The Darkest Hour(50)

“Called in a few favors.”

“A few big favors,” I whisper. “I don’t know how we can thank you.”

“There’s no need. Simply keep yourselves safe.” Christiane pecks us on our cheeks. “You best hurry. The fewer people who see you at this hour, the better. Be careful getting in. You’ll have to ride in the back, I’m afraid. It may be bumpy—and possibly hostile—but you’ll be kept out of view.”

Possibly hostile?

Christiane seems to sense the question hovering on our lips, and she answers it by opening the back of the truck. Inside, there are six stacks of wooden boxes piled neatly in columns, each one as high as our necks. I don’t know what could be hiding inside of them until I hear a low hum coming from the box closest to me.

“Honeybees,” says Christiane. “They belong to one of the members of the Resistance. The cover story will be that my father is transporting the bees to an apiarist near Verdun.”

“We have to travel to Verdun with the bees?” says Tilly.

“It was my father’s idea. I thought he may have lost his wits, but the bees should keep you safe. If you’re stopped, it’s not likely that the Nazis will conduct a thorough search.”

There’s not much time for a good-bye. Christiane isn’t the sentimental type, and she shoos us past the humming hives and toward the sliver of space at the back of the truck, where we sit shoulder to shoulder. We find a pouch of food, a full canteen, and laundered dresses that we change into, careful not to bump into the crates and the hundreds of bees droning inside of them.

“All settled?” Christiane whispers.

“All settled,” I answer for all of us. “Thank you, Christiane.”

“Give those Germans a swift kick for Papa and me,” she says before she steps back.

The door closes with a thunk, and we’re thrust into darkness.





The truck bumps and bounces along the road, and we bump and bounce along with it. There’s no window to sneak glances out of, but we try to measure how far we’ve gone by the pavement under the tires—from the smoother streets of Paris to the rough roads beyond the city and then the dirt paths that crunch and scrape as we draw closer to Verdun.

We’re stopped twice by the Germans. Both times the three of us grip onto our preferred weapons. Sabine, the machine gun. Tilly, a grenade. Me, a pistol in each palm. But we don’t have to use them. Once the Nazis order Laurent to throw open the back of the truck, it doesn’t take them long to bolt.

“Dear God, what’s that sound?” one soldier says.

“Those are beehives, mein Herr. I’m transporting them to a cousin of mine who purchased them from me,” Laurent replies smoothly. “She’s hoping to expand her honey production.”

“Did you say beehives?”

“Yes, ten of them in all. Do be careful. I believe one of the honeybees has landed on your lapel.”

There’s a yelp. “Close up your truck and get on your way!”

About an hour after that, the truck tires roll to a stop and I hold my breath for the thousandth time. Have the Nazis stopped us again? A cramp tightens in my calf, but I ignore the pain and clamp my fingers around my two guns.

The back of the truck opens, and the afternoon sun spills onto my face. We’ve been staring into the dark for so long that my eyes hurt for a good five seconds before they adjust to the light.

“Girls? We’re here,” says Laurent.

I wobble out of the vehicle, punching my thighs as I go to get the blood circulating in them again. Outside, I get my first glance at Lorraine, one of the eastern French provinces, with Verdun located in its northwestern corner. Sloping hills surround us, rolling east toward the German border. Verdun should be a few miles away from here, somewhere west of this worn-down farming road. We told Laurent to keep driving until the town was well out of his view. If anyone saw us, how could we explain three girls hitching a ride in the back of a truck full of bees?

A breeze rustles through the dozens of trees along the roadside, and a flock of sheep chews on fresh summer grass over on a nearby hill. It feels like Laurent has dropped us in the middle of a French storybook, but I’m sure the Nazis are somewhere nearby. They could even be right underneath my boots for all I know. Dorner did say that the laboratory was underground.

As Sabine stretches and Tilly fetches our bags, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the driver’s window. I’ve put up my hair in a tight braid, and I’m not wearing a pinch of makeup. But this is the Lucie that my brother would recognize. This is me. If I’m to die today, I’ll do so looking like myself.

Laurent gathers us together. “The coordinates you gave me are due east from here. I’m afraid I don’t see any other roads that will lead us closer. This is as far as I can take you.”

“You’ve done plenty already,” I tell him.

“You should head back before nightfall. We want you to be as far away from this road once we reach the laboratory,” says Sabine.

Laurent lingers anyway, pecking us on our cheeks as Christiane did hours before. “I have a second cousin who lives north of here, in the village of Stenay. She’s a member of her local Resistance. If you need shelter, go to her farm and tell her that Christiane and I sent you.” He gives us the address and waits for us to repeat it back to him, even though I know the chances of me using it are slim.