Be strong, I silently pray to my baby.I’ll do whatever I can to protect you.
Johann braces my shoulder with one hand. The other hand rubs soothing circles between my shoulders. “Are you all right?” he asks in French.
The concern in his voice tucks in memories of the man who hid his Jewish friends from persecution. The man who talked lovingly about his father and his mother and his sister. The man who was broken after his best friend was executed for desertion.
I nod and straighten, breathing slowly through my nose.
I climb into the car and resist the urge to curl into a ball on the back seat. I’m tired. So very tired. The lack of desire to lie on the dirty prison bed and the nightmares prevented me from getting much sleep.
My cuffed wrists and injured hand make it impossible to get comfortable. I shift, resting my left shoulder on the seat.
Johann shuts the door and starts the engine. The silence in the vehicle is thick. It suffocates. Squeezes the air from my lungs. I lean the non-injured side of my head on the seat, my tender temple still throbbing.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else. Someplace warm where there is no war. Perhaps a sunlit meadow covered with a blanket of bluebells.
The car stops. “I’m transporting the prisoner to Paris for interrogation,” Johann explains in German. There’s a rustle of paper.
Paris. Has everyone in theCashmerenetwork been taken to Avenue Foch to be interrogated? How long has the Gestapo been in possession of the list Christian mentioned—assuming he was telling the truth about it?
How long have they been watching me?
The car moves forwards. “As soon as it is safe to stop,” Johann says in English after a minute. “I will undo the handcuffs.”
“Okay,” I whisper, speaking in my native tongue for the first time in his presence.
The scenery soon changes from the once beautiful brick buildings of Dijon, now a stark reminder of the German infestation, to the soothing autumn colours of the countryside. There are no Nazi flags flapping in the wind. No Wehrmacht or SS or Milice inciting fear in the people on the streets.
If not for the scars in the ground caused by the bombings and machine guns, it would be so easy to forget about the war and the horrors of the occupation.
Eventually, Johann turns down a country road, a sentry of tall trees and bramble standing on either side of it. He drives a little farther and then stops. He kills the engine and gets out of the car. We’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by little more than farms and open space.
17
JESSICA
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
“This is my English grandmother, Hazel.”From the wicker chair next to mine on the patio, Anne points at one of the pretty women in the black-and-white photo she’s holding. The woman’s in her late twenties with wavy shoulder-length blond hair. She’s smiling at the camera, the curve of her lips carefree and wide.
“And this is my grandfather, Charles.” Anne’s finger slides to the man between the two women. He appears to be the same age as Hazel. His dark hair is short and slicked back. He’s good-looking. I’ll give him that even if he did cheat on Iris, his fiancée.
Anne points to the other woman in the photo. “And this is Auntie Iris.”
She resembles a slightly younger version of her sister. Same wavy bond hair. Same eyes. Same dimple. Same smile—except Iris has a more impish look to her expression.
I stare at the woman whom I’ve never met but admire so much. I guess in a way I have met her—within the pages of her journals. She appears as strong and beautiful as I’ve imagined her to be.
I want to reach out and touch her image as if she’s the real flesh-and-blood woman standing before me, to say thank you for giving me the strength and idea to help Violet hide from her husband. I rein in the urge, eager to learn more about Iris. The Iris Anne knew and loved.
I’d be surprised if Anne didn’t somehow feel the excitement humming through me at getting to talk to her about her great-aunt. “When was the photo taken?”
A butterfly flutters over to the nearby flowerbed. Bailey scrambles to her feet, the butterfly snaring her attention.
“Lie down, Bailey,” I instruct her. She follows my command, and I reward her with a treat.
Anne flips the photo over. “August, 1939.” Just prior to the start of World War II.
