October 1943
France
Hazel laughsand straightens the yellow picnic blanket on the grass. It’s been in our family for as long as I can remember. The edges are frayed, and we’ve had to patch up holes in it on more than one occasion. Around us, the hum of bees fills the air.
Giggles float from the other side of the hill, and two little girls with light-blond plaits skip into view. Both are wearing daisy crowns perched precariously on their heads.
The hum of the bees grows louder, more insistent.
Hazel’s laughter is cut short, and she looks up at the sky. “Girls, get down,” she screams and jumps to her feet.
She races to them as my eyes are drawn to the Luftwaffe planes flying towards us.
An icy wave sweeps through me, and I shiver uncontrollably. I attempt to stand, but my legs won’t cooperate.
The peace from a moment ago is shattered by the loud drone of engines, the rat-ta-ta-ta of machine guns, the girls’ screams, the panicked symphony of my heartbeat.
Bullets hit the ground. Dirt and grass and clover explode into the air. I reach out to the girls, but there is nothing I can do. Hazel and our daughters slump to the ground as if they are nothing more than discarded dolls.
I scream. And scream and scream. And shiver. Why am I so cold?
My nightmare fades, and I slowly become aware of the ache consuming my body. My head throbs. My hand throbs. Everything inside me throbs.
One eyelid flutters open. The other eyelid can barely move more than a fraction of an inch. I’m met by darkness and the smell of mould.
I’m not on the floor. That much I can tell. But the fabric under me isn’t much better. It’s rough and scratchy and doesn’t smell of warmth. It smells of danger and death and hopelessness.
I cautiously push to sit with the hand that doesn’t feel as if a tank drove over it. A rush of dizziness assaults me, and nausea tries to force me to lie down again.
My non-injured hand goes to my belly and the child growing there. My body might be aching, but I haven’t lost my baby. Not yet, anyway. I take the lack of stickiness between my legs as a good sign.
A relieved breath escapes me, even though there is nothing to be relieved about. I didn’t give Christian and Krüger the information they want, which means they won’t give up trying to get it from me.
I cannot see my hand, but I can tell it’s broken and swollen and bloodied. I cradle it to my body and lean back against the wall.
I blink away the forming tears. They won’t do me any good. They won’t heal the wound. They won’t take me away from here. They’re just a waste of energy.
Sounds begin to seep into my awareness: the distant crying, perhaps from one prisoner; the groaning of another; the scurrying of tiny claws on stone. The latter noise is closer than I would like. I swiftly lift my feet onto the filthy mattress.
Faint light from the half moon spills through the barred windows, and my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. Except there is nothing to see other than the bed and the metal door opposite the window.
Exhaustion ebbs and flows through me. I fight to keep my good eye open, but it proves to be too much. I succumb to the battle, my eyelids falling shut.
* * *
I joltawake from a new nightmare. Or perhaps it’s the same one that has been repeating in my head from the moment I arrived. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping, but the lazy fingers of dawn have since visited. A light wash of blue stretches beyond the barred window.
My head and body hurt, and I cannot bend my fingers of the injured hand due to the swelling and excruciating pain. My mouth is drought dry, and overwhelming nausea still keeps me company.
German male voices approach from the other side of the door. I cannot make out what they are saying. Something about taking the prisoner to Avenue Foch for interrogation, and that he has papers authorizing the move.
My cell door opens, and two soldiers enter. One is taller and broader in his chest and shoulders. The other is long and lanky. My vision is blurry. I cannot make out their faces.
“Can she walk?” the taller soldier asks. Recognition stirs at the sound of his voice, but the pounding in my head makes it difficult to figure out why.
“She wasn’t able to when they brought her in yesterday.” The other soldier sounds bored. “Do you have handcuffs for her?”
“From the looks of it, she doesn’t need them. She barely looks like she can walk, never mind run.”
