I wrapthe shawl tighter around my shoulders and stare at the light snow on the driveway that hasn’t seen a vehicle in two months. Not since the day Johann drove away. The cold wind is nothing compared to the chill that pumps through me at not knowing what happened to him or where he might be.
Is he still safe?
Is he still alive?
Surely I would know in the depths of my soul if something had happened to him.
Movement in my rounded belly has me glancing down, and I cup my hand on the spot where I felt it. The deep-rooted ache in the bones of my damaged hand flares. I wince and do my best to ignore the pain that never goes away.
“I miss your papa too,ma petite,” I say in French. I miss Johann’s smile. I miss the way he makes me feel even though we’re surrounded by nothing but ugliness and despair. I miss his kind heart and I miss his stories about his family and his friends and his childhood.
I stroke my thumb against the spot where our baby poked me. Dr. Hubert has assured me my pregnancy is advancing as well as can be expected given the conditions. The lack of food we’re all facing is impacting our baby’s growth. I’ve decided the baby is a girl. But if my mother’s intuition proves me wrong, I’ll love a little boy just as much.
All I can hope for is that she is healthy and isn’t deaf. It’s not that I will love her any less if she is like her aunt. It’s her safety I’m worried about if Hitler isn’t stopped.
“I am not sure if your papa is coming back,” I whisper. His absence gnaws at my soul. But it doesn’t feel as though that part of me has been cleaved away as it would be if he were dead. Hope dimly flickers that he is alive.
That, and the hope one day soon my sister and I will be reunited. In the spare moments when I’m not doing the painful rehabilitation exercises for my hand, when I’m not helping around the house, when I’m not listening to the BBC French news, I let my thoughts drift to returning home to her.
What if we could let the past be in the past?
What if she could embrace her niece and be the doting aunty, the woman who loved chasing fairies as a little girl?
What if she found out who fathered my baby and hated her for it?
It doesn’t matter who fathered my baby, because Hazel will never learn the truth.
The Official Secrets Act I signed before coming to France prohibits me from saying anything about my time here. She will never hear how my baby’s father saved me from the Gestapo. Or that Johann was a Wehrmacht soldier until he deserted the Army.
Hope for Johann’s return has me reluctant to leave for England. But hope isn’t the only emotion twisting restlessly inside me. Frustration stirs alongside it. Frustration that I’m here and not doing my part to help end the war. Frustration that I’m a burden to Dr. Hubert and Rosita. Frustration that my being here could possibly put them at risk. Frustration that one of Baker Street’s agents betrayed us, and I haven’t been able to warn London.
The rounder my belly gets, the more challenging travelling will be. And it could start snowing soon. If I’m forced to make a run for it, I could end up leaving tracks in the snow. Then it will be easier for the Nazis to hunt me. I could go to Poitiers. One of the agents I came to France with was headed there. I could continue the fight while I am still able—before I get too big to be of much help.
Johann left to fight with the Allies. I need to do my part too. I’ve waited long enough for his return. I need to do the job I was trained to do. For the sake of my baby.
For the sake of ending the war and being in Johann’s arms that much sooner.
“It’s time,” I tell no one in particular.
I go back inside, mentally preparing for what I must soon do. “One of the agents I trained with went to Poitiers,” I tell Dr. Hubert and Rosita that night at supper. “It’s time I go there. And maybe then I can get a message to London.”
Rosita puts her cutlery on her plate with more force than is called for. It clatters loudly in the otherwise quiet dining room. “Nonsense. It’s dangerous. You’re with child. You should wait until Johann returns.”
“We don’t know when that will be. I don’t even know yet if London knows what happened to me or the other agents. They need to be told.” I would hope they already know—that they have figured something went wrong because of errors in a radio communicator’s messages. But there is still a chance they don’t know the truth yet. My consciousness has not let me ignore that reality, the niggling fear growing stronger every day.
Dr. Hubert and Rosita know a little about what I was doing prior to my arrest. They pieced a lot of it together from listening to the nightly BBC news with me.
“Do you think the person you trained with is still alive?” Dr. Hubert asks.
“I can only hope she is.” I don’t have a clue where Lise might be, but she’s the only person I know in France who might be able to help me and who wasn’t linked to theCashmerenetwork.
“When do you plan to leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“But you don’t have yourcarte d’identité,” Rosita says.
“That doesn’t matter. They will be on the lookout for someone with her name and who bears her resemblance.” Dr. Hubert covers my good hand with his.
