Page 68 of A Resistance of Witches
On the writing desk by the window was an old oil lamp and a canister of matches. Rebecca turned to the shelf closest to her, grabbing the biggest book she could find—a beautiful leather-bound volume with gold lettering and illuminated pages. She thought of her father, the hours he would have spent poring over a book like this one, and felt a pang of guilt as she tossed it onto the floor.
“For the cause.” She picked up the lamp. She heard heavy footsteps getting closer by the second. They were coming for her.
She tossed aside the glass chimney and poured the oil from the lamp onto the book. She heard voices outside as she struck a match. The door swung open, and the match fell, instantly engulfing the book in flames.
The Gestapo opened fire, but Rebecca was already on the move,ducking behind the tattered yellow sofa that stood in the center of the room. From where she crouched, she could see her only means of escape—the locked door, mocking her.
“You want the book?” she shouted. “There it is!”
She heard one of the Germans curse. “She’s burning the book!”
“Put it out, you idiot!”
Rebecca popped her head above the edge of the sofa, aimed, and fired, hitting one of the Gestapo in the gut. She didn’t wait for him to hit the ground. She ducked behind the sofa, aimed her rifle at the locked door, and fired again.
The lock disappeared in an explosion of splinters. She heard the two remaining Germans speaking frantically to each other, and to their gut-shot companion, now crying for his mother on the floor. The two men grabbed their injured friend by the shoulders and dragged him, screaming, into the safety of the hallway.
Rebecca wasted no time. She ran, exploding through the shattered door and down the stairs, running so fast it felt as if her feet could fly, skipping steps as she went. She’d had dreams like this, panic making her lighter and faster than she had ever known possible. The pain in her shoulder seemed like nothing now. Now there was only room for one thought—escape.
She heard shouts behind her.
“She’s getting away!”
“Forget the girl, save the book!”
“Keep pressure on that!”
Rebecca found herself in a dusty room filled with old wooden pews. A chapel. There was a door, and she threw herself against it, crying out with relief when it swung open. She saw her car in the distance, knew that the keys were on the seat. Only when she’d reached the car did she look back. No one was coming. She tossed the rifle onto the back seat, and a laughing sob escaped from her chest as the Citroën sputtered tolife. She drove as fast as she could and didn’t look behind her again until she was miles away.
•••
Rebecca drove. Sometimesshe laughed all alone in her car, a high, triumphant laugh of disbelief. Sometimes she cried quietly, and sometimes she screamed. For a while she talked to herself, cursing the Nazis in French, English, German, and then in Yiddish, which felt best of all. Finally, when she was certain she had not been followed, she pulled to the side of the road and turned off the engine.
She inspected her injured shoulder. The bleeding had slowed but not stopped, and the left side of her blouse was soaked through with blood. There was no exit wound. The bullet was still inside her, and without attention, the wound would fester. She needed help, and soon, but the safe house was gone, and any hospital she stumbled into was sure to be overrun with Germans.
There was only one safe place she could think of. She sat in the silence of her car for a long time, wondering if dying might not be preferable.
Then she cursed out loud and began to drive once again.
•••
She reached the houseby nightfall. She was hungry and parched, exhausted to the point of collapse, and yet, when she saw the shabby little farmhouse come into view, she nearly kept driving. Rebecca stopped the car and got out, a groan escaping her lips as the sudden movement caused an explosion of pain from her shoulder.
The house had fallen into an even worse state than she remembered. The front gate had come loose and hung limply from its hinges, and the azure blue paint on the front door peeled off in sheets. They would be watching her, of course. She imagined the commotion happening thisvery moment behind that closed door, the frantic whispers as she approached. She raised her hands in the air a moment before the door swung open.
“Hands up,” a young man said. He was barely more than a boy, wearing a black wool beret and holding a machine gun he obviously had no idea how to handle.
“My hands are up.” Rebecca tried to look past the boy. “Where’s Claire?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m one of you.” She continued her slow approach toward the house, her hands still raised.
“Hey, stop.” The boy’s voice cracked as it rose. “Do you hear me, I said stop!”
“Claire!” Rebecca called. Two more men in berets appeared in the doorway, carrying more guns. Rebecca looked up and saw movement behind the curtains. She felt foggier than she had just a moment ago. She must have lost more blood than she’d realized.
“Go get Claire,” she said. Her tongue felt thick.
