about a school where the students are small birds, and her stories have so soothed Dani that today she said, ‘Mother, I wouldn’t leave St. Sébastien for anything.’”

Father Celion pursed his lips. “But perhaps you should fret a pied piper. Remember the people of Hamlin who lost their children. Ask them about embracing pipers.”

“I only mean her allure has an air of magic to it. We’ve nothing to fear from my piper.”

“Your piper?” The priest cleared his throat. “I don’t doubt your judgment. I only advise caution as a matter of course. But we digress. It is your conscience we probe.”

“Excuse me, Father. As for me, while I see all the girls as daughters in Christ, I’ve come to see this one as—” Mother closed her eyes. “—As my own daughter. More. I always knew she was special.” Her voice became quick, excited. “But these days when I see her, I flatter myself that I am looking into a mirror. The vanity is staggering, Father. For my conceit is that the mirror is magical and this child is me, twenty-five years ago. Do I want her to have the life I chose for myself? No, for her I wish a secular life: Freedom, romance, marriage. I wish that, because through her I can—” Mother sobbed softly and for a moment was unable to go on. “—I can have those things, too. When I find myself wanting that, I feel I’ve broken my vows.”

Father tugged on his ear, a habit he’d picked up when he stopped smoking. “Let me see if I grasp this. You are happy in your vocation? Do you desire a secular life?”

She sighed. “For me, no. I want no other life.”

“But do you wish to experience a secular life vicariously?”

Mother closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “I don’t know what I want, Father.” Her voice was gray.

“Mother Catherine, I must say, you flabbergast me! You’ve always struck me as one so in control. One who sees everything so clearly. I never imagined you confused.”

“Father, when I was a girl, Papa used to take me to the opera. My favorite was La Wally. A hopelessly contrived story, but I identified with the little heroine Wally—free-spirited but vulnerable, just like me. Perhaps I entered the convent to rein in the former and vanquish the latter. And I thought I’d succeeded. But lately I’ve felt like a canoe left untethered at the riverbank. I love having Mademoiselle Piper at St. Sébastien, but life would be simpler if she’d never come.”

Another tug of the ear. “My child, you are not helping me know whether you wish the best for this child, for which you should be blessed, or you covet what your vows preclude, for which you need absolution.”

“That I cannot say, Father.”

A tug once more, and a sigh of exasperation. “Lacking the wisdom of Aquinas on this point, I am unable to cut such a fine distinction. I charge you to dwell not on this child’s future, but rather to exalt in your own service to Our Lord. Ask Our Lady to assist you in this by saying an Ave for each of your students and one for me. Now go and sin no more.”

Be the Stone

Mid-afternoon on April 23, 1940, baby-faced Nathalie toddled into Sister Eusebia’s geometry class with a note from Mother Catherine.

The nun put on her spectacles and read it. She removed the spectacles. “Eva, you are to go to the office immediately. It seems your uncle is here.”

Eva gathered her books and hurried out with the eyes of every classmate on her. She ran down the corridor, wondering what could bring her uncle to St. Sébastien on a Tuesday afternoon. He’d come to check on her regularly, monthly or so, since he’d placed her at the school in 1937, but always on weekends. Something was up.

At Mother Catherine’s door, Eva paused for a deep breath then knocked.

Mother opened the door. “Eva, your uncle’s come to see you.”

Henri strode to Eva with head tilted and hands outstretched. After kisses, he put an arm around her shoulder. “My dear, don’t you look fine to your old uncle! Gracious, I think you’ve grown two centimeters this month!” He laughed. “Mother, what are you feeding these girls?”

Mother closed the manila folder on her desk. “I was just showing your uncle how well you’re doing in school, Eva, and telling him how important you’ve become here at St. Sébastien.” She turned to Henri. “We all depend on this one, Monsieur.”

Eva said nothing.

“That’s gratifying.” Henri picked up his bowler and umbrella. “Well, my dear, as I told Mother Catherine, I was in the area, and there is a matter we need to discuss—something Grandfather has planned. Let’s go for a ride on this lovely spring day. Get some fresh air. I’ll have you back by dinnertime.” Henri nodded to Mother and whisked Eva out the door.

They approached Henri’s big, tan Mercedes. The chauffer, Pruvot, stiff in his blue uniform, opened the car door for them. Eva whispered, “Is something wrong, uncle?”

Henri huffed impatiently and leaned toward her. “No, something’s not wrong. I have things to tell you, but not in front of the whole world. Is there a private spot nearby?”

“There’s a meadow next to the mill stream. It’s quiet. I sit there sometimes.”

“Fine. Tell Pruvot the way there.”

They got into the phaeton. Eva said to the driver, “Head toward Lefebvre, Pruvot. Turn left just after the rickety bridge.” The Mercedes eased away from the convent.

They turned onto the lane tracking the stream. Henri pointed with his swagger stick to a shady spot on the bank. “We’ll sit there, Pruvot. Bring the blanket from the boot.”

They walked the ten meters to the stream bank, and Pruvot spread the blanket. Henri told him, “Fine. Now wait with the car and keep a lookout. I don’t want to be disturbed.” He sat and patted the place next to himself, indicating Eva should join him. “Charming spot,” he said as he tossed a pebble into a pool near the shore.

Watching the circular ripples radiate on the water’s surface, Eva felt anxious.

With his stick, Henri flicked an imaginary speck from the blanket. “Mother Catherine chatters on about all you’re doing at the school.” He set the stick down, its tip touching Eva’s knee, and he picked a twig from the grass. “About how the other girls have come to look up to you.” He snapped the twig in two. “What are you thinking? I told you to shrink into the wallpaper, not be the damn chandelier.”

“Uncle, you said I was doing well, keeping my notebook. I like the other girls.”

“It’s not a matter of what you like. Listen, young lady, you have more important things to do than be a cuckoo bird.” He lit one of his black-papered cigarettes. “Look at the stream flowing by. Tell me what you see.”

“Just the sun’s reflection.” Eva brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. “And that leaf floating by.”

“Aha. You notice what sits on the surface. The sparkle. The leaf. But you miss what’s beneath it—an underwater rock. See the ripples just there?” He pointed with his stick to a faint swirl on the water. “I’m sure there is a stone below. And though you don’t see it, that stone influences the flow of the stream infinitely more than does your leaf. You are to be the stone hiding under the surface, not the leaf everyone sees.”

Eva blinked back tears. “But uncle, Mother Catherine’s become a mother to me. And the girls, they’re like sisters. One of them, Françoise, is the best friend anyone ever had. We—”

Henri snapped his fingers in her face. “Merde, Eva, your friends are dolts, aspiring to no more than serving some lout of a husband. And that stupid nun, content in her mysticism.” He shook his head and sighed. “You are so much more than they are, lucky girl.”

Eva looked shocked. “You speak with such contempt of them. We’re working to lift them, too. Isn’t that so?”

“Of course they’ll be better off in the end. They might be too dull to see it now, but they’ll come around.” Henri raised his arms in frustration. He moved his hand before her face and slowly brought his fingers together in a fist, as if grasping air. “Mon Dieu, what’s important, Eva, is your chance to bend history.”

“Must history be bent?” Eva shook her head slowly. “I sometimes think that for me, being normal, having a family, is enough.” Her eyes blazed through tears. She looked away. “More than enough.”

Henri scowled and rapped her knee with his swagger stick. “Listen child, you have no family! No family but the nation.” He used the rod to turn her face to his. “Your own mother tossed you aside like garbage, for Christ’s sake. We took you in. Became your family. The only one you’ll ever have.” Henri’s face went from hard to soft quick as butter hitting a hot skillet. He reached over and tenderly stroked the hair over her ear. “And we count on you now—for the enemy prepares to jab a spear into our heart.” His fingertips lingered on her cheek. “Even as we speak, he schemes to put us under his dusty boot. Do you see that, for now, we all must sacrifice everything for your family’s survival? Sacrifice everything to usher in the new era? Everything?”

Eva’s lip trembled. “I understand, uncle.”

Henri nodded. “Very well.” He looked around to be sure they were alone. “I did come today to discuss something other than commitment. Important events approach. Just this week I learned that the clock has been wound. That La Folia has begun.”

“La Folia?”

Henri rolled his eyes. “The dance. A Sarabande. Don’t those nuns teach you anything? In olden days, La Folia was a tumultuous dance in which tempo and rhythm swept the dancers into a frenzy. When hostilities break out soon, there’ll be a worldwide Folia from which only one side will walk away. It must be your nation, your family, that’s left standing at the dance’s last note. You do understand, don’t you—it’s the highest virtue to do whatever it takes, to kill if necessary, to save your own family?”

“Yes.” With a finger she traced invisible lines on the palm of her hand as if truth were scribed there. “I understand.”

Henri scowled. “You don’t seem convinced.” He reached inside his coat for the knife he kept in the inner breast pocket. He held the ivory handle before Eva’s face and pushed the release. The shiny blade sprang out obediently. “No such qualms infect Monsieur Knife.” He reflected a shaft of sunlight from the blade into Eva’s eye. “Be more like me. I’d gouge out a heart—even yours—without blinking, if the nation’s good required it. That’s true virtue.” He studied her face. “Of course, I have no need to cut you, since you’re committed. Right?”

Eva faced her uncle. “I am committed to my nation—my family—and her cause.” There was no reservation in her voice.

Henri retracted the blade and returned the knife to his coat pocket. “That’s more like it.” He snuffed out his cigarette. “Now listen up. Our foes are preparing to strike. Soon. Keep vigilant for anything suspicious. Remember, yours are the eyes and ears I count on. Yours and those of my girls in Liege and Namur.” He raised his index finger for emphasis. “Above all, watch the Meuse bridge. Remember, the bridge’s gatekeeper controls all of northern Europe. We must be that gatekeeper! Also keep a sharp eye on the Belgian army facility outside Lefebvre. Watch for troops on the move. Especially foreign troops. I need accurate aircraft numbers. Alert me to anything out of the ordinary, no matter how innocent it seems. Got it?”

“Watch the bridge. And troop locations. Report anything extraordinary….I understand.”

“Fear not, we will counterstrike. If it can be mounted, perhaps we’ll even preempt the enemy’s plan. In the next weeks. A defensive war. An honorable war. In any case, it doesn’t change your role: You are my eyes. Understand?”

Eva nodded.

Henri took her hands. “It’s a glorious time you live in, Eva. The nation, your family, counts on you. Nothing else matters.” He stood. “That does it. We go.”

Nothing more was said until Eva was getting out of the Mercedes at St. Sébastien. Henri grabbed her sleeve. “Don’t you let me down!”

When the other girls saw Eva just before supper they asked about her uncle’s visit.

“Uncle just wanted to tell me some plans he has for a big dance party,” Eva said. “Nothing much to do with us here. He told me a story about stones and leaves.”

“A story!” Bébé clapped. “Perhaps you’ll tell it to us after lights out tonight?”

“Perhaps—” Eva was quiet for a moment. “—If I can find a way. I want so much to tell you. Let me think on it.”

That night Eva lit her story-telling candle to convene the Whispering Owls. She brought the flame close to her face. “This is the story of Bleubec, a new-hatched cuckoo chick. Did you know Cuckoo mothers lay then abandon their eggs in the nests of other types of birds?”

“Yes!” Cami said. “Back at home, we have them living in the woods.”

“Is that so?” replied Eva. “I’ll say Bleubec, too, lives very close by. When cuckoo chicks hatch, they are fed and fledged by their surrogate mothers. In Bleubec’s case, she was left with wrens. As different as she looked, you’d think the wrens would see her as foreign, but they did not. She forsook her natural Coo, Coo, Coo trill in favor of a wren’s lilt, and she seemed to fit right in. But little Bleubec wasn’t happy. She was haunted, because her own mother abandoned her. And because she had to live two lives separated from each other by a magic wall.”

Eva bit her lip, as if thinking what to say next. “One life was lived in the secret world of her cuckoo heritage where everything was solid and sturdy like a stone set in mortar. And the other was spent in the world of the wrens, one of freedom and warmth, as soft as a leaf. But soft things don’t last. What Bleubec hated most was the wall of silence between her worlds. She longed to tell the wrens what she mustn’t say—that their world couldn’t last and its passing would be painful, but that the new one, the one of stone, would be best in the end.”

Clarisse interrupted, “Blondie-head, this has to be the worst fairy tale ever. Better stick to your stories about Mother Swan and her silly woodland school.”

The other girls nodded shyly.

Laetitia took Eva’s hand. “It’s just that we like the other stories better, Eva.”

“That’s fine,” Eva said. “Soon I’ll have some new characters for Mother Swan to deal with. Some geese, maybe. You’ll find that more interesting.”

“Geese are funny,” Bébé laughed, pantomiming a goose’s waddle.

“Perhaps,” Eva said, “and if not, I’ll try to make them so.”

May 10, 1940

It was before dawn when the racket woke Eva. For the first few moments, drifting in that hazy transition between sleep and waking, she was angry that her birthday celebration had turned chaotic when the cake burst into flames. Then the haze cleared, and Eva realized that while both celebration and cake had been dreamt, the chaos was real.

“Get up immediately, my flowers!” Agitation frosted Mother Catherine’s voice. “Don’t take time to dress. Carry your school uniform down to the chapel vault. Move quietly and quickly.” The nun helped Estelle, the crippled girl, down the line of beds to the staircase.

Dani sat up in bed. “Mother, is it a fire?” she bawled.

“No, I fear war has come down on us. Now do just as I instructed. Quickly!”

Eva was last in a string of girls heading through the dark dormitory to the chapel. She dawdled, transfixed by the thought that what she’d waited so long for had finally begun: Her nation righteously confronting evil. An effete Europe reborn, cleansed. A day, as Henri put it, “to tell your children about.”

On the stairs she heard a humming sound and stopped at the stairwell window to look and listen. Over several moments, hum turned to drone and then to angry buzz. Growing louder. Coming closer. The sound became a screech. Then Eva heard the staccato tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Like a distant snare drum. The drumming got closer, louder, more insistent as the screech became a tortured roar. Peering out the window, at first Eva saw nothing but the purple dawn. Then it came hurtling by, so close she jumped back. The spectacle riveted her gaze: Plane, flames, smoke, in that order. It was a biplane, cartwheeling a wild, earthward arc. Its sputtering engine spat sooty licks of flame and belched billows of black smoke. It passed by the window so close Eva could see the pilot, a rag doll pitching about in the open cockpit. As if the air were syrup, the plane seemed to move in slow motion. The drama ended on the hillside pasture beyond the old stable, an orange ball of flame that lit up the garden below the window. An instant later the thud of the explosion smashed into the windowpane, sending a shower of glass shards clinking at Eva’s feet. Stunned by the shocks of flame and blast—and death—she stood frozen, the reflection of orange fire dancing on her face.

It was the barking that unlocked her. Outside, little Caspar raced back and forth between the dormitory door and the garden where he could see Eva in the window.

“Caspie, oh you’re all right. Stay! I’m coming.” Eva stepped back from the window, her slippers crunching glass. She flew down the dormitory stairs like water coursing through a ravine. She bolted through the door to the garden and caught the flying dog. “Caspie!” She held her pet tight. “Oh, the pilot!” Tears filled her eyes. “They tell you about the rosy outcome, but not the thorns along the way.”

Eva heard footsteps on the gravel behind her. She pushed the horror she’d just seen from her mind and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe.

“Child! Thank God I’ve found you!” Sister Arnaude was panting. “What are you doing here? It’s war, you know. Come immediately.” The nun saw the pleading look in Eva’s eyes. “Yes, bring little Caspar. Everyone is waiting for us in the chapel vault.”

“Sister…” Eva’s gaze dropped.

Sister Arnaude looked annoyed. “What is it, child?”

Eva bit her lip. “Who started it?”

“Same as the Great War. The Boche. Always the Boche.”

Eva clutched her dog in the crook of one arm and caught the nun’s sleeve with her free hand. The women headed across the twenty meters to the chapel. As they ran, Eva looked over her shoulder. The horizon-bursting sun had painted the sky pink and lavender. Peaceful. Except for smoke still hanging over the hillside, there was no trace of what minutes before had slashed the heavens. She glanced toward the orchard, looking between the trees for the luminous eyes of her nation’s resolute soldiers. There was only darkness.

The nun tugged the chapel’s massive door open. It swung powerfully, hitting the chapel wall with a clang that echoed through the stone structure. She pulled Eva into the cool darkness of the vestibule and locked the door. Blackness ruled, as if every ray of light had zipped outside just as the door closed. Feeling her way like someone newly blind, Eva followed the nun to the stairs. They spiraled down to the underground vault room, where the nuns and girls of St. Sébastien knelt in the dim light of four candles.

Mother Catherine led the recitation of the rosary. Looking resolute, she nodded to Eva without missing a beat. Icy stares gripped many of the other faces in the vault. The blend of their soft sobs with the communal Ave Marias sounded like the drone of distant aircraft.

Eva wished she could tell them things would be all right in the end.

Sitting with Caspar asleep on her lap, Eva quickly tired of peeling off repetitious Aves and instead surveyed the cavernous vault. She’d been down there just once before and the eerie place fascinated her. As her eyes acclimated to the darkness, she studied the vault’s details: The geometry of the groined arch stonework that came together above her. The tarnished brass candle holders in the four corners of the main chamber, each holding a thick, yellow tallow candle capped with a flickering, flaxen flame. The dark crucifix hanging from the ceiling directly over the small altar. The rack of dusty wine bottles sleeping in the antechamber on the right. The small wooden door on the left, the one Camille said shut in an old nun who’d gone insane. The cold wall stones she’d felt on the stairwell. The flat floor stones, stippled with glittering flecks. The sweet aroma of ancient incense that infused everything. For Eva, the vault’s features were as intriguing as the wrinkles on the face of a centenarian.

When the rosary ended, Mother Catherine gathered the girls around her to sing popular songs from the carefree days after the Great War. When most of the girls joined in, Eva felt the fear in the vault scurry off behind the cobwebs.

After what seemed to Eva an entire day, Mother Catherine sent Sister Arnaude to reconnoiter the outside world. In thirty minutes or so she returned and briefed Mother privately. As they conferred, the vault vibrated with girls’ whispers.

Mother cleared her throat to restore order and spoke in a loud voice that echoed through the chamber. “My flowers, Sister Arnaude has investigated the situation outside. Things seem quite peaceful there, at least for the moment. It is mid-morning. We can now go up to God’s good sunshine and air, but I want you all to stay together in your classrooms. You may read while luncheon is prepared. We hope to hear more news from wireless broadcasts and from Father Celion. When I learn anything, I will inform you.”

The girls were giddy with excitement at the twin prospects of leaving the dank vault and learning what parts if any of their wild speculations and whispered rumors were true. For Eva there was also the prospect of celebrating her seventeenth birthday, that Friday, May 10, 1940.

Be the Leaf

In the older girls’ classroom that afternoon, ancient Sister Eusebia got the students seated and ambled off to settle the younger ones next door. The moment she left, Camille ran to the window, the ribbons on her brunette braids dancing behind her like butterflies. Pointing outside, she shrieked, “There in the orchard! Soldiers on black horses…I think.” Like apples tumbling into a bin, wide-eyed girls scrambled to the window. But they found the orchard tranquil. Other such sightings followed, and in every case, the alarms proved false. The remains of the downed aircraft, its burned hulk and the black-smudged pasture around it, would have fanned the fires of excitement, but they were hidden from view by the old stables and Eva told no one what she’d seen. So quiet, accompanied by disappointment, began to blanket simmering fear. It was in that broth that eight St. Sébastien girls, including Eva and Françoise, clustered together.

Isabelle from Namur was nicknamed Soleil—Sunshine. Pushing her fingers through her auburn hair, she said, “Call me selfish, but I say tough luck if the muddy boots of war tromp someone’s toes. My heart’s racing, and I like it!”

“Call you selfish, Soleil?” said Clarisse LaCroix. “I’d call you easily amused. What have we found? A few crumbs of excitement. Well, it leaves me wanting. Wanting the whole cake.”

Camille fingered her braids. “How’s this for cake, Clarisse? Down in the vault, I dozed off and dreamed of armies moving on the hillsides like swarms of insects. It was tingling terror, seeing those swarms seethe in battle! Then, merde, I woke up.”

Clarisse slipped a hand under Camille’s sweater and ran wiggling fingers up her back, squealing, “Here’s your tingling terror, Cami!”

Camille shrieked, but soon she was laughing with the others.

Simone Jaffre had a voice so tiny her nickname was Trout. “I’d dream of a handsome boy, no matter his side, brought in badly wounded. Imagine cleaning his wounds! Comforting him. Nursing him over many months.” She hugged herself.

“Hey, Troutsie,” jeered Clarisse, “don’t forget to imagine his torrid tongue flicking your ear and his frantic fingers dashing up your linens.”

“Clarisse!” Simone whined.

Isabelle from Paris huffed, “LaCroix, you’re the only one slut enough to think that.”

Clarisse studied her nails. “I doubt it.” She blew Isabelle a kiss and strolled off.

Laetitia took Simone’s arm in hers. “Well I like your dream. My soldier’s a cavalry officer on a white charger. He’s got curly, black hair and a strong mouth. As I nurse him back to health, we fall in love and ride off on his steed, eloping to the Riviera.”

Isabelle said, “For me, his name is Laurent. We too fall madly in love, then have an exquisite, tearful goodbye when he’s sent back to the front.”

Camille giggled. “We’ll have Puccini write you a farewell duet, and I can just see the last scene: Laurent dies at the front with, ‘Isabelle, my love!’ on his lips. And brokenhearted, you die here—of consumption, naturally.” Camille leaned back and coughed softly. She put a hand to her heart and fluttered her eyes closed.

“Cami, you goat!” Isabelle pinched her friend as everyone erupted in laughter.

When the group quieted, Simone took Eva’s hand and looked into her eyes. “And Eva, for what do you long?”

Eva shrugged. “For nothing so romantic, I guess. I feel restless. I just want to get on with it.” Her eyes opened wide, as if she’d startled herself saying all that. “Whatever it is.”

No one asked Françoise what she felt. Good thing, for icy fear froze her tongue.

Just when Eva had given up on a birthday celebration, Françoise pulled her away from the others. “If only we could get back to the dormitory,” she whispered. “I have gifts for your birthday hidden there, and you must have them now, in case something dreadful happens.”

Eva took Françoise’s hands in hers. “We could sneak back there. Sister E. won’t return for a few minutes, and she won’t notice us gone when she does. The next time the others rush to the window, we’ll slip out together. How about it?”

Within five minutes the pair were creeping into the deserted dormitory.

As they sat together on her bed, Eva said, “Your idea to come here is the best birthday gift. Breaking rules—it’s the best antidote for boredom.”

Françoise beamed. “But the plan was yours, Eva.” She turned serious. “Being here with you is wonderful for me, too. It’s like we’ve stepped back in time to a safe world, far from the claustrophobia of the vault and the silliness of the classroom. A world where I don’t expect grim-faced soldiers with rifles and bayonets to burst through the door. One where rumors aren’t passed from girl to girl like influenza. Where, for a moment at least, fears for my family can evaporate like beads of water on a hot stove. Where I can simply celebrate a best friend’s birthday.”

Bathed in a shaft of golden sunlight streaming in through the window, Eva opened her gifts: A tin of candied apricots, a copy of Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac, a pair of silk stockings from Françoise’s father’s shop in Brussels. The pair sang a birthday duet, ate sugared fruit, and promised always to be best friends, no matter what.

There was a thud, perhaps the slam of a door. Eva saw fear flicker in Françoise’s eyes. “Françie, we’re sharing my birthday. Caspar is safe. We’ve got excitement. It’s not so bad.” She took Françoise’s hand. “Look, we’re all afraid. That’s uncertainty for you. But it’ll be fine in the end. No matter what army marches in. It may mean a few new rules. The kings, the prime ministers, the chancellors—their lives will turn upside down. But we’re little people, leaves riding a stream. We go from still water to rapids, from eddies to falls, drifting along without trouble—unless we fight the current.”

Françoise forced a smile. “Eva, we are little people, you and I, but I’m not only that. As a Jew, I know if it’s the German army that marches here, there’ll no place for me.”

Eva squeezed Françoise’s hand. “I’ll concede Herr Hitler won’t have you over to dinner. But who wants his old schnitzel and sauerkraut anyway?” Eva grinned. “Life won’t turn black. Like I said, there will be new rules. But so what? It’s no big deal. Be that leaf in the stream! Don’t resist the current.”

Françoise was silent for a moment, as if reluctant to reply. “Sweet Eva. Always wanting to help. Always so wise.” She paused. “Almost always. Eva, I’ll never have a truer friend than you. But I don’t think you understand how different things would become for the two of us. Hearing you now, I can only think of what my father says, The only fish that swims with the current is the dead fish.” Françoise shuddered. “We should get back.” She sounded exhausted.

Eva kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “Remember, we’re leaves, not fish. Chin up.” But even words bright as morning sunshine couldn’t melt the frost on Françoise’s heart.

Back in the classroom, Eva could taste the brew of fear and boredom fermenting there. This calls for a tonic. Another chapter in the tales of the residents of St. François D’Assisi.

Even Clarisse slipped casually in among the listeners when Eva began.

“One morning the wrens were awakened early by a clamor outside their dormitory room in the grand old fir tree that served as the convent school. All atwitter, the wrens sprang from their nests. They were ruffling their feathers and chattering when Sister Mouse burst in. Since the dormitory room was a rather large space for so small a voice to fill, she cleared her throat and squeaked, ‘Students, this morning the forest is full of geese. Their coarse honking assaults every ear. We meet with Mother Swan momentarily on the chapel branch.”

Dani took Eva’s hand. “Who are the geese supposed to be?”

“L’Hôpital, that’s a really dumb question,” Nathalie said. “They’re some kind of soldiers or something. Right, Eva?”

Eva smiled, “Patience, girls. You’ll have an idea, soon enough.”

“In three minutes the wrens dressed and flew down to the chapel. A moment after they arrived, the door latch clicked, and every head turned to watch Mother Swan glide in. She was serene as she spoke. ‘My flowers, as you know, gaggles of geese fill the forest, and they don’t show signs of moving on. Have you thoughts on what to do about our Goose-tapo problem?’”

Danielle squealed, “The Germans. I knew it!”

Eva smiled at Dani and continued. “There were whispered chirps and hushed peeps, but no ideas surfaced. Finally, Sister Tortoise rose in her usual glacial way.

“Mother Swan smiled patiently. ‘Yes, Sister?’

“‘It occurs to me, Mother, that, ignoring certain obvious differences, there is a strong resemblance between a swan and a goose.’

“Mother Swan’s neck stiffened, and her beak opened, and her wings flared out, and a hiss began to form in the back of her throat, as if—

“Sister Tortoise seemed oblivious to Mother’s reaction. ‘Now, a swan is larger than a goose, but that would be to our advantage, wouldn’t it? In my experience, geese are easily intimidated. Mother, you could go outside and claim to be the head goose and order them to leave St. François alone.’

“Mother studied the notion for a moment. You could almost see her mind running with it. She relaxed her wings and her beak and her throat. ‘Sister Tortoise, you’re a genius!’

“Mother looked through the window at the geese below, strutting their silly, stiff-legged kick-walk. ‘We must hurry. Sister Mouse, come! Up on my beak.’ Sister Mouse jumped up, and it looked as if Mother had a stubby toothbrush moustache. She marched onto a tree limb overlooking the forest floor, and holding her right wing up, she boomed, ‘Achtung!’”

Eva put a finger to the space between lip and nose, a pseudomoustache, as she spoke Mother’s lines. The girls’ giggling turned to raucous laughter.

“The geese looked up, and their eyes popped. They cried, ‘Our Führer!’

“With Sister Mouse on her beak and wild wing flapping and loud ranting, Mother Swan had the geese spellbound. She roared, ‘I command that you keep clear of these parts. I will personally see to things here. Pity any goose who ignores my order! You are dismissed. Raus!’

“Mother kept up her flamboyant wing movements and guttural blusters until, in a cloud of feathers, dust, and honks, all the geese had fled. Then she strutted back into the chapel, to the cheers and adulations of every wren.”

St. Sébastien’s girls likewise broke into cheers.

A minute later, Clarisse pulled Eva aside. “In your fairy tales, Goldilocks, good may triumph. But you know, real life hardly ever works that way.”

“In real life who’s to say what good is?” Eva replied. “What matters to me is, for the moment at least, my fable’s sent fear and uncertainty scurrying off with my geese.”

“‘With my geese,’ Blondie?” Clarisse smiled sweetly. “Or should I say, Fraulein?”

Late that afternoon, Mother announced that all the students should be in their dinner seats twenty minutes ahead of the usual 6:30 time. Everyone knew that Sister Arnaude had ridden her bicycle to get the news in Lefebvre. Anticipation bubbled.

Virtually every girl was seated by 6:00, rumors passing from student to student like answers to geometry homework. Camille’s was the most repeated. “After his success with U-boats in the Atlantic, they say Monsieur Hitler now turns the idea against us. He’s unleashed a fleet of underground vehicles, burrowing like moles under France and Belgium. Whenever they like, these U-Wagens as the Boche call them, pop to the surface to unleash death and destruction. It’s true; I swear on my braids! If you doubt me, put an ear to the ground. See if you don’t hear a faint rumbling.”

At 6:10 precisely, Mother Catherine came in. Quick as a radio unplugged, the room went silent. The eyes of every girl seemed fixed on Mother’s lips, as if seeing the words formed would bring their message better or faster.

Eva took in the nun’s countenance. Framed by her veil, Mother’s was a striking face. Even from across a room, her sparkling eyes ensnared one’s attention like Cassiopeia’s stars on a clear night. Eva liked her mouth, which could be anything from soft, even sensuous, to resolute. Mother’s nose was long and pointed, but slender, giving an elegant line to her face. She was tall and slim and moved with such grace that she seemed to glide an inch above the floor. Camille, who’d been at St. Sébastien longer than any other girl, swore that before her vows, Mother had been a silent film star—that she’d seen her on a movie poster. No girl doubted it.

Mother Catherine started with the sign of the cross and a prayer. She related the day’s news, emphasizing that most of the actual fighting was far west of them. She ended on an optimistic note. “Remember our patron saint. Each of you is a daughter of Sébastien, who defied a Roman emperor and his army of occupation. When they tried to silence his opposition with a rain of arrows, his spirit prevailed. And when Fourteenth Century Europe was enveloped by the Black Death, a foreshadow of the plague of war threatening us now, Sébastien protected the faithful. Pray that the French, the British and the Germans honor our wish for exclusion from their fight. But most of all, my flowers, maintain hope. Remember that the God who counts the tiniest wren will not forget you.”

When Mother said the word “wren,” Eva thought she saw the nun wink at her.

At precisely 6:30 the dinner meal was served. Potato and leek soup, coarse bread, butter, and cheese, with tea instead of the usual milk—the first of many changes to come.

Filthy and Pristine

On the third day after the invasion, the mayor’s wife bicycled to St. Sébastien and rang the bell at the convent’s entrance.

Sister Martine opened the door and eyed the beads of sweat on the visitor’s brow. Madame Beaugarde was an ample woman stuffed into a gray wool suit.

“Good day, Sister.” Madame Beaugarde was puffing. “I’ve come in an official capacity to confer with Mother Catherine.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and patted her face and throat. “Oh my. So warm this morning. And me with only a bicycle since our motorcar won’t run.”

“Good morning, Madame. Please come in.” They walked to the reception parlor where a student in a long white apron copied figures into a ledger. “That will do, Bébé,” The girl curtsied and left. Sister followed her out. “I’ll fetch Mother.”

Mother Catherine came in and nodded. “Welcome to St. Sébastien, Madame. How are you this morning?

“I’m fine, Mother Catherine, thank you.”

“May we offer you tea, Madame?”

“I don’t care for tea on such a warm morning. Besides, I come on an official matter, not a social one.” She straightened her hat, a tired, small-brimmed, black felt affair topped with faded silk violets. Nervously she took a paper from her waistband. “The mayor wrote me notes so I shan’t forget anything.” Her hands shook as she unfolded the sheet. “Mother Catherine, you know that there is to be an assembly in the town square for all of us tomorrow?”

“So I have heard.”

“My husband wishes there to be no misunderstanding about the regimen for the event.” Madame Beaugarde paused as if expecting an invitation to proceed. When Mother kept silent, she cleared her throat and read. “The assembly will begin at noon. You and the sisters and girls must all be in place at that time. There will be no absences.” The woman’s finger led her eyes along the written lines. “No patriotic or anti-German displays will be tolerated. The reception afforded speakers and other dignitaries will be cordial.” She looked up from her notes and added in a defensive tone, “You know, I am just the bearer of the message. But, Mother Catherine, much does depend on Lefebvre’s attitude.”

Mother replied, “I have only the deepest animosity for the gang that violates our soil. But though I willingly place my own fate in the hands of God, I’ll do nothing to compromise the safety of my little ones. We of St. Sébastien will be mute witnesses to tomorrow’s black farce.”

Madame Beaugarde rose. “In that case, good day, Mother Catherine. I will find my own way out.” She stopped at the parlor door and turned. “You know, I didn’t invite the Boche in. None of us did. But they’re here and like hornets under the eaves, stirring them up does none of us any good.”

“Indeed,” Mother replied. “But conscience and honor dictate that they also not be made to feel welcomed.”

Madame Beaugarde huffed off.

The next morning, led by the nuns and walking two-by-two, the girls of St. Sébastien departed the school for the trek to Lefebvre. They walked in uncharacteristic silence along the country lane toward the village. Mother, her own mood one of brooding, was content to have the quiet, though she felt guilty for that.

About a kilometer from town, from behind her, Mother heard a lone voice begin singing softly. “Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques. Dormez vous? Dormez vous?” Mother looked back. It was Eva singing.

Doing the first verse alone, Eva’s face radiated courage. “Come now, girls,” she called, “remember how we deal with geese. Hold those heads high and sing along! Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques. Dormez vous? Dormez vous?” By the second verse, every student had joined in, singing the round. There were even some smiles.

When all the singing had started, Sr. Eusebia looked back at them, her eyes wide in alarm. She was opening her mouth to silence them when Mother caught her eye and stopped her with an index finger raised to the lips.

So, the girls sang on, even as they marched into the village square at 11:45 to take their position. The townspeople had already assembled before the small dais that had been hastily erected in front of the Hôtel de Ville. As she and the girls stood facing the platform, Mother felt the sapped faces of the townsfolk to her right and left dragging her spirit down. But it soared as she thought of her girls’ arrival and saw them now arrayed behind her in military-straight ranks, each girl with head held high, standing resplendent in her uniform of snow-white blouse, blue wool jumper, white knee-high stockings, and shiny black shoes. Today it will be the children who teach their elders, Mother thought as she circled her troop, nodding encouragement.

Behind her students, Mother paused to drink-in Lefebvre’s town square a last time before its debasement. With her toe, she traced the edge of an ancient cobblestone, polished smooth over centuries by the scuffs of wheel, foot and hoof. In the square’s center, she gazed for a moment at the bronze statue of the she-fox Liberté defending her pups from a pack of weasels. On the north edge of the square, she viewed the red brick and white marble façade and the baroque-sculpted gable of the Hôtel de Ville. Facing east, her eyes caught the sun glittering off the gold leaf covering the ornate Guild House, between the half-timbered post office and the Nagelmackers Bank. She turned south, to the crouching granite soldier of the Great War memorial and Saint Marc’s, the dark Romanesque church where Father Celion was pastor. And west, to the colorful signs and awnings of the small shops—the bread bakery, the pastry bakery, the smoked meats shop, the butcher shop, the fruit and vegetable shop, the chocolatier, the wine merchant, and the café with its white-clothed, outdoor tables. Her eyes found the road between the café and Saint Marc’s leading to the bridge built in Roman times, the Pont de Pierre, saddle on the back of the mighty River Meuse. “A way out of town!” Saying it aloud felt empowering to Mother. Finally, scanning faces of the townsfolk, she shook her head at the grim expressions, the tear-streaked cheeks. Lefebvre, you’ve been a quiet town who’s dealt with outsiders on your own terms or not at all. Today that changes. We all change. Adieu, Lefebvre.

On the platform a few meters away, two Nazi swastikas ominously sandwiched a Belgian flag. The town’s mayor, its constable, and its doctor sat on the dais looking as happy to be there as hungover men at the opera. Next to them, looking positively ecstatic, was a pro-Nazi Belgian, Leon Le Deux. And there was another civilian, a stranger, with a razor-sharp nose and the dark, darting eyes of a hawk. He wore a swastika armband.

Waiting for things to begin, Mother Catherine considered the scene before her—how it teemed with contradiction. On the one hand, the Nazi dais leering at her. On the other, reflected off cobblestones still wet from the early morning rain, the impressionistic image of the colorful shops lined up to the west—for Mother, an airy watercolor like ones she’d done as a girl in Paris. The first debauching the second like an animal carcass rotting in a glacial mountain stream. It was ugly and beautiful. Filthy and pristine.

Mother’s thoughts were interrupted when Mayor Beaugarde scurried up. “Oh Mother Catherine, your little angels sang so beautifully as you approached the square. I am to say Monsieur Le Deux invites you and your girls to stand around the speakers’ dais and serenade our distinguished guest, Herr Reeder, before the program.” The mayor turned to Le Deux seated on the dais and bowed. Le Deux smiled broadly and nodded back. “You see, he sends a greeting to you and your lovely charges. For the sake of Lefebvre, may I say you’ll do it, Mother?”

Mother Catherine put a hand on the mayor’s shoulder and drew him near. “See how nicely he shows his fangs. Please tell Herr Le Deux that I would sooner swallow a bucket of broken glass than sing for his German master.”

The mayor turned pale. “Oh please, Mother. It will only get more difficult for—”

The nun cut him off. “Tell him we’re fresh out of songs.” The steel in her voice made clear the discussion was over.

The mayor slinked back to the dais. He spoke timidly to Le Deux. For a moment Le Deux did nothing. Then he glared darkly at Mother Catherine.

At noon, Le Deux strode to the front of the dais. His festive look had returned. After a moment to relish the scene, he gave a sharp nod to the Wehrmacht officer standing next to the dais. The oberleutnant, a fish-faced man with an empty left sleeve pinned to his side, unholstered a Luger pistol and fired a signal shot. Every neck tensed as the report dashed out to each corner of the square and returned, a hollow pop.

At the far end of the square, next to the church, the canvass back covers on two transport trucks flew up and out poured twenty-one German soldiers. They formed four tight columns, a massive sergeant with a ceremonial sword in front and to the right. In quick succession the sergeant brought his troop to attention, had them shoulder their rifles, and moved them forward toward the assemblage. Half-way across the square, the sergeant bellowed a command, and as one, the unit changed from their quick time march to the high step parade march. Mother shuddered, thinking they’d been choreographed carefully as a Russian ballet, a group of men moving with the menace of a single predatory beast. She mentally dissected the elements that combined to wield such power: The black and red swastika banner out front. The uniforms tight and gray. Black helmets glittering in the midday sun. Shiny bayonets pointing skyward, threatening even the heavens. Polished, black jackboots swinging up in their ominous goosestep and slamming back down onto the cobblestones, each slam making a single report. And the soldiers’ carriage—bodies rigid, except for the machine-like legs and the swinging right arms.

Mother Catherine turned to nod encouragement her students. Her gaze fixed on Françoise and Eva standing together—Françoise struggling to hold back her sobs and Eva with her arm around her friend’s shoulder. Mother prayed, my little Eva, always so strong, always so confident. Lord, give me Eva’s strength. Eying the she-fox, she whispered, “Liberté, en garde! The weasels approach.”

When the phalanx was close, Mother could see faces under the helmets. They looked young as altar boys, she thought. Young, but without youth. With each left stride, right fists pumped up to strike left breasts in perfect unison, almost like her girls saying their mea culpas. But rather than acts of contrition, she knew these were intended to strike fear into the hearts of onlookers. And she could see by the hopeless looks on the townsfolk’s faces that the show was effective. Faces tell it all. Even the soldiers’ taut faces, which moved only in a twitch of the cheek flesh, each one a shock propelled up through the body by the percussion of boot on stone. It was for her a grim reflection of the vile shocks being felt by Lefebvres all over Europe.

The troop took positions on each side of the dais, and Le Deux, his chin jutting, spoke again. “My fellow Belgians, Heil Hitler! I tell you forthrightly, we are in for changes, just as is the rest of the world. But I believe, and I think you must believe also, that these will be changes for the better. I am pleased to introduce Herr Eggert Reeder, the Fuhrer’s Militarverwaltungschef-ernannt, designated head of the Military Administration. His message is important. Listen carefully.” With a grand sweep of the arm, Le Deux handed the stage to the man with the dark eyes. “Herr Reeder!”

Reeder moved cautiously to the fore, sizing up the people of Lefebvre. He began with a stiff arm salute. “Heil Hitler! Today dawns a new era for your most charming village, just as events in the west signal the dawn of a new Europe. A cleansed Europe. Even as I speak, Panzer units of the Third Reich are breaking through French defenses.” Reeder’s French was technically perfect, but his German accent made it succulent mussels ruined by too much salt. “People of Lefebvre, you all know society needs rules. New, better rules will replace some of the old ones. But a few new rules aren’t such a big deal, are they?”

In the students’ ranks, Françoise turned questioningly to Eva, who gazed serenely ahead.

The speech continued with a summary of the changed chain of authority, the rationing programs, and other elements of the new order. Finally Reeder concluded, “These rules are for our collective good. I close with a warning. Do not oppose the course of history. We deal especially harshly with certain offenses: black marketeering, harboring enemy persons, and resistance to proper authority.” Mother thought she saw Reeder glance toward St. Marc’s. “A complete set of the new rules will be promulgated. Make yourself aware and ensure compliance. Heil Hitler!” Reeder’s eyes darted over the crowd, judging the spirit with which his comments were received.

It was just as Reeder turned away to shake hands with the others on the dais that it struck Mother Catherine—she hadn’t seen Father Celion in the square. She had been so concerned with her students that she hadn’t thought to look for him.

Mother’s thoughts raced back to the last time she’d seen him, when the balding old man with large, bulging eyes had come to St. Sébastien to celebrate Sunday Mass. He’d voiced his opposition to the occupation and reacted vigorously to her admonition to be careful. “Mother, I’ve already been given a long and good life. I have no interest in buying more time if the cost is my honor. Anyway, I won’t flatter myself. I know that to them, Father Celion and his complaints are no more than a fly and its buzzing.”

Mother had countered, “But Father, you know what happens to pesky flies.”

The priest had crossed her forehead with his thumb and chuckled, “Oh Mother, bless your care for an old man.” He wagged a finger. “But don’t you forget, as they certainly won’t, that this fly wears the collar of Rome.”

Mother Catherine’s eyes darted around the crowd, just now walking off in small groups, cautiously whispering among themselves. Her thoughts darted too. A bald head! No, it’s Bertrand, the chocolatier. The man next to Madame LeClerc? No, that’s Monsieur Herche. Mother raised fingertips to her lips and her breathing quickened. No Father Celion. Maybe he boycotted! It would be just like him. She peered at the church, hoping to see a pair of bulging eyes peeking scornfully from a window or a cracked-open door. She saw nothing. Boycotting? Yes. Please be quietly boycotting, you stubborn old fly.

Sister Arnaude tapped her shoulder. “Mother Catherine, shall we take the girls back now?”

Mother stammered, “Yes, of course. Sister, have you seen Father Celion today?”

“Gracious, I don’t believe I have. But you know my eyes, Mother. I’m not the one to ask.”

“Thank you, Sister, do take the girls back now.”

Father Celion was never seen in Lefebvre again. The constable’s bigmouth wife claimed her husband whispered that the priest had been picked up the midnight before the assembly and sent to Germany to labor in Bremerhaven’s submarine works. Only the Germans knew for sure.

Roller Coaster Ride

After the fall of France in June 1940, the war in the west that for a few weeks had been a roaring blaze burned down to glowing embers. With the men and machines now steadily pouring westward like coal through a chute, it seemed clear that the furnace of Europe would soon erupt again, belching skyward a bridge of fire and black smoke that would jump the English Channel and consume Britain.

With the tumult of the war’s opening days past, Eva hoped the dread she saw consuming her classmates’ spirits would subside, but for many of them it didn’t. In those summer weeks, the roads were clogged with convoys, the troop trains seemed endless and the sky was dark with planes—an endless, unnatural migration of transmuted birds, sullenly trekking east to west. The German military pouring through was too close, too constant. Too present.

Eva tried to bolster spirits, telling her friends one June night after lights out, “You must admit, boredom is suffocating, and whatever else they’ve done, the Germans crushed boredom faster than they did France. I know it’s frightening to hear an army rumble by, but it can be thrilling, too. A mix of fear and thrill—sounds like a roller coaster ride to me. Give it a chance. You might like it.”

When she saw angst still roosting in the dormitory, Eva tried to use the war itself to blunt it with a game. She told the Owl Club members, “When I traveled with my mother and time started to drag, we’d play a game called I Spy in which I got points for spotting various specific things along the way—you know, men carrying umbrellas, baby carriages, ladies in red hats, white dogs. We’ve got the Luftwaffe’s flying circus overhead, so how about it if we Owls have a game in which points are awarded for spotting and classifying them? We could give three points for big bombers, two for light bombers and one for those zippy fighters up there. On August first, the girl with the most points gets a prize.” Eva pulled a crisp five franc note from under her mattress and waved it in the air. “I’ll keep score. Who wants to play?” Everyone did.

The most points awarded in a day was forty-six, going to Clarisse LaCroix, the redhead from Thieux. She feigned illness in theater class and was sent back to the dormitory. Instead she sat on the convent roof, smoking cigarettes stolen from Sister Arnaude’s desk and watching the Luftwaffe’s aerial parade. That evening she bragged, “What a day for spotting! Heavens clear as a hawk’s eye and busy as a one-armed Flamand trying to count to six. In just an hour, I saw it all. First I heard the rumble of heavies, and squinting hard, a moment later I spied them, crawling along, high as clouds, leaving a pencil smudge of smoke across the sky.” She pointed to the ceiling, moving her finger slowly overhead. “My flock of six Heinkels makes eighteen points. Then I tallied a skein of seven small bombers, those angular Stukas, loping along, sounding that grinding whine of theirs. Fourteen points. And I scored a squadron of fourteen fighters, sleek Messerschmitt 109s flitting like yellow-headed swallows, low enough to trim your bangs.” She whizzed her hand just over Dani’s head. “Fourteen points, for a grand sum of forty-six. Voilà! And you donkeys had to sit in class, feigning amusement at Moliere’s antique humor.”

On one July Sunday, one hundred eleven planes were tallied by Whispering Owls. In the end, Clarisse won the five francs with a total 309 points. A few girls grumbled that she’d probably cheated but Eva ruled that without proof of that, her winning count stood.

As the swarms of warbirds passed overhead, the highways were a westbound ribbon of trucks, loaded with troops and equipment. And there were the trains. Trains steaming west. Trains filled with soldiers—shiny young faces, exuberant in the moment and looking ahead to the adventure and glory they were sure would soon be theirs. Those centipedes of iron and wood all stopped at the tending station outside of Lefebvre for coal and water. As the trains were serviced, the girls up the hill at St. Sébastien couldn’t see the shiny faces but they heard the shouting, the laughter, and the buoyant singing, “Wir fahren gegen England.”

With the other girls at least partially freed from their fears, Eva went on with her routine, her morning walks, as if nothing remarkable—nothing surprising—was happening in the world around her. She seemed to be guided by what Mother Catherine had said the night of the assembly in Lefebvre, “My flowers, though we shan’t violate the occupiers’ rules, we shall in no further way restrict ourselves. We are occupied, but we will not be prisoners. Our tongues are bound, but our minds are free.”

Though she had promised that, for safety’s sake, she would confine her walks to the boundaries of the convent’s extensive property, Eva didn’t really do so. Henri had shifted her assignment to watching and listening for resistance efforts, especially sabotage directed at the Pont de Pierre bridge. That meant getting out, covering ground. When Mother finally questioned the amount of time she was away, Eva admitted she strayed and reminded her of her own words: “in no further way restrict” and “not prisoners.” She said, “Before the Germans came, I went far and wide, and I won’t let them take that away from me. Besides there are few soldiers around, and they’re easy to avoid, always singing and sticking to the roads as they do.”

Mother was about to object when her conscience scolded, Oh come now, Catherine, it’s just what you would have said—and done—at her age. She squeezed Eva’s hand. “Just be careful.”

Under the Occupation, milk had been first to disappear from the shops. Milk, then butter. Then there was no meat. Then no cheese. No flour. No sugar. No coal. These staples could be had under the table, but people feared going that route, initially at least, since black marketeering was a crime. Eventually, gnawing hunger came to trump those fears.

Through the summer of 1940 and into the autumn, the nuns and students of St. Sébastien were comfortable. There was the warmth of the season and the bounty of the convent’s garden, ample enough to share with the local townsfolk. But in November, all that changed. The weather turned cold and damp, and cellared apples, leeks, and carrots were all that was left of the garden.

It was December when Eva first noticed the thinness of Françoise’s arms. Noticed the hollowness in the cheeks of the other girls and the darkness around their eyes. And the nuns’ worried silence. She felt her optimism flagging. Before she’d been confident that her strides carried everyone to a rich new future. Now she had been shunted into a grim alleyway, overhung with menace and getting darker with every step. The kind of place that, for the first time in her life, gave her doubts.

In the week before their December monthly meeting, Eva was uncharacteristically anxious to see her uncle. She was waiting at the convent gate when his Mercedes phaeton pulled up and she jumped into the back seat before Pruvot, the chauffeur, could come around to open the door.

In the car, Eva took Henri’s hand and peered into his eyes. “Uncle, it’s not supposed to be like this. We have to do something.”

Henri grimaced and jerked his hand from hers. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Food’s become so short, uncle. There’s never enough. And the school’s always cold. Mother says there’s no coal to buy. At night the dormitory sounds like a tuberculosis ward.”

“There’s a war going on, child.” He stared at Eva. “What’s come over you?”

Eva bit her lip. “It’s the girls … everyone’s so cold and hungry.”

“From what I’ve seen, a few of them would do well eating less. Besides, the way the war’s going, it’ll be over soon. Then things will be better.”

“I don’t know how long some of the girls can hold out. They’re so frail, uncle. So afraid. You must do something now.”

Henri rapped Eva’s knee with his crop. “Don’t ever tell me what I must do, young lady.”

“I’m not telling, uncle, I’m pleading.” Eva clenched her fists. “I’ll do anything you say if you’ll do what you can for my friends.”

Henri sneered, “You’ll do anything I say whether or not I help your friends.”

“Certainly, uncle.” Eva lowered her eyes. “But consider this. What I’m doing for the cause is important. And so near to Lefebvre and her bridge, St. Sébastien is the perfect place for me. You’ve said that from the start. Things are getting bad so fast—without your help how long can the school survive? For the sake of our work, I’m asking you to do what you can to save it.”

Henri sat back in the seat and groomed his moustache with his thumb. After a moment he said, “I’ll see what I can do. Now let’s see your notebook.” He took the volume from her. “Night before last, someone dynamited the main rail line this side of Liege.” He opened the notebook and scanned Eva’s recent entries. “Any of the girls ever mention our friends in the Resistance?”

“No, uncle.”

Henri scowled. “Then loosen their tongues. Catch them off guard. Tell them, I don’t know…your cousin in France firebombed a panzer or publishes an underground newspaper or something. I’m counting on you to be smarter than they are.”

Eva looked down. “I’ll try, uncle”

“With all that’s at stake, you say you’ll try?” He slammed the notebook closed. “Dammit, don’t just try. Do! Get out at night—that’s when you’ll see something.”

“It’s risky, uncle. It would be hard to explain if I got caught.”

“Christ, tell them you couldn’t sleep. I can’t do everything myself, you know.”

“I’ll try to do more. To be smarter, as you said.” She glanced at Henri.

“See that you do.” Henri tapped Pruvot’s shoulder with his crop. “Back to the school.”

It was two days before Christmas when Sister Martine scurried from the kitchen to answer the doorbell. She pulled open the door and there was Henri Messiaen with his chauffeur Pruvot standing behind him.

She bowed. “Ah, Monsieur Messiaen, good day. Shall I fetch Mother Catherine?”

“No, no, good sister, don’t bother her, for it is you I call upon today.” He winked.

Sister Martine covered her lips with her hand as if Henri had asked for a kiss.

“I’ve brought a few little things for your pantry,” Henri said, pointing backward with his thumb, “in the rear of the truck I hired. May we drive around to the kitchen entrance?”

“Yes, of course. It’s just there.” She motioned to the north side of the convent building. “But sir—”

Henri’s hand shot up. “We’ll meet you in a moment at the kitchen door.”

Sister Martine closed the door and skittered off. Henri said a word to Pruvot who dashed down the steps, jumped on the driver’s side running board, bracing an arm inside the open window. He told the driver, “Micheaux, pull around to the rear entrance.”

Henri was waiting when Sister opened the door. Micheaux, handsome with his long eyelashes, dimples, and a moustache like Clark Gable’s and wearing blue worker’s coveralls, was at the rear of the truck, tugging at a gray canvas tarpaulin. When the cover slipped off, racks of milk bottles, wet with dew, sparkled in the sunshine. Under Pruvot’s watchful eye, Micheaux carried in the clinking racks, six bottles each, two at a time. It took four trips.

“But no one can get milk!” Sister gasped.

Henri stood at the threshold with his arms crossed Mussolini-style and shrugged.

Next Micheaux brought in bread—four dozen baguettes, bundled like sheaves of wheat, and a huge burlap sack stuffed with round loaves of country bread. He piled it on the large kitchen worktable. He brought in three blocks of ice for the icebox.

Mother Catherine came to the kitchen to investigate the commotion. She blinked at the bread-covered table and the racks of milk bottles. She looked at Henri and shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, Monsieur!”

“We do have a bit more,” Henri said, as Micheaux struggled in with five dachshund-sized sausages.

By the time Micheaux lugged in a wheel of Norwegian cheese huge as an automobile tire, the windows of the dormitory were filled with the excited faces of students. On the walk back for another load, he blew a kiss and bowed like a matinee idol to his audience. It brought squeals and waves from the girls.

Micheaux carried in a wooden tub of butter. Then a box with ten kilograms of nuts and ten kilograms of chocolate. Then one with twenty kilos of flour. Then one with twenty of coffee.

Next to the icebox, Sister Martine sat speechless, tears rolling down her tiny cheeks.

Micheaux’s last load was the size of a valise and wrapped in waxed paper. Mother pulled back the wrapping to reveal bacon—slabs, thick and hard, with fat the color of cream and meat the color of blood. She could only marvel, “But these things, they’ve all disappeared from the shops. It is truly a miracle.”

“Miracles are a specialty of mine.” Henri laughed, tipping his bowler hat. “And now I must depart for my dining engagement in the city. Pruvot, pay Micheaux and dismiss him.” He turned back to the nuns. “Mother Catherine, Sister, au revoir and bon appétit!”

The miracles continued for almost a year. At least once a month Henri Messiaen would bring or have delivered similar stocks of food—somehow. For, though no one had fuel, his car was running. Though no one could get meat, he found a way. In wintertime, when everyone shivered, Monsieur Micheaux showed up every so often at St Sébastien with lovely coal. And when no one could get cigarettes, even on the black market, he brought them, sometimes English ones no less, for Sister Arnaude. The nuns speculated that he must be a bootleg kingpin, but they never asked questions. One didn’t ask questions in those days.

Red and White

With the arrival of improving weather in April 1941, a number of members of Le Cercle de la Chouette Chuchoteuse at St. Sébastien contracted spring fever. At night, those Whispering Owls regularly snuck out of the dormitory and occasionally even off the convent grounds. And those who went began to sniff the subtle odor of change in the war’s course. Sitting with nineteen other nightgowned girls in a circle around a single candle in the dormitory, Camille reported one night, “It’s strange. Last night I saw a train of flat cars loaded with tarpaulin-covered tanks and cannons. And it was heading east.”

Camille’s cousin Chloe, who spent weekends at a nearby farm helping tend the orchard, whispered, “You know the highway running by the farmhouse? It was clogged Saturday night with convoys of troop trucks hauling Boche soldiers back toward Germany.”

Isabelle from Paris said, “Perhaps they’re leaving France, too. Surely they are. Mamam will be so happy to have their filthy boots off the Champs-Élysées.” She looked around the circle like she’d said too much. “It’s not just Germans. She’d say that about any foreigners, mind you. It’s just a fact that the Île de la Cité should be for Parisians. Just for us.”

Eva smiled sweetly. “My uncle says Paris would be the best city on earth were it not for Parisians.”

“Then your uncle can sit on a tack.” Isabelle crossed her arms. “We won’t ever leave.”

That night, lying in their beds, the girls heard waves of warbirds droning overhead. Like what they’d heard nine months earlier. Only now they were heading east, back from the Channel.

In the Owl’s circle a week later, with the nightly movement of men and machines increasing, Simone, the girl nicknamed Trout, steered the talk to reasons for the change. “So, sitting here in our little circle around our little candle we know that the Boche are turning their noses east; we just don’t know why.”

“Maybe they need to go home,” Bébé snickered, “to wash out their stinky old underwear.”

“Bébé, shush!” Chloe swished a quick sign of the cross. “There’s to be an armistice.”

“An armistice?” Nathalie’s eyes got wide. “Father’s saved a magnum of champagne to celebrate the peace. When it comes, I get to go home for the week and get tipsy drunk with him.”

“Nathalie, please!” Chloe scolded, “I’ve been praying for peace, and I think God’s listened. He’s granting us an armistice.”

Bébé threw her chubby arms into the air and looked up toward heaven. “Praise the Lord!”

Clarisse poked Bébé in the ribs. “Hate to burst your balloon, Mademoiselle Avoirdupois, but God and Herr Hitler don’t talk much. Want to know what I think? There’s no way the Boche are giving up. Look, they gassed my uncle in the Great War. He said they fled from the front just before they sent the mustard gas. I think that damn Hitler is planning to do it again, drenching England in the stuff, and he wants his precious SS safely away when he does.”

Laetitia grimaced. “I like Chloe’s idea better.”

“Believe as you wish.” Clarisse resumed brushing her hair. “But remember, when it comes to misbehavior, the Boche wrote the book.”

“You must have studied with them, LaCroix,” Isabelle stuck out her tongue at Clarisse.

Clarisse jumped to her feet and struck a belligerent pose, but the girls’ attention was drawn elsewhere. Eva stepped into the center of the circle and switched on a flashlight pointing up from the tip of her chin. The shadows it cast on her face and her bushy moustache, made by holding a black comb under her nose, were eerie. “Good evening, comrades. I am Josef Stalin,” Eva said with a Russian accent. “Allow me to offer a hypothesis for your observations. Observations my spies would have made if they weren’t all IDIOTS.” Eva looked away from the circle and called, “Beria, have all my spies shot. While you’re at it, shoot yourself, too!”

The girls were laughing as Eva turned her shadowy face back to them, her eyes wide and darting from girl to girl and her Russian accent even heavier than before. “It’s oh so clear. Unbowed Britain still rules waves and clouds in the west.” Eva made her eyebrows jump. “The German beast’s appetite is insatiable. So Hitler turns his hungry eyes elsewhere. Eeek! From Berlin, my socialist union must look tempting as a big bowl of borscht with sour cream.”

Camille raised her hand. “Sorry to interrupt, comrade.”

“Nobody interrupts me,” Eva said. She pointed to Cami. “Have her shot!”

“Just one question before I die, comrade,” Cami giggled. “I thought Hitler was your dear friend. Is there no honor among you despots these days?”

“Us, friends? Just because we dined together on Polish sausage? I never trust a man who won’t drink vodka with me.”

Cami said, “Is there anyone you do trust, comrade?”

“Didn’t I have you shot?” Eva laughed. “Anyway, the trains, the trucks, the troops, moved in secret under the cover of darkness—it proves my case. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a sleeping bear to rouse.” She switched off her light.

When the laughter had died down, Isabelle from Paris said, “But really, it’s all so silly. Germany and the Soviets are allies, and Hitler can’t fight England and Russia at once.”

Operation Barbarossa, Hitler’s siccing of an army of 3.6 million on the unprepared USSR in June 1941, marked an explosive upturn in the war in the east. Changes that summer in the war’s impact on western Europe were more evolutionary. By September, not only was the evening’s light fading earlier at St. Sébastien, so too was food becoming increasingly scarce.

The district’s farmers had always been generous, but now their livestock and crops were inventoried and distribution of their produce was restricted. They still did what they could for Mother Catherine, but it wasn’t much. And with the town of Lefebvre starving, it had nothing to share with St. Sébastien.

Toward the end of summer 1941, Eva’s trips to visit her uncle became less frequent, for he was away from Liege much of the time. When Henri was home and wanted to see her, Pruvot was sent to the convent to fetch her. After those visits, Eva returned with provisions for the kitchen of St. Sébastien, but there seemed to be less each time.

Less from the local sources. Less from Uncle Henri. Finally, in late September came the third blow. Early one afternoon, a detail of three German soldiers arrived at the convent unannounced. A sourfaced corporal rang the bell. When Sister Martine answered, he held out a document, official-looking and written in German, and demanded in a distant cousin of French, “I am Corporal Schweinslauter. Make present the lands-master.”

Sister could not read the document and she interpreted landsmaster to mean the mayor of Lefebvre. With pointing and pantomime, she indicated the way to the village.

The soldier was first confused, then exasperated. He lapsed into German. “Nein, nein. Wo ist irher Bauer?” Then in French. “Your farmer. Where?”

Mother Catherine came to the door. The soldier repeated his clumsy demand.

Mother had heard rumors of food confiscation. She saw the shovels and baskets in the soldiers’ truck and immediately knew the importance of putting them off. She sized-up the corporal: The sloppy shave. Missing button. Twitching eye. This one shouldn’t be so difficult to cow. If I can buy just a few hours, we can harvest and hide much of the garden. She snatched the document and looked it over for less than five seconds. “Ha! Absurd.” Wagging her finger, she scolded the corporal. “No, no, no, Monsieur. Where is your officer?” She had the corporal backpedaling. “Your officer. Here. Bring him!” Mother flicked her hand, as if shooing a fly. She stomped her foot and pointed to the gate. “You. Out of my sight!”

The befuddled soldier was stumbling backward when his comrade called, “Herr Corporal, I found the garden in back. Come on. Forget the witch.”

As the driver backed the truck toward the garden, Schweinslauter pushed past Mother. He ran behind the vehicle to the rear of the convent building. Mother followed, shaking the document and demanding the soldiers leave.

Barking came from the barn. As the truck lurched to a stop near the garden, Eva’s dog Caspar jumped through an open barn window and charged the soldiers, yapping angrily. The growling dog chased one of them onto a cement bench. He used an empty bushel basket to fend off Caspar’s bared teeth.

The ruckus drew the girls in Sr. Arnaude’s literature class to the window. Terrified, they watched Schweinslauter stride to the cab of the truck and snatched a rifle. Laughing, he aimed. “Don’t move, Franz,” he hollered. “I’ll save you from the wolf.” At that, Eva bolted from the window, running out of the classroom and down the stairs that led to the school’s back door.

Outside, before the corporal could fire, Mother scooped Caspar into her arms. She glared at the soldiers. “Cowards! You’d shoot a helpless animal? You’d steal food from the mouths of starving children?” She shook her head. “Stop and think what you’re doing!”

Schweinslauter leveled the rifle at Mother Catherine. He used the barrel to indicate, Get inside now, or else.

With the struggling dog in her arms, Mother walked to the convent door. Each step was unrushed, even stately. Her arrival at the door was simultaneous with Eva’s.

Eva was trembling. “I saw from the window, Mother. I was so afraid.” She pulled Caspar to herself. Scratching under his ear, Eva quieted him. Then she squeezed Mother’s hand. “I’ll never forget you risked your life to save my Caspie.”

Mother glanced at the hand on hers and smiled. Her gaze returned to Eva’s face. “But my dear, I didn’t risk my life just to save your dog. Mostly I risked it for those men. To show them that courage and grace are possible, even in these dark days. That life can always be respected.”

Eva huffed. “And what do you think the chances are that such men will grasp your lesson?”

“I don’t know, Eva. I only know I did all I could, unveiling a truth for them to see, if they’ll look honestly.”

For a moment, Eva peered silently at the floor. When she looked up, her face was streaked with tears, for a veil before her own eyes had momentarily lifted and the truth she glimpsed shook her bedrock beliefs. She turned and ran, holding Caspar tight to her breast.

In two hours, Schweinslauter and his men took most of the root vegetables, the potatoes, the ripe apples and green pears. They made sure to tromp much of what they didn’t harvest before driving off to the station in Lefebvre. That night the food was on a train bound for Germany.

With the chill winds of November howling, the outlook was for a cold and hungry winter. And as food supplies went, so did the spirits of the St. Sébastien girls.

One frosty December night just after lights out, the eve of the feast of St. Nicholas, the girls were in bed, each with a towel-wrapped, oven-warmed brick at her feet.

Isabelle from Paris pulled her tasseled nightcap over her ears. “I dreamed last night of my mother’s bouillabaisse. Wherever I was in the house, its aroma would seek me out. So rich, smelling was almost tasting. Mama used to make it on cold winter evenings, like tonight. And she baked crusty bread to go with it. Her bread smelled of yeast and wheat, and she served it oven-warm so that the butter melted into it and dripped onto the plate in a yellow pool.” Isabelle burst into tears. “It seems so long ago—in another life.”

Camille climbed into Isabelle’s bed to comfort her and ended up crying too.

Bébé pulled her knees tight to her chest. “Mirella and I’ve been talking about something for weeks now. Planning it. When the stinking war’s over, we’re going to make the world’s biggest confection. For all of us. It changes with every day, but right now it’s layers of chocolate, cherry, and génoise gâteau, with butter cream frosting. We’ll hollow it and fill the hole with glacéed walnuts, marzipan, licorice, honey, sugarplum, strawberry jam.…Let’s see. And pineapple gelato and hazelnut praline. Oh, and penuche crumbled on top. Did I forget anything, Mirella?

“Uh-ha,” Mirella said. “Blancmange and whipped cream.”

“Oh, yes. Blancmange and whipped cream piled on till it spills down the sides.” Bébé broke into soft sobs.

Simone blew on her hands. “I’ve gone beyond thinking of food to thinking of hunger. Days I can push it from my mind, but at night, lying in bed, it’s always here, like a worm gnawing my insides. And nights like this, when I can see my breath, I shiver ‘till my body aches.”

Clarisse LaCroix brushed her long, red hair. “When Mom died, my aunt moved in with us. She was an awful cook. I lived on bread and jam in those days. But her cuisine was like something from Maxim’s compared to the shit we’re served here, these days.”

“So you dined at Maxim’s often, did you, LaCroix?” sassed Isabelle from Paris.

Soleil scolded, “Clarisse, you know Sister Martine does her best with what little she has. Don’t be so critical.”

Clarisse shot back, “Sister Martine is a ninny. Everything she makes tastes like dishwater. So she doesn’t have a full larder? For variety, she could have Sister Eusebia dangle her stinking feet in the soup for a few minutes—at least that might flavor it.”

Camille groaned. “Oh, Clarisse, you’re a sick bitch. I wish you’d just shut up.” She ducked as Clarisse’s hairbrush flew by her head.

Eva jumped out of bed. “Girls. Girls! Please. Maybe it’s time for a meeting of the Whispering Owls. Françoise, light a candle. It may not give off much heat, but its glow will distract us from the thermometer’s mischief.”

With blankets pulled over their shoulders, the girls in their white flannel nightgowns formed a tight circle around the candle.

Eva gave them a moment to settle. “When I’m hungry and cold, it makes me feel better to think of the story of Bottomwobbles’ soup. Does that work for you, too?”

The girls looked at each other and chorused that they didn’t know the story.

“Don’t know the story of Bottomwobbles’ soup? Well then, you must listen.

“During the time that the geese occupied the forest of the school of St. François D’Assisi, food there became scarce. At first, Mother Swan’s boyfriend, Monsieur Ermine, brought gifts of food, but he proved to be an unreliable weasel. The wrens cried that they were hungry, for all they had to eat was watery soup and a few grains of corn. Sister Mouse, the cook, said she had nothing else to prepare. Mother Swan would not take food from others in the forest, who were all hungry too, and certainly would never ask the geese for help. As always, it was old Sister Tortoise who came up with a gem of an idea, without knowing it.

“Sister T told the wrens, ‘If you are hungry, my dears, take your mind off it by doing good works for another. Better yet, do good works for your enemy. Surely that spiritual nourishment will satisfy both soul and body.’

“Now one of the wrens there that day was named Zanzibar. As a new-hatched chick, she’d fallen from of her nest into the lap of Abracadabra, an old gypsy woman, passing below in an old gypsy wagon. Abracadabra took Zanzibar’s arrival as a good omen and decided to keep her. She called her Zanzibar because…well, she just looked like a Zanzibar type of bird. The gypsy taught the wren the arts of guile and cunning. When the old woman accidentally turned herself into a salamander one day, Zanzibar flew off and eventually nested at St. François.

“So there Zanzibar was with the others that day, considering Sister Tortoise’s suggestion. Suddenly, an idea struck our wily gypsywren. She twittered, ‘That’s it. We’ll take Sister’s advice! Follow me.’ Out of the tree of St. François, Zanzibar and the rest of the wrens flew like a storm of bats. Straight to Herr Bottomwobbles, the goose in charge of that part of the forest.

“Bottomwobbles was dozing behind a large desk when the wrens swept in. He woke and pretended to have been thinking.

“Zanzibar hopped onto the corner of the desk and said, ‘Good afternoon, sir. We wrens wondered if we could show our pleasure at having your company here in the woods by running errands for you.’

“Bottomwobbles snorted, ‘What errands might tiny wrens run for geese?’

“Now Zanzibar knew that geese were fat and lazy and preferred sipping beer to working. ‘I thought we might deliver food from your kitchens to the geese stationed throughout the forest. We’re quick on the wing and food delivery is too menial a task for geese.’

“‘That is certainly true. Hmmm. Yes, little wrens, if it would please you to shuttle sacks of food around the forest for my geese, I will allow it.’

“And so, that is just what they did. But on their flights, the wrens dropped a bit of their load down the chimney of each of the forest creatures. Crumbs of bread, pieces of meat, peas, beans, onions, and potatoes. The dropped food fell into the soup pots boiling in the hearths. And at every table in every home that evening, the scene was like that at the table of the school of St. François—as the soup was ladled into the bowls of each sister and each wren, everyone thought what Mother Swan said. ‘My, Sister Mouse, your soup smells especially good this evening.’ Mother took a sip. ‘Oh my, Sister, this soup tastes so rich and hearty. However did you make it?’

“‘As I always do these days, Mother—with just the few grains I’m able to get.’

“‘Then your culinary skills have become extraordinary, for this soup is fit for a princess.’ The wrens all chirped their agreement.

“From that day on, the soup served at St. François has been called Bottomwobbles’ soup. And it was the wrens’ example that inspired St. Nicholas to drop gifts down the chimneys of good children the world over every year on his feast day.”

That night, Bébé wrote by moonlight in her diary about Bottomwobbles’ soup and how “a story, for a few hours at least, banished hunger, sent it to stand outside, shivering alone in the courtyard.” And even years later, married to a Swiss banker and a mother of six, she called every soup she made, no matter the recipe, Bottomwobbles.

Eva continued her walks, even as cold weather closed in. And the winter of 1941-42 was a mean one, with unusually strong winds, low temperatures, and deep snowfall.

One crisp, bright February morning began as had many before it, with Eva hiking the hills rolling up from the Meuse valley. There had been snow on the ground for two weeks. The day before, the temperature rose above freezing and it rained. Overnight the north wind swept back. Rain turned to sleet and heavy, wet snow turned glassy.

Eva went out that morning, notebook in hand with Caspar in the lead, as always. Without much problem, she made it to the foot of the hills that overlook Lefebvre, the Pont de Pierre, the highway, and the rail line. She followed the dog up the path—step after tentative step. About halfway up, as Eva reached into her pocket for her pencil, her feet slipped from under her and she was falling. Falling ever so slowly. As in a dream. On the way down, she struggled to free her hand, but she couldn’t pull it from the coat pocket. She kept falling, falling, falling. And she had all the time in the world, but it wasn’t enough, for she couldn’t free the hand that would save her. Eva used her left hand to break the fall. It absorbed some of the shock as it crashed through the icy surface, jamming the wrist. Her body continued its downward hurtle, and she was tumbling when her brow hit the ice with a thud. The right side of Eva’s face crashed through the snow’s frozen crust. Its broken edges were cold and sharp. As cruel as skin is gentle. Eva went limp. A rag doll body sliding down the hill. Slowly. Finally, she came to rest, the fingers of her tardy right hand still clutching the pencil caught in her pocket.

Eva lay there, cheek on ice, for a moment. Several moments. Stunned. On the edge of consciousness. Caspar dashed back to his mistress, barking.

When Eva raised her head and opened her eyes, she was startled by the large stain on the snow. Red. Living. Part of her. She could feel her heart throbbing in the gash over her eyebrow. The cut burned, like a razor’s slice. Around the burn, her forehead and eyebrow were numb. Drops of thick red blood spattered onto the snow. Eva lay on her right side. As she moved her left hand to the injury, pain shot from her wrist—already stiff. She touched the gash. Burning, numb. She pulled her right hand free. Her shoulder ached. She wiped thick, fiery blood from above her brow with a handkerchief and pressed a handful of snow to the burning wound.

“Perhaps we’ll go back now, Caspie,” Eva said. “In a moment I’ll feel better.” She noticed the blood splotch on the ice and quickly looked away. “I’ll be fine in a minute or two.”

Caspar tried to lick her wound, but Eva turned her head. He licked her ear. She pushed herself up slowly. Caspar licked the blood on the ice, as if that could remove the injury.

Eva moved unsteadily down the hill. It was like walking on a moving train.

“Come on, boy. Come, Caspar!”

It was snowing again.

“The cold air helps,” she whispered to herself. “You can do it, Eva.”

She was fine until the trickle of blood reached the corner of her mouth. The taste of it set the world under her feet spinning again.

Eva panicked. Her legs felt weak. She knew she was going down again.

She sank to her knees.

To hands and knees.

Panting.

“Caspie, it’s cold, I can’t feel my toes but my brow’s on fire..”

Eva forced her eyes open. She wondered how it had suddenly become so dark.

She sank flat to the snow and closed her eyes.

Caspar, Not Marco

Obergrenadier Johannes Krebs drove his motorcycle, he called it a K-rad, over the icy road leading to Lefebvre. Not so fast, he told himself. Slick as it was, even with a sidecar, controlling the K-rad was tricky. Better the dispatch arrives late than never. He throttled down.

He saw it on the side of the road ahead. The little gray dog just stood there, almost up to its belly in snow, watching him approach. When Krebs got close, the dog’s tail began to swish, and its stare grew intense. Like a wolf, ready to pounce. As if Krebs on the K-rad were prey.

The dog waited until Krebs was a few meters away, then it sprang onto the road. The obergrenadier hit the brakes. The dog held its ground, barking at the lurching cycle. The K-rad skidded, its sidecar sliding to the right. Fighting for control, Krebs yelled, “Look out!” His options were hit the dog or chance the road’s dicey shoulder.

Krebs took the shoulder. But the dog again leapt into his path. Swerving to the left, he hit a pothole that sent the sidecar into the air, Caspar, Not Marco the rear wheel sliding beneath it. “Shit!” He kicked wildly, trying to pull his leg from under the toppling cycle. He made it, barely, and went sprawling into a snowdrift as the bike spun out.

When the world stopped tumbling, Krebs assessed his condition. He was shaken, but intact. And damned lucky.

Fearing what his careening cycle must have done to the dog, he craned his neck back from the drift. “Marco,” he called. Before he could get back to his feet, the dog was there, just feet away, uninjured and barking wildly.

“What? Not a pancake? How did you miss my K-rad, lucky hound? You know, I should strangle you with my bare hands for cracking me up, but you look like an old pal of mine from back in Garmisch—my mother’s Marco.”

Krebs rose to his feet and brushed himself off. The tone of the barking told him something wasn’t right. He squatted. “What’s the problem, little friend?”

The soldier reached for the dog, Eva’s Caspar not Frau Krebs’ Marco, but it backed away, then stopped again, just beyond reach. And he kept barking. When Krebs stepped toward Caspar, the dog scampered a bit farther.

“So we’re playing a game, eh? A bit cold for that, isn’t it? Where’s home, little fellow?” Krebs thought, such insistence—doesn’t seem like a game. “Hungry? Come home with me! I could use a mascot with luck like yours.”

Caspar seemed to have no interest in warmth or food. He ran up a path that led into the trees. Krebs huffed, “Wait,” and pushed his K-rad to the side of the road. He warned, “I’m not going to chase you.” But he did. The dog adjusted its pace to keep the obergrenadier following.

When Caspar disappeared around a dogleg in the path, Krebs muttered, “Already late with today’s dispatch and being made the fool by a dog—Johannes, this is too much.” He rounded the bend and there was Caspar, waiting at the side of the path. Standing watch. Barking, Schnell! He followed the dog’s gaze to the outline of a sprawled, white-dusted body.

The sight of the still form transformed Krebs, a change as instantaneous and profound as flicking on a light in a pitch-black room. In a second hand’s tick, his training as a medic, his medic’s sensibilities, came rushing back. No longer the messenger boy playing hide and seek with a mutt, he sprinted to the side of the figure, his heart racing.

Krebs moved the coat collar of the injured young female and felt a pulse in the carotid artery. He gently lifted Eva’s shoulder to check her breathing—that’s when he saw her notebook and the blood on the snow under her head. He completed his evaluation in seconds. Breathing shallow. Swollen contusion above the right eyebrow. The whisper of pallor on her face and the chill in her skin. “You don’t have much time, Johannes,” he whispered.

I’ll chance further injury to deal with shock, he decided. He lifted the girl and her lightness surprised him. Let’s hope that something—something essential—hasn’t already left, he thought. With Caspar at his feet all the way, he made it back to the cycle. He set Eva down and removed the emergency satchel from under the sidecar seat. When Krebs gently placed Eva in the sidecar, she moaned and came to, momentarily. Then she slipped away again. Like a paper doll, she slumped forward. Krebs took a gray wool blanket from the kit and tucked it around her legs and torso up to her chin. He removed his gloves and touched her lips. So cold. So soft. He shuddered.

Caspar jumped onto his mistress’ lap and was quiet.

“That’s the spot for you. Keep her warm.” He patted the dog. “You did well.”

Krebs read the words on the cover of the notebook he’d found next to the girl. St. Sébastien—the name of the convent school a kilometer or two away. Made sense.

The world around him slept silent and pure under its frozen white blanket. Krebs brushed Eva’s cheek. It was still and cold as the flock on the trees. He removed his gray woolen overcoat and flowed it over her shoulder. He brought the collar over the back of her head. He gently, reverently, tucked it around her. Then the reverence and the quiet vanished as he jumped on the driver’s seat and kick-started the engine. Tires crunching the snow’s crisp crust, he tore off toward the convent.

Stitches

Mother Catherine was sitting by a small coal heater, reading in the nuns’ parlor, when Sister Arnaude arrived, out of breath. “Mother, it’s Germans! In the courtyard.”

Mother slapped her book down and sprang up. “See to the girls, Sister. I’ll handle the furor Teutonicus.” Eyes aflame, she stormed down the corridor. Her thoughts shot back to the previous autumn. Those ghouls storming in, all boots and rifles, with their documents in German and their contempt. They stole the food from our very mouths! Mother’s fists were clenched.

As Mother approached the front door, the knocking—to her it was pounding—grew louder and more insistent. “Brutes, you’ll get nothing this time!” She flung open the door, ready to devour the barbarians on the other side.

But to her surprise, she faced something less than the Gestapo. It was lone Obergrenadier Johannes Krebs, carrying a bundle draped in a greatcoat and blanket.

The massive wooden door exploding open startled Krebs, but he managed to speak, and in French. “Sister, I see this young lady when I motor by on the road. It appears that she damages herself. I believe she may be one of your girls, so here I bring her.”

Mother pulled the blanket back and gasped. With the swelling and the blood, she didn’t recognize the face. But when she saw Caspar at Krebs’ feet, she knew. “Eva,” she murmured. Mother touched the girl’s cheek, and her fingers recoiled at its coldness. She asked, “Is she—?” The word dead stuck in her throat.

“Please Sister, can I be allowed to bring her in? She lives, but I fear for the shock.”

Mother Catherine raised her eyes in prayer for an instant. Then, “Yes, of course. Come, come. Bring her to the parlor. The stove there is warm.” As Mother led Krebs down the dark corridor, she demanded, “And how did this happen?”

Krebs ignored the question until they were in the parlor. He eased Eva onto the sofa. “Sister, as I have said, I found her damaged. Found her with following a dog’s barking. It is possible that she damages her head if she falls on the ice.” He checked Eva’s pulse. “Have you a nurse on the premises?”

Biting her lip, Mother shook her head. “There’s only Dr. Humbert in Lefebvre.”

“It’s too far in this weather. I’ve trained as medical aidman—may I do what I can?”

Mother Catherine looked at the man. The German man. She considered the thin face, pale blue eyes, and spectacles, making his look gentle. And the careful French and the asking-not-ordering which made him seem—was it painful to admit?—human. She pulled her eyes from Krebs and set them on Eva’s pale features. “Please. Do whatever you can.”

“I’ll need my kit.” Krebs was out of the parlor and back with a medical kit in less than a minute. He used two large books, a dictionary and a bible, to elevate Eva’s feet. “I fear about die Gehirnerschüttererung—I don’t know the word in French. It is a brain’s injury.” Krebs pried open Eva’s eyes and shined his small flashlight into each.

With Mother rubbing Eva’s icy hands, Krebs turned his attention to the gash above her eye. Sister Martine appeared in the doorway, and Krebs asked her, “Sister, can you get me soap, warm water and cloth?” He turned to Mother Catherine. “And would you please hold the light?”

As Krebs gently probed the illuminated injury, feeling for bone fragments, Mother’s eyes darted off Eva’s injury to his face. Human, even humane, is the right word, she thought, and that made her at once happy and sad. Distracted, she let the flashlight beam drift from the gash. Krebs gently guided her hand back until the injury was again lighted. The back of her hand warmed with his touch. Embarrassing her.

Sister Martine returned with the treatments and handed them to Krebs. “The pupils look the same,” he said. “It’s a good sign. I touch no broken bones. Now I am ready to clean her injury and impose a few sutures.”

Krebs washed his hands. He wet one of the cloths Sister Martine brought and rubbed the corner on the soap. He scrubbed the wound, first the gash itself, then the surrounding area. Eva stirred. She mumbled something about Caspar. Then she was quiet again. With the dried blood removed, the extent of the injury was revealed—a swollen lesion seeping watery fluid and surrounded by purplish bruising. The nuns had to look away, but Krebs seemed pleased. “Clean! The cut doesn’t threaten.”

Krebs doused a white cotton ball with iodine solution and dabbed the area of the injury. He took a waxed-paper packet from his kit and opened it with scissors. He removed a coil of fine, black thread with a small, curved needle attached and held the point up to the light. “Sisters, could you please nestle the mademoiselle’s head. The suturing will sting and I must have her still for my mending.” Mother Catherine held Eva’s head and Sister Martine, her hand. Krebs worked quickly. Mother looked away during the stitching. “That should do it,” said Krebs. He placed his hand on Eva’s cheek as if imparting a blessing.

Mother forced herself to examine Eva’s injury. It was spellbinding: The swelling. The bruising. The blood dried black. And the five black stitches with the clipped ends of thread sticking out, looking like spiders’ legs. A mighty conspiracy against Eva’s beauty.

Krebs covered the wound with gauze and taped it in place. He handed Mother two paper packets containing white powder. “She may take these for pain.”

Mother felt surprise that a German would concern himself beyond the mechanical repair of an injury to the patient’s comfort. This one is different, she told herself.

Krebs got up. “And now, I take my leave. As I carry dispatches to Lefebvre, I will inform Dr. Humbert. He may wish to see her. Head injuries want close watching.” Krebs picked up his coat and noticed Eva’s bound notebook. “Oh, yes, this must be hers.” He handed it to Mother.

At the front door, Krebs stopped and turned around. “May I ask what would be the Mademoiselle’s name?” Again, request rather than demand.

Standing at the door, Mother fought the urge to be cordial, but it overpowered her. “You may. It’s Eva. Eva Messiaen.” After a pause, Mother added, “Thank you, Mr.—”

“It is Johannes Krebs, Sister.”

“Johannes,” Mother echoed. “Same as Monsieur Brahms.” As she closed the door, Mother was thinking about the symphonies of Brahms, another German, music that spoke directly to her heart—as if it knew a shortcut, bypassing ears and brain completely. The door clicked shut.

After a moment, Mother reopened it and called, “God bless you, Johannes.”

A Mother

Ten minutes later Eva awoke, and the nuns helped her to a bed in the dormitory sickroom.

When Eva was tucked in and sleeping, Sister Martine said, “Mother, I’m sure you have things to do. This afternoon I must bake bread, but for now I can mind Eva.”

“Oh no, Sister. I’ll sit with our little casualty for a while.” Mother Catherine took Eva’s hand. “I can pray my breviary here. You tend to the staff of life.”

Sister Martine scurried off, and Mother pulled the old cane-back rocking chair next to Eva’s bed. She rocked slowly and rested her hand on Eva’s shoulder. Looking at the girl lying so peacefully, Mother imagined Eva as a child of two or three, cradled in her arms. There, there, my sweet little one. You’re safe with mother. Nothing can hurt you now. Sleep. Rocking and stroking Eva’s shoulder, Mother closed her eyes and hummed a lullaby her own mother had sung to her. Afterward, a whispered prayer sprang spontaneously from her joy. “Thank you, Lord, for this moment. This moment, holding my child. Rocking her. Thank you for the gift of this child.”

After allowing herself a quarter hour of bliss, Mother Catherine sighed and opened her breviary. The prayer book was an old friend, familiar to both fingers and eyes—its black leather cover made supple and red ribbon page mark darkened by years of daily use. But for once reading it was effort. A struggle. Catherine, your attention—it wanders today like a bee in red clover. Her eyes flitted to what was her clover. To bandaged Eva sleeping so peacefully and to the notebook on the metal bedside table.

Mother pressed the breviary closed and set it in her lap. She glanced back and forth from Eva to the notebook. She reached out and touched it, then pulled her hand away. You’ve been calling me, haven’t you? Pestering, distracting, even tempting me. She gazed at Eva sleeping soundly then snatched the notebook. And now you’ve won out.

Since Eva arrived at St. Sébastien four years earlier, Mother had wondered about the long walks she regularly took. When she’d brought up the subject, Eva replied they were “just walks, nothing more.” She’d asked others, but the girls only knew that “Eva likes to walk.” Mother’s instinct told her there was more to the story. Now the journal in her hand might settle the matter.

The cover bore the inscription, St. Sébastien VIII. Mother opened the book. On the top of each page was a six digit numerical entry like the first, “141141.” Dates, she thought. Eva’s comments were mundane. Like, Saw spring’s first violets in the meadow today, and Cami bobbed Simone’s hair last night. Mother was surprised only by the large blank spaces between entries. With paper so dear under the occupation, the voids, prominent as powdered sugar on Viennese pastry, struck her as frivolous. So inappropriately frivolous, they troubled her.

Mother felt a chill and that reminded her to change the warming stone at the foot of Eva’s bed. With tongs, she took a hot brick from the stovetop and carried it to Eva’s bed. She set it down on the opened journal while she removed the cooled one from under the duvet. Unwrapping the stone, she placed it on the stove to rewarm. She took the hot stone, wrapped it in the towel, and tucked the warm bundle near to Eva’s feet.

When Mother sat and picked up the journal, she noticed feint gray writing in the formerly blank spaces on the page. The writing had appeared only in the rectangle of space that was covered by the hot stone. It consisted of cryptic ciphers—ano, ono, b2rp, trg3, etc. On the next, page more ciphers, even fainter, occupied what had been blank space. On the third page, the ciphers were barely visible. Mother brought her fingertips to her cheek. Coded messages, written in disappearing ink? She pulled her shawl tight.

Eva’s lunge and her shriek filled the room. She was wild-eyed. Flailing for the book. Wailing, “My notebook! What are you doing?”

“I—” Mother Catherine fumbled the notebook closed. “I just opened it to see.”

“To see what? It is my notebook. You have no right.”

Mother shrank back in her chair. She brought quivering fingers to her lips. “But I do have a right, my child. Parents have the right, the obligation even, to know about their children. I too, in loco parentis, have that right—” She suddenly looked strong. “—and that obligation. I have never limited your promenades, which I view as healthy. I said I wouldn’t and I have not. But this morning’s accident, so far off the grounds, could have ended tragically.” Mother thrust her chin out. “I will do what your safety requires.”

Eva glared silently at the nun for a moment. “But you’re not my parent. Not my mother. How could you do this? You’ve disappointed me so.”

Not my mother. A dream, shattered like dropped crystal.

“I didn’t know what I would find—” Mother’s eyes darted to the notebook. “—there. I must say I am surprised, or should I say chagrinned, at what looks like coded messages written in disappearing ink—as if you have something to hide.”

Eva seethed. “Every person has a right to privacy. You chafe at restrictions under the German occupation, even as you tromp on the rights of those under your occupation.” Eva paused. Her look became hard as lye. “I shall never forget you did this.” She pointed her finger. “I shall never forgive.”

At that, fire swept fear and fluster from Mother’s face. “You point your finger and compare me to the occupiers? I’m nothing better than a Nazi thug, you say?” Mother threw the notebook onto the bed. “Have your secrets.” She stormed from the room, and shortly Sister Martine took her place, silently praying her beads next to Eva’s bed.

Late that night Mother sat alone in the chapel. Prayer didn’t come easily, and she knew why. You’re not here to ask God’s blessing. Nor to understand His will. You want only the quiet. Quiet to contemplate what you know has begun today. Begun slipping relentlessly, inevitably away. Quiet in which to mourn its passing.

It was early the next morning when Dr. Humbert arrived at the convent door. Obergrenadier Krebs was standing to the side and behind him, holding a large cardboard box, when the great door swung open. Sister Arnaude nodded Good-day to the physician. There was no such warmth for the German.

“The young man chauffeured me here to check on an injured girl,” Humbert said.

Krebs took a step forward. “Mademoiselle Eva,” he said.

The nun scowled at the German. “Please come in, doctor.”

Krebs slipped in behind the physician. Sister Arnaude showed the visitors to the parlor. She took the physician’s hat and coat. “If you will kindly wait here, doctor, I will prepare Mademoiselle Messiaen to see you.” She whisked out of the room.

Sister Arnaude was back in a moment. “Doctor, I can take you to see Eva now.” To Krebs, shifting his hat from the left hand to the right, she sniffed, “You will wait.”

Dr. Humbert walked into the white dormitory sick room to find Eva in her white nightgown, sitting up in the white-sheeted bed with three plump, white pillows at her back. She was playing cards with another student. Humbert blinked at the incongruity of Eva’s smile and the purplish bruise peeking from under her dressing.

“Françoise, out, out, out.” Sister Arnaude clapped her hands with each out. “Dr. Humbert will see Mademoiselle Eva now. Take the cards, Françoise.” The nun stepped to the side.

Dr. Humbert sat on the edge of the bed and held Eva’s wrist. “Ah, my dear, what’s this shy little mouse I see trying to hide under your bandages?” He stared at his pocket watch. “A strong pulse. It’s always good. Let me have a look at our little friend.” He moved the bandage to the side. Despite his care, the gauze tugged at the wound. Eva winced and a bead of bright blood formed at the centermost suture. “I am sorry for the discomfort. Ah, the stitches look fine. Couldn’t have done a nicer job myself. You are lucky, young lady; the laceration rides the brow line—any scar should be obscure. When Monsieur Mouse goes, you’ll again be beautiful.”

Humbert turned Eva’s head toward the shaded window, and he peered into her eyes. He asked Sister Arnaude to roll up the window shade. The stunning brightness of the day poured in and he saw Eva’s pupils close down quickly and in unison. “Very good,” he said. “Any pain or numbness other than near to our little mouse? Any dizziness?”

“Just soreness at my wrist, Doctor.”

Humbert pushed up the sleeve of Eva’s white nightgown and examined the wrist. He pressed and prodded to prove no bones were broken. Then he pulled the sleeve back down and gave the hand a pat.

“All signs are good. But my dear, you must let Sister know if you have dizziness or new pain. Eh?” The physician turned to the nun. “And Sister, any such problems and you will alert me. Yes?” He got up to leave. As he was drawing the shade he said, “Sister, please tell Mother Catherine I see no indication of serious injury. And you, young lady, I want resting, not card games!” Humbert winked. “At least not until tomorrow.”

Sister Arnaude returned with the physician to the room where Krebs waited. She opened the door and said, “You’ll be leaving now.”

Krebs stepped into the hallway. “I trust the Mademoiselle Eva progresses?” Humbert nodded. Krebs turned to Sister Arnaude. “I know times are difficult, Sister, so I leave you a box of tinned foods there in the parlor.” He cleared his throat. “May I ask you to pass my largest regards to Mademoiselle, please?”

The nun’s only answer was a scowl.

The moment the men were gone she rushed into the parlor to examine the contents of Krebs’ box, can by can.

Walks, Together

It was the fifth day since Eva’s fall, and she and Mother Catherine hadn’t spoken since the incident over the notebook. Eva was glad.

It was early morning and she slipped out the side door of the dormitory. She went to the barn to get Caspar, and the two of them set off through crisp snow along the drive that led to the gate. Half way there, Caspar started barking and ran ahead. Eva called him, but he ignored her. Rabbit, she thought. The dog darted under the gate and vanished. As she got close, it swung open and Caspar reappeared. A man stepped into the sunlight. Glinting off the snow, the light dazzled so that Eva had to shade her eyes to see him clearly. A soldier. German. She considered the figure: Slender. Open, gray greatcoat hanging on him as if on a coat rack. Boyish face under a crumpled garrison cap. Spectacles. And a smile. Eva remembered her uncle’s warning—more of a threat, really—about contact with Germans. She glanced back at St. Sébastien. You know what to do. Just turn and go. Calmly. No eye contact….But not without Caspar. She squinted. That face? Seems familiar. Safe. “Come here, Caspie. Here.” She stomped her foot. “Now.”

The soldier raised his arm. “Can you remember me? I’m called Krebs. Johannes Krebs. When you are fallen, I returned you to here. Remember?”

Eva did remember, vaguely. “No, I don’t remember. And I must be going back now. Here, Caspar.”

Krebs stepped ahead. “I wanted to see how you were doing.” His look was earnest.

“Very well, thank you.” Eva paused. She reminded herself, Just turn and go. But she couldn’t help asking, “The sutures. That was you?”

Krebs removed his cap. “I’m afraid so. I regret I’m no tailor.”

“Dr. Humbert said they were as fine as he could have done.”

“I was careful. Didn’t want to blemish Belgium’s loveliest objet d’art.”

Eva blushed. She searched for the right thing to say. Finally she sighed as if settling for something less. “I must be going. Come, Caspie.”

Krebs took a step toward her. “May I wander with you?”

Eva’s eyes opened wide. “I don’t think so.”

“Perhaps tomorrow?”

“I—” Eva bit her lip. “—I may not walk tomorrow.”

“Then the next time I see you out?”

“Probably not.”

“Probably isn’t certainly, so I’ll take it. And I’ll ask again next time I see you.”

As Eva turned to leave, she said over her shoulder, “Far as I know, asking is not yet forbidden under the occupation.” She left with Caspar scampering at her side and didn’t look back, though for a long while she imagined the soldier’s eyes fixed on her.

The following day Eva walked again. And again, Caspar ran ahead, and sure enough, Krebs was there, standing just beyond the gate. He squatted to pet the dog.

When Eva walked up, Krebs said, “So, today may I stroll along with you?”

Her eyes said yes. “Not today. I—” She glanced at the sky. “—I must get back to school.”

Krebs shrugged. “But you just left?” Rather than press, he bowed politely. “As you wish. I’ll try once more.”

The hint of a smile on Eva’s lips indicated she understood. She snapped her fingers. “Heel, Caspie.” And she was off with the dog.

The next day Eva walked the same route, and just as before, in just the same place, Caspar ran ahead, barking excitedly. And same as before, Krebs was there, waiting to pat his head.

Eva came up to the soldier and smiled.

Krebs said, “Good morning, Mademoiselle Messiaen.” He bowed without taking his eyes off her. “Your dog found me again.”

“Or perhaps it’s me that’s found you.”

“What a pleasant possibility! So, may I join you on your wander?

Eva pictured Henri, frowning. She smiled. “You may.” She lowered her gaze. “For a while, anyway.”

They walked along the road in snow turned to diamonds by the sunshine. When they came to a footpath leading into the woods, Eva said, “We should walk there, off the road.”

A minute into the trees, they were safely obscured. Johannes sighed. “I feel better now, screened from prying eyes. Honestly, Mademoiselle, I’ve had the fright that being at your side might menace you. Everyone knows local girls take big risks being seen with us. Just yesterday, I heard some hotheads jumped two sisters who’d but spent an evening with German soldiers in a Liege café. They blindfolded them, shaved their heads, and left them without a centime on some dark country road. The sisters walked to a nearby hamlet and had to beg the conductor of an early morning local train to let them freeload to Liege. I don’t want to make hardness for you.”

Eva replied, “Nor I for you.”

“Oh, there’s no risking for me. Officially, we’re not to fraternize, but it’s not enforced unless we behave improperly. We must demonstrate the high moral standards of the German people, you know.” Krebs winked.

“It seems high personal standards are emphasized over, let’s say, national standards.”

Krebs flinched. “You must remember it was the French and British that declared war on us. Still, I’ll grant that some in neutral countries like yours might feel abused.”

“Mr. Krebs, if we are to enjoy walking together, we should agree to keep off both popular thoroughfares and the subject of politics.”

Krebs bowed. “A sound proposal, Mademoiselle.”

Eva imagined Henri’s glare again. “Should we walk again, and, mind you, I’m not saying we will, let’s not meet at the gate. There’s a large oak tree beyond the orchard. It’s private from the school and away from roads. Come, I’ll show you the place.”

Eva led Krebs by the hand along the wooded path to the oak tree. With his cap, Johannes swatted the snow off a log lying nearby, and they sat on it. Caspar lay at their feet with his head on his paws. Krebs produced a chocolate bar to share.

Eva watched Caspie, content on his bed of soft snow. “Johannes, you have a way with dogs. With Caspie, at least.” She looked at Krebs. “They say dogs are good judges of character.”

“I think so,” Krebs chuckled. “We have an understanding, your Caspie and me.”

They got up and walked a bit. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Messiaen, how come you to so like the wandering? I think you may be part Bavarian.”

“Must one be Bavarian to enjoy the fresh air? The crisp of winter? The rebirth of spring, or the flowers of summer, or the colors of autumn? I like to be out. To be out with my dog. Being out is enough.”

“For me, being out with you is enough,” Krebs said.

Eva laughed. “Only enough?”

Over the next month Eva and Johannes met to walk together a couple of times a week. As Eva came more and more to look forward to walking with Krebs, she worried less that someone would find out about their rendezvous.

Poisoned Cheese

On the first day of April, the weather was decidedly spring-like. Eva had seen Johannes on Monday, and she walked alone with Caspar on Tuesday. She was leaving early Wednesday—excited at the prospect of meeting Krebs—when Sister Arnaude caught her at the door.

“Eva, you are to report to Mother’s office.” Her tone was stern.

Eva groaned. “Oh Sister, can’t it wait? I was just leaving for a walk before class.”

The nun arched her eyebrows. “No! You must go to the office immediately.”

As she walked down the dark corridor toward the office, Eva’s brain churned. I suppose now she wants to make peace. Well, this wasn’t my fault. She was the one snooping in my notebook. Sure, I don’t like our little war, but what about her—how much is it bothering her? Enough to call me in this morning to apologize? Enough to swallow her pride? Eva grinned. If not, let her squirm some more.

When she arrived at the door to Mother’s office, Eva banished her smile and knocked. She waited a moment, opened the door, and entered. Mother sat behind her desk, directly ahead.

“Young lady, how can you possibly be so stupid?”

The sound bewildered Eva. The voice seemed unnatural. Like something dreamed. The words themselves slipped elusively by her, like silvery fish flitting below a pond’s surface—barely perceived and certainly not grasped. It took a moment for Eva’s vague inkling to become clear realization: Mother’s was not the voice she had heard. Eva turned to face the person she suddenly knew was there on the side, crouching in ambush.

“Uncle Henri?” Eva’s eyes were wide.

Henri sat on the edge of his chair, a compressed spring. His eyes were embers, glowing darkness, and his expression, lemon sour. “It’s come to my attention that you have been trysting with one of the occupiers.” He jumped up. Moving close to her, he growled, “Can you appreciate what you are risking? What trust you’re betraying?” Glancing at Mother, he caught himself. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

Eva felt like she’d fallen in a pit. She looked pleadingly at Mother, who first opened her mouth to speak, but kept quiet.

Eva knew an explanation would change nothing. Still, there is the truth of the situation. “Uncle, I have several times walked with one of the German boys—the one who saved me after I’d fallen. But we do no more than walk and talk together. Nothing else at all. I didn’t think—”

“Finally some truth!” The vein at Henri’s temple bulged purple. “You didn’t think.”

Mother could no longer stay herself. “Monsieur Messiaen, young Krebs does seem a good boy.” She raised her index finger. “Now, I don’t for a minute—”

Without looking at the nun, Henri showed her his palm. “Thank you, Mother Catherine, but I’ll handle this.”

Mother tilted her head and raised her hands. “I was just going to say that youth—”

Henri shot her an electric look. “Thank you, Mother.” He turned back to Eva, now small as a mouse in the center of the room, and glared. “Because of your antics, I have instructed Mother Catherine that you are to be confined to the convent buildings through Tuesday next.” He snapped his fingers. “You will not see this Krebs again.”

Eva looked at the floor. “As you wish, Uncle.”

Henri’s lips pursed in a frown. Or was it a smile suppressed? “Not just my wish, young lady. A statement of fact.” He slapped his palms to his thighs, a signal that the session was over. He turned to Mother. “Now I must be going.”

Mother’s face was wan. “I’ll have Sister fetch your wraps.” She spoke to Sister Arnaude in the hallway and returned. “Thank you again for provisions you brought. We were completely out of flour, and I didn’t know what we would do, what with the rationing and the paucity of other sources. God bless you, Monsieur Messiaen.”

He shrugged. “I do what I can. My business takes me away so often, it’s not as much as I might like. Now remember, Eva is to be kept in through Tuesday.” Henri turned to Eva and shook his finger. “You, child, no more monkey business. Mark this—” His glare was razor-sharp. “—you no longer have the luxury of leeway.”

“Yes, Uncle, you are right.”

Henri nodded. “Always so.”

He turned on his heel with military precision. Sister Arnaude was waiting in the hall with his hat and overcoat. Henri took them without breaking stride, and tossing coat over arm, he stepped outside. He raised his face to the warmth of the springtime sun and inhaled deeply, proudly, as if the air’s fairness was of his making. He had his chauffeur Pruvot lower the phaeton’s top while he sat on the maroon velvet rear seat paging through the magazine, Le Temps. When the top was down, Pruvot started the powerful engine and, with Henri still reading, the large tan automobile roared away.

Inside, Mother gazed at Eva with affection. “There will be many boys to walk with, Eva. You’re just eighteen.” With her fingertips, she raised Eva’s chin to bring the girl’s eyes up to meet her own. “Such a pretty face! You’ll have every boy asking to stroll with you.”

Eva stared coldly ahead. Then she turned and left the room.

The week passed quickly. Early the next Wednesday morning Eva bolted through the door, dashing to the barn to get Caspar. Then the two of them were off, running in the morning mist, elated at being outdoors. Eva wondered if Johannes would be waiting there at the oak. Probably shouldn’t go at all. But I could just explain what happened and say goodbye. She found herself walking straight there, quickly. Camille’s Rule #1 came to mind—If you’re going to sin, best to do it quickly, before your conscience trips you. Eva felt a thrill on spying the huge tree beyond the fence line of the still-sleeping orchard. “Our oak!” A step or two later, it struck her. She’d said ours. Just saying it seemed to Eva like surrendering her heart. Not really surrendering, she allowed, because in the end, walks with Johannes will be a thing of the past. But at least it’s not complete surrender to Uncle, either.

Thirty meters from the tree, Caspar ran ahead, barking. Eva’s heart was pounding. But before the dog got to the tree, he turned and scampered back to her. His look was complete disappointment. So Krebs isn’t here. Eva’s shoulders sagged.

When she got to the oak, Eva walked around its broad, rough trunk. Behind the tree she saw it, stuck to the bark with a penknife. Until that moment, she’d held a shred of hope that Krebs might be hiding. Seeing the envelope, touching it, reading the Mlle E. M. address on it, Eva knew she’d not see him that day. She opened the envelope carefully. I’ll write a reply on his note and leave it the same way for him—like something in a romantic film. She fumbled in her pocket for a pencil.

Eva unfolded the one-page note. The writing was done in a careful hand.

6 April, 1942

Dear Mademoiselle Eva,

Since it now is Monday and you don’t walk, I think I won’t see you before I must this evening depart. This is the thing of most regret.

I am suddenly reassigned. I go to a Panzer unit deploying to the East. My train’s leaving is just hours hence. Perhaps there’s to be an all-out push to take Stalingrad, now that the jaws of winter begin to lose their snarl. Only such a reason can I make for such abrupt orders. (Aren’t the words orders and reason, sitting together there, an odd couple?) It doesn’t suit me, but do they care?

Eva lowered the note and put fingertips to quivering lips. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and raised Krebs’ note again.

I knew things were here too good to last. So now I trade keeping the peace in a peaceful place and wandering with you for battling Red Ivans. A rotten bargain, for sure.

I only hope a quick victory can return me from that savage wasteland. They say, if things go well, the war may end soon. Anyway, my enlistment halts in only ten months, so I won’t be part of it for long.

What I attempt to say is that, when fate allows, I will make return to this place, minding to again see you. If you would so permit.

I wish for every good thing to you coming.

Your humble servant,

Johannes

The color was gone from Eva’s cheeks. She sat on the log next to the oak. Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered Krebs dusting it of snow with his cap. She held out her arms and called Caspar, and he jumped into her lap.

Eva held the dog’s face and peered into his eyes. “You see everything, too, don’t you, Caspie? I feel so guilty. Sure, when a mouse eats poisoned cheese, it’s the poison that kills. Yet he wouldn’t eat but for the cheese, would he? Though she’s an unwitting accomplice, Mademoiselle Cheese can’t be excused. I should have known better.” Eva put her arms around the dog and nestled her cheek to his ear. “At least Johannes doesn’t see the treachery. Only you and I do.” She looked into the distance, tears glistening in her eyes. “When I came to St. Sébastien, I was happy thinking I’d be out of uncle’s clutches, finally my own person. Doing important work. But now I’ve come to see its poisonous side, too.” She kissed the dog’s head. “Caspie, you’re my only confidant. I’d be lost without you.”

Huntress and Prey

Summer never came in 1942. Spring hung on and on, and spun smoothly into autumn. So, plates at St. Sébastien held leafy greens and boiled turnips, but little else.

One July evening, Clarisse LaCroix rehearsed her lines one last time, then shattered the dark quiet in the dormitory after lights out. “Christ, are we fucking rabbits? Every morning I rouge the sickly cast of my cheeks. God, if every green leaf in Belgium withered brown, I’d starve happily. I swear, when this shitty war is over, I’ll choke myself on bloody red meat.”

Clarisse sat still, waiting wide-eyed in the dark. The only reaction she got was silence, topped with quiet sobs. She shook her head in disgust. “My best dramatics—wasted like a fireworks show for a morgue of corpses!”

More silence. Finally Eva replied, with a voice soft as flannel, “You can’t shock saying what all of us feel, Clarisse. Especially at night when the hunger is worst.”

“Maybe you’re right, Blondie.” Clarisse flopped down on her pillow. “Damn Boche—can’t even light things up around here anymore.”

In August, things got worse. Belgium was being called on to surrender an increased portion of her food for shipment to the Eastern front. That made scarcity life’s constant backdrop when Mother Catherine summoned Eva to her office one afternoon in October.

Eva listened to her steps echoing down the dark hallway. Now what does she want? Since she turned me in to uncle for walking with Johannes, snow packs the space between us. Snow too deep for summer to melt. Too cold for a smile to thaw. She can just get used to it.

Eva knocked and entered Mother’s office. When the nun looked up from her work, Eva nodded cautiously. “Yes, Mother Catherine?”

Mother put down her pen and folded her hands. “Eva, please sit. We all know first hand that food is terribly short these days and getting worse with each passing week. The generosity of your uncle, bless him, has helped us get by, but now there is less he can do. I have prayed for a solution, and perhaps my prayers have been answered.”

Eva glanced at her fingernails. “Dieu merci for prayers that put bread on the table.”

“Last night I fell asleep praying on the matter.” Mother got up and walked toward Eva. “I had a dream, one right out of the biblical story of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes. I was standing at the door to the kitchen, looking out, wondering how to feed us all, and I could think of nothing. Then I saw you approaching, and you were holding three brown rabbits by the ears, and they were swaying as you walked. You said they had come to you and offered themselves for our table, because they knew we were hungry. And Sister Martine made a stew of their sacrifice and it was thick and rich and miraculously there was plenty for the fifty-one of us—all that we could eat and even some left over—and it was delicious. Everyone seemed happy for the first time in so long. And after dinner I led the girls in a prayer of thanks for the sacrifice of the three and for you who brought them to our kitchen. And you smiled. That smile was a second miracle for me, as nourishing as the first, because I’ve missed it so.”

Eva wanted to grasp the olive branch, but pride held her back. “Everyone knows food is scarce, Mother. I doubt you’ve called me in just to tell me about dreams.”

Mother paused for a moment, then cleared her throat. “This morning at breakfast, Sister Arnaude told me she’d found Father Celion’s old shotgun and some ammunition while cleaning the stables. Before the war, he sometimes hunted on the convent property. Sister grew up in the countryside—her papa managed the game and the grounds of a large estate. With no brothers, she often accompanied him on hunting forays. She practiced and eventually became a huntress cordon bleu. Sister wishes she could hunt the convent grounds to supplement our larder, but heavy as she is, that’s not possible. I mentioned my dream, and she said, ‘Eva is at home outdoors. If she’s willing, I could teach her how to hunt, and she could be our savior.’ My dream and sister’s discovery coming together like this—I can only see it as God’s hand opening a door. You’re the only girl up to this challenge, Eva. Could you do it?”

Eva swallowed hard. “Is it even allowed under the regulations?”

“It seems to be, my dear. Monsieur Tellier down the road hunts his orchard grounds. What I’m asking is, could you bring yourself to shoot one of God’s creatures?”

Eva thought about Françoise’s legs, now spindly as a stork’s. And the way the others were wasting, too. She had no choice. Eva squared her shoulders like a soldier coming to attention. “St. Sébastien is my family. It’s the truest cowardice not to kill, when necessary to save one’s family.” Eva glanced at the ceiling, already planning. “I do see rabbits and quail on my walks, but Caspie likes to chase them. I’ll have to leave him here.”

Mother fumbled with papers on her desk. “Yes, Sister Arnaude mentioned Caspar. Just having him here probably keeps some of the smaller game away, Sister thinks. As another mouth to feed, he’s been in my thoughts as well. He doesn’t require much I’ll grant, but—”

“But what?” Eva sizzled. “Caspar’s one of us, so there’s nothing to talk about.”

That afternoon Sister Arnaude showed Eva how to load and handle Fr. Celion’s single-barreled shotgun. Eva discharged it twice, hitting an empty meat tin hung by a white string from a branch of an old oak—the one the Owls called The Morel Tree because of its shape.

Eva and Sister Arnaude went out early the next morning. Sister Arnaude waited in the orchard, watching her pupil move through the meadow to the thicket and woods across the stream that bisected the convent grounds. She heard five pops spread over the next thirty minutes. Finally, Eva emerged from the thicket. As she crossed the meadow, Sister Arnaude was encouraged the apparent heft to the burlap bag Eva carried in her left hand.

As Eva drew near, the nun called, “I heard the shots. Did you bag anything?”

“Two quail and a rabbit.” Eva tried to look nonchalant. “Probably beginner’s luck.”

“Quail,” Sister said reverently, “and rabbit.” She crossed herself. “God be praised.” The nun closed her fleshy eyelids, already tasting the evening’s fare.

After the study hour that afternoon, just before dinner, the students went to wash up. Most of the girls scrubbed their hands with lye soap and tepid water. Clarisse LaCroix sat on the cold radiator next to a cracked-open window and smoked a cigarette.

Dani rushed in from kitchen duty. Her eyes were wild. “Guess what, everybody!”

“By the look on your face, l’Hôpital,” Camille said, “I’d say you have to pee.”

“No.” Dani looked annoyed. “Guess what we’re eating tonight. Guess!”

Simone groaned from a toilet stall, “Like yesterday and the day before—turnips.”

Dani replied, “No, No. Much more savory and exotic.”

Eva quietly slipped out the door.

Clarisse blew a smoke ring. “Savory and exotic, eh? Then my guess is shit soup. Troutsie, you should flush twice—it’s a long way to the kitchen.”

Half of the girls giggled, and half of them groaned.

Dani said, “Because of your mouth, Clarisse, I’m not telling.”

Clarisse mimed wiping tears from her eyes. “Boo hoo hoo. I’m so sorry for infecting your virgin ears, Danielle. Please, pretty please, won’t you tell us?”

“No, I won’t, and you’re to blame, you toad.” Dani bit her lip. “Well, maybe I’ll give you a clue. It involves M, E, A, and T!”

Girls squealed, and all at once, they jostled for the door. They scurried down the corridor to the dining hall like a coursing avalanche. The mob slowed only when they passed Sister Eusebia in the hallway. As they moved by the kitchen, the wonderful aroma of game stew got every tongue wagging, even Clarisse’s. Each girl raced to her place, and the dining room buzzed.

The giddy noise stopped with Mother Catherine’s first step into the room. With all eyes on her, she glided to her place at the head of the center table and stood behind her chair. Mother waited a dignified moment. “My flowers, tonight we enjoy a meal made special, I should say possible, by the bounty of the Lord, by the hand of Sister Martine, and by the sharp eye of Eva Messiaen. A lovely hunter’s stew of quail and rabbit, carrot and turnip.” Applause and squeals rippled through the dining room, chased by Clarisse’s piercing whistle. “In honor of the occasion, I brought three bottles of wine up from the chapel vault, just as on Christmas and Easter. Each of you may have a sip. Now rise and join me in singing our grace.”

This was a meal that St. Sébastien girls talked about for years afterward, even long after the war had ended, when they were grown with children of their own. And those children could never understand how a meal, especially one that seemed meager by the standards of the day, could hold memories their mothers cherished so dearly.

Eva had the game-finding instincts of a pointer. She moved quietly as a cat. And her shot flew with the accuracy of an owl’s talon. For the first few weeks she usually came home with several quail, rabbits, or squirrels—enough to fortify the soup. She let herself dream of coming onto a deer or a boar, though she never did. But soon there was an obvious drop off in her game bag’s heft. In the eighth week, Eva came back from her excursion empty-handed for the first time. Soon after, it happened again. By mid-November, she counted it a good day when she came back with anything at all.

With the chill of winter setting in and food sources dwindling, the outlook in December 1942 for those at St. Sébastien became bleaker than ever. It was in that month, just ten days before Christmas, that Caspar disappeared. Eva came to the barn that morning and was surprised when he didn’t race out to meet her. She called, but there was no sign of him. Eva spent thirty minutes whistling for him and running to places like the door to Sister Martine’s kitchen where he might be. It was as if the earth had swallowed him up. She raced back to the dormitory. No one had seen Caspar. She went to Mother Catherine’s office. Sister Eusebia was there alone.

“I have to speak to Mother,” Eva said. “Is she about?”

“No, I haven’t seen her since early today. Dr. Humbert came by this morning and she spoke with him. Outside.” She shrugged. “You might try the chapel.”

Eva found Mother there, kneeling in front of the statue of Mary, the one in which the Virgin gazes placidly skyward while she crushes the head of a serpent with her bare feet. The nun’s frame sagged, as if anvils hung from her shoulders.

Eva approached, unobserved. “Mother, excuse the intrusion. I can’t find Caspie.”

The nun jerked erect, like a jumble of beads snapped linear as their string is pulled taut. “My dear, dog sometimes go off after a rabbit. If so, perhaps he’ll be back.”

“No, Mother. He never leaves without me. Something has happened.”

“Child, you saw the poor thing’s ribs.” Mother’s look was a plea for understanding. “Hunger may drive a creature to desperation.”

Eva’s gaze narrowed. As if she suddenly did understand. Everything. And Mother took on the look of prey in the huntress’ sights. Prey longing for the peace that follows the blow.

“Hunger may drive even a human being to desperate acts, unless character stays her hand.” Eva’s voice was velvet on steel. “And if not character, then perhaps Our Lord. For surely He, Who watches over even the smallest wren, knows what Caspar means to me. Knows he is my life. Knows that she who takes him kills me.” Her eyes glistened. “The righteous Lord won’t let such sin go unpunished.” Eva clenched her fists. “Nor will I.” She inhaled slowly. “You will include Caspar’s safe return in your prayers, won’t you, Mother Catherine?” Eva turned away before the nun could reply.

Caspar didn’t return that day. Or the next. Or the next. Or ever.

Voices in the Vault

As a six-year old, baby-faced Nathalie lost her thumb in a streetcar accident. Since then, she’d never been the center of attention—until a chilly February morning in 1943.

She ran into the dormitory as the girls were making their beds. Without waiting to catch her breath, she gathered them around. “It was during chapel that I heard it. Surely you did too?” She knew they hadn’t—no one had said anything. “Right after the Gloria and then again after communion. No? You must all be deaf! The noise came from down in the vault. At first, I thought it was mice. Then in the quiet after communion, I heard a sneeze and then whispers.” Nathalie paused dramatically.

She smiled as excited chatter broke out in the circle like splattering raindrops—until it went on too long. She pulled the spotlight back to herself with a firm Shhh. “If you want to know about our little mice, you’ll have to listen to me.” When Dani and Chloe kept talking, Nathalie bluffed, “Fine! Then I won’t tell you about the children down there.” She made a show of studying her fingernails. “Doesn’t matter to me whether you know or not.”

Dani begged Nathalie to continue.

Nathalie sighed. “I suppose I can.” She glanced over her shoulder, then leaned into the circle. “So, I was telling you about the voices. As we were filing out after Mass, I noticed a basket in the shadow near the door down to the vault. A loaf of long bread poked from the white napkin cover. I can’t believe none of you saw it. Outside, I told sister I’d forgotten my rosary so I could go back. Well, I’m hiding behind the statue of St. Sébastien, watching the basket, and two minutes later, here comes Mother Catherine and Sister Martine, carrying a steaming teapot. Mother takes the oil lamp hanging there, and they pick up the basket and go down the stairs into the vault. They leave the door ajar. I creep over and listen, and I hear talking down there. It’s Mother and Sister—and some children.”

Nathalie’s expression turned serious. “You won’t believe what I heard. Swear not to tell?” The girls nodded enthusiastically. “Give me your a cross-my-heart oath, or I won’t say another word.” She thrust her hands to her hips and scanned the circle.

Each girl chirped, “Cross my heart and hope to die,” and dashed an X on her breast.

Nathalie said, “OK. With my own ears I hear Mother say, ‘Oh, my dears, you are children of God and while you are here, you are children of mine. The sanctuary of St. Sébastien is yours for as long as you need it. As long as I breathe.’”

“Gypsies!” Laetitia gasped. “I thought I smelled Gypsies.”

Clarisse laughed. “No, that’s Chloe’s breath.” She pinched her nose.

Chloe covered her mouth. “I do not stink,” she whined as she slinked away.

Clarisse called after her, “Bye-bye, Skunksie.” She turned to Nathalie. “Hey, Thumbelina, my money it’s Jews or Bolsheviks down there.”

Nathalie pushed her deformed hand into her pocket and scowled at Clarisse. “If you can shut up for a minute, LaCroix, I’ll say who it is.” She cleared her throat. “As they come back upstairs, Sister Martine is saying, ‘Hiding Jews is so dangerous, Mother. I pray we’re doing the right thing.’ And Mother replies, ‘Sister Martine, what would Our Lord do? We’re here in the country, far from the concerns of the Gestapo. Besides, can you look into those little faces and have any doubts?’” Nathalie’s eyes were wide. “So, we’re hiding Jews!”

Nervous shrieks erupted at the thought: We’re hiding Jews! As if they’d gone with a friend to the bakery for bread and, out of the blue, she’d pulled out a pistol to rob the place, the girls were all suddenly accomplices.

On the outside of the circle were Eva and Françoise. They had been quietly listening, just listening. Finally, Françoise took Eva’s hand and pulled her away to the corner of the dormitory.

Françoise’s face was pale. “Eva, this is a bad thing for Mother Catherine and the rest of us here. Especially for me. My family had to leave Brussels. They abandoned our shop and went into hiding. I’ll see them when the world is set right again. That’s how Father put it in his last letter. He said, ‘Be the little mouse, the creature most easily overlooked. The creature that survives.’ But like fish draw flies, those children will draw the attention of bad men. Men so frightful that I wish those brats in the vault were somewhere else. I don’t give a damn where. Just not here, putting me at risk. I hate myself for thinking that, but I can’t help it.”

Eva took her friend’s hand. “Don’t be afraid, Françoise. Mother’s Jews are probably in transit to somewhere safe. Maybe Sweden. They won’t stay here long. Mon Dieu, we can’t even feed ourselves.” Eva’s grip tightened. “When it came to my sweet little Caspie, Mother put her girls first—she’d better do that again now.” She glanced at her hand and relaxed it. “Even if the Germans find out about her darling little Jews, what’ll they do? Send them for factory work?” Eva snorted. “They’d just be under foot. Mouths to feed. Look, Germans are smart. Smart enough to turn an eye. To let Mother worry about them till they become Sweden’s problem.”

Françoise winced. “Our talk has me wondering what’s worse, cowardice or contempt.”

Eva pushed Françoise’s hand away. “How can you say I have contempt for Jews? With you as a best friend? You’re right, I don’t give the smallest shit about Mother’s little rats, but it’s not because they’re Jews. Being Jews is their problem, not mine.”

“Cowardice, contempt? Maybe naïveté beats them both.” Françoise turned and stalked off.

Word about the children in the vault spread through the school quick as chicken pox. The nuns usually heard the latest scuttlebutt before most of the girls did, but not this time. Maybe they were deafened by the dread consequences if their secret were to get out.

After downplaying the significance of the vault children in what she said to Françoise, Eva subsequently avoided talking about them at all. Avoided the subject as if it troubled her—or made her angry. Avoided it by slipping away whenever it came up.

Lights in the Night

In her prayers that March night, Sister Martine thanked God for the three weeks of joy they’d had since the vault children arrived. It’s been such a blessed time. I was wrong to worry. Mother Catherine was right.

That night Sister was exhausted, but it was an exhaustion to treasure, one born of doing the right thing and doing it successfully. And so, the Lord having been dutifully thanked, she slid effortlessly to sleep in her little bed in her little room, savoring the fact that the presence of the children remained apparently unsuspected by the girls, much less the SS. Savoring it like she did the peppermints her mother sent every Christmas.

Sister Martine slept sweetly, luxuriously. She dreamed a warm, honeyed dream in which she was a girl once again, sitting in a boat with her father on a calm, sunny day. They were fishing, as they both so loved to do in those bygone days, and Papa looked so young in his straw hat and blue and white checked shirt open at the collar, and he smoked that clay pipe he loved so much, and he was again calling her by the diminutive Mon petit Chou—what he called her when she was a girl but had given up, perhaps in bitterness, when she entered the convent to begin her novitiate, and Sister petit Chou was so happy that tears welled in her eyes without her waking.

In her dream she let her fingers dangle in the cool water, and, eyes closed, she turned her face to catch the warmth of the sun, and she breathed in air not sullied by war and occupation and vows, and she felt the lightness of her cotton frock as the breeze moved it ever so softly, so sensuously, on her breasts, and it felt so good, so natural, so free to be there like that, without the confining heaviness of her habit. Heaven could be no better. Off in the distance, Sister heard the rumble of thunder. It became gradually louder until it was a throaty groan. She was turning to see the approaching storm when she heard, “They’ve come!” Papa? No, the voice seems wrong. Sister’s gaze was pulled to the pail next to her foot, to the small fish floating glassy-eyed on the water’s surface. As she watched, the fish’s mouth opened. “They’ve come!” it gasped. Sister’s brow furrowed. Then loud thudding pulled her attention from the pail. Her father had a big fish on the line and it was thrashing against the hull. The storm, a dead fish talking, now Papa needs help. Something’s not right. She tried to move to help her father, but her limbs were numb, paralyzed. She couldn’t even call out, could not push air from her lungs to make a sound.

“Sister Martine, they’ve come. Go to the dormitory and see to the girls. I’ll confront them.”

Sister Martine sat up, panting. It took a moment to realize that she was back in her bed, in her room, in the convent, and that it had been Mother Catherine’s voice she heard. She jumped up and the chill of the stone floor jolted her fully awake. Instantly the cold, white light intruding through her window told her everything. She whispered, “they’ve come,” and terror gripped her heart. She threw on her shawl, and bolted through the door. With Ave Maria on her lips, she ran down the hall towards the girls’ dormitory, chased by the pounding on the front door.

Mother Catherine approached the door. She stopped there, and she took a slow, deep breath. The thundering blows and brutish shouts from the outside seemed enough to batter down the door at any instant. But Mother’s face was incongruously serene. She adjusted her brown veil. She looked down at the long rosary that hung from her belt and straightened its drape. The door rumbled on its hinges but Mother seemed not to notice. Her hands rose slowly to the silver crucifix that hung at her breast. She looked at the figure of Christ and it looked back. She recited a short prayer and then held out the cross as one might to ward off a demon.

Mother replaced the serenity on her face with thundercloud defiance. She slid back the heavy metal bolt and turned the key. As the lock clanked, the pounding ceased. She waited a moment and turned the iron handle. The latch moved up with a croak and the heavy door groaned open.

Wincing at the bright light, Mother confronted a terrifying specter. With vehicle spotlights trained on his back, the dark figure framed by a luminous white aura looked supernatural. Apocalyptic. He was freakishly tall with an expressionless, skeletal face. A dead man’s face. A face in keeping with the Todenkopf—Death’s Head, skull and crossbones—insignia on the front of his black peak cap. The leather overcoat covering the figure from neck to mid-calf glistened black, as if wet. The officer clicked the heels of the gleaming, black riding boots that protruded stick-like from the wide bottom of the coat and raised his right arm in formality. “Heil Hitler!”

Mother Catherine stood placidly with each hand tucked into the sleeve of the other arm. The set of her jaw and the steel of her gaze proclaimed that she would not be easily cowed. “I wish quite the contrary,” she said as if the German’s greeting was a polite suggestion that she join him in wishing The Führer good health.

“Sie mussen Deutsch sprechen,” he growled.

“In my country and in my home, French is the appropriate language for visitors. One who barges uninvited into both underscores his vulgarity by violating that norm.”

The officer fidgeted. He couldn’t understand much of what she was saying, and leftover from his elementary school days, he had a fear of nuns. After a moment, he scowled and called over his shoulder, “Bauer, hier.”

An SS enlisted man ran up from the shadows. “Ja wohl, mein Obersturmführer.”

The officer, clearly displeased at Mother’s attitude, spoke sternly to Bauer. When he had finished, Bauer snapped a nod and turned to the nun. He said in halting French, “Madame Sister, Obersturmführer Weibel instructs you he here comes with official mandate. He investigates the sheltering of fugitive persons. We now make searching of the premises. My obersturmführer foresees your cooperation in his mission.”

Mother saw a chance to buy some time. “Official mandate, did you say? May I please review the paperwork?”

Bauer winced. He turned to Weibel and indicated that the nun had requested to see documentation for the search. Weibel looked as if he had inhaled burning gasoline. He pushed Bauer aside and stepped toward Mother Catherine. The Luger pistol that had been aimed at the ground swung up and Weibel held it menacingly, the grip tucked tightly against his ribcage.

Mother told herself, keep a step ahead of them. She smiled calmly and said to Bauer, “I can review the papers later. Before you proceed, my girls need some moments to dress for your inspection. You may be chilled, out on a night like this. Would you please ask Monsieur Weibel if he would care for a cup of hot tea while we wait?”

The color returned to Bauer’s face. Nodding to the nun, he said, “Thank you, Madame Sister.” He turned to Weibel and translated her invitation.

But Weibel was not about to be put off the hunt. His reply was four words: “Kein Tee. Eine Minute.” For emphasis, he raised an index finger as he said Eine and glanced at his wristwatch after Minute.

There had been just forty-two ticks of the watch when the first shots and shouts rang out. Mother’s heart sank. Like a hunting dog, Weibel’s head cocked to the sound. He was still for an instant, listening, and then he shouted and ran into the darkness, with Bauer a few steps behind.

Mother Catherine called, “Sister Arnaude!” She flew down the steps to the walkway leading around the side of the convent. At the foot of the steps she stopped, bathed in the bright lights of the vehicles and, fingertips at her lips, she peered into the night’s murk. She heard more shouts and grunts and the sounds of branches breaking. She saw intermittent sweeps of a flashlight beam. For the first time in her life she thought she might faint. She took her beads and began to pray, all the while, peering, peering, peering.

Before she could finish half a decade, she heard steps coming toward her on the gravel path. The first figure to materialize out of the darkness was Weibel. He seemed even more gigantic, with the angular shadow his body cast on the convent wall. Then there were small figures, four of them. Huddled together. Mother could barely breathe. Next came Sister Arnaude. Finally, three SS soldiers—an older man with a limp, a giant as abnormally tall as Weibel and twice as massive, and Bauer. They held machine pistols at the backs of the children. Just as the parade came fully into the light, two more soldiers loped out of the headlights.

Mother Catherine swept over to the children. She enveloped them like a hen does her chicks. Eyes wild with fear, she searched Weibel’s face for a sign of his intentions. For a sign that there was still hope.

What she saw was a monster becoming ever more monstrous. She saw arrogance swept aside by rage. Rage, that she had dared interfere. That she would protect these little vermin. That she’d humiliate him before his men, implying that her interference now might somehow influence him. Rage, that in one with such power is a dangerous thing. He shouted an order, and the gimpy soldier shoved the muzzle of his weapon two inches from Mother’s face.

Is this the best you can do, ogre? Mother thought, and she had her snip of hope. Until she saw Weibel’s confident smile.

As if to say, I know your type and its weakness, Weibel unholstered his sidearm, snapped the Luger’s bolt back to cock it, and sauntered up to one of the cowering children. He leveled the pistol at the space between her eyes. Then he conspicuously looked up to the second floor window of the dormitory, to the faces of the girls in their nightgowns peering down at them. A your-move grin slithered across his face.

Mother saw terror on each face in the window. But one of them, Eva’s, took the biggest toll, for it was there that she would have expected to see strength. Would have expected to draw strength. Instead she saw tears. Saw Eva shaking her head frantically and saw her mouth form a great No, silenced by the closed window. She saw the others pull Eva away. Away from her.

As Mother brought her gaze back to Weibel, she knew she had lost. No matter what price she paid in lives, it won’t be enough to sate the monster, and in the end he’d have the little ones anyway. She stepped back from the children.

Weibel gave an order and the terrorized children were hustled into the floodlights, to the small truck the SS men had brought. He waited a moment to relish his victory then bellowed another order. The hobbled soldier poked Mother’s back with his pistol and prodded her, too, into the flood of light, to Weibel’s staff car.

Prize Fight in Lefebvre

As Mother Catherine was being taken to the staff car, she thought, If I’m nearby, I’ll be able to protect the children. The hope buoyed her spirit. She was smiling when Bauer blindfolded her and pushed her into the back seat.

“You smile? Bauer sneered. “Why?”

“Because I intend to see that those children are not harmed,” Mother replied.

Bauer was quiet. The silence left space for Mother to recall Father Celion’s observation, Ah, Mother Catherine. Such magnificent delusion—this belief of yours that by the very power of your will you can turn sour to sweet. Delusion because it isn’t always true, but magnificent because from it springs such spiritual energy and hope.

Finally Bauer spoke. “Forget those childrens. They come to the end. Worry on yourself.”

In the blindfold’s blackness, Mother felt her spring going suddenly dry.

The next morning, Mother awoke to a clock’s tock, tock, tock echoing from above. It had been a fitful night on a filthy mattress in a small, windowless room. Bauer’s words, Forget those childrens, haunted her. As did Eva’s face, dark with despair, looking down from the window. Then disappearing, as she was pulled by the other girls into the darkness of the dormitory. Mother couldn’t shake a murky sense of betrayal in their exchanged look. Surely Eva felt betrayed that she had given up the children without a fight. If she got another chance to make a stand—to set things right—Mother vowed she wouldn’t fail Eva again.

A light came on and Mother blinked at the sudden brightness pouring from the bare bulb, which hung by a spindly, black cord from the water-mottled plaster of the ceiling. Along the back wall were stacked chairs—folded, theater-style units of four seats. They were made of oak turned dark by the grime of many decades’ use. There was nothing with her in the room but the mattress, the theater chairs, and the bare bulb.

Mother knelt and prayed. “Lord, grant me hope, grant me strength. Today I’ll need both.”

She had just begun Matins when loud blows rattled the door. Pounding—a fist used as a hammer. The lock clicked. Mother continued with her prayers.

The door exploded open. Hulking just outside the doorway was the huge SS soldier Mother had seen the night before. He looked the type for pounding. She gazed at his head, the size and shape of a bucket, and its most revealing elements, the eyes. Small, dark eyes set well back in the skull, each obscured, protected, by a looming, massive crag of an eyebrow.

Despite his size, the giant didn’t frighten Mother. It was the childlike way he cocked his head as he peered into the room. I can handle a little boy.

“Kommen Sie mit, bitte.” The soldier, whose name was Steckmann, put all the emphasis on the kommen and none of it on bitte.

Though Mother knew no German, it was clear what was being demanded. But she saw no reason to admit she understood. “Excuse me, could you say it in French, please?”

Steckmann understood no French. All he knew was that the nun wasn’t moving. He reached a paw in and clutched Mother’s arm at the elbow. Growling, he jerked her off her knees with a powerful yank, like a stevedore snatching stowage from a ship’s hold.

Mother stood in the doorway, massaging her shoulder and glaring in disbelief at the goon.

Steckmann pointed a fat finger down the hallway, a dimly-lit chute with paint peeling from cracked plaster walls and water-warped floorboards. Grabbing her elbow, he pushed her ahead.

As she was hurried down the long corridor, Mother was shaking. She had never been treated so brutally. Had never even seen such brutality. Her thoughts surged beyond fear for the children and herself to fear for civilization. Could the civilized British defeat these demons without becoming demonic themselves?

They came to a staircase done in the Art Nouveau style with florid, curvilinear ironwork steps and banisters. With its resemblance to the portals into Parisian Métropolitain stations, the stairs swept Mother back to happy, carefree times. Times when she skipped with her mother and sisters through the elegant, arched entry of the Père Lachaise station and descended its stairway to begin a day’s adventures: shopping, picnicking, promenading. Dreamy, soft memories of dreamy, soft times—before a shot in Sarajevo ignited the inferno of the Great War. And now there was the Occupation, with its ghoulish spawn, hunger and thuggery, stalking the countryside. For her, the difference between the worlds of 1942 Lefebvre and 1912 Paris was perfectly reflected in the contrast of the seedy corridor behind and the grand staircase ahead.

The pair went down a corkscrew flight of elegant stairs to a hallway much different from its one-up counterpart. The floor was carpeted with a thick, blood-red oriental runner and the walls were covered up to shoulder height with green and white stripe paper. Above the paper and a wooden wainscot, the walls and ceiling were a rich cream color. Photographs of Himmler and other Nazis hung on the right. On the left, a gallery of collaborating Belgians. At the head of the hallway, high on the wall as if overseeing everything, was a portrait of Adolf Hitler.

The soldier halted Mother at the last door on the right and knocked. Neat lettering read, RSHA, the initials of the political security branch of the SS. A shudder shot through the nun.

“Herein,” a voice from inside barked.

Steckmann turned the handle, and the door swung open. He pushed Mother into the room and eased the door closed behind them.

Before Mother was a wide table with four men seated facing her, their backs to a large window overlooking Lefebvre’s town square. The view confirmed she was in the city hall. Mother recognized Weibel, the one in command the night before. In the daylight she could see his eyes, pale and blue as mountaintop snow. He wore the tailored, silver-trimmed, black uniform of the SS and sat in the center with his hands folded on the tabletop and his riding-boots crossed underneath. In front of him was a large nameplate, fashioned from golden oak. In the center was carved, in fraktur lettering, Weibel, M, OStF. On the left of the name was the leering Todenkopf insignia and on the right the SS slogan, Ehre ist Treue (Honor is Loyalty).

To Weibel’s right sat a man whose face was familiar to Mother, but one she couldn’t quite place. He wore a double-breasted blue flannel suit with a white shirt and bright tie. On his arm was a swastika armband. To Weibel’s left was another soldier. And at the end of the table, behind a typewriter, was the fourth, a young soldier.

Weibel was first to speak. Squinting contemptuously at Mother, he spat his sentences in steel-cold German then turned to the soldier on his left and nodded. That soldier, Feldwebel Haansch, whose fieldgray uniform looked functional next to Weibel’s costume, spoke in French, “Sister Catherine, as a courtesy, I shall translate. The offense of harboring fugitives is a most serious crime, one punishable by death. That you should be derelict in your obligations to the fine young ladies of St. Sébastien disgusts Obersturmführer Weibel. He chides, ‘Shame on you for your dishonor.’”

During the entire translation, Mother fixed her gaze on Weibel. On his cold eyes. Snake’s eyes, she thought. Then, no, a dead man’s eyes. When the translation of Weibel’s indictment was done, Mother stood silently for a moment. She hoped her sleeves hid the shaking in her hands. She hoped she wouldn’t burst into tears. Then it struck her—accusations of “shame” and “dishonor” coming from those lips? Mother felt the poison of his words turn her fear into the armor and mail of resolve. “Monsieur Weibel, how dare you speak of shame and dishonor?” She felt herself growing large. “Yes, I do feel obligation. Obligation to my true authority, Jesus Christ. It is He who commands me to care for, to protect, His children here.” Her hands clenched to fists. “All His children. To protect them from the minions of ignorance and darkness that threaten them so. I most fail ‘the fine young ladies of St. Sébastien’ when I abandon those in need of my help. So—”

Haansch pounded the table. “Enough of your tired sermon.” He turned to Weibel and presented a watered-down translation of Mother’s response.

Even the diluted version pitched Weibel into a rage. He spat on the floor. “Do you imagine you are lecturing schoolboys, woman? Perhaps you fail to grasp the gravity of your situation. Did I not make it clear that yours is a capital crime? Do you think nun’s robes put you beyond my grip?” His wide eyes and pulsing temples made the translation which followed superfluous.

The blue-suited civilian rose and smiled graciously. “My dear Mother Catherine,” he said in calm French. With that smile and his first few words, she recognized him as Leon Le Deux, the turncoat she had seen on the dais welcoming the Nazis just after the invasion, over two years earlier. Le Deux thrust out his hands, palms up, in a messianic pose. “People make mistakes. We’re human, after all. Even nuns. In fact, I’ll even concede there may be room for differing opinions about what is right. Let me translate for the lieutenant.” He turned to Weibel and presented a German translation, the turned back and raised his index finger. “Now, while error is human, one must be accountable. Is that not the basis of religion?” He put both hands on the table and leaned toward Mother. “Listen, I want to help you. A show of your good faith is all I need to argue on your behalf. I’ll get to that, but first there is one thing I just have to say. You speak of loyalty to Christ. Yet you harbor Jew vermin? Weren’t they the ones who rejected Him? Had Him put to death?” Le Deux looked genuinely perplexed. “How can you dishonor Him whom you vowed to serve by supporting His enemies? His assassins?” He smiled, as if his vanity was whispering, nice work.

Le Deux’s questions evaporated the last trace of Mother’s fear. She felt fire in her heart and lightning in her tongue. “You dare speak of loyalty? You who dishonor your birth land by serving her enemies, her occupiers? The children I sheltered had nothing to do with Christ’s crucifixion. They are guilty only of being children—hunted, terrorized children.”

The Germans sat watching like spectators at a prize fight, even though only Haansch knew just what was being said.

By this point Le Deux’s smile was gone. “They are Jew children. Read your Bible. Read about them calling for Christ’s blood.”

“You read the Bible, Monsieur. Read the Sermon on the Mount. Read the Greatest Commandment. Christ Himself was a Jew.”

Le Deux shook his head. “I came here to save you, woman, but your arrogance puts you beyond my help. So go ahead and play the martyr. I wash my hands of you.” He slammed his notebook closed. “Just one last thing.” He pointed his finger at her. “Your kind had its day, but that’s past.” Le Deux stalked out, snorting, “The future belongs to us.”

Mother’s gaze swung calmly to Weibel.

The SS officer dashed his signature on a document and recited a statement. Most of it could have been the previous week’s weather, for all the emotion he put into it. But the last sentence was different. He glared at Mother and spoke sternly. Hearing what Weibel said, Haansch looked distressed. He nervously replied with what sounded like a question. Weibel turned to him, angry. He raised one finger, an admonition, and slowly repeated the last sentence. His eyes snapped back to Mother. His glower was a silent order: Go ahead and tell her.

When Haansch still balked, another glare from Weibel unfroze him. Like a slap across the face. Blinking, Haansch turned to Mother and swallowed. “Sister Catherine, Obersturmführer Weibel, in his capacity as an officer of the martial authority, finds you guilty of abetting fugitives—“ He peered at his clasped hands shaking on the table. “—and sentences you to be hanged. Such sentence to be carried out today at noon in the Lefebvre town square. As a lesson on the consequences of crime, the citizenry will be assembled to witness the execution.”

For a moment, Mother Catherine’s shoulders sagged, her gaze drooped to the floor. She looked broken. Then she thought of Eva, pictured the courage on her face when her singing rallied the spirits of the other girls on the dark trek to Lefebvre the day of the Nazi welcoming ceremony. Mother’s back straightened and her face turned up. “In front of the people of Lefebvre, is it?” Her eyes sparkled. “That is good. Please thank my judge for graciously offering to publicly display his true monstrousness and that of the rest of you Boche occupiers. No one could’ve shown that better.”

Weibel slammed his clenched fists on the table and shouted two commands.

Haansch ran out to order the mayor to assemble the townspeople in the square by noon, while Steckmann spun Mother around and shoved her from the room. He marched her up to her cell to wait out the morning.

After the others had gone, Le Deux scurried back into the office where Weibel lounged, his boots on the table, reading a newspaper. The officer was leaning so far back in a swivel chair that his elongated body was almost horizontal. He barely looked up at Le Deux.

Out of breath, Le Deux spoke in German, “Obersturmführer Weibel, we may have miscalculated the cost of making an example of the nun. The townspeople will be angry. There might be trouble, either today or in the future.”

Weibel looked irritated at the interruption. He scoffed, “Do I give a shit what a flock of Belgian sheep think? Let them have their fucking anger. It will quickly turn to terror and docility when they see their nun dancing at the end of my rope.”

“Perhaps the stick will work as you say. But mightn’t a carrot be better? What if I break the nun’s spirit in front of them all and leave us smelling of kindness and character?”

“Who cares what they think of us?” Weibel muttered. “I’m a soldier and want only their fear.” He crumpled the newspaper closed. “But I’ll allow that your wants may be different.” He scowled. “And as Herr Reeder’s district head, the call is technically yours.” Weibel squinted and moved his face toward Le Deux. “Just don’t fuck things up.” He eased away and reopened his newspaper. “The Jew children have been disposed of and I brought in the nun. So, I’ve done my job.” He sniffed. “The bitch’s disposition can be your matter.”

“Very well, my tack it’ll be. In the gallows’ shadow, with help from the townsfolk and a little surprise, I think I’ll make an offer our Mother Catherine can’t refuse. Believe me, it will be a more enduring victory than just eliminating a Jew-loving nun.”

The New Sébastien

It was just before noon when Mother, squinting out the sunshine, stepped into the square. Looming ahead was the gallows, hurriedly built that morning. It was a simple structure—two vertical poles and a crossbar. For stability, a pair of bracing lines ran to the top of each pole. A soldier stood on each side, holding a rifle across his chest. But it was the rope dangling from the crossbar that held Mother’s gaze. It ended in a noose and seemed excessively thick. Strong enough to hang an elephant, she thought.

Beyond the scaffold was the crowd of townsfolk. When Mother first emerged from the hall, hands tied behind her back, SS soldiers on her right and left, there was a flurry of gasps and signs of the cross. Then shocked silence set in.

Mother was marched to the ground under the gallows. Between a rickety chair and a wooden beer cask. Under the dangling noose. Despite the closeness of the crowd, she felt alone. Abandoned. Betrayed by events gone nightmarishly wrong.

Except for the sound of the gust on the gibbet, there was absolute quiet. Then the Mayor’s wife, in the front of the crowd, began to whimper, and that touched off ripples of sobs. Mother understood that the collective feebleness growing in the crowd played into the Germans’ hands. She struggled to counter it with a look of courage and serenity that quieted everything but the breeze and the pounding of her heart.

As if on cue, into the town square came an open Mercedes staff car followed by three troop transport trucks. Everyone in the crowd turned to look. Le Deux stood in the back of the car. He gave a wave of the hands, as if to say Hold everything, just as the car screeched to a halt next to the crowd. The trucks stopped in a line next to the Mercedes.

Le Deux jumped from the car and bounded like an entertainer taking the stage to a spot just in front of Mother. With a smile and a theatrical ring in his voice, he addressed the crowd. “Thank goodness I’m not too late. I have spent this morning conferring with Herr Reeder, the Führer’s delegate. I can say he is a man with a good heart, as you shall shortly see. But first I have a surprise.”

Like a maître d’ summoning a waiter with the dessert cart, Le Deux raised his right hand and snapped his fingers. Immediately, a soldier hopped from each truck and, extending a hand, began helping the nuns and girls of St. Sébastien jump out. A gasp rose from the crowd. As the girls were lined up three deep just before her and in front of the rest of the citizenry, Mother stared grimly off to the side.

On the ride from St. Sébastien in the dark back of the truck, Françoise de Lescure had told herself that with Eva at her side she could stand whatever monstrosity Le Deux was planning. She was bolstered by what Eva told her. Have faith, Françie. I sent word to my uncle. He can intercede on Mother’s behalf. Even when Clarisse sneered, Yeah, Blondie? What’ll he do, buy the Boche off with a bottle of cognac and a few sausages? Françoise felt strong enough to glare at her and put an arm around Eva’s shoulder. But standing in the center of the front row, not ten feet from Mother Catherine, battered her certainty. She squeezed Eva’s hand.

Seeing Mother Catherine so close to the noose, thoughts of the children taken the night before, Jews just like her, flashed through Françoise’s mind. If this is how they deal with a harborer, how awful the fate of those harbored. Those children! And I wished them away. Anywhere, I said, just away. Well, I got my wish. And Mother pays, while I stand safe and silent.

Mother Catherine’s gaze was fixed to the side, avoiding the students arrayed before her. Le Deux positioned himself to measure her, Françoise thought, like a billiards player lining up his next shot. When Mother did turn a defiant face to the students, Françoise felt unworthy, knowing the nun would draw no strength from her beaten expression. And worse, when she looked to Eva for an infusion of courage, Françoise found none. For her friend’s eyes were trained on the road leading into the square, as if she were expecting, counting on, a savior to appear. When they tracked slowly back, they were narrow with despair. Françoise was on her own.

When Mother Catherine scanned her girls, she also sought out Eva’s face. And as it had been for Françoise, Eva’s expression was a blow.

Le Deux saw the chink in her mettle, and his eyes sparkled. Ah, the first tiny crack in the crystal goblet—easy to miss, but it invariably dooms the vessel. My prey’s resolve is likewise doomed. A smirk slithered across his face.

Feeling like a gambler sure of his hand, Le Deux resumed his address, “When I spoke with Herr Reeder, he opined than anyone can make a mistake, and that if our Mother Catherine can merely acknowledge hers and make amends, even with just a token act of contrition—surely she is familiar with acts of contrition—her sentence could be suspended.” Letting the drama build, Le Deux scanned the crowd. He liked what he saw. “People of Lefebvre, would you have Mother Catherine spared to continue her work with the young ladies assembled here today?”

The crowd cheered their approval. Le Deux smiled, knowing he still held his ace.

“And you, my dear young ladies,” Le Deux stepped close to the line of girls and placed a fatherly hand on Françoise’s head, “Would you have Mother Catherine back home with you?” He looked to the heavens, as if in prayer.

Françoise was paralyzed with fear—she sensed a trap. The other girls, shocked by the spectacle, were tentative. Until Eva turned to face them, and the glisten in her eyes and her ringing “yes” were matches struck in darkness. Her yes flew through the troop of girls like fire flashes through tinder, becoming a blaze of chorused yeses that filled the square.

Seeing what he’d seen, hearing what he’d heard, Le Deux’s heart raced. That should do it. If the sight of her wenches was a breaking wave, their sweet yeses are the tide at full flood. She’s done. He stared at Mother and asked solemnly, “So, what shall it be?” He stifled a smile.

All eyes were on Mother. She seemed frozen for a moment. The girls’ yeses had swept a torrent of memories of life at St Sébastien into her heart. She looked at Eva, at the hope she could now see on the girl’s face, and a rush of hope for the future tripped through her heart as well. She heard herself murmur the single word, “Life!”

But when Mother turned to Le Deux, he looked so smug with his arms crossed, Mussolini-style. The sight turned her stomach, and her thoughts flew to the statue of Saint Sébastien in the convent chapel. Sébastien, you defied Roman occupiers. Let your courage inspire me now. Mother bit her lip, and as she tasted blood, she recalled the red ringlet around each arrow shaft that pierced Sébastien’s body and the trickle of blood that trailed from each ringlet. Resolve snapped through her like a wrinkled bed sheet pulled taut. Make me a new Sébastien, she prayed.

Mother scanned the rows of girls. “Your sweet yeses—how precious to me at this moment!” The tension in the crowd eased. “But I am inspired by the peace and triumph that were arrow-ridden Sébastien’s when he stood up to oppression.” Mother closed her eyes and let her thoughts slip to the melancholy strains of Wally’s aria, Ebben! Ne andrò lontana—I shall go far away—from the opera La Wally.

The mention of Sébastien called to Françoise’s mind the resignation on his statue’s visage. Now she saw the same look on Mother Catherine’s face, and it froze the breath in her lungs. She turned to see Eva’s reaction and found only dread there. As if her friend already saw the inevitable endpoint of Mother’s fire, an endpoint that was equally dire for her.

Le Deux knew the nun’s look meant trouble, and his smugness vanished. “Mother, stubbornness helps no one, not you and certainly not your girls. I ask just a token—that your angels sing for Herr Reeder from the railway platform as he passes through town in two days. It’s only repairing a past slight—so little to ask. Listen to me! God put you here to serve these young women. Don’t blunt His will and snub your children out of hollow pride. Don’t toss your life away.”

Mother had been avoiding Le Deux’s face. But now she turned to glare directly at him. Like a genie freed from a bottle, she felt suddenly huge and powerful. “I snub my darlings by holding to principles?” Her voice wasn’t loud but it resonated. “Obsequious fool, is it a token to serenade a foreign occupier? I think not. Not on his first arrival and not now. And after your token, what then? Shall I bake a fruit tort for the jackal’s afternoon tea? I shall not! Invite him to supper at St. Sébastien? Huh! Use my veil to polish his jackboots there on the station platform? No, thank you! Poach one of my little ones for Herr Reeder’s luncheon? No, thank you, Herr Le Deux, I thank you, no. Just do your dirty work. Show us all your true nature.”

Looking like a boxer pummeled by an inspired opponent, Le Deux took an unsteady step backwards. He could find no words.

A commotion broke out in the crowd. Eva had burst forward and was being restrained by Sister Arnaude. Abruptly she stopped struggling and dropped to her knees. “Mother, please. Don’t take such a stand. Not now. For it kills us all, these innocents—“ She glanced back at the other girls. “—and me, too.” She raised her arms in supplication. “Please, Mother.”

Le Deux’s eyes flickered hope. “Perhaps,” he said, “the plea of a little one—” Before he could finish, Weibel’s hand sent him stumbling backwards.

Weibel had sensed things were going badly. He knew from combat that only decisive action could turn an unfavorable tide. As he thrust Le Deux out of the way, he howled, “Dummkopf, Raus!” and bolted for Mother Catherine.

Mother’s eyes didn’t move from Eva, and they were as placid as a crucifix Christ’s. She embraced the bittersweet blend of peace and pain, wanting to tell Eva, wanting to sing it as tenderly as Wally would, My child, of them all, you are the hardest one to leave.

But a terrible surprise remained.

Françoise had taken Eva’s hand and was pulling her back with the rest of the girls when she saw Weibel grab Mother’s chin and wrench her ear close to his mouth. It seemed to happen so slowly. Weibel’s arm went up and pointed toward Eva and her as he hissed a few words.

Even so close, Françoise could barely make out his twisted French. As she heard it, he had snarled, “Celle-là est juive.” (That one is the jewess.)

Françoise’s eyes closed and her knees shook. It’s over. I’ve been found out. She squeezed Eva’s hand as desperation washed through her.

For Mother, Weibel’s few words were cruel as the arrows that assailed Sébastien. Their points pierced her breast with a thud, and their thrust pinned her heart in mid-beat. She looked at Weibel. Though she said nothing, her expression was a desperate plea. A plea that it not be so.

Delight danced in Weibel’s eyes as he nodded. “Ja!”

With Weibel’s words, life drained from Mother’s face. She turned her stunned eyes ever so slowly back to the crowd in the square, to the girls of St. Sébastien, to Eva. Turned as if it were harder than dying. Like estranged lovers alone in a garden of statues, Mother and Eva each fixed her eyes on the other. Each bared her soul to the other. Each bared her despair. For together they had lost everything.

Weibel bellowed, “Hörstler, bringen sie hier der Sack. Macht schnell!” A soldier hustled out with a brown cloth bag. Without a word, Weibel raised his thumb. The two soldiers took Mother’s arms and hoisted her onto the wobbly chair.

Mother looked a hundred years old, tottering on the chair above the crowd. She only stared blankly at Eva. And Eva stared back. For them, time stood still.

Weibel nodded and one of the soldiers hopped onto the beer cask and pulled the bag over Mother’s head. The soldier was efficient, as if he’d done it before.

No one made a sound. Not Mother in her darkness. Not Eva. Not Weibel. Not Le Deux. Not a townsperson. Not one of the other girls of St. Sébastien.

The soldier on the cask put the noose over the bag covering Mother’s head. He tightened it and jumped down.

Everyone was frozen. The moment was Weibel’s and he relished it.

When Weibel had savored it enough, he snapped his fingers. The two soldiers, Steckmann and Hörstler, grabbed the back of the chair and looked at each other to time their move. Hörstler pursed his lips and gave a tiny nod. The two soldiers jerked the chair away. It was done.

Those who watched saw the sudden tautness in the line of the rope running from the gallows down to the hooded figure and through her body to the black stockings and black shoes extending below the hem of her white habit. They saw the legs go rigid, feet straining stiffly down and toes stretching vainly, reaching for fleeting earth. They were silent, as if the sight had sucked the air from their lungs and rendered them mute.

The icy silence was shattered only by the white heat of Eva’s shriek. Essential and tortured, it was the sound of a soul ripped from a body. Then there was silence again.

Icy silence.

Juive, Judas

It was as if lightning struck Lefebvre’s square when Mother Catherine was hanged.

For Françoise de Lescure the lightning severed her future from her past. She knew in the moments after Mother’s death she should leave St. Sébastien and go into hiding. On the ride back to school that afternoon, should became must.

In the back of the truck, Françoise sat between Eva and Laetitia Roux. Halfway home, Laetitia began crying, and Françoise put an arm around her. Laetitia sobbed, “I’m not the Judas. I would never betray Mother.”

Françoise comforted her, “There, there. Of course you wouldn’t. None of us would.” She turned to Eva. “Isn’t that right?”

Eva didn’t reply. She buried her face in her hands.

“But he accused me,” Laetitia said. “The German monster. He told Mother it was me.”

“Laetitia, what do you mean?” Françoise replied.

“I saw him. I saw him pull Mother’s ear to his mouth and point to me—I was standing just behind Eva—and I heard him hiss to Mother, ‘Celle-là est Judas.’ (That one is the Judas.) Then she turned to face me and her skin was like ashes. Her eyes shot right through Eva to me, pleading, Why?” Laetitia sobbed quietly.

Françoise stared ahead, as if Laetitia’s words had struck her senseless. She glanced at Eva, whose hands still covered her face, and turned those words over in her mind. Juive. Judas. Staring out the back of the truck, she recalled the torment the word seared into Mother. A feeling of nausea overcame her. After some deep breathes, she moved close to Laetitia and whispered in her ear, “Maybe the monster wasn’t pointing at either of us. Maybe he pointed to another.” Tears jeweled in her eyes, and in that instant she shared Mother’s despair.

That night Françoise slipped out of the dormitory and disappeared, rumor was, to Holland.

St. Sébastien was a lightning-struck tree. A tree struck deep to its heart. A tree struck dead. And her nuns and students were the leaves left dull, dry, curled-up.

In the back of the trucks as the nuns and girls were carted back to St. Sébastien, death hung in the air like the diesel engine exhaust. It followed the girls into the school. Each one was an island in an archipelago—though surrounded by others, she felt alone. On her own. That night, no dinner was prepared. No one bathed. No one brushed her hair one hundred strokes. No one spoke. Everyone just crawled silently into bed. And curled-up and rocked, or shivered, or cocooned herself in covers, or sobbed softly, or prayed for the night to end.

At midnight Clarisse LaCroix woke to screaming. She looked down the row of beds from her own and saw Simone Jaffre sitting up, bawling and flailing wildly. “Get them off. They’re all over me. Somebody help.”

Clarisse looked around and called, “Hey, isn’t anybody going to get up? Isabelle? Blondie?” None of the girls said anything. No one moved. Clarisse grumbled, “Mother called you her flowers. Flowers all right—spent tulips. Withered stalks watching the wind scatter your petals.” She shook her head and got up. “Here goes my image.”

Heading toward Simone, Clarisse paused at Eva’s bed. Eva lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. “Blondie, you of all people! I can’t believe you’d leave her crying like that.” Eva didn’t seem to hear. Clarisse huffed and went on. She took Simone by the arms and shook her. “Wake up, Troutsie. You’re dreaming. Nothing’s on you. It’s just a nightmare.”

Simone was panting and wild-eyed. She pulled Clarisse close. “They were all over the ceiling. Swastikas,” she gasped, barely pausing for breath. “Their crooked legs started moving and they came alive—spiders, all black and hairy and scurrying. So many of them. They lowered themselves toward me on silky threads, twisting and swinging—just like Mother Catherine in the square. I tried to get away, to cry out, but everything except my eyes was numb. They were just above my face, so close I could feel the cold of their writhing legs. So many legs. Suddenly they were on me, all over me, and I thought my heart would explode. When finally I could sit up, I tried to knock them off me but there were too many.” Simone became calm. “And then you came.” She looked Clarisse in the eye. “You saved me.”

Clarisse held Simone and stroked her hair. “You’re safe, little Trout,” she whispered, “safe in my arms.” Clarisse hummed the lullaby her mother used to sing to her, before she took poison during the depression of 1932.

Just then Sister Martine came into the dormitory. She was wearing a long muslin nightgown, a black woolen shawl, and a billowy sleeping cap. “Is everyone all right? I was walking. I heard the screams.”

Clarisse replied, “Simone’s had a nightmare.”

“Poor dear,” Sister said. “Shall I stay with you, Simone?”

Simone snuggled closer to Clarisse. “I’m fine now, Sister. You should get some sleep.”

Sister Martine’s eyes went to the floor. “Yes, I suppose I should try. I should return to my bed chamber.” She turned slowly, reluctantly. As she stepped away, a deluge of tears broke free. “But I’m so afraid,” she sobbed. “So alone.”

Laetitia took her hand. “Yesterday Françoise comforted me and now Clarisse nestles Simone. We all need each other. Stay with me, Sister Mouse.”

The words flew by the nun barely heard, so intent was she on the warmth of the girl’s hand. Without reply, she slipped under the duvet. Laetitia cradled the nun and gave her the yellow terrycloth giraffe she’d slept with since she was a baby. Sister kissed the giraffe and whispered, “Now you can sleep unafraid.” She pulled the doll to her breast and rocked rhythmically. As she drifted off to sleep, Laetitia heard her murmur, “Papa, don’t cry. Your petit Chou is home.”

The next morning, Feldwebel Haansch and another soldier brought Mother’s body in a pine coffin back to St. Sébastien. They brought along the young priest who’d taken Fr. Celion’s place in Lefebvre. The soldiers set the coffin before the altar in the chapel, and they left to dig a grave in the convent cemetery just outside while Mother’s Requiem service was held. After the mass, they watched eight girls carry the coffin before a procession of priest, nuns, and girls the few steps to the cemetery. The Germans retired to their truck and smoked during the graveside blessing and goodbye. Afterward, they finished the burial while the priest fashioned a crude cross with wood from the barn.

Before leaving, Haansch knocked on the convent door and offered a box of potatoes, onions, tinned food, and soap to Sister Arnaude. Without a word, she shoved the box away and slammed the door in the German’s face.

The pain of Mother’s death didn’t end with her burial. Night was the hardest time for the St. Sébastien women, but even in sunshine, terror stalked the school. In just one instance, a full month after Mother’s death, Chloe climbed onto a chair to water the ivy plant that hung from the ceiling near a dormitory window. As she stretched to reach the pot, the unsteady chair wobbled, its uneven legs tapping the floor.

The staccato sound and the image of Chloe’s precarious balance on the chair struck Niobe like a hammer blow. She screeched and lunged for Chloe’s legs. Clinging to her friend, Niobe screamed, “Mother Catherine, no!”

It swept everyone in the room back to Lefebvre’s square. Once more they were numb witnesses, watching mutely as Niobe crumpled to the floor.

“Just let us sing for the Boche,” Niobe sobbed. “It’s only one goddamn song!”

Not one of the other girls said a word. It was as if Niobe were invisible. After a moment, they turned one by one and blankly went off to class.

None of the girls ever fully left her dark moments in Lefebvre’s square behind.

And Eva was lightning-struck. In the days after Mother’s death, she was hardly seen at St. Sébastien. When she was there, she spent silent hours at the graveside. At night she tossed and turned and called out in her sleep.

Sister Arnaude worried to Sister Martine, “Eva seemed independent as a cat. Who would have thought she’d be most badly broken by Mother’s martyrdom?”

Sister Martine replied, “Oh, I don’t know about that. Mother once told me she liked to keep some distance from the girls, but she had a hard time doing that with Eva. As she put it, ‘We’re so much alike, the pull is too strong.’ Maybe Eva felt the pull, as well.”

Eva did feel that pull. She said as much, sitting at Mother’s grave one day, gazing up at a cottony cloud. “First, closeness to me doomed Krebs. And now you, Mother.”

She glanced down and spied a small moth caught in a web stretched across a crook of the grave’s wooden cross. The insect’s struggles brought the spider running. It attacked the moth and began encasing it in silk. Eva whispered, “Mother, you died by spider’s venom, and I was the web. It’s a sin only you can absolve. But how do I earn that? How do I atone? What can a web do? What more than bide her time, waiting for the spider’s demise?” Eva looked up at the cloud and her eyes opened wide. “I can be more than a puny web—I can hinder the spider, as you did, Mother.” She jumped up. “That’s it, hinder him. Oppose him.” She used a twig to gather up the web into a wad, entangling the spider, then she tossed it down and stomped it.

Eva stopped attending classes that spring. “I’ll be walking,” she’d say. She wrote nothing in her notebook—didn’t even take it when she went out. Rather than walking, she spent most of those lovely spring days of 1943 sitting, singing softly, on an uprooted tree at the edge of a small, secluded, riverside meadow of grass and buttercups. The L-shaped meadow was nestled in the woods between Lefebvre and St. Sébastien, and a dozen meters of its perimeter boldly reached into the mighty Meuse and resolutely bent its flow. Resolute, Eva thought, and she called the spot, Mother’s Elbow.

It was there, in April, that Eva decided to leave St. Sébastien.

Part II Peccavi

The Führer’s Eyes

Eva didn’t ask Henri if she could leave St. Sébastien. She told him, “I’m going.”

“I understand your request.” Henri lit a black cigarette. “Probably for the best.”

“You could have saved her.” Tears doused the fire in her eyes. “Could’ve saved me.”

“We’ve gone over this before. I was away and didn’t get your message till too late. And what do you mean, ‘Saved you?’ You’re fine.” Henri smiled nervously and winked at her. “You’re guilt-free.” He took a deep drag, threw his cigarette to the ground, and snuffed it out. “Weibel was a fool. Himmler and his damn SS—all polish and parades but no brains, I’ve always said. Clearly Mother Catherine was itching to play the martyr and she had to go, but—”

“Mother was a saint,” Eva shouted. “At her worst moment she was miles better than you or me. At our best!” She crossed her arms and turned her back to Henri.

Henri grabbed Eva’s shoulder and spun her back to face him. “Mother Catherine was a dolt who threw away her insignificant life for a trifle. Bonehead Weibel should have done his dirty work with a pistol shot, delivered deep in the forest, or a tumble down a flight of stairs. But he’s paying for his stupidity now, up to his ears in Soviet snow.”

Eva glared at him. “Like Krebs?”

“I—” Henri’s eyes fluttered. He looked away. “—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The boy I walked with. The German boy. The one you sent to Stalingrad.”

Henri turned back and grabbed Eva’s wrist. “Look, there’s no room in this world for those in the way. As there’s not for those who oppose us.” He twisted her arm until she winced. “Nor even for our own, if they botch their duties. You’d best understand that, young lady. For the sake of your skin, forget Mother Catherine and remember you exist only to serve the Third Reich.”

Eva jerked her wrist from Henri’s grip and spun away again. “I’ll never forget Mother!”

Henri stepped just behind her back. “Careful, child! We all regret the unfortunate event in Lefebvre, but since then, your attitude’s been intolerable. I won’t put up with it. Perhaps a change will straighten you out, so I’ll consent to your request to leave school.” He put his hand gently on her shoulder and sighed. “Come now, Eva. Much has been invested in you. In your training. Great responsibility has been given you. Great faith—”

Eva twisted from his grasp. “Sometimes I think great faith has been betrayed.”

“You think?” Henri’s lips curled in a snarl. “No! You are eyes! Invisible Eyes. My eyes.” He shook his fist. “The Führer’s eyes, ungrateful girl! Eyes don’t think. They only see.” He relaxed his shoulders and the show of anger instantly fled his face. “I’ll concede you’ve served the cause well. Listen, how about if I find you a new place in the area where bad memories can fade? Where your important work can continue.”

“Fine, do that.” Eva was thinking only of biding her time and foiling a spider.

One early May afternoon, Henri took Eva to her new lodging. From the back seat of the Mercedes phaeton, pulling up the rutted drive, she viewed the house and barn. Dark and quiet, they looked vacant. The house was tiny, almost like a child’s playhouse.

As the car halted in front of the porch, an old woman shuffled through the door. Bulging eyes dominated her ovoid face.

Behold the donkey, Eva thought. Madame Ass.

A cigarette drooped from the woman’s lips like a stalk of clover dangling from an equine mouth. She wiped her hands vigorously on her apron and removed the cigarette just long enough to call over her shoulder. “Louis, they’ve arrived.”

Henri jumped from the car and bounded to the porch, pulling Eva along behind. He shook the woman’s hand heartily. “Ah, Greetings, Madame Ducoisie. Nice to see you again.” Henri pulled Eva to the fore. “May I present my niece Eva?”

Eva curtsied.

The old woman eyed her as she might a purchase she was considering, say a ham hanging in a charcuterie window. Madame Ducoisie said, “A city girl, your uncle tells me. Well, you can’t expect city luxuries here in the country!”

Eva lowered her eyes. “No, Madame.”

The woman crossed her arms. “In autumn we have the apple harvest and cidering. It’s real work! Other times you’ll have kitchen chores and tending the animals. If I can get him out here, my husband will show you your chamber in the barn loft.” She turned and screeched, “Louis! Monsieur Messiaen is here with the girl. Louis! Get up!”

A minute later Louis Ducoisie appeared at the door, rubbing the gray stubble on his chin and blinking his rheumy eyes. The man’s face was as round as his wife’s was long. He was shoeless and wore shabby pants with suspenders over a stained, long-sleeved undershirt.

Henri avoided a handshake, rather putting Eva in front of himself like a shield.

Henri’s driver, Pruvot, had unloaded Eva’s suitcase from the phaeton’s boot. He stood next to the car holding a large box of provisions. Madame Ducoisie eyed the box conspicuously. “Louis, put on some shoes and show Mademoiselle to her chamber. Monsieur Messiaen, may I offer you a refreshment?”

Eva walked with Monsieur Ducoisie to the ramshackle barn. Pruvot left the box on the porch and followed, carrying the suitcase. Eva was thinking, Ah, every girl’s dream! Living like a goat, sharing a tired old apple farm with a pair of tired old crows. Still it’s better than St. Sébastien, with its nightmares and memories.

Back at the farmhouse after seeing the corner of the loft where she would sleep, Eva sat listening to Henri complain about the occupation and watching the Ducoisies nod in agreement as they devoured a sampling of the food and drink her uncle had brought. After a half hour, Henri looked at his pocket watch. “Oh my! So late already? I must away.” He popped to his feet.

Before climbing into his Mercedes, Henri took Eva aside and slapped an English-language phrasebook into her hand. “Study this. Discretely. And you—shape up!”

Smithwycke

The summer of 1943 became Eva’s season of independence. With the harvest and cidering months off, farm work was limited. Uncle Henri was usually away or distracted and unable to influence her activities much. Eva spent most of those summer days sitting on her log at Mother’s Elbow and daydreaming of going away—to Africa or perhaps The Argentine—just somewhere away.

Eva took Monsieur Ducoisie’s old shotgun on occasion and brought game home for dinner. The day Eva bagged two quail, Monsieur Ducoisie said incredulously, “My gracious, child, how do you do it? I’m such a bad shot the game feels safe sipping cider with me.”

Eva shrugged. “Instinct, I suppose—I never really think about aiming. It’s like my eye is connected directly to my trigger finger. But maybe more important than the shooting, I think, is the seeing. Others walk through the woods and see just trees and brush. But I see it all. The quail frozen in the thicket. The rabbit quaking under the bush. The squirrel peeking around the trunk. I know they are there before I see them. Perhaps I smell them. Smell their fear.”

A delightful couple of weeks—Belgians call it Summer’s Golden Tail—often stitches itself to the rump of summer. These days are the earth’s last exultant dance before the unmistakable decline of autumn slips into the death of winter.

On one bright morning in the Golden Tail of 1943 huntress Eva, walking through the woods not far from Mother’s Elbow, once more smelled fear. There was a man. A man hiding. Frightened. Out of place. His fear filling the air. She’d seen the open-backed truck dropping off soldiers in pairs, some with dogs, along the road and figured they were looking for someone. Now she knew they were looking for him.

Eva could have gone on—could have pretended she hadn’t seen him. Gone on and later sounded the alarm. Done what was expected of her. But after Mother’s death, she wouldn’t be doing what was expected.

Eva turned to face the man. “I can help you. There are Germans nearby. Looking for you.”

The man crouched in the tall brush. Frozen. Head low. Eva saw his eyes peering from beneath his leather cap bill. And she saw the large revolver he pointed at her.

Eva tilted her head to the side. “Do you understand my French?”

The long-faced man gave up any notion that he hadn’t been spotted and stood.

“Do you understand my French?” Eva repeated.

The man replied in halting French, “I understand a bit.” He continued in English, “I need to get through the German lines. I have money if you’ll help.”

He limped into the clear, and Eva gasped at the large liver colored stain spilling down his khaki pants from the hip. “You’re hurt.” She stared at the pistol, still menacing her. “You don’t need that. I want to help.”

The man lowered the muzzle and replied in his French, “Pardon me, young lady. I’m a British airman. Shot down on raid. I’m called Smithwycke.” The pilot checked some writing on the back of his hand. “In a village called Esneux, there are people who’ll help me. I have Deutsch Marks. Do you know Esneux?”

“Yes I know Esneux. It is east of this place, along the River Ourthe.”

In his excitement, the airman reverted to English. “Yes, that’s it, on the Ourthe. Getting there might be a spot of bother. Chip of flack’s bit me on the arse, I’m afraid. Bled like a bugger, but it’s stopped now, so I can’t grumble.” Seeing the confused look on Eva’s face, explained in French. “I’ve been wounded. Much walking is difficult.”

“My name is Eva Messiaen. I know only a little English. Maybe I can help get you to Esneux, but travel must be at night. I saw many German searchers earlier. You must hide until this evening. Come with me now.”

Eva took the airman to Mother’s Elbow. At the edge of the clearing, she helped the man sit, leaning on the trunk of her downed tree. He was thanking her when they heard the barking. It was not far off.

“You must be hidden,” Eva said. She pulled the man up and pushed him to the crater that was left when the storm blew the tree over, roots and all. “Lie down in the earth. I’ll bring branches for covering.”

Eva ran to the copse of leafy saplings growing in the mud on the riverbank. She uprooted three of them and ran back to the crater. The barking sounded closer. She tossed two of the trees on the airman and propped up the third, over the others. “Now, shh,” she said with a finger to her lips. She ran to the crown of the tree just as two gray-clad German soldiers with a dog appeared at the opposite edge of the clearing.

The dog was barking excitedly and straining on the leash so wildly that Diener, the slight soldier at the other end of the lead had to lean backward to keep control. “Stupid dog, it is just a little girl,” he bellowed in German.

The second soldier was good looking and young. He carried his rifle casually on his shoulder, holding it by the barrel. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lip. The handler’s difficulty seemed to amuse him. He pushed his helmet back on his head and eyed Eva for a moment, then he removed his cigarette. “Not that little,” he leered.

Eva stepped toward the men. “You frightened my little dog, Caspie. He ran away. Did you see him? Do you speak French?”

Diener, the dog handler, said, “We no French talking. German only, Hure.”

Eva hesitated. The dog was still snarling and straining on the leash. It looked as if it might lunge free at any instant. Have to do something, Eva thought. She grimaced and said in fluid German, “Yes, I know some German.” She scowled. “And I am shocked to be addressed by you as whore, which I am certainly not. A soldier of Germany should know better than to speak so.” The stern tone went girlish when she continued. “I said only that you frightened my dog. He ran away. Perhaps you would help me find him since it was your dog that frightened him away.”

Diener gave a mighty jerk on the leash as he huffed, “Geist!” It barely moved the dog, but did quiet it. The handler nodded stiffly. “You must excuse my tongue, Fräulein,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know you are German-speaking.” He cleared his throat. “We engage official business, searching for an English, a downed pilot. We have no option to seek for a civilian’s pet dog—” He smiled. “—Much as I regret being unable to help one speaking such fine German.” His formality returned. “What account brings you in these woods today, meine Fräulein?”

“No business, sir,” Eva replied demurely. “I’ve just been walking with my little dog, Caspie. I live at the small apple farm on the other side of the road.” With a flounce, she pointed in the direction of the Ducoisie place.

The dog resumed barking. Clearly embarrassed, Diener tugged at the leash. He glared at the dog and growled, “Geist. I said quiet!” He shook his head. “This dog!” He turned back at Eva. “You have perhaps seen anyone suspicious on your walk today?”

Eva replied, “Not at all, sir.”

The other soldier, Neinstadt, eyed Eva like a cat on a windowsill, watching a wren. With a cocky smile, he slinked forward. “Maybe I could help you find your little friend, Strudel. All I ask in return is a smile. Well, maybe a little something else, if I find your pup.” He ran his tongue over his lips.

Playing the shocked little girl, Eva put fingers to her mouth and took a step back.

The dog handler raged at his partner, “Neinstadt, put that tongue back in your head and keep it there. Try to remember you are a soldier of the elite Reichstag Division, Karlheinz Müller! A lousy soldier, but one none the less.”

“Shit-for-brains Müller jumps on a grenade to save his comrades in some muddy Ypres trench and they make a saint of him, for Christsake. What did it get the poor stiff?” Neinstadt spat. “A Wehrmacht division named in his honor and a medal sent to his mother. Think Müller’d say that was worth having his guts blown over half of France? Take your loyalty to Führer and fatherland and shove it up your ass, Diener. All I care about’s getting home in one piece.”

Diener eyed Neinstadt with contempt, then he shook his head and turned to Eva. “Please disregard my most churlish comrade, Fräulein. If you see a suspicious person, make a report immediately.” He clipped the leash to his belt and took out a notebook. “Now, describe your small dog. If we find him I will personally bring him to your house. Your name?” He stepped toward Eva. And toward the hidden airman.

Eva knew she had to do something and that it had better be good. She skipped ahead to meet the soldier. “My name is Eva Messiaen. I live just there.” She pouted her lips and pointed again. “If you see him, you’ll know my little dog Caspar. He has no nose.” Eva paused. “I think now you’re wondering, how does this dog with no nose smell? I’ll tell you.” She paused again—longer this time. She had the soldier frozen in his tracks. Eva broke into a smirk. “Terrible!”

Diener cocked his head and stroked his chin, letting her description sink in. Then he erupted in beer-hall laughter. With difficulty, he managed to snort, “Fräulein! ‘Terrible.’ It is a good one. So, I will look for a little dog, especially one with no nose.”

A moment later, the handler stiffened, as if he rued his familiarity with a civilian. He snapped, “We regret your inconvenience, Fräulein. Neinstadt, we go.”

The handler took the leash and jerked it, commanding Geist to heel. Off they went.

As the Germans departed, Eva made a show of calling, “Casper! Casper! Here boy.” When Geist turned a cold eye back to Eva before disappearing into the trees, she stuck out her tongue.

Eva strolled casually back to the overturned tree’s base. She paused just long enough to whisper to the airman, “It’s too dangerous to move you now. I’ll be back after dark.”

Shipped Home in a Coffin

Eva hurried back from Mother’s Elbow to the farm. She was preparing a lunch of sorrel soup, coarse bread, and a bit of goat cheese, when Madame Ducoisie said, “Out again this morning, were you? You won’t have the luxury to gallivant when cidering comes, you know.”

Eva didn’t look up from her work. “I know, Madame.”

“I looked for you this morning. There’s mending to be done. You can’t expect me to do it, can you? With these eyes! And my fingers. Well, can you?”

Eva sighed. “No, Madame. I’ll do the mending this afternoon. First I have to take care of something in the village.”

Madame raised an eyebrow. “Something?” Her head tilted. “What something?”

Eva thought for a moment. “Oh, Uncle asked me to run an errand for him, but if you’d rather I don’t go—”

“Oh, no, no, no. By all means, go. Monsieur Messiaen is such a generous man.”

After lunch Eva jumped on her bicycle and pedaled the six kilometers to town. In the café, she spied Monsieur Micheaux, who on occasion had delivered food and fuel to St. Sébastien for her uncle. Micheaux had a truck and a permit to collect scrap metal for recycle in Germany. In addition to that legitimate business, he worked the black markets, normally on a scale much smaller than what he did for Henri.

Eva came up to Micheaux. “I want to talk to you. In private. It’s business.”

Micheaux smirked—scarcity had made him sought-after and he liked it. He pushed the stub of his cigarette into his beer bottle and nodded au revoir to the plump girl sitting with him. With a head jerk he indicated Eva should follow him outside. He strutted to the Liberté statue in the square and looked around to ensure they were alone. Raising a pack of Gitanes to his mouth, he took one with his lips, then struck a match with his thumbnail and lit it. After a long drag, he eyed Eva, his expression demanding, Yes?

Eva sized-up the young man. He was prematurely bald, with long sideburns and a rakishly-thin moustache. His eyes, with their long, girlish lashes, were remarkable. “Want to transport someone to Esneux tomorrow for hard currency? No questions asked?”

He flicked ashes from his Git. “Do I know you? What makes you think I’d do anything—” He inhaled deeply and let the smoke spill slowly from his lips. “—illegal?”

“I’m Eva Messiaen. You used to deliver black market food to the old convent school for my uncle Henri, didn’t you? Got paid in alcohol and tobacco as I recall.”

Micheaux smiled like a chess player at an opponent’s clever move. “Ah, Henri’s niece? I hear you’re living at the Ducoisie place now.”

“That’s right.” Eva crossed her arms. “So, up for making some Deutsch Marks or not?”

He spat a shred of tobacco. “Marks beat the fucking credits I get for my scrap. How much are we talking, bonbon?” When he spoke, the amber tint of his front teeth showed.

Eva felt Micheaux’s eyes scurry over her body. She tried to hide her discomfort. “I don’t know exactly. The man has a wad of them. He’ll make it worth your while.”

“For Henri’s niece, sure, I’m in. What time? Where?”

“You know the back way to the Ducoisie farm?”

“In my line of work you know your way around.” He winked. “I’ll collect him at ten.”

“OK, tomorrow morning at ten. Pull up to the barn. I’ll have some scrap for you.”

“I’ve done this sort of thing before, you know. I’m prepared even if they stop me.”

“But then you need to be, don’t you—a man in your line of work.” Eva gave his hand a single shake. She turned and walked off, calling back, “Don’t be late, Micheaux.”

He thrust his hands in his pockets and leered at her legs as Eva rode off on her bicycle.

As she washed the dinner dishes, Eva announced, “I think I’ll retire early tonight.”

Monsieur Ducoisie sat back for a moment clicking his teeth on the stem of his pipe. His receding gums had left them loose and his habit was to tap, wiggle or otherwise fidget with them when he smoked. Finally he pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Not going to stay for BBC Londres this evening, Eva? Or maybe a game of backgammon?”

His wife chimed over her shoulder, “Now Louis, you promised to sharpen my knives this evening. And the teapot still needs mending—you know I don’t see well enough to do it myself. Is it too much to ask that you do something around here?”

“No, dear,” he replied dutifully. “I’ll do the knives first. Never know when you’ll need a good sharp knife.” He caught Eva’s eye and brought his finger across his throat.

Eva’s eyes twinkled him a smile. “So, I’ll be going.” She stopped at the door and added, “Oh, Micheaux may come by tomorrow for a sack of tins.”

As she left, Louis Ducoisie poured himself a swig of peket and downed it in a gulp.

From her room above the barn, Eva watched the house. When it darkened, she crept out and made her way toward Mother’s Elbow.

Scattered clouds marched by the milky moon, chopping time into alternating chunks of light and dark. Knowing the way so well, Eva was able to move quickly and silently. She heard only the sounds of scurrying night creatures in the woods and droning vehicles on the road. Her passage went undetected.

Remembering the gape of the pistol’s muzzle, she called, “It’s Eva. I’m alone,” before stepping into the clearing at Mother’s Elbow.

The airman was there, cold, but otherwise fit. “My dear, aren’t you the poppet to return for Old Smithwycke. Such a fine lass. Full marks for your handling of that Jerry patrol this morning. Dog and all. Don’t know what you told them in your German, but it carried the day.”

Eva repeated her dog-with-no-nose story.

Smithwycke laughed heartily. “Top drawer, girlie. I say, that Jerry dog’s barking had me worried. I’ll wager he knew I was around. Lucky the Hun weren’t as bright, eh? Any prospect I can hie to Esneux and bunch up with my Bomber Command mates?”

Eva replied in English. “Monsieur Smithwycke, I am pleased to help you for this moment. A man from the local village has a truck and license to travel. He is Monsieur Micheaux, and he will take you to Esneux tomorrow.” She saw concern in his eyes. “There is no choice but to trust him. For this night, you have a place in my house.”

“You’re a brave little jewel,” Smithwycke said. “Risking your neck and all for me. Get me safely away and I have German marks for you.”

Eva shook her head. “No, Monsieur. I resist for what they did to Mother. Perhaps when I have helped a thousand airmen, the count will even. Until then, I pay the debt.”

“Ah? Germans hurt your mother, did they?”

Eva winced. “They were accomplices to her murder.” She looked around. “Now we must go.”

Smithwyke scowled. “Bloody beggers.” He struggled to get his feet under him. “Give us a hand, milady?”

With Eva’s help, Smithwycke stood and the pair set off for the Ducoisie farm. The clouds had cleared, and with the moon nearly full, the woods were bright, but his hip slowed their travel. They arrived at the farm just after midnight and entered the barn.

Eva lifted a lantern from its hook on the wall. She took a wooden match from the tin drinking cup hanging on a nail and closed the door. She struck the match on a wall board, and its flare momentarily illuminated the space. She lit the lantern, then shook the match out.

They climbed a flexing, wooden ladder to the loft. As his head rose above the floor of the loft, Smithwycke saw modest living quarters carved out in one corner. The neatness of that space and the furniture there were all that partitioned it from the hay-strewn rest of the loft. Eva helped Smithwycke to the single chair at the tiny table in the corner. She hung the lantern near the bed and draped her gray flannel coat so it covered the lone window. Eva struck another match and lit a small kerosene burner supporting a white, enameled kettle.

Smithwycke looked around. The yellow glow from the lantern and the stove filled the rustic loft space. There was a bed on a homemade frame near the window; it was covered with a thick duvet. On the wall above the bed was a crucifix. Otherwise the walls were bare. Outside the living space, unbaled straw covered the floor and climbed up the walls. Where most of the straw was piled, in the opposite corner, there was a pitchfork. And a living shadow—a black cat. Smithwycke’s gaze went to the table on which his elbows rested. There was a copy Cyrano de Bergerac, an English language phrasebook, a wedge of coarse bread on a blue plate, and a basket of small, green apples.

Eva noticed Smithwycke’s stare at the bread. “I’m sorry. The crust is all I have for you. That and tea. Food is short these days. For everyone except Merlin.” She looked at the fat black cat sleeping on the hay across the loft. “He has his fill of the mouses.”

Smithwycke smiled. “And how does Monsieur Merlin get along with your dog?”

“Oh, I have no dog…” Eva looked like she might cry. “…not anymore.”

The water boiled and Eva made dandelion tea. Afterward, she poured hot water in a bowl and gave it to Smithwycke with soap and a cloth. “Clean your injury. I wish I had medicine, but there is none. You will sleep in the bed. In the morning there will be milk and a few crumbs more. Monsieur Micheaux will arrive on the tenth hour to fetch you.”

Eva blew out the lantern and instantly the loft’s air of honeyed warmth vanished. She took down the coat that had been covering the window and moonlight, cold and silvery, poured in. Eva held the coat close to herself. “The moon’s light is enough for you?”

“Yes. Thank you for everything and goodnight.”

Eva replied, “Goodnight, Monsieur Smithwycke.” She swung the coat over her shoulders and settled into the hay on the other side of the room, next to Merlin.

When Smithwycke woke in the morning, Eva was gone. But she was back soon with country bread, sour cheese, and a cup of milk. She made mint tea.

Just before 10:00 there was the sound of a truck on the approach, then a horn. Eva ran outside and told Micheaux to park so the view of the truck from the farmhouse would be obscured. He backed his old crate up to the far side of the barn. There were already four metal barrels, a rusty gate, and a pile of sheet metal on the truck bed. Micheaux jumped up on the vehicle’s deck, looked around, and nodded. Smithwycke hobbled to the truck.

He looked Eva in the eye. “My dear, I won’t forget what you’ve done. I swear I won’t forget you.” A smile washed across his face and he gave her a long embrace. He turned, took Micheaux’s extended hand, and was hoisted up onto the flatbed.

Micheaux asked about the payment, and Smithwycke handed over a string-tied wad of bills. The trucker stuffed it into his pocket without counting and turned to untie the rope securing the sheet metal. He moved several of the sheets to reveal a wooden coffin. A paper glued on the lid read, “Monsieur Le Bec, Esneux.” Micheaux removed the lid and wiggled his finger through one of the three air holes drilled into the side of the coffin on the head end. He grinned at the doubtful Smithwycke and shrugged as if to say, Take it or leave it.

Micheaux traded Smithwycke’s uniform coat and hat for a frayed blue canvas jacket. He tossed a rag into a bag of ashes and shook it. He used the rag to pat Smithwycke’s face and hands a deathly gray. Then he handed the pilot a glass jar. “It’s fish heads fermented with shits. If the Boche stop the truck, open it. I promise they won’t inspect your corpse too closely.”

Smithwycke broke into a hearty laugh and said, as he climbed into the wooden box, “A corpse heading home in a coffin, eh? Wouldn’t that hoist my wife’s hopes, if she heard it?” Micheaux replaced the lid and the metal sheets. Eva threw a gunnysack of empty food tins onto the truck bed as Micheaux swung down and bounded into the cab. He started the truck and winked at Eva. Then he was off.

Eva watched the truck get smaller as it hurtled down the driveway and onto the road. In a moment it was gone round the bend. She thought, Getting away from here. From the Germans, from the Belgians, from the hunger…from the memories. A new life. How good that sounds. Some day it will be me getting away.

The Changing Tide

The autumn of 1943 ground slowly into winter and that in turn trudged into spring of 1944. Food and coal became ever scarcer.

In April, Louis Ducoisie died of pneumonia. No one who knew the man and his wife would have thought them particularly close, especially in the last half of their fifty-two year marriage. Eva had seen it. Monsieur Ducoisie liked to slip away in the company of his apple brandy. Madame Ducoisie nagged at him to stick around. Eva always wondered if the drinking caused the nagging or vice versa.

In spite of that, Madame Ducoisie’s extreme reaction to Louis’s death astonished Eva. When she commented how different it would be without him around, the widow blurted back, “Different! Thank God, yes. No more of those bowels of his groaning all night long; it was like trying to sleep inside a windmill during a gale. And I’ll finally breathe, free of the old windbag’s incessant farting.”

Losing her husband transformed Madame Ducoisie. Old donkey became prancing pony. Throwing the windows open. Singing. Bringing field flowers by the armload into the house. Polishing, a quasi-religious conversion bringing salvation to her home’s every surface of brass, enamel, or wood. And spending, taking the bus to Liege to buy herself a new hat, new shoes, and new dress—all red velvet!

Eva wasn’t getting along at all with Henri. His visits were marked by sharp words and pointed looks. Eva was happy that he hadn’t been around all spring. It was a surprise in mid-May when he burst into the barn early one morning while Eva and Madame Ducoisie were milking the goats.

Henri presented his customary gifts. “For Monsieur, two bottles of Calvados from Normandy and for you Madame, Dutch flowers and cigarettes.” When he was told of Monsieur Ducoisie’s death, he seemed angry. “Ah, my dear Eva, you let down your old uncle when you don’t keep him informed,” he hissed through a forced smile. “Come outside. There’s something we need to discuss.” He took Eva’s arm above the elbow and pulled her through the door.

Outside, Henri’s smile was gone. “I should have you skinned for this blasé attitude. When is the last time you reported something important?”

“There’s nothing important to report these days. Shall I invent things to tell you?”

“Don’t be smart with me, girl. In any case, the past is past. What matters is the future, and shortly your work could become crucial. Our enemies prepare their assault in the west, probably at Calais. It isn’t likely to succeed—Rommel will see to that. But we must be prepared for every eventuality. If they do get this far, our work becomes ever more critical. As in 1940, the key is controlling the Meuse bridges. Your first priority is keeping the Pont de Pierre closely surveilled. And aircraft counts—I need them. Also, keep your ears open for information on saboteurs. Those rats are my biggest worry. As I explained before, it all boils down to maintaining our freedom of movement. That’s what’s crucial. Understand?”

Eva looked off to the west. The faintest flicker of a smile glistened on her lips and was gone. She looked back at her uncle out of the corner of her eye. “I’m happy to have a crucial role. For a chance to make a difference. You know that, don’t you, uncle?”

Henri’s eyes narrowed as if he were studying a fine detail of Eva’s face. “You’d better hope I do.” He turned on his heel and stomped scowling to the car. He sped off as Eva walked back in through the barn door, whistling the tune of la Marseillaise.

Madame Ducoisie had been watching the pair from the barn door. When Eva returned, she shook her head. “Eva, can’t you see your uncle’s upset? He’s the one keeps flesh on our bones, you know. You could treat him with respect.”

Eva stared back. Her look was laced with pity and contempt. “If a crocodile wore white feathers, should I treat him as a dove?” She turned and walked off.

“A crocodile with feathers? Whatever are you talking about?” Madame sighed. “Teenagers! Always moody.” She poured the milk from Eva’s bucket into hers. “I wasn’t that way.” She lit a Dutch cigarette. “And I had no rich uncle showering me with kindness.”

The weather in May was pleasant and Eva spent many afternoon hours sitting on the grass at Mother’s Elbow, reading her English phrase book and gazing off, dreamily, expectantly, toward the western horizon. At night, she sometimes sat in the same spot, but with very different emotion. Nights her attention was pulled to the eerie northeast, pulled by the thunder rumbling from the orange-glowing horizon. The rail yards of Liege were under Allied air assault.

On June sixth just before lunch Eva was collecting the day’s eggs, three of them, when Madame Ducoisie came to the back door of the house and shrieked, “Eva, come quickly. Hurry! They’re coming.”

Eva thought, The Gestapo? Why would they be coming here? She dropped the eggs and ran to hide the shotgun, which she had used the day before to bag a small rabbit and had carelessly left leaning on the wall, just inside the barn door. She slipped the gun inside its oilskin bag and buried it under the manure pile behind the barn. That done, she ran to the farmhouse. Before she opened the screened door to the kitchen, Eva could hear the scratchy static of a radio broadcast.

Madame Ducoisie was there in the parlor, listening to a broadcast by German radio news, the DNB. She could understand just a word here and there but she knew it had to do with an Allied invasion. Together they listened. She was amazed that Eva seemed to understand everything being said.

After lunch, Eva rode her bicycle to Lefebvre to learn more. She returned in the late afternoon telling Madame Ducoisie, “The town’s buzzing. Everywhere groups of people talk, but mostly in whispers, though there are no Germans around. I guess caution is hard to forget. I heard Monsieur Micheaux telling the tobacconist that Americans were already parachuting into Germany. But the mayor’s wife said her husband heard from Brussels that forty thousand British had been trapped and captured on a French beach.”

The old woman scoffed, “The idea that stuffed shirt Mayor Beaugarde would be privy to war developments is laughable. None of them know anything. For truth we’ll wait for the BBC broadcast this evening. Until then, I’ll pray it’ll be the truth I want.”

Eva added, “And the one I want.”

At 9:00 p.m., through veils of swoon and static, came the nightly French-language broadcast of BBC Londres. In tones excited and grave, the announcer proclaimed, “The Allied Expeditionary Force has this day begun an invasion of continental Europe, striking on the Normandy coast. Elements of the Force have already established themselves on French soil.” The report concluded with a message for the occupied peoples of Europe, delivered in English by the Allied Commander, an American with the German-sounding name Eisenhower. The general ended his statement with words of hope for desperate ears. “The hour of your liberation is approaching.” To Eva, it was if the sentence was said directly to her. She went to the calendar on the kitchen wall and wrote under the date, June 6, 1944, the two words, “Début. Fin.”

Even before the Allied invasion, the cancerous occupation of the rural Meuse valley had gone latent. By April most of the German troops who had been stationed in Province de Liege were moved west to bolster units deployed in the Pas de Calais. The late summer brought the surreal pageant of the cancer’s excision.

One August day Eva witnessed an excision firsthand. She was walking along a hilltop overlooking the river valley. Off in the west she saw a cloud over the country road that paralleled the river. The cloud was approaching and as it got near, Eva could see it was dust and smoke made by a convoy of fast-moving vehicles.

She thought, Germans, dashing east, making for the refuge of the Siegfried Line.

When the convoy was close enough to make out individual vehicles, Eva had to laugh—the scene looked like a circus clowns’ parade: Every slapstick conveyance imaginable, military and civilian, sped bumper to bumper. The name “Dessay Poultry” and a dozen ducklings were painted on the side of one van. There was a taxi, a bus, and a fire engine tucked among army trucks. Tree branches and other camouflage were fixed to the tops of each vehicle. Each was packed with troops—some even riding on sideboards and rooftops.

Out of the corner of her eye Eva noticed two dots in the western sky. Within a minute the dots had become sleek aircraft, now close enough for Eva to see the stars on their wings. From the cover of a tree trunk, Eva watched wide-eyed as the warbirds, like trapeze artists, made choreographed swings from on high to pepper the convoy with rockets and cannon. She watched as the vehicles were consumed in clouds of dust, smoke, and flame. Watched breathless as the cloud lifted, leaving only smoking hulks of steel and men, dead in the ditches. When the smoke, laced with the smell of burning fuel and flesh, reached her, Eva fell to her knees and vomited.

On an early August morning, when Eva was out, Monsieur Messiaen stopped in unannounced. Madame Ducoisie as always was happy for his visit—he was, after all, a charming man who brought gifts. And gifts he brought that morning. Flour, sugar, coffee, a ball-shaped sausage, a fat slab of bacon wrapped in brown waxed paper, and two bottles of Alsatian wine. He also brought cigarettes, American ones, no less. And he brought a young lady. A pleasant, lively girl, about Eva’s age. A girl with brown eyes and brown hair, but one who dressed in nothing so drab. Like a neon sign, her look was intended to catch eyes, with colors as bright as the parrots emblazoned on her scarf.

“Today a student living just outside Liege, the niece of a good friend, accompanies me,” Henri said. “May I present Mademoiselle Crickette Gigault?” After Crickette’s curtsy, he leaned in to explain, “The bombing in the city has taken a toll on the poor child’s nerves and I wish to get her away from all that for the few weeks until our saviors arrive. My hope is that she might stay here for the time being. Naturally I would insist on helping with the expense of an additional mouth to feed.” Henri produced a thick wad of food coupons wrapped with an elastic band.

Madame Ducoisie’s eyes grew large at the size of the coupon stack. “But of course, Monsieur, I speak for Eva when I say we would be most pleased to share our small home with Crickette.” She was mentally counting the coupons even as she spoke.

Crickette curtsied again, this time more deeply.

“Then so it shall be,” beamed Henri. “May I remain to introduce Crickette to Eva?”

“It is always our pleasure, Monsieur, to have your company for as long as you wish. Please make yourselves comfortable in the parlor. May I offer you a coffee?”

“How nice, Madame,” Henri said. “Thank you.” Crickette kept demurely quiet.

It was only moments later that Eva emerged from the orchard and saw her uncle’s automobile with Pruvot leaning on the fender reading a newspaper. She scowled. Eva slunk to the house and entered. Inside, her gaze slipped from Madame Ducoisie to her uncle. She said softly, “Hello, Uncle,” and stepped forward and kissed him dutifully. Then her eyes went to the third person in the parlor, to Crickette, and Eva froze.

Eva’s startled look silenced everyone else in the room. Finally she said, “Hille?”

Holding his hand in front of Crickette as if to say, Let me handle this, Henri stepped forward. With a laugh he said, “Ah, my dear Eva, how are you? You seem to confuse Crickette with your cousin Hille. Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Crickette Gigault, here from Liege.” He turned to Crickette. “I present my niece, Eva Messiaen.”

Crickette stepped forward and kissed flustered Eva three times on alternating cheeks. She said, “Who knew I had a twin! Eva, dear Madame Ducoisie has graciously offered to let me stay here for a time. With the bombing in Liege I keep my wits only with nicotine and alcohol. Your uncle tells me so much about you. I hope we can make a good friendship during my visit.”

Eva looked at Henri with narrowed eyes. Helping a frightened girl doesn’t sound like you. Especially this girl. You’re up to something.

Twenty minutes later, when Madame Ducoisie and Crickette went walking in the orchard, Eva pressed Henri. “What’s this all about, Uncle? Why is she here?”

Henri replied, “Eva. Eva, my dear. It’s just as Crickette said—to get her here in the lovely countryside, away from Liege and the bombing. Nothing more.” His smile turned into a scowl. “Anyway, since when is it your place to question me, young lady?” He took the swagger stick from under his arm and shook it in Eva’s face.

Eva set her jaw and glared at him. Then she turned on her heel and stormed away.

Henri followed a few steps, bellowing, “You come back here, Eva. Now!” She didn’t slow. “Eva, I won’t have it!” He clapped his palm with the stick, for emphasis. She kept going.

Henri tore the derby hat from his head and slapped it on his knee. He howled, “Pruvot, we’re leaving,” and off they went.

Crickette slept in the barn loft with Eva. She was helpful, pleasant, interested. And she was Eva’s shadow. A shadow whose every question seemed scripted, every interest feigned, and every move choreographed. For a couple of weeks Eva’s defense was caution. Finally she’d had enough.

That evening the girls were alone, listening to a BBC radio report on the failed July plot by dissident German army officers to assassinate Hitler with a bomb. Crickette put a hand on Eva’s shoulder. “I believed the Führer was a great man, Eva. Maybe he still is. But so many dead? So many Germans. I hate the war. Perhaps if he were gone, it could end. Can one man and his ideas be worth more than peace?”

Eva’s narrowed eyes went from Crickette’s face to the hand on her shoulder. “Crickette,” she scolded, “a spy who can’t deceive isn’t much of a spy. I know uncle’s put you here to gauge my commitment to the cause. He’d be dismayed at your clumsy work.” She pushed the hand away. “I know about commitment. About being willing to do anything for a cause. Believe me, there’s no one more willing than I am. Tell uncle, when it matters most, he shall see that.”

Two days later, Henri sent Pruvot to fetch Crickette.

The first days of September 1944 were like the hurricane’s eye—islands of relative quiet surrounded by swirling seas. Before had been the Germans’ tumultuous withdrawal under fire from the west. And after, the ferocious fighting in the river country up north, in the Hürtgen Forest below Aachen, and south of Luxembourg, at the fortifications around Metz. But in early September, with the Germans gasping for breath behind the Siegfried Line in Germany and the Allies waiting on the west side of the border for their outrun supply lines to catch up, the tide was slack. Like Eva’s emotions.

Kismet

Eva met U.S. Army Corporal Stanley Chandler on a bright September afternoon.

She’d ridden her bicycle to town for tinned meat and fruit being distributed by the Americans at the Hôtel de Ville. Eva picked up a small, olive-drab cardboard box labeled U. S. Army containing ten olive-drab cans. She pedaled through the village square, balancing the box on her handlebars. At the square’s edge, she passed the Café de Pont Romain and the three GIs sitting there, sipping beer at one of the outdoor tables.

As Eva passed by, the breeze swept her loose blond hair back and flitted her skirt above her knee. One of the GIs let a piercing wolf whistle fly, and she glanced at them.

Stan Chandler growled, “Jeeze, Barnes, didn’t your old lady teach ya manners?” He shoved the table, knocking Barnes and his chair over backward.

Eva giggled at the sight of the soldier, drunk she presumed, careening back in a splash of spilling beer. She pedaled on, past St. Marc and out of town.

Barnes was still on his back when Chandler jumped up. “Hey, did you see that tomato smilin’ at me!” He threw down some crumpled bills. “Beer’s on me, gents. I’m takin’ the jeep. Adios amigos.”

A kilometer outside town, as he came up on Eva, Stan was turning chicken. Dumb clown. Makin’ a total ass of yourself! Well, you’re here now. Might as well give it a shot.

As his combat-pocked jeep slowed to pull even with Eva, Stan tipped his cap and said sheepishly, “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m powerful embarrassed for my partner’s manners back there. I’d feel a whole lot better if I could give you a lift to wherever you’re headed with that box of grub. Besides, you were supposed to get chocolate, too.” Stan took three Hershey Bars from his field jacket pocket and waved them.

Eva kept riding. “Thank you, but I am OK.” She smiled as she said it. OK is such a sunny word. I like saying her—almost as much as her funny sister, Okey-dokey.

The smile encouraged Stan. “Ma’am, I knew you were OK from the second I laid eyes on ya. You’d be doin’ me a favor lettin’ me run you wherever it is you’re headed.”

Eva stopped. She looked at the boyish face. The downy moustache. The earnest eyes. It was a good face. She was drawn to it. Then she recalled Uncle Henri’s decree when she’d seen him in July: If they make it this far, get yourself an American or English boyfriend. Eva remounted her bicycle and pedaled away. “Thank you for your nice offer, but I will be OK.” She looked back at the soldier. His puppy-dog eyes had lost their sparkle.

Stan had a feeling about this girl from the moment she spoke to him. A feeling that fate had decreed she’d be part of the rest of his life. Now it looked like memories of her was about as good as fate could do. He was just being honest when he called to Eva, “I’ll never forget you.”

Eva stopped. Hearing those four words, she felt fate throwing a railway switch in the track of her life. Smithwycke had said the same thing. The words swept her back to the moment he’d left in Monsieur Micheaux’s truck—the moment she knew her only chance was to make a new life. She had that chance again. Eva peered into the eyes of the boy. Those good eyes. She imagined a life, a new life, spent looking into eyes that honest, and she turned her bike around. “Can we carry my bicycle in the back of your car?”

It took Stan a moment to appreciate that it was more than a hypothetical question, then he grinned like a kid clutching a root beer float. “Oh, you betcha we can.”

When they got to the Ducoisie place, Stan asked, “Where can I put your bike?”

Eva pointed to the barn door. “Just inside there, if you please.”

She waited while Stan put the bike away. When he returned, she said, “Thank you for the riding.” She touched his arm. “And now I must go inside.”

Stan winced. He shifted his garrison cap from hand to hand.

Eva took a step then said over her shoulder, “If you would like it, you are welcomed to call on me Sunday afternoon.”

Stan lit up like Broadway neon. “Sunday afternoon? Hot doggies, I can do that.” He ran to Eva, took her hand, and shook it. “This Sunday, right?”

Eva had her chance. “Okey-dokey.”

Stan bounded off. He didn’t want to give her time to change her mind. He swung himself into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and spun the vehicle around. He tore out the drive, and Eva heard his “Wahoo!” as he raised his cap high in the air.

When she went inside, Madame Ducoisie was frothy as warm beer. “But you were riding with an American! Whatever they touch turns to gold.” It wasn’t clear if she thought that was wonderful or terrible. Then she noticed the box Eva held. “And what food have you brought?”

“Tins of meat and of apples, and King Midas sends these American chocolates for us.” There were three Hershey bars.

Madame Ducoisie snatched a bar and ate it like a dog wolfs a pilfered pork chop. She called it “waxy,” but had another when Eva left to wash up. Except for Swiss chocolate Henri had brought once, a year earlier, this was the first she’d tasted since May of 1940.

Corporal Chandler came calling on Sunday with English toffees and coffee for Madame Ducoisie and a scarf for Eva. He had bought the Parisian silk that morning from another GI for three bucks.

Eva and Stan took a ride on that Golden Tail day. A day when the warmth of the sun makes leaves on the trees seem supple and content, perhaps even drunk, as they shimmer and dance on their arching boughs. A day when breezes lift milkweed seeds, gently floating them off to welcoming new stands. A day when old men say, “Ya know, maybe I’m not quite ready to be planted in that churchyard after all.” For Stan it was a day on which a young girl’s sweetness became an overwhelming intoxicant.

The couple drove into the countryside, over terrain of rolling hills. Stan sighed, “Damn pretty country, Eva. Reminds me of the Sand Hills. That’s home. I inherited my pa’s ranch back there.” Stan left off the details that the inheritance was actually a farm and that he’d lost it in the Depression.

Eva asked, “A ranch? This is a farm for the cattle, yes?”

“Yeah, I s’pose. But don’t let a rancher hear you call it that.”

“So you are a cowboy, then?”

“Cowboy? I s’pose—when I ain’t halfway ’round the world makin’ it safe for democracy.”

“And are many men cowboys in America?”

“Nah, not so many. Well, back in Hooker County, there’s a fair number of ’em. But in places like New York, I reckon there ain’t many at all.”

Eva knew something about cowboys. Once a month at St. Sébastien, Sister Arnaude showed a feature length film. One month it had been the American movie, The Last Outlaw, with Hoot Gibson. Gibson stuck in her mind as the archetypal American male and the Wild West as typical American living.

They motored by the now-deserted grounds of St. Sébastien. “Those old buildings,” Eva sighed. “I used to live at the convent school there.” Stan stopped the jeep. “Times were hard in the occupation and soon after I left, the school closed.” She touched the corner of her eye. “The nuns and girls moved to Maubeuge in the north of France, to a school called St. Cécile. There’s nothing left here except—“

Stan watched Eva’s lips. Her eyes. He was spellbound. When she stopped in mid-sentence, the spell burst like a pin-stuck balloon. He said, “Except what? We could go in and look around, if you want.”

Eva paused. “Except the past. Except death. Just drive on.”

Stan eased the clutch out. “Whatever you say, honey.”

They went a bit farther, then stopped and walked to a small meadow Eva knew. Set between the road and the woods, it was carpeted with mossy grass and tiny blue flowers which Eva called mouse’s slippers. Meandering through the meadow was a creek, full of small, darting fish visible only by the shadows they cast on the bottom. From certain angles, the image of the blue sky and fluffy white clouds was borne perfectly on the water’s surface. Eva had a dry bread crust in her pocket. She crushed it and scattered the dust on the water, and the sky and clouds churned alive.

It was impossible on such a day, in such a place, to believe the war continued. At that moment Eva felt as fulfilled as she imagined the billowy clouds, lounging in the blue heavens, might feel when they look down and see their perfection mirrored in the water.

She thought how different Stan and Henri were. Uncle makes you feel worthless. Dirty. Today, with Stanley, I’m someone else. Someone good. Today nothing is obscured. Nothing distorted. Everything’s so easy. Makes me wonder, what must it be like to live every day so completely in peace with life? To live so honestly?

Stan was watching her. “You look content as a nappin’ cat. I can ’bout hear you purr.”

Eva shrugged, “Maybe it’s just the day. The perfect day.”

Stan picked a flower. “Well I reckon I’m part of the day, so that’s not bad. Not bad at all.” He leaned back and propped himself up on an elbow. He closed his eyes and let the sunshine stream over his face. “No, not bad at all.”

Eva surveyed the boy stretched out next to her on the wool army blanket. He looks so young, even younger than the twenty-six he claims. Stan’s eyes fluttered open for just a moment, and she observed their soft gray color. Observed his soft skin. His soft features. The soft wisp of a moustache he was trying to grow and the soft, easy smile beneath it. His curly black hair. His spare frame. It’s a spareness that’s strong and genuine. A spareness I could cling to.

Eva took a mouse’s slipper and tickled Stan’s ear. Without opening his eyes, he swished at the ear with his hand. Eva attacked again, suppressing her giggle. Stan’s hand shot out, and he grabbed the offending fingers. “I’ve got you, my little mosquito.” He held on, but gently.

Eva liked her hand in his. She leaned over and kissed the smile on his lips. Their first kiss.

She felt the sudden need to know more, to know everything about him. “Stanley, you said me your papa is mort?” I’m not sure how I spell mort in English.” She shook her head. “How I speak mort in English. It’s deceased?” She tapped her lips. “Becomed dead?”

Stan said softly, “Died. We say died.” He was quiet for a moment. “Old cuss drank hisself to death.” His eyes were wet. “Never got over Ma’s death. She fell to the Great Influenza of 1918. Guess it took him, too; it just took fifteen years doin’ it. There’s a feller back home, my uncle. He’s the county sheriff. Been like a father to me since I was a baby—more of one than my old man was. Old man hated him, or maybe he just hated hisself.”

After a long silence, Stan asked, “And you Eva, what about your kin?”

Eva’s blue eyes went up to the clouds, and the hint of a smile slipped across her face. A bittersweet smile. “None. My parents left me years ago. The nuns and the girls at St. Sébastien were my real family, but now they’re gone. I have no one.”

Stan took her hand in both of his. “You’ve got me. We could have each other.”

Eva brought Stan’s hands to her lips, and she kissed them. She pressed them to her cheek but said nothing. For a moment she was tempted to think about a future with him. But looking at the sky, she knew that having this afternoon was enough. Leave the future for later, Eva, like clothes wanting launder and press on a Golden Tail day.

So the couple sat, both of them drenched in syrupy sun and careening thoughts of infinite possibilities. But harsh weather was on the way, and with it, a bit to the east, so was war’s fury.

Henri’s Questions

Stanley Chandler was a US Army supply specialist. He described his duty in a September 1944 letter to his uncle, Jess Garrity.

This new assignment with the Big Red One seems pretty good. Can’t say just where I’m based, but if you’ve seen the newsreels, you know First Army’s spread up and down eastern Belgium, thick as Miss Agatha’s plum jam on toast.

They got me in supply, stockpiling the doling out whatever the Quartermaster Corps trucks here from Normandy. Not much time for snoozing. Stuff rolls in on one endless convoy of deuce-and-a-halfs, all driven by coloreds. Heard of the Red Ball Express? I’ll tell you, Uncle Jess, it’s like a big old, O-D, steel and canvas snake. If you could feel the thunder of this snake’s engines, smell the smoke of its exhausts, taste the grit those wheels pitch up, and hear the laughs and curses of them Red Ballers, you’d savvy how unstoppable the US Army is over here. Truth is, with Fritz on the ropes like he is, I’m thinking this damn war could be in the history books by Christmas. Sounds good to me.

After he met Eva, the war’s end sounded even better to Stan. With the fighting done, he might stay put at the Lefebvre supply depot for a while. He could continue to woo his foreign princess. And with some luck, he might head home with the moon and stars on his arm.

But by October first, optimism seemed cockeyed. Operation Market-Garden was a fiasco. First Army’s move on the Siegfried Line south of Aachen, the Hürtgen Forest campaign, was proving bloody and slow. Maybe Fritz wasn’t quite KO’d yet.

One October Sunday, Stan managed a pass to call on Eva. It was gray and misting out, so Stan, Eva, and Madame Ducoisie sat in the parlor sipping Bordeaux wine he had bartered for two packs of Camels from one of the Red Ball drivers.

Suddenly Eva tensed. Her fair complexion went lighter. Stan was asking if she was ill when he heard the sound of an automobile driving up.

Madame Ducoisie jumped up and, pulling back the curtain, peered through the window. “Ah! Voilà,“ she cried without removing the cigarette dangling from her lip. “C’est Monsieur Messiaen!” She flew to the door and flung it open. Waving, she gleefully chirped, “Ah, Bonjour Monsieur Messiaen,” before the car’s engine was turned off.

Eva looked upset. “I’m afraid my uncle calls.” Her eyes darted between Stan and the door. “Perhaps we can make our walk after saying hellos.”

Stan walked to the window and looked out. “Aw, honey, I’d kinda like gettin’ to know the old boy. Your kin and all. Too chilly for a walk anyway.”

Henri entered. His face lit up when he spied the American GI standing next to Eva. He kept an eye on Stan as he handed Madame Ducoisie a box containing English cigarettes, Danish cheese, a bottle of wine and one of Pernod, and lipstick from France.

To Stan, he seemed the picture of a European gentleman: No he man, Henri impressed with style and presence. Starting with the trim of his moustache and the set of his bowler hat, his look was meticulous, if a bit out of date. But Henri’s eyes were what held Stan’s attention. Dancing behind that pince-nez of his, they seemed to drink in the world.

Eva introduced the men. Henri removed his hat, revealing a shiny bald pate. He took Stan’s hand in both of his. “Ah Monsieur, what an extraordinary pleasure to hail one of our liberators. A true hero.” He bowed. “Allow me to make my thanks for your rescue of our nation.”

Eva’s gaze at her uncle narrowed. Such good English! He’s been studying.

Stan hemmed, “Aw, just doin’ our duty, Mr. Messiaen. Besides it’s a pleasure to help out folks as charmin’ as your niece and you. And Mrs. Ducoisie, of course.”

Henri beamed when he saw the GI take Eva’s hand. He pointed to the patch on Stan’s sleeve. “Ah, the Big Red One. You are one of General Hodges’ men. No?”

“Yes sir. Now that General Bradley’s heading-up the whole shebang.”

“So, I take it you are stationed directly nearby? In Lefebvre, perhaps? It’s good, is it not, that you are close, since you and Eva are now such fast friends?”

Stan smiled at Eva. He was surprised by the tension he saw in the set of her jaw. “Yes sir, I’m posted at the Lefebvre depot. Good to be near Eva? Sir, it’s real good.”

“I know almost nothing about armies, but I do know they need fuel for their stomachs and for their transportations. So your supplying depot is important. Yes? Coming here I see many lorries making way to Liege and many stopping in Lefebvre. It’s a big depot?”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir. Ain’t big as the one in Liege, but we see a sizeable stream.”

“Ah. Then there must be a formidable company of your comrades toiling at the depot?” Chuckling, Henri came to attention and saluted. “And guarding it?”

Stan grinned, “You’re not thinkin’ of tryin’ to sneak in and heist some gas or chocolate bars, are ya?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Henri tittered. “My interest is only for the—” He moved his hands in circles. “—the curiosity. Surely the Boche cowering in his hole at the East is no threat. And some black marketeer? He might snatch fifteen liters for his lorry. But that wouldn’t deplete you, now would it? You must have many of liters of petrol stored there. Yes?”

Stan looked proud. “Yep, many, many liters. Heck, we got ten thousand drums of fuel right now, ready to be farmed out to the front.” As the last word left his mouth, he knew he’d said too much, but he didn’t worry. What the heck’s it matter? It’s Eva’s doggone uncle.

Henri touched his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. “Of course the supplies are nothing to me. My concern is for you, mon ami. Eleven thousand drums of fuel! And bombs! The very thought shivers my back. Such dangerous work! Especially if there aren’t enough of you. But then, you’re Americans! With you, there are always more than enough! Oui?” He elbowed Stan playfully. “But just for the curiosity, how many of the fine men of the Big Red One would you say servir—in English, it’s serve, no?—at Lefebvre’s depot?”

“It’s up and down, sir. But don’t worry. We got plenty.”

Henri’s eyes were ablaze. “Ah, I suppose it must be dozens. Certainly dozens for the operating around the clocks! And I dare say, for the security also?” Henri winked.

Stan’s eyelid twitched. He said softly, “Yeah, security too.”

Henri studied Stan’s face. His pursed lips broke into a smile. He produced a pack of Camels and tapped one out for Stan, ignoring the women. “Corporal, come have a smoke and tell me about your American chocolate!” Stan had more or less quit smoking, but he took the cigarette to be polite. As they walked to the door, Henri put the Camels away. On the porch, he produced another pack, like a miniature cigar box, black and leather-bound. Its cigarettes were rolled in gold-ringed black paper, and he selected one with care. “I have a weakness for this English brand, myself. Sobranie Black & Golds. Created for the Czar’s court.” He lit Stan’s, then his own. “That Hershey chocolate of yours—I find it quite different from our Belgian variety. Don’t you agree?” He whispered to Stan, “To be honest, I prefer yours.”

Stan relaxed. “Well, sir, I’ll tell ya.” He moved his head close to Henri’s, as if he were passing along a hot tip on the ponies. “When I have my druthers, I go with the Baby Ruth Bar. I reckon it’s named after the ball player, Babe Ruth. S’pose you know who he was.” Henri looked puzzled and shook his head. “Ruth was a slugger on the Yankees. You must’ve heard of them. Anyway, Baby Ruths are peanuts and chocolate and caramel. Ya get ’em sometimes in your C-Rations. Man, they’re the best. I’ll get you one to try sometime.”

Henri looked like Stan had suggested using someone else’s toothbrush. Then he smiled politely. “I will wait eagerly for your Baby Ruth’s confection. Now, shall we rejoin the ladies?”

The next fifteen minutes were occupied with small talk, mostly in French. Eva whispered translated summaries for Stan.

Abruptly, Henri said, “Well, I must away.” After pleasant goodbyes, he said, “Eva dear, might you have a moment please to walk with me to the car?”

Eva didn’t bother to answer—she knew it was more command than request. She threw a shawl over her shoulders and preceded him through the door. Madame Ducoisie shuffled off to the kitchen to put away the treasures Henri bought. Stan moseyed to the window and casually watched Henri and Eva talking next to his automobile. He was surprised that the conversation looked less than cordial. With anger on his face and a wagging finger, Henri seemed to be scolding his niece. And Eva was firing right back. When Henri drew his right arm up, across his chest, as if he was about to strike her, Stan was shocked. He bolted for the porch, but by the time he stepped outside, Henri was climbing into his car, pulling the door closed behind him. A moment later it sped off.

Eva walked slowly back to the porch, looking like she was toting a bag of bricks. “Uncle’s visits drain me so. Could we cut off the afternoon, Stanley?”

Stan began to doubt what he thought he’d seen from the window. He looked closely at Eva’s face. Don’t look like she been slapped. It was dark. Maybe he was just scratchin’ his shoulder. “I hope you mean cut the afternoon short,” he said. “Sure, if you’re tired, I’ll head back to the post. I just hate things afflictin’ you so. Your uncle seemed downright sociable there in your parlor. I just don’t get it.” Stan shook his head. “Say, he never swats at you, does he?”

“Stanley, you have no idea about—” Eva stared at the floor.

Stan pressed, “’Bout what?” He waited, but Eva didn’t look up. “OK, OK. Guess I shouldn’t go buttin’ into family business. Long as he don’t do no swattin’.” She still wouldn’t look up. “Any chance you’d let me swing by later this week? Maybe Wednesday?”

Stan’s request brought Eva’s gaze up to meet his. Her eyes were wet but she was smiling. “I say Okey-dokey. You know I would like that.” Stan grinned and Eva took his hand. “I’m sorry to cut short—yes?—our afternoon, Stanley. I can’t wait for Wednesday.” She kissed his cheek.

Stan strutted to his borrowed jeep. He was whistling, thinking how he’d always preferred to be called Stan—until he heard Eva turn Stanley into poetry.

Crickette and Max

In the weeks tying mid-September to late November 1944, Stan worried every day he’d be reassigned to one of First Army’s infantry units slugging it out in the Hürtgen Woods. Worried he’d take the place of some GI shot-up in combat. Worried it was his turn to get shot-up. Then on November 27, the 121st Infantry punched through to the other side of the Hürtgen and Stan felt safer. Word was, “with this weather, things should quiet down, at least into the new year.”

Stan made plans for Christmas with Eva. When he told his boss, Sgt. Waxman, he was thinking of taking Eva to Paris for the holidays, the growled reply was, “Yeah. And the Red Sox think about winning the Series, too.” Still Stan was happy. Eva seemed content, too.

On Saturday December 2, Stan came to call at the Ducoisie place. Sitting together in the parlor, he and Eva heard the crackling whine of a motorcycle, coming up the long drive from the road. Eva went to the window and turned back to Stan, looking peeved.

“Your uncle, huh?” Stan asked. He still wondered about the tension between Eva and Henri, but hadn’t brought it up again.

“No,” Eva replied, “It is a girl I knew, a girl from Liege.”

Stan and Eva went out to the porch. The US Army cycle was parked and a GI was lifting a girl out of the sidecar. She was Crickette Gigault, the girl who had been brought by Henri to stay with Eva at the end of the summer.

When she saw Eva, Crickette, wearing the GI’s garrison cap, waved wildly. “Oh Eva, hello! My American honey and I are on weekend holiday and I’m so exciting for you to meet him.” Beaming, she pulled the limping soldier by the arm toward the porch.

As the pair climbed the stairs, Stan was worried. Now, here comes the kissin’. He was right. The women all kissed each other hello. Crickette introduced her GI as “my beau, Max Conroy” and “Maxie,” and Madame Ducoisie and Eva kissed him. Crickette kissed Stan. Max and Stan approached each other warily—and shook hands.

Stan stepped toward Max and pointed to the unit insignia on his sleeve. “Sarge, always good to meet another First Army joe.”

Max grinned. “Glad to meet you, too, pally-boy. And gladder still you didn’t try to lay a big wet one on me.”

With introductions done, Madame Ducoisie shooed everyone inside. As they went in, Crickette took Eva’s arm and whispered to her, loud enough to be sure the men heard, “Ooh-la-la, Eva! Aren’t these American boys handsome!”

Madame Ducoisie and Eva went to the kitchen for refreshments. Max produced cigarettes for himself and Crickette. He offered one to Stan, who shook his head, saying, “Naw—working at a fuel depot, I quit.”

Max took an olive-drab Zippo from his jacket pocket and lit Crickette’s Camel and his own. Stan watched them smoke. Max pinched his cigarette between thumb and index finger tips with the lighted end sheltered in his cupped hand. He took powerful drags. After each, he tilted his head back in pleasure. Crickette held her Camel between extended fingers and inhaled lightly. She played with her smoke, for a moment displaying its ghostly paleness inside the red oval of her parted lips, then streaming it serpent-like from her mouth into her nose.

Madame Ducoisie returned with a tray of clinking bottles of Belgian beer and glasses. Eva followed her with a plate of white crackers and goat cheese. Max offered cigarettes and Madame Ducoisie took one. She inhaled deeply, looking contented as a just burped baby.

Leaving the women and their French chatter in the parlor, the men strolled into the dining room. Max unbuttoned his uniform jacket and lifted his bottle. “So, here’s to beautiful Belgian broads and the Big Red One.” Clink. “Where ya from, soldier?”

“Hooker County, Nebraska, Sarge. Cattle country.”

“So we got us a real cowboy here, huh? Tex Ritter a pardner of yours?”

“Nah. We owned a farm but it went bust durin’ the hard times. I reckon the closest I get to ol’ Tex is the picture show, ’bout like you.”

“What outfit you with?” asked Max.

“285^th Supply Battalion. Posted at the sector depot down the road. How ’bout you?”

“28^th Infantry, but I got my leg fucked-up in the early days of the Hürtgen shit, so I’ve spent the last month getting it knit-up at the K-2 hospital south of Liege.” Conroy took a deep drag on his cigarette.

“Well, don’t let it knit-up too fast, or you’ll find yourself back in the soup.”

Max looked at Stan with his head cocked. He showed his teeth. “Corporal, a rear echelon mother fucker like you wouldn’t get it, but somebody’s got to be out there in the shooting war. If it ain’t me, it’s gonna be some other dumb GI.” Max shook his head and waved the hand holding his cigarette. “Aw, forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”

Stan’s jaw was tense as he leaned forward. He wasn’t inclined to drop it. “Hey, I been shot at, too.” Stan wasn’t sure about that but figured he might’ve been. “You wanna take on the Krauts without the grub and ammo you get from us REMFs?”

“I said forget it. Look, I didn’t mean no offense, pally-boy. I just get itchy playing cards in the bone yard.” Max blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling light.

Stan swatted the swirling smoke. “OK. Just save your growlin’ for Fritz.”

Eva noticed the sparks and stepped over to make sure a fire didn’t break out. She said, “You boys come over with us so I can keep an eye on you,” as she took Stan by the tie and led him to the floral sofa in the parlor.

Cigarette smoke swept the tension into the blue air of the small room. Madame Ducoisie tried English. The boys tried French. Everyone laughed.

After another beer, Crickette announced, “We brought some plaisirs on our moto. Plaisirs is correct?”

“Treats in English,” Eva clarified.

“Or grub in American,” laughed Max.

Crickette made a show of ignoring Max. “Yes, some treats. Eva, would you help me chercher?” She took Eva’s arm and pulled her through the door, talking all the way. As the door clicked closed, Stan thought he heard her say the word Henri.

Madame Ducoisie returned to the kitchen. Max lit another cigarette. He set the pack of Camels on the arm of the sofa and placed his lighter on top. Cautious as a schoolboy showing dirty pictures to buddies in the alley, he looked around to be sure they were alone. “Christ, your squeeze Eva’s right out of the tomato patch. How’d you lasso a sidekick like that, pardner?”

Stan grinned. “I guess she’s partial to the Jimmy Stewart type.”

Max grunted. “Nah, these Belgian dames just can’t resist a guy in GI green.”

“Well, we did boot the goddamn Krauts out, I guess. Next to those Nazi bastards, I s’pose we stack up pretty good. That little Crickette of yours seems like a real kick.”

“Kick and a half, pally. Nothing like her back home. And she’s crazy about this ol’ kisser of mine.” He struck a pose—chin jutting, cigarette at a jaunty angle, like FDR.

Stan looked Max over. The man’s body was thick. Firm, not pudgy. Like a smoked ham. Taking in Max’s face, he felt like saying, No shit you never had nothin’ like Crickette back stateside. With that kisser, she’s probably the first dame ever to give you two looks. Brother, I’d peg you for a pug that’s gone ten rounds with Joe Lewis. Pally-boy. What he did say was, “Tell ya what—that Crickette’s cute as bug. Guess you’ve heard that one before.”

“Yeah. Used it myself a few times. But cute ain’t all, kid.” Max brought his head close and whispered, like it was details of the plan for the final assault on Berlin, “My kisser ain’t the only thing she’s crazy about. She’s got this little place over a bakery in Jupille—right on the corner of Fine and Dandy—and, I’ll tell ya, the people downstairs didn’t get much sleep Sunday night!” Max glowed bright as the coals behind the glass screen in the parlor’s stove.

“Sounds like there’s somethin’ to be said for bein’ away from the soup.”

Max frowned. “Yeah, I just feel lousy being in Crickette’s bed getting my brains screwed out when my guys are sleeping in the mud and ice of that goddamn forest.”

“Well, you don’t want ’em up there in the bed with you and her, right?”

“Hell no!” Max exhaled. “I just don’t want to feel so fucking guilty.”

“Aw, the war’s almost over. Over here, at least. You dogfaces better slow down or you’ll earn us all a new job, fightin’ Tojos in the Pacific.”

“Tojos be damned. Tell you what, Stan, when this is over I’m gonna take Crickette back to Chicago. I’ll show ’em! My old man builds oak furniture, and I can earn good dough working for him, enough to support the two of us and a couple of brats, too.”

“Well, I know I’d like to marry Eva. They’ve never seen nothin’ like her back in Hooker County neither, I’ll guarantee. Don’t know if she’ll have me, though.”

Saying Eva’s name reminded Stan that she and Crickette had been gone quite a while. “Wonder what’s keeping the girls.” He pulled back the curtain and saw them standing by the cycle, talking. “They’re out there all right, gesturing back and forth like a couple of Guineas.” Stan shook his head and released the curtain.

Max rubbed his hands together. “Wish they’d hustle-up with the eats. I’m starving, and I sure as shit can’t stomach this goat cheese crap.” He lit another cigarette.

After an awkward moment of silence, Stan said, “Ya hear bad stories about the Hürtgen fighting. What’s it really like in there?”

“Pally-boy, whatever you heard, it’s worse.” Max described fighting in the cold, dark place he called Hell Froze Over. How the first day there, he lost a buddy who’d been with him all the way from Omaha Beach. How a 155 mm shell, detonated at tree top level, drove a baseball-bat-sized “sliver” of pine into his leg. He’d just started talking about the hospital when the girls came back. Max bit his lip and shut up. He seemed relieved at the tale’s abrupt end. Same as Stan did.

After putting the plaisirs—several bottles of wine, a long sausage, and two bags—on the table, Crickette sashayed over to Max. She scrunched-up her nose like a bunny, put his hand on her waist, and cooed, “Gone so long, did you think that maybe we were out kissing our other boyfriends? Weren’t you afraid that maybe we don’t ever come back?”

Max pulled her close. “I was starting to miss my little Chérie.”

She giggled. “We were just saying the girls’ talk.” She plucked the cigarette from Max’s mouth, then inhaled and blew a smoke ring. “It’s OK if I borrow your Camel, Ali Baba?”

Max grinned. “Sure, there’s a million more where it came from.”

Crickette turned and called over her shoulder, “Come see the plaisirs. Treats.”

Eva brought Madame Ducoisie from the kitchen, and the girls emptied the bags on the dining table: a bottle of brandy, coffee, candles, chocolate, cigarettes, soft cheese from Limburg, ham from the Ardennes, French jam, butter, and country bread. All this plus the wine and sausage. Madame could only gasp, “Mon Dieu!”

Stan picked up the jam. The label said Fine Strawberries in English, French, and German. He marveled, “How the heck did you stuff all this loot into the sidecar of that cycle? And still have room for Crickette?”

“Fitting it in was easy next to finding it,” Max said. “Thank Crickette for that.”

“I found it,” Crickette said, “but Maxie bought it. American boys are not only pretty. They’re rich, too!”

At 8:00 p.m. Stan glanced at his watch. “Hate to toss a monkey wrench into the evening’s partyin’, but I got overnight duty at the depot. I’d better hightail it.”

“What is hightail?” Crickette asked.

“Means skedaddle, Chérie,” Max said. “Leave.”

Eva’s eyes lit up. “Ah, depart.” She turned to Madame Ducoisie. “Partir. Oui?”

Madame nodded happily, “Ah, partir. En anglais, Leave.”

“Maxie and I must also partir,” Crickette said, “to make our travel back to the inn in Ramioul where we’ll sleep. Right, big boy?” She elbowed Max and giggled.

While Crickette and Madame Ducoisie packed some of the plaisirs, Eva, Stan, and Max made small talk in the parlor. Max shook Stan’s hand. “Hope there ain’t hard feelings about me calling ya a REMF. You’re a good egg and I liked shooting the breeze with ya. Hell, if you weren’t here, it would’ve been all French talking and I’da been fried liver in a chocolate sundae.”

Stan replied, “No hard feelings, Sarge. You just worry about gettin’ that wheel of yours healed up. Maybe I’ll see you again over Christmas.”

“Not if I see you first, pally-boy.” Max winked and punched Stan’s bicep.

Crickette came back with a sack of the plaisirs and after many good-bye kisses, she and Max took off.

As the motorcycle crackled down the drive, Eva and Stan stood together on the porch in the evening chill, his arm around her waist. Stan said, “Them two! Seem crazy ‘bout each other.”

Eva looked at him and scowled. “She’s using him. It makes me sick.”

“Well if that’s being used, it’s makin’ old pally-boy Max the happiest GI in the army.”

Eva opened her mouth to reply, then stopped. She squeezed his hand. “I won’t say more. Just know that I would never use you.”

Stan looked at her quizzically. Then his face tuned serious. “I ain’t worried.”

“Good.” She nestled her cheek to his shoulder. “Tell me about some slang talkings you boys make tonight. I know what’s hightailing, but what is this monkey’s wrench?”

Stan laughed. “Toss a monkey wrench into something means foul it up. Ruin it.”

Eva smiled. “It’s easy to remember by imagining a monkey in a mechanic’s suit making the trouble.” Her smile faded. “And I’ll ask what is REMF. It must be a rough word, no?”

“Aw, Max was just kiddin’ around.”

“But what means REMF?”

“It means, let’s see, rear echelon mother, um, forker. I guess it means a fella that’s back in the rear area, eatin’ his mama’s cookin’.”

Champagne for Christmas

Stan was visiting Eva on a chilly Sunday, December 10, when Henri Messiaen arrived. He was in the Christmas spirit early.

Henri set a box of presents on the table. He removed his hat and gloves and put them, with a shiny black walking cane, next to the box. Without taking off his cape, he handed several gifts to Madame Ducoisie. He shook Stan’s hand warmly. “What splendid fortune to find you here, son. I brought you something.” He handed Stan a box of Danish cheroots. “You’ll like these. Your General Patton smokes them. Now I hate to ask, but might an old uncle steal his niece—just for a moment?” He shrugged. “Family matters, you know.”

“OK by me, sir. Thanks a million for the cigars. They look real deluxe.”

Henri turned to Eva. “I’ll talk privately with you, my dear. In the Mercedes. You’ll need your coat.” He helped her slip it on and escorted her by the elbow out the door and to the car. There he told his driver, “Pruvot, go have a cigarette.”

Henri settled into the back seat and pulled a blanket over his legs. He laid the walking stick across his lap, and, his hand trembling, he lit one of his black Sobranie cigarettes. “So much preparation! Compared to this, what we’ve done until now is nothing.” He took a deep drag. “Eva, we peer into the face of history! Wacht am Rhein is at hand.”

“Wacht am Rhein?” Eva tried to read the words’ significance on her uncle’s face.

Henri held the cigarette up and studied its glowing tip. “Wacht am Rhein! Don’t you love its lyrical sound, like a line penned by Goethe? But even better is the magnificent ruthlessness behind it. Our enemy’s heart ripped out. The world set right.” He snuffed the cigarette and turned to Eva. “The Allied nations that assail us are like a gang of pirates. Up to now, they’ve acted in concert, but each member ultimately puts his own interests first. Hit them hard enough—” He snapped his finger. “—and it will be every man for himself.” Henri rolled the walking stick on his lap. “Right now, the Allied lines are extended. Like this stick.” He held the cane by both ends and raised it to eye level. He glanced at Eva to be sure she was watching and thrust it violently onto his knee. It splintered with a crack, and a look of triumph came over his face. “That will be the Allies’ backbone under our panzer thrust to his center. And now just a week away.”

He waved the broken end of the stick before Eva’s face. “Lefebvre’s depot and bridge—” His eyes grew large. “—Eva, we need them! Imagine our panzer’s advance fed by the enemy’s own fuel stores. Imagine our intrepid dash over a bridge he thought was his. The giant’s strength turned against him—he’ll topple like a house of cards!” As he rubbed his hands together, Eva hung her head. “Your preparation, especially hooking the American, gives us a golden key. What you do with it will be crucial. As crucial as a general’s mission. Your work will be seen. Look at me, Eva.” He pulled her face to his. “Your work will be seen. Loyalty will be richly rewarded.”

Eva was looking into Henri’s eyes when she heard the snap of his switchblade. “I trust you remember my friend,” he said, “Monsieur Knife.” She felt the stiletto point press the soft spot beneath her chin. Press so hard she thought it had pierced her skin.

Neither of them breathed. It was as if neither knew what would happen next.

Finally Henri pulled the blade from Eva’s throat. Before she could relax, he’d thrust it in front of her face, its point pressing just below her eye. “Be assured, my little bitch, should you fail me, you’ll have a rendezvous with Monsieur Knife.” His look was cold as the blade’s steel.

Eva slowly pushed the knife away with the back of her hand. “You may trust my loyalty, uncle—” She swallowed. “—as I trust you.”

Henri beamed and nodded. “Good.” He put the blade away and sketched a map on a sheet of paper. He drew arrows and made notations. He smiled at the intensity in Eva’s face as she studied his sketch. They talked in the car for five minutes more. As they walked back to the house, Henri lit the paper and held it in his gloved fingers as it burned down to a tiny corner. “Very well, then.”

Back inside, Henri set a bottle of Haig & Haig Scotch whisky on the table and shooed Eva into the kitchen with a chuckle. “The men must have their talking time, too, you know.”

Stan figured, Here it comes, the third degree about my intentions toward Eva.

“Have a Scottish whisky with me!” Henri said it like an order. He poured two fingers of liquor into each of two glasses. He handed one to Stan and raised his own. “A votre santé.” The men tapped glasses and sipped. Henri smiled. “You like it?”

“Mighty smooth.” Stan swirled the liquid in his glass.

“Son—May I call you son?—I feel such debt to you and your fellows. You rescued my country. With the holidays coming, I have a chance to show some speck of my esteem for you American heroes. You’ll be having Christmas celebrations, yes? I happen to know a man who lives in Reims. His access to champagne is practically limitless. I want to provide some for the parties you and your comrades will have. You’ll let me do that, won’t you?”

“Oh, Mister Messiaen, don’t reckon you need to do that. We were just doing our job.”

Henri put his hand on the GI’s shoulder. “Stanley…my son…I do it for my pleasure, not for obligation. It would be you who indulges me.”

“Well, I’m sure it would be appreciated. Just so you don’t feel obliged.”

“Oh, thank you. Now, I must get plenty. For how many men might I be providing?”

“Well, guess you could figure probably three dozen. Could be some of them colored truckers bunkin’ with us that night, too.”

“Coloreds?” Henri winced. “But yes…oh, and certainly we mustn’t forget the security people. For after their hours of duty, of course. We don’t want them tipsy with champagne when they walk their watch, now do we?”

Stan laughed politely. “Er, ’spose four dozen covers the MPs, too.”

“Ah ha. Just what I need to know. Now, don’t tell your comrades of our little surprise, eh?” Henri winked. “I’ll bring the wine here for you—shall we say in two weeks—so you’ll have it for your Christmas festivities.” He squeezed Stan’s hand. “You can’t imagine my pleasure thinking of the big surprise in store for your comrades! Thank you.”

Henri swallowed the last gulp of whisky. “And now I must depart. So much to do!” He opened the kitchen door and called the women. They came out, and he apologized for having to run off. He kissed Madame goodbye and bade Stan, “Bonsoir.” Finally, Henri looked at Eva and stiffened. His eyes turned icy, and they bore deep into her. He nodded her a slow, steely nod—it reminded Stan of duelist taking a pistol shot. Then, instantly Henri rewarmed. He turned his head to the side and playfully tapped his cheek with his index finger. Eva scowled and gave him a quick peck where he’d pointed. Henri seated his bowler and with a cheery “au revoirs,” he left.

Stan was walloped by the changes he’d just seen in Henri. He glanced at Eva—she looked like she’d been walloped, too. He went to her side and put his arm around her. She pressed close to him. Stan whispered, “You OK, honey?”

She looked up at Stan with frightened, wild eyes, brimming with tears. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

“You OK?” Stan repeated.

After a moment Eva said, “No. So tired—” She shook her head. “—of it.”

Stan demanded, “What did he say to you outside?”

“He spoke of the future.”

“He don’t approve of me, does he? Thinks you shouldn’t be seein’ a GI.…Right?”

Eva closed her eyes. “If only it were that simple.”

Stan turned to Madame Ducoisie for help understanding what was going on, but she only smiled as if all were right with the world. With her cigarette hanging blissfully from her lip, she picked up the whisky bottle and the glasses and shuffled back to the kitchen.

Stan moved Eva toward the front door. “Come on, let’s get us some air.”

The sky streamed cold mist. Even on the covered porch, dampness permeated the air. Eva shivered. Stan wrapped her in his arms and nestled her head to his chest. He whispered, “Don’t let the future scare you. Don’t have to face it by your lonesome, you know. I could be there for you, if you’d let me. Will you let me?”

Eva said nothing. She just nestled closer to Stan.

They stood for a few moments, just holding each other. “I’m better now,” Eva said. She brought her face to Stan’s and kissed him. She looked into his eyes and asked playfully, “If you die of pneumonia, how will you keep your pledge to be with me always?”

“Is it cold out here? Hadn’t noticed.”

“Stanley, I want to hold you like this all night. Not here in the cold, but in my bed. I’m just so tired. Tired in my soul. And I need to think about something. So you can’t stay tonight. But I must see you in the next days. Can you come here during this week?”

“Sure, I can swing by Saturday. That OK?”

“No, we cannot wait so long. Come Tuesday.”

“Tuesday I pull duty 1600 till midnight. And again on Thursday. How about Wednesday, if I can get some wheels?”

“Yes, Wednesday.” She peered into his eyes. “Stanley, you must come. You must come Wednesday. ”

“Okey-dokey, hon. If it’s that important to you, I’ll be here. One way or th’other.”

After Stan left, Eva felt exhausted, achingly so, but she couldn’t sleep. She knew what she must do but not how to do it.

How to tell without saying?

Geese With Foxes’ Teeth

On Monday and Tuesday the sky was gunmetal. The air’s dampness, penetrating as a needle, became frozen mist, hanging weightless.

Early Wednesday, the mist collapsed to velvety snow. As the first flakes fell, Eva began her fretful watch for Stan. By noon a white shroud covered the earth, and she worried that the weather might keep him away. She worried because she had to see him. Had to warn him. Had to tell him about Saturday.

But at three o’clock her worries vanished as a US Army jeep, its drab canvas top sparkling with snow, careened up the drive with Stan at the wheel.

Without coat or scarf, Eva ran outside. “You made it!” she gasped as she threw her arms around him.

Stan lifted Eva and spun her around. “Hey, don’t sound so surprised. A panzer platoon couldn’t keep me away, much less this speck of snow. Heck, in Hooker County we don’t even say it’s snowin’ till it gets a foot deep.”

“I didn’t doubt you. It’s just that I must talk to you today. Come inside.”

Stan grabbed a cardboard box from the back seat and they went in. The coal stove in the parlor was so hot he felt its warmth on his cheek with his first step inside.

“Bonjour, Madame,” Stan called to Madame Ducoisie before his coat and hat were off.

Madame Ducoisie shuffled from the kitchen, a dishtowel draped over her shoulder and her trusty cigarette on her lip. Without removing the smoke, she leaned up to get her hello kisses from Stan. He managed to complete the ritual without getting singed.

Stan carried the box to the dining room table. “Pour toi, Madame,” he said as he set it down next to an overflowing ashtray, proud as punch of his French language progress.

Madame Ducoisie took out each item, examining it separately: Two packs of Lucky Strikes. One of Chesterfields. A book of coal ration tickets. Three cans of beef. A white paper bag of sugar. A bag of GI coffee. Everything seemed to please her. She commented in French on each one individually. When she was finished, the little old woman reached over and took Stan’s hand in hers, and she kissed the back of it. Though he’d understood few of the individual words, he knew their sum—and more. In that moment, he had an inkling of the deprivation that four years of occupation had been.

After Madame left, Eva said, “It’s good of you to bring her these plaisirs, Stanley.”

“Aw, it’s nothin’ when you’re assigned to a supply unit. Say, I did bring one more gift.” Stan winked. “For the other lady of the house. Come sit with me in the parlor.” He took Eva by the hand and led her to the sofa.

When they were seated, Stan took a small package from his pocket and gave it to Eva. It was gift-wrapped in dark blue paper and tied with red yarn. He had thought it looked nice, but in Eva’s small, white hands, it became something magical.

Tucked under the yarn was a note card. Eva opened it.

Dear Eva, Been trying to talk old Cupid into sticking you with one of these, but he seems to need target practice. I thought maybe you just having one might be next best. Forever yours, Stanley.

Eva smiled but said nothing. She untied the bow and slipped a small metal box from the blue paper. The box had been, in a previous life, a medicine tin. On the lid was printed the picture of a child nestled on his mother’s lap. The child’s nose was red and his mouth sported a thermometer. A sprig covered in yellow blossoms arced over the pair’s heads. The label proclaimed, Doctor Ålmer’s Goldenrod Lozenges. The Soothing Tickle Fights Sore Throat Pain.

Eva popped off the lid, and inside, cradled on a cotton bed, was a flint arrowhead. The size of a padlock key, it looked as it must have on the day it was made: Shiny black exterior. Point sharp as a bayonet. Distinct marks made as each fleck was chipped away.

Stan said, “I found it on the riverbank when I was ten. Probably Pawnee, my uncle thought. Pawnee had the run of the plains around Hooker County before the white man showed up. I found a few others, but none as nice as this one. I wanted you to have it, so I asked Uncle Jess to send it to me. It just came in on Monday.”

Eva took a moment to feel the hardness, the coldness, the sharpness. “It’s beautiful, Stanley. But I’m afraid you are wrong about Cupid. He already has shot my heart.” She kissed him as she’d never done before. As if the world depended on its intensity.

The kiss left Stan breathless. It took him a moment to ask, “You mean you might be in love with me?”

“Yes, I think I might.” Her tone indicated considerably more certainty than did the word might. “And that’s the reason I had to talk to you today.…Now.”

Stan replied, “You can talk to me forever, far as I’m concerned.”

“Stanley, what I’ll say will require some faith for you to accept. You have never found me to be unsound, have you?” Stan’s expression said, no. “And you agree that dreams can speak truth, don’t you?”

“Well, I hadn’t thought much on it, but some folks do.”

“Sometimes I have dreams that come true. I dreamed that my parents died a week before it happened. And just before the Germans invaded in 1940, I dreamed that toothed geese were swarming over the countryside. Now I’ve dreamed again, and I’m sure it’s a premonition.”

Stan said, “I reckon Miss Agatha, my grandma, believes dreams tell the future. Heck, she believes in even crazier stuff than that.”

Eva pursed her lips. “Please just listen, Stanley. I dreamed that on the coming Saturday I awoke to news on the wireless that the Germans had attacked the Allied lines in the Ardennes. They had broken through and were heading towards us, and I was so afraid for you. I dressed quickly and went on foot to warn you. On the way there I heard noises ahead of me, and I looked and saw geese on the road. The geese had foxes’ teeth, and they were speaking German. I watched them waddle into a pond, and they went under the surface of the water. When they came up they were no longer geese.”

Eva paused for a moment, looking for Stan’s reaction. He stared down at his shoes. She took his hand and when he looked up, she resumed, “The geese came out of the water as men wearing American uniforms, but if you looked closely they still had the sharp teeth, and they still spoke German. I was shaking with fear for you, Stanley.”

Stan squeezed her hand. “Don’t you worry—” But Eva put her fingertips on his lips.

She continued. “I followed them. They split into two groups, one going to Lefebvre to the Pont de Pierre, the old Roman bridge, and one going toward your supply depot. Somehow I saw them arrive at both places. The American soldiers there didn’t see the sharp teeth, and the geese were now speaking English, so the Americans at the bridge and at the depot believed them to be comrades and trusted them. And suddenly the disguised geese fell on the Americans and ripped at their throats and killed them. Soon many more geese swarmed the depot, taking the fuel and supplies. Then they poured across the bridge and had an open way to the sea. I looked all over for you, Stanley, but all I found was despair. And then I awoke.”

Eva searched Stan’s face. He was staring off, over her head. She bit her lip and went on, “When I awoke, my despair turned to elation, Stanley. For it was not yet Saturday.” Her eyes were wide. “There was still time to save you. To save us. To save everything. But it all depends on your faith in me. Will you believe? Will you spread the alarm?”

Stan rubbed his chin with his thumb. He took both her hands in his. “Eva. I don’t know what to say. Sure you dreamed it.” He shrugged. “I just can’t say what it means.”

Eva’s eyes were wild. “It means the Germans will attack. On Saturday. What else could it mean?”

“Right.” Stan said it slowly. Cautiously. “But the Germans can’t attack. They’re off yonder, on the ropes and bloodied. How would they—could they—pull it off? In this weather?” Stan held out his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “And even if it was so, who would believe some tale about geese turnin’ into men and overrunnin’ First Army?”

“Stanley, you don’t have to say geese. In fact, wait until you hear that an attack has begun. That will be the confirmation, and you can go to your superiors. Warn them of the plan to grip the bridge and the depot before the main push.” Her eyes bore into his. “You must promise me you’ll do that. And if there is no attack, then you can laugh and call me the silly girl.”

Stan was quiet. He rubbed his face. Finally he sighed. “OK, sure. I’ll wait to see what happens, and if the Krauts hit us, I’ll sound an alarm about sabotage. I promise, honey. But to be honest, I think it’s just a bad dream.” He forced a smile.

Eva said nothing. Admitting her love and telling the dream, with all the risk both meant—she felt completely spent. Sitting there on the couch next to Stan, Eva put her arms around his waist. She laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

December 16^th and All’s Hell

Stan lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. Of course Eva ain’t loony, he thought. Heck, I’d love her even if she was. Just can’t have Sarge thinkin’ I’m nuts, ’cause then he’d send me off somewhere. Somewhere away from Eva. Besides, Stan thought of Miss Agatha and figured Eva’s dream might be right. He rolled over and took out a stubby pencil and a piece of the lined paper he used for letters. He looked around to be sure he was alone then began writing.

Thursday, 14 December, 1944. Lefebvre, Belgium

I, Stan Chandler, have reason to believe two predictions. 1. German forces will hit 1st Army hard, probably on about 16 December (Saturday). 2. German commandos in GI uniforms and talking English will try to take the battalion depot for resupply and the Roman bridge in Lefebvre, figuring to bust across the Meuse in a breakout.

S. Chandler, Cpl, US Army

Stan bit his lip. He folded the paper and sealed it with a piece of packaging tape. He signed the tape and walked to the foodstuffs warehouse annex that served as Sgt. Waxman’s office.

The sergeant was there, one hand on the lever of a heavy old Monroe adding machine and the other holding a wad of pleated supply manifests. He was cursing through the chomp of an unlit cigar in his mouth. He didn’t look up at Stan.

“Blasted entrenching tools,” Waxman muttered, “where are you bastards? Sons ’a bitches! Here’s goddamn Tool, automotive, multipurpose; Tool, cleaning, rifle bore; Tool, repair, sole, boot. Crap! Where’s the fucking Tool, entrenching? We got 863 of ’em out back. They’ve gotta be on one of these manifests.”

Stan cleared his throat. “Entrenchin’ tools, Sarge? I was on the dock when they came in. Must’ve been, hmm, Friday.”

Waxman shuffled through the paperwork. He exclaimed, “You goddamn lousy bastards. I gotcha.” He intently punched in numbers and yanked the adding machine crank a few times. With a flourish, he ripped off the paper tape bearing the entrenching tool count. A look of consummate satisfaction came to his face as he repeated, “Gotcha.” Waxman believed the war was about beating paperwork—doing in the Nazis in the process was a nice bonus.

The sergeant finally looked up. “Yeah? What’s eating you?”

“Want you to hold onto somethin’ for a couple days,” Stan said. “Just keep it safe for me till the weekend. You could lock it up in your desk. Could you do that, Sarge?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a bid. Kurtz is sellin’ his Kodak to the highest bidder and he wanted you to hold the sealed bids until Monday so there’s no hanky panky. Got any others yet?”

“Nah. Tell Kurtz I’ll lock ’em up in my desk.”

Stan handed Waxman the sealed paper. “I’ll tell him, Sarge.”

On Saturday, December 16, Stan woke up relieved to hear no shooting. He asked around if anyone had heard news—no one had. Mail call was just before lunch. Kinkaid was holding a large package when he called Stan’s name. The parcel was from Jess and Carrie Garrity. Stan took it to his bunk where he could open it in private.

Inside the brown paper was a gift-wrapped box—red and white striped paper with a green ribbon. There was a card tucked under the bow. On the card was a jolly-looking Santa wearing an army uniform and helmet. The Santa had a corncob pipe in his mouth and a Merry Christmas banner in one hand. Stan read the note inside.

October 23, 1944

Dear Stan,

I hope this package makes it to you OK and before Xmas. The missus been after me to get it mailed for the last two weeks. Weather here’s held good so far. Papers say it’s been pretty good there, too. We’re not sure just where you’re at, but we hope you are well and safe.

Hey, I fired up your Ford yesterday. Seems fine. Write when you get a chance, so we’ll know you’re OK. Merry Christmas!

Your Godfather,

Uncle Jess

There was a note with the card. It was from Jess’ wife, Carrie.

Dear Stan,

I’ll just pass you my good thoughts and wishes for a Merry Christmas, too. It seems funny to say that in October! I pray for your safe return every night.

Love,

Aunt Carrie

P.S. Enclosed last week’s Tribune. How about Jesse’s new pride and joy?

Stan put the card and the note aside and slit the ribbon with his pocketknife. He tore the wrapping paper off and opened the cardboard box inside. It contained copies of Life Magazine and of the local paper, which had a picture of Sheriff Jesse Garrity standing next to Hooker County’s new police cruiser, a 1944 Mercury. There were two books: One with Bret Harte short stories and Willa Cather’s My Antonia. The box also contained a dozen Baby Ruth candy bars, some gum, a toothbrush, three pairs of socks and three of undershorts, and one of Mrs. Mercer’s bourbon fruitcakes. Stan changed into one of the new pairs of socks and hid the rest of the loot in his footlocker. Whistling, he ran off to lunch.

That afternoon Stan was warehousing a truckload of the lightest boxes he’d ever had the pleasure of handling: Bags, sleeping, duck down, three season. Blankets, wool, OD. Overcoats, wool, double-breasted, field brown, size Large. And caps, liner, knit, wool, OD. The assembly summons came over the depot PA system at 14:10 hours.

When Stan arrived at the mess hall, Waxman was already up front. It was the first time Stan had ever seen him wearing a helmet.

Waxman seemed nervous. “Gentlemen, I just got word there seems to be some enemy action down in the Ardennes Forest. Looks like normal probing, maybe a recon-in-force. Word is our line troops down there have the situation under control.”

A tall soldier named Valmont shouted from behind Stan, “Hey Sarge, how come they’re bothering to tell us about this if everything’s hunky-dory?”

“Aw, you know HQ. Bastards never know whether to bake beans or go blind. Probably just want everyone on their toes…well, just in case. Now get back to work. I’ll keep ya posted.”

Stan asked the GI next to him what day it was, just to be sure.

“It’s Saturday. I got one week left before I’m off on leave. All I gotta say is, they better not step on my time off or I’m going apeshit.”

“Saturday, the 16^th, right?”

The GI nodded. “Saturday, the 16^th. Why?”

Stan turned away without answering. His head spinning, he ran after Waxman and caught him just outside the office. “Hey Sarge, I gotta talk to you.”

“Jesus, Chandler, I’m busy. What do you want? This better not be about leave.”

Stan looked to both sides. “I need to talk to you inside.” He yelled, “Now!” as he took Waxman by the elbow and hustled him through the door. The sergeant was too shocked to resist.

Waxman sank into his chair and studied the wild look in Stan’s eyes. He asked incredulously, “Chandler, you drunk?”

“Hell no. Just look at that paper I gave you Thursday.” Stan’s hands were fists.

“What the Christ? I don’t have time for games.” Waxman moved to stand up.

Stan lunged and slammed both fists on his desk. “Look, you big sack of stupid, just gimme the goddamn paper.”

Waxman sank back stiffly. Keeping an eye on Stan, he took the sealed paper out of his drawer and gingerly shoved it across the desk. “Here ya go. Take it easy, Chandler.”

Stan held the paper six inches from Waxman’s face. “Look at this. You’ve had it locked up since I gave it to you. It’s still sealed. Right?” Waxman nodded. Stan broke the seal and unfolded the note. “This’ll scare the shit out of you. It sure as hell is scarin’ the shit out of me. Read the damn thing, Sarge.”

Waxman looked down at the note. He slowly brought his gaze up and eyed Stan coldly. “You son of a bitch, do I look like I got shit for brains?”

“Sarge, I ain’t touched the lousy note since I gave it to you. I made up that hooey about Kurtz’s camera. If I told you what I wrote, you’da sent me off to the funny farm.”

Waxman cocked his head to the side. “How’d you know about this before now?”

Stan paused. “I, um…dreamed it, or something. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? How could—”

Stan grabbed Waxman’s sleeve. “Dammit, what does it matter how I know?”

Waxman jerked his arm free. “Smells like a load of crap. But I admit, I don’t see the trick.”

“Listen Sarge, the part about the date and the attack seems right, don’t it? We gotta get goin’ on the second part—Kraut commandos dressed as GIs hittin’ us and the bridge.”

“Kid, if this is some kind of a game, I swear I’ll see your ass court-martialed.”

“If it’s bogus, you pin it on me. For now, just tell HQ we got wind of Hun commandos in the area. Warn ’em to be watchin’ for Germans in GI unies, and speakin’ English. Don’t say how we know. They’ll send us extra MPs.” Stan leaned close to Waxman. “Do it, Sarge,” he growled.

“What I ought to do is kick your ass. But I won’t….yet!” He scratched his ear. “Ain’t doing nothing just yet. Things heat up, I might call Battalion, like ya say. Now beat it, Chandler!”

The yard lights had already come on when the men were recalled to the assembly point at 17:15. Snowflakes seemed to materialize from thin air as they fluttered into the tent of light cast down by the 200 watt bulbs above the GIs. Waxman ran to the front of the group still pulling on his field jacket. Before he began speaking, he cinched up the chinstrap on his steel helmet.

“Listen up, men. The goddamn Huns are on the move. Turns out they’re hitting hard down in the Ardennes.” Waxman glared at Stan. “Nobody seems to know how it’s going, but HQ’s forming up relief units to throw down there just in case. I got a list of names of men being deployed tonight. Now shut up back there and listen. Adams, Albrecht, Chandler, Denton, Gillman, Gutzler, Ihland, Johnson, Kinkaid, Mitchell, Manson, Nichols, Parsons, Smith, Troutsworth, Valmont, and Zeller. If you heard your name, stay here. If not, get your ass back to work. We got a job to do. And Michelman, I want to see you first.”

The men broke into small groups to speculate, complain, and wish luck, in that order. Waxman pulled Michelman, the security NCO, aside. He said, “Listen, Pudge, make sure your sentries are on their toes. May be Krauts around wearing GI uniforms, with papers and speaking English. Everyone uses passwords or they don’t get through. I don’t care if they have fucking stars on their collars; make ’em prove they’re legit.”

Michelman replied, “Will do, Sarge,” and he ran off holding his helmet.

Waxman hollered again and the men whose names hadn’t been called shuffled off. He went over his list, checking off names as he recognized faces. “OK,” bellowed Waxman, “you yoyos have been volunteered to be rolled into the 28^th Division. You’ll truck down near Marche-en Famenne, then be farmed out as needed. The division is deployed southeast of there on a line between Clervaux and Bastogne. Transport’s due here at 01:30 hours. So you got eight hours to get squared away, hit the mess hall, and grab some shuteye. You’ll report to the armory for weapons and ammo at 23:30 hours. As you might have noticed, we’ve got some of the white stuff coming down. Word I get is there’s a lot more of it where you’re going. Dress warm. Maybe several pants, socks, and shirts. You need anything, let Harvey know. I told him to do what he can to get you joes outfitted. Questions?”

From the back of the group someone asked, “Hey Sarge, remind me. Which end of the rifle do the bullets come out?” A volley of nervous laughs rippled through the group.

Waxman snarled, “Get out of here, you clowns. Go get some grub.”

Stan went back to his bunk and wrote a note for Eva:

16 Dec.

Dear Eva, If I ever doubt you again, you can smack me between the eyes with a 2-by-4.

Army’s sending me off on what I reckon’ll turn out to be a big boondoggle. Don’t want you to fret about me. Heck, I probably won’t even see a Kraut, much less tangle with one. If your uncle drops off that wine for me, just sit on it. We’ll uncork us a bottle when I’m back.

Hon, powerful as your dreams are, do me a favor and dream one of us—together ‘for-Eva.’

Your Soldier Boy,

Stanley Chandler

Stan folded the note and wrote Eva’s name on it. He took it to Sgt. Michelman at the depot’s front gate. “Sarge, I’m one of ’em shippin’ out tonight. My girl might come lookin’ for me. Could ya give this to her if she shows up? Name’s Eva.” He set the note by the package of Lucky Strikes on the gatehouse windowsill.

“She ain’t no Hun spy is she, Chandler?” Michelman squinted. “We been warned ’bout them.” He broke into a laugh and slapped Stan on the back. “Sure, kid, I’ll put it in the drawer here. Dent, Christie, and me’ll be manning the gate. I’ll mention it to ’em.” As Stan hustled off, Michelman called, “Hey Chandler, you take care of yourself down there, hear?”

Ardennes Truck Stop

Stan got his M-1 rifle, a bayonet, and sixty rounds of ammunition from the armory. He packed a shelter half, a sleeping bag, and a rifle cleaning kit. His readied his web gear—canteen, gas mask, entrenching tool, flashlight, ammo pouch. He crammed extra socks, pants, underwear, and shirts into his duffle bag. He stuck in his fruitcake and eleven Baby Ruths—left one behind to give to Henri Messiaen. He tied rubber galoshes on the outside of the duffle. It was a load to tote, but it was ready. By midnight he’d written to Uncle Jess.

At 01:15 Stan fell out with the others to wait for the trucks. He was glad everyone else seemed nervous too. At 02:30, when the convoy hadn’t arrived yet, the shivering men were moved into the dry goods storage building to wait. At 05:40, four trucks arrived. Two were already full of mechanics, clerks, illustrators, machinists, and cooks from other units. All suddenly infantrymen. By 06:15 the trucks were fueled and loaded with supplies and men. Out the gate they rolled. Without chow. Breakfast and hand grenades they would get when they hooked up with the 28^th.

It was just forty kilometers to Marche-en Famenne. An easy two hours, Stan figured. That was before the fouled up signs at one road juncture sent the trucks off in the wrong direction. Before the traffic jam at the blown bridge over the River Tarder. Before the road closure from the fuel truck fire just outside Barvaux. It was dusk on the evening of December 17 when the trucks found the 28^th Division rally point near Marche-en Famenne. There was no hot food, just K-Rations and all the radishes you could eat. Men were griping, but no one passed on the chow.

Fifty minutes after arriving, Stan and eleven others were back on the road in one of the trucks, heading to the 28^th’s G Company, located north of Bastogne. A sergeant named Harkin from the division rode up front as guide. With his thin face and wire-rimmed spectacles, he looked more like a librarian than an infantry sergeant. The road was torturous, mostly tracking the Ourthe River. Near La Roche-en- Ardenne, about half way, traffic was snarled due to snow, stalled vehicles, and trucks coming the other way. They spent hours stopped, the diesel engines idling. Some men managed to sleep. Feeling sick from exhaust fumes, Stan shivered in the back of the truck, thinking, sittin’ here gives ya a bad feelin’. Sounds too much like sittin’ duck.

Poke Denton, seated next to Stan, was remarkable for his thin lips and weak chin. And his nasal voice. “Ever seen anything so screwed up?” he whined. He lifted the canvas flap over the tailgate and shook his head at the vehicles lined up behind them. “Look at that. Fucking brass ain’t smart enough to pour piss outta their boots.” He hollered, “Hey, ya goddamn Krauts! It’s Christmas, for chrissake.”

The driver turned off his motor, and distant rumbling was unmasked. Stan said, “Thunder in December! Well, how ’bout that?”

Howitz, a pimply GI across from Stan, stopped picking his nose. “Ain’t thunder, fella. It’s artillery. Big shit. 155s, I bet. Trained artillery ’fore I got made a cook.” He grinned nervously.

Denton leaned over and whispered to Stan, “Back in Memphis, I worked graveyard shift in a TB sanitarium. Guns barking off yonder sound ’bout like them patients we had. Like their hacks echoing down the hall all night long. Gives me the willies.”

Stan’s bad feeling got worse.

The men who were awake, even those who didn’t smoke, smoked. The glowing tips gave off psychological warmth. At some point, the endless night ended.

The snow was boot-top deep when Stan jumped out to pee. In the first light of dawn and the bracing air outside the truck, he could look up at the snowflakes fluttering down and be charmed by it. Then the trucks all started up, and Stan climbed back aboard. The line of vehicles lurched forward. The charm ended that quickly.

The drone of the motor, the sway of the bumps, and the crunch of tires on snow lulled Stan into half-sleep. His mind swirled with memories—or were they dreams?—of riding his horse Daphne over snowy hills as a boy. Suddenly the air was full of bees. Had Daphne stepped on a hive? Stan knew there was something wrong about bees in winter—as wrong as thunder in winter—but he couldn’t say just what it was. He’d blurted, “Whoa, girl,” trying to control his horse, when noise and chaos startled him alert. No longer alone on Daphne in the silent Nebraska winter, he was engulfed in sounds: The shouts of GIs and the zip of the rounds as they ripped through canvas and bodies. Denton slumped to Stan’s lap then rolled to the floor. The men who hadn’t been hit hollered and pushed to the rear, trying to escape what had become a viper’s nest. Stan moved with the jostle of bodies, looking back just once at Denton lying still on the truck floor. Johnson, who jumped just before Stan, hit the ground like spilled oatmeal and lay there moaning. When Stan tried to miss him, his awkward landing sent him sprawling. His rifle spun away. Lying stunned, face in the snow, he felt like a moth splattered on a windshield.

The zing of rounds flying overhead focused Stan’s mind. He looked back at Johnson, who wasn’t moving. Stan crawled to his rifle and grabbed it. He aimed into the trees along the road where he saw muzzle flashes and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Shit dummy, try loadin’ it. Stan took a clip of rounds out of his ammo pouch, but he couldn’t load with his gloves on. He took the right glove off and pushed the bolt back with the heel of his hand. He shoved the clip in, removed his thumb, and let the bolt fly forward. His fingers were snowy and numb. He pumped his fist open and closed to get them working. Stan wildly fired off a whole clip of eight rounds. Return fire kicked up snow around him. So close, he couldn’t believe he wasn’t hit. He reloaded and fired again, this time with some control.

The sergeant from the cab of the truck crawled up and told Stan to follow him. They ran in a monkey-crouch to a jeep that had overturned in the ditch. The sergeant pulled Stan’s helmet close and barked, “I’m gonna try to lob a grenade on that Kraut machine gun. I’ll crawl to that scrubby tree and pitch from there.” Stan looked where he was pointing. “You keep shooting to draw their fire. You with me, son?” Stan nodded, and the sarge gave him two more ammo clips.

The sergeant skittered over the snowy ground like a cockroach.

Stan popped up and fired off rounds in twos, moving his spot behind the jeep after each pair. He was loading a second clip when he heard the thud. He peeked over the jeep and saw smoke where before he’d seen flashes. The machine gun was silent. Stan breathed, “It’s over,” and he felt his body sag, his legs go limp. He turned and leaned back on the jeep, the world before him a blur. His feet slid slowly out. He sat on the snow, his rifle across his lap, and realized he was wet with sweat and shivering.

The sergeant ran back to the capsized jeep. Seeing the spent look on Stan’s face, he tapped his boot. “Good job there, Corporal. The name’s Harkin. Yours?”

“Stan Chandler, Sarge.” A star crack radiating from the center of the left lens of Harkin’s spectacles caught Stan’s eye. “You see with them fogs busted-up like that?”

Harkin removed his glasses and examined them. He popped the pieces of shattered lens out with his thumb. “Lucky it isn’t my shooting eye, I guess.” He grinned.

A lieutenant named Burke ran up, followed by several GIs. “Nice work, Harkin. Sure you got ’em all?”

“I took a look-see. They won’t be causing us no more trouble, sir. By the way, gotta credit Deadeye Chandler here for covering me and drawing their fire—made it a piece of cake to get close enough to toss.” Burke nodded to Stan, and Harkin pulled the officer aside. “Sir, you got any idea what’s up—Germans bushwhacking us like this behind our own lines?”

Burke looked around to be sure no one else could hear him. “Got a bad feeling about that myself, Albert. Lot of shit’s gone haywire down here. Road signs switched. Sabotage. Bogus radio transmissions.” He shook his head. “Look, we gotta keep moving. Come on. Grab your pal Chandler and see what wheels we still got.”

Back at the truck, there were three blanket-covered bodies on the road. Stan was happy to see Medics working on Johnson and Denton up on the truck bed. A soldier ran back from the cab. “Won’t move, sir. Ran into the truck in front. Front end’s all fucked-up. Fender’s bent to shit over on the tire. Sucker’s here to stay.”

“Hell it is, Edwards,” Burke boomed. “Head back and get every fuckin’ vehicle that can move off to the side. Then get those damn Shermans up here pronto. Tell ’em to shove any O-slash-A trucks aside. I need this road open now. Move it!”

“Right, sir.” Edwards hustled off.

Lt. Burke yelled to Stan, “This truck’s going in the ditch. Get the wounded off.”

Jeeps and trucks pulled to the right side of the road. A moment later, with the clank of tracks and its engine’s roar, the first of two big Sherman tanks pulled up. It pushed the disabled deuce and a half off the road. The highway ahead was clear.

Burke hollered, “Want a ride, gents? Jump on up.”

“On the outside?” Stan asked. “What about a truck?”

“Your truck’s there in the ditch, son. It’s up here or walk. Take your pick.”

Six soldiers scrambled atop the first Sherman tank. Stan, Harkin, and three others climbed onto the second one. They roared off.

Stan had never before been near a tank, much less ridden on one. The Sherman’s power seemed to flow into him, and he felt invincible. He looked up at the lightening sky and told himself, snow’s pretty well let up and the sun’s tryin’ to poke through the cloud cover in the east. With some luck, it could clear up. It was someone else’s friends got killed. And best of all, I passed my first test pretty good. Things could sure be a lot worse.

By noon on December 18, the sky was pencil-smudge gray. Snow, gritty as cinders, crackled on Stan’s helmet and stung his chin. Wind and ice made the tank’s steel deck downright disagreeable. “And I used to think it got chilly on horseback,” Stan told Harkin. “Damn, this beast must’ve been built by Frigidaire. Least there ain’t no more Krauts around.”

Stan huddled next to a rugged-looking, 82^nd Airborne Division buck sergeant named Maxwell who called himself, “a .45 caliber type what goes by Tex.” He pronounced the name as takes. After the introduction, Maxwell squatted in silence, sharpening his bayonet with a whetstone. With vast patience, he drew the blade slowly, meticulously, over the sharpening stone, testing it every few strokes with his thumb, until after twenty minutes he was satisfied.

Tex was dressed to kill: In addition to the Thompson submachine gun he carried, he had a .45 cal. sidearm holstered on his hip; a nail-studded club, four grenades and brass knuckles hanging from his webbing; and the bayonet strapped to his boot. Grinning, Maxwell thrust his skeletal pock-marked face into the wind—it reminded Stan of how a dog rides in the bed of a pick-up. Tex’s bony figure was exposed under a huge overcoat that whipped unbuttoned in the frigid gusts, especially when he stood, leaning forward like the figurehead on a pirate ship’s bow. Stan figured, if ya get in a pinch, this’s the kind of guy ya sure as shootin’ wanna stick close to.

As if he divined that Stan had been studying him, Maxwell broke his silence. “Yep,” he drawled, “guess ol’ Tex is feelin’ like a kid in a candy shop ’bout now. With the war heatin’ up again.” He looked Stan in the eye and rubbed his chin. “Killed a feller back in Texas. Self-defense, they ruled. Maybe t’were. Over here, I get all of it I want. All legal. Best is face-to-face. Him or me.” Maxwell tilted his head to the side. “Ya done much killin’?”

Stan winced. Looking at his boots and holding his rifle close, he mumbled, “Not much…I’m supply.”

Maxwell shrugged To each his own and scratched his knee with the barrel of his Tommy gun “Got shot-up in Holland. September. Been on sick call since.” He took a deep draft of the cold air. “I tell ya, this beats a hospital bed by a West Texas mile.” He spat for emphasis.

Stan thought how good a warm hospital bed sounded. But to keep some credibility with Maxwell, he only grunted, “Uh-huh.”

Stan leaned back on the gun turret. It was late afternoon and the terrain had become rolling hills. The road followed a stream on the right. To the left was an open stretch of ground—a long stone’s throw wide and snow-covered with tall, golden, dry grass poking through. Beyond the snowy stretch was a wall of dark woods.

Stan watched Sgt. Harkin, who sat silent in front of him and took occasional sips from a silver flask. Harkin was scanning the roadsides right and left. Earlier he’d said, “Best be on the lookout for ambushes, men.”

Stan wondered, how could there be an ambush, with the 28^th between us and the enemy? Anyway, cold as it was, he figured freezing was more of a worry than getting plugged.

It was just onto dusk when Stan heard the engine of the forward Sherman revved way up. What the -? The tank swung sharp right, between the road and the stream.

The tanker commanding Stan’s vehicle had been riding with the hatch door open. He hollered, “Oh shit,” and dropped into the cockpit. The hatch clanked closed. Immediately, the tank pivoted hard left.

Stan looked up the hill ahead and saw the beast coming over the crest. Even at a half mile away, it looked huge.

Harkin yelled, “Tiger! Hit it.” He dove off the moving tank and rolled into a crouch, ready to fire. The others scrambled off after him.

Stan landed sprawling in the snow and tall grass. He looked up just in time to see fire lash out from the moving panzer’s gun. A smoke ring followed. After a scorching roar, the lead Sherman erupted in flames. The second U.S. tank engaged the enemy. The shock of its 75 mm gun firing from just ten feet away slapped Stan’s cheek. He could see the projectile streak down and strike the panzer dead center on the foredeck. Stan held his breath, waiting for the German tank to explode.

But it didn’t. Like a rhino besieged by a fly, the panzer barely flinched at the blow. Stan was watching its turret continue the cold swing his way when Harkin jerked his jacket collar and boomed, “Let’s go, Chandler.” He pulled Stan ten yards farther from their tank, yelling, “Hit it,” as he shoved Stan to the ground. There was a frozen instant of quiet. Then, as if the gates of hell burst open, the second Sherman exploded, its turret blown skyward on a column of dirty, orange flame. Stan looked back to see the smoking hunk of steel thud down where he’d just been.

Dazed, his ears ringing, Stan watched transfixed as the panzer moved toward him. Around it, swarming like ants after spilled lemonade, were white-clad infantrymen.

“Come on, kid—” Harkin tugged Stan to his feet. “—there’s a jillion Krauts. Gotta make those trees.”

Amid the zing of small arms fire, eight GIs dashed the thirty yards to the tree line, parallel to the road. A man ahead of Stan got hit and tumbled down. When they dove into the trees, just five of them were left.

Stan’s lungs couldn’t pump air fast enough. His brain seemed to have shut down. He had to look at the other GIs to see what to do. He fired his M-1 without aiming.

Harkin yelled, “We’ll have to skin the cat outta here. Maxwell, take those two and fall back ten meters. We’ll cover for you. Then me and Chandler’ll drop back and you cover. We’ll keep leapfrogging away for a while then duck into the woods. Now go.”

Tigers in the Woods

From behind trees Stan and Harkin fired at white-clad enemies. When Maxwell shouted Come on, they retreated, keeping inside the tree line. The panzer fired its big 88 mm gun. The shell sizzled as it streaked into the woods behind them, splintering a swath of trees. The Americans’ covering fire slowed the enemy infantry’s advance, giving the GIs time to slip into the safety of the forest.

Stan and the others ran together through the darkening woods, some of it so thick there was little snow on the ground. After a mile, they slid in behind the trunk of a fallen tree.

Stan’s chest heaved as he gulped air. He turned to Maxwell and panted, “Damn, that Tiger tank’s a big sucker. Coulda sworn our Sherman smacked him a good one.”

Maxwell was barely winded. He didn’t look at Stan. “Twarn’t no Tiger, bub. I see’d Tigers in the Normandy hedges. ’Bout impossible to kill ’em. And this one were bigger and meaner. Yeah, our Shermie hit ’em bang on, but that beast’s sloped steel chin…shit, our boys’ 75 mm peashooter just plinked off like piss on paving.” He spat.

After a few minutes of rest, Harkin pulled the four others close. “Look, everything’s FUBAR. We’re supposed to be behind friendly lines. But seeing the Hun here in these numbers smells like they busted through. Nothing we can do tonight but get some rest. We’ll each take an hour and a half watch. At dawn, we backtrack—we should get to friendly ground sooner or later. Maxwell, you’re on first. Rest of you, gather up a mess of these leaves for camouflage and warmth and get some shuteye.”

Just after dawn, Harkin called the men together. He’d cleared a patch of dirt and scratched in a map. “Here’s the road we come up.” He used his bayonet as a pointer. “Here’s where we got hit. The 28^th was supposed to be here, but with Krauts pouring through like that, maybe they ain’t. Now we’re about here.” He zigzagged the knife tip over part of the patch. “All this is woods. We’ll move back this way, keeping in the cover. Try and hook-up with friendlies. Gotta be on our toes, gents. Expect a Kraut behind every tree. We’ll move in a diamond, me in the middle. No talking. Just hand signals. If we get hit, Maxwell, you’re with Chandler and Turner, you got Bonotucci. Let’s even up our ammo and move out.”

The five had been going two hours when they came to a dirt road. It was heading in the right direction and would make their transit faster, so Harkin decided to follow it. It was an hour later when they heard the growl of a panzer behind them.

“Don’t engage unless they see us,” Harkin whispered. “If we’re lucky they’ll roll on by.” He put Stan and Maxwell off to the road’s left side and he and the others went to the right.

Where they were, the road rose up a long, gradual hill. There were evergreen trees and large boulders. Stan prayed they wouldn’t be seen.

A few minutes later and a hundred yards off, it emerged from the fog: A single Tiger tank. As it lumbered up the hill, Stan could see a half dozen riflemen on top and another half dozen walking along side of it. The tank was whitewashed and the infantrymen wore white cloaks. With the snow on the hillside and the mist in the air, the panzer looked like a massive mechanical ghost, clawing itself up from a frozen grave.

Stan’s throat tightened. His mouth was dust-dry. He took a bite of snow. He felt short of breath—like his lungs were struggling but the air was too thick to suck in. Jeeze, you’re loud as a steam engine. Them Germans’ll hear ya over the roar of their tank. Come on, calm down. He could feel the pulse throb in his temples.

Maxwell rapped Stan on the shoulder and whispered, “Good luck, kid,” as he pushed on his brass knuckles. Before Stan could respond, he crawled off lizard-like down the hill toward a huge outcrop of rock so large that the road had to swing around it before heading on up the hill. The stone jutted from the hillside like a giant navy ship emerging from a fog bank. The top was a flat stone platform running horizontally from the uphill side. From the road to the top of the outcrop, it must’ve been a dozen vertical feet at the sheer downhill face.

Stan watched in horror and wonder as Maxwell slithered on top of the stone and lay there like a dark splotch in the snow. From above, he could see Maxwell, but the Germans on the road below could not. Stan looked over at Harkin, thirty meters away on the other side of the road. Harkin gestured What the hell? with a shoulder shrug. Stan answered I have no damned idea with a shake of the head and the same shrug.

The dismounted panzergrenadiers were arrayed a few meters out from the tank. The hatch was open and a tanker was riding halfway out for visibility. He peered through binoculars and occasionally pointed and yelled to the soldiers. The men walking on the left side swung to the left of Maxwell’s boulder as the tank followed the road around on the right. As the panzer groaned by the stone, the tanker’s head was still a yard below Maxwell’s level. Black exhaust poured from the pipe as the engine strained up the steep incline.

Stan’s breathing slowed. It was like watching a movie.

Suddenly Maxwell sprang. He tossed a grenade over the side of the rock opposite to the road. Like a puma, he leapt onto the top of the tank, his Tommy gun in his right hand and a pinless grenade in his left. Stan was almost as shocked as the enemy. As he hit the panzer’s deck, Maxwell flicked the grenade into the open hatch just as the tanker dropped down, pulling the cover closed behind him. Maxwell fired a burst that knocked down two of the soldiers atop the tank before they could fire, and he shot another as he wheeled his Mauser rifle. The first grenade went off, taking two of the three Germans on the far side of the boulder. One of the other grenadiers on the tank leapt up only to be hit by his comrades on the ground, firing at Maxwell. The grenade in the tank thudded. The vehicle lurched to the right, crushing a German infantryman on the ground, and sputtered to a halt. By this time Stan and the other GIs were firing. They cut down the three remaining Germans on the ground and one of the two on the tank. With his Thompson out of ammo, Maxwell ripped the bayonet from his boot and leapt at the last enemy soldier. The German got off a shot from his machine pistol just as Maxwell fell on him. The bayonet sank deep into the grenadier’s chest. He and Maxwell tumbled off the side of the smoking tank.

The spectacle left Stan feeling as invincible as Maxwell had been. He sprang to his feet and ran toward the tank, whooping like a wrangler at roundup. He didn’t see the wounded grenadier rise up on an elbow and level his rifle, and he didn’t hear the single crack as Harkin killed the German before he could fire. Stan just wanted to get to Maxwell. To tell him how amazing it all had been.

Maxwell lay face down on the legs of the German he had stabbed. The young German’s eyes gazed skyward. His mouth was open, as if caught in mid-speech. The blond fuzz on his pink cheeks looked like it had never met a razor.

Stan rolled Maxwell over just as Harkin ran up. The red spot in the center of his chest held Stan’s gaze for a moment. Stan touched it—warm, moist, sticky. He looked into Maxwell’s eyes. Like the German’s, they were open, but not in surprise. Maxwell’s eyes seemed satisfied. Like a fella that’s done a good day’s work, Stan thought. He looked up at his sergeant.

Harkin nodded. He knew death when he saw it. He pulled Stan to his feet. “Come on, son.”

They’d taken just a few steps when one of the Germans moaned. His carbine lay a few feet from him.

Turner ran up and kicked the weapon away, then he leveled his rifle at the wounded man.

“Hold it, Turner,” said Harkin, hustling over. He surveyed the young German’s wound—thick red blood oozed from his leg and dripped onto the snow. He picked up the soldier’s Mauser and tossed it down the hill. “He’s no threat to us.” Harkin kneeled next to the man and gave him an ounce of water from his canteen.

The man gripped Harkin’s hand. “Bitte, eine Zigarette.” He coughed and blood appeared on his lips.

Harkin rolled him onto his side. A wound in the back had painted the snow beneath him scarlet. “Got no cigarette,” Harkin said, easing him down. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a stick of Juicy Fruit. He unwrapped the chewing gum and folded it in half. He put it in the man’s mouth.

The man coughed. “Is good. Danke, mein Herr.” Pink saliva trickled from his mouth as he chewed.

Stan pulled a cloak from one of the dead Germans and brought it over. He draped it over the wounded man’s chest and legs.

Harkin stood. “Let’s move out, men.”

As they trudged away, Turner scoffed, “Should’ve let me plug that Hun. I can just see him putting his pals onto our trail.”

Harkin rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I saw him taking his grandkids to see the circus forty years from now.” He glanced back at the tracks they were leaving in the snow. “Besides they won’t need any help trailing us.”

“You see him?” Turner shook his head. “Guy’s a goner anyhow.”

“Just keep moving, Turner,” Harkin said.

Ten minutes later they heard armor clanking behind them. “Panzer, by the sound of it,” Harkin said. “Ain’t good. They see that shot-up tiger, they’ll be hot as hornets.” He looked back. “Let’s step on it.”

As they moved quickly forward, Stan whispered to Harkin, “My uncle was a Marine in the Great War. Before I went in, he told me, ‘Combat—it’s the darndest thing. It’s a percent blindin’ terror, a percent skyrocketin’ thrill, and ninety-eight percent crushin’ boredom.’ This mornin’, watchin’ Maxwell, I seen them skyrockets.”

Harkin patted Stan’s shoulder. “Good for you, kid. Guess I was more on the terror side, myself.”

“Sarge,” Stan whispered, “like Turner said, the Kraut back there looked done for. How come we didn’t…?”

“Shoot him?” Harkin sighed. “You kill when you have to kill, Chandler. You don’t when you don’t. Cases like that, you let the Lord decide if he’s done for or not.”

The Americans pushed on, bearing northwest. The snowfall had stopped, and the air was luminous with frosty mist. Silence hung in the woods like the fog. To Stan, the scenery was dreamlike, almost intoxicating, with the snow-flocked trees, the cottony quiet of his steps, and the sterile cold. The fog seemed alive, creeping a bit ahead of the GIs, seeping along their flanks, and slipping in behind them.

They had been going no more than twenty minutes when Harkin halted them with a raised hand. Hear that? he mouthed, tapping his ear.

Stan looked around, his heart pounding. Like everyone else, he shook his head.

“Twig snapped,” Harkin whispered. With choppy hand motions, he signaled Move that way, quick.

Two minutes later Harkin stopped the troop again. He froze, his head cocked like a stag’s. After a breathless moment, he barked, “Go, go, go!” and broke into a sprint.

As everyone ran, Stan heard a rifle pop behind them. He heard Harkin’s cough. Saw his head go back and his chest heave forward, like it was chasing the pink mist that sprayed from his breast. He knew Harkin was dead before he hit the ground.

The hollow cracks of rifle fire echoed through the woods. Rounds sang by Stan’s ears. They clipped tree branches and kicked up sprays of snow. Stan saw Bonotucci and Turner drop down, firing wildly back into the mist. Instead of sticking with his buddies, he ran, slipping and sliding on the snow. The fog was so thick he should’ve worried about running into a tree limb. But the only thing he thought about was not dying there in the forest.

The firing stopped as abruptly as a lamp switched off. With the quiet, Stan heard pounding footsteps a bit behind him. And huffing. He imagined his pursuer’s dark eyes and wondered what the burn of a bullet in the back would feel like. But the footsteps behind faded, and soon it was quiet again. He knew he should have stayed with Bonotucci and Turner. But it was too late to go back. Too quiet. And he was too yellow.

Stan came to a road. Fresh tire tracks streaked the snow’s perfect sheet. He ran in the tracks to hide his footprints. He looked around frantically as he ran. Only the crunch of his boots on the snow and the heaving gasps of his lungs cracked the air’s crisp silence.

Stan was glancing back when he tumbled down a steep embankment, out of control. His rifle and helmet went flying. His face smashed against a rock, and he landed dazed in a small, half-frozen creek. He lay there in the trickle of water like a set of work clothes tossed off after a long day. His face was numb and every part of him was jarred, but he made himself look for his weapon and his helmet. He found them nearby in the icy water.

When he heard a vehicle on the road, he dragged himself downstream to some scrawny shrubs. The bushes had lost most of their leaves, so they offered little concealment, but they were all he had. The vehicle stopped and Stan heard voices above him on the road. He saw two Germans at the top of the embankment. One seemed to look directly at him. Stan ducked his head and waited, cowering, for a rifle shot to kick into his back. He heard a shout and figured that was it. When no bullet came, his conscience sneered Guess they know you ain’t worth the lead. He stood up with his arms raised.

But the soldiers were gone. He heard the vehicle pull away, then it was quiet.

After a minute Stan climbed the slippery embankment to the road. He peered into the mist. In both directions. There was no one around.

Stan stood there alone. His face hurt. His hands were numb. His clothes were soaked. But it was the truth that stung Stan deepest: He’d tried to surrender. He’d run out on his buddies. He didn’t belong among brave men. Then he glanced up at the sky. Its brightness surprised him. He stopped shivering, and his breathing slowed, and salty tears filled his eyes. He was alive! Somehow he had what war rarely gives—a second chance. A chance to show some guts like Maxwell and Harkin. A chance to make it back to Eva!

Obligations

The afternoon of December 17, when it stopped snowing, Eva rode her bicycle to Lefebvre to hear news of the fighting. From a corner of the café she listened to Micheaux at the bar, drinking with some old men. “Oh there’s new fighting in the Ardennes all right. Big fighting. I see many trucks hauling GIs down there. Today when I tried to deliver beer to the American depot, they turned me away. Told me most of the men were sent off—wouldn’t say why—and they wouldn’t be needing beer.” Micheaux pulled out a large, rusty revolver and hoisted it over his head. “Well, the Boche better not show their fat asses in Lefebvre. I’ll fill ’em with lead!” The old timers laughed and cheered as he spun the pistol’s cylinder.

Eva’s worst fear had been a reversal in the tide of the war. Now she also faced the fact that the melee could consume her Stanley. Taking it as reprisal for her sins, she ran from the café, sick to her core. Ran, gasping the frosty air. Ran, shaking with sobs.

She had been outside in the square for only a moment when she stopped shuddering. She looked around. The square was silent, empty, but she didn’t feel alone. A sense of serenity, like warm water, enveloped her. Only then did she realize she was standing on the spot where Mother Catherine died. Astonished, Eva remained a minute, then jumped on her bicycle and set off, pedaling for home with the passion and purpose of one given new hope.

That evening Eva watched as light snow fell, lovely and graceful as moon-lit mist. It seemed impossible that havoc enveloped the Ardennes not far away. She lit a votive candle under the crucifix. Its flickering glow brought the space around her to life. She knelt beside her bed, and the cold air made her whispered prayers visible. “Mother Catherine, I know I’m not worthy to ask anything for myself, but I take the warmth of your touch today to hope I might plead at your feet for another. I beg you to keep him safe. Watch over my Stanley, whose heart is pure and worthy like yours. Protect him from those who hurt you. If you would, make me your instrument in that work. Or take my life in trade for his. In the end, should you deign to return Stanley to me, to give us more time together, I’ll count each minute as your grace. I’ll take no second for granted. And when you say our time is up, I won’t argue—I’ll only thank you as I go for any hours you’ve given us.” She blew out the candle and slipped into bed.

At two a.m. pounding on the barn door jarred her from fitful sleep. She lit the lantern, threw on her coat and climbed down the ladder to the ground floor. “Who is it?”

“It’s Pruvot. Monsieur Henri sent me. Open up—it’s cold out here.”

Eva unlatched the door, and Pruvot pulled it open. He looked over his shoulder and rushed inside. She was surprised to see him wearing civilian clothes rather than his usual blue chauffeur’s uniform. Surprised at his stubble of beard.

He stomped snow off his boots and rubbed his hands together. “Get dressed. Warmly. We have work to do. For Monsieur. I’ll tell you about it on the way.” It was the first time he’d spoken to her in German.

Pruvot had a gray Renault panel truck with Pharmacie Belieu stenciled on the side. On the front fender he’d fixed a white flag made from a linen napkin and a cut-off broomstick.

They rolled down the drive to the clatter of tire chains and the squeak of crunching snow. Once they’d turned onto the road, Pruvot said, “In the glove box. A pack of Monsieur’s smokes. Light me one.”

Eva took one of Henri’s black cigarettes and looked questioningly at Pruvot.

He growled, “He’s not here to guard his precious Black Russians, now is he? Just light the damn thing.” She did that and handed it to him. He inhaled deeply. “Monsieur is busy east of Liege. He needs us for an important job. He’s told you the essentials of the Wacht am Rhein plan. There are two linchpins that must be secured—the Allies’ fuel depots and the rail lines coming up through St. Vith and Trois Ponts to the Meuse bridge at Lefebvre. We need the gas for our panzers and the rails for heavy resupply. When we’ve seized the fuel stores, the rail lines, and the bridges, we’ll be unstoppable.”

He glanced at Eva when she said nothing. Her face was blanched with fear. Pruvot flicked the cigarette out the window. “Don’t worry, we’ll pull it off. And for once you can do something, not just watch. Exciting, eh?” He bumped her with his elbow.

Eva turned to him, her eyes suddenly full of passion. “Do something? Yes! I’d thought there was nothing I could do, but perhaps I was wrong. My prayers are answered.”

“Have your prayers. I’ll take steel. Right now, Battlegroup Peiper of the Fifth Panzers is striking at St. Vith. A big worry is Allied reinforcements pouring down from Aachen. We need to seal off the north with a paratroop drop. It’s just that with this damn weather, there’s concern that the jumpers might miss their mark. In the back I have amber searchlights I’ll use to tag the drop zone, a farm field three kilometers west of Malmedy. Hell with the fog, if lights guide the planes in. The problem is getting the lights there, with Americans crawling all over the place. That’s where you come in. Monsieur thought you’d be of use, charming us through if we get stopped.” He flicked his front teeth with his thumbnail. “I’ll be honest with you, cutie. You’ve been a worry to Monsieur. He says you give him gray hair. He doesn’t like it. Do a good job tonight and your future is secure. Screw up and—” He looked at her. “—I think you know.”

“Fear has no grip on me. I’ll do whatever I can. Count on it.”

Pruvot looked at her fists, clenched so tight the knuckles were white. “Good girl.” He let off on the gas and the truck slowed. “We’ll change places. You drive. I’ll lie on the cot in back. From now on, I’m your father, sick with pneumonia. You’re taking me to the clinic in Trois Ponts. Got it? And no more German-speaking. Understood?”

“What if we’re stopped at a checkpoint?”

“Stick to the story, Eva. You do the talking. As a last resort, try bawling. To help bring on the tears, Monsieur suggested you recall that stupid nun of yours, dangling from the rope.”

“She had a name. Mother Catherine. And she was anything but stupid.”

“That’s rich. Got herself hanged for a trifle, didn’t she?” Pruvot smirked. “Probably shouldn’t tell you, but after her puppet show, Monsieur took to calling her Saint Shit-For-Brains.” He saw Eva’s lip quiver. “Oh, come on. It was just a joke. Don’t be so serious.”

“I will be serious. Resolved.” Eva crossed her arms tightly. “Tonight I must be so.”

He chuckled. “OK, OK, little tiger. By the way, in case your tears don’t work, I’ve got this.” He raised his pant leg. Taped to his shin was a shiny, double-bladed knife, ten inches long counting its rawhide-covered handle. “And this.” He reached under the seat and pulled out a large, black Luger. “I’ll keep it handy back there. You’ve only to distract them.”

Eva got behind the wheel and Pruvot climbed onto the cot in back. She eased out on the clutch and the vehicle jerked ahead. She turned her head and said, “You must be patient. I haven’t driven since you showed me how last summer.”

“You’ll be fine if you take it slow.” Pruvot was up on his elbow, looking to the road ahead. “Just keep us out of the ditch.”

They had only been going ten minutes when Eva saw a light ahead. As they got closer, she could see a GI standing at the approach to a bridge. He’d built a fire and was warming his hands. There was a bright lantern on the bridge railing. When they were twenty meters off, he stepped into the road and waved his hands.

“Pruvot!” Eva said.

“I see him. Looks like he’s alone. Just pull up slowly and tell him the story.”

Eva stopped and the heavy GI, Pvt. Parker, walked to her window. “Sorry, girlie, you can’t proceed. No civvies allowed ahead.” He peered in at Eva. “What you doing out so late at night?”

Eva answered in English. “My father, he needs the hospital.” She tapped her nose and looked pleadingly at the soldier.

The GI didn’t catch on. He only sighed and said, “Look, lady, I got orders. There’s some kind of action up ahead. Save us both the trouble and just turn around.”

From the rear, Pruvot called in a weak voice, “What’s the matter, little one?”

“A soldier says we may not pass.”

Pruvot called, stronger this time, “Sir, I am a sick man. Come back to see for yourself. I need the hospital.”

As the GI walked to the back of the vehicle, Eva heard the sound of tape ripping. The soldier opened the rear door. “Sorry mister, but I got my orders. I—”

Pruvot sprang at the man like a snake at a mouse. The knife sunk deep into the soldier’s chest and he was dead in seconds. Pruvot jumped out. He put his foot on the GI’s chest. “Come here, Eva.” He pulled out the knife. “While I drag him away, you clean the blade. Careful, it’s sharp. I’ll be right back.”

While Pruvot struggled to pull the heavy body down through the weeds and snow to the riverbank under the bridge, Eva scribbled something on a sheet of paper she’d found next to Henri’s cigarettes in the glove box. Pruvot was climbing back up the slippery hill, when he spied her leaning into the back of the truck. “What are you doing back there? Get your ass up front. We have only two hours to get those lights in place.”

“I was just putting away the knife. I wrapped it in newspaper for safety and put it by the pillow.” Eva took her place behind the wheel and Pruvot climbed onto the cot in back.

As she let the clutch out, Eva shuddered, trying to shake the image of the GI, one minute living, breathing, talking to her at the truck window in a uniform identical to Stan’s, and the next, a corpse being dragged into the weeds. Only when she reached into her pocket and felt the sharp tip of Stan’s arrowhead did resolve take over: She’d had a chance to subvert Pruvot’s mission and she’d failed. Failed Stanley, Mother Catherine, herself. Pressing her finger onto the arrow point, Eva swore, if she got another chance, she wouldn’t fail again.

The going was slow and it took fifty minutes to go the fifteen kilometers to the outskirts of Werbomont. It was the last town before the turn-off for the drop zone where they would set the searchlights. Dawn was still hours away.

In the distance Eva saw a flashing red light. She said nothing, but Pruvot had seen it, too. “Another checkpoint ahead, Eva. Must be the crossroads with the highway to Liege. Just relax. Everything’s fine. We’ll handle it like before.”

They were thirty meters from the checkpoint when Pruvot shouted, “What’s going on with the damn headlights?”

“They’re flickering,” Eva said. “I’m trying to steady them.”

“Leave them alone, fool. They’ll suspect something.”

As the truck eased to a halt at the checkpoint, Eva could see three soldiers there. They wore white helmets and armbands that said MP. One of them ran toward her, waving his arms. Another was back at their jeep, talking on the radio. She knew if she was going to act, this might be her last chance. She wasn’t about to let Stan down. Or Mother Catherine.

Eva jumped from the truck with her hands held high. She yelled in English, “Danger! A bad man hides in the back. Be careful, he has a gun for shooting.”

Buck Sergeant Jenks, the closest MP, trained his carbine on the truck. The two other MPs ran up, one on each side of the vehicle. Jenks shouted, “Whoever’s in there, come on out and reach for the sky.”

Pruvot climbed from the truck with hands up. “I am a sick man, needing the hospital.” He glared at Eva, disbelief in his eyes.

Jenks poked his carbine in Eva’s ribs. “What’s going on here, Sister? What’s this lights flashing stuff and who’s got a gun? You keep them arms raised.”

Eva looked into Pruvot’s eyes for a moment and calmly turned back to the MP. “That man is a German agent, coming here to be the monkey’s wrench for you. He has a gun.” She pointed to Pruvot. “I hear him talking to a man he calls Mr. Knife outside a café in my village of Lefebvre. They speak in the German. I learned it as a girl so I can understand they are Boche saboteurs. This man discovers I hear him, so he makes me go along. He will place lights to guide parachute soldiers landing west of Malmedy. If you don’t believe me, see in the car for those lights. And a bloody knife. He is using it to kill one of your comrades back at the Ourthe bridge. He hides the body at the riverbank. You can find him there. He keeps writings in German under the pillow in the rear, too.”

“Lies,” Pruvot screeched. “I do have a knife in the car, but it is an old one for the hunting. And German papers? Certainly not. The girl is crazy.”

Jenks looked at Eva “You best not be funning me, toots.” He yelled, “Dawson, see what that yahoo’s got in the back there. Anders, keep him covered.”

Dawson searched and yelled back, “Found a knife, Sarge, wrapped in newspaper. It’s covered in fresh blood, and it ain’t no hunting knife neither. More like some commando job. And there’s three high-power searchlights stowed back here, too.” He ducked back into the vehicle and came out waving a sheet of paper. “Look what I found under the pillow, Sarge. Got a bunch of Kraut writing on it, just like honey-buns claimed. Don’t know what it says.”

Pruvot’s face went white. He screamed, “Bitch,” and reached to his back, under his jacket. He whipped out the Luger, leveling it at Eva. Before he could fire, a volley of carbine rounds ripped through his torso. His arm flew up and the pistol discharged into the night sky. A moment later all was quiet.

When Anders confirmed Pruvot was dead, Jenks lowered his carbine. “You can put them hands down, ma’am.” He glanced at the dead body. “Sorry you had to see that. Pretty nasty business. All I can say is you’re one tough dame. My old lady see that, they’d hear the hollering all the way back in Cleveland.” He pushed his helmet back. “Say, think you might be able to read what’s on that paper of his? Said you studied German. Might be important.”

“Yes, certainly I will try,” Eva said. Dawson handed her the paper. Eva looked it over, running her finger over the writing slowly, as if reading it was difficult. “die Operation Wacht am Rhein means Operation Watch on the Rhine River. These are towns in a line east of here—St. Vith, Trois Ponts, and Lefebvre. It says here they are the linchpins. Here is the word kritisch, meaning crucial. Scheinwerfer means light thrower—the searchlights, I suppose. Here is Fallschirm, the German word for parachute, and this says landing three kilometers west of Malmedy. It’s a village near here. This word is dawn and here is 18 December. Today.” She looked at Jenks and shrugged. “The rest I don’t know.”

Jenks turned back to Anders. “Get battalion on the horn and tell ’em we got wind the Hun’s planning an airborne drop three klicks west of Malmedy. This morning at dawn. Then take the jeep and get this document to G-2 up in Chaudfountaine. Pronto!” He turned to Dawson. “Bring that thermos of coffee over here.” He offered Eva a Lucky Strike, which she declined. He lit it for himself. “When you drove up flashing that SOS with the lights, I didn’t know what to make of it. Gotta hand it to you, toots, you got a shitload, pardon my French, of moxie.”

“If this moxie is courage, then no, it’s not what I have. I only have obligations.”

Dawson brought the thermos. “Pour the little lady a cup,” Jenks said. “She’s earned it. And when Anders is done on the radio, call Rutledge and tell him he’d better get someone over to check on Parker at the other bridge. Warn him what he might find. And tell him I need two more MPs here ASAP. Hold on.” He turned to Eva. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Eva Messiaen, sir.”

“Dawson, tell Rutledge we got a Belgian kid named Eva helped us out big time here. Don’t want her to freeze. Tell him you’re fixing to run her back to her home up in Lefebvre.”

Thirty minutes later, Dawson was driving Eva north in Pruvot’s truck. She sat quietly, planning what to say when she saw Henri. She’d tell him Pruvot never came that night. There’d be no one to challenge the story. And if he didn’t believe her, even if he killed her, it would be Mother Catherine taking her in place of Stanley, as she’d offered in her prayer. She wasn’t afraid of that. Hindering the spider and protecting her love were all that mattered.

As they turned up the Ducoisie drive, Dawson squirmed in his seat. “Ma’am, when things quiet down, what do you say you and me go out dancing some night?”

Eva smiled. “I’m sorry. My heart’s already given to a GI named Stanley.”

“Figures.” Dawson sighed as he stopped the truck. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

Eva exited the vehicle and went into the house. Madam Ducoisie was still in bed. It wasn’t yet 7:00 a.m. “You’re up early, Eva,” Madam called from her room. “Not sleeping well? Worried for Stanley, I suppose. Or is the loft too cold? Anyway, stir up the stove and add some coal. And make the coffee. Then you can say you’ve accomplished something already today.”

Across From the Tannery

Late December 19th, Stan trekked slowly northwest. He heard lots of banging, coming from down around Bastogne, he figured. He began to wonder if there were any friendly lines to make it back to. “Damn Germans,” he muttered, “we had ’em all but beat. Now they’re everywhere and callin’ the shots. Must’ve tore through our front like W. C. Fields through gin. For all I know, Lefebvre may be back in their greasy paws already.” He looked at the gray sky—how he hated the thought of those paws anywhere near Eva.

A few hours after nightfall, he came out of a long stretch of woods to a narrow field. Across the field was a hard surface road. Broken clouds galloped across the moon, each pass bedimming the luminous landscape. During one of these dark moments, he hustled through the field and ducked under the low branches of a lone fir tree near the road. He surveyed the area. Directly across from his tree there teetered a brooding, barn-sized building. When the moon reemerged, it revealed a time-blanched sign, Tannerie Letisse S.A. The building had lost most of its siding and many roof tiles, so that it seemed a gaunt skeleton only waiting for the coup de grâce that a strong wind or perhaps an artillery shell might deliver. He tried to picture the building new—sturdy, bright, bustling—but he couldn’t. Like an old schoolmarm, its youth was unimaginable.

Across the road, in an open, moonlit space, movement caught his eye. Two figures darted toward the building—an adult and a child. Leading was a stout woman in a long dark coat. Her red scarf had slipped back off her head. With one hand, she pulled along a young boy in a blue coat and cap. The child skidded on the snow, but the woman kept him up and moving. In her other arm, she carried a bundle. A baby, Stan figured. As if swallowed by it, they disappeared into the wooden hulk. Stan looked down the road and saw no one pursuing them. He wondered if he should help, but what could he do?

Stan was about to move on when he heard footsteps. A moment later, a German soldier passed by, left to right, on his side of the road. Soon another trudged by, right to left, on the far side. From then on, German sentries shuffled by at roughly three-minute intervals.

Stan couldn’t chance crossing the road. He was about to slip back across the field when he heard vehicles. He froze. The noise got louder. Riding abreast, two motorcycles, K-rads, rolled past. Up clanked one of the huge, whitewashed panzers, like the one that had destroyed the two Shermans. Its gun silhouetted against the sky, the beast was just forty feet from Stan. The gigantic treads croaked an eerie duet of hoarse rumbling and chirping creaks. He felt the ground tremble. Though the moon was covered, he could make out infantrymen riding on the deck. He could see the glowing tips of their cigarettes. As it passed he smelt the exhaust.

Right after the first tank came another. Same sound. Same cigarette tips. Same smell. Then a single troop truck, a three-ton Opel, with a white canvas cover over the back.

Next came a Kraut jeep. It pulled to the side of the road and an officer jumped out. He signaled, slowing the convoy.

The breath froze in Stan’s lungs.

A half-tracked truck with high metal sides on the rear, an Opel Mule, clattered by. Stan could tell it was open on top as he saw helmets bob up and down with each bump in the road. Five more of the half-track Mules loped by. Next came a dozen K-rad cycles with their dozen sidecars. Then sixty or more troops on bicycles, their rifles strapped across the backs of their white tunics. There was some space and then came more panzers—smaller ones and more boxy than the first two. There were eight of these, each slapped with whitewash and each with troops riding up top.

After the panzers creaked by, there was a fuel wagon drawn by an emaciated pair of horses. On the back of the rusty metal vessel was stenciled, “Benzin 7,000 lit.” and “Nicht Rauchen.” Next came several small halftracks, each with a pod of four large caliber machine guns pointed skyward. Finally there were trucks, at least thirty, all brandnew three-ton Opels, with white canvass covers over the backs. As the string of trucks rolled by, Stan shook his head and wondered, My God, where’s First Army? Where’s the Air Corps? The whole damn Wehrmacht’s pourin’ through here. I’m fucked. We’re all fucked.

The last truck had a wooden shanty on the back. The shanty had a tall stovepipe belching gray smoke. As it approached, Stan smelled food. It reminded him how hungry he was.

The officer signaled again, and the parade halted. As Stan watched men pour out of the trucks, he wiggled deeper under the fir boughs. Down dropped the wooden tailgate of the shanty truck, clearly a mess wagon. Men streamed by, taking trays of steaming chow. They went off in small groups, laughing and talking. Some tromped into the field, behind Stan. Some ate squatting. Some stood. Some sat on their gray woolen greatcoats or their rucksacks. So many smoked that the still air hung blue. There must have been five hundred soldiers milling around.

A group of five soldiers sat near Stan, arguing. Suddenly one jumped up, pointed to the weathercock atop the tannery, and shouted, “Der Hahn, da. Drei mal!” He tossed his cigarette dramatically and aimed his rifle. Pop, pling. Pop, pling. Pop, pling. The soldier laughed riotously, as did his comrades. They each slapped money into his hand.

A moment later another of them jumped up. He fired a burp gun from the waist, shooting just to the side of the mess truck. Tat, tat, tat, tat, tat. He hit the Tannerie sign. Some of the siding clattered down, kicking up a cloud of dust. The soldier in the mess truck cursed. Lots of others laughed. Stan was thinking about the woman and her children inside.

A sergeant bellowed, and men began sauntering back to the trucks. Stan was thinking he might have lucked out, until a German came running toward him. The big fellow unslung his rifle. Stan held his breath.

The soldier leaned his Mauser on a bough of Stan’s fir. He began singing, in English, “We’re in the money. We’re in the money. We’ve got a lot of what it takes to get along.” The accent was thick, but he had the words right. As he sang, he unbuttoned his fly and began to piss on the tree limb. Urine splashed on Stan’s face and hands, but he didn’t move. He barely breathed. When the soldier was done and had buttoned his fly, he reached for his rifle and bumped it. It clattered down, under the tree limb. “Scheiβ,” he muttered.

Stan stared at the muzzle, just inches from his face. It was like being eye-to-eye with a rattler. The air in his lungs burned.

The German moved the branch to reach his rifle. Stan watched his gloved hand move in and grab it at the small of the stock. He watched the rifle barrel slip away. And he watched the German turn and amble off like a bear to one of the trucks. Stan exhaled.

There was more bellowing by the sergeant. Up and down the line, engines started up. Stragglers came running, one pulling up his pants as he dashed. Before hustling to his truck, a soldier scraped what was left of his chow onto the ground next to Stan’s fir. Soon all the soldiers had remounted their trucks, their bicycles, their motorcycles—whatever brought them. Then the parade moved on.

Except for his shaking, Stan didn’t move a muscle for five minutes. Sentries were still patrolling. They were back to their three-minute intervals.

After one sentry passed, Stan reached out and grabbed a fistful of the food the German had dumped near his tree. It was a glob of gluey, wide noodles with a few peas and carrot pieces in brown gravy. It tasted wonderful.

Another troop convoy came by a half hour later. This one was all Opel trucks, and it did not stop. Its last truck picked up the sentries. Then everything was quiet.

Alone, cold, frightened, Stan thought about the good men he had seen die in the last two days. Especially Sgt. Harkin. He figured Maxwell went out so well, doin’ what he loved—couldn’t feel too bad for him. But Harkin—Dang, in the space of a few days the guy became like a pa to me. Stan didn’t know much about Harkin’s personal life, just that he wasn’t ready to die. He whispered, “Didn’t even know his first name.” Nestled under his fir tree, he shivered and tears rolled down his cheeks. At some point, he drifted off to sleep.

Stan woke at dawn. The road was quiet and he snuck from under the tree and found several piles of dumped food. He spied an untouched tray of chow next to a large rock and was walking to it when he heard a sound behind him. It was a skinny dog with the same idea he had. Stan said, “It’s OK, fella, there’s plenty for both of us.”

An instant later Stan heard voices. He scrambled back under his tree. Three soldiers approached, walking down the center of the road. As they got close, Stan realized the trio was two Germans with a GI in front, his hands on his helmet. The Germans followed him, one with his weapon trained on his back and the other carrying two rifles.

Stan remembered Harkin saying, “You kill when you have to kill.” Saving another GI counts, he figured. He saw no one else around. As the men passed, he silently slipped off the safety on his M-1 and put the rifle’s sights on the center of the back of the German covering the GI. Steady now. Hold your breath, Stan. The world, except for the center of his target’s long gray coat, blurred. Just squeeze that trigger. This’s for Harkin.

The shot’s report and the rifle’s recoil startled Stan. It crashed everything back into stark crispness. He heard the soldier’s cough and watched him crumple. Stan felt a surge of pride. The other German spun round. He crouched, scanning the roadside. “So long, Fritz,” Stan whispered as he fired, knocking his enemy backward.

The American on the road threw his hands up. “GI. GI. Don’t shoot!” he hollered.

Stan crawled out from under the fir and looked up and down the road. He ran toward the American, who picked up his M-1 and brought the butt down on the throat of the German screaming in pain. Then all was quiet.

As Stan got close, the GI turned to him. “Max?” Stan gasped.

Max yelled, “Chandler! What the fuck are you doing here, you beautiful SOB, you.”

“Just a lousy REMF tryin’ to help the real soldiers in my own little way.” Stan winked. “But there’s no time for yapping. Place’s crawlin’ with Krauts. We’d best get these guys off the road before some more come by.”

Max ignored Stan. He ran up and gave him a bear hug. “Pally-boy, I owe you a heap.”

Stan pushed him away. “OK, OK, so you owe me. Let’s clean up and get outta here.”

They dragged the Germans behind the fir tree, retrieved the cigarettes they’d swiped from Max an hour before, and took a canteen of water and a flask of brandy. Max brushed snow on the bodies while Stan ran back to cover the blood on the road.

Soon Max was tugging Stan’s arm. “OK, Chandler. S’good. Let’s hot-foot it.”

Stan jerked his arm free. “Hold on. There’s some civies holed up in there.” He pointed to the tannery. “Gotta see if they’re OK.”

Stan picked up the tray of food that had been left by the rock and ran to the tannery door. He peered in and saw the woman and her children cowering in a dark corner. Stan put down his rifle. He said slowly and loudly, “I’m an American. Are you OK?” The woman pulled her children close. “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you. The Hun left grub when they pulled out. Help yourself.” He set the tray on the floor. “You know, Mangez!”

When Stan stepped back outside, Max was already heading for the woods, calling over his shoulder, “Come on, pally. Let’s make tracks.”

Stan looked back at the woman, who was still enveloping her children in a quaking embrace. He tipped his helmet and picked up his rifle, then he hustled after Max. At the tree line, he looked back at the tannery building. Not a stir. He didn’t look back again.

The two Americans continued on the western tack Stan had been following. The shelling to the south, toward Bastogne, was heavy and continuous.

The pair walked all day and most of the night of 20 December. Finally, the next morning, near the village of Samrée, they spotted a GI truck hitched to a howitzer. The tandem was stopped on a snowy little road just off the highway. Icicles hung from the truck’s fenders and snow covered its hood. Five soldiers huddled around a smoky fire nearby.

Stan and Max approached cautiously until they heard the men speaking English. “Hey fellas,” Max called, “got a couple GIs coming up on ya from the west. Don’t shoot.”

One of the men stepped toward Stan and Max with his rifle ready. “Whatcha want?”

Stan put a hand up, an Indian peace sign. “Brother, we’re cold. Just want to mosey up to your fire. Maybe get a bite to eat if ya got it and a ride to wherever you’re headed.”

The man waved the pair forward. “You can share the fire and have some grub, but we ain’t going nowhere.” Drake was written in crayon on a piece of tape on his helmet.

The seven GIs stood silently around the fire, rubbing their hands and stomping their feet.

Finally Stan said, “So, what’s the story here, gents?” He swallowed hard.

Drake looked at his comrades. “We were with the 114^th Artillery. Got overrun this side of La Roche.” He pointed to the howitzer. “This piece’s the only one survived. Division sent what’s left of our outfit to beef up 3^rd Armored, near Trois Ponts. Hear it’s lousy with Kraut tanks up there—trying to punch a hole in our lines and race up to Lefebvre. Word is, our brain trust broke some German code and found out that’s the linchpin for their whole fucking operation. Reckon they’re fixin’ to whack us in two like a ripe melon.” He looked at his comrades. “Well, we figure we been whacked enough.” The men with Drake nodded their heads and mumbled.

Hearing Lefebvre sent a shiver through Stan. He forgot how tired he was. How hungry. How cold. “If there’s a chance to stop the stinkin’ Hun this side of Lefebvre, count me in. You sad sacks don’t seem to be using the truck, so I’ll be taking it up to Trois Ponts.” Reflected flames danced in Stan’s eyes. “And nobody’s stoppin’ me.”

“Haven’t forgotten I owe ya, Chandler,” Max said. “I’ll tag along to watch your back.”

Stan grinned at Max. “Don’t mind if you do. Let’s roll, pally.” He took a step toward the truck and stopped. He turned back and eyed Drake and the others back at the fire. “’Fore I go, let me say just one thing to you saps. I knew a fella that ran out on some good men to save his skin. It ate on him, I’ll tell ya. Comes down to this—stay here shakin’ in your boots, and you’ll never forgive yourselves. Not long as you live.” Stan’s gaze went from man to man. He saw Max, standing next to him, discretely slide his hand to the stock of his rifle.

For a moment, no one moved. Drake’s lip trembled and he growled, “You bastard.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. “I’m no coward. None of us are. Only when we got our asses whooped back there—” His voice softened. “—I guess we just lost it.” Drake kicked at the snow and grimaced. “Look…maybe I could give it another go.” He turned to the others. “Anybody else up for it?”

The gunners looked at each other and muttered OKs and yeahs, none very enthusiastic.

“Sounds like the Lone Ranger here’s talked us all into heading up Trois Ponts’ way with him,” Max said. He jerked the truck cab’s door open. “How ’bout if I drive this crate?”

The six other GIs climbed aboard, and Max tore off. Near the crossroads town of Chevron they were folded into General Iron Mike Faronell’s 3rd Armored Division, the unit assigned to blunt the 2nd SS Panzer’s thrust to the Meuse.

On December 27, Stan, Max, and what was left of a tank platoon from Faronell’s Division were using a burned-out Sherman’s hulk to block the main road into Chevron. A Tiger tank, supported by infantry, engaged them. With a bazooka, defenders uphill of the road managed to knock a track off the panzer, immobilizing it. But its gun was still operational and it blasted the charred husk of the American tank Stan was using for cover. The detonation knocked him unconscious. The panzer was raking the GIs with machinegun fire when a P-51 Mustang rolled out of the sky, spewing rockets that turned it into a metal inferno. The advance was blunted.

Stan awoke in a makeshift first aid station set up in a cabin near Odeigne. The right side of his face was covered in gauze held by a bandage that wrapped around his head. A Belgian named Ronday had managed to stop the bleeding from metal splinters in and around Stan’s right eye. A day later, he was evacuated to the K-2 hospital in Liege.

Stan’s hospital ward, B-4, had ten beds. In the next bunk was a PFC named McCoy. With a cast from hip to toe suspended by wires from the ceiling, the private was immobile, so occasionally Stan helped him out, fetching glasses of water and scratching his foot with a comb they kept for that purpose. In return, McCoy read aloud to Stan from magazines and newspapers. A January 10^thStars and Stripes feature on the fighting they’d both been part of was of such interest that McCoy repeated the closing paragraph.

“It’s early for definitive assessments,” McCoy read, “but the Bulge fighting ongoing in southeast Belgium looks likely to prove pivotal. While he termed US losses ‘sobering,’ General Eisenhower called the cost to Germany, already pegged at 100,000 men and commensurate materiel, ‘terminal.’ Said Ike, ‘There will be difficult days as we drive through the German homeland to Berlin, but thanks to the fortitude and determination of American fighting men in the Ardennes, I believe the final outcome of the war in Europe is no longer in doubt.’”

“No longer in doubt.” Stan inhaled like he’d just stepped into a rose garden. “Like the ring of that, McCoy. Can you clip me what you just read?”

McCoy tore the story out and handed it to Stan who folded it carefully and tucked it into his pajama pocket.

In Fragrant Water

Even after Army surgeons removed metal fragments from his right eye in early January 1945, Stan was still blind on that side. The docs were hopeful the condition was temporary, but he would need several weeks’ recovery in the military hospital on the edge of Liege.

Eva heard about Stan from his friends at the Lefebvre depot. She was preparing to go to Liege when she got a postcard from Henri. Business problems. Pruvot still missing. Grandfather assigned me new work. Elsewhere. Try to connect with Canary. I’ve told her what to do.

Madame Ducoisie arranged for a room for Eva in the home of her cousin in Liege’s old city. Waiting for the bus that would take her there, Eva told the old woman, “Uncle’s business had a big setback. He’s left the country. Left me on my own, he said. But he hasn’t really. You see, he doesn’t approve of Stanley. So, if he sends anyone snooping, asking about me, tell them I’ve gone to France looking for work. Tell them you don’t know where.”

Eva came every day to see Stan in the hospital. She was sunshine in his darkness. On January twenty-third, the day his bandages were traded for a black eye patch, he learned the same was true for the other men in Wardroom B-4.

Cutting off the bandages that morning, his doctor told Stan, “You’re making good progress, Son.” But afterward, with the vision in his right eye still murky a month after his surgery, Stan sat in bed, brooding about how far he still had to go. That’s how Eva found him when she visited that afternoon, wearing a bright red bandanna. In her first minute there, she removed the scarf and tied it over the top of his head, seaman-style. Using a butter knife from his lunch tray, she ceremoniously dubbed him, “Monsieur Patch of Black, le Pirate Notoire.” Then she went into an impromptu musical sketch based on a children’s song about the life of a pirate. It had many verses, and chanteuse Eva sang a mix of English and French lyrics, some of which she made up on the spot. She did a little hornpipe dance as she sang. After the first verse, she circled the room, from bed to bed, blowing kisses and tickling grizzled GIs under the chin as she sang.

“Better than Bob Hope,” said the nurse from Tulsa who peeked in during Eva’s routine. Then, seeing the men’s faces, she reconsidered. “Hell, make that better than penicillin.”

After the pirate number, the men cheered so heartily that Eva engaged them all in an extended version of Frère Jacques, sung in rounds, first in English and then in French. No one wanted to stop, and it went on and on and on. Stan really got it only when he glanced over at the next bed and saw the kid who had lost both legs to a mine and hadn’t said a word in the week he’d been there—now he was singing along and laughing so hard tears rolled down his cheeks. At that moment, Stan knew it. Even if he did make Eva his wife, he’d have to share her with the world. But looking at the guys around him, seeing the joy she cooked up, he figured, heck, sharing her with the world wouldn’t be so dang bad.

With his bandages removed and his patch in place, Stan was given three more weeks’ convalescence at the hospital. He was required to sleep there, but his days were his own. He spent them with Eva in Liege.

Every morning Eva rode the streetcar to the hospital, arriving before eight. Typical of Belgian winters, misty rain often rode down on gusting wind. No matter how gray the weather, Eva and Stan ate breakfast outside, under the awning of a sidewalk café a block from the hospital. They always had strong coffee, bread, and chocolate. Then Eva would take Stan’s arm and they’d walk.

Though cold and wet, the air was good. And the occasional screech and sputter of German V-1 buzz bombs overhead lent excitement. The parts of the city that hadn’t been heavily damaged were charming and romantic.

“Cold as hell,” Stan muttered as they shuffled along.

Eva’s brow wrinkled. “But it makes no sense, cold as hell.” She poked Stan. “In English, there is never a logic.”

“Huh! Now that you point it out, I reckon it don’t.” Stan looked up at the sky. “Guess we say as hell and hell of a when we mean a lot. Beaucoup.” He pulled her close. “Anyway, cold or hot don’t matter, bein’ here with you.”

By early afternoon, they were chilled and tired and ready for lunch. They always ate at du Point de Vue, an old tavern across from a pigeon-covered statue on the Place de la République Française. Outside, the tavern was easy to overlook, a sparrow nesting among the architectural cardinals and finches of the square. But inside it was alive and full of character. Inside, history was written on the low, soot-covered ceiling. Inside, air warmed steamy by the fireplace and the coal stove with its boiling pot of soup made the windows opaque. Dusty hunting trophies, the mounted heads of fierce, tusked boars, glared down. The beer was cold and the ham and cheese sandwiches were hot. Inside, coal miners were the equals of bankers.

And inside, Madame Hélène, the plump, old propriétaire whom everyone kissed on coming in and again on going, was sovereign. Hélène, whose puppet-like face, with its hoary skin set off by thin red hair on top and garishly rouged cheeks on the sides, launched nary a ship. Hélène, whose hearty laugh, ever lurking behind the ivory cigarette holder clenched in her amber teeth, warmed as well as her stove’s fire.

Madame Hélène took an instant liking to Eva and Stan. She mentioned an American boy she knew after the Great War, and maybe that had something to do with it. She always seated them in a stoveside booth, even holding it for their arrival. Hélène made them special dishes for lunch. After a week, she slipped Eva the key to one of the two upstairs rooms overlooking the Place. She was blunt about it: “For your lovemaking. You can’t very well spend your afternoons in his hospital bed, you know. Besides my rooms are famous, or perhaps, infamous.” Hélène leaned close to Eva and whispered, “This inn got its name in the Seventeenth Century, when people used its upper floor to watch the executions of murderers, rapists, and spies carried out in the Place.” She arched her eyebrows.

Eva’s only reaction was flinching at the word spies.

When she and Stan finished lunch, Eva used her finger to draw a heart in the moisture clouding the window next to their booth. She took out the old iron key Hélène had given her. It was black and heavy and it hung from her finger on a loop of cord. Eva swung the key as might a hypnotist, telling Stan with an enticing grin, “Madame Hélène invites us to take a view of the Place from upstairs. Come up with me and you’ll see something.”

Stan followed her through the door at the back of the tavern. They creaked up a narrow, steep set of stairs to the second floor. At the top was a long hallway, set off by a railing from an open storage area. The storeroom was dusty. Old furniture, pictures, and boxes were piled up. A large, orange-stripe cat crouched on one box and watched the couple pass. At the hallway’s end were doors. Eva went directly to the door with the brass numeral 2. She gave the key to Stan, and he inserted it into the lock and strained to turn it. The lock groaned and finally disengaged with a clunk. Instead of a doorknob, there was a hinged brass ring. He lifted the ring and turned it, and the old door swung into the room. As it did, a flood of sunlight poured out, enveloping Eva in the hallway. Gray as the weather had been, the brightness surprised Stan. Eva looked so radiant, so fresh, he felt as giddy as he had the first time he saw her on that bicycle in Lefebvre.

Stan caught his breath. He bowed and showed Eva in. He stepped in behind her and looked around. With the rain stopped and the sky clear, the tiny room sang with sunlight. There was a small wooden table with a candle, an ashtray, and a bottle of wine and glasses. There was a bed, turned open in invitation. It was made with white sheets and pillows and a red and white checked duvet, and it had white metal frame. Between bed and table there was a handsome Jugendstil floor lamp. The walls had been papered long ago in white with blue pinstripes. Along one seam that paper had begun to peel, showing its baroque-style predecessor. Framed pictures of Parisian street cafés hung over the bed.

Eva took both Stan’s hands in hers and leaned back, letting her blond tresses cascade down. “Oh Stanley, isn’t it the sweetest little nest? And it is all ours for these days.” She pulled herself up. “Dance with me.”

Stan smiled at her playfulness and her beauty. “But there’s no music, hon.”

“We have the music in our hearts.”

Eva moved her left hand to Stan’s shoulder and she pulled herself close to him. “And so. One, two three. One, two three. One, two three.”

They swooshed back and forth through the room’s open space. After a minute and several near misses, they bumped into the floor lamp, sending it over. Stan caught it before it crashed to the floor. He set it right and bowed in apology. “Pardon un gauche Américain, Mademoiselle.”

Eva laughed. “Do you apologize to the lamp or to me?”

“If I offended you, lovely young lady, please accept my regrets.”

Eva peered into his face. “Stanley, nothing of you offends me. For me you are a prince most charming. You are my love.”

As if the air in his lungs had frozen, Stan was unable to speak. He pulled Eva close. His mouth fell on hers like a wave breaking on the shore. He pushed back a blond tress, and his lips brushed over cheek to ear. The lobe felt hot. Stan inhaled, and the ambrosial scent of her hair overcame him. He heard her breathing quicken. Felt her body going limp in his arms. Yielding. Welcoming. Asking. He held the back of her head and kissed her ear. Then his mouth slipped back to hers. After a moment, he pulled away. Pulled away because he wanted to see her lips, to drink in their shape, their color. To see her ears, her eyes. To see her, yielding, giving. To memorize it all.

Eva brought his lips back to hers. She kissed as if mouths were portals of the soul and a kiss might make their two souls one.

“I want to swim,” Eva whispered. “in the fragrant water. I want to swim in the fragrant water with you. I want to become as water with you.” She moved backward, imperceptibly at first, pulling Stan along. She moved them together toward the bed.

Stan looked at the bed over Eva’s shoulder. It was opened, welcoming, drawing them to it. He felt powerless to resist, even if he had wanted to, and the fire in his thighs and the certainty of his erection made clear that he did not.

When they were near the bed, Eva stopped. She looked into Stan’s eyes and smiled the warmest smile he could imagine. She removed her sky blue cardigan sweater, the one he said matched her eyes. The plainness of her white cotton blouse brought out the color of autumn flax, wind-caressed and fully ripe, in her hair. She unbuttoned and slipped off the blouse and undid the button and the zipper at the side of her skirt. She let it fall.

Stan looked at her standing before him in her slip. Her talk of water made him marvel—of all the GIs around, an ocean of them, she chose a country kid from Hooker County. She chose him. “Let me catch up,” Stan whispered. He quickly removed his jacket, his tie, his shirt, his undershirt, and his pants.

Eva pulled the straps of her slip off of her shoulders. She purred an I’m-yours sigh and put her hands on Stan’s waist. Stan eased the slip down till it fell to the floor. He held her close and felt the hardness, the hotness of her nipples on his chest.

Eva slid onto the bed pulling Stan along. He slipped off her underpants and his own shorts. He kissed her lips, her ear, her hair, her eyes. They made love. The first time. Stan was amazed how natural, how easy, how right it felt. Afterward, he lay next to her feeling consumed, taken up in her. As if floating in warm, buoyant, intoxicatingly-fragrant water, he drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke, he saw Eva, wearing his shirt. She was writing at the table.

Stan sat up in bed. “Not writin’ a good-bye note, I hope.”

Eva looked at him. “Maybe…and maybe not.”

Stan was glad to see her grin.

“I’m just writing some lines about today,” she said.

“About us, today?”

“Maybe, and maybe not.” She grinned again. “When I’ve finished, you can see.”

Stan lolled in the bed. Five minutes later, she brought him the paper. It bore a dozen lines with words crossed out, moved, and new ones inserted here and there. “Before this, don’t believe I ever knew somebody who wrote a real poem,” he said.

“Mother Catherine loved poetry.” Eva gazed through the window as if seeing the sunbathed square could change the past. “She taught me.”

He kissed her hand. “I’d like to hear the poem from your lips. Will you read it out?”

Eva took the paper. She sat on the bed with her back to Stan and read.

Liege, January 1945

Mornings we strolled streets wickedly cold,

Streets still dressed in the night’s frock of ice.

The brisk wind screamed its screech and its scold,

Stinging our cheeks like a razor’s quick slice.

We set pace and path to place us à midi

On placid Place de la République Française.

At Madame Helene’s inn, so homey and hearty,

Though love’s heat bests hearth’s hardy blaze.

We devoured our bier, our frites, our crusty baguette,

Fat with creamy mustard and pink Ardennes ham.

Then we climbed creaking stairs to a beckoning bed,

And lapped by fragrant water, together we swam.

Stan said nothing.

Eva turned to him. “It’s OK?”

“OK? Yeah, it’s OK.” Stan put his arms around Eva and kissed her belly. “Guess maybe I do know what you mean by fragrant water.”

Picnic

On February third Stan got rid of the eye patch. He still had a trace of blurred vision and light sensitivity, but his progress was definite and steady. He moved from the hospital to make room for casualties arriving from the fighting in Germany.

Pending reassignment, hospital administration billeted Stan in a boxcar converted into sleeping quarters for recovering GIs. Ninety of these boxcars were set out on rail sidings near the Guillemins train station in Liege. Each had eight double bunk beds, sixteen lockers, and a kerosene heater. There were mess cars and a shower unit with hot water. In February 1945 almost every one of the 1,440 bunks was occupied.

One evening when Stan returned from a day spent with Eva, a visitor waited to see him. It was Sgt. Waxman from the supply depot at Lefebvre.

Waxman was friendlier than Stan had ever seen him. “Stan, my boy, let’s go have us a drink.” They went to a small café just across from the train station.

When they had their beers, Waxman pulled out and lit a half smoked cigar. He held the stogie under his nose and inhaled approvingly, as if the aroma were lilac.

“So, how you doing now, kid?” Waxman asked.

“Not bad,” Stan said. “Things OK back at the depot?”

“Yeah, it’s real quiet now. Rumor is we’ll be moving up to Dortmund in Germany soon, but it ain’t official.”

Stan nodded. He knew Waxman hadn’t come by to discuss unit status.

Waxman looked around the café. He leaned toward Stan and said in a hushed voice, “Chandler, I gotta hand it to you. However you did it, you had it smack on about the Krauts and the depot.” Waxman pulled a wad of paper from his pocket—the one on which Stan had predicted the German offensive.

Stan’s right eyelid twitched.

Waxman continued, “On the Monday after you left, Thane Christie’s on duty, right? I’d told him to ring me if anyone he don’t know shows up.” Waxman relit the cigar. “So I gets this call from Thane. He tells me three fellas he don’t know just pulled up to the depot gate in a jeep. These jokers show him orders. They had GI unis and knew the day’s password—the challenge was Spike and the reply was Jones. Christie says they even went into singing a few bars of Spike’s song, Der Fuhrer’s Face. Laughing about it. So I comes over and asks ’em a few more questions. Most they know, a few they don’t. But it’s always one guy that’s answering. When he can’t tell me that B&D stands for Blanchard and Davis, I’d had enough. Called the security office to send up some more MPs. Next thing you know, big-time shooting busts out. Like the fuckin’ OK Corral. Christie gets the gate locked all right, but he takes a couple of slugs to the gut, poor old scottie. I held ’em off till the cavalry rides up. We kills two of ’em and wounds th’other. Corps G-2 takes him off for questioning and damned if he ain’t a Kraut commando! Shot the SOB as a spy that Thursday morning.”

The sergeant blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Never did find out how they got the papers, the uniforms, the jeep, the passwords. A couple others pulled the same stunt at the stone bridge in Lefebvre. Thanks to your warning, they was foiled, too.”

Waxman puffed again and moved his head even closer to Stan. “They was figuring on gassing their tanks with the depot’s fuel stocks and dashing over the bridge all the way to Antwerp. Kid, it was just like you called it.” He paused like it was Stan’s turn to talk.

Stan looked at his hands. “Sorry Thane got shot up. Good you were on the ball, Sarge.” He fidgeted. “Look, I gotta be gettin’ back. I’m supposed to in by 2100 hours.”

Waxman slid his chair close to Stan’s. “OK, OK. First tell me how you knew.”

“Aw, Sarge, I didn’t know. Probably was just a lucky guess. Think I had a dream or somethin’ about a Kraut attack. It seemed so real, I had to tell someone. I figured you’d laugh, so I wrote this.” He picked up the note. “Hey, I really gotta run now. Thanks for the beer.”

Stan pushed away from the table and was already at the door when Waxman called, “Chandler, hold on. Gimme my damn note back.”

As he bolted through the quiet darkness, Stan’s brain raced as fast as his feet. Damn it, Waxman, don’t you think I’ve wondered, too? ’Bout how Eva knew? Well, it’s not like I can just ask. Hell, I can’t stand to even think about it. Recalling his old man saying, “Kid, don’t ask how sausage gets made,” Stan crumpled the note and threw it into a trashcan.

Without official duties, Stan could spend his days with Eva, and he gladly let that pleasure push sticky questions about geese with teeth from his thoughts. And of them, February 14, 1945 was the most pleasant of all. Bookended by cold, wet weather, that Valentine’s Day was bright and unseasonably warm. Like school kids, Eva and Stan practically skipped the route of their morning walk, and it seemed that the whole of Liege poured outdoors to greet them. When they got to du Point de Vue, Madame Hélène had a picnic packed for the lovers.

On the university grounds, Stan and Eva found an old bench on a grassy knoll overlooking the Meuse. Their lunch basket was stocked with sandwiches of sausage and cheese on crusty rolls, bitter salad leaves, hard-boiled eggs, and bottles of Jupiler beer. After stuffing themselves, the warmth of the sunshine was narcotic. Stan laid out his jacket for Eva to lie on. He watched her stretch like a cat and lie on her back to nap. Drowsy though he was, he had to watch her for a moment: Blond hair lolled out on OD wool. Face made mysterious by the dark glasses she wore. Arms crossed over ribs, cradling breasts. Skirt, zebra-bold black and white stripe, fanning out from her waist. He gazed at Eva until he could fight sleep no more, then he lay on his side next to her. When he held her hand and nestled his lips to her ear, Eva smiled in her sleep. Stan was smiling too as he drifted off.

When he woke up, Stan saw Eva sitting next to him, knees pulled up against her chest, gazing over the river. Ain’t this somethin’ to wake up to? But before he said anything, before she noticed he was awake, he saw the tracks of tears on her cheek. It startled him, and he popped up on his elbow.

Seeing Stan stir, Eva turned her head and brushed away her tears with the back of her hand. She coughed. “At last sleeping beauty awakens. I thought I might need to call a princess to kiss you back to life.”

“Find another princess when the best one of all is here next to me?”

Eva forced a smile. “Hardly a princess.”

“Honey, what’s wrong?” He knew her well enough not to expect much of an answer.

But she surprised him. “Stanley, so many bad memories live here. So much evil has happened. The war won’t let me go even after it’s moved on.” She fell silent.

Stan felt like she was a million miles distant, and he hated it. He shuffled ideas like a dealer does cards then stood, facing her. He stood and took her hands in his, intensity etched on his face. “Eva, if it’s what you say, if bein’ here’s the problem, why don’t you come back to Hooker County with me? The war can’t touch you there.” Without releasing her hands, without breaking his gaze, Stan dropped down on one knee. “What I’m tryin’ to say is, will you marry me, honey? It’s a new land, and I’d love you forever.”

Eva peered into his eyes. “You would, wouldn’t you?” She looked off. “A new land, a new start.” She tumbled that prospect through her mind for a moment. “But would it be fair to you?” She seemed to be asking herself the question.

Stan’s eyes opened wide. “Fair to me? God, it would be the fairest, the best thing ever for me. Don’t you get it? You’re the most important thing in the world to me!” He raised his hands in dismay. “The only thing.”

“But you don’t know what I really am.”

“Whatever you were doesn’t matter. I only care what you are. What you are to me. Listen, you’re what got me through in the Ardennes. You’re my dreams, my hopes.” He held her hands and wouldn’t go on until she looked at him. “I got no future without you.”

“But what if smoke from the past smudges that future black?”

“Honey, I’m talking about a future—a new life—a whole world away. So far away the past can’t find it.”

Tears filled Eva’s eyes. “Stanley my love, I want more than anything to say yes, for I too have no future without you.”

“Then for Christ’s sake, say it!” Stan boomed.

Eva felt like she was teetering on a log. “What if I say I would be yours as long as it is fair to you. As long as it doesn’t hurt you. But if being yours ever comes to threaten you—” Her eyes bored into his. “—then I will be gone. Could you have me on those terms?”

“Of course I could, ’cuz I know it’ll always be fair to me.”

“You’ll understand then, if ever I’m gone, that I had to go? Had to protect you?”

Stan nodded.

Eva took his hands in hers. “Say it.”

Stan squeezed her hands. “I will understand.” He kissed them. “But I ain’t worried.”

Eva’s resistance toppled like a spun-out top. She nestled his neck and whispered, “Okey-dokey. If you’ll have me that way, then, Stanley, I say yes.”

Holding each other, their laughter and tears frothed up like warm champagne.

Eva said, “Now I have two favorite English words, Okey-dokey and yes. And I got to say both in one breath.” A moment later she turned intense. She kissed Stan passionately. “Let’s return Madame Hélène’s basket. Then I want more kisses like that one.”

The fire in her voice ignited another inside Stan. He kissed her and slid his hand under her skirt. “Kisses and maybe something else?”

Eva grabbed his hand and looked around, giggling. “Good things come to the patient.”

“That’s me,” said Stan. “After all, even the Army says I’m still a patient.”

Eva jumped up, smoothed her skirt, and pulled Stan to his feet.

He took her arm in his and charged ahead like the cavalry. “Allez, a du Point de Vue!”

Eva laughed. “These French-speaking Americans, they make my knees soft!”

Giovanna’s Sin

With Eva’s yes, Stan petitioned the Army for permission to marry. His request had to buck up the chain of command all the way to Army Group level. He had to plug away at his desk job with hospital supply and wait. The green light came on April 19.

Eva and Stan married in Liege’s Hôtel de Ville, a few blocks from the Place de la République Française. Madame Ducoisie attended with her cousin. Madame Hélène and four of the regulars from du Point de Vue were there, as were Stan’s doctor and two GIs. When Stan was surprised Henri hadn’t made it, Eva told him, “Uncle’s business hit some angry rocks about the time the December fighting started. He told me he’ll travel to make the repairs but no one hears from him since. Such a pity.”

The magistrate who conducted the civil ceremony was a stooped old codger with hollow cheeks and a vulture’s beak of a nose. After the wedding, he told Madame Hélène, “Makes me ill! Americans abducting our girls like this.”

He’d have been better off keeping his opinions to himself. Within two minutes she’d told the whole wedding party. Hearing it, Stan patted the breast pocket of his Eisenhower jacket. “Had a one-ton coal ration card in here to tip the old bird. Now I reckon it’ll just stay put.”

Stan and Eva spent three days honeymooning at the hotel Le Relais in the resort town of Spa. Soon afterward, orders came for Stan’s return to the States for discharge. The question became how to get Eva there, too, since there was no civilian transatlantic travel that summer. With hundreds of European war brides whose GI husbands were about to ship home, this was a big problem. In May 1945 the European Command announced they would secure civilian liners for the transport of spouses of discharged US servicemen to CONUS ports of entry and from there convey to the residence of record of said serviceman. The costs of such conveyance will be borne by the War Department. The timing of Eva’s passage had not yet been set on June 6 when Stan kissed her and climbed onto a train in Liege to begin his trip home.

After Stan’s departure, Eva stayed with Madame Hélène. On July 28 she received official US Army correspondence, with documents of authority attached, instructing her to report on August 11 to the US Embassy in Paris. The letter indicated that from Paris, she would travel to Mullen, Nebraska via LeHavre and New York. A duplicate letter went to Stan, who by then had been a civilian back home in the Sand Hills for almost a month.

Early the morning of August 10, Eva took a train to Paris. Shortly after noon, stepping through a swirl of steam on platform six of the city’s Gare du Nord, she spent her first breathless seconds in the City of Light. If only Stanley were here with me, she thought. She skipped toward the platform’s head, her body rotating so that her valise swung out like an orbiting moon. Gazing at the metal skeleton and translucent glass of the high ceiling and the pigeons fluttering there, Eva felt she might float up to them.

She took a room in the unpretentious Hôtel de Milan, located just outside the station on Rue de Saint Quentin. Behind the reception desk was the hotel owner, who with great formality introduced herself as Madame de Bœuf. Jewels of saliva glistened at both ends of her frown. Clicking noises came from inside her mouth, as if she was eating hard candy. When she jumped off her stool to fetch the room key from a set of hooks on the back wall, she nearly disappeared behind the counter, so dwarfish was she. Her shuffle over and back with the key seemed almost simian. Like a judge warning a felon getting off on a technicality, she admonished Eva to mind the hotel rules as she handed over the key.

“L’hôtel de Bizarre,” Eva whispered as she walked from the reception desk. With a glance back at her hostess, she pushed her valise into the tiny lift and then slipped in next to it through its slight doorway. She ascended to the fourth floor, the ancient contraption complaining all the way. Then it was down a dark and constricted hallway, with its perceptible lean to the left, to her tiny room with creaking floor and stained wallpaper. It smelt of stale sweat and smoke. But it was perfect: It was Paris.

Eva had twenty hours before she was to check in at the embassy the next morning. And she had things to do.

She rode a bus to the city center, the Île de la Cité. She spent the afternoon seeing things she had before only dreamed of. Things in books. Things she might never see again. She took in Notre-Dame and Sainte-Chapelle, spent an hour in the Louvre just to say she’d beheld poor, armless Venus and smug Mona, and walked the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe. Eva drank café nature outdoors on the boulevard and wrote Stan a note on a postcard of the Arc, being sure to mention, A cute Frenchman and a dozen GIs asked to buy me drinks today. I turned them all down.

Tired from her early train travel and the afternoon of walking, Eva took the Metro back to Hôtel de Bizarre for a nap. About 9:00 p.m. she was ready to go out again, now for a nighttime view of the city from the steps of the Sacré-Coeur basilica on Montmatre.

Eva took the Metro to Anvers, the station at the foot of the long stairway up Montmatre. As she left the station, she passed under the wrought iron Metropolitain sign. She stepped onto the street and turned to view the famous Art Nouveau styling. With its swan’s neck ironwork running up to flowerlike light fixtures, the archway seemed familiar. It took her a moment to realize the Metro entryway wasn’t her old friend; it was Mother Catherine’s. Mother used to tell the girls about riding the Metro in Paris as a child, about the graceful panneau d’entrée of the original stations. Eva remembered Mother’s old souvenir picture book of Paris, the one she loved showing the girls. The one Eva herself so loved. As she remembered it, the photo on the cover had been a Metro entrance–perhaps even Anvers, the very one she stood before now.

Standing under Mother’s archway, Eva saw the plainness of her frock turned golden by the light enveloping her. She touched the metal, still warm with the evening’s heat. A train passed below and she felt the ironwork vibrate. Alive. Mother Catherine was with her. She knew it. And she knew what the miracle meant—it was time for the two of them to make their peace. “Mother, ones who love can hurt each other. Can hurt each other so much.” She raised her trembling arms and sobbed. “It was that way for us, wasn’t it?”

Eva reached out and stroked the panneau tenderly. “Oh, Mother, if you know my heart, you know there was never a minute, not a second, that I did not love you. I forgive everything. Caspar forgives. And you—can you forgive?” She wiped her tears with her sleeve. “I only dare ask now because you protected my Stanley in the Ardennes. Mother, please believe that I never intended the bitter fruit of my treachery. Never dreamed they would hurt you…murder you. You, the one who was, is still, mother to me. How could I? And the little ones in the vault? I meant them no harm. The weasel told me the children would just be sent away.” Eva closed her eyes. “I was so naïve.” She gazed up into the light. “I only wanted you to lose what you cared about as much as I did my Caspar. So you’d know how it hurt.” Eva embraced the panneau, clinging as if it were hope itself. “Mother, I beg you. Forgive your daughter on this threshold of her new life.”

Eva heard the sound of giggling and spun around. Across the way, under a streetlamp, a young couple was watching her, amused. Eva pointed at them and screamed, “Get out. Leave us alone.” She threw a stone in their direction, and they strolled off , laughing, into the night.

Eva turned back to the iron. She caressed it. Awaiting a warm embrace. Absolution.

None came.

Eva crumpled to the ground. Lying at the panneau’s foot, she peered up to the light, and her eyes filled with tears. “Can’t you see how I need you?”

She lay there, frozen for a moment. Then she jerked away from the metalwork and scrambled to her feet. “What reply is that?” She clenched her fists. “A daughter’s plea means nothing?” Eyes wide, she threw herself at the panneau and shook it until it clattered. Over the sound she howled, “I’m glad they hanged you.” Then her fury dissolved in sobs.

Eva scrambled away from the panneau. Like it was suddenly fearsome. She ran up the shadowy street toward the seedy Bohemian section, only stopping when she found a street café called Osiris Blanc. A waiter with a long, starched apron, gartered shirt sleeves, garish white skin, and oiled black hair leaned on the outdoor bar, shuffling a stack of coins. At one of the tables along the street a trio of drunks argued loudly. Out of the shadows shambled an old woman wearing a grimy, pink satin gown and ballet slippers. On her wrist was an ancient nosegay of roses dry and gray as wood ash. Her head was crowned with a garland of feathers and her lips were smeared scarlet. Followed by an arthritic, gray-faced mutt, she moved ethereally, picking up cigarette butts from ashtrays and off the sidewalk, placing them reverently in a rusty biscuit tin. An accordion player sat at the bar making music so quirky, so nightmarish, so odd you couldn’t say if it was well-played or not. The place was what Eva wanted.

She took a small, round table, away from the drunks. She sipped a cognac and watched the old woman slice the paper of her cigarette butts with a razor blade. The faded dame tamped the loose tobacco into a pipe and smoked, her dog sleeping at her feet. Eva had another cognac.

A young man, good looking but unkempt and ragged, slinked up to Eva’s table. He leaned on the back of a chair. “My name’s Herve. You’re awfully quiet. Have a name?”

Eva said nothing.

Herve shrugged. “You’re drinking alone, and I’m broke. It’s a pity.”

Raising two fingers, she ordered them both drinks.

Herve slipped into a chair and pulled out a crumpled pack of Gitanes. He offered one to Eva. She waved it off. He licked the cigarette from end to end, then lit up and took a deep drag. “You have a twin, you know.”

Eva said nothing.

“First saw her when I was fifteen. In the Louvre. She lives there.” He stroked his lip with his thumb. “Name’s Giovanna. Know her?”

Eva looked off to the side.

“A bit older than you.” One-sided conversations didn’t seem to bother Herve. The waiter brought the cognacs. Herve raised his glass. “A santé.” He took a pull of the brandy. “Much older really. Four hundred years. Botticelli’s Giovanna? The angelic demoiselle with the upturned eyes in his fresco, Giovanna Tornabuoni riceve le Virtù? In the Louvre? You know?”

Eva bit her lip. She looked like she wanted to leave.

“First time I saw her, I was bewitched.” Herve drew hard on his Git. “So bewitched, I suppose, that I’ve never done anything with my life.” He shuddered and blew a stream of smoke skyward. “Anything would be inferior, second-rate, nothing, next to what Botticelli did.” He crossed his arms tightly and rocked back and forth in his chair. “Can you believe it?” He stopped rocking and smiled weakly. “Ah, I go on too much. It’s just that you look so like her.” He finished his brandy. “Will we have another?”

Eva slammed her glass down. “We will go sin. Will you sin with me? You live nearby?”

Herve drew back. “Yes,” he stammered. “Sin? You mean fuck? I’m not so used to a country girl’s bluntness.”

“I am not a country girl—I’m Belgian. And call it what you will. For me, what matters is the sin. So, yes, you want to sin, or yes, you have a place nearby?”

“You understand I have no money?”

“I’m not a prostitute. I just want to sin and you’ll do for that. Where do you stay?”

“There.” He pointed. “Rue Steinkerque. Very close.”

Eva left money for the drinks, and they walked in silence the three blocks to Herve’s shabby building.

“It’s here,” Herve said, directing Eva up the front steps, past the wino sleeping there. They reached the stairway inside. “The toilet’s there.” He pointed down the first floor hallway. “I’m on the third level.”

Eva felt the creaking staircase sway as they climbed. With each step the temperature rose. By floor three the air was stifling. Herve reached up to the top of the doorframe, fumbling for the key. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. He stood back for Eva to enter.

The room’s heat and its odor smacked Eva as she crossed the threshold. She was glad for its unpleasantness. It took only a moment to survey the spare, single room flat. Luminous moonlight streamed in through a window and cast a silver swath across the dark floor. To the left was a narrow bed, its yellowed sheet and pillow a jumble on the mattress. Next to the bed, newspapers lay strewn on the floor. To the right, a shipping crate served as a table. On it was a half-eaten plate of pasta and tomato sauce. A fork remained in the food. Next to the food was a hot plate with a teakettle and a half-full bottle of wine topped with a greasy, green glass.

A gray cat lay motionless on the windowsill, eying Eva. It reminded her of the way Madame Hélène’s cat watched Stanley and her when they’d pass it, going to their room above du Point de Vue. She stomped her foot at the animal. “Get it out of here.”

Herve walked toward the cat, clapping his hands gently. “Go to the roof now, Noel. Go find your dinner.”

The cat rose, stretched defiantly, and padded off along a ledge outside.

He picked up the newspapers and began to clear the table.

“Don’t bother,” Eva said.

When Herve looked back, she’d already undone the buttons on the front of her dress. Eva stepped out of it and laid it on the chair. She kicked off her shoes. He watched, entranced, as she slipped off her camisole and her underpants. In the moonlight she stood, tall, slender, blond hair tumbling onto white shoulders.

“Giovanna!” Herve gasped. He hurriedly tore off his clothes, as if he feared he was dreaming and wanted to make his love before he awoke.

Eva shook the sheet and spread it over the bed. Then she lay down on it and moved her legs apart. “Now come.”

Herve knelt between Eva’s legs, and he bent down and kissed her belly, down to her pubes. But Eva took his head in her hands and pulled him up. “I don’t want pleasure.” She held him close, so close she wouldn’t see his face, and she was frantic, wanting only to sin. To sin quickly. Sin quickly and be done with it.

When he’d spent himself, Eva got up and began dressing. On the bed, Herve cried. “Strange, the tears,” he said. “I don’t even know if they are joy—I’ve finally had my moment with you—or sorrow—my moment is over.”

When she was dressed, Eva walked to the door without a word. As she touched the knob, Herve called, “Wait. Just one question. Why?”

Eva froze. Without looking back, she said, “Peccavi—I have sinned,” and dashed out.

She ran down Rue Steinkerque, back toward Osiris Blanc. Ran like a doe chased by wolves. She darted into the shadows of an alley and crashed into a trashcan obscured in the darkness. Down she went. With the clatter, a light came on and a man gawked from a window above, but Eva didn’t care. Hands on her knees, she panted like exhausted prey. She snarled, “Now we’re even, good Mother.” Glaring at the heavens, she howled, “Are you happy?”

The man in the window bellowed, “Lunatic, take your damn racket somewhere else,” punctuating it by slamming the window shut and snapping its tattered shade down.

Eva fell to her knees and retched until she felt torn inside-out. .

When she got back to the café, a taxi was idling there. The driver sat behind the wheel, having a Pernod and arguing with the waiter about de Gaulle. Exhausted, Eva begged to be taken home. The driver finished his drink in a gulp and they were off. At the hotel, she had to wake Madame de Bœuf to get in. It was unpleasant, but Eva didn’t care. She just wanted her long, long night to be over.

Eva slept for what seemed only minutes. She woke having dreamed of sitting on a doctor’s exam table, wearing a muslin drape. A white-gowned surgeon came in. It was Stanley, but he made no sign of knowing her. As he studied her chart, she said, “Tell me what I want to hear.”

He lowered the chart. “Your lesion’s been burned out, cauterized. That’s what matters.” He looked at her. “Fire fights fire. New sin withers old.” He sounded dispassionate, but Eva saw tears of blood trail down his cheeks. He signed the chart and left.

Eva couldn’t stop the dream’s tumbling in her brain. Something told her Stanley had entwined his words with truth. Why else would he come to her?

After thirty minutes she knew she’d not get back to sleep. She went to the shabby bureau and eyed herself in the mirror. The woman peering back looked old. Gray. She poured water from the chipped pitcher into its basin and splashed her face. As she rubbed a lather from the block of yellow soap, her image in the mirror became indistinct. Scrubbing her hands, on and on like a surgeon does, she murmured, “Help me, Stanley. Give me your peace.”

As Eva moved her hands one over the other, they slipped easily with the creamy soap and the soft water, and she felt Stanley with her. She could hear him. Last night you were burning bridges from a black past. Withering sin with sin. We’ll take whatever buries yesterday’s lesions. Whatever secures our future. It’s so like him, she thought as his peace washed over her.

She lathered a sponge with the soap and scrubbed her face. Her stinging eyes reminded her of Stanley’s bloody tears. She whispered, “But darling, can I ignore what’s hidden in your sunny view? Ignore that I betrayed a mother? Betrayed you? As if betrayal weren’t important?”

She felt him smile. Felt him say, You haven’t chosen to ignore it—I have.

Eva rinsed the soap from her face. In the mirror, she now looked alive. She dried herself with the tattered towel that hung from a nail on the bureau. She looked young again. To look like that for Stanley made her glad. She sat on the edge of the bed, feeling rested. “You’re right, Stanley. The lesion lies buried on Rue Steinkerque.”

Packing her suitcase in the morning, Eva realized even the sunniest view will have shadows. She asked her reflection in the mirror, “If black pasts are cancers, you can burn them out, bury them, but what’s to say they won’t return?”

She shuddered.

Two Hundred Twenty-five Pocahontases

In the morning, Eva paid her hotel bill and took a bus to the American Embassy. An MP with white helmet, belt and gloves directed her through a grand foyer to the open doors of the embassy ballroom. At a check-in table located just inside the door, two of the embassy staff greeted Eva, checked her name off their list, and handed her a packet of paperwork, a pencil, and a bottle of Pepsi Cola. She took an empty place at one table with seven other war brides chattering as they completed their forms.

A petite girl, stylish in a tight, pink and gray sweater and skirt ensemble, sat next to Eva. Her black hair was short with tight curls, and she had the longest eyelashes Eva had ever seen. “Hi, sweetie, I’m Marie. Practice the English with me,” she said, clicking her chewing gum.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Eva Chandler, coming here from near Liege.”

Marie leaned close to Eva. “I’m dying for a fucking cigarette,” she whispered. “Have a smoke with me!” From her purse she took a Gitane package—its baby blue color matched her mascara—and shook a cigarette out for Eva.

Eva stared for several seconds, as if mesmerized—or terrified—by what Marie offered. The blue of the Gitane package was what held her. That distinctive blue, the blue of the rumpled package of Gits she’d watched Herve fumble with at Osiris Blanc. Perhaps if she could just smoke one, it might be bridge burning. She took a breath and willed her hand to the cigarette rising from the blue pack.

Marie took herself one and tamped it on the table. She lit both. “I’m born Parisian. Now I trade clerking in Madame Cleo’s boutique of ladies’ hats for life on a grand farm of the cattles. Phillip, my man, said me his father’s grounds are vast as a barony, and someday it will be ours.” She arched her eyebrows and giggled. “He calls his place Wyoming. To what do you go, Eva?”

“My Stanley is a sometimes cowboy—and a sometimes shopkeeper. We’ll live in the district of Sandy Hills.”

“So, Madame Cowboy, do you arrive early to enjoy some parts of my city before now? Perhaps the Louvre? “Or the nightclubs?” She winked. “Or the artist cafés on Montmartre?”

Eva took a long drag on her cigarette and dropped it into her half-full Pepsi bottle. She blew smoke toward the ceiling. “No, I arrived only this morning on the train. It’s stuffy in here. I need some air.” She got up and left.

At precisely 1:30, a WAC officer skipped to the front of the room, her overseas cap bouncing on a cushion of auburn hair. Her lipstick was red as pomegranate. Holding a megaphone, she said in strange English, “Welcome, Ladies. I am Captain Hope Bonheur. Y’all are 117 ladies about to set off on a great adventure. An adventure leading to a new life! So go ahead, give y’selves a big hand.” Hope raised her hands over her head and clapped, which brought a round of giggles and applause. “As y’all can tell, my accent is unique. I’m from the jewel of the South, the great state of Louisiana. It’s named after a Frenchman, one of those Louis kings. I never remember which one. My hometown is New Orleans—French name again, ladies. We speak a dialect called Cajun, a descendant of the French language, because it was Frenchmen brought The Big Easy civilization.” Hope bowed. “For that we thank y’all mighty kindly!” Applause rippled. She spoke in Cajun for the women. To Eva, it was French mauled with a hammer then drizzled with honey.

“Y’all are one of two groups who will travel to America together. Tomorrow one hundred eight other ladies will be in these seats, doing just what y’all are doing. Today they’re next door having a class I call America 101. Tomorrow y’all will swap places with them and have that introduction to American livin’. Then the next day we travel by bus to the port of Le Havre, and that afternoon we sail on the good ship SS Pocahontas for New York harbor. We’ll have US Army Nurse Helen Bleck along, to make sure y’all arrive in one piece. And I’ll warn you, from the moment you set foot on the Pocahontas, there will be only English spoken. If I catch y’all speaking Dutch or French or whatever else, you’ll miss a meal!” Hope held her stern look for a few seconds. She told the story of Pocahontas, even stretching things a bit, calling her the first American war bride. “So here it is, ladies: Two hundred twenty-five Pocahontases, the crew, Nurse Bleck, and me. Speaking English! We gonna have us a time!” Hope thrust her fist in the air. “Yeee-Haaa!” It was the first rebel yell the brides had ever heard, and Hope had them practice it three times, including the fist pump with the third. The war brides loved it.

As Hope left the front of the room, Eva ran up and took her hands. “Captain Hope, you can’t know how happy your talk of a new life makes me. Thank you.”

Hope beamed. “Sugar, you’re welcomed. These last years been tough, huh?”

Eva looked at the floor.

“So, what’s your name and where you headed, sweetie?”

“I’m Eva, Mrs. Stanley Chandler, and I go to the Sandy Hills in the center.”

“Sandy Hills? Is that a town? Can’t say I recall a place called that.”

“It is in the center, in the Hooker’s district Stanley says.”

Hope looked worried. “Got your paperwork, shug?” She opened Eva’s folder. “Let’s see. Ah, you’re going to Mullen in Nebraska. Hooker County.” She chuckled. “Had me a tad worried there, Eva. Don’t want to go telling people you’re heading for a hooker’s district. In English, hooker’s a word for prostitute. Prostituée, en français. And that’s surely not you, is it, shug?”

Eva’s cheeks flushed. Hope’s eyes seemed to bore into her heart. Seeing what she’d done. What she was. She wanted to run away. But then Hope was squeezing her hand, smiling at her, saying, “’Course you aren’t, Sugar. Now you just set yourself down and forget them tough ol’ times. Hear? You look ahead to your bright future, Eva. To your new life!”

Eva, Marie, and the others spent the next hour finishing paperwork. In the late afternoon, the Army bussed the women to a large, gray hotel where they were put up, four to a room. They had dinner in the dining room together. There were French girls, Belgians, some Dutch, and three Danes. That was one noisy meal.

The next day Eva and the rest of her group got an introduction to life in the USA. Hope showed a US Army featurette, Welcome To America, starring Robert Mitchum as Joe, a newly-discharged GI, and Susan Hayward as FiFi, his French war bride. The viewers go with FiFi as she takes the family Olds convertible to shop for typical household products like Ivory laundry soap, Oscar-Mayer frankfurters, Skippy peanut butter, Coca-Cola, Crisco, Hershey’s chocolate bars, and Lucky Strike cigarettes. Then they see her roast a turkey and bake pumpkin pie for Joe’s Thanksgiving feast. After the film, Hope shoehorned American history and geography into an hour, spent a half-hour on traditions, and ten minutes on idiomatic English. Finally, a sergeant from the Bronx covered typical male interests. Explaining baseball in minute detail and minced French, he might as well have been explicating Einstein’s Theory of Relativity in Mandarin.

Early the next morning a convoy of eleven olive-drab GI buses and five smoky deuce-and-a-half trucks took the war brides to Le Havre. They were aboard the Pocahontas by noon and were sailing by mid-afternoon.

The SS Pocahontas was an Italian steamship liner, originally the Trovatore and now renamed by the US Merchant Marine. Trovatore had spent her cruising days between the wars plying the Mediterranean and Adriatic Seas. Her eighty-nine staterooms easily accommodated Hope, Nurse Bleck, Eva, and the other 224 women. Serving under an American captain, the crew was Italian. Delfino, the chef from Cornali, had the passengers drooling over his gravies. Goffredo, the second mate from Brindisi, had them sighing over his looks. And Fiorello, the red-haired Milanese meal steward, had them ah-ing as he sang Puccini arias between courses.

The Pocahontas was small by trans-Atlantic liner standards, and it would have been rough on passengers had the seas not been especially calm that August. The brides spent their days talking about the past and the future—in American English when Hope was around. That and sunbathing. Lots of sunbathing.

Eva spent afternoons in a blue and white-striped deck chair, reading the copy of My Antonia Stan gave her. She’d started the book to help her with English, but she stuck with it for Antonia, the spunky girl who fled the Old World to make a new life on the American plains.

It was foggy on the morning of August 23. At 11:40 an announcement came over the ship’s PA system. “All passengers please report to the foredeck immediately.” As the women trooped forward, they muttered grumbles about another emergency drill.

Hope was waiting for them, standing a few paces from the bow. In one hand she had a bright red scarf, dancing wildly in the stiff headwind. With the other she held a red, white and blue megaphone to her mouth. “Ladies, please direct y’all’s peepers into the haze straight along the direction we’re heading. Shortly they gonna see themselves something. I have in my hand five silver dollars for the hawk-eye who first spots and identifies that something.”

The women peered into the fog. Murmurs swirled through the mesdames like the misty breeze, until suddenly a squeal from one silenced the rest. “Voilà, la Statue de la Liberté!”

Everyone looked in the direction Lucie, the farm girl from Brittany, was pointing.

“English please, Lucie,” said Hope.

The girl’s cheeks, soft and plump as overripe plums, flushed. “She is Liberty’s statue.”

All eyes strained forward, and like corn in a popper, there was a rolling explosion of excited sightings. Lady Liberty materialized from the fog, faded briefly, then reemerged, confident and commanding. As if the summer sun had finished napping, haze that moments before seemed impenetrable vanished like a magician’s rabbit. The harbor teemed with vessels of every sort, and the forest of buildings that was New York strove to bridge earth and heaven. Statue, water, city: For Eva it was drama and hope. It was her new start.

A New Forest

Eva stood in the warm sun at the Pocahontas’ railing, watching the first war brides, the pregnant ones, toddle down the gangway to a large, green tent on the pier. Over the entrance was a big white banner—USA Immigration. Welcome! As the first women disembarked, a Victrola fitted with a loudspeaker struck-up the wedding march, Here Comes the Bride.

The pregnant brides disappeared into the tent, and a crane hoisted a huge net filled with luggage down to pier where stevedores loaded the cases onto a string of carts. When the carts were full, a tractor pulled them to the line of ten bright orange school buses idling on the far side of the tent as the Victrola played Glenn Miller’s In the Mood.

The pier, the harbor, even the sky above, bustled with activity. The scene, so purposeful, so enthusiastic, so American, fascinated Eva. It pleased her to feel a part of that. With the Victrola belting out the Andrews Sisters’ harmony on Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree, Eva daydreamed faces onto the cottony clouds until Hope called her group’s number.

Clutching her paperwork folder, Eva walked down the swaying gangway behind Impala, a girl who’d grown up in French colonial Africa. Impala was heavy enough to make her name conspicuously inappropriate. Inside the tent, the heat was staggering. The first line, waiting for the preliminary Immigration Service interview, was long and slow-moving. The two large fans hurling hot, humid air didn’t help much.

After five minutes in the line, the girl in front of Impala whirled around and slapped her, shouting, “Stop pushing, you fat cow.” Impala’s sweat-soaked body reeled back on Eva.

Nurse Bleck rushed over. “Keep up that scrapping and you’ll go to the end of the line.” She flounced her skirt to cool her legs. “Ladies, please! I know it’s hot in here, but stay calm and you’ll get through quicker.”

Eva wiped Impala’s sweat from her hands. Fanning herself with her paperwork, she could feel her own perspiration trickling down her back.

Finally she was at the front of the line, standing before the Immigration Service clerk, a bored-looking woman with a large, flat nose and a prominent gold front tooth. She sat at a desk with a table fan blowing directly in her face. She took Eva’s papers without a word and began filling in information in a ledger book. Halfway through, she put her pen down, shook her hand, and massaged the knuckle joints. “Damn rheumatiz,” she grunted.

Eva looked on in silence.

The clerk finished her notations and flipped pages to a checklist. “Have you been convicted of or incarcerated for a crime?”

“No,” Eva said.

The clerk checked the No box. “Have you ever been a Communist Party member?”

Eva watched the clerk check the No box before she could say, “No.”

“Ever been a member of either the Nazi or Fascist Parties?” She checked the No box.

“No,” Eva said.

“Been an agent of a country other than the United States?” She went down the list checking No for the next five questions.

Eva reached into her dress pocket and crossed her fingers. “No.”

The clerk went directly to the last question. “Did you answer the above nine questions truthfully?” This time she checked Yes. “Sign and Date.”

Eva looked to the left and right. “Yes, I did.” She signed the paper.

The clerk shoved the file into Eva’s hands. “Proceed to station two.” She looked around her. “Next”

At station two Eva signed more documents. She moved to station three where a stiff nurse in a starched white uniform took her health history. The nurse escorted Eva behind a screen and conducted a brief physical exam before sending her on.

At the last station a slender man with a pencil line moustache did the final review. He made a show of signing and stamping the documents. “Welcome to America,” he intoned and escorted Eva to the tent’s exit.

Outside the air felt cool and breezy. A smiling woman in a frilly pink chiffon dress and high heels glanced at Eva’s file and said, “I’m Lillian, from Mayor LaGuardia’s office. You’re in bus number nine, honey. I’ll show you there.” She took Eva by the arm to the bus where another stylish woman took her to a seat and handed her a blue paper gift bag.

After she’d opened the window, Eva looked in her bag. It contained a small American flag, a pewter Empire State Building lapel pin courtesy of Macy’s, a cosmetics kit from Gimbels, a toothbrush with A. Levin, DDS inscribed on the handle, two melted Hershey bars, a pack of Beechnut gum, a box of Crackerjacks, a bagel, an apple, and copies of Better Homes and Gardens and Life magazines. The Life made an excellent fan.

When all had cleared Immigration, the buses pulled out, moving bumper-to-bumper like a giant segmented worm. Soon the worm broke in two, four buses going to Grand Central Station with Nurse Bleck, and six, including Eva’s, heading to Pennsylvania Station. Moving through Manhattan, Eva put her head out the bus window trying to see the skyscrapers’ tops.

At Penn Station, Eva and the other war brides went to a roped off area. Hope gave each an envelope containing travel itinerary, train tickets, and meal vouchers. Her clipboard held the master check sheet correlating names, destinations, and train numbers. Watching the massive, clattering train departure board overhead, Hope sent groups, escorted by one of the Mayor’s ladies, to the appropriate track for their rail passage. Before each left, there were tears, hugs, kisses, and exchanges of paper scraps with addresses hurriedly scribbled.

When Eva’s group was called, she ran to embrace Hope. “Merci for a new beginning.”

Hope patted Eva’s back. “Oh, shug, it’s me that’s obliged to ya’all. Till I have a kid of my own, I reckon you Pocahontases’ new starts will be this bayou gal’s acme.”

Eva’s train departed Penn Station at 7:50 p.m. on August 23. Twenty-three of the brides were aboard, assigned to compartments in Pullman car number two. Nine of the women got off at destinations before Chicago. Two more stayed in the Windy City. The rest transferred to west- and southbound trains.

Eva and three others took a westbound Burlington, departing early on August 26. Lucie, the farm girl from Brittany who’d won five silver dollars for spotting the Statue of Liberty, passed time writing in her diary and sketching other passengers, waiting to meet her husband in Boone, Iowa. Irva, a Flemish-speaking Belgian, traveled to Salina, Kansas with her husband Chuck, who’d come to Chicago to meet her. Chuck sold shoes at the Carter Store in Salina. They sat in the back of the car cooing and kissing like teenagers at the drive-in picture show.

Marie, the millinery shop girl Eva met at the embassy, was the third. Her destination was Medicine Bow, Wyoming. On the ocean crossing, Eva grew to love Marie’s playfulness—she was pleasant as a ripe peach. On the train, the pair had a ball smoking American cigarettes and playing pinochle in the parlor car. Between card games, they sometimes sat silent and watched the endless fields slip by. Eva liked to scan the horizon for Sioux warriors in bead and eagle feather headdresses, perched on paint ponies, watching her iron horse whistle west. But all she ever saw was rippling heat waves rising in the distance.

Once when Eva looked back at Marie, she saw tears tracking her cheeks. She wiped them with a napkin and drew Marie close. Eva whispered, “Hard, isn’t it?”

Marie took a silk handkerchief from her purse and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Phillip talked of white-topped mountains and cattles in pastures. I thought of The Alps. As a girl, I spent summers near Geneva. Oh, the high meadows and the smiling Swiss cows!” She inhaled, hoping her memories had turned the air Alpine. When she exhaled, her shoulders sagged. “Look at this: Flat as Holland, plains of grass like Africa and just as hot. No cows. No cities. No villages. No people. I was foolish to come.”

Eva brought Marie’s head to her shoulder and stroked the curl behind her ear. After a quiet moment, she whispered, “Know the story of the two little wrens whose forest home was devastated by fire?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “These wrens heard of a lovely new forest, untouched by the fire, and they set off together to make it their new home. But when they got to the new forest, it wasn’t the one of their dreams, and the birds they found there were unfamiliar, with colors and sounds different from their own, and even the trees seemed different. The wrens were so disappointed and frightened that they wished they had never left their old home, even ravaged and ruined as it was. For it had been familiar, and familiar things, like battered, old chairs, are comfortable. But they couldn’t turn back, so the wrens had to reconcile themselves to their new place. They decided to put their own special mark on it. And this they did with their singing. Singing that all the animals in the new forest came to cherish. And the wrens grew to love their new home and the birds there, not for the small bits of sameness as the old but for its freshness and its difference. For how they changed it with their song and for how it changed them.”

Eva caressed Marie’s cheek as she would her own child. And she whispered, as much to herself as to Marie, “It can be so for us too. We need only to let it be.”

Marie pulled away from Eva’s shoulder. She looked into her friend’s eyes, and a teary smile was her reply.

When Eva, Lucie, and Marie lunched in the dining car that noontime, they wanted to toast the future with a glass of wine. They ordered sandwiches. Handing the head-shaved waiter their vouchers, Marie asked about wine.

“Can’t be no wine,” the waiter groused.

“We have money…we’ll pay separately,” said Marie.

“You got rocks in them heads? Can’t have no war brides what’s fixin’ to meet they’s husbands gettin’ all liquored-up!” The waiter huffed off, shaking his head.

The tirade brought the women more giggles than the wine ever could have.

Lucie got off in Des Moines. Through the window, Eva and Marie watched her bounce into the arms of her husband, a large man sweating in an undersized, brown woolen suit.

After Des Moines, Eva knew it would only be a few hours until the train got to Lincoln, Nebraska, where she would meet Stanley. The travel that had started over two weeks earlier had been so exciting, she felt sorry to see it end. But still, she was anxious to see her husband, to be held by him, to experience his great land, perhaps to make her own little mark on it. To start a new life. To distance herself from an old one.

Car No. 1120, Compartment Two

When the conductor came through the car calling, “Lincoln. Lincoln. Your next stop is Lincoln, Nebraska,” Marie shifted close to Eva and clutched her arm.

Eva stroked Marie’s hair. “You won’t forget to write, will you?” She put fingertips under Marie’s chin and raised her head to look into her eyes. “I’m depending on you.”

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Marie nodded.

Eva winked. “I knew a nun, the mother superior at our school. She used to say Paris girls never cry. She was Parisian and we never did see her cry, even in the Occupation’s darkest days.” She looked out the window. “If only she had cried. Things could have been so different.” She turned back and pulled Marie close. “You cry if you want. Crying’s a good thing.”

The train slowed. Outside, buildings had sprang up where moments before there were only grain fields. Eva pulled her valise off the luggage rack. She straightened the jacket of the blue linen suit she had put on an hour earlier and smoothed the skirt.

By this time Marie was composed. In fact, she was hanging out the open window as they pulled into the station. “Which one is he, Eva? The one who looks like Maurice Chevalier? No? Perhaps the distinguished fellow with the pipe?”

“No.” Eva peered down the platform, panicked for a moment when she didn’t see Stan. Then, “There! He’s there, with the maroon tie. No jacket.”

Marie craned her neck. “Where? Him? Ooh-la-la. He’s cute!” She popped her head back inside as the train halted. “I’ll remember the wrens, Eva. I’ll remember you.”

The women embraced for a moment. The next thing Eva knew, she was on the platform, flying into the arms of the man with the maroon tie. They were still kissing as, wheels clattering, the Burlington’s caboose disappeared into billows of smoke and steam.

As Eva held him, Stan shook and tears flooded his eyes. “I just can’t believe you’re here with me, honey.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I figured something, don’t know what, would go haywire. Maybe that time’d just stop. Today wouldn’t come. I sat in front of the clock last night, talkin’ its hands past the twelve. Sounds stupid now, but I whooped like a drunk injun when they made it.”

“Dieu merci—it’s thank goodness—for your resolute clock.” Eva kissed him. “This moment tells me I have no place but with you.”

Stan wanted to believe it. And when Eva pulled him close again, there on the platform, there on the day that Stan doubted would happen, there on a summer evening hot enough to fuse them into one, when she pulled him so close that the people around them faded and they were alone, he did believe.

As they walked down the platform, Eva asked, “Will we go on with a motorcar?”

Stan beamed. “Well, it’s a ways to Hooker County, nigh unto three hundred miles. Too far for the old fliver. I figured it made sense to go hog wild and celebrate our reunion by takin’ the Chicago, Burlington, & Quincy’s Pullman service overnight for the trip. Married as we are. I ain’t never took a Pullman car. What do you think, hon?”

We’re discussing finances! “It’s okey-dokey, if we can afford it.” She snuggled Stan’s arm, enjoying her partnership in Chandler, Inc.

“With your voucher, it’s just a supplement for you. Mine’s the full sleeper fare, but what the heck, I’d give my last nickel for a night on the train with you.”

When they got to the ticket window, the white-haired agent looked up. “Yes sir, back again are you? And this would be your war bride, I presume?” His glasses rode low on his long, pointy nose and he peered over the lenses at Eva. She nodded to him and produced her travel voucher. Stan brought out a roll of bills and a bagful of coins and counted out the fare: a ten dollar bill, a pile of ones, a small stack of silver dollars, a tall stack of halves, four dimes and a nickel.

The agent completed the tickets in triplicate—carbon copies for his nail and for the train crew and the originals for Stan and Eva. He reviewed the tickets with Stan, circling the train number, track and departure time with a stubby pencil. “That should do it, sir. Get your compartment number from the conductor when you board. Anything else I can do you for?”

Stan scrutinized the tickets for a moment. “Number 211’s due in at 9:59. I think that’s what you said before. We just need to be here then, I guess.”

“9:59 is correct. On track number one, sir”

“Swell. Say, how’s that little silver diner down the street?

“Calandra’s? Oh, not bad. Thelma’s cherry pie’s always good.”

“Much obliged, Mister.” Stan made a bit of a salute.

Just to be safe, Stan and Eva got to the platform at 9:25. Moths fluttered around the big lights overhead and crickets chirped. Stan slipped his arm around her waist. Eva turned, placed a hand on his chest, and rising up on her tiptoes, she kissed him. Holding hands, they peered down the track, excited as kids waiting for July Fourth fireworks to start.

The train arrived nine minutes early, and before 10:00 they were checked into car number 1120, compartment two. When Stan told the beefy conductor that he was a recently discharged veteran taking his Belgian bride to their new home, the trainman looked wistful. “Served in Belgium, did ya? My boy, too.” Stan nodded. The conductor turned to the car porter. “Take good care of these passengers, hear?” He tipped his hat and closed their compartment door.

The train lugged out of the station at 10:07. Stan turned off the light in their nest and the couple sat on the bed. He put his arm around Eva, and she snuggled to his chest. They gazed silently through the window at the city creeping by, its streetlights and neon signs casting a dancing montage of color and shadow inside. As they reached Lincoln’s outskirts and the train sped up, the click-clack of wheels became excited heartbeat—a counterpoint to the drowsy landscape lolling outside in the moonlight.

Stan felt like the fire that had been smoldering inside him was suddenly a blaze. It was quite a contrast to the space around him: To the relaxed samba of the train. The compartment’s soft darkness. The pencil of moonlight caressing Eva’s cheek. The slip of air from the vent window tickling his ear. He loved the moment. He both wished it would go on forever and wanted to burn it up in a flash of carnal fire.

A knock sidetracked those thoughts. Stan turned on the light and opened the door. The porter stood at attention, a loaded stainless steel food cart before him.

“Must be someone else’s,” Stan said. “We didn’t order nothin’.”

“Sorry to disturb ya’ll. This here’s the courtesy of Conductor Larkin.” The porter wheeled the cart in and set the covered platter and a pair of bottles on the table next to the window. He removed the silver, domed cover with a flourish, revealing an assortment of hors d’oeuvres. Then he backed toward the door.

Stan fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Much obliged,” he said, pressing the coin in the man’s hand.

The porter nodded, and with a “G’night, sir and ma’am,” he was out the door.

Stan and Eva peered silently at the food. In the eye-catching center, ringing a bowl of blood-red cocktail sauce, were six pink shrimp, big around as a thumb and lounging on a bed of cracked ice. Outside the shrimp were four fans of tan saltine crackers alternating with four fans of cracker-sized slices of yellow cheese. A garnish of green pickles and orange carrots and red radishes ringed the crackers and cheese. And there were two frosty bottles of Schlitz beer, each topped with a frosty glass, and starched linen napkins.

Pointing to the shrimp, Stan asked, “What’s that, worms or clams or something?”

Eva replied, “We call them crevette. In English I don’t know what they are. But don’t be concerned, whatever the name, they are delicious.”

A note was tucked between the beer bottles. Stan picked it up. “It’s from the conductor. He says, Folks, like I mentioned, my boy served in Belgium. He met some Belgium girl and wrote that he figured to bring her back with him. Old fool that I am, I told him, you have your fun over there but don’t go hauling no foreign floozy home. He died last December in that Bulge fighting. Lord, I’d give anything to have him back here, along with that Belgium girl of his. Good luck to you two. G. Larkin, Conductor.”

Eva ate the shrimp and Stan ate the cheese and crackers. They nibbled on the vegetables. But on that warm night, the cold beer tasted best.

Stan was quiet as they ate. Eva said, “So silent. You’re not glad to see your wife?”

Stan put his arm around her. “Sure I’m happy, honey. I’m just wonderin’ why me? Why I made it out of the Ardennes fighting, when guys like Harkin—the sarge who saved my hide—and the conductor’s kid didn’t. I know it’s just luck, but that ain’t a reason. And now I’m here with you as my wife? How’d all this plop into my lap?”

“We are lucky, Stanley. You can’t explain it. And if you ask many questions, I think you may scare it off. Anyway, for this moment, we have the luck.” Taking Stan’s wrists, Eva lay back on the bed. She slid his hands under her skirt and slip and up her bare thighs. With Stan leaning over her, she said, “Let’s make this moment forever, my love. Fill me with your life and I’ll mix it with mine to make a new one.” She pulled Stan’s mouth to hers.

After they kissed, Stan sat on the bed next to Eva. He unbuttoned his shirt and her blouse and unhooked the front closure on her brassiere. He stood and unbuckled his belt, letting his pants drop to the floor. He liked her watching him undress. He sat on the bed next to her knees and pushed up her skirt and slip. Stan gently slid her underpants down, first over the left foot and then the right. He looked at her, lying there inviting him, and paused to fix the sight in his memory.

“Now close the light and come to me,” Eva said.

Stan clicked off the light switch, leaving just a silvery spray of moonlight on her skin. He eased himself onto her. He slid a hand to the small of her back and nuzzled her throat, as Eva’s legs pulled him to her.

When they lay spent in each other’s arms, Eva purred, “Now I’m pregnant.”

“If fiery passion matters, I’m inclined to agree, hon.” He kissed her ear. “But we might oughta wait for a doc’s say-so before we go diapers shoppin’. Don’t you think?”

“A woman knows,” Eva whispered.

New Home, New Hope

By the time the sun cleared the eastern horizon, Burlington train No. 211 was in Sand Hills country. Stan was still sleeping, but Eva was awake and peering out the window. Running parallel to the rail line were long, grass-covered ridges. For Eva, the landscape features threading by outside were the lineaments of Mother Earth’s ancient face. As wrinkles reflect an elder’s age and character, so these ridges, untilled and untamed, testified to a land shaped not by man’s hand but by time’s. Elongated ridges, eons in the making. Untouched. Solitary. Different from anything she had experienced in the old country. Difference—it was what she wanted.

No. 211 pulled up to the station in tiny Mullen an hour late. The only person on the platform besides the stationmaster was a wiry man holding a tan Stetson hat. Jesse Garrity was forty-eight years old, and like the landscape, he looked his age. He wore a plaid shirt and khaki slacks tucked into fancy boots. His mustachioed, sun-browned face looked like a wrangler’s, but the image stumbled on the book under his arm.

“There’s Uncle Jess, hon,” Stan exclaimed before the train had halted. “Dang if he don’t got himself all slicked-up!”

Eva was surprised by his appearance. From what Stan had said, she expected a huge man, perhaps mounted on a rearing stallion, waving a grand sombrero. But he was physically none of that. Not huge, except for the moustache and eyebrows. In fact, slight, understated. A billy goat, not a bull. She liked the moustache—not manicured, not dashing, not fashionable. It was big and thick and spilled over the sides his mouth, like those in Great War-era photographs. And she liked the eyes, looking private and dark under the drape of those bushy brows.

Stan put on his hat. It was identical to his uncle’s. He plucked Eva’s valise from the suitcase rack and grabbed her hand. As the train shook to a stop, he hustled his wife to the back of the car. At the top of the steps to the platform, Stan stopped and took both her hands. He said, like a lawyer making full disclosure, “Uncle Jess is a good egg, no matter that he’s a cop and listens to longhair music. He talks kinda funny—poetical, he calls it—on account of that apoplexy he had in March. You’ll cotton right to Carrie, his missus. As for Miss Agatha—she’s my granny—well …” He shrugged. “…you survived the war.” Stan bounded down the stairs like a spilled Folgers can of marbles. He took Eva’s waist and lifted her to the platform.

Conductor Larkin stood by the caboose, watching them. He made eye contact with Stan and nodded, Good Luck.

Stan tipped the brim of his hat, whispering, “Here’s to that boy of yours, pardner.” When he turned back, Jess was striding toward them, head nodding with each step. Stan winked, You go on, to Eva and released her hand.

She’d never known her father, but that morning, running toward the sheriff, she felt him, too, encouraging her, releasing her. Yes, it’s time you go on, little one.

When they met, Eva threw her arms around Jess’ neck before he could speak. “Monsieur Jess, it is making me so happy to see you now, after so much that Stanley’s telling.” She kissed his cheek.

Part III Heads Is Tails

At First Sight

Sheriff Jess Garrity first set eyes on Eva Chandler on the Burlington station platform in Mullen on an August morning in 1945. He saw his nephew Stan lift her down from the Pullman. Saw her light on the platform like the landing of milkweed down. Saw her enhance the coolness, the prettiness, of the morning twilight.

When Stan turned to take the suitcase from the porter, Eva walked alone to meet Jess. She threw her arms around his neck and greeted him with a kiss. Made it seem so natural. So warm. So easy. Holding his hands, she called him Jess—she said it, Shess—with an April breeze of a voice. Just like that, like a stormy stallion stayed by a soft Shoshone song, he was eating from her palm. Easiest spill I ever took, he thought.

“We’re headin’ over to our place,” Jess said when Stan arrived. “Carrie’s serving up scrambled cackle berries for breakfast.”

Eva looked confused. “I’m not sure what is the cackle berries?”

Stan put his arm around her. “It’s just Uncle Jess’ way of sayin’ eggs—œufs.”

“I’m happy that you don’t forget your French, Stanley.”

“Least not the food words,” Stan said.

They climbed into the Jess’ sheriff’s cruiser. “I’ve never been in the car of a policeman before,” Eva said. “You won’t put me to the jail, will you?”

When they were outside of the town, Jess ran the siren as they raced up the North-South hardtop. He was thinking, Darned if I ain’t actin’ like a fool fifteen year old, tryin’ to impress a girl. Ought to be ashamed of myself. He even forgot about the barbed wire welcome waiting at the house—Miss Agatha had made it clear she was set against her grandson bringing home some Mademoiselle from Armentieres.

At the house, Jess opened the front door for Eva and Stan. Carrie burst from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her blue and white checked apron. Her short auburn hair bounced as she moved to Eva. They embraced like long-parted sisters. Jess thought, Took to Eva like a colt to carrots—but Carrie’s like that. Then he eyed his mother, across the room. She’d be another matter. Miss Agatha scowled, her arms folded tight. Her wild shock of white hair, the white of polished silver, looked ominously electric, and her wire spectacles had slid down her thin nose like they were running from the smolder of her eyes. Jess ambled over and nudged her to join in the welcome. Miss Agatha spat back, “It’s Youth’s due to court Age.” Jess didn’t say what he was thinking. ’Specially when Youth’s stealin’ your grandson. But a moment later he saw Miss Agatha’s gristle melt like springtime snow when Eva skipped across the room to her, kissed both her cheeks, and said how happy she was to meet the family matriarch. Jess winked at Stan when Miss Agatha pulled Eva to the breakfast table place next to hers.

Carrie served a ranch breakfast of steak and eggs, buttermilk biscuits and chokecherry relish. Miss Agatha even brought out a jar of her plum preserves and put it right in front of Eva. Jess knew that settled it: Youth had truly courted and conquered.

Eva did herself proud that morning. “It’s the most wonderful breakfast I’ve ever had.” Whether it was true or not, the way she said it, everyone at the table believed her.

After breakfast, Eva took Miss Agatha and Carrie by the arm and the three of them, three generations laughing like schoolgirls, walked together through the flower and the vegetable gardens in the front and back of the house. Jess pulled Stan to the window to show him. “Figured out your filly’s secret,” he said. “It’s touch—her kissed hello, that arm-in-arm walk, a hand placed on your wrist when you’re talkin’. Puts ya right under her spell.”

Stan nodded, “Yep, I reckon touch is Eva’s second language, and she’s fluent all right. Us Hooker County ranch folks savvy it pretty good, we just don’t speak it ourselves.”

That evening, after she’d helped clean up the supper dishes, Eva stepped out the front door to find Stan and Jess lolling on a creaking porch swing. The night air was warm and wet and still. “Hmm, which of you handsome men shall I ask to escort me for my walk?” She paused. “I think…both.” She took each man by the hand. “Come stroll the evening with me.”

“I should spend an hour mindin’ the accounts, hon,” Stan said. “Why don’t you two go see if there’s a breeze on the hilltop? Might be a nice sunset.”

As she and Jess moseyed up the hill, her hand on his forearm, Eva asked, “Monsieur Jess, will you tell me how you found such a fine wife?”

“I spotted Carrie after church one spring mornin’ in 1919. Thought she had the handsomest eyes I’d ever seen.”

“I noticed them today. The blue of the sapphire. She’s a very pretty woman.”

“Yep, that first day I told her she had ocean eyes, on account of the only other thing I’d seen that deep, sparklin’ blue was the Atlantic on a sunny day. She’d already been widowed—at twenty-three when Harley Matson died durin’ War I. Pneumonia. France.” Jess was quiet, like he was thinking. “Yes ma’am, I reckon askin’ Carrie Rucker Matson to marry me is the smartest thing I ever done, and her agreein’ to it’s the luckiest card I ever drew.” He nodded. “And gettin’ married’s the best spill I ever took. All that happened in nineteen and twenty.” Jess picked up a pebble and pitched it at the trunk of a plum tree, heavy with fruit. “That woman—she was bred to thrive here in Hooker County—plucky and cunning as a coyote, when it’s called for.”

“She is très formidable,” Eva said. “In English, fantastic!”

Jess leaned close to Eva’s ear and whispered, “To be honest, I’d be lost without her.” He smiled like he was proud of that. “When I had my stroke in March, she’s what got me through. Pulled her rocking chair next to the bed and spent about every minute there with me. Enforcin’ every rule Doc Fletcher laid down like a Ruskie commissar. Spoonin’ me out doses of the vilest yellow medicine every other hour, just cuz Doc said so. I took to callin’ her Nurse Hoosegow, the way she hawkeyed me. But inside I ’preciated it.”

Eva smiled. “You are a lucky man.”

“Been that from the day I met her.” Jess hesitated. “More’an once I’ve thanked God for fellin’ Harley there in France.” He winced. “How’s that for twisted prayin’? After my stroke, I figured I was probably a goner, so I finally bared my heart to Carrie. She was sittin’ on my bed, and the room was so dark I could barely see her—she was just a silhouette against the drawn, twilit shade. She sat there quiet for a spell ’fore saying, ‘Harley Matson was a fine man, Jessie. Sometimes, fond memories still carry me back to our few days together. But my life’s been spent intertwined with yours like clematis, and after all these years I can’t imagine not being with you. Harley’s in a better place, so he can’t take offense.’ I closed my eyes and felt Carrie squeeze my hand. I thought maybe my time had come, and I was glad to have said what I said and heard what I heard before slippin’ away. Figured I could finally face Harley.”

Jess patted Eva’s hand and chuckled. “So, darned if I didn’t come-to an hour later, feelin’ pretty good and pretty hungry. First thing I did was sit up and have some soup. Then I told Carrie, ‘As I was driftin’ off to sleep earlier, I wondered if talkin’ about Harley was me gettin’ ready to pull up stakes for good. To be honest, I was kinda surprised when I woke up, body and soul together. Had to wiggle my toes and see the kivers move before I really felt safe. ’Course, Miss Agatha’d say I may have reincarnated.’

“‘Doesn’t look that way to me,’ Carrie said. ‘When you come back, I expect it’ll be as a rattler or worse, a Democrat.’

“Both got a laugh at that. A laugh that kick-started a coughin’ fit in me. Better coughin’ than in a coffin, I reckon.”

Eva turned to Jess and smiled. “I like this talking. For me it’s très américain.”

They found just a hint of breeze on the hilltop, but the view, the shimmering purple of the prairie grass below the yellow of the setting sun and the pink of the sky, was breathtaking. As the sun slipped below the horizon, Eva said, “Your mother. In French we call her a phénomène. I don’t know it in English.”

“Miss Agatha? I guess folks here would call her a real character. If Carrie’ll keep my feet on the ground, Miss Agatha’ll keep me guessing. That woman’s never met a consarned notion she didn’t cotton to.”

“What means consarned?”

“Odd. Miss Agatha was orphaned, married, a mother of three, and abandoned by Pa by the time she was twenty-one. Woman’s tougher than leather when she needs to be. But odd, too. Like when, out of the blue, she started insistin’ on being called Miss Agatha. Us kids, Gill, Rose and me, could call her Mama at home, but outside and for everyone else, it was to be Miss Agatha. Said it sounded sophisticated.” Jess shook his head. “Got herself other peculiarities, too. Gets ’em like some folks get religion. Take plums, for instance. You saw the wild ones growin’ near the house. Pa moved ’em up from the riverbank. Golden ones and purple ones. I reckon plums are ’bout a religion with Miss Agatha. She eats ’em fresh and baked in pie. She dries ’em and makes preserves, like you had this morning, so she’ll have ’em year round. Come September, she’ll battle belligerent bees for the overripe ones on the ground. Durin’ Prohibition, the old gal was a regular Hooker County Capone, turnin’ those sweet fruit into wine.”

They walked a bit more. “Got herself other religions, too. Like Sioux Injun spiritualism. Picked that up from the book Black Elk Speaks—calls it her bible. And reincarnation.” Jess stroked his chin. “Better toss in Juicy Fruit gum and detective magazines, too.”

“I know stories of speaking animals,” Eva said, “but not of her black elk. Maybe someday the two of us will trade tales. Shall we walk back now? Stanley won’t forgive you if a buffalo eats me.”

“I wouldn’t forgive me, neither.”

Bluestem Folk

The next day, Jess and Stan took Eva on a horseback tour of the Garrity property and beyond. Jess rode his horse, Dutch, a big Appaloosa. Stan was astride Spook, the pinto colt of his old horse, Daphne. Miss Agatha had insisted Eva ride her horse, Mirabelle, a well-disposed bay sabino. It was her first time on horseback.

“Today I am christened the cowgirl,” Eva said, as they rode by the creaking old windmill beyond the barn. “It was always a dream to ride over the countrysides on the back of a horse.” She patted Mirabelle’s neck as she looked down at the mare’s foreleg. “And such a pretty one, in her white stockings. Like I used to wear in convent school.” Eva chattered in French to her Morgan, and Stan asked if she thought the horse understood. “Certainly she does, with a French name like Mirabelle. It means plum, you know.”

As they rode along the bank of the Middle Loup River, the horses’ hooves made a cupping sound with each step from the damp earth. Jess said, “Yep, my thirty acres of the Sand Hills are stitched to the hardtop road runnin’ into Mullen. River here’s one boundary of the property. Other side of the water is Rand Stingle’s land. Ol’ Rand runs the biggest spread in these parts.”

Stan said, “Uncle Jess had to sell out to Mr. Stingle when the hard times put the family’s farm under. Had 640 acres. When was that? ’32?”

“Yep, nineteen and thirty-two.” Jess stood in the stirrups and pointed downstream to a hawk perched at the top of a big oak. “Would you look at that handsome hombre! Yeah, Randon give us a fair price. Didn’t have to—no one else had money. The year before, he bought the Chandler land from Stan’s pa, Les.”

Stan shook his head. “The old man used to whine that Mr. Stingle hornswoggled him. Took advantage of the hard times. But that wasn’t true. He give us a damn good price.”

Jess leaned back in the saddle. “When I put our place up for sale, Les said he wanted to buy it. Only he didn’t want to pay nothin’. Claimed I blackballed his bid.” He took off his hat and ran his shirtsleeve across his forehead. “Mite warm today.” He slipped the hat back on. “Like he claimed I killed Rose back in 1918.”

Eva looked startled as she turned to Stan. “Rose was your mother, yes?”

“That’s right, hon.” Stan dismounted and helped Eva down. He led the horses to the river to drink. “S’pose I told ya before—Pa was a drunk.” He squinted up at the sun. “Not that he didn’t have cause, losin’ ma to the Spanish flu, then losin’ his land to the hard times. He killed hisself with whiskey and bitterness. Ten years ago this October.”

Eva put a hand on Stan’s shoulder. “But so many died from the epidemic. More, I think, than were killed by the Great War. How could your father say Jess killed with an illness?”

“You can try to explain her that, Uncle Jess.”

Jess swung himself down from the saddle. “Peculiar story. Les married my sister Rose in 1916. She fell head over heels for them curly locks of his. A year later, summer of ’17, she bore her only child, Stan here. Rose was carryin’ a second baby when the influenza took her, late in 1918.” Jess ran his fingers through Dutch’s mane. “Ya see, I was one of them sent to France to fight the Hun. In June of 1918, we faced the fireworks in the Bois de Belleau, as they called it. Folks say Belleau Wood was a great victory. I guess it was, but I came away with a chunk of hot steel in my shoulder. That damped my enthusiasm for it considerable. My blasted shoulder bled for a day, then it got cankered. Laid me up for a good while before they discharged me. To this day, I have trouble liftin’ old lefty.”

Jess raised his left arm like a soldier volunteering for a suicide mission. He rubbed the shoulder. “Hell’s bells, there I go, throwin’ out words willy-nilly as Froma Minson deals cards on canasta night, tellin’ war stories ’stead of talkin’ about Rose.” He tapped his temple. “This old noodle don’t work 100% since my apoplexy last winter. Like Herb Carson said after his stroke, ‘The old train just misses stops now and then.’ Before I spoke plain as a pistol. Nowadays, my talkin’s like Rand Stingle’s drivin’. On horseback, that feller can ride at full gallop straight as a rifle shot, rollin’ and lightin’-up a smoke, to boot. But put him behind the wheel of a Dodge pickup, and look out! Same way with me—my talkin’ wants to stray all over the highway.”

Eva tilted her head. “I think, Jess, sometimes your talkings leave me on that highway.”

Jess kicked at the sandy soil. “Sorry Eva. Gimme another stab at it. I’d been home from France a month when Rose took sick. Poor thing went quick as a sparrow in February. Les said I’d brought the flu back from France. Even though I never got sick myself. Didn’t make sense, but once Les grabbed a notion there wasn’t no pryin’ it loose. With Rose gone, Les sunk pretty quick. Sunk into blamin’. Into the moonshine bottle. Snide folks said, ‘Typical Chandler timing: Takin’ to the hooch just as Prohibition starts.’ ’Course, your Stan’s cut from different cloth.”

Eva took Stan’s arm and pecked his cheek. “For me he’s the chicest cut.”

Stan put his arms around her neck and kissed her.

Jess mounted up. “When the lovebirds finish their cooing, Dutch, we’ll move on.”

They rode to the top of a sandy ridge. Gazing over the rolling prairie, Jess said, “Yep, different cloth. Your Stan started helpin’ out at Granger’s general store in Mullen just after Les died. Stockin’, clerkin’ deliverin’, whatever needed done.” He nodded at Stan. “By the time he got pulled into the service in 1942, this feller was near runnin’ the operation. Old man Granger told me some day the place’ll be his.”

Eva put a hand on Stan’s knee. “Ah, and I’ll be the rich merchant’s wife. With many servants and babies!” She laughed, then inhaled deeply and gazed at the distant horizon. “Such a pretty land! You can feel so free here.”

“It’s a big country, all right,” Stan said. “County’s about 750 square miles. With a population well under a thousand souls, cattle outnumber folks a couple dozen to one. The county was named after “Fighting” Joe Hooker, an American Civil War general. From what I hear told, his troops likely druther been servin’ under “Thinking” Joe Hooker.”

Eva scanned the landscape and sighed. “A sea of little mountains of sand.”

“That’s why they call ’em the Sand Hills,” Jess said. “Western Nebraska’s made up of waves of grass-covered sand dunes floatin’ on the ocean of the Great Plains. The big dunes all run east-west—critters are a half mile or so wide and a few miles long. The first time I saw the ocean, shippin’ out to France durin’ War I, its waves looked puny compared to what I knew back home. The valleys between the hills was where farmers plowed and planted-up in corn and rye. ’Fore they all went belly-up. Now it’s all ranch land and we’re all ranch folk.”

Stan dismounted. “Aunt Carrie says if you want to understand Hooker County folks you only need to know a couple of things: One, livin’ here in 1945, they’re not far in time or in spirit from their pioneer parents. And two, they don’t just tread this land, they’re rooted in it.

Jess eased himself to the ground. “Stan, mind if I help this pretty lady down?”

“Be my guest.”

He reached up to lift Eva from the saddle. She saw him wince, but he said nothing.

Stan squatted down and tugged on a clump of prairie grass. “Feel this, hon. It’s called bluestem.”

Eva ran her fingers along the broad blades of grass. “Rough. Robuste!” She looked up and gazed at the grassy hillside before them. “Look how it dances with the wind!”

Jess chewed on a stem like it was spearmint. “Rooted in it. Carrie’s got it about right. Folks here are bluestem prairie grass.”

Eva nodded like she understood.

“They say sand bluestem’s been around about as long as these hills,” Stan said. “Grass and hills, they need each other. Bluestem’s stabilized the dunes over thousands of years. And the sandy soil returns the favor by givin’ the grass a home and feedin’ it.”

“Same as us.” Jess surveyed the rolling landscape like he was reading it. “Settlers that bent to the land, that put down deep roots, that became bluestem, they’re our pioneer fathers. Them that tried to bend the land to themselves are gone. Yep, we’re bluestem. Deep-rooted. Plain. Needin’ little.” He shook his head. “There I go again, playin’ out a spool of chin-drummin’ long as a set of coyote tracks and no easier, I s’pose, to follow. Meanderin’ along what I could say direct in few words: Hooker County folks are a hardy lot. Doc Fletcher tells me it ain’t unusual for strokes to change the way a feller talks. He calls what happened to me, gettin’ poetical. So, Eva, if my poeticality riles you—” He tapped his temple. “—blame this stroked noodle.”

Opera and Mardi Gras

Eva and Stan stayed in the Garrity home for most of 1946—a year marked by the birth of their firstborn, Catherine, on June 6.

That year Stan and Jess worked together like father and son readying some land down in the river valley for a house, then doing the building. By Thanksgiving, they had a presentable cottage to show for their work, and Eva and Stan, along with baby Cat, moved in.

Carrie and Jess gave the young couple a bottle of Champagne as a housewarming gift. Sitting with Eva at the kitchen table the first evening in their new home, Stan reverently held the bottle and read the label. “Piper-Heidsieck. Reims, France.” He looked at Eva. “I’ll be jiggered, ain’t seen genuine fizz since the war. Didn’t know you could get the stuff here.”

“Carrie made special order of it through Mr. Cavendish, the proprietor of the saloon in town,” Eva said. “She’s très gentille.”

“Reims. Sounds familiar. Hon, isn’t that the town where your family’s from?”

Eva clenched her teeth and sat silent for a moment. Then she said, “No, it was somewhere else. Somewhere far from there.” Her tone was cold as gunmetal.

“Hmm? I coulda sworn…” Stan looked back at the bottle. “Gee whiz, this stuff reminds me of your uncle. Remember the champagne he was gettin’ for our GI Christmas party just before he got waylaid?” He shook his head. “Wish we knew what happened to the poor old coot.”

Eva burst into tears. Stan rushed to cradle her head in his arms. “There, there, honey. It’s OK. Shouldn’t have brought it up. I know how them memories pain you.”

“Stanley, so much you don’t know about him. About those days. About what was.”

Eva smiled when Stan kissed each of her wet eyes. “But that doesn’t matter now, does it?” she said. “We’re here together. We have Catherine. The past is broken from us now. Isn’t it?”

Stan stroked her hair. “Sure, it’s far away. Gone.” He swallowed hard. “Can’t touch us.” He was recalling a story he’d once heard, a story about geese with foxes’ teeth.

In January, 1948 a second daughter, Françoise, was born. Folks called her Françie.

As early as that, Eva was already changing things in Hooker County. By bringing in a bit of the outside world. Like the Saturday afternoon that spring, when she and Carrie were turning over the vegetable garden. Jess had been inside, listening to Act I of the Metropolitan Opera broadcast of Aida, and came out during intermission with lemonade for the ladies.

Eva drank half a glass. She looked up and shook her hair, letting the sunshine pour onto her face. “Jess, you must love the music to pass the chance to work in the soil on such a day.”

“Well, I reckon I do.”

“Carrie said me…said to me…you fell in that love of music in France. Yes?”

“Yep. I was recoverin’ after gettin’ clipped in 1918. I had sick pass in Paris. Me and a fellow Marine named Romani, an I-talian out of Philadelphia. Romani was an opera buff, and he dragged me to see a production of Puccini’s Girl of the Golden West. Said, ‘Come on. It’s an opera about the wild and wooly West. You’ll be right at home. Besides, come with me to the opera and after we’ll see the can-can girls in Montmartre.’”

Carrie crossed her arms dramatically. “And I felt bad for you boys, fighting over there!”

“Aw, shucks, dearie, I didn’t even know you then. If I’da had you waitin’ back home for me, I’d sure never bothered gawkin’ at can-can girls.” He kissed her cheek. “Besides, danged if I didn’t like that opera ’bout as well—maybe better—than the high-kickers. It wasn’t that I felt at home watchin’ gold minin’ owlhoots with names like Handsome and Happy struttin’ around, singin’ at each other. Naw. It was just a good story and ear-grabbin’ music, rolled into one. After I got home, I listened to opera music whenever I could.”

“’Course, back then you didn’t have much chance, except for the Victrola,” Carrie said. “You didn’t have records, but as I recall, Atilla Vlasik had a goodly number he moved from St. Louis, and he was agreeable to lending.”

“Good old Vlasik, rest his soul.” Jess turned back to Eva. “In the Thirties, The Metropolitan Opera of New York City started wireless broadcasts regular. That made it easier. Since I become sheriff, I regular spend Saturday afternoons in the office, cleanin’ up paperwork and listenin’ to the broadcasts.”

Eva took another sip of lemonade. “So you like the opera, listen nearly every week, but you’ve been to only one performance in your life?”

“Well, kiddo, you go see the opera if you live in Paris or New York, but in Hooker County you’re happy to listen on the wireless. That’s just the way it is.”

To Eva, not much had to be the way it is. She had never been to an opera, but in 1948, on Carrie’s and Jess’ wedding anniversary, she dropped in with a bouquet of zinnias and an envelope containing four tickets. “Stanley and I will take you to the opera. I sent for tickets from the company in Central City, Colorado for their Norma. We can travel together—Carrie, Jess, Stanley, and me.” She grinned. “Stanley complained about going until I tell him the other choice is staying home as nanny.”

That September, after leaving Cat and Françie with Carrie’s cousin Etta, the four piled into Stan’s new Plymouth and made tracks west. They stayed in a hotel and saw Bellini’s masterpiece sung in Central City’s grand old Victorian hall.

Walking back to the hotel after the performance, Stan said, “It’s a spectacle, all right. Just bothers me that Norma could offer up her life, knowin’ it’d mean leavin’ those kids alone.”

“But Stanley, she sacrifices herself for her children and for her people. To protect them. To save them.” Eva squeezed his hand. “You must understand—she had no choice.”

Stan grimaced as he held the hotel door. “Yeah. Just must’ve been tough on them kids.”

That night as he slipped into bed next to his wife, Jess told Carrie, “What a swell night, dearie. I’ll never forget it. Funny how it took knowin’ Eva Chandler to get us here.”

Eva brought magic to the whole county, too.

She gave French lessons to school kids Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. And in December every year, there was a Chant de Noël program she started. It became part of most county folks’ holiday tradition.

