The Baker's Secret(79)
Emma surprised herself then, by calming, and scrutinizing him. Without his helmet, Thalheim was revealed: a boy. Perhaps younger than she. Now she understood why he shaved with such care: to conceal the fact that he had no whiskers at all. He was too young for a beard.
Mémé paced the barnyard, a scowl darkening her face.
“My given name is Hans,” he continued. “Named after my grandfather, a brewer. I was compelled by my families to join of the army, to enlist before I was drafted, and I am their great pride for having attained rank of captain. Before the war I was study chemistry.”
Emma marveled to learn after all this time that behind the bravado and doctrine, there was a human being. Did he deserve to die? Was his life without worth or redemption? Perhaps Thalheim had another role left to play. If he surrendered, and repented of his fanaticism, what good might he prove capable of committing?
Or was this speculation a sign of weakness once again, her inability to kill? The way Mémé stalked around them, opening and closing her fists, Emma thought she might just be too soft.
“At least help me escape,” Thalheim pleaded. “Dress me in your father’s clothes.”
The image offended Emma so deeply she drew back several steps. “Absolutely not.”
“Do something, please. I am beg of you.”
Emma shook her head. “No.”
His expression hardened. “You will not aid me in any way?”
She crossed her arms. “No.”
Thalheim hammered his fist against her forehead. Again Emma had not seen it coming, and again she tumbled to the earth.
“Enough of this,” he snapped, reaching to unclip his holster. The captain drew his pistol and took aim.
Emma had time for a single thought: Philippe.
All at once Thalheim’s eyes widened, then went still. He must have died standing, Emma imagined, because all of his joints—knees, elbows, waist—collapsed at the same time, like a marionette whose strings have been scissored. He fell on his face in the dirt, the handle of Guillaume’s knife visible in his back, just below his ribs.
Mémé stood as tall as a monument, tapping her chest with a hand that glistened from blood. “My conscience,” she said. “Not yours.”
One of the Allied soldiers asked if he could have the dead man’s flag. Emma said she would be glad to see it go. He lowered it from the house, careful not to tear, folding it away in his pack.
Captain Schwartz stood over Thalheim, muttering, “We weren’t gone ten minutes. What the hell happened?”
“She saved me,” Emma said, pointing at her grandmother.
The officer directed two men to remove the body. They dragged it away up the road out of sight.
The invading soldiers were weighted down with gear—canteens, bandoliers, grenades—yet they didn’t seem burdened by it. They looked fit and well fed, chatting easily while Mémé ate more of their rations. Emma sat at the kitchen table, penciling hedgerow shortcuts and occupying army posts onto the captain’s maps. With her writing hand in a splint, the best she could do was make Xs, and explain what each one meant.
“Here you follow the animal trails, you’ll see them in the tall grass, until it opens onto a dirt road.”
Captain Schwartz nodded. “How do we take that church? The steeple is visible from a distance, so it’s a key rendezvous point.”
“There is a machine gun.” She tapped the page with her pencil. “It faces the village, so you can surprise them from behind.” She handed him the paper. “If your men are quiet, that is. A map won’t do the fighting for you.”
“This is all incredibly helpful.” The captain sat back, though he continued scratching his chin.
“But?”
He shrugged. “Ammunition. Nothing to be done, but we could sure use more of it.”
Emma stood, despite her injuries feeling stronger by the minute. “Follow me.”
When the captain saw the stacks in the old hog shed, he danced a little jig. Then he called his men; they opened some boxes and took turns equipping themselves.
Emma stood by, surprised to feel herself moved at the sight. “I am glad this supply will not go to waste.”
“It’s a gold mine,” Schwartz answered. “Bringing this here must have been incredibly dangerous for you.”
“Not me,” Emma began, her throat tightening as she recalled her disdain for the Goat, years of it, while he had sweated and carried and taken risk after risk. “A friend.”
Suddenly four soldiers dropped to one knee, rifles to their cheeks. Emma glanced around, not seeing anything as the captain pushed her into the shed. The stink of pig made her eyes water.
Then they all heard the sound of crickets, and the soldiers relaxed. Captain Schwartz shouted, and a group of new men came forward, with someone huddled behind them.
“I don’t understand,” Emma said.
The captain held up a wooden trinket, thumbing it rapidly to create an almost cricket sound. As the troops greeted one another, Schwartz interrupted to question the new arrivals. Then he turned to Emma. “I’m afraid I have to leave you with an additional responsibility. These men found one of your villagers near the conflict. Can you please take care of him?”
Emma tried to peer past the officer. “Who is it?”