The Darkest Hour(71)

“The irises will soon be in bloom, don’t you think?” he whispers.

The code phrase! I blurt out, “What a sight they’ll be to behold,” but a spot of hesitation lodges in my voice. It’s hard to overlook the uniform he’s wearing.

“We must go quickly.” He opens the back door and gestures for us to get in. “I’ll explain everything when we’re on the road.”

My hesitation grows threefold. I have to decide now if we should trust him or not. After what Tilly and I’ve been through, I know this could be another Nazi ruse. This policeman could’ve captured Ana?s’s real friend and wheedled the code phrases out of him. But what else can I do? We don’t know another soul in Perpignan and we can’t exactly turn around. We have no weapons and no money, aside from a few francs in my pocket. I may not like it, but we’ll have to take our chances with this man until he gives us a reason not to.

Tilly climbs into the backseat, and I get into the front, making sure to rest my fingers on the door handle just in case. The policeman tips his hat to us and steps on the gas. “I’m Maurice, by the way.” He glances at me, and he must sense my nerves. “Didn’t Ana?s tell you to expect me at the station?”

“She did but she didn’t mention you’d be dressed like … that.”

“I see. No wonder.”

“How do you know Ana?s, might I ask?”

“My family lived next to her when I was a boy, and we’ve kept in close contact since I came to Perpignan. Last year, she recruited me herself into the”—he swallows awkwardly—“the underground.” Even inside the car he doesn’t want to name the Resistance, and I can’t blame him for that. Though his admission does put me at ease a little. I let my hand slip off the door handle.

I’m about to ask Maurice where he’s taking us when Tilly taps his shoulder from the backseat. “Are we going to see Dr. Nacht, sir?”

“I beg your pardon?” he says, startled.

I shake my head at him. The last thing I need is for Tilly to say something odd, which would cause Maurice to drop us off as quickly as he picked us up. To Tilly I say, “We have to be patient. We’ll see the doctor soon enough.”

Maurice makes a turn and we’re no longer in view of the station. “I’m unaware of any doctor—”

“Just play along,” I whisper.

“Is your friend unwell?”

“We were held by the Nazis for some time. Her mind was affected.”

That’s all I’ll say about the matter, and it seems to placate Maurice. Or maybe the Resistance is paying him well enough that he doesn’t mind. We continue on in silence, and I watch the view shift beyond my window, from the quaint red-roofed buildings to the calm waters of the sea. In more peaceful times, I can imagine tourists sipping strong coffee and strolling by the sea, hand in hand; but now the roads are quiet and the residents have all hunkered into their homes, getting ready for the looming curfew. There’s hardly a corner in Europe that hasn’t been touched by this war. Everywhere I go, the shadow of the swastika stretches over me.

As the car nears the outskirts of town, I lean toward Maurice. “Will we be stopping soon?”

In answer, he points straight ahead. “No, we’re going to the mountains, mademoiselle.”

So soon? I thought we might be able to rest the night before we start our trek through the Pyrenees.

Tilly yawns and leans her head against the window. “I’m sleepy,” she says to no one in particular.

“Try to rest. I’ll be here when you wake up,” I reply. I watch her curl up in her seat and drift off in a matter of minutes. I wish I could do the same, but I can’t stop staring at the steep mountains ahead. Some of the taller summits are capped in snow, even in the middle of the summer, and I shiver at the sight. Spain may be close, but first we’ll have to survive the climb.

“Are you all right?” says Maurice.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

All I know is that we’re a long way from home.





We drive from Perpignan straight through a tree-filled valley, where we’re sandwiched between lush green mountains and sleepy stone villages. It’s an entire world apart from the clogged sidewalks of Paris. We make a brief stop at yet another safe house, but this time in the quaint ski town of Ax-Les-Thermes, where Maurice collects our supplies for the long hike ahead: warm clothes, hardy boots, and a rucksack for each of us that’s packed with enough food for our trip. We’ll have to carry all of our necessities on our backs. There won’t be any street markets along the way to buy a crepe; and neither will there be any hospitals if we get frostbite. It’ll be a cold and exhausting trip, the Resistance warns us, but the thought of tracking down Dorner drives me forward.

Night has fallen when we arrive at our drop-off point east of town. We’re surrounded by nothing except for a brisk wind that bites at my cheeks and the jagged crests of the Pyrenees, lit by starlight. The Resistance provided me with a wool sweater and long jacket to wear, but I shiver and blow warm air into my hands, knowing that the temperatures will only get colder as we start our ascent.

While Maurice checks our packs, I help Tilly lace up her boots, but I notice a sheen of tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I say, alarmed.