It’s the same with much of the food produced in France. The Germans take it all and leave only a few scraps for the French citizens. Yet so many farmers who live here are doing nothing to fight back. They’re hiding in the shadows, hoping the Germans will go away.
And there I was, fighting for our survival—and look where it’s gotten me now.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask no one in particular, my voice lacking its usual bravado. Bravado could get me killed—or worse.
“How long do you think it will take Captain Krüger to break her?” the agent in the front passenger seat says in German.
The other two men in the car laugh and voice their opinions. Neither has high expectations I will last long.
“The last man he interrogated squealed like a pig in less than five minutes,” the agent next to me replies. His clothes reek of stale cigarette smoke.
I work hard to keep the growing fear off my face. The less they know about my language abilities, the better. If they realise I understood everything I overheard at the grand ball for von der Osten, I’ll never survive the torture they’ll inflict to extract more information.
We pass a woman with a slight limp, as if her feet are blistered, walking in the ditch on the side of the road. Her clothes are dingy and threadbare, and I imagine the soles of her shoes are worn to the point of having holes in them.
“Too bad she’s in the ditch,” the agent who is driving says. “I bet I could knock her a far distance if I hit her.”
The other two monsters laugh.
The woman’s hair is long and blond like my sister’s, and I let my thoughts drift to Hazel and what she’s doing right now, instead of thinking about how I might never see her again.
It must be nearly nine o’clock in England. And it’s Monday. So, unless things have changed since the last time I saw her, she will be at work. I close my eyes and see her at her typewriter, typing whatever report her boss asked of her. Hazel isn’t the one with a sense of adventure. She isn’t the one who loves exploring new places. She loves her routine. But she also loves hanging out with the women in her sewing club on Monday afternoons. And she loves to volunteer at the library on Fridays. Has her routine changed due to the war?
The car drives through Dijon, down the wide streets flanked by tall stone buildings with arched windows and decorative wrought-iron railings. We keep travelling until we arrive at what was once an elegant hotel. I suspect it is no longer used for that purpose, its purpose now far more ominous.
The car pulls in front of the building, and the driver climbs out. He opens the door and roughly drags my trembling body from the car. I land on my shaky feet, my knees almost buckling under me. And as the driver tugs me towards the doors, the afternoon sun slants its golden rays across the street.
My stomach lurches.
Is this the last time I will ever see sunlight?
5
JESSICA
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I slice a red pepper,slowly, methodically. Bailey and Butterscotch are peering up at me from near my feet and flashing me hopeful expressions. A not-so-subtle hint they want a snack.
The garage door clicks open. The two dogs race into the hallway leading to the laundry room, barking excitedly. Troy’s home.
I grin at their enthusiasm.
Then I imagine a little girl and boy racing to the hallway and their cries of “Daddy!”
An emotion I can’t label clutches at my heart. Joy? Peace? Surprise? Grief? Grief for the life I once dreamed of—the life I almost had until it twisted into something ugly and feared.
I’m not sure after everything I’ve been through I can risk having another child. Anything could happen to them. They could get cancer. They could be in a car accident. They could wind up with a rare genetic disease I didn’t know I was a carrier of. I wasn’t worried about any of these things while pregnant with Amelia. I was just filled with hope and love for my unborn child.
Tears blur my vision at how much I miss my daughter. I place my hands on the counter, steadying myself.
Troy walks into the kitchen, the two dogs trailing him. “Hey.” He smiles at me, his love for me unmistakable in the curve of his lips and the warm glow in his eyes.
Guilt slithers in and wraps around my stomach. He deserves so much more than me and the mess that currently defines who I am.
But for now, I bottle up my thoughts, toss them into the ocean of regret, and smile. The smile is fueled by so many emotions, except the one I know Troy is waiting for me to feel for him: love.
