Waiting for the Violins (23 page)

Trudging forward, she sank into her own thoughts, and the events leading up to her plight passed through her mind’s eye. Dunkirk, the hospital at Orpington, her training at Beaulieu, the dreary room in the Rue Marché au Charbon, the sobbing Rywka surrendering her child, the fireplace at the Château Malou. Where would she be in a year?

“I know where we are now,” Sandrine announced, as if in answer. “Just a few kilometers from Spain.”

Spain
,
Antonia thought. What a beautiful word.

*

Soon even Florentino had a lighter, quicker step, and when he passed around the bottle with the last few drops of his cognac, she knew that the end of his “fuel” meant the end of the trip.

And finally, when they forced their aching legs over one more hill and looked down, there it was, the third of their refuges, in the Promised Land. This one was the most ramshackle of all, a stone farmhouse with a barn that looked like it had stood there for centuries. The smoke that rose from the chimney was the sweetest sight Antonia could imagine, signaling life and warmth against the hard, cold landscape.

One hearty rap on the farmhouse door and it opened immediately to a swarthy, bearded man and a rush of warm fragrant air. “Jaime!” Florentino greeted him enthusiastically.

“Florentino,
amigo!” Jaime exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder, then stepped aside to admit them. The door opened to a short corridor, and Antonia inhaled the smell of wood smoke, onions frying in a pan, and, curiously, cinnamon.

A robust woman emerged from the kitchen room, said something to her husband, then pointed to their shoes. Antonia grasped that they should remove them and obliged happily, as did the others, and they all lined up their footwear along the corridor wall.

Colombina, that seemed to be her name, directed them into the kitchen, where Jaime seated them around a long wooden table, speaking in a stream of Spanish that only his wife understood. Sustaining her side of the conversation, she laid out tortillas and beans and an omelet filled with olives. Antonia waited for their hostess to sit down before eating, but Colombina still bustled about the kitchen. Finally she returned to the table with a pitcher of hot wine and a single candle, which she set down at the center.

“Feliz Navidad,”
she said, beaming.

“Christmas? It’s Christmas?” Ian expressed Antonia’s amazement as well as his own. They’d been on the road so long, she’d forgotten the calendar.

“Si, Si. Creeseemas.”
Colombina parroted him playfully and poured out the steaming liquid into seven cups.

“Feliz Navidad,” they all said as a toast, and Antonia took the first swallow of the warm, celebratory wine. It went down more smoothly than Florentino’s cognac had but filled her with the same euphoria. She glanced over at Sandrine, who smiled back, and she couldn’t remember a more joyous Christmas dinner since childhood.

The simple fare became a feast, though lack of a common language among Spaniards, a Basque, a Belgian, and the three English inhibited conversation beyond the occasional exclamation of
“magnifico”
or
“delicioso.”

Afterward, they moved into a wide living room for another serving of hot sweet wine. They soon found other forms of communication—back-slapping, arm-squeezing, the chanting of “Jingle Bells” in three languages, and a sudden extemporaneous leaping dance by Jaime. Not to be outdone, his face ruddy from the alcohol, Ian attempted a jig to a tune he sang himself.

“Crikey, I didn’t know ya had it in ya.” Nick laughed.

“That’s going to cost me, tomorrow,” Ian answered, falling back next to him on the sofa.

Colombina looked at her watch and wagged a finger at the men, and it was clear the celebration was over. Jaime signaled them all to retrieve their boots and follow him outside.

The walk across the courtyard was frigid, and by comparison, the barn, warmed by the presence of two cows and a donkey, was welcoming. So also were the rough horse blankets that Jaime issued each of them.

Experienced now in camping etiquette, the three men broke off toward one side of the barn, leaving Antonia and Sandrine on the other. Having already stood before the men in her underwear, Antonia was little concerned with modesty, but she was grateful to have some distance from their snoring. She dropped down onto her blanket and lay back, light-headed.

“Christmas in a stable, how wonderful.” She chortled. “All that’s lacking is the baby.”

Sandrine slid off her boots and lowered herself cautiously onto the straw, obviously attentive to sore muscles. “
Ufff
. I’m five seconds away from sleep. I’ll wash tomorrow.” Then she fell back onto her blanket and closed her eyes.

Antonia weighed the benefits of washing in icy water and found them wanting, and she focused instead on finding a comfortable sleeping position. Exhaustion, a full stomach, and hot, spiced wine were together the perfect soporific.

Did she dream a noise? In her sleep she seemed to hear the cry of an infant and some woman’s voice murmuring comfort. She reached out her dream hand to caress its tiny head and grasped a wad of straw. She woke suddenly, her eyes focusing first on the empty space where Sandrine had slept and then on the open barn door.

Gathering her blanket around her shoulders, she crept outside. Sandrine leaned on the edge of the water trough huddled in her own blanket, gazing up at the midnight sky. Silently, Antonia went to join her and they sat together, their breaths giving off little clouds of steam.

She studied the clear sky. “Be nice to see a shooting star, wouldn’t it? For good luck.”

“You mean a meteorite,” Sandrine replied dryly.

“Yes, of course a meteorite. But we can also take it as a sign that everything’s going to be all right. For gosh sake, it’s Christmas night. Have a little poetry in your soul.”

Sandrine bumped shoulders with her. “You’re right. It’s a beautiful night. I can see a little magic in it. Keep an eye out for fancy men on camels. They might have gifts.”

“Yes, I could use a gift. Gold would be good. Not sure about the frankincense and myrrh.”

Sandrine shifted sideways to look directly at her, suddenly serious. “I don’t need any gifts tonight, Sophie. Arriving here safe and with you is gift enough.”

“Me?” Antonia’s face warmed at the declaration of…of what? She wasn’t sure, but she wanted to give something in return. “Yes, I feel the same. It’s the best Christmas I can imagine.” Then, impulsively, she reached for Sandrine’s hand and brought it to her lips.

“My real name is Antonia. I want you to know.”

“Antonia. It’s a beautiful name. Thank you for that trust. I’ll try to live up to it.” Sandrine caressed her cheek, then suddenly leaned across her and pressed warm lips on her mouth. The kiss lasted scarcely more than a second, but it wasn’t a friendship kiss. It had crossed a line toward…whatever the next thing was. It stood out from the rest of the evening like the ringing of a bell, and the silence after it was full and rich. Green eyes held her glance for just a moment.

“Merry Christmas, Antonia,” Sandrine murmured, then stood up and marched back into the barn, her horse blanket trailing behind her like a robe.

*

As always, Antonia was the last to wake. Sandrine and the three men were already up and about, and she hastened to wash at the trough and join them in the kitchen. A sense of cheer was in the air, a nervous anticipation of the end of the journey planned for that day.

Sandrine settled financial obligations to the hosts and to the departing Florentino, and after a bracing coffee and a thick slice of bread, the four of them set out alone.

Two hours brought them to a slope dotted with brush and a few low trees. They descended, zigzagging behind the cover of brush whenever possible until halfway down, when Sandrine drew a pair of field glasses from her pack and scanned the terrain.

With naked eyes, Antonia could see a few farmhouses spotting the landscape. In the far distance, a church spire marked a town. “San Sebastian,” Sandrine announced, “the town before Bilbao.” Nothing seemed to be moving, but on the road winding toward the base of the hill, a single stationary object stood on the side of the road.

“Ah, good. That must be them,” Sandrine said.

“Them? Who?” Antonia took the binoculars from her hand and peered through them.

“From the British Consulate. I called them from the farmhouse and asked them if they could meet us closer—as a special favor today.”

“You’re sure it’s them?” Antonia still squinted through the glasses.

“Yes, I’m sure. Can you see the tiny blue spot on the fender? That’s the Union Jack. They agreed to meet us at the bridge on the other side of the gully.”

“Well, I’m off, then.” Nick got to his feet and began a headlong rush down the slope. Ian took off after him, ignoring Sandrine’s calls to stay under cover.

“Damned fools,” she muttered. “They’re not out of danger yet.”

The two men had made it to the bridge when a shot rang out and they dropped to the ground, taking cover in the gully.

Still high on the slope next to Sandrine, Antonia could now see the military vehicle that had been concealed behind a rocky formation. Spanish carabineros, who were only too happy to assist in the roundup of escapees and deposit them in their own concentration camps. Two of them leapt from the vehicle with rifles and fired into the gully.

Presumably tempted by the proximity of the rescue car, Ian broke cover and sprinted toward it while bullets pinged off the stones on both sides of him. The carabineros seemed extraordinarily bad shots. Finally the car door opened and hands reached out to pull him inside.

Emboldened, Nick tried to follow, springing from stone to bush to hillock and then across the gully. Little puffs of dust erupted on both sides of him. Just as he scrambled out of the gully, a bullet struck him in the leg, and he tumbled backward scarcely three meters from the car.

“Damn!” Sandrine swore. “He’s so close. Why doesn’t someone come and help him? I bet if we draw their fire…” She took off in a running crouch toward the bridge. With grave misgivings as to the wisdom of “drawing fire,” Antonia hesitated, then followed.

There was a long silence. Sandrine had taken cover and was momentarily out of sight, but the carabineros too had moved and were invisible again. Until they fired, it was impossible to locate their position. Antonia threw herself on the ground, waiting for a sound or signal from anywhere. It seemed a stalemate, both ridiculous and terrifying.

Suddenly something sharp pressed into her back. A bayonet blade kept her in place, while a booted foot pinned her gun hand in the dirt. A dark and hairy hand crossed her limited field of vision and snatched the pistol away. She was helpless.

Fury and sorrow at once rushed through her mind, that she’d let down her guard and was going to be killed at the very end of the long trek. All their labor had been in vain.

The blade rose from between her shoulders, and she twisted over onto her back to look at her assailant. He was almost comical, a caricature of the Spaniard. Fair skinned, but with a drooping moustache and a leer.

He glanced at both of his hands, seemed to decide that two guns were more than he needed, and tossed his rifle behind him well beyond her reach. Then, straddling her, he knelt down and pointed his pistol at her face. His breath was sour with both tobacco and alