Catching the Wind(13)

“I only wanted you to know that I’ve handpicked you for this assignment, Miss Vaughn. Your past and present are all part of my decision.”

Bristling, she leaned toward him. “Who are you trying to find, Mr. Knight?”

“A girl named Brigitte.”

“And how did you lose this Brigitte?”

“I didn’t lose her, exactly,” he replied, his voice dipping down. “Brigitte was taken from me.”





Chapter 7




Belgium, October 1940

Hunger etched itself in the crevices of Dietmar’s belly. A deep canyon aching to be filled. Rain dripped off the maple leaves overhead, streaking down his greasy hair, seeping through the holes of his jacket, and pooling on his skin. Leaning back, he let the drops pool in his mouth as well before swallowing them.

The rain was Spaetzle, slathered with fresh butter and cheese. It was cabbage rolls. Boiled potatoes. Bratwurst. His mother’s favorite Kuchen, made with candied nuts and fruit.

He rubbed his wet hands over his sleeves, his stomach aching along with his heart. The only food they’d eaten in the past weeks had been gleaned from abandoned gardens along their journey. He’d almost forgotten the taste of his mother’s cooking.

Gray twilight clung to treetops, a gift for Brigitte so she could sleep beside him a bit longer. He wouldn’t wake her until the darkness enveloped the forest again.

They only traveled at night now, through Belgium’s woods and fields, skirting the checkpoints on foot. The English Channel was close; he could smell the salt in the breeze. Somehow they would find a way to cross the water. In a day or two. His aunt would be waiting for them on the other side, and her pantry, he felt certain, would have plenty of food.

He pulled a compass from his knapsack, rotating it until the needle hovered over the NW. Their path to freedom.

More than a month had passed since he and Brigitte had run from the woman who’d wanted them arrested, this compass guiding them. It was a gift from the farmer, he guessed, tucked into his knapsack while they ate dinner. He’d found it the day after they’d run, the compass string looped around a small burlap bag filled with bacon and dried apples.

“Mama,” Brigitte moaned, tossing her head on the muddy pillow of leaves.

In her sleep, tears mixed with the raindrops, but he didn’t wake her. The reality, he feared, would be much worse than her dream. Perhaps, in sleep, Frau Berthold was still alive, holding her daughter close. Giving her warm milk before bed, sweetened with cinnamon sugar, and tucking a thick, dry blanket over her nightclothes.

They were miles and miles now from home, but Dietmar couldn’t stop thinking about the gentleness of his own mother’s words, the strength and integrity of his father’s life. Both of his parents’ decision to choose rightness in a world bent on wrong.

Brigitte cried often for her father at night, but she never spoke about either of her parents when they traveled. So Dietmar told her stories as they trekked through the countryside in the moon and starlight, dodging villages and farmhouses.

He told her about the time he’d caught a frog in the creek and tried to hide it under his bed, about the noises it made all night and his mother’s failure to hide her laughter when she tried to reprimand him. He told her about the fleet of paper boats he’d made to sail down the river, but instead of sailing, the boats turned into aeroplanes, taking flight in the wind. He told her about his aunt living in England, about the two cousins he’d never met, about the kind people they’d meet on the other side of the English Channel.

Sometimes his stories made her laugh. One time they made her cry. But the stories kept them both pressing forward.

Dietmar shivered as the gray light disappeared behind the leaves.

The nights grew colder now, the hours of black stretching long, but they never stopped to light a fire. In the darkness, they kept moving. The trees were changing their colors in this new season, from a wardrobe of greens to autumn hues. He and Brigitte rarely saw the color in the darkness, but he could tell summer had ended by the crunch of parched leaves under their worn shoes, the aroma of woodsmoke in the air whenever they edged around an occupied home. How he wished he could slip inside one of those houses and collapse beside a roaring fire, warm his bones—for that’s what remained of him and Brigitte now. They were two shells, their souls caged in by waning skin and tired bones.

During the day hours, they rested in some sort of hiding place. A cave or abandoned barn or—like today—a grove of trees. As the weeks passed, they found more country homes empty, more gardens overgrown. Had the Gestapo whisked those residents away as well?

He didn’t mention his thoughts to Brigitte. She’d grown even quieter since autumn had settled upon them, and he feared she was slipping away in her sadness. Desperate, he tried to make her laugh again, tried to rescue her from her sorrow before she drowned in it. But no matter how hard he tried, he seemed to be failing her.

“Brigitte,” he whispered, nudging her wet shoulder. “It’s time to go.”

She moaned again. “Mama?”

He reached for her, pulling her to him like he could be both mother and father, protect and care for her. When she shook him away, he felt her forehead, the back of his hand resting on her skin. It was a fire ablaze. An inferno.

When had she caught fever?

In the distance, beyond the trees, he heard a noise. Then the sound he feared most—barking dogs. His heart started to race.