The Baker's Secret(27)

Emma felt a flush of power. His smile lasted barely a second, but she had seen. The Goat was right. She could play this man. It was an entirely new and agreeable feeling. For the moment she was immune to thoughts of danger.

“Perhaps not,” she agreed. “And in return . . .”

“Yes?”

Remembering the other loaves, she slid on mitts and bent to the oven to lift them out. “Never mind.”

“Please,” Captain Thalheim said. “Continue.”

Emma marveled at her coquettishness. She had never been anything but frank with Philippe, direct as an arrow. Where had she learned the wiles she was using now? “I don’t dare say.”

“I have made ask for you to continue. Please.”

Emma placed the last baguette on the rack. “It is about my father.” The captain stiffened, but she had embarked, and would not stop now. “I worry about his health, if he has enough to eat, whether he will ever be free.”

“It is not always so good to ask. A man overlooked may live longer.”

“It has been almost a year since his arrest,” Emma persisted. “We have had no news of any kind.”

Thalheim bowed. “I am ordered to Calais for several days. But if you insist, I will make inquire.”

“I would appreciate that . . . Captain.”

He lifted his eyes when she said his correct rank, opening his mouth, but no sound came out. He tucked the baguette under his arm.

“I hope you enjoy the bread,” she said.

Thalheim clacked his heels together, leaving without another word.





Chapter 13




One rations day—when the war was old enough that, had it been a child, it would have been walking and talking—the army uncharacteristically overlooked something of value: Emma spied a hock of ham and seized it. Reduced, it would flavor meals for weeks. A bit of meat clung to it, too, where the army’s kitchens had butchered in haste. Emma showed it to Mémé for an instant, then stuffed the hock into her bag before anyone else might see. She tugged the old woman’s elbow, drawing her back into the street, when a few steps ahead she noticed a new couple departing.

“Who is that?” she asked of the women standing in line.

“The Argents,” answered Odette, a basket on her hip. Bringing a basket for rations was the definition of optimism.

“I don’t know them,” Emma replied.

Mémé observed the couple as well. “Strangers.”

Odette cleared her throat and spat expertly. “The woman’s family owns the center villa on the bluff.”

“The big stone place? Why didn’t the army take it over, like the others?”

“No electricity. But look at the fancy shoes on them,” Odette muttered. “You’d never know there was a war on.”

“Why would anyone come here? Especially people with money?”

“They’re in no danger. Wars are always fought by poor folk, on behalf of the rich folk.” Odette switched the basket to her other hip. “Her family’s in banking, or was, anyway. Argent, the husband, is a philosophy professor. I heard they walked all the way from Paris. How rich they must be, to have those shoes waiting here for them.”

“Must be nice,” Emma agreed, wending away from the line.

“Baby,” Mémé declared, knuckling her ear. “Baby.”

Odette smirked, making eye contact with Emma. A more tactful neighbor would have ignored Mémé’s nonsense, Emma thought, steering her grandmother away.

“Baby,” Mémé repeated in a whisper, pointing with her chin.

Emma glanced back at the Argent couple. The woman walked with a sway in her hips, duckfooted, while the young professor hung by her elbow in a visibly solicitous way, as if she were fragile. Her belly might not be showing yet, but their manner was. Perhaps Mémé was not as batty as she seemed.



The answer to Thalheim’s inquiry arrived within a week, but in an unexpected form. Odette came running into the barnyard, her giant bosom heaving.

“Emma,” she cried out. “Dear God, Emma.”

Pirate charged at her like a division of tanks, full throttle and engines roaring.

“I’ll make you into soup,” Odette threatened, aiming a swift kick, though the bird was too quick and dodged away. “Emma.”

“What’s the matter?” she said, coming to the door, having left Mémé at the table with a bib and a plate of soggy bread. “You would think the invasion had arrived.”

Odette tried to swallow but her mouth was too parched. She tugged the front of her blouse out and back to fan herself. “Your father,” she gasped. “All this time they’ve been holding him in the basement of town hall. Now they’re taking him somewhere.”

“Dear God,” Emma said. “Where?”

Odette’s face contorted. “The train station.”

Untying her apron, Emma poked her head into the house. “I’ll return as soon as I can,” she called. Not answering, Mémé played patty-cake with the bread on her plate.

For a few moments Emma strode beside Odette, but the heavyset woman was too slow, and begging pardon, she dashed on ahead. A crowd had already gathered by the time she reached the station. The black locomotive’s engine was rumbling.