The Darkest Hour(13)

Tilly clears her throat. “Sir, we may want Lucie with us in Reims. It might not be a bad idea to have a lookout.”

Major Harken waves her off. “The three of you are dismissed.” When we don’t move fast enough for his liking, he shouts, “That’s an order.”

We leap out of our seats, but when I reach the doorway, I have to turn back. How am I supposed to stay here at headquarters when Delphine is in prison? Even if I went as a lookout like Tilly said, I could offer something to their mission. “Sir—”

Major Harken elbows me out of the room and slams the door on me, just an inch from my nose. I stumble back, but Tilly is there to catch me.

“Are you all right?” she whispers.

I straighten my shirt, hold my chin high. No tears, I tell myself.

“I’m fine,” I say.

But both she and I know that it’s a lie.

August 3, 1942

Dear Luce,

It’s been nearly a month since you saw me off at the train station, but it feels like ages. How’ve you been? Miss me yet?

Guess where I’m writing you from? Right smack dab in the middle of the ocean. We weren’t at base for long before they packed us into a big sardine can of a boat. I sure do wish that you and Ruthie could keep me company. We could play rummy and Ruthie could win every hand. Truth be told, though, I’m glad the two of you are at home, where you’ll be safe. Besides, it’s beginning to stink like an armpit in our bunkroom, and I don’t think you girls would appreciate the smell.

We’ve been at sea now for three days, and I wouldn’t mind switching out bunkmates for our old friend Sir Chive right about now. The bunkmate I do have—Gordon Paul—snores like a foghorn, but he shared his chocolate ration with me, so I guess we’re square.

Other than the chocolate, the food isn’t much better than pig slop. If the Germans don’t kill us first, then the baked mutton will. It would be downright patriotic if Maman mailed me one of her galettes au beurre, but none of the officers will tell us where we’re headed. I’m guessing █████. Abner thinks ████. Gordo says ███████. Can you imagine that? Me, sleeping next to a camel?

Sergeant Stanton is telling us lights out, so I better make this quick. Could you do me a favor and swing by Ruthie’s place? Give her a hug for me and a big old kiss on the lips. I’m ragging you about that last part, but tell her not to worry. I’ll knock off a few Nazis and be home to the two of you before you know it. Love to you both.

Theo





That night I lie awake on my cot. Hours have passed since the briefing and all of headquarters has gone quiet, but I can’t sleep. The eyes of the dead won’t give me any peace tonight.

Travert’s eyes come to me first, all wide and watery and begging me for mercy. I try to swat the fresh memory of him away, but as soon as I chase it off, I see Margot and Agnes. I imagine them in Reims, their eyes grim as the Nazis close in on them. I wonder if they had gone out fighting, emptying their pistols until their chambers clicked hollow. Or maybe they took the suicide pills that every agent is given before a mission, marked L for lethal. One swallow and you’re gone. Nobody wants to use an L pill, of course, but sometimes you don’t have a choice.

I grind my teeth and try not to think about the two of them, and I especially don’t want to think about Delphine and what the Germans might be doing to her right now. So I force myself to focus on something else, anything else, and that’s when my thoughts turn to Theo, like they always do when sleep eludes me.

Sometimes I think I’m forgetting his face, so I try to remember every detail. Theo often had this glint in his eyes, like he was thinking about a joke that our parish priest would rap his knuckles for repeating. He also had a bump in his nose and long hair that hung past his earlobes, which Papa hated. When Theo did finally cut his hair, it wasn’t for our father’s benefit but to join the service.

The last time I saw him alive, he was sporting that freshly clipped hair along with a new army uniform that hung past his wrists. He had already spent weeks in basic training and had come home for three days before he had to ship out. Our family went to the train station to see him off. The memory of that day has stayed crisp in my mind, like a newly developed photograph.

Papa was hungover like always, and we reached the station late, just in time for the conductor to cup his hand to his mouth and shout down the platform: “Last call! All aboard!”

Papa shuffled forward to give the first good-bye, a rough pat on Theo’s back and a quick bon courage with his wine-stained breath. Maman went next. She started weeping into her handkerchief while Theo gave her a peck and told her how much he’d miss her crepes. Ruthie hadn’t come to the station. She and Theo had said their good-byes late the night before, but I saw him scanning the crowd for her anyway. Hoping.

There was no more time to search for Ruthie, though, not with the conductor motioning toward us. Theo threaded toward the nearest car, and I sprang after him, leaving our parents behind in the busy throng.

“You’ll write to me, won’t you?” Theo said, smacking his gum and tucking a knuckle under my chin.

“ ’Course I will.”

“I’ll be back before you know it.” Then he mussed my hair because he saw the tears brimming in my eyes. “Don’t worry that little head of yours, either. I didn’t forget about California.”