Catching the Wind(54)

I miss Dietmar so much it aches my whole body. I pray he is well. And I pray he returns to me, before more of Hitler’s men come.

When Frau lets me back outside, I’ll wait for my Hansel at the edge of the forest.

So the witch won’t catch him too.





CHAPTER 31





_____

Quenby tucked the letters back into the tin before glancing up at the riverbank. So Lady Ricker’s letter at the archives wasn’t meaningless after all. Her letters, it seemed, were meant for someone other than Olivia.

Closing her eyes, Quenby leaned back against a rock behind the log. It was exhausting, not just translating but hearing the story in Brigitte’s words.

She and Lucas had been working for hours—stumbling, really—through this translation. Several motorboats and a canoe had sailed past on the river, but no cars had passed them on the rural road leading toward Newhaven. For a moment, she felt as if she’d stepped back into the trappings of Brigitte’s world.

In her mind’s eye, Quenby could see the house made of cake and sugar, hidden in the bleak forest. A scared, hungry girl. The witch. In the German tale, the children escaped from the house, their arms full of precious stones and pearls.

Did Brigitte manage to escape? Or had the witch—or Hitler’s men—hurt her?

Sitting up, Quenby reached for another letter, but her eyes blurred when she scanned Brigitte’s German words, grief overflowing again. Unlike Quenby, Brigitte hadn’t had a grandmother left to rescue her.

“It sounds as if Olivia Terrell operated some sort of safe house during the war,” Lucas said, dumbfounded by their discovery.

Quenby nodded slowly. “She must have been part of Lady Ricker’s network.”

“So that’s why she moved here. For privacy.”

“And she used Brigitte’s German to communicate with her friends across the channel,” Quenby said, piecing it together. She glanced back at the abandoned mill, the tangled grove of trees around it. At the slow-moving current of the river. Anyone looking for her would have had to search hard to find this place.

“Perhaps the same person who took the pictures of Biggin Hill photographed a map to the Mill House.”

“I refuse to believe that Dietmar led me here.”

Brigitte’s words tumbled in Quenby’s mind. How was she supposed to tell Mr. Knight that Brigitte had longed for him deeply but he’d never come?

“She thought Dietmar had abandoned her,” Quenby said softly.

“Brigitte didn’t know that Dietmar was trapped too. That he wanted to find her.”

“It could have changed everything for her to have that glimmer of hope for the future.”

“She didn’t lose hope, Quenby.”

But it seemed to her that the girl’s confidence in her friend and any hope for her future was slipping away.

Lucas reached for another one of Lady Ricker’s letters in the tin, scanning the English words about her baby. “You’d think a story on the Ricker scandal would be championed at WNS.”

“My publisher doesn’t see it that way.”

“So write it for someone else.”

“I signed a noncompete, with you and the syndicate.”

He sighed. “Sometimes I hate contracts.”

She began to translate the letter in her hands, written in January 1942, but Lucas stopped her. “How many more letters are there?”

She counted them. “Six.”

“Seems like we need a break before we read more.”

As much as she wanted to continue, he was right. Every lobe in her brain ached. “We could work while we eat.”

He nodded. “Then we’ll phone Mr. Knight, after we finish the translations.”

She smoothed her hand over the top of the tin. The news of finding the letters would be welcomed, but the contents so far might hurt the man. “What happens if the rest of the letters are just as bleak?”

“Mr. Knight knows this story may not have a happy ending. He wants resolution.”

“But I want a happy ending for him.”

“As we all do.” They started walking toward the Range Rover. “Either way, Mr. Knight will want to know about the letters.”

“I thought you were keeping these kinds of things from him.”

“It’s only the middle of the story, Quenby.”

She slid into the passenger seat, and as Lucas turned the SUV toward Newhaven, she tried to cling to the dream she’d had last night, of the girl picnicking with a God-like man who cared for her. Was it a premonition? Preparing her for the fact that Brigitte had indeed died as a girl? Perhaps she was with Jesus now. No longer hungry or lonely or afraid.

“Before we go to town . . .” Lucas stopped on the side of the empty road, at the edge of the grassy bank. “I think it’s time for you to do something else unexpected.”

She eyed the murky river on their left. “Does it involve swimming?”

“No.” He turned the car off again and removed the key from the ignition. “It involves steering.”

She glanced over her right shoulder at him, horrified. “I’m not driving.”

His arm swept across the dashboard as if the woods and river were on display. “No better place to learn than out here.”