Under a War-Torn Sky (16 page)

Careful to not spook the cow and give himself away, Henry crawled into place. He packed fistfuls of hay in with him. He prayed that the cow wouldn't eat too fast. Then he flattened himself into the dirt and manure.

The door to the barn rolled open loudly. Flashlight beams darted along the walls. “
Fouillez-la.
”

Henry's skin crawled when he heard the French command. French Vichy police were leading the arrest. Or maybe it was the Milice, the French version of Hitler's Gestapo, just as cruel and fanatically anti-Jewish. Maybe someone she knew had turned the boy's mother in – motivated by jealousy, maybe to collect a reward. If the informant had been someone she knew, the Milice might know to look for the boy. There had been no time to find the Sten gun. All Henry had to protect himself and the boy was the knife the guide had given him weeks ago. It would be of little use.

Please, God. Please, don't let them find us. Please. Henry squeezed his eyes shut and silently prayed harder than ever.

He heard the sound of a cautious footfall. Henry's eyes popped open. He could see regulation shiny boots stepping into his stall. This must be a Nazi, a Nazi with a rapid-firing gun and a good reason to kill an American pilot. Henry suppressed the urge to jump up and run. Easy. He locked himself in place. Don't move, don't breathe.

The spit-shiny boots came closer, closer. Henry could have reached out and touched their pristine toes.

“
Verflucht!
” the soldier cursed. He lifted his foot to look at the sole of his boot. “
Kuhdung!
” He swore again. The boots backed out.

Henry praised God for slimy cow manure.

But his sense of relief was short-lived. He heard men climb up the ladder. The hayloft creaked with their weight. Don't move, boy, Henry tried to throw his thoughts to the child. Don't make a sound. Please, God, don't let him cry out.

Henry heard bayonets stab through the hay, the sound of men kicking it. Had Henry piled it thick enough?

The sounds stopped. Did they find the door? Impulsively, Henry started to squirm out from under. But then he heard a Frenchman shout: “
Rien!
”

Nothing. They'd found nothing! Thank you, God.

There was more tramping, more light beams skittering along the walls and ceilings. Then silence. The men had left.

For a long time Henry could hear banging, shouting, and things being thrown about in the farmhouse. They must be searching the place for a radio or weapons to incriminate the mother, he thought. Then Henry heard car doors slam again, motors starting. Finally all sounds disappeared. He forced himself to count the seconds by one thousands – one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand – all the way up to sixty, five times over, before he'd budge. Then he slid out from the manger and kissed the cow's head.

Henry peeped around the edge of the stall. Moonlight seeped through the open door. All of the guards had left the barn. He tiptoed to the edge of the door. There was one soldier standing by the cottage's front door, waiting to grab whoever approached. Could the guard see into the barn from there? Henry looked back over his shoulder to gauge the German's view. Maybe. He might be able to see Henry as he went up the ladder.

He'd have to pull himself up from the back stall. Henry squatted and ran along the wall to the stall farthest from the door. He couldn't see the soldier from there, so the soldier must not be able to see him.

He climbed up onto the manger. On tiptoe, he could just barely grab the edge of the hayloft. Thank God for all those chin-ups in basic training. His arms shaking, Henry managed to kick, kick, and swing his feet up enough to catch. He pulled himself up to the hayloft floor.

As quietly as possible, Henry burrowed down into the hay to the door of the boy's hiding place. “It's me,” he whispered before pulling it open. “
C'est moi.
”

The boy was huddled into a tight ball, pressed against the peephole. His shoulders shook. He was crying.

“
Ils ont tué mon grand-père. Ils ont emmené ma mère,
” he choked out the words.

They had shot his grandfather and taken his mother.

Henry picked him up and rocked him. He whispered into the boy's ear.

“There is a man left. A soldier –
soldat – à la porte maison. Comprends?
”

The boy nodded. Henry pointed to the back part of the barn. He took the boy's hand and led him to the hayloft's edge. Henry swung down and then caught the boy from below.

Together they slipped out the back door.

