The Darkest Hour(25)

I grab the handles because Harken did say she’s in charge, but I’m still unsure why she doesn’t take the bicycle for herself. At headquarters she’s always rapping my knuckles if I try on one of her wigs or use one of her cups to drink from, but I know she’s made up her mind and there’s nothing I can do to change it. If she doesn’t want the bicycle, I’ll gladly take it. “Thanks. For the ride.”

She’s already shooing me off. “Stop dawdling. I’ll meet you at the house, unless I make it there first.”

Knowing Sabine, she isn’t kidding around—and she might just beat me to Cherbourg. With one last farewell, I start down the hill and onto the dirt road. I can’t help but glance back, though. I raise my hand to wave at her, and I’m surprised to hear her shout back at me.

“Don’t say that I haven’t helped you.”

She turns her back and starts cutting through a field, and I realize finally why she insisted I take the bicycle, and a surge of guilt swells in my heart.

Maybe I’ve assumed the worst about her all along.

September 6, 1942

Dear Luce,

I’ll give you three tries on where I’m writing you from. Ready? ██████? ████? ██████? Nope. You’d be wrong on all counts. If you can believe it, we’re in jolly old ███████, homeland of Sir Chive himself . We’re training with the █████ before we have to ship out again. I sure don’t mind a few days back on dry land, looking for some tea and crumpets in my off time. I don’t even know what a crumpet is, but I hope it tastes better than mess hall chow.

How’s Ruthie? Did you see her yet? I think the two of you should start talking about our big California plans. She’s worried about leaving her ma behind, but I think you can convince her. What’s not to like about sunshine and palm trees and me? We could be strolling down the street and bump into Jimmy Stewart or Bette Davis. It’ll be nothing like Baltimore. Not one lick.

I’m thinking Ruthie could find a job as a dressmaker, and you could work as a typist. I know you could pick that up quick. I’m not sure what I’ll do yet. No bakery jobs for me, though. I don’t plan on making another baguette ever again—and I don’t want you to, either. We’re going to get away from all that.

It might be a little while before you hear from me again. We’re not sure where we’ll be heading, though Gordo still has his money on ██████████. Wherever we end up, I don’t want you or Maman worrying over me. Promise? We’ve got the best boys in the world fighting for the ol’ U.S. of A., and we’ll be flying the Stars and Stripes in no time. You should start planning my parade! I want floats and baton twirlers and a whole truckful of Maman’s galettes. That’s not too much to ask for your big brother, is it?

Theo





I pedal until the sun peeps over the Norman hills and until my wrist swells like a tire on a hot day. Then I grind my teeth through the pain and pedal some more, riding past the orchards filled with unripened apples and the thatched-roof village that probably hasn’t changed much since the Middle Ages. Paris feels a half-world away, especially with the ocean nearby. I can’t see its glimmering waves, but there’s a crispness to the air, salty and fresh, that I’ve never smelled back in the city, unless you count a stroll through the morning fish market.

About halfway to Cherbourg, I lean the bicycle against a tired tree stump and recheck the map on my handkerchief. The cloth has been stained with dirt and sweat, but I can make out the crisscross of roads and the lines of coordinates that Harken scrawled onto it. I trail my finger over the safe house coordinates. I should arrive in a matter of hours, and my stomach tightens at the thought of the provisions waiting for me there: bread, maybe some cheese, and a pitcher of sweet, sweet water.

Dorner will be waiting there, too—for Sabine and me both.

I glance at the path behind me, expecting to find Sabine catching up to me with another bicycle that she has somehow stolen, but when I look behind me I see only the apple orchards.

“Bon voyage,” I whisper. I’d forgotten to tell her that before we parted ways, and I hope I’m not too late for it now. It’s strange. Yesterday I was more than ready to get rid of her, and now I’m feeling a bit sorry to leave her behind. But I tell myself that she’ll be all right. She’s Sabine, after all. If anything, the Nazis who cross her path should be afraid of her, rather than the other way around.

Just as I head down the road again, I hear the unmistakable hum of a truck. A glance over my shoulder sends a sinking feeling into my gut. It’s the Nazis, all right. I plaster on a smile, like I’m nothing but a country girl enjoying the summer sun, but I wonder if that’ll be enough. They could ask to see my papers, to demand where I’m going. The truck comes up behind me, and the soldier in the passenger seat sticks his head out the window, a cigarette poking out of his mouth. My heart pumps fast, but as the truck overtakes my bicycle, he winks at me.

“What’re you doing tonight, baby doll?” he shouts. Then he makes a hand gesture so rude that I blush all over. If Theo were here, he’d pummel that German until his hands bloodied, but my brother isn’t here to protect me anymore, and he hasn’t been for a long time. I’ve had to learn to fend for myself, from dodging Papa’s fists to appeasing Mr. Richard and now to keeping one step ahead of the Nazis. That’s why I smile at the soldier instead of pointing my pistol pen at him like I really want to do.