Catching the Wind(42)
Blast Chandler for making her lose her focus. She and Lucas had moved into an amiable relationship for the sake of their work. Nothing more or less.
Rain fell outside the window. Even though summer was only weeks away, it was still chilly. The warmth of southern France sounded nice at the moment, but she was more interested in pursuing Brigitte’s story than seeing sunshine.
Newhaven was on the coast. It wouldn’t be warm, but she could work for a few days near the water. And perhaps she’d find out what happened to Brigitte after she left Mulberry Lane.
Chapter 25
Newhaven, February 1941
Brigitte didn’t like the man sitting in the motorcar beside her. He smelled like manure and charred meat, and he kept talking to her in German, asking questions about her home, her parents. Inquiring about any family she had looking for her in England.
She didn’t answer any of his questions. Instead she kept wiping the fog from her window to watch the darkness lap against their vehicle. If only one of the waves would steal her away.
Hours had passed since Frau Terrell dragged her across the pasture from their house, the muddy snow sucking at both their shoes. Halfway to the car, Frau Terrell tried to wrestle the cot roll from Brigitte’s hands, saying it slowed them down, but Brigitte sat on the bundle of canvas and wood, pressing it down in the snow. And she refused to move without it.
Frau Terrell had looked between Brigitte and the bag in her hand as if she were trying to decide which to carry. In hindsight, Brigitte wished that she’d stayed with her cot in the pasture, but when Frau Terrell turned away, Brigitte had followed, shambling behind her toward the vehicle.
The foul-smelling man leaned toward her. “Wie bist du nach England?”
She wrapped her arms over her chest, inching as close as possible to the door, the metal rattling from ruts on the country road. It was her secret, how she arrived in England. A secret she would never tell, especially to this man.
When she refused to answer again, the man scooted forward on the seat, speaking to Frau Terrell in English. “Are you certain she speaks German?”
The woman didn’t glance back. “I’m not certain of anything.”
He looked at Brigitte again, and though she could barely see his face in the moonlight, she shivered. “I’ll convince her to talk.”
This time Frau Terrell turned around. “You won’t convince her to do any such thing.”
“I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m in charge of the girl.”
“Of course.” The man leaned back, shifting his suitcase on the seat between them. He’d refused to allow the driver to put it into the boot of the motorcar, and anytime Brigitte touched it, by accident, he’d slap her arm.
The bundle with her cot was secure under her feet, Dietmar’s knight resting in her pocket. They were her only possessions now besides her clothing. She wouldn’t go anywhere without both of them.
Frau Terrell spoke to the driver. “Are we almost there?”
“I’m trying to find the bridge across the river.”
“Eddie said the house was only an hour away.”
The driver snorted. “Eddie lied.”
It seemed they’d been driving forever now, following the cat’s eyes reflecting on the road. The same darkness. The same stench inside the car. If they passed villages, Brigitte couldn’t see them. Blackout curtains kept any light from trickling out, even to help motorcars find their way.
The driver stopped on the side of the road and examined his map in the light of his torch, shaded by his hand. Her eyes heavy, Brigitte curled up in a ball and leaned against the door. If only she could crawl under her cot to sleep.
How were she and Dietmar going to find each other now, so far away from where they’d parted? But she couldn’t give up hope. One day she’d return to Mulberry Lane and search for him.
When she woke, the sound of road under their tires had smoothed, and she realized they were crossing a bridge. In the morning light, she could see the river below, a blue thread woven through chalky white cliffs.
And then there was a small village ahead. A cluster of houses and shops. The man beside her slouched down in his seat as they passed through town, but her nose stayed pressed against the window. No one was on the street, but the houses filled her with a sense of gratefulness, the knowledge that she wasn’t alone.
On the other side of town, the driver turned onto another road, and they crept back along a bumpy road that cut through a woodland. The trees grew thick on both sides of the car, spiky arms batting against the windows.
Brigitte closed her eyes, trying not to think about her and Dietmar’s flight through the trees. But she couldn’t stop the memories. Dietmar holding her hand, urging her forward, then stopping her when they neared a house so he could find them food. Dietmar making them beds of pine straw in the forest. Dietmar covering her with his coat while she pretended to sleep on the rugged floor.
She felt for the knight in her pocket.
How she missed her best friend.
The driver stopped. “There it is.”
When she opened her eyes, Brigitte saw a forlorn shack before them, a piece of wood dangling over the front door. The paint had long ago peeled off the sides and a garden of weeds grew tall in the gutter. Across the only front window spread a spiderweb.