The front of the farmhouse faced away from them towards the road. The soldier seemed planted on the stoop. They'd have a chance to make it up the back hill, if they moved very fast. The orchard trees dotted the hillside. They might be able to work their way up tree by tree.

Henry pointed to the trees. “Can you run?”

The boy nodded.

Hand in hand they darted from one tree, to the next, to the next, to the next. Each time they reached a tree trunk and crouched behind it without being seen felt like a miracle. They'd pant for a moment and then go on, zigzagging up the hill, zigzagging between fear and relief, fear and relief.

When they reached the hill's crest they threw themselves onto the ground and rolled away from the edge onto a wide plateau. They lay there gasping, but out of sight of the soldier at the bottom of the hill.

“Now what?” whispered Henry.

“
Mon oncle.
”

Henry took his hand and pulled the boy to his feet. “Let's go.”

They retraced their steps from the previous night. Perhaps the path in the pine forest was one often used by the boy's uncle and they could find him there somehow. Henry looked down at the boy, who clung to his hand. He didn't bother asking the child if he was all right. Henry knew the answer was no.

They passed the boulder, crossed the road, padded silently along the carpet of pine needles in the towering wood. When Henry hesitated, not knowing the way, the child tugged him along. They came to the clump of trees where they had first seen the
maquis
group. “Where to now?”

The boy pointed down a very faint path, where the men had disappeared. If Henry hadn't known to look carefully, he would never have noticed that it existed. There was no choice but to follow it. They squeezed their way through the path for a good fifteen minutes, seeing nothing. Branches raked their faces. Finally, they came to a small clearing. No one was there that night, but Henry could tell from the flattened patches of brush and the circle of cold ashes that someone had camped there fairly recently. There was no trace of where they'd gone.

Of course, there wouldn't be, Henry berated himself. They wouldn't exactly leave a road map to their whereabouts, would they? But what should he do now?

He knelt beside the boy and asked gently, “Is there someone else I can take you to? Aunt?…mmm…
Tante?
… Cousin?…Friend?…
ami?
”

The boy sadly shook his head.

Just then Henry heard a
snap
…pause…
snap.
Someone was coming. Henry jerked them both behind a tree.

A solitary gunman stepped cautiously into the clearing. He was a slight, small man. Henry could tell from his sudden movements that he was very nervous. The gunman circled the clearing's edge. He came nearer and nearer to the tree where Henry and the boy hid. This time Henry wanted the advantage. He pulled out his knife and prepared himself to grab the gunman from behind.

Henry forced himself to wait until the man was just a foot away, his back towards him. Henry sprung, circled the gunman's chest with his arm and held the knife's point against his throat. Henry was unpracticed and awkward doing it, but he held the man tight.

“Who are you looking for?”

The boy translated.

“
On vous cherche. C'est Jacques qui m'a envoyé. Je dois emmener le fils de Marie chez le prêtre.
”

“Pour
nous.
Us,” the boy translated.

Henry let go. The boy's uncle had sent the gunman.

“
Où est mon oncle?
” the boy asked the gunman.

He told the boy that his uncle was going to attack the cars taking his mother to the German garrison in Grenoble.

“
Qui la détient maintenant?
” the boy asked haltingly.

“
La Milice.
”

The child dropped his face into his hands. He shuddered. One wrenching sob of grief escaped before he silenced himself.

Henry understood his reaction. If the Milice had the boy's mother, she was in terrible danger. Henry also knew that he, the boy, and this guide needed to hurry. Madame Gaulloise had told Henry that each operative knew to hold out under questioning for at least twenty-four hours. That gave his or her contacts time to burn papers and relocate. After that twenty-four hours, though, they had been taught to give up some tiny bit of old information, enough to get their interrogators off them, at least for a while.

“We'd better go,” Henry said.

The gunman led the way through the woods, parallel to the valley road. The boy still clung to Henry's hand. They must be heading south for Vassieux, the village marked by the road sign he and the boy had twisted around the night before. Isn't heading to a town going into the lion's den? Henry thought, worrying.