In January of 1947, Eva, with Carrie in cahoots, started cooking up something new. They wouldn’t say what it was, but a lot of cackling went on with the other women after church and on the telephone in the evenings. They were planning a Mardi Gras celebration.

When Stan approached the Garrity home as instructed after work that Tuesday night in February, it was cold and clear, the sky a sea of shimmering stars and just a dusting of snow on the ground. As he turned onto the limestoned drive, Stan saw a first clue that the night would be special—the billow of orange glow that loomed around each of the paper bag lanterns tracking the way in. That night candles flickered in every window of the two-story house and along the top of the fence out front—a magical scene. Stan parked the Plymouth. As he walked to the house, he heard the Yves Montand song Métro on the Victrola. Smiling, he whispered, “Eva.”

Miss Agatha, Carrie, Eva, and Jess were in the parlor, sipping plum wine. Eva was singing along with Yves, looking happy as a wren in springtime and sounding just as pretty. Soon other folks arrived. Two dozen of them. People, plum wine, cookies, tiny sandwiches with the bread crusts cut off, warm stove, flickering candles—Eva seemed to be the center of it all. It was a winter evening like none before in Hooker County.

As they drove home through the cold crispness, Stan told Eva, “You know, seein’ you in the spotlight tonight, I almost started feelin’ jealous.”

Eva slid close to Stan and slipped her arm into his. “Oh, Stanley you don’t need—”

Stan leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I started feelin’ jealous. Then I recollected the time in the hospital in Liege when you sang to all of us on the ward. How I looked around and saw what it meant to those GIs, some of ’em way more banged up than I was. How proud I was of you. That day I knew, if I ever hooked you, I’d be sharin’ you with the world and how that wouldn’t be so bad. And tonight, I saw it in the eyes of the folks at the party—what you’ve come to mean to them. I’m so dang proud of you, hon. So lucky.”

Eva looked at Stan. She didn’t let on she’d seen the tear in the corner of his eye. “I only follow my nature. It is you and this place that gives me what I can never before find. Here, I am finally myself. I’m the lucky one.”

The next day, Stan had lunch with his uncle. Between bites of cherry pie, Jess admitted, “Bein’ dumb as a tenor, I’d never even heard of Mardi Gras before last night. Now, Lent I heard of, though I’m no disciple of whichever religion calls for it. But I tell ya, I’m sold on this Mardi Gras stuff.” Jess poked his fork toward Stan, for emphasis. “Any religion that puts self-indulgence first and self-denial second ain’t half bad.”

After that first Mardi Gras, word went from person to person about Eva’s party. About the candles, about the charm, about the pleasure of celebrating a moment just to celebrate it. The next year upwards of a hundred people wanted to come. Too many for the Garrity house. So Eva talked Father Lambert of St. Mary’s—she had him wrapped around her finger, too—into having it in the church hall. Besides Eva’s charm, the priest’s partiality to “a tiny drop of the spirit now and then” helped sway him.

Eva threw shindigs on subsequent Mardi Gras, and each was a paper lantern, a warm and glowing light in the frozen, featureless landscape of a Hooker County winter. Happening year after year, Eva’s celebrations made a string of lanterns guiding pioneer folks from their natural wintertime mentality to a springlike one.

Talking about those parties one evening with Jess, Carrie said, “That Eva! Leave it to her to show us a load made lighter loses none of its value.”

“Yeah. ’Round her ya reckon maybe optimism ain’t out of your price range after all.” Jess scratched his head. “Askin’ why not? is ’bout as important as askin’ why?” He took a sip of his rye and looked at the glass. “Gets me thinkin’, dearie. Strugglin’s like good whiskey—better drunk in ounces than in quarts.”

Carrie broke out laughing. “Now Jesse Garrity, that is a revelation, coming from you!”

A Heroine Surely

In 1950 the British celebrated the tenth anniversary of their victory over the Luftwaffe in the Battle of Britain. Life Magazine ran pictures of grand parades passing review stands lined with proud limey flyboys decked out in old uniforms and medals. It seemed worlds away in Hooker County until a letter from the British Embassy in Washington, DC came to Mayor Ostranec. A nephew of the king wanted to travel to Mullen to settle a debt.

The letter explained that this royal relative, a Lord Smithwycke, was a pilot shot down over occupied Europe in 1943. A Belgian partisan, one Eva Messiaen, snuck him past German patrols and into the underground pipeline. He’d promised himself that someday he would find that woman to thank her. When the British Foreign Office determined that Smithwycke’s Eva had come to Hooker County as a war bride, Mrs. Stanley T. Chandler, Smithwycke could keep his promise. The visit was set for October 16, 1950.

Dawn cracked clean and clear on the big day. Smithwycke and his entourage were due on the Burlington westbound at mid-afternoon. Stan took off from work at noon to fetch Eva and their girls, Cat and Françie, and drive them to town. A dais had been built for the award ceremony. Located at the main intersection in town, right in front of the general store, it was made of fresh yellow pine lumber. The platform was a yard above ground level, with a set of steps leading up from behind. There was a waist-high railing across the front with red, white and blue bunting. The Stars and Stripes, the Nebraska state flag, and the Union Jack were displayed behind the eight chairs on the platform.

Stan thought it looked grand, and the girls did too, but somehow Eva didn’t seem all that pleased. “But what I did was really not much, Stanley. Many did so much more. Put themselves at risk. His Lordship should stay home in his castle, where he belongs.”

“Way I heard it, you did risk your skin for him,” Stan said. “That’s why he’s comin’.”

“I helped someone in need. That’s all. Others gave their lives. Gave their lives on principle. Mother—” Her eyes brimming with tears, Eva didn’t finish the sentence. When Stan squeezed her hand, she looked at him coldly. “Stanley, no good can come of this.”

Stan could tell she wanted her silence, but he couldn’t keep still. “I don’t know what it was like, livin’ those years under the Nazis, Eva, but I reckon, it took spunk just to scramble out of bed every day.” He held her hand in both of his. “Look, you’ll always find someone’s done more than you if you search hard enough. What I know is, this means a heck of a lot to a heck of a lot of folks in these parts. These last twenty-five years ain’t been easy round here, what with the Depression and them dusters in the Thirties, and then sendin’ the boys off to war and havin’ two of ’em not come back. Ain’t been easy and ain’t been much said about it. Well, honey, today some feller’s comin’ all the way from England to thank you for what you done. To thank one of us.” Stan squeezed her hand tighter. “Yep, it is a pretty big deal for Hooker County. Lots of folks stopped in at the store to tell me that, one way or t’other. You’ve come to mean a lot to people here. Remember that, honey.”

Eva was quiet for a moment. She looked forlorn, frightened. “Perhaps it’s true. If so, it may not be to the good. It may be more than I am, and people, even you, could end up feeling betrayed.” She looked off for a moment, then back. “I won’t have that, Stanley.”

Stan was still trying to figure out what she meant when a school bus drove by and stopped at the dais. Off trooped a dozen Thedford High School band members in cream-colored uniforms with gold trim and white plumes on their caps. Each carried a brass instrument. Cat and Françie jumped up and down and squealed that they wanted to see the band members up close, so the whole family headed that way.

Stan talked to the teacher, a gangly young man in a tan short sleeved shirt with a quarter-sized navy blue ink stain at the bottom of the pocket. The teacher’s knobby Adam’s apple would have had a supple throne in his red bow tie had it not been so busy, bobbing up and down with his jabbering. Eva and the girls chatted with the students. All they knew was that they’d be playing for some visiting foreigner, so Eva told them about Smithwycke and his heroics during the war. As she spoke, the students’ faces went from bored to excited, seeing themselves as part of an international and historic event. Eva didn’t even mention her own role.

When the teacher returned to the bus to fetch his jacket, Stan had the chance to study the band kids talking to his family. From down the street, the band members had each looked identical, like a distant herd of Herefords does. But up close, seeing one’s scuffed shoes, another’s pants too short, and a third’s frayed jacket cuff, the herd crystallized as individuals. There was the short girl with nose too big and spectacle frames repaired with cloth tape. She knew more about Europe than Stan did—and he had been over there. The boy with the battered trumpet, who cradled his beat-up brass like a baby but let little Cat give it a toot. The clarinetist with the clubfoot. Up close, it was clear—this wasn’t a herd, wasn’t some faceless band from a town down the road. Each member had a story. Stan wanted to tell them how swell they were, but Mayor Ostranec came over with Jess before he had a chance.

An hour remained until Lord Smithwycke’s train was due, but the mayor seemed jittery. He tapped Eva’s shoulder. “My dear, let’s take our place on the dais. Can’t keep his lordship waiting, now can we?” He turned to Jess. “Sheriff, herd the band into position next to the stage.” To the mayor, everything, even the trivial, was urgent. Carrie Garrity had it bang-on when she said, “Hillis Ostranec lives life like a man in powerful need of an outhouse.”

With the band in place beside the platform and Eva, Stan, and Mrs. Ostranec seated up top, the mayor asked Jess to go along with Brice Childers to meet Lord Smithwycke’s train. “You’ll be my official delegate.” He implied it was a step up from sheriff. Childers had pulled the Ostranecs’ old surrey out of their dusty barn and cleaned it up for the occasion. He’d hitched a pair of saddle horses to it, and they were giving him a dickens of a time. It seemed like a dumb idea to Jess, using the surrey with a balky team to transport guests the tenth of a mile from station to the platform, but the mayor took it a step further. “I’ve got it, Sheriff. When you fetch our guests, ride up front next to Driver Childers with a rifle at the ready, as if upon a Wells Fargo stagecoach cutting through Comanche country!”

At three on the dime, the Burlington pulled in. Off stepped a tall man with a long face. He wore a pinstriped suit and a pink tie with black polka dots, and his lapel sported a red carnation. Fancy as a cock pheasant. Four men followed him off the train, the last one toting a valise. A man with a monocle and a remarkable moustache—gray whiskers coarse as boar bristles—spoke for the group. “I’m Harney, of the British Embassy in Washington. Allow me to introduce Lord Smithwycke.” Jess shook hands with the dandy, first off the train. “This is Mr. Lansdale of your State Department and Mr. Aubliss, a photographer with Life Magazine.” He pointed. “The gentleman there, securing the luggage, is Marsh, Lord Smithwycke’s valet.”

Jess was glad he’d worn his good hat. He informed Marsh a car would take the luggage directly to the hotel, then he escorted the four others to the surrey. With the cattle pens next to the train station, they got moving without delay. To irk the mayor, Jess rode back as a passenger, sitting next to Lansdale.

On the short ride from the station, Smithwycke leaned toward Jess, looking like a little boy who’d just caught his first fish. “Sheriff, great-grandfather made a safari on the American plains some time in the 1870s. Not sure precisely where he ventured, but he shot birds, bison, and bear. Could have been your Hooker County, don’t you say?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “On the train today, watching fields of prairie grass kowtow to the wind, I was reminded of his travel log’s frequent mention of its ubiquitous blast.”

Jess pushed his hat back. “Ubiquitous. Now there’s a six-bit word for ya. Lucky for me, it shows up pretty regular in the crossword puzzles. Yes sir, bison we sure had back then, and wind we still got. Pretty dependable, the wind in these parts. One time it quit blowing and I seen a whole herd of cattle tip right over.”

Smithwycke wasn’t sure what to make of that until Jess winked. Then he laughed.

The surrey turned the corner, and the platform came into view. The crowd—there must have been eighty people—all turned to watch the approach as the band lurched into Cheer Boys Cheer, the old Civil War ditty.

Lord Smithwycke craned his neck and jumped up. “It’s her, Harney. I’d never forget that face.” He sat down and dabbed the corners of his misty eyes with a silk handkerchief. “It seems eons ago. My gracious, who could have imagined a reunion in such a remote clime.”

As they approached the platform, Jess heard a commotion at the back of the crowd. He guessed the source and was glad for the cover of the band’s booming—the visitors didn’t seem to have picked up on the ruckus. Jess slapped the back of the driver’s seat to get Brice to slow and bounded off the surrey. As he hustled to the rear of the crowd, he could make out the tirade. “Brit bastard. Goddamn King George can kiss my ass. I’ll strain shit with my teeth before I bow down to no limey king. Hey, I lost my brother for your sorry hide, and you repay me like this? Givin’ a tinny medal to a foreigner just like you? Where’s my medal?” The ranter was who Jess figured—Harry Scurfman, the sawed-off, white-haired drunk.

“Scurfman, one more word from that dirty yap of yours and I’ll have you in the clink before you can hatch a second one.” Jess rested his hand on his holstered revolver to show he meant business.

“It’s a free fuckin’ country, Garrity,” Harry replied, “case you ain’t heard.”

Jess went at him. “Not when you’ve been warned about disturbin’ the peace. Not when you’re messin’ up Eva’s big day.” He grabbed Harry’s right hand and jammed it behind his back. Then he pushed him toward the jail in the rear of the county building two doors down. All this time, the varmint was cussing—it made Jess feel like jamming the arm higher. Give the SOB something real to holler about. But he didn’t. He shoved Harry through the sheriff’s office and into the single jail cell in the back.

As the cell door swung shut, Jess said, “In here no one can hear you, so say whatever you want. It’s a free fuckin’ country, you know.”

He slammed the office door and walked back to the ceremony. Smithwycke and the other visitors were on the platform with Eva, Stan and the Ostranecs. Lansdale finished his remarks on the friendship between NATO allies. Then Harney rose to introduce Lord Smithwycke. He called him “aviator, hero, scholar, diplomat, and statesman.” And he termed his pilgrimage “a testament to Britain’s long memory for her friends.” Then he invited Smithwycke to the fore.

As Smithwycke came forward the band began their assault on For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow and cheers, applause, and whistles filled the air.

The band tailed off, and Lord Smithwycke cleared his throat. “Ladies and Gentlemen, let me begin by thanking you for coming today. By doing so, may I say, you join me in honoring one of your own, Mrs. Eva Chandler.” Smithwycke turned and nodded to Eva.

“Back home this year, we celebrate the decennial of one of the grandest chapters in the history of the British people, the Battle of Britain. Perhaps you are familiar with Mr. Churchill’s praise for the gallant men in their Spitfires and their Hurricanes who took to the nighttime skies in 1940 to intercept and repel the winged forces of darkness over the English countryside. He famously said, ‘Never was so much owed by so many to so few.’ And it is true. Later when I flew with Bomber Command over occupied Europe, on my ninth mission, returning the fire that Mr. Hitler’s minions had visited on London, my Lancaster was disabled. Here, I suppose you would put it that my steed was shot from under me.”

Smithwycke waited for the crowd’s polite chuckle.

“But I shan’t grumble about my luck, for manifestly The Maker was watching over me, ordaining my safe descent onto Belgian terra firma in the proximity of the guardian angel seated here today. This lovely young woman, in the heart of Nazi-occupied territory teeming with Jerry patrols, showed her bottle by willingly placing herself in mortal danger to keep me hidden from those for whom I was prey. I exaggerate not a whit—I lay hidden by nothing but twigs from a Hun squadron as close as I am to you, their police dogs baying for my blood, and Mrs. Chandler saved me. She stood between them and myself and charmed them as handsomely as does a brown Indian charm a cobra. In the end, the cobra slithered away. Mrs. Chandler arranged my disposition to a safe house. As we parted, I offered her modest monetary recompense for her magnificent service. Though the occupation was brutal and there was never enough food, she declined my offer, saying she did what she did for her Motherland. As I hearken back to her actions, I find myself paraphrasing Mr. Churchill: Never was so much owed by this one to another, a stranger at that, and a heroine surely.”

There was a shimmer of applause.

“Before I ask Mrs. Chandler to step to the fore, I’ll end my tale by saying, as you might suspect since I am standing here today, that I did successfully slip through Jerry’s clutches. Mrs. Chandler connected me with her colleagues in the underground, and I passed from Belgium through France and Spain and back to Britain on the famous Comete Escape Line, over which so many other Allied airmen also made rescue. With that, I call Mrs. Chandler forward that I might recognize her service to me and to His Majesty’s armed force.”

Eva stepped gingerly to the front of the platform. The band played the opening bars of Buffalo Gals, Won’t You Come Out Tonight. Smithwycke took Eva’s hand, and he bowed and kissed it. The magazine photographer’s flash popped. The Yoidel twins, Merle and Deke, thought kissing someone’s hand was the funniest thing they’d ever seen, and they howled. Until their mama grabbed each one by an ear and pulled them to the back of the crowd.

Smithwycke read, “Be it hereby proclaimed. His Majesty George VI, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and the British dominions beyond the seas, King, Defender of the Faith, Head of the Commonwealth, does hereby recognize your extraordinary valor and your service to his subjects with the award of the Order of the British Empire this twelfth day of September, the year of Our Lord, nineteen hundred and fifty.” He raised the satin sash over Eva’s head and arm and settled it across her breast. “For those who can’t see it, on the center of the sash glitters a gilt medal surmounted by the imperial crown.” The photographer’s camera flashed again. Everyone clapped, and the Webster boys whistled and whooped it up as they’re known to do. Everyone seemed pleased. Everyone except Eva. She looked like the kid in the front of the line for polio shots.

Smithwycke said, “Congratulations, Mrs. Chandler, on your admission to the Order, and may I once more extend my personal appreciation for your courage.”

After a gallant bow, Smithwycke eased Eva to the platform’s front. Stan was shocked at what he saw. Jeeze, the whole shebang ain’t settin’ right with her. Ya figure a celebration of your bravery ought to make ya feel ten feet tall, but Eva looks tired, all beat up.

Eva said nothing for some time, and when she did speak her voice was small and far away. “Lord Smithwycke, you traveled so far. Ladies and Gentlemen and children, these are busy days and it wasn’t easy to make time to come to town today. Band members, your music is wonderful. Like Lord Smithwycke, I too had a guardian angel in Belgium—my thanks to the Maker are for my husband Stanley, my own hero, who truly rescued me.” Eva turned to Stan and tears filled her eyes. “I only regret my unworthiness of this recognition. I was not heroic. All I can say for myself is that I was just a child.” She fell into Stan’s arms, sobbing. That surprised everyone, but they clapped anyway. Maybe they figured the fuss must’ve pitched Eva back to the nightmare of the war years. They were right.

The mayor stepped forward. “On behalf of the people of Mullen, I declare our Mrs. Chandler a heroine.” A number of the county folk hollered affirmations.

Still in Stan’s arms, Eva glanced over her shoulder at the crowd. She eyed them as if they were fearsome. Dangerous. Clutching Stan, she whispered, “Take me home.”

On the ride home, little Françie asked, “Mommy, how come the man who talks funny said you were a hero and you said you weren’t? Who’s lying?”

“Oh, Mon Bijou, no one lied,” Eva said. “It’s only hard, sometimes, to say if someone really is a hero.”

Cat said, “Dad was a hero in the war, wasn’t he? He told me he rode in on a white stallion, firing six-shooters into the air, and rescued you from the bad men.”

Eva laughed. “Catherine, your father will always be my hero.” She put her hand on Stan’s shoulder and stroked his neck. “But sometimes it is hard to say about people. Shall I tell you a story about how hard it can be?”

Françie clapped her hands. “A story about the wrens and Mother Swan?”

“That you shall soon see,” replied Eva. “There was once a goose named Franka who was so tiny and brown that she looked like a forest wren.”

Cat crossed her arms. “Mommy, Franka’s a boy’s name. Tell the story right!”

Stan slowed the car and shot a stern look at Cat. “Any more sassin’, young lady, and your mother’ll stop right now.”

Cat shrunk down quiet.

Eva raised her eyebrows. “Frank is a boy’s name. Franka, like Françoise, is a proper girl’s name.” She smiled at Cat. “So, let me see, we have the little goose, Franka, who looks like a wren. Now, no one suspects she is a goose, for geese are generally large and loud and cruel to other animals, and she was none of these.”

Françie asked, “Is this like the Ugly Duckling story?”

“Yes, perhaps a bit. But different, too. See what you think. Now, all this happened in the time when geese ruled the forest. Franka had at first secretly helped the geese, since she was, after all, one of them. She would tell them where the corn was ripest and the berries the sweetest. But when she saw their evil doings, she turned against the geese. She played tricks on them and even foiled their plans, going so far as to tell the wolf when and where geese would be strolling, so he became fat, gobbling them up. That wolf came to so like Franka that to this day he spends his nights singing about her to the moon.”

Cat asked, “Mommy, when she helped the geese, she was naughty, wasn’t she?”

“If you’re a goose, you grow up seeing things as geese do, so maybe Franka thought helping them was right. You see, don’t you, that it’s hard to say whether she was nice or naughty. Maybe she was both. Perhaps we’re all both. Now please let me finish.…Since the other animals saw only Franka’s efforts against the geese, they called her an angel. And they were confused when she said, ‘Don’t call me that.’ All Franka knew was that, in each time of her life, she did what she thought was right.” Eva seemed glad to be finishing her story. “So I ask you girls, was Franka an angel or a devil?”

Cat looked at her sister. “Sometimes she was an angel like me and sometimes a devil like Françie.”

Françie wailed, “Stop, Cat! I’m not a devil, am I, Mommy?”

“None of us is all one or the other. It is only what’s better known of us that decides what people will call us. Angel or devil? Heroine or monster? Think about it.”

The girls were quiet, so maybe they did just that.

Stan was quiet, too.

Snake

The morning after the award presentation, Lord Smithwycke and his cohort boarded an eastbound train and made back for genteel civilization. Jess waited until they were gone to release Harry Scurfman.

That noontime, Jess and Carrie had lunch at Sudsy’s Diner in Mullen. Carrie had the special, corned beef and swiss on rye, with sauerkraut on the side. Jess had his usual sandwich—baked beans and bacon on white toast.

“So, Jessie, what do you suppose Lord Smithwycke made of Hooker County?”

“He seemed pleased enough to be here, but who knows for sure?” Jess poured cream into his coffee. “What is for sure is that folks here got a big lift.”

Carrie unfolded the day’s edition of the local newspaper, the Tribune. “That’s what the paper says.” Big, black headlines screamed, War Heroine Eva Honored and Royal’s Visit Puts Mullen on Map.

Jess looked over his shoulder at the glass-covered display behind the cash register. “Already got them clippings posted next to the yellowed V-J Day edition and the ’43 story of Buster Grant dyin’ on Tarawa Atoll. S’all folks been talkin’ about in here this mornin’.”

Carrie blew on her tea. “How did it go with Harry?” She took a sip.

Jess put down his sandwich and leaned forward. “He was madder than smoked-out hornets.” He smiled broadly. “About bein’ taken down a notch in front of everyone, I reckon. Wasn’t much he could do, other than cuss me. That and swear he’d get even.” He stirred his coffee. “Ain’t worried. Harry’s sworn that before. Only shootin’ he’s likely to do is with his big yap. He’s like a springtime snake—got no steel in his spine.”

“That’s Harry all right—a lazy, yellow prairie diamondback. Still, you be careful.”

Jess put his hand on Carrie’s. “Don’t you worry, dearie. That’s the thing about snakes. They’re predictable, dependable. Just like Harry’s mean streak. If ya count on it, he ain’t much of a problem.” Jess ate the last bite of his sandwich and sipped his coffee. “Last night a couple of us were talkin’ about Harry.” He chuckled. “Lem Hickok had it about as right as onions with liver. He goes, ‘Yep, Old Harry. Well, well.’ Then he pauses to spit his tobacco chaw. ‘Old son of a bitch. Ain’t many folk in these parts what that warn’t like to piss on Old Harry. Less he was on fire, that is.’”

Carrie shook her head. “Lem’s sure got a way with words.” She pulled a napkin from the dispenser and fidgeted with it. “What do you make of Eva having such a dickens getting through yesterday, Jesse? I’m worried.”

“Aw, I reckon it was just facin’ hard memories. I wouldn’t sweat it.”

Carrie frowned. “Hard for me to believe it’s not more than that.”

“And maybe not wanting to be the big cheese. What else could it be?”

Carrie shook her head. “Maybe.” She looked at her watch and sighed. “Listen, sweetie, gotta run. Eva’s coming by this afternoon. Maybe she’ll want to talk—” She picked up her purse. “—but knowing her, I doubt it. Besides, she’ll have the girls.”

Jess beamed. “Baking cookies?”

“Oatmeal with chocolate chips.” Carrie kissed Jess’ cheek and left.

Jess stirred his coffee and looked absently out the window. The sound of the spoon’s clink on the cup faded as his thoughts turned back to Harry. In appearance, the snake image wasn’t anything like right. Harry was built more like a soup can than a snake. Short and squat. Jess muttered, “Not just short, but damn short.” He couldn’t remember when Harry’s hair wasn’t white. The white of powdery snow. And clipped short. Same with his beard. Made him look like an old prospector. Jess snickered at the image. Then he pictured Harry’s mouth—those liver lips, with a dribble of tobacco-browned spittle at each corner, draping choppers stained the color of earwax. A mouth just right for the kind of talk it spewed. “Harry.” Jess shook his head and climbed from the booth.

He paid the bill and left an extra quarter for Liz Brady, the waitress. As he walked back to his office, he thought how Harry’d shown his true character when he married Liz’s sister, Lottie, back in the Thirties. How when he brought Lottie home, he put his own widowed mother out of the house. Stuck her in town with her cousin. How it killed the old gal. And how Harry treated Lottie after they’d lost most of their land in the hard times. That’s when he started hanging around with John Barleycorn. That’s when he became vicious. To Lottie’s face, he’d pledged to dance on her grave. And sure enough when she died, he taunted her family, dancing an Irish jig around her casket right in front of them at the funeral parlor. “Just couldn’t hold me horses till Lottie’s in the ground,” he’d sneered.

“Snake.” Jess hissed it through clenched teeth.

Ghost From the Past

Pictures of Lord Smithwycke’s pilgrimage west appeared in the December 1950 issue of Life Magazine, two months after the ceremony. The story was titled, Brits Don’t Forget. English Lord Travels West to Thank ‘a Heroine Surely.’ There were four pictures from Lord Smithwycke’s trip, three of them with Eva. Most folks’ favorite was the one of his chivalrous kiss on the back of her hand. There were more copies of that Life sold in Hooker County than any other before, except maybe for the V-J Day special. Maybe.

That issue of Life ran with Eva Peron on the cover—the official portrait everyone knows, the one with her blond hair done up in a chignon and her diamond earrings looking like waterfalls. It came out just before an Argentine election and the copy under the cover picture read, Evita: Peron’s Tiger and Dove…And His Argentine Salvation?

Doc Fletcher brought in a copy of the magazine to Jess’s office and tossed it, opened to the Smithwycke/Eva story, on his desk. “Seen this, Pardner?”

“Well, I’ll be dang-nabbed.” Jess paged through the story. He shook his head. “The day Hooker County had its own royalty.”

“Take a gander at the cover,” said Doc. “Don’t our Eva look like Mrs. Peron? Either of them’ll flat stop you in your tracks. ’Course, Eva don’t like the spotlight near so well, as we found out. And with her, ain’t nobody whisperin’ about ties to fascists, thank God.”

It seemed that almost everyone in the County wanted a copy of that magazine as a keepsake. Everyone except Eva. She was funny about it, as if her notoriety scared her.

A few days later, Jess bumped into Stan and asked him how things were going. “Aw, yesterday Eva got two long distance telephone calls from an old friend, a woman livin’ in Chicago,” Stan said. “Some girlfriend of hers in Belgium. Turns out she come over as a war bride, too. Saw the Life Magazine article and recognized Eva. Small world, huh?”

“Yep. Sounds swell, but you don’t sound too pleased.”

“Oh, it’s OK by me. It’s Eva’s upset. Especially after the second call. This lady—met her over there and her husband, Max, too—her name’s Crickette. Like the bug. She’s all right, I s’pose. Max was a GI. Can’t say we hit it off right away, but ya get to know him and he’s OK. So, anyways, this Crickette calls to say she saw Eva’s picture and they yack a bit. Then she calls back and wants to come on the train for a visit. Wasn’t much Eva could say.”

Crickette Conroy arrived in mid-January. The Garritys met her one evening at their place. Carrie made supper that night for Eva, Stan and their visitor. After the guests left, Jess told his wife, “Crickette’s a livewire all right. Charmin’, like Eva in some ways. Got that same purrin’ accent and a knack for pickin’ words a step or so away from them I’d use. Like a little girl wearin’ her mama’s high heels and hat, it’s powerful sweet.”

“But Crickette works at it,” Carrie said. “With Eva it’s natural.”

“One thing that sure works is her pink britches, tight and thin as the skin on a frog’s nose.” When Carrie made a show of crossing her arms, Jess kissed her cheek. “Aw, don’t blame me. That perky little pepperpot’s just good at twistin’ men around her finger. In two minutes she had me thinkin’ I’d suddenly gone thirty years younger and a sight and a half better looking. ’Course, you’ve been doin’ that to me for years.” He raised his eyebrows, à la Groucho.

Carrie thrust her hands on her hips. “Ya get the feeling that Crickette’s a gal who doesn’t really know what she wants but sure knows how to get it.”

Crickette stayed a week. After she left, Stan told Jess, “I believe Eva’s glad to see Crickette go, Jessie. Sometimes they’d be yackin’ away in French and I’d figure, oh that’s good. Then a minute later it’d turned to shoutin’. One time I saw them in the next room and Crickette was talkin’ hard at Eva. Lecturing her, finger waggin’ and all. Then Eva slapped Crickette—loud, like in the movies. Time I could walk in there to break it up, they were in each others’ arms, bawlin’. When I asked Eva about it that night, she told me that Crickette is part of her old life—a life she wants to wall off from us today. Bury it deep.”

“Can’t blame her for that, Stan. Way memories tore up your pa, I wish he’d buried his.”

Jess figured he wouldn’t see Crickette again, given how the visit had gone. Then that summer, he was east of Mullen one morning, out on State Route 2 looking into an accident—Bob Hawker’s pick-up had front-ended a deer. He was finishing up with Bob when the biggest Buick he’d ever seen came flying by, doing probably eighty. It was a plum purple convertible, top down. The kind of car you see in magazines. Something Clark Gable would drive. Not something that belongs around Hooker County.

Jess jumped into his patrol sedan, a ’51 Ford with a hundred horsepower V-8—a rascal that could shoot zero-to-eighty in no time flat. After flying down the hardtop, cherry top flashing and siren wailing, Jess pulled the Buick over just east of Mullen. Illinois plates. Driver and passenger lounging on white leather seats. Both wearing dark glasses.

As Jess stepped from the cruiser, the passenger stood up, took off her sunglasses, and threw out her arms. “Sheriff Jessie, I am so exciting to see you.” It was Crickette Conroy. She jumped from the car and ran to Jess. She hugged and kissed him like a long-lost brother. Maybe even a long-lost lover. It worried Jess, since by that time, the steer-sized driver was heading their way. Jess was glad to see his smile. Crickette introduced him as her husband, Max.

Jess ended up just warning them about speeding, of course. He led the way over to the Chandler place. Surprised Eva, to say the least.

The Conroys came to look for a place in Hooker County. Said they’d been robbed in Chicago and wanted something quieter. In fact, mostly it was Crickette wanting to be near Eva, and Max going along with it. They spent a week in the area, looking for land. In the end, they settled on a chunk of Harry Scurfman’s place. Jess told them they were asking for trouble, doing business with the ornery cuss, but they were city folks who figured what does some old horse’s neck sheriff know? They ended up paying an arm and a leg for the upper ten acres of Harry’s land south of town.

Max hired a homebuilder from Valentine to construct the exterior of a new house and workshop. At Christmastime, he and Crickette moved from Chicago. Max was a carpenter by trade, and he spent almost a year getting the interior the way his wife wanted it. When that was done, Max went back to making fine furniture and cabinetry, custom-built for rich city slickers.

One morning in the first days after the Conroys moved in, Eva showed up unannounced. She took Crickette’s coat from its vestibule hanger and handed it to her. “We’re going for a walk. If you’re here for good, there’s something you need to understand.”

They walked silently for a minute in the chilly air, then Eva stopped. “I won’t have the life I’ve built here—my family’s life—jeopardized. You and I share a black past, and that’s just where that it must remain—in the past. You’ve told everyone that we were close during the war. If what you did then were to come out, my security would be threatened. Or vice versa. People can put one and one together.” Eva stepped aggressively close to Crickette’s face. “Most of what Henri told us was merde, but he was right about one thing. He said it’s the highest virtue to be willing to do anything to protect one’s family.” She grasped Crickette’s elbow. “I would do anything. Do I make myself clear?”

Crickette jerked her arm from Eva’s grip. “Of course, dear. I wouldn’t risk hurting Max with the past either. Our secret is safe with me.”

“So we have an understanding, then.” She took Crickette’s hand and shook it. “A pact.”

Crickette nodded and they went inside.

After the sparks he’d seen between Eva and Crickette during her first visit, Jess was surprised at how close they were after the move. He commented to Crickette at Eva’s 1952 Mardi gras fête, “You and Eva seem to be gettin’ along real slick these days. What’s the secret?”

“The secret’s that we’ve made a secret pact, sheriff.” Crickette swirled the high ball in her hand. The tinkle of the ice cubes in the glass matched her giggle. “You know, to keep our secret…secret.” She winked a wouldn’t you like to know what it is wink and said no more.

Max and Crickette didn’t fit in all that well in Hooker County. Problem was, they brought a big chunk of Chicago with them and never let go. What Hooker County folks call high living. Jazzy music jumpin’ on the Victrola. Cuban cigars and gin rickeys. Clothes that care too much about how they look. That Buick convertible. And Max’s Stetson, which drew Lem Hickok’s quip, “That greenhorn’s all hat and no Hereford.”

In Sickness

Doc Fletcher never took to cars, and horseback agreed less and less with him after his lumbago set in. He decided to hire someone part-time, to visit rural patients in their homes. About that time, Eva was looking for something to do. Stan had just taken over the general store and was busy as a kid with an ice cream cone in August. Daughters Cat and Françie were in school. So, in early 1956 Eva began working for the doctor. She didn’t have medical training, but as the doctor told Stan, “Her bedside manner is a sight better than mine. She’ll be a fine go-between.” Stan figured Doc didn’t want to see Harry Scurfman so often.

Eva visited Harry’s place regularly to measure his blood pressure and check that he was taking his heart pills. She had no problems with him. Ethel Henderson, who sold Harry eggs, stopped at the store one day to tell Stan, “I think the old coot’s sweet on your Eva.”

Stan knew better. “Naw, Harry ain’t got no sweet in him.”

In April of 1956, feuding flared up between the Conroys and Harry. As Eva was taking his blood pressure one afternoon, he railed, “Them damn Conroys pulled a fast one on me when I tried to help ’em out, selling them some of my land. Dirty city slickers.”

“But Mr. Scurfman,” Eva said, “Crickette and Max paid you the price you set.” She looked sternly at Harry. “It was a rich price, too. You mustn’t speak so.”

“If it’s such a rich price, how come they tromp all the way here from Chicago to get it? Huh? Explain me that! And then that big lug goes out and steals my idea for a mail alarm. Steals it big as shit. My one chance to make the big time. I’d like to—”

“Carrying on so! How can I measure you properly?” Eva unsnapped the blood pressure sleeve roughly and shoved it in her bag. “Maybe you’d prefer I don’t come anymore?”

Harry’s eyes darted back and forth like a little boy caught cheating by his teacher. Air hissed in and out of his nose, but he said nothing.

Eva stood and snapped her bag shut. “In that case, I’ll speak with Doctor Fletcher.”

“That quack! He’d like to leave me on my own, even sick as I am.” Harry squirmed. “Aw, you don’t have to say nothin’ to him—I’ll keep my trap shut.”

When Stan heard from Ethel Henderson that Harry was hitting the hooch pretty hard, he worried about Eva. Over dinner one night, he said, “All that boozin’. Look honey, I know you gotta visit the old rascal regular. Just please don’t take no chances around him.”

Eva stopped cutting her pork chop in mid-slice. “I do worry the drinking hurts his heart. And his anger! He mutters that Max steals his idea for the mails. Any idea what this is?”

Stan laughed. “Way I heard it, Harry rigged a second flag on his mail box, a yellow one that springs up when the mail carrier puts his delivery in his box. With binoculars, he sees the raised yellow flag and knows the mail’s there. Told Ethel he figured on getting’ rich on the idea, but he never did nothing with it, far as anyone knows. Nothin’ other than save an extra hike to the road.” Stan put down his knife and fork. He sipped his milk. “You know Max’s driveway hops a hill out to the county road, so they didn’t have line-of-sight to their mailbox. Well, Max is pretty handy—rigged hisself up a switch on the box and an electrical loop that lights a bulb in the house when the mail comes. Maybe he did get the idea from Harry. Anyway, it griped the old geezer, and Max’s wires were cut once. Uncle Jess warned Harry, that tamperin’ with the mail’s a federal crime.” Stan grinned. “That’s a bit of a stretch, but the wires ain’t been cut since.”

“Hmm.” Eva touched her napkin to her lips. “I’ve worried about his threats—at Doc, at Max, at Jess. Especially since Harry hasn’t kept his promise to stop. They must be careful.”

“Don’t worry ’bout Harry. Not for Uncle Jess anyways. He can take care of hisself. As for Max, Harry’s rantin’ is about like a rattler threatenin’ a bull buffalo—not much of a match-up.” Stan scratched his chin. “Still, even a busted clock’s right twice a day. I’ll mention to Uncle Jess to keep his eyes open.”

Max had bigger things than Harry eating him the summer of 1956. Crickette had been feeling poorly. From Max’s comments, it sounded like gut problems. Eva flew to her side like a sister. “Whenever she isn’t visiting Doc Fletcher’s patients,” Max told Jess, “Eva’s over at our place, cooking, Hoovering, polishing, and caring for Crickette.”

Eva worried. “Crickette doesn’t like seeing doctors,” she told Stan. “She fights going in, no matter how Max pleads. No matter how bad the pain is.”

But by early November, suffering had worn her down, and Max called Jess for help. “Eva’s finally talked Chérie into seeing Doc Fletcher. I need to get her to the office, but my truck’s broke down. Any way you could give us a lift this early afternoon, pardner?”

“Happy to help, but my damn shoulder’s acting up. Carrie can drive us.” The Garritys took Crickette and Max into town. Eva met them at the office. She and Crickette were in Doc’s exam room for quite a while before Doc called Max in. Five minutes later the Conroys came out arm-in-arm, each supporting the other. Jess knew by the gray of their faces that the news wasn’t good.

Carrie went to Crickette. Max patted his wife’s hand, and he shambled over to Jess and leaned full on his shoulder like he couldn’t support himself. “Not good, partner,” Max whispered, “looks like woman’s cancer.”

The men stood silent, one not knowing what to say and the other having said it all. The women sat in the corner, their heads together. The air in the room was thick and dark as January sky when Eva emerged from the exam room. She stood straight as a Sioux in the saddle. As strong. She brought everyone together and took charge. “From Crickette’s symptoms, Doctor Fletcher fears for ovarian cancer. He’s spoken to a surgeon in North Platte who will make an exploratory surgery in early December. Until then, I have a prescription for pain medicine. I’ll be in your house whenever I can, Max. Carrie, if you’ll help with the girls, I know Stanley can manage at home.”

Eva took Crickette’s hands in hers, and she peered into her eyes, and she wouldn’t speak until her sick friend peered back. “Sister, you must be brave. Remember the dark days we escaped. We can do it again, but only if you keep your courage.”

Crickette’s stare was blank, but she swallowed hard and nodded.

On December 9, Jess drove Crickette, Max, and Eva to the hospital in North Platte. The cruiser covered the sixty-eight miles down there in under an hour. They met Dr. Blanchard, the young female surgeon who’d operate on Crickette. Afterward Max said, “Dang, ya know she-docs exist—I read in Look Magazine about one curing blind kids in India—but ya don’t figure on seeing one with your own eyes.”

During the surgery the next morning, Jess watched Max pace back and forth like an animal in a cage. Waits at the medic’s are always tough. Bein’ a lawman, ya have your share. There’s boredom, and that’s the easy part. Bein’ helpless is worse. It works out in the end sometimes, like with Stella Purcell when her horse fell on her, and it don’t sometimes, like when Billy Foster shot hisself. Either way, the waitin’s always tough.

It didn’t work out for Crickette. Dr. Blanchard appeared, still in her surgical gown, and took Max away to talk in private. A tall, gray-haired woman waiting out her husband’s gall bladder surgery shuddered as she watched them walk in silence down the hall.

The diagnosis was cancer. Cancer of the ovaries. Bad cancer. Lots of it. The surgeon told Max that Crickette had three months. Three hard months.

Jess drove back home that afternoon. Eva and Max stayed the two days until Crickette was discharged. Stan brought them back in his Plymouth.

Once Crickette was back at home, Eva was with her almost round the clock, especially the week after surgery. At first, Crickette seemed much better. And there was the holiday season. Like a January thaw kindles hope for an early spring, those days buoyed everyone’s spirits. They dared wonder if maybe the she-doc could’ve been mistaken.

In mid-January, Jess got an emergency call from the Conroy place. Eva was on the phone. “Sheriff Jess, you must come quick. Max makes a big walnut desk for a doctor in Broken Bow when it falls on his foot. A very heavy desk. We can move it but the foot is very bad. Very purple under the skin and very much swelling. Can you come?”

“You’re saying a desk fell on Max?” Jess asked.

“Yes, it fell on his foot. The desk. Please come, Jess.”

“Be right over.”

Eva waited at the house with Crickette while Jess drove Max to Doc Fletcher’s. Doc did his exam, took X-rays, and plastered the leg half way up to the knee. He told Jess, “Darn desk done some damage. Film shows it busted up some of them foot bones pretty good. Old hoss’ll be crippled-up for a while.”

On the drive back home, Max seemed oddly cheerful. “I’ll tell you, Pally, I’m glad for this.” He tapped the cast. “Desk coming down on my foot—sure it’s bad luck. But I figure if I use up what bad luck Chérie and me got coming, there’ll be only good luck left. And that’s what we’ll need to beat that poison chewin’ her insides.” He forced a smile at Jess.

Jess looked at the man next to him in the front seat—a fella he’d always seen as a giant. But not now. Though he was acting brave, Max looked small, like a broke poker player sliding his grandpa’s pocket watch into the pot, drawing to an inside straight. “Well Max, I hope so. If I could chip in some of my own good luck to you two, I’d sure do it.”

The First Day of My Life

The Saturday after Max’s injury, January 19, Crickette phoned Eva and demanded she come right away. Eva left her daughters with Carrie and drove to the Conroy place. As she pulled up to the house, Crickette burst through the doorway and stumbled to the truck. Tears streaked her face and she bent over in obvious pain.

Eva leapt from the truck and put an arm around her friend. “It’s bad today, isn’t it? Come, let’s get you inside, poor thing.”

Crickette twisted away. “Not there. Need to talk. Where Max can’t hear.” She pulled on red mittens and clutched Eva’s arm. “In the workshop.”

With Eva’s support, Crickette hobbled the forty feet to Max’s workshop. She turned on the light and lurched to the office area in the corner. She pulled her coat tight around her and fell into the swivel chair.

Eva put a hand on Crickette’s shoulder.

Crickette looked up with fire in her eyes. “The damn pain medicines don’t work,” she snarled. “I can’t go on.”

“I’ll speak with Doc Fletcher. Perhaps a different—”

Crickette knocked Eva’s hand away. “Nothing works. Did you hear me? I can’t go on.”

When Eva put her hand back on her shoulder, Crickette burst into sobs. She reached up to touch Eva’s cheek. “What can I do? Max can’t have the truth. I have to tell him I’m OK. And he believes it.” She shook her head and put her arms around Eva. “He still believes I won’t die.” Eva rubbed her back. “But I must. Can’t go on with this great insect gnawing on me, sucking out my life. I’d kill myself but for Max. His brother Lenny made a suicide after the war. Since then Max goes on and on, crying that now good little Lenny is damned to hell.” Crickette clutched Eva’s sleeve. “When I die, he mustn’t think it was me.” She kissed Eva’s hand and fell to her knees. “And he wouldn’t, if you could…”

Eva recoiled. “If I could do what? Help you die?”

“Yes…help me. I have a plan.”

Eva stepped backward. “I don’t want to hear it. I won’t.”

Crickette slipped back into the chair. “Remember telling me Henri said that killing for your family is a virtue? Well, you’re about to be virtuous, for I learned something from Henri, too. When you’ve got a knife to someone’s throat, they do what you want. Let me be clear, Eva. The knife I hold is our little secret, and your family is the throat. I mean it. You’d better ask yourself how much Stanley and your two little darlings matter. What would they think—what would everyone think—if they knew what you were? What you are?”

Eva glared, and her lip trembled. But she didn’t step away.

Holding her abdomen, Crickette leaned back. “I want it done in a flash. No lingering. No mistakes. You used to be good with a shotgun. Remember hunting at the Ducoisie farm? In 1944? You never missed.” She winced at a stab of pain. “Listen, I’ve thought of everything. If a killer doesn’t exist, no one pays.” Crickette ignored Eva shaking her head. “What if we go together for the mail today and mention seeing a stranger on the road? And what if I go again for the mail on Monday and you are waiting with Max’s little shotgun? A twitch of the finger, and I’m free. It’s that simple, that good. You’ll be free, too. Free to keep your secret buried forever. Imagine—your family, safe from the knife at their throats. Our feeble sheriff could search all he wants for a phantom stranger, but in the end he’ll fail. Max keeps his illusion. Sure he suffers—but it’s over quickly and he doesn’t watch me shrivel in agony for months and then die anyway.”

Eva stood stone silent.

Crickette closed her eyes. “Think about it.” She pulled herself to her feet and shuffled toward the door. “But think quickly,” she rasped, “I don’t have much waiting in me.” On the way to the house, she took Max’s shortened shotgun from the shed, wrapped it and some ammunition in a blanket, and put it in the bed of Eva’s truck.

An hour later Crickette and Eva walked to the postal box for the mail. When they returned Max was sitting at the table. Crickette handed him the mail and poured a cup of coffee for herself and one for Eva. Max was shuffling through the envelopes when Crickette said, “Funny thing, cold as it is—there was a stranger walking up the road today.”

Max slit open an envelope with his pocketknife. “Hmmm?” He unfolded a statement and grimaced. “Damn electric company’s eating us alive.”

Eva returned early the next morning. She pulled Crickette aside and told her, “I’ve decided. Get your coat. We can talk outside. I left the engine on so the truck would be warm.”

Through the kitchen window, Max watched them walk together to the truck. He watched Eva help his wife into the cab. And for a few minutes he leaned on the kitchen sink, forgetting his throbbing foot, watching the truck. He watched, though he could barely make out the women’s silhouettes through the GMC’s steamed-up windshield and the billowy cloud of exhaust that enveloped the truck. He forgot his pain and watched because he was happy thinking Crickette had Eva to talk to. Since she’d gotten sick, he never knew what to say.

In the truck Eva gripped the steering wheel tight and turned to Crickette. “Your idea is crazy. Forget it. I’m sorry for your desperation, and I’ll do whatever I can for you. But not that. So listen to me, before I go today, I’m putting Max’s gun back in the shed. That’s final.”

Rage flashed over Crickette face. “Easy to say when you’ve got everything. Children. Health. People fawning over you like a Hollywood star.” She jerked the lapel of Eva’s coat. “The fact is, it’s not your decision to make. Didn’t you goddamn hear me? I’ll ruin you. Tell them all what you did. What you are. A Nazi who killed a nun.” Crickette smiled wanly. “Yes, Henri told me about your handiwork on that untidy matter.”

Eva trembled and closed her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them she looked tranquil. “I lay awake all last night thinking. All I’ve ever wanted was to live honestly. To be openly what I am. Good and bad. You called your threat to expose my past a knife. As I thought about it last night, that knife transformed from threat to liberator—it’s cut the bonds that ensnared me. I’m no longer afraid. I’ve decided to tell Stanley everything. To tear down the wall between my secret life and my real life. I’ll finally be free.” She burst into sobs and reached to embrace Crickette. “The knife could cut your bonds, too, if you let it. You could be free.”

Crickette flailed at Eva’s arms and growled like a wild beast. “Damn you. Henri said you couldn’t be trusted. You won’t betray me like this. I won’t goddamn let you.”

“Crickette, come to your senses. What you’re asking is madness. Look, tomorrow morning I must visit Mr. Scurfman. I’ll stop here afterward. We can talk again then.”

Crickette froze for a moment. “Yes, come by tomorrow after the mail’s here. But I’m telling you this—you won’t get away with leaving me hanging.” Crickette threw open the door and started back for the house.

Eva got out of the truck. “I’m putting the gun away, Crickette.” She lowered the tailgate and took it, still wrapped in the blanket. “But I will be back tomorrow. I won’t abandon you.”

Crickette didn’t look back. She stumbled back to the house, muttering, “You’ll get what all traitors deserve. Tomorrow.”

When he saw Crickette burst through the door, Max was startled. He hobbled to her. “Chérie, what’s wrong? What happened?” He reached to take her in his arms.

Crickette turned from his grasp. “Get away from me.” She lurched to the bedroom, hissing, “I’ll get you—I swear it,” and slammed the door.

After Eva had left that morning, the girls came into the kitchen where Stan was having a cup of coffee and reading the paper. Françie tugged on his sleeve. He put the paper down and pulled both of them onto his lap.

“Where’s momma?” Françie asked.

“She had to go see Crickette this mornin’,” Stan said. “I reckon she’s feeling poorly these days and momma’s doin’ all she can to make it easier for her.”

“Is momma got cancer, too?

“No.” Stan pulled the girls close to him. “Your momma’s fit as a fiddle.”

“She seemed so sad last night,” Cat said. “She was crying when she kissed me goodnight.”

Stan looked surprised.

Cat leaned close to Stan’s ear and whispered, “I think Mom’s got an owie on her heart.”

“Oh, you two are just imaginin’ things. Momma seemed fine, really happy, this mornin’.” He hugged the girls. “She said she’d be back before lunch. You young ladies get in there and get your room straightened up ’fore she gets home. Hurry up, now!”

Stan stoked the fire in the parlor stove. He picked up the newspaper from the kitchen table and carried it to the window next to the front door. Without opening the paper, he stood there, still as a hawk on a telephone pole, watching the driveway for Eva’s truck.

When she drove up, he ran outside without putting on his coat and threw his arms around her. Not a word was said.

Stan felt Eva trembling and he pulled back. He saw tears filling her eyes, but she was smiling. “Today’s the first day of my life,” she said, pulling him close to her.

Stan kissed her ear and whispered, “The girls told me you were sad last night. I didn’t know, honey. I’m sorry.”

“Last night doesn’t matter. I’ve got today. And tomorrow.” She put her arm through Stan’s. “Let’s go in. I want to kiss my girls. Then after lunch, we’re going for a walk, my love.”

Eva made sandwiches for lunch. After they ate, she set up the girls with coloring books. Then she and Stan put on heavy coats and went out the door.

“Radio’s talkin’ snow,” Stan said.” Feels like—”

Eva put her fingers to his lips. “I need to say something, Stanley. I want you just to listen. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever said…and the easiest.” When Stan looked confused, she said, “Just listen.” They walked in silence for a while. “I’ve been carrying a dark secret for most of my life. I’ve been such a fool.” She griped Stan’s hand. “I’m so sorry. I can’t undo the past—but maybe I can save the future.” She kissed his hand. “I worked for the Germans while I was at St. Sébastien. In the Depression, things were so hard that my father killed himself. My mother gave me up. Gave me to them. I was taught that the Nazi way could save the world, and I believed it.”

Eva saw the tears in Stan’s eyes, and she held him close. “I’m so sorry, Stanley.”

He shook his head and blubbered, “Honey, much as you mean to me, don’t ya see none of that matters? Tell me everything, tell me nothing. It won’t change that I’d always love you.”

They stood for a moment, holding each other in the silent cold. Then Eva said, “I know you would. It’s been your love that saved me for this day…when I can set myself free. When I can be what you deserve.” They started walking. “But I need to tell more, because the telling itself is how I finally escape the past. By saying what I never could say.” She took a deep breath. “I was a part of something awful in those days. It was like quicksand—I only saw it after it had me. Sucking me down. Smothering me. I’ve talked about Mother Catherine to you many times.” She stopped and looked into his eyes. “Stanley, it was me who sent her to the gallows. I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to get back at her. But so many things in those days whirled out of control. I was just being honest when I told you I was no hero.”

Just at that moment, a shaft of sunlight broke through the gray clouds and turned the air luminous. They both looked up. When Stan turned back to Eva, her eyes sparkled. “Then a miracle happened,” she said. “The Allies came and night turned to day. I met the handsomest, bravest, cleanest man in the world. You. You saved me.” She squeezed his hand. “And today, I feel as if telling you what I did and you hearing it can finish my redemption.”

After a brief silence, Stan asked, “Can I talk now?”

Eva nodded.

“In my book, the past is past. You’re off the hook for any of that stuff. And like I said, nothin’ you did, nothin’ you could ever do, would change me lovin’ you. Honey, like it’s carved in a stone—I’ve been yours from the first second I saw ya.”

“Off the hook.” Eva closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “It sounds so free. So good.” She turned them back toward home, and pulling his arm close, she nestled his shoulder.

White and Red

The snowfall had just ended the afternoon of January 21, 1957 when the call came in. “Sheriff Jess, it’s Eva. I have awful news. Crickette—” There was a quiet moment and then a stifled sob. “—Crickette is shot, poor thing. She’s dead, Jess. How could it happen?”

Jess felt gut-punched. “Oh my Jesus. Crickette? Eva, you sure she’s dead?”

“I’m sure. I felt no pulse. She was pale, Jess. I saw a terrible wounding on the chest.”

“You OK, Eva?”

“Yes, OK…just so cold.”

“You’re doin’ fine.” He gave her a moment. “Just a couple more things. What about Max?”

“Max told me she was missing. We searched. Found her nearby the road. She was pale. I’m with him now. In his house.”

“Near what road, Eva?”

“At the top of her drive, near the mailbox. We shouldn’t move her, right? I covered her with a GI blanket—” Eva broke into sobs.

“Take your time….Breathe.”

She inhaled deeply. Twice. “—Covered her with a blanket Stanley keeps in the truck. Oh Jess, I’ll never forget her face as I laid the blanket down. Those eyes looking at me.”

“You said shot. What about a weapon?”

“A little shotsgun. Short. Max called it his gun for snakes. It was under some snow. Hidden. I stepped on it. But I left it there.”

“Good girl, Eva. Leave the firearm to me. You’ll stay with Max till I get there, won’t you? Doc Fletcher’s the M.E., so I’ll have to haul him out there to get a look at things and take care of the body. She’s lyin’ where?”

“On the edge of the ditch, behind the mailbox. Toward the drive. I can show you.”

“No, you stick by Max—I bet he’s needin’ a shoulder to lean on. Any questions that hatch can wait. We’ll do our look-see then hustle down to the house. You did fine, Eva.”

“I only tried to be a true friend.” She cried again.

“Why don’t you telephone Stan. Reckon you’re needin’ a shoulder about now, too.”

Jess called Doc and was dashing to the door when Stan phoned. “Eva just called. Can’t believe it about Crickette. Eva’s pretty shook up, Jess. Think I could bum a ride out there?”

“Hustle on over. We’ll pick up Doc and hightail it down to the Conroy’s. As much hightailin’ as the snow allows.”

It was mid-afternoon when they pulled up to the Conroy’s mailbox. Stan set off for the house on foot. Jess and Doc found Crickette where Eva said, covered with the blanket and an inch of snow. Her arms were thrown up, over her head, and she was lying on her back.

“Have a look-see around, Garrity,” Doc said, “while I get my paperwork started in the car.”

The snake gun was five feet from the body. Jess put on gloves and picked it up. It was a twenty gauge. Breach. Sawed-off double barrel, eighteen inch. Jess pulled the shells out. Both spent. Green paper hulls, deer-shot load. He put the weapon in the patrol car trunk and got his camera. He was preparing to photograph the body when he noticed something clutched in Crickette’s left hand. He pried open the fingers. It was a slip of pink paper rolled around a stubby pencil. Jess unrolled the paper and read the scribbled words on it: It was Eva. He took a step back and glanced at Doc, busy writing away in the patrol car. Jess stuffed the paper in his pocket.

Jess was stepping away from the body to take a flash picture when he kicked something. It was a yard-long piece of unfinished wood molding. Like the shotgun, it had been covered only by the afternoon’s dusting of snow. Jess was putting the stick of molding and the camera in the trunk when Doc got out of the car to begin his investigation.

They walked together back to the body. Doc sighed. “Guess we better get started.” He undid Crickette’s slacks. He and Jess rolled her over, and he inserted a rectal thermometer. He placed another thermometer on the snow under her and they moved her back like they found her.

While Doc conducted the rest of his in-place examination, Jess shivered in the patrol car, thinking about that slip of paper in his pocket.

Doc tromped back to the car and jumped in the front seat. “This all the heat this crate’ll make, Garrity?” He rubbed his hands and blew on them. “Well, shotgun blast all right. Close range. Force musta threw her back across the ditch where we found her.”

“Self-inflicted, eh?” Jess asked tentatively.

“Hmmm.”

Jess turned and stared at Doc. “That a yes?

“Have to get a look at that runty shotgun and ammo. Probably need a test firing.”

Jess swallowed. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Time of death?”

“Have to consult my temperature loss tables. Based on rigor, I’m thinking noon or so.”

The funeral car pulled up, and Wiedermeier, the undertaker, shuffled over, shaking his head. “Howdy, gents. This is a shocker, for sure.”

“Maybe a suicide, Hank,” Jess said, glancing at Doc. “Figure on a post mortem.”

“I have one more temp check, then you can take her, Hank,” Doc said. “I’ll do the P.M. in the morning.”

Five minutes later, Doc checked his pocket watch and went out to take another set of temperature readings. He was back in a few minutes. He swung into the front seat and said, “Let’s get over to the house, Garrity.”

Jess first noticed the tingling feebleness in his shoulder as they pulled up to the Conroy house. Doc went inside to see to Max. Jess walked to Eva’s pickup and spent a moment massaging his shoulder. Then he put on his gloves and looked over the truckbed. He glanced at the house to be sure no one was watching and opened the door and looked around the cab. He felt under the seat. He was glad not to have found anything. Glad to think he was acting stupid. It was Eva could mean anything. This was a sick woman’s suicide. Nothing more.

Jess knocked and entered the house. Stan and Eva sat on the sofa. Her head rested on his chest. Stan’s arm cradled her and his hand stroked her neck below the ear. Doc leaned over his medical bag on the dining room table. Max sat in the parlor, bent over with elbows on knees, hands folded. To Jess, the bald spot atop his head was his vulnerability, and the empty glass on the table next to him, his future.

Jess knew nothing he could do would change things. That spiritual feebleness echoed, mimicked, the numbness in his arm as if they were paired. Reinforcing each other. When he clicked the door shut, Eva looked up at him. Her eyes went to Max and back to him. Jess felt strength flow from her glance. The strength to approach Max. His soul’s weariness drained away as he walked over and placed a hand on Max’s shoulder.

The big man’s head startled up. His expression was gray and heavy as lead.

“Max, I’m sure sorry about Crickette. She was a fine woman. Got through a lot.”

Max nodded and dipped his head again.

Doc left sleeping pills for Max. He and Jess followed Stan and Eva back toward town. Jess dropped Doc and then headed home. The house was dark. Carrie was still over at the Chandler’s, watching the girls. She spoke to him on the phone. “Eva and Stan just got here. She’s pretty well spooked, poor thing, but Stan’s taking good care of her, warming a brandy. The girls are asleep. I’ll be home in a while.”

Jess poured himself a rye whiskey, a large one, and turned off the lights. He eased into his rocker next to the wood stove. He swallowed a slug of rye and savored its sting. Then he sat rocking, slowly rocking, waiting for the pain to seep away.

White and Black

The next morning, Jess sat hunched over his desk, trying to push his mind off the notion of a woman desperate enough to end her own life and pretty well her husband’s too. He pulled down Hans Gross’ criminal investigations bible and put on his reading specs. He turned to the chapter on suicide. Gross said that women almost always leave a note. He’d have to ask Max about that. Gross claimed women rarely use guns. When they do, they usually lie down before pulling the trigger—the weapon is typically found next to the body. Course, usually ain’t always. He was still reading when Doc called.

“Garrity, I just finished the P.M. Think you may have a homicide on your hands.”

Jess’s chest tightened. “Jesus! What makes you say that, Doc?”

“Well, last night I was wondering about that wound—seemed big. But it was dark and the trauma site was pretty messy. Didn’t want to say nothing till I got a better look. Got me a fifty-five mm entry. Even with that stubby gun, I’d figure self-inflicted at twenty-five or so.”

“You sayin’ the muzzle was too far away for self-inflicted?”

“Right. I’m thinking at least a couple of feet from the entry. And one more thing, Jess. There were powder burns on her left coat sleeve and some pellet wounds in her left forearm. Like she was begging for mercy when she was shot.”

“God almighty.” Jess pictured Crickette pleading as he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Sounds like I should talk to Max. This afternoon. Damn. I’ll do a test firing.”

“Temperature drop points to a time of death around 11:30,” Doc said. “With the cold, that’s pretty iffy. Oh, and that cancer—it was eatin’ on her pretty good. She’d have been hurting. Least with the blast she took, it would’ve been over quick.”

Jess called the state police to say he was investigating a suspicious death. He dusted the shotgun and spent shells for prints. None.

Jess drove to the Conroy place. He’d managed to convince himself that the slip of paper meant nothing, but now he had a new worry. In Hans Gross, he’d read, Wife killed, suspect husband first. Suspect the person who finds the body. Max fits both bills. Jess decided not to let on he was thinking foul play. Not just yet. He rubbed his shoulder, battling the numbness seeping down his arm like mist descending a mountainside.

When he let Jess in, Max looked washed out but eager to talk. He’s reachin’ to savvy what happened, Jess worried. What he did. Max poured coffee and they sat at the kitchen table.

Jess stirred sugar into his coffee, trying to look calm. “Did Crickette leave a note, Max?”

Max looked confused. “Thought she had. But I couldn’t find it. I even wrote her one back after she left—stuck it in the bristles of her hair brush.”

“You wrote a note? What are you talkin’ about, Max?”

“We used to write notes, hide ’em around for each other to find. Love notes. Goofy stuff.”

Jess felt like a voyeur. “I meant, did she leave a suicide note?” He saw Max cringe at the word suicide. “Or maybe a diary? Anything to tell us what happened?”

Max shook his head. “Naw, nothing like that. Nothing I found.”

“OK. Just keep your eyes open and give me a jingle if you find anything.” Jess shifted in his seat—the questions would get tougher to ask. “Where’d you keep that snake gun?”

“In my tool shed. Ammo was there, too.” Max looked at the floor. “Should’ve hid the ammo, shouldn’t I? If only I’d hid it.”

Jess didn’t touch that one. “What about Crickette’s mental state?”

“She had pain all right, but her medicine helped. In fact, Eva came over Saturday morning with hot lunch and more medicine, so she was pretty good there. Came Sunday morning, too. Crickette was upset, but she said it wasn’t the cancer. Wouldn’t tell me what—only wanted to talk to Eva. She was always there for us, bless her heart.” Max pursed his lips, fighting back sobs. “I’ll tell ya, no way we’d have made it through those first days if it weren’t for Eva. I ’member riding back from the hospital, the gals sat in the back seat together. Eva said, ‘When you feel better, Crickette, you and I are going out to buy you a new dress.’”

Max needed a deep breath before going on. “When I heard that, Jess, I was thinking just what Crickette said. ‘A new dress? To die and be buried in?’ I glanced at Eva in the rear view mirror. Saw her take Crickette’s hands and say, ‘Look at me, Crickette. We’ll buy you a new dress for living in, not for dying. I’m not saying you’ll have a miracle cure. I only say that living is its own miracle. Sure, you don’t know the time you have left, but whatever it is, spend it living, not dying.’ I think Crickette took that to heart.”

Jess stroked his chin. “Ain’t bad advice for any of us.”

“Reckon not.” Max wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Anyway, last Saturday Eva came over like I said. I was dozing in and out. Gals went outside and talked in the workshop. Later they walked up together to get the mail when the light come on.”

“And you said Eva came over Sunday, too?”

“Yeah, Sunday, too. With Eva, nothing was too much to ask. Though after she left, Crickette was real shook up.”

“So maybe I should talk to Eva about something eatin’ on Crickette?”

Max looked out the window. “I’ll tell ya, she adored Eva. I ’member one evening, looking at Life Magazine, reading about that King Farouk of Egypt. You know? Had all them beautiful wives? I joked to Crickette, ‘If I could be anyone, guess I’d choose old Farouk.’ She got real serious. ‘I’d be Eva,’ she said. ‘Everyone admires her. Loves her…and she has daughters.’ Not sure if you knew, but Crickette couldn’t have children. Always envied Eva that. But mostly just loved her. Told her stuff she’d never tell me.” His big shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Jess stared at his coffee. “I’ll ask Eva about Crickette bein’ upset. Tell me ’bout yesterday.”

Max rocked on his chair. “Postal light came on. 11:00 or so. Crickette put on her coat. I said, ‘Weather bad as it is, the mail can wait, you know.’ But she wanted to go. Said, ‘I’m expecting to see Eva.’ Made a big deal outta that. Guess she looked forward so much to seeing her. And she liked the snow—liked its feel on her cheek. Called it a sign that life still stirred in her. Mentioned having a last laugh at her cancer. She was a fighter, Jess.”

“She was that, for sure.” Jess kneaded his shoulder. “She headed up alone, eh?”

“Yeah, with her black Lab, Nickel. She called, ‘Back in a jiff, Maxie,’ as she stepped into the gale. I heard the door slam and hauled myself up to the window to wave to her. Blew me a kiss as she passed by. ‘Back in a jiff’ was the last thing she said to me, Jess.” Max’s voice cracked. “You don’t expect that.” He was crying again.

Jess stirred his coffee. The clinking sound of the spoon on the cup reminded him of a buoy at sea—a warning. “Odd choice of words for a woman thinkin’ to end her life.”

For a moment Max could only nod. “Last view I got, she’s trudging into the blizzard with Nickel romping around her. I can picture it clear—snowflakes spattering the top of her red wool scarf. Reminded me of the snowy day we met. November 1944. She was sweeping in front of the boulangerie she worked at. Some village in eastern Belgium—I forget the name. But I’ll never forget her frisky beauty that day. For me it was love at first sight.”

Jess hated his job. Hated having to suspect Max. “You didn’t see her again? Not alive, at least?” As he said it, he knew it was a dumb choice of words.

Max shook his head. He choked up again.

Jess looked away. “Take your time.”

Max pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. It sounded like a bull buffalo’s trumpet. “I figured she’d be back in ten minutes. Inauguration Day like it was, I had the Philco on to hear Ike. So, I’m listening and there’s Nickel, barking outside. I climb up to the window, figuring Crickette’s back. But all I see is the dog running back and forth, barking, jumping up and down like a danged grasshopper. Just a black dog in a sea of white. Right away, I know something’s wrong.” Max rubbed his forehead then slid his hand over his bald spot to the back of his neck.

Jess drank the last of his coffee.

“Another cup, Jess?” Max seemed relieved for a break from his story.

“Sure.”

Jess watched Max hobble over to the percolator on the stove, leaning on the counter as he went. His cast clunked on the linoleum. And, like a thunderclap, it came to Jess: There was no way this man could have gotten up that hill to pull the trigger. Not with that foot of his. No matter how much he might have wanted to end his wife’s suffering. It was the first shred of good Jess felt since Eva’s call about Crickette.

Max returned with the coffee and pushed the cup across the table to Jess. He stared at his folded hands. “I knew I’d need help to save Crickette. Tried the phone, but it was dead. I was on stormy seas in a leaky lifeboat, man. Then I remembered Crickette saying Eva’d be swinging by. Thought I had a lifeline.” Max shook his head grimly. “Ten minutes later here’s the Chandlers’ tan GMC pickup lumbering down the drive. I felt like the cavalry was riding up, Jess.”

Jess raised a finger to interrupt Max. “So Eva must’ve passed Crickette’s body up by the road, but she didn’t see her?”

“Way it was snowing, you wouldn’t see anything you weren’t looking for.”

“Yeah, reckon so. Anyway, Eva drives up. Then what?”

“Well, the truck’s door swings open and out steps Eva—her yellow curls spilling from that navy beret she wears. Only Crickette don’t get out the other door.” Max cracked his knuckles. “The rest is kind of a blur. I get my coat on and Eva drives us up the hill. When we get to the mailbox , there’s Nickel standing by a snow-dusted silhouette—barking, Hurry up! I go tumbling out of the truck and next thing I’m cradling Crickette’s head in my hands. I can still see her face.” Max looked up at Jess. “Sounds stupid, but made me happy seeing her pain-free at last. Peaceful. Looking so alive, snow melting on her still-warm lips. Those green eyes of hers—wide-open, like she’s surprised.” Max rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. “She was looking up, Jess. Right through me, up to heaven.”

Jess got up and put his hand on Max’s shoulder. Something Eva would do. It felt right. And it felt like the time to show his cards. “Max, there’s circumstances make me doubt suicide here. I’m lookin’ into the possibility of foul play.”

Tears welled up again in Max’s eyes. He blubbered, “I knew she wouldn’t leave me alone. Wouldn’t give up fighting. And the way I found her, looking up at heaven like it was welcoming her, I just knew she hadn’t damned herself.” A dark look came over him. “Crickette never did nothing to nobody that’d make ’em want to hurt her.”

“Max, no matter what happened, I’d never claim any of this was Crickette’s fault. But if someone did hurt her, I want to get ’em. And to do that, I’ll need your help.”

Max relaxed a bit. He seemed ready to listen.

“When’s the last time you saw your scatter gun in the shed?” Jess asked.

“Dunno. Maybe last summer. Can’t remember. Made a big deal of it when I first bought the thing but hardly ever noticed it since. Only fired it a few times—in the first week I owned it.”

“So it coulda been there yesterday or maybe not since July. Or any time between?”

“I s’pose.”

“Had any suspicious mail or phone calls. Strangers hangin’ around?”

Max shook his head. “Naw, nothing.…Wait a minute! Crickette and Eva saw a stranger walking along the road. Must’ve been Saturday.”

“A stranger? I’ll ask Eva about that. Anyone have anything against Crickette?”

“Nobody.” Max scratched his head. “Not against her particularly.”

“Against you? Maybe a business deal gone sour?”

“Naw. Only old man Scurfman, and he’s got something against everybody.”

That hit Jess like a mule’s hind legs. Harry! Can’t believe I didn’t think of him. His mind whipped back to the time Harry stole a shotgun out of Butch Webster’s barn. Jess felt like he’d had too much coffee. “Had any run-ins with Scurfman lately?”

“No, not since the mailbox deal. When he said I stole his idea for letting ya know when the mail’s in the box. Don’t see much of him, ’specially this time of year.”

“Harry’s sure not one to forget a grudge. Let me look into it. By the way, I’ll need to test fire your 20 gauge. Can I take some of them green-hulled deershot shells?”

“To be honest, Sheriff, I don’t know what’s there. Take whatever you find.”

“OK, Max, I’ll have a look, then I’m gonna head back to town. I’ll be in touch.”

Max nodded. Jess squeezed the man’s massive shoulder. He didn’t look up.

Jess was glad to slip outside, where the cold air rang with life and possibility. Glad to leave the stifle and choke of death inside.

In the shed, he found an open box of the green shells and took it with him. That afternoon, he test-fired the snake gun into cardboard sheets, covering muzzle-to-cardboard distances from point blank to ten feet with five blasts. Three feet of distance blew a hole sixty mm in diameter.

Jess called Fletcher. “Doc, I fired Max’s gun. Looks to me like you’d need to be almost three feet from the muzzle to make a wound the size you found.”

“Say three feet muzzle to victim and a foot and a half of barrel—no one’s arms are long enough to reach the trigger like that. Don’t look like suicide to me.”

As Jess hung up the phone, he pictured a noose tightening around Harry Scurfman’s neck. “Son of a bitch!” he hissed.

The next morning Jess called Wayne Hatcher, the mailman. “See anything unusual on the road around the Conroy place Monday, Wayne? A stranger? Or Harry Scurfman, maybe?”

“No. Did see the Platt boy, Mickey, walking. Gave him a ride home, weather like it was. He’s been footing it to and from work at the Grangers the last week. Car’s broke down.”

“Picked him up where?”

“Oh, let’s see, just this side of Granger’s. I recollect he was with me when I delivered to Scurfman, to Conroy, and to Hill. Dropped him off with the family’s mail at his place.”

“OK, Wayne. And what about Harry Scurfman? You see him?”

“Naw, never see the old coot in weather like this.”

Jess spoke to Mickey Platt. His story meshed with the mailman’s. He told Jess he had walked home early Saturday afternoon, passing right by the Conroy place. Jess wrote in his notebook, Probably was Mickey that Crickette and Eva saw on the road Saturday.

Jess cleaned and loaded his revolver. He told Carrie, “I’m headed out to Harry’s. Call the State Patrol if you don’t hear from me by noon.”

Carrie scowled. “You take a patrolman along with you, Jessie Garrity. Folks say that man sleeps with a loaded six-gun under his pillow.”

“Naw, I’ll go alone. Don’t want to spook Harry. I’ll play up the drifter idea. Ask if he’s seen anyone suspicious. Playin’ dumb’s a specialty of mine.” Jess winked.

Jess rolled up to Harry’s shanty about 11:00 a.m. He knocked. Waited. Pounded on the door. Waited. Finally, the curtains shimmered. “Hey Harry,” he yelled, “want to ask you a few questions. Open up.” Jess kept his hand on his pistol as he waited.

The door opened a crack. “What do you want, Garrity?”

“Like I said, I want to ask a couple of questions. Seen anything unusual in the last week? Hey, it’s cold out here. Let me in so we can talk, then I’ll be on my way.”

The door creaked open a bit more. From down low, Harry’s knit cap-covered head peered out. So low that it surprised Jess. He’d forgotten how short Harry was.

Figuring that was all the welcome he’d get, Jess pushed through the opening. He stomped his feet on the mat and took off his hat. “Damn, it’s cold.”

Harry shoved the door shut. “Colder’an a nun’s tits on Good Friday.”

“So, Harry, you heard about Crickette Conroy, I s’pose.”

“I heard nothin’ about that bitch. Why would I?”

Jess grimaced. “Mrs. Conroy’s got herself shot. I’m workin’ on the idea that a drifter mighta done the shootin’.”

Harry took his time before frowning. “So?”

“So I thought you mighta heard or seen somethin’.”

“Well you’d be wrong, Garrity.”

“This was Monday. Midday or so.”

“Like I told you, I heard nothing. Don’t go out much in winter. Too fuckin’ cold.”

“So Monday you were home? All day?”

“That’s right. Indoors. All day.” Harry’s tone was sassy. “Monday and Tuesday I was sick. Bed sick. Like I said, I don’t know nothin’ about no drifter shootin’ no bitch.”

“Keep your shirt on, Harry. I’m just goin’ around, askin’ folks.”

“Well, you’ve done that—” Harry licked his lips. “—so now you can git.”

“Guess there’s no one can confirm you were home all Monday? You telephone anyone?”

“Got no use for a fuckin’ phone.” Harry’s mouth bent into a sneer. “Ain’t got one.”

“OK. That’ll do for now, Scurfman. May need to talk with you again, though. Ya think of anything I should know, get back to me.” Jess turned to leave.

“Sheriff, if I was you, I’d be lookin’ at that galoot of a husband of hers.”

Jess went out the door without looking back. He was on the porch steps when Harry called from the doorway. “If you need to check my story, talk to that Chandler woman. She was here taking care of me most the morning. Came over snow and all. Only decent soul in the whole stinkin’ county.”

Who Murders a Dying Woman?

Jess swung by the Chandler place to talk to Eva the next day. Sitting in the parlor, she replied to his questions about the morning of Crickette’s death. “I suppose it was 9:00 or so when I got to Harry’s home. It must have been because I’m dropping the girls with Carrie at 8:45. And I was there until I left to see Crickette. At noon or so. Max may have a better memory of the time. But yes, Harry was home all morning. Sick in his bed. His fever measured 101°. I think it’s la grippe—flu, as we say here. I brought his heart medicine and a little pot of potato soup. I did some cleaning in his kitchen.”

“Now Eva, this is important. You sure Harry didn’t slip out for a few minutes while you were busy? Did he go for the mail?”

“No, his place is so petite, I would’ve noticed. And I took him the mail when it comes.”

“It’s just that there was bad blood between Harry and the Conroys. I’m tryin’ to find out if Harry could have been involved in Crickette’s death.”

Eva looked surprised. “But you said Crickette suicides herself?”

“Now I’m sayin’ maybe not, Eva. Got some evidence pointing to murder.”

She was quiet for a time, lost in thought. Finally, a trace of recognition shimmered across her face. “Clever!” she whispered.

Jess looked at her quizzically. “Clever?”

Eva blinked like a student caught daydreaming. “I…I mean clever-you, missing nothing.”

“That’s my job.” He winked.

Eva gazed out the window. “I suppose it’s better for Max…better for everyone.”

Jess cocked his head, as if it might help him understand. “What’s better?”

Eva shook her head slowly, sadly. “During the war we used to say, the good doesn’t exist, there’s only the better. The less bad. Pain is like war—it changes the rules. It can make death better than life.” She folded her arms and shivered. “When I spent Saturday and Sunday morning with Crickette, I saw pain enough for that. But she couldn’t tell Max how it was for her—how much she suffered.” Eva stepped close to Jess and whispered, “She was desperate. Enough to mention suicide. But it wasn’t possible. Because of Max. She needed something else.”

“She talked about suicide? Must’ve been hard.” Jess bit his lip. “All Max knew was something was eatin’ on her. Something she wouldn’t tell him. Guess she could tell you.”

“Jess, can’t you see her situation was impossible? Perhaps murder resolves everything.”

“’Round here, murder’s murder. Plain.” Jess glanced at his watch. “Look, I came for the dope on Harry, and I got that, so I’m gonna make tracks.” He put on his hat and stepped toward the door, then turned back to Eva. “Say, Crickette told Max about a drifter on the road Saturday. On Monday, you see anyone around where you and Max found Crickette?”

Eva glanced up. “We did…see a stranger in the distance. On the road. Saturday.”

“Yeah, looks like that was the Platt boy walking home from work.”

“The Platt boy?” Eva looked troubled. “Mickey? I don’t know about that. But on Monday, driving there, I saw nothing. Not even Crickette’s body. With the snow, all I could think of was the road, I suppose. Even when I stopped to get their mail, I didn’t see…her.”

“Oh, you got the Conroy’s mail? Fixin’ to bring it down to them?”

“Yes, I took it from the box through the truck’s window. If only I’d looked, I might have seen her. Perhaps while she was still…. But the snow was heavy. And I didn’t expect….”

“No, ’course not. And from her wound, time you got there, Crickette was already gone. Don’t you blame yourself. Listen, Eva, I’ll clear out of your way now.” He tapped his hat brim. “You take care.”

Eva walked him to the door. “Sheriff Jess, wait. I don’t think it was Mickey Platt we saw on Saturday. Mickey is a nice boy. The man we saw looked…dangerous.”

“But you said you saw him at a distance, right? That’d make it tough to tell.”

“I only say, Jess, that if it’s not suicide and if Harry was at his home, it must be a stranger.”

“The killer?” Jess smiled and patted her hand. “Don’t you worry, Missy. Ol’ Jess is on the case. I’m lookin’ into every possibility.” He tipped his hat and left.

Jess stopped at home and asked Carrie to ride with him to the scene of the shooting. He said he wanted to look around some more, but what he really wanted was to talk.

Sailing down the snow-packed road, Jess tapped his ring on the steering wheel. “I’m figurin’ the stranger Crickette saw on the road Saturday was Mickey Platt, walkin’ home from work, and on Monday he was in Wayne Hatcher’s mail truck at the time of the crime. So all I’ve got is Scurfman, and Eva claims he wasn’t out of her sight long enough to pull off a murder.” He shook his head and sighed. “Leastwise, that’s what she thinks. S’pose she could be wrong. That’s what my gut’s saying—that it’s gotta be Harry. Too bad that ain’t enough to make an arrest.”

“Hmm,” Carrie murmured.

Jess banged the wheel with his fist. “Damn it, dearie, what am I missin’?”

Carrie scowled. “Harry’s a varmint alright. And he had it in for the Conroys. But his alibi seems tight. His story may unravel, but in the meantime, you’d best consider other suspects. Look, you have a victim who is dying. Why murder somebody who’s about to die anyway?” She tugged on her ear lobe. “If you want motive you’ve got Crickette herself. Pain’s as big of a motive as there is.” She nodded for emphasis. “But you seem dead set on ruling suicide out.”

“Funny you mentioning pain. Eva talked about it, too.” Jess sighed. “As to suicide, dang it, I ain’t dead set on ruling anything out. It’s evidence that’s turnin’ me toward murder.”

“OK, OK, don’t get all riled up. You asked my opinion. It’s just that the simplest, most obvious explanation usually ends up being right. But there are other possibilities. Like the killer who doesn’t know she’s dying. That’s your drifter. There’s someone wanting to stop her suffering.” She looked hard at Jess. “That’s Max. Or someone else who loved her. And last, I guess there’s the killer who wants to silence her. Don’t know who that could be.” She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed. “You keep plugging-away. Ask yourself, Who murders a dying woman? Keep a ready mind. The key’ll pop up when you least expect it.”

“I s’pose. It’s just that waitin’ makes me feel weak.”

With Crickette gone, there was little to keep Max in Hooker County. He decided to take his wife to Chicago to be buried and then move back there himself after he could get things settled.

Three days after her death, a memorial for Crickette was held in Mullen. But covered with the pall of homicide, the service brought closure to no one. Men tougher than boot leather, men who’d stared down their own death were bowed. Women who’d lost children to whooping cough or scarlet fever were bowed, too. Everyone knew killer storms and disease stalked the Sand Hills. Knew it and accepted it. But a human killer in their midst—maybe even one of them—that was new. Folks took to speaking in hushed tones. Locking doors. Childe Cavendish, who ran the American Dream saloon in Mullen, told Jess he felt guilty at how good business was.

Jess felt guilty, too. Folks were counting on him, and he was letting them down.

Whiskey in the Afternoon

The morning after Max returned from Chicago it snowed again. Jess was in his office pondering Carrie’s who murders a dying woman question when Max walked in.

“Lo, Jess. Came to town for groceries, so I figured I’d drop this off.” Max took a fat, rubber-banded envelope from his pocket. “It was in a cigar box in the parlor desk.”

Jess leaned towards Max. “Whatcha got, pardner?”

“Notes Crickette jotted after she got sick. Appears to be. Busted me up—just couldn’t get beyond the first couple words. Dunno if it’ll help.” Max looked like he hadn’t slept much. His suspenders hung from the waist of his pants like they’d slipped off his stooped shoulders. He tossed the envelope onto Jess’s desk and fidgeted with a button on the cuff of his sleeve. After a moment of silence, he blurted, “Anything more on that son-of-a-bitch?”

“You mean Harry, I reckon?” Jess said.

Max nodded sharply.

Jess crossed his arms. “Like I told you, Max, Harry’s got an alibi. Now I’m still kickin’ at it, lookin’ for holes ’cuz…well, Harry is Harry. But a snake that’s somewhere else can’t do no strikin’, and right now it appears Scurfman was at home when your wife…died.”

“Fuck his alibi. We both know he killed Crickette. Just don’t know how he done it. Bastard’s holed-up in that shack of his, laughing at us, figuring he got away with murder.” Max bit his lip. “What if I say he was hanging ’round our place that morning? That be enough to lock him up?” He stepped close to Jess and growled, “Give me an hour with the SOB—I’ll beat the fucking truth out of ’im.”

“That ain’t the way I do things around here, Max. No sir. If Harry killed your wife, I’ll trip him up, and you’ll get a chance to see him swing.” Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Now you listen up, son. Keep away from Scurfman. You let me handle this. Hear?”

Max pounded the desk and scowled. He snatched his checkerboard plaid coat and thrust his arms into the sleeves. He stormed to the door and yanked it open. With the wind howling behind him, he glared at Jess. “OK, sheriff, we’ll do it your way for now, but I warn ya, a man with nothing more to lose won’t sit on his hands forever.” He disappeared behind the door’s slam.

Jess decided to ignore Max’s threat, counting on the whipping wind to thin it to nothing.

Jess considered doing what he’d never done. He took out the bottle of whiskey he kept in the bottom right drawer of his desk. Sure, he did take it out occasionally, but only on Saturday afternoons, when the opera was on the radio, or on some evenings when it was especially hot or cold outside. Never on a weekday and never before 2 p.m. And this was both of those. For a moment he stared at the friendly amber liquid in the bottle. Murder, Harry, Max—it was a helluva lot for a man used to Hooker County as it had always been. In the end, he put the bottle away.

Jess picked up the envelope Max left and slid off the rubber band. Inside was a small spiral-bound notebook with a grimy cardboard cover. A faded sepia photograph was stuck inside like a bookmark. He held it in the light to see it clearly. A couple holding a baby. Jess turned it over and read the caption. Fritz und Birgitta mit Hille. 1924.

The first dozen pages of the notebook had been filled years ago, according to the dates. There were penciled shopping lists, drawings, numbers summed-up, and so on. Everyday things. Then came the Whiskey in the Afternoon pages Max mentioned. Recent. Pages that amounted to a journal of thoughts, each page dated and written in pencil or blue ink. Dates starting with November 19, 1956, the day Doc Fletcher gave Crickette her death sentence. As he flipped through the pages, Jess saw ink streaks on several of them—plainly made by teardrops. He’d never cried over a crime, but holding the tear-tracked notes in his hand, feeling Crickette’s despair, that about did it. The dozen recent pages were mostly about pain and worry. Then came two mid-January entries that leaped out and grabbed him. Scared the hell out of him. Made him retrieve the whiskey bottle and the stubby glass from the desk drawer. He poured a stout drink and tossed it down.

She’d written, Today I woke up knowing it. The time has come. Must make my plan.

The next page was dated two days later, January twentieth. The first lines were scratched in pencil. Pain getting worse and worse. I thought OUR dirty black secret was a trump card, but Eva threw it in my face. Was a blinding flash so much to ask? Henri, I remember NBH. After some white space, the next lines were neatly printed in bold blue ink. TODAY EVA THREATENED TO DO WHATEVER IT TAKES TO SILENCE ME.

It was the last entry. The next day Crickette was dead.

Jess’s hands shook as he stuck the picture into the notebook and shut it. He stuffed it back in the envelope, as if that might make it go away. He didn’t know what dirty black secret could mean. But reading about Eva and threats set his mind careening like a pebble pitched down a well—bumping off walls, getting darker every inch it went, and nothing good to come at the end of the ride. He poured a second glass of whiskey and gulped it down.

Jess threw on his coat and stormed from his office. It was snowing, and he was hatless, his coat unbuttoned. He didn’t feel the cold or at least it didn’t matter. He didn’t know where he was walking. He just had to get away from Crickette’s notes. From what they implied. Because, like having a pistol poked in your face, it’s not the poking that weakens the knees. It’s the implication. And that notebook’s implication sure as hell was weakening his.

In the wind’s howl, his conversation with Carrie kept kicking at him like a stark-loco stallion. Who murders a dying woman? Someone who wants to silence her.

By the end of his walk, something—perhaps the stinging sleet, perhaps the soothing rye—had calmed Jess. He phoned Max. “What’s the story on this notebook?”

“Came across it this morning, Sheriff. Crickette had stuck it in an old White Owl cigar box, like I told ya. Left it in the top desk drawer, right under the checkbook. Where I couldn’t miss it. You saw the old snapshot inside, right? Couple holding a baby? I never seen it before. Probably friends of Crickette’s from the old country, s’pose.”

“Did you read the notebook, Max?”

“Couldn’t stand to read the part after she got sick. Just couldn’t do it.”

“I can savvy that. Guess that’s all for now. You take care of yourself, pardner.”

Jess stroked the stubble of beard on his chin. He snatched the telephone to call Eva then hung it back up. What the hell would he say to her? He opened his whiskey drawer and his eyes fell on what lay there next to the bottle—that blasted slip of pink paper he’d found clutched in Crickette’s icy fingers.

It screamed at him, It was Eva.

For the first time in years, Jess locked his desk drawer. Though it was barely 4 p.m. he turned off the office lights and went home.

Wallener

The next afternoon, the winter gale was still pounding the Sand Hills. Jess sat in his office, trying to see the words in Crickette’s notebook as anything but damning. Until he could do that, asking Eva about them seemed like lighting the fuse on a case of dynamite set to blow the lives of everyone around him to smithereens. To break the tension, he turned on the opera broadcast—the Met was doing Bellini’s Norma. He might have preferred a Donizetti comedy to this story of a desperate woman with secret guilt, but the beauty of the music was soothing.

Before the third act finished crackling out the wireless, there was a knock on the door and a big stranger swept in with the wind. Hefty in size, but even heftier in presence. A man packing something invisible. Something you feel. Like the air in front of a big storm. You can’t weigh it or slap a tape measure on it, but you sense it. And like a storm from up north, this fellow didn’t smell local. Before he opened his mouth, even covered up as he was in his white Stetson and huge overcoat with the fur collar turned up, Jess knew this man was a long way from home.

His German accent, thick as pine tar, confirmed it. “Mr. Sheriff, I presume? Good day. May I introduce myself?” He waited for Jess’s nod. “I am called Wallener. Professor Wolfgang Wallener.” He bowed slightly. “Of the University of Heidelberg in the Federal Republic of Germany.” He handed Jess his card.

Jess turned down the volume of the radio. “Name’s Garrity, Hooker County sheriff.”

They shook hands. Wallener had a blacksmith’s grip.

“What can I do ya for?” Jess said.

“Mr. Sheriff, I visit on an academic matter. I seek information.”

“Professor, I’d be happy to help however I can. Give me your coat and hat, and we’ll pull you up a chair next to the stove. It’s not just cold out there. It’s damn cold.”

The professor’s coat was wool. And heavy, as if the pockets held bricks. The coat tree groaned as Jess hung it up. His hat was sized for a grizzly. And brand new.

Wallener stood over the stove, rubbing his palms together. “Your wind here is magnificent, Sheriff. In my steps from the train station, I thought it might slice off my skin.”

“Miss Agatha—that’s my mama—she likes to say, ‘Ain’t nothin’ between us and the North Pole but a few strands of barbed wire.’ What’s on your mind, professor?”

Absorbed in scanning the room, Wallener ignored the question. His eyes fixed on the bookcase next to the front window. Bear-like, he ambled over to the display on top of the case: Small Marine Corps flags crossed over Jess’s service citation.

Without looking at Jess, Wallener said, “Teufel Hund.” Said it almost as a gasp.

Jess leaned forward. “Pardon?”

Wallener turned to Jess and smiled for the first time. “Ein Teufel Hund. It means Devil Dog. It is how we called you at the Belleau Wood in 1918. You see, I was one of those facing you, a gunnery sergeant with a Maxim machine gun platoon of the 461st Imperial Infantry Division. We anticipated to sleep in Paris in those June days, but you Teufel Hunde made otherwise.” He strode toward Jess like the Hun had in France, but this time with a right hand, rather than a bayonet, extended. He took Jess’s hand, not to shake it but to pull him close, and whisper in his ear, “War, Mr. Sheriff Garrity—it is black business.”

“Can’t argue with that, professor.” Jess pulled his face back from Wallener’s, but his hand remained trapped in the man’s grip.

“We so admired your riflemen, Sheriff.” Wallener released Jess’s hand. “They could kill a fly—“ He snapped his fingers. “—at two kilometers.”

“Well, we had some good boys, but you fellers were fearless.” Jess was suddenly glad some Kentucky marksman hadn’t killed this particular Hun.

“Sheriff, such terrible days, but I often look back at them with warmth. How can that be?”

“If you find out, let me know.”

“Perhaps it was the men. Each depending on the other. Each ready to spend himself for his fellows. War is the closest men can come to each other. To nobility.”

They were quiet for a moment, like strangers fate brings together to show each other truth.

Wallener’s smile returned. “Sheriff, I cross the sea a pilgrim to honor your countryman, Mr. Hank Williams. This man’s music is my passion, and when he died, I pledged to make a pilgrimage to his grave. After these five years, I keep my pledge.”

Jess looked skeptical.

“Ja, ja, it is so. Should it surprise one? More so than the sheriff of a prairie land like the setting of a John Wayne western film who listens to European grand opera? I don’t think so. You and I like musical stories, and both opera and cowboys’ music are just that: Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy gets girl back. Girl dies.” Wallener shrugged. “Our musics conduct us to alien lands. When you listen to your Norma, you close your eyes and sail on the notes to Germania in the time of the Romans. Me, I listen to Hank Williams’ songs, and I shoot over the sea to a land as foreign and fascinating to a Heidelberger as is the moon. To the lonesomeness of a whip-o-will’s call. Or the ache of a tobacconist’s wooden Indian in hopeless love with a statue- maiden on an antique store shelf.” Wallener closed his eyes. “It is magic.”

“But you weren’t raised on cowpoke music back wherever in Germany, I ’spect.”

“I enjoy the opera, but I think I become less patient with age. Mr. Williams does in four minutes what Herr Wagner takes four hours to do.”

Jess chuckled. “One way to look at it. All the same, sure ain’t what you’d expect from a German professor and a flea-bit Hooker County lawman.”

“It reminds ourselves—Beware of anticipations!”

“Speakin’ of anticipatin’, I anticipate you savvy that Hooker County is a long ways from old Hank’s grave. So, what brings you to these parts.”

“Ja, ja, sheriff, I know this well, that I am out of my way to Montgomery of Alabama. As you surmise, I make travel to your door with another reason. You see, from 1929 I am professor at my university’s Staatswissenschaft department. It means roughly political science. Since the last decade, my specialty is the late National Socialist regime’s hidden mechanisms. Covert agencies, programs, financings, and so on. My research trove is the dusty document stacks of government warehouses.” Wallener held up his meaty index finger, a teacher marking a key point in his lesson. “The Nazis were meticulous documenters. Compulsives. Foolish, considering the dark nature of their work, but they could not help it. Compulsiveness is in the German character.”

“I’m sure it’s interestin’ work, Professor, but I don’t see the tie-up to Hooker County.”

“Allow me to get to that directly, my dear sir. Since two years, I found a thick file with the intriguing title, Unsichtbarfrühaugen—UFA. It means in English something like Invisible Early Eyes. The documents indicate UFA was a program to place children, girls to be precise, into Poland, England, France and Belgium to make intelligence gathering long prior to war.”

Jess smirked. “You funnin’ me, professor? Little girls as Nazi spies? That’s tougher to swallow than rusty barbed wire.”

Wallener scowled. “Observe yourself, sheriff: The very suggestion of young girl as spies strikes you as absurd!” He leaned forward and tapped his temple. “Apparent absurdity, the plan’s genius. An effective genius, for the UFA girls were never exposed. It was a bold plan, but boldness was never in short supply in the Reich’s High Command. The documentary evidence is clear. The program began in 1935 when thirty-eight wards of the state, eleven-year-old girls, chosen for high IQ, were put through psychological screening for loyalty and other desirable characteristics. Nine were eventually selected. After indoctrination, they were trained in information collection and in the language and customs of their new homes. In 1937, using invented identities and forged documents, the nine were placed into strategic locations; two went to France, two to England, two to Poland, and three to Belgium.”

Jess crossed his arms. “I reckon every government uses spies, Professor.”

“Of course. Today, each of our two Germanys teems with the other’s spies. But, sir, surely you see the perversity of using children, orphans some of them, as spies? Innocents corrupted! Reprehensible. But hardly surprising, for these same leaders were the cowards who sent untrained and lightly armed children into the teeth of Soviet steel during the last hopeless hours in Berlin. My monstrous generation!” He spat the last words.

“I’ll grant ya that. But I don’t see how it brings you to my door.”

“My good Sheriff, please to listen. And from here I must ask your confidentiality.”

Jess shrugged and nodded.

Wallener continued, “German Intelligence, the Silver Dagger Korps, used bird names for the UFA girls and tree types for their assignment locations. I deduced some locations and names by cross referencing files. For instance, Oak was a village on the Meuse called Lefebvre. A child, born Franka Kirschlager in Munich, was placed there with the code name Owl. I have completed the picture to present times only for the girl sent to Liege. She worked there under a handler, the infamous Silver Dagger agent referred to in Nazi files as Herr Messer, HM for short. It translates to Mr. Knife. This specter coordinated the behind-the-lines sabotage that was so effective during the Führer’s December 1944 Wacht am Rhein offensive. The Allies called it the Battle of the Bulge. HM disappeared at the war’s end.”

Jess sighed. “Professor, I like to be hospitable to a feller’s gone considerable out of his way to talk to me, like you done. But these spyin’ things happened long ago and far away. Unless you got some idea your Mr. Knife is hidin’ out here, workin’ as a cowpoke maybe, I don’t see what good I can do you.”

Wallener knew how to parry impatience. He poured tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and fastidiously tamped it down with a pocketknife tool. He took out a lighter the size of a deck of cards and polished it on his shirtsleeve. He pressed a lever on the side and a metal arm, like a silver matchstick, popped out, spouting an orange flame. With vigorous puffs, Wallener set his tobacco aglow. When he looked up, Jess was drumming his fingers on the chair arm. Wallener smiled. “I come to the point of my call, sheriff. No, HM is not masking himself here. He is today dead. He lived in Argentina under the assumed identity of one Heinrich Klinger. Klinge means in German, the knife’s blade.” He relit his pipe. “Last year this man, this Heinrich Klinger, was murdered in his house. Found with a silver dagger in his throat.”

Jess looked at his watch. “Speaking of murders, just so happens I got one on my hands here, professor, an unsolved one, so I can’t spend all day listenin’ to stories of war spyin’ and South American murders. ’Less there’s some angle brings your tale back here to Hooker—”

“Sir, that is the precise reason for my visit. If I may proceed?” Wallener waited for Jess’ nod. “I mentioned a child sent to Liege under HM. She is the reason I travel here. Knitting a variety of documents I determined that a girl born Hille Werter went to Liege to work for HM under the UFA program. Code-named Canary, she was given the identity Crickette Gigault.”

The name Crickette caught Jess like a jab to the jaw. “Maybe you heard about a lady here named Crickette, professor, but you’re mistaken if you think she’s a spy. And now ain’t the time to come nosin’ around here with questions like that, anyway.”

“Sheriff, I’ve traced Miss Gigault here, through her marriage to an American Army Sergeant Conroy, her emigration to the United States, and her relocation to this place. An unbroken line exists from the orphan Hille Werter to Mrs. Crickette Conroy of Nebraska. There is no possibility of mistake.”

Jess wanted to yell Bastard and lunge for his throat. Make him take back that lie. Or at least make him shut up about a friend of his, recently deceased. Jess stood up, his aching shoulder bawling like a strayed dogie. He walked over to the coat rack and picked up Wallener’s heavy coat. “I think you’d better leave now. I don’t cotton to a foreigner bargin’ in here, claimin’ one of my folks is guilty of bein’ some Nazi spy.”

Wallener stood and held a hand out. “Sheriff, please to listen.” His voice was soft as a stream’s springtime burble. “You used the word guilty. My research has forced me to think long and deep about the subject of guilt! It makes me ask, What is the guilt of children for despicable acts when adults with evil intent trained, duped, forced them to perform those acts?”

Jess shifted the professor’s coat from arm to arm. “You’re free to ask yourself any questions you like, but—”

“Sheriff, since it was you who brought up the subject of guilt, I trust for the grace of one more moment. Let me illustrate with a UFA operations policy called veiling. It kept the girls from seeing the practical outcomes of their work, for fear their natural soft-heartedness might make them useless if their naivety was lost. For instance, publicity stated that Jews in the occupied lands be concentrated in special districts—for the common good. Plans to exterminate them were explicitly obscured. A 1943 dispatch to the UFA handlers reinforced the importance of maintaining the veil. It indicated that the reliability of one of HM’s girls became suspect after her report of Jews being hidden lead ultimately to the execution of a nun involved in the hiding.” Wallener scowled. “Sheriff, evil men made this program vile—not the children.”

Tracing the line of his mouth with his thumb tip, Jess silently eyed Wallener.

Wallener sighed deeply and rubbed his hands over his face. His look was a plea for understanding. “Questions of guilt and innocence! Let me assure you, I’ve wrestled them. In the end, I keep confronting the central fact: These were children. Cleverly manipulated children. I see little Crickette and the others who were part of UFA as puppets. Even victims. How can one assign them guilt? Does this make sense in you, sheriff?”

Calling Crickette a victim did make sense to Jess. Getting sick, and then shot—she was about as much a victim as can be. He tugged the end of his moustache. “As a lawman, I try to leave questions of guilt up to juries and judges. But hell, as a man, I reckon you’ve got it pretty near right. Sorry about flyin’ off the handle a minute ago. It’s just that there’s a problem with you wantin’ to talk to Crickette.”

Wallener laughed. “I like this term, flying off of the handle. In America, the speaking is picturesque.” He turned serious. “As to my visit, I wish only to interview Mrs. Conroy. Please don’t let my request konstern you, as her identity is safe with me. I—”

Jess thrust his palms out. “Wallener, you’ve come too late.” He looked at the floor. “Nobody’s talkin’ to Mrs. Conroy. She passed away earlier this month.”

Wallener’s head cocked to the side. “Passed away? It means departed?”

“It means died. She is dead. I believe she was murdered.”

Wallener sank back into his chair. “Murdered? Can it be?” He turned away slowly, then spun back. “Tell me, do you know who is her killer?”

Jess glanced down at his boots. “Don’t know nothin’ for sure.”

“Then my trek to your door may be timely. Dark pasts and death can be close cousins.” Wallener looked up to the ceiling. “I feel Mr. Knife’s ghost climbing from his grave.”

Jess shook his head. “’Fraid not. One of ’em I got my eye on an old time local. Harry’s a lot of no-good, but Nazi spy ain’t part of it. Naw, if he’s involved, what you claim Crickette did in the war and her gettin’ buckshot here are two separate things. Look, far as you’ve come, I’d like to be able to tell you about Crickette’s life back in the old country, but I can’t. Now Eva—” Jess caught himself before saying more.

“Eva? Excuse me, who might Eva be, sheriff?”

“Oh, she grew up in Belgium and knew Crickette over there before they both came here as war brides. But I don’t know—”

“Ah, so? And Eva was a friend of Mrs. Conroy, also from Liege?”

“Eva Chandler’s her name. My nephew’s wife. No, I think Eva was from a small town; went to some convent school there. She’s a good gal, professor. I hate—”

“Certainly I would be grateful to speak with Mrs. Chandler. Since I am traveled so far here, as you say. I would ask only a few questions about her friend.”

After seeing Crickette’s journal the day before, Jess was surprised to feel vaguely positive about Eva talking to Wallener. As if something good could come of it. “I reckon I can ask.”

Wallener nodded deeply. “Thank you, sheriff. And out of consideration for Mrs. Conroy’s family, please don’t mention UFA or any other details of my inquiry.”

An Owl Whispers

Jess got the professor booked in at the hotel, then telephoned Eva. “Say, a foreigner named Wallener showed up, wantin’ to interview Crickette about emigratin’ as a war bride. University professor from Heidelberg. That’s in Germany. Told him about Crickette. Then I mentioned that you might know something could help. Willing to see the feller? S’up to you.”

After a silent moment, Eva said, “Yes, I suppose I can.”

“You’ll enjoy it. This Wallener’s a pretty charmin’ rascal.”

At the sheriff’s office the next morning, Jess introduced Eva to Wallener. She acknowledged the gentleness of this visitor’s handshake with her warm smile.

Putting on his coat, Jess said, “If you two are squared away, think I’ll duck over to Sudsy’s for a cup of joe. Take your time.” He grabbed his hat and was out the door.

Wallener seemed to fill the room—this genial giant in his huge gray suit. He sported an easy smile and puffed on a black-smudged meerschaum pipe. The sweet smoke and the smile made the office seem homey. He bowed and presented his card. “Mrs. Chandler, please accept my condolences on the tragic loss of your friend. Thank you for seeing me.”

“I hope to help, but I didn’t know Crickette all that well before we left Belgium.”

“Anything you know might be useful, and be assured, what you say I hold in confidence.”

Eva nodded.

Wallener smiled. “Before we turn to my interests, I would be pleased to have your story.”

“There is little to say, Professor Wallener. When my parents died—” Eva sat up and straightened her shoulders. “—when I lost them, my uncle Henri brought me to the French-speaking side of Belgium. Because he traveled often, he enrolled me to a convent school not far from his home in Liege. The school closed during the occupation, so I went to help an elderly couple on their small farm in exchange for room and board. Toward the end of the war I met Stanley. We married and came here to his home to live. Our house is not far from the town. Now I have two little girls, Catherine and Françie, and a quiet life. I’m content.”

Wallener walked behind Eva and put his fingertips on the back of her chair. “Orphaned and then the war. After such a childhood you deserve every good thing you have now.”

“I said lost, not orphaned. My father died. With the depression, Mother couldn’t keep me.”

“Pardon me.” Wallener returned to his chair. “And your school, what was its name?”

“St. Sébastien. It was a boarding school run by nuns, a quiet place on the Meuse River.”

“Ah? I know the Meuse valley. And I’ve heard of the St. Sébastien school. It neighbors Lefebvre, if I recall correctly.”

“St. Sébastien is long closed now.”

“Lefebvre. A picturesque town! Famous for its old Roman bridge, I believe.”

“Yes, so it is.”

“And for a wartime atrocity, as I recall. A nun hanged for harboring Jewish children. Wasn’t that it?”

Eva looked down at her hands.

Wallener continued, “Still, a charming village. An important crossroads. I’ve trekked to the old convent school. Did you know that after the war, the citizens of Lefebvre refurbished it? At the heroic nun’s gravesite they placed a granite marker proclaiming her Eternal Martyr of Lefebvre. A rendering of the town square’s statue of a she-fox protecting her pups is etched on the stone. Truly moving. Now the Belgian government has designated the grave, the buildings, and lands of St. Sébastien a national memorial to resistance against foreign occupation.”

“Mother Catherine.” Eva whispered it. A broken heart’s whisper.

“Excuse me?” said Wallener.

“The nun, the heroic nun—her name was Mother Catherine.”

Wallener smiled but his eyes were forlorn. He said softly, “So you knew her?”

Eva nodded.

Wallener put a fingertip to his lip. “My dear, I came here to become informed about Mrs. Conroy, before her emigration. About her life as Crickette Gigault in Belgium.”

“Sheriff Jess said you wished to know about Crickette as a war bride. I know little of her life before that. Just that she lived near Liege. I met her through my uncle. Perhaps she worked for him. He kept a large home in Liege and ran a successful business of some sort. He employed many people, especially during the occupation when jobs were difficult.” Eva’s look hardened. “Uncle Henri used to brag that so many people worked for him, he didn’t have to blow his own nose…. He introduced Crickette to me in the autumn of 1944. About when she met her husband, Max. He was a GI, like my Stanley. That’s all I know. Maybe Max could tell you more.”

“Did Mrs. Conroy keep a notebook in those days? Maybe make cryptic notes?”

Eva looked surprised. “Why would she? I wouldn’t know if she did.”

“What about names? Did she ever call herself Hille? Or Miss Canary?”

“No, never.” Eva looked angry. “Her name was Crickette. Only Crickette.”

“May I inquire about her employer, your Uncle Henri? What was his last name?”

“It was Messiaen, just as my maiden name. And I said Crickette might have worked for him. I don’t recall one way or the other.”

“Hmm. Yes, might. Interesting that he kept some wealth and influence even under the occupation. I am curious, did he go by his initials, HM, or ever use a nickname…Mr. Knife?”

For a moment Eva froze. She looked hard at Wallener. “His name was Henri Messiaen.”

“Mrs. Chandler, perhaps you knew a girl at your school called Franka? Does Franka Kirschlager strike a chord?” Wallener’s gaze was piercing. “Perhaps someone nicknamed Owl?”

Eva’s expression iced-over. For a moment she and Wallener stared at each other like poker players over a fifty-dollar pot. Then Eva said, “You seem to know so much already. I don’t see what more can I add.” She pulled her blue woolen mittens on. “I came to tell you what little I know about Crickette as a war bride, and I’ve done that.”

The only sound in the room was the breath passing through Wallener’s ample nose. He waited, as if he knew there was more.

“So if there’s nothing else—” Eva rose. “—I really should return to my girls now.”

With a softness and a gentleness that was remarkable both for a man of his size and for the tension filling the room, Wallener said, “My dear, would you allow me just a few more moments? I’ve come so far.” His expression made it a plea. “We both have, haven’t we?”

Eva eyes filled with tears and her shoulders sagged. “I suppose there’s no longer a reason to hide…now.” She removed her mittens and looked at the floor.

Wallener, silent and still as a statue, gazed at Eva.

Finally, she looked up. “I can’t remember my mother’s face the day she dropped me off at the huge gray building off the Pariser Platz in Berlin. She bought me a bag of hard candy on the way from the train station and signed me in at the reception desk and then she turned and left.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

Wallener moved his chair close and took Eva’s hands in his. His eyes glistened, too.

“At first there were many girls. Crickette—” Eva dabbed her eye. “—yes, Hille was her name. She was one of us. We spent the first months being immersed, indoctrinated, I suppose, into the nation’s way of thinking. Eventually, nine of us remained. Hille, a girl named Lise, and I were marked for Belgium. For a year we studied with Belgian nationals—language, culture, and so on. The man I called Uncle Henri taught us the techniques of information gathering.”

“HM.” Wallener shook his head sadly. “And, Eva, you arrived in Belgium when?”

“Henri took me to St. Sébastien in 1937. They were interested in Lefebvre for its strategic location. They’d done their homework.” Eva sighed. “I loved life at the school. The other girls. I had a little dog…I had a mother again. Mother Catherine. I loved them all and I thought I was taking them to a better life. I wanted so much to tell them don’t worry.” She looked at Wallener. “But of course I couldn’t say anything. Then, with the occupation, everything started to go wrong. To rot. Before my eyes.” Eva looked down again.

“It must have been hard,” Wallener said.

“Yes.” She looked at him. “No. What is hard is standing up for what you know is right. Dying for it.”

“According to the files, a girl called Owl did stand up. Did cause Henri some headaches.”

“A girl called Owl sent a saint,” Eva whispered, “her own mother, to the gallows.”

“The reports I’ve read indicate it wasn’t as simple as that.” Wallener took out a large, white handkerchief and blew his nose. “You’re brave and generous to speak so honestly.”

“You and I knew a world of lies. Because we share that bond, deceiving you is gauche. But until recently I didn’t have the courage to be honest. After so long living a lie, I told my husband, Stanley, about everything. Doing that made me whole. Set me free.”

Wallener squeezed her hand. “And what, my dear, let you finally confront the past?”

Eva sighed. “It was poor Crickette…Hille. A friend’s final gift. Out of her mind with pain, she threatened to tell everyone what I’d been. In an instant, the past I feared more than death turned from lock to key. Why hadn’t I seen it before? I told Stanley what I’d done and it changed everything. I suppose you could say Hille, in losing her own life, gave me mine.”

“Yes, poor Hille. Poisoned with cancer, but first poisoned with lies.” He shook his head. “Did you know that HM, before fleeing Belgium as the December offensive failed, told Hille he suspected you’d betrayed the cause and ordered her to liquidate you? As I recall, the words he wrote on his order were slit the Owl’s throat.”

Eva’s look wasn’t anger or shock, but sadness. “Poisoned with lies—yes, we all were.”

Wallener asked what Henri meant about betraying the cause. Eva told him matter-of-factly about geese with foxes’ teeth and the night Pruvot died, but she insisted she was no hero. When he told her what he knew about Henri Messiaen’s fate, she showed no reaction.

About Crickette’s life in America, Eva told Wallener everything. She ended by saying, “To her credit, when the pain became too bad, Crickette thought first of her husband, Max. I think what mattered most to her was making his pain less by masking her suicide.”

Wallener opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. After a moment of silence, his shoulders sagged and he said, “Perhaps.”

Jess had been at the diner for an hour when Wallener came in, his overcoat buttoned up and a muffler wrapped around his neck.

Jess looked up from the newspaper. “Done?” He thought Wallener looked drained, like a cowpoke who’d spent a long, cold night in the saddle.

“Yes. Done. Sheriff, thank you for your kind hospitality and your help.” He removed his hat and bowed.

The gesture was of another time and place, but Jess found it a charming anachronism. He stood and touched a finger to his forehead in quasi-salute. “So, you got what you wanted?”

“Wanted?” Wallener sighed as if he was considering the word. “Perhaps more than I wanted. Some things are hard to hear. And harder to say. In any case our conversation is ended.”

Jess cocked his head and squinted at him. “Is Eva OK?”

“It is difficult for her to return to such times.” Wallener swallowed. “But yes, Mrs. Chandler is OK, very much so. As I understand your term OK. She now returns to home.” He shook Jess’ hand. “So, tomorrow I take my leave on the morning train.”

“Ya know, Wallener, ’bout forty years ago you and me did our damnedest to kill each other over there in France. I’m tickled pink neither of us succeeded. How about if you come on out to our place for supper this evening? I’ll drink a good pull of rye whiskey to French soil unstained with your blood and you do the same, if you’re so inclined. Then for eats, it’s my wife Carrie’s rabbit stew. Folks say it’s so good the critters line up, hopin’ to be part of it.”

“I would be honored and pleased,” Wallener said. “I’ll only ask that you make no mention to your wife of the specific matters into which I inquired.”

Jess nodded. Then with a pained expression, he added, “One last piece of business to get out of the way, so this evenin’ can be purely social.” He glanced around the café. “Might be best we head back to my shop ’fore I bring it up.”

Sitting with Wallener in his office, Jess fidgeted for a moment, then said, “I got a job to do here, professor, so I need to ask if you see any ties between what you came here lookin’ for and Crickette Conroy’s death?”

Wallener squinted at Jess. “You said your suspect was an old man with no connection to my research?”

After inhaling deeply, Jess blew the air slowly out of his pursed lips. “He’s one suspect, all right. Got him a motive, but a pretty tight alibi, too. There’s someone else, though. Someone I hate suspectin’.” Jess frowned and unlocked his desk drawer. He took out Crickette’s notebook. “Probably shouldn’t show you this, bein’ that it’s evidence. But I reckon a feller can justify it, your expertise and all.” He slid the photograph of the couple with baby Hille over to Wallener.

Wallener looked at both sides of the photo and shook his head. “So many lives ruined.”

“These notes of Crickette’s are what I really need to ask about. Wrote this just before she died.” Jess put on his specs and traced the words with his finger. “I thought OUR dirty black secret was a trump card, but Eva threw it in my face. Was a blinding flash so much to ask? Henri, I remember NBH. Then she leaves some space and writes in big letters, TODAY EVA THREATENED TO DO WHATEVER IT TAKES TO SILENCE ME.” Jess set the notebook on the table and tapped it with his finger. “Black secrets sounds like your bailiwick. I wish to God you could tell me how this doesn’t mean what it sounds like.”

“Poison,” Wallener hissed. “Yes, I make a living studying poison and how it spreads. And this truly is poison. You read words, abbreviations, that catch my ear. Henri and NBH. Sheriff, Henri was the agent HM whom I mentioned earlier. A vile and ruthless man. HM was a member of the Silver Daggers, whose motto was Wenn sie sterben müssen, nehmen sie die Bastarde zur Hölle mit. They shortened it to NBH, for the important words nehmen, Bastarde, and Hölle. The motto translates to English so—If you must die, take the bastards along with you to hell.”

Jess’ eyes opened wide. “Take the bastards with you,” he echoed softly.

Wallener raised a finger. “Confidentiality urges silence. But truth and justice demand I say more. The records show that for acts against the Nazi cause, one Eva Messiaen was marked for death by HM. Crickette Gigault took her orders from HM.” He made a fist. “Implicating Eva in murder. Obeying HM’s order. They are one in the same.” He crossed his arms and glared at Jess.

“Think I get your drift. Thanks, professor.” Jess brushed his eye with his thumb.

Wallener stood next to Jess and put a hand on his shoulder. “Only by chance did we both survive the woods of Belleau. And by chance did I come here just now. Chance, sheriff—we should stand in its awe.” He patted the shoulder softly. “I think we’ll both sleep well tonight.”

Knowing Heads From Tails

Wallener made quite a dinner guest. The man appreciated good food and a good laugh. He got along pretty well with neat rye whiskey, too. Said it paired up sehr gut with his pipe smoke.

But even while sharing food, drink, and laughter with such a fine fellow, Jess worried that not much had changed: Even if Crickette had been out to get her, it didn’t mean Eva was clean. If Crickette couldn’t have killed herself, she was murdered—someone else was involved. And at the moment, Eva was the only someone else he had. There was also the note he’d found in Crickette’s dead fingers. Revenge is planned, not something you pull off, scribbling damning lines moments away from death. Besides, what could It was Eva mean other than the obvious?

Jess saw Wallener off on the Burlington liner the next morning. On the way back to his shop he passed Doc’s office. He stopped for a moment and gazed at the name Fletcher, painted in black letters with gold trim on the glass of the door. As he stared, things Doc had said about Crickette at the death scene and after the post mortem traipsed across his mind. One of them, with the blast she took, it would’ve been over quick, looped over and over like a needle stuck on a phonograph disk. Then it hit him. He dashed inside.

Jess had to wait while Fletcher finished seeing Mrs. Dirks about her sugar diabetes, but he did get to go in ahead of three other patients by telling the receptionist he’d come on official business. Without taking off his coat, he pulled a chair close to Doc and sat. “You told me Crickette died pretty quick after the shotgun blast, right?”

“Pretty damn quick—like probably before she hit the ground. Merciful that way.”

“You said probably. Any chance she coulda wrote something after she was shot?”

“Why ya asking? See Harry written in the snow that night?” Doc shrugged. “S’pose anything’s possible, but that shotgun blast damn near cut the woman in two. I’d give a million to one she couldn’t have written a single letter.”

Jess jumped out of his chair. “Doc, you just shot a mess of holes in one helluva piece of evidence I been wrestlin’ with, and I’m pleased as Punch you did.”

Doc glared at Jess. “Pleased I torpedoed your investigation?”

“Always thought that evidence had a tinny ring to it. Led me down a dark alley. Real dark.”

“What evidence, Garrity?”

“Sorry. Police business.” Jess tipped his hat. “Adios, pardner.”

He turned to go but paused at the door. “There is one more thing. You said Crickette was begging for mercy. ’Cause she had powder burns and pellet wounds on the left arm. But I didn’t see any wound on her left hand at the crime scene. How does that figure?”

“Jeeze, Garrity, I dunno. Maybe she wasn’t begging for mercy…what if she was struggling with the killer? Grabbed the barrel, trying to fend him off. That’s when she got it. That would explain the clean hands.”

Jess pictured the end of the gun barrel in Crickette’s left hand. “I reckon.”

“Now if that’s all your cockamamie questions—scoot. I got patients to see.”

Crossing the street to his office, Jess found a shiny new quarter in the snow. My lucky day, he thought. He was whistling as he pushed the coin into his watch pocket and went inside.

Jess leaned back in his chair, considering what Doc told him. If Crickette died instantly after she was shot, clearly she’d written It was Eva on that pink slip of paper earlier. So, unless she was a fortuneteller, it couldn’t mean the obvious. But if not that, what? It didn’t seem likely she wrote it outside in a raging blizzard. She must’ve scribbled it at the house before leaving. With Max there. He might know something about it. Jess decided to call Max, but he’d have to tread carefully—he didn’t want to have to explain It was Eva.

It took eight rings for Max to answer the telephone.

“Sorry to bother you, Max. I was just wonderin’ about something. Might’ve happened just before Crickette left the house the morning she died.” Jess shifted the receiver to his other ear. “She didn’t jot something on a slip of paper, did she? A reminder maybe? Or a note about Eva doing something for her?”

“Don’t know of her writing anything about Eva. Like I said before, she told me Eva was coming over. When you asked about a suicide note, I believe I mentioned those love notes we used to write each other. She called ’em billets-doux. Ain’t that the sweetest word? Didn’t I tell you I wrote her one after she went out the door? Hid it with her hairbrush? That ring a bell? I did it ’cuz I thought I saw her writing me one before she left.”

“You saw her writin’ something?”

“Thought I did. We’d write these billets-doux and hide ’em for each other to find. Half the time she’d put ones for me in the sugar bowl. I called ’em sugar from my Chérie. I wrote mine on blue sheets of paper and she used pink ones. Before she left that last morning, I spied her writing on one of her pink sheets and figured it was a billet doux for me. Only I never found it.”

“Whether or not you found something on paper, Max, I’m sure she wrote a love note to you on her heart that day.” Jess surprised himself, coming up with that.

“That’s what I figure, Jess. Thanks for saying you think so, too.”

After he hung up, Jess took a moment to let it all sink in. The two damning pieces of evidence against Eva, Crickette’s journal and the note clutched in her lifeless hand, now had more holes in them than Swiss cheese. But Eva wasn’t out of the woods, not by a long shot. Because, no matter how Crickette did it, by getting her friend to pull the trigger, she both ended her own suffering and put Eva behind the eight ball—since the law doesn’t look kindly at being a party to murder, even if you were duped and/or pressured into doing it.

Jess sharpened three pencils and took out a yellow pad of paper. He put on his specs and wrote out where his investigation stood on evidence and suspects.

Key Evidence

Crickette’s journal entry: An attempt to frame Eva? (NBH, Wallener)

Note in Crickette’s hand: Written at the house before she left. More NBH

Muzzle to wound distance: 2-3 feet. Trigger to wound distance: Over three feet, too far for self-inflicted.

Suspects

Max: Had a motive, but alibied

—

not at crime scene. (bum foot) Not a suspect.

Stranger on the road: Mickey Platt (alibi, no motive) Not a suspect.

Harry Scurfman: Motive? Yep. Alibi? (Home sick, Eva verified) Hard evidence for/against? No. Suspect? Maybe, he’s Harry Scurfman, after all.

E: Motive? Maybe (help a sick friend) Alibi? Not while traveling from Harry’s to Conroy’s. Hard evidence for/against? Not a shred. Suspect? Only as accomplice. Maybe duped, but that wouldn’t draw much slack under the law.

Crickette (suicide): Motive? Yep (lots of pain). Alibi (Definitely at crime scene but couldn’t have pulled the trigger) Hard evidence for/against? Fighting for her life when shot. And a shady past. Suspect? Could she do it without help? Probably not.

Jess felt miles away from cracking the case, but he’d made progress. He’d get there if he kept plugging away. He stared at the yellow paper. His fingers found the quarter from the street. “Heads it’s murder, Tails suicide,” he muttered. He tossed the coin into the air and caught it. It was tails. Jess circled the word Probably in the last line on his yellow pad.

He mentally sifted the facts every way he could. He’d ruled out some possibilities, but to solve this murder he’d need to rule some in. Determine if his forensic coin was showing heads or tails. He hoped his eye was sharp enough to tell them apart.

At noon, he needed a break. Maybe have lunch, see what Carrie was up to.

On the drive home, Jess reckoned that unless he could explain how Crickette could’ve killed herself, Eva was in the soup. She admitted stopping to get the Conroy’s mail, so she’d been at the crime scene alone. Near the time of the murder. All circumstantial, but damning nonetheless. He’d have to question Eva. Maybe put the heat on her. He hated the thought of that.

It was Monday—that night he’d have spaghetti for dinner—and the tangy aroma of tomato, garlic, and basil filled Carrie’s kitchen when Jess arrived. After a kissed hello, he stirred the simmering saucepan. He brought a spoonful of the sauce to his nose and inhaled. “Dang that smells tasty. I do like my Monday nights.” He took his usual chair at the kitchen table.

“You should have called. I’d have had a sandwich ready.” Carrie opened the fridge door. “Looks like it’s liverwurst or liverwurst.”

“Liverwurst’s fine. On that rye bread, if you got it.” Acting nonchalant, Jess hummed the Toreador Song from Carmen, tapping his finger on the table to the beat.

Carrie shook her head and pulled the only loaf she had from the breadbox. “Jessie, we both know darned well you didn’t come home to serenade me. If you want to talk, fire away.”

“Come on dearie, can’t a man come home just to gawk at his pretty wife? Without her suspectin’ him? Wasn’t goin’ to bother you with shop talk, but since you put it that way, maybe I will.” He walked over and gave her a gentle swat on the rump. “Don’t wanna disappoint you.”

“You’re lucky I have a high tolerance for foolishness. So?…What’s up?”

Jess took out his sheet of yellow paper. “Been tryin’ to savvy just what it is I know and don’t know about Crickette’s death.” He put on his spectacles. “For now, I’ve boiled it down to three suspects. There’s Harry—he’s got motive but not opportunity. There’s another suspect I’m not gonna name. They might have a motive. Maybe acted as accomplice. But I doubt in my heart they could or would do anything like this. I just—”

“Now you got me all curious.” Carrie put a plate with his sandwich in front of Jess. “Ain’t proper to bring up stuff you don’t plan to finish talking about.”

“Forget suspect number two. What’s really eatin’ me is a third suspect. Crickette herself.”

“Crickette?” Carrie looked incredulous. “Thought you and Doc agreed this wasn’t suicide.”

“We did. Before. Can’t see how she could have done it herself. But if I could, it’d be the simplest explanation. And I wouldn’t need to suspect anyone else.”

“Simplest is usually right. But why would a suicide worry about covering her tracks?”

“I’ve learned some things about Crickette.” Jess bit his lip. “Dirty things. Like tryin’ to set somebody up. And that ain’t all. Guess it boils down to this feelin’ in my gut that maybe she did do what facts say she couldn’t have.”

“You know, Jessie, they used to think the earth was flat. There’s two kinds of facts. Ones you know and ones you only think you know. Those last kind can really get you in hot water.” Carrie unfolded a red and white check napkin and covered Jess’ sandwich with it. “What kind of sandwich you got under the napkin?”

Jess looked surprised. “Well, liverwurst on rye, I reckon.”

Carrie pulled away the napkin. The bread was white. “You reckoned because you asked for rye. Asking for don’t mean getting. Turns out the only bread I have is white.”

Jess stroked his moustache with his thumb. “Sounds like you’re sayin’ a smart sheriff would be figurin’ it don’t look like Crickette killed herself rather than that she didn’t.”

Carrie grinned. “At this point, don’t look like sounds safer to me than didn’t.”

“Yeah, safety first.” He took a bite of sandwich. “So, you tellin’ me the earth ain’t flat?”

Carrie threw the napkin at him. “Yeah, Arthur Godfrey said so on the radio today.”

After lunch, Jess left the house and headed for the Chandler place. It was early enough that the girls wouldn’t be home from school. And Stan would be working. His lunchtime talk with Carrie had him wondering what he really did know about Crickette’s death. Eva had been closer to her in some ways than Max. Maybe she was hiding something. Or maybe she held the key to the case without knowing it. Either way, he had to talk to her. Alone.

Monday had always been Eva’s baking day, and the yeasty aroma of rising bread dough filled the kitchen when Jess arrived. “I was just in the neighborhood,” he said. “Thought I’d drop by to see how things are goin’.”

Eva glanced suspiciously at him. “Cup of coffee, Jess?”

“’Preciate it.” He took a seat at the corner of the kitchen table that wasn’t stacked with bowls and canisters or dusted with stray flour.

Eva poured the coffee and went back to brushing melted butter on the four domes of dough bulging out of their bread pans. “A sheriff’s surprise visit makes me worry there’s been some cattle rustling and I’m suspect number one.” She noted Jess’ nervous smile. “If you’ve come to arrest me, at least make yourself useful. Open the oven door so I can get this bread in.”

Jess opened the door. “Careful, don’t burn yourself,” he said as Eva put the first loaf in.

“I’m OK. While I get the next one, use my oven stick to push the loaf all the way to the back.” She handed Jess a yard stick-sized piece of maple. “Hurry before all my heat escapes.”

Jess pushed the loaf to the back of the oven, then he bolted upright. “Hot doggies, Eva, that’s it!” he yelled, hugging her. “That’s how ya tell heads from tails.”

Eva blushed and stepped back. “Such a celebration over putting bread in an oven? I’m afraid to think what happens when I take it out.” She set another loaf into the oven. “Now push this one to the back. A bit more calmly, or you’ll make it fall.”

Jess shoved the loaf deep into the oven and handed Eva the stick. He called over his shoulder as he ran out, “You can do the rest, can’t ya? I got a coin to flip.”

Jess roared back into town with his siren blaring. He screeched to a halt outside his office and threw open the patrol car trunk. The piece of wooden molding he’d found at Crickette’s crime scene was there where he’d left it two weeks before. He snatched it and stormed into the office. He locked the door and went right to the evidence cabinet. Jess took Max’s snake gun out and checked to be sure it was unloaded. He cocked the gun, and with his left hand he grasped the muzzle, holding it at arm’s length. The shotgun’s business end was about two feet from his chest. Looking down the double barrel, he gripped one end of the wood molding in his right hand and rested the other end on the trigger. Jess took a deep breath and pushed.

Click.

Off the Hook

On a steamy August Sunday afternoon, Eva, Stan, Jess and Carrie sat on the Chandlers’ front porch. The women swept slowly back and forth on the glider swing, serenaded by the suspending chains’ chirping chorus. Eva pressed her glass of iced lemonade to her cheek. “Warm as it is, I think a cool drink is the only thing we’ve got over the chicken simmering on my stove.”

“That’s pretty near right, ma’am.” Jess took a swig of cold beer. “Still, could be worse.” He was thinking back to the previous February, the day he figured out how Crickette could have killed herself without an accomplice. After that, he’d quietly misplaced the piece of wood molding he’d found at the crime scene, the scrap of pink paper from Crickette’s hand, and the pages mentioning Eva in Crickette’s notebook. He’d never told Eva about suspecting she’d been involved in a murder. Or how Crickette had apparently tried to make it look like she had. No point in that. For Max’s sake, he hadn’t pursued the suicide angle either. Though he didn’t exactly lie, Jess never discouraged folks who figured he was hot on Harry Scurfman’s trail and that some day he’d trip the varmint up. Harry’s heart attack and death in April made everything easy. “Darn snake slithered out of it,” is what Lem Hickok said, and Hooker County folks agreed, reckoning the story of Crickette Conroy’s murder died with him. Jess hadn’t fought that notion. It allowed Max some peace when he moved back to Chicago in May. And gave everyone else closure, too. Since none of that squared with a good lawman’s code, Jess announced in June that he wouldn’t stand for reelection. “It’s a younger man’s job,” was all he’d said.

Stan worried that the color in Eva’s cheeks was more the heat than the fact that she was four months into her pregnancy. “You doin’ OK, hon?” He fanned her face with a newspaper.

Eva beamed. “Not just OK—I’m Okey-dokey.”

Carrie took Eva’s hand. “You surely are that.” She stopped the swing to peer into her eyes like there might be secrets hidden deep inside them. “Eva, I’ve never seen you look better. Happier.” Carrie looked away and sighed. “1957. Such a year—starting off with a murder and set to end with new life.”

Stan tapped his beer bottle to Jess’. “To new life. It’s something, all right.”

Just then Françie ran from the house with Cat in hot pursuit. She slipped behind the porch swing and threw her arms around her mother’s shoulders.

“You better not,” Cat growled at her sister.

Eva turned to look Françie in the eyes. “Better not what?”

“Tell,” Françie whispered in Eva’s ear.

“Tell what, kiddo?” Eva said.

“Squealer!” Cat yelled and crossed her arms.

Eva froze Cat with a glare. She stood and took Françie’s hand. “Come, Bijou. We’ll walk with your sister and see what’s up.” She took the sunglasses from Stan’s pocket and put them on.

Eva walked between the girls, holding each one’s hand. They went to the teeter-totter Stan had built in the shade of the towering elm behind the house. With the girls at each end of the board, Eva tended the fulcrum to keep the seesawing slow.

“I did promise not to tell.” Françie looked defiantly at Cat. “Not to tell Daddy.” She stuck out her tongue and turned back to Eva. “Last night we were playing with that arrowhead Daddy got you for Christmas in Belgium. So he sees us and says, ‘Put that away. You’ll lose it.’” She winced. “Well, we didn’t, and this morning it’s gone. We looked all over. He’s gonna kill us.”

“You didn’t mind your father,” Eva said. “I’d say he has a right to be upset.”

“But not to paddle us real hard,” Cat pleaded, “That’s why we can’t tell him, Françie.”

Eva smiled. “Your father has never paddled you too hard, much less killed you.” She sighed. “Besides, knowing you did something wrong and carrying it as a dark secret can be much worse than getting it over and done with. That’s something even mothers have to learn.”

“You lose stuff, too, Mama?” Françie asked.

“I used to say I lost my childhood. But in wartime, I suppose that’s true for many other children as well. What’s worse is to grow up hiding from something you’ve done. Then what’s lost is you.” Eva held the seesaw steady and gazed for a moment into the distance. “I don’t want that for you, Mon Bijoux. Come, sit with me on the grass.” She pointed to the base of the tree.

Eva sat between her two girls. She took a deep breath. “I’ve told you about Franka, the goose so tiny she looked like a wren. You remember don’t you?” The girls nodded yes. “As I said before, Franka secretly helped the geese for a time when they took over the forest. Doing that, she betrayed the other animals there. It was bad. Though it took her a while, when she saw the geese were evil, she did turn against them and worked to throw them out. But after the geese were gone and even when she had a family of her own, Franka couldn’t forget what she’d done. The black secret of her past followed her wherever she went. Whatever she did. And she feared it more than death.” Eva was glad for Stan’s sunglasses—the girls didn’t see her tears. “Then one day everything changed. Franka told her husband what she’d done, and he held her and kissed her and said, ‘Honey, you’re off the hook.’ And off the hook is how she felt—as if the darkness in her past had vanished in a magician’s puff of smoke. It was the first day of her new life.”

After a moment of silence, Eva said, “I’d never say losing something like an arrowhead is anything like what Franka did, helping the geese. I just don’t want either of you to have to learn it the hard way—that hiding what you’ve done, however big or small, can’t make it go away. I think that’s what Franka would want you to know.”

Cat looked at Françie and bit her lip. “Guess we better go face the music. Mama, you’ll come with us, won’t you? Just in case.”

The girls walked slowly to the front porch. With their mother right behind, they stood before Stan, silent for a moment, holding hands. Finally, after a nudge from her sister, Cat said, “Daddy, we did something really bad, but we’re really sorry, and we really want to confess so it won’t follow us around forever.”

Eva walked around the girls to Stan’s side and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Know Mama’s Pawnee arrowhead? The one we were playing with last night?” Cat cringed. “And you told us to put it up?”

Stan took Eva’s hand and leaned forward. “You mean the one I gave your mother so many years ago? The one so special she keeps it in that box on the mantle? That the one you mean?”

“Yes, sir, that one.” Cat swallowed hard. “I think Françie might have lost it…or maybe it was me. Anyway, we’re really, really sorry, and we know you’ll probably want to paddle us good, ’cuz we didn’t put it up when you told us and Mama liked it so much. But we just thought maybe if we were honest….”

Stan sighed. “Even if I wanted to go easy on ya, losin’ a valuable Indian artifact—that’s a big deal. May have to turn the matter over to the authorities. Folks get jail time for stuff like that.” His look brightened. “Still, you did come clean.” He turned to Jess. “Correct me if I’m wrong, sheriff, but when culprits confess, they sometimes get off light, don’t they?”

“Sure we take it into account,” Jess said, “’specially when we’re partial to the owlhoots that done the lawbreakin’.” He winked at the girls.

Eva squeezed Stan’s hand and said, “Didn’t you tell me once that owning up to your past can sometimes make it disappear?”

Stan sighed theatrically. “Come here you two.” He gathered a girl in each arm and held them close to his chest. “It’s nice that both your mama and the law’s willin’ to cut you some slack. But there’s still the matter of an empty box and a missin’ arrowhead.” Stan slipped two fingers into the breast pocket of his shirt and steathfully pulled the flint point out. Grinning, he flashed it for Eva to see. Palming the arrowhead, he pushed a lock of Françie’s hair aside and fumbled behind her ear. “Well looky what I found hiding back here in this pommes de terre garden.” With a voilà! he brandished the arrowhead like it was the Hope diamond.

Cat and Françie squealed and hugged their father’s neck.

“Why don’t you two run and get its box from the mantle,” Eva said to the girls. When they’d raced inside the house, she put her arms around Stan’s neck and kissed him. “So, when did you find it, Monsieur Voilà?”

“Last night—figured I’d hang on to it till they knew it was missin’.” He grinned. “Let ’em sweat a little.”

When the girls ran back, Cat was holding the box. She took the arrowhead and placed it gently inside. After ceremoniously closing the lid, she bowed and presented the box to Eva.

Françie took Stan’s hand in both of hers. “So Daddy, do you still have to paddle us?”

Stan stroked his chin. “Why don’t we see how good a job you two do, settin’ the table for dinner now and cleanin’ up after? Do that fine, and I reckon, as they say, you’re off the hook.”

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