The Orphan's Tale(80)

Theo squirms restlessly beside her, not ready to settle down in the unfamiliar space. There is a loud bang and the whole carriage rocks with the force of something heavy being loaded into an adjacent railcar. “It will be all right,” I say, more for myself than him. I press my palm gently against his back, moving it in small, soothing circles. His eyelids begin to flutter, staying closed longer for a second each time as they do when he is falling asleep.

When Theo has quieted, I roll over, thinking of Luc. He would find out I had left, of course, but not until it was too late. Would he learn, too, where I had gone? Once he had promised to find me, but I can’t see how that’s possible. We will be hundreds of miles away.

I sit up and peer out the window at the familiar site of the fairgrounds, the forest leading to town behind it. We are still here. I can get off the train and go to Luc to let him know we are going, and still make it back in time without anyone noticing. Or maybe even take Theo and leave with Luc for good, I think, remembering his proposal. But where would we go? We have no papers to cross the border, no money for food and shelter. Then I look over at Astrid. Even if it were possible, I would not dare. I close my eyes.

Sometime later there is a great heave and the train struggles forward. I sit up once more and look southeast out the window, imagining the freedom that lies just a few hundred kilometers away in Switzerland. Beside me, Astrid’s body rises and falls methodically with deep sleep. My fate is tied up with hers now, whatever happens.

The train presses forward and the town of Thiers seems to shrink, growing lower and flatter into the earth as we pick up speed. And then it is gone. I touch the glass where the village had been seconds earlier, leaving Luc—and our chance at freedom—behind.





21

Astrid

The squeak of a doorknob turning, hands pressing against hard wood. Through sleep I think I am back in the winter quarters, Peter coming to tell me that he has found someone in the woods near Darmstadt. But when I open my eyes, I see that it is only Noa, hurrying into the tiny cabin we have shared in the past five days since reaching Alsace. I close my eyes once more, willing the vision of earlier times to return.

“Astrid?” Noa’s voice, tight with urgency, yanks me from my memories. I roll over. She is peering out the filthy window, her body stiff and face pale. “You have to get up.”

“Have they come again?” I ask, struggling to sit. Before she can answer, there is a loud clattering outside, a police inspection, officers rattling through the wagons and the tents. Once I might have run and hid. But there is no hiding place here. Let them take me, I think.

There is a hard knock on the door that startles both of us. I sit up, reach for my robe. Theo lets out a wail. Noa opens the door to reveal two SS officers. Always two, I muse. Except, of course, the night they had taken Peter.

“Wer ist da?” one of the men, taller and thin, barks. Who is there?

“I’m Noa Weil,” she offers, managing to keep the quaver from her voice.

The officer gestures toward me. “And her?”

A moment’s hesitation. “I’m Astrid Sorrell,” I say, when Noa does not. “The same as when you asked two days ago,” I cannot help but add. What do they think will be so different each time?

“What did you say?” he demands. Noa shoots me a withering look.

“Nothing,” I mutter. No good can come from antagonizing them.

The other officer takes a step into the cabin. “Is she ill?” He nods his head in my direction.

Yes, I want to say. The Nazis are known to fear illness. Perhaps if they think I am contagious, they will leave us alone. “No,” Noa replies firmly, before I can answer. Her eyes dart nervously in my direction.

“And the child?” he asks.

“My little brother,” Noa says with conviction, the lie now long familiar. “His papers are here, as well.

“Are you thirsty, sirs?” Noa offers, changing the subject before he can ask further questions. She reaches behind her bed and produces half a bottle of cognac I had not known she had.

The man’s eyes widen, then narrow again. It is a calculated risk: Will he take the bribe or accuse her of stealing or hoarding the liquor? He takes the bottle and starts toward the door, the shorter man in tow.

When they have gone, Noa closes the door. She picks up Theo and sinks to the bed beside me. “I didn’t think they would come again so soon after the last time,” she says, shaken.

“Almost every day like clockwork,” I reply, turning away from her, looking out the window of the cabin where we have billeted since our arrival. In Alsace, the most worn of regions, all pretense of normalcy is gone. Across a thin strip of river lies the town of Colmar, its once-elegant skyline of Renaissance churches and timber houses crumbled after the air raids, trees that would have been blooming other years in early May snapped in half like twigs. German trucks and Kubelwagen line the roads.

“The cognac,” I say. “Where did you get it?”

A guilty expression crosses Noa’s face. “From Herr Neuhoff’s railcar. Emmet was going through things the other day, taking what he wanted. I didn’t think he would notice.”

“That was smart thinking.” Thank God she did not offer them food—rations have shrunk to a fraction of what they were in Thiers; we barely have enough to feed ourselves and Theo.