He tried to assess the fighting power of their guide. He certainly hadn't put up much of a struggle against Henry. Maybe Henry should offer to shoulder the gun. He looked hard at the Frenchman's face. For pity's sake, Henry thought with disgust, this guy's just a kid.

“How old are you?” Henry asked. “
Quel âge as-tu?
”

The gunman swung around on Henry. “
Dix-huit ans,
” he answered hotly.

There's no way he's eighteen, Henry thought. This guy is sixteen at most. He's even wearing shorts that look like they're part of a scouting uniform. Still, Henry admired the teenager's grit. Henry held his hands up. “Okay, okay.
Pardonnez-moi.
”

The gunman led on.

They came to the village's outer stone wall. Are we going to try to waltz through the front gate? Henry wondered. They did.

It was another labyrinth of narrow, circling roads. Slowly, the three wound their way into the centre of town. Most of the houses' windows had small, wrought-iron balconies that Henry and the French teenager checked for villagers. Nothing there but laundry hung out to dry. There was also a café and a wide scattering of tables in front of it. But it was deserted. Curfew made these villages such ghost towns.

Across the square was a solemn grey church with a rooster weather vane atop its tall tower. That must be where we're heading, thought Henry, but what a risk to walk across the open market. The teenager pulled them back into the shadows. From a sack on his shoulder, he pulled two long black shawls. He threw his around his head and shoulders, hiding the gun. He handed the other shawl to Henry. They were to look like women.

Good thing it's dark, thought Henry.

He tried to feel like a mourner on his way to church to light a candle. Given the circumstances, that would be easy. He took the boy's hand once more and trod as daintily as he could in his clunky wooden-soled shoes. The two-minute walk felt like fifteen.

Once inside the church, Henry gaped. He couldn't help it. He'd never been in a Catholic church, much less one built in the Middle Ages. There were several life-size statues of saints and a huge painting of the Madonna being lifted to heaven by angels. The ceiling vaulted in great tall arches, held up by stone columns. In the flickering candlelight he could make out carved leaves and figures atop the columns. The air had a cool, ancient feel to it, laced with incense.

The little boy let go of Henry's hand to dip his fingers in the font of holy water. He crossed himself and knelt in one of the back pews to pray. Henry slid in beside him.

Only a few minutes passed before they heard footsteps and the swish of long robes. A priest arrived. He had a plump, babyish, pale face. Had it not been for his kindly expression, Henry might have distrusted him instinctively. Clayton had always tried to instil his own prejudices in Henry. “A man who doesn't do any work outdoors isn't worth a spit,” Clayton had said repeatedly, dismissing teachers, ministers, county courthouse lawyers – men he didn't understand. Even though he automatically tried to reject anything Clayton had said, Henry still had to fight his influence. He didn't see how this gentle-looking priest could stop a Nazi from dragging off the boy.

Henry listened suspiciously to the way the priest spoke to the boy, who nodded solemnly. The priest seemed adequately concerned about him but it hurt Henry to see the child's smile so gone.

“What did he say?” Henry asked.

The priest himself answered in English. “There is a Cistercian abbey nearby where several children of patriots hide. The Nazis leave the monks alone. It is safe. We have arranged for you to move on. This young man will guide you.
Bonne chance
.”

The priest reached for the boy's hand to lead him away. Henry's head reeled. He felt sick. Now? He'd have to leave the boy right now?

The child backed away from the priest. He ran to Henry and threw his arms around him. Henry hugged the boy hard and blinked back tears. He loved this child. How could he let go? Henry knew that once he did, he would probably never set eyes on him again.

“Maybe I can get him settled in his room before I go?” Henry choked out the words.

The priest started to say no, but instead said grudgingly, “
Cinq minutes
. Five minutes only. This way.”

Henry picked the boy up and followed the priest through the back of the church and up a narrow spiral staircase. Up through stone they wound their way. The child's arms and legs were wrapped tight around Henry, his face buried against Henry's neck. They arrived on a floor with three tiny bedrooms. The priest pointed to one and stood outside the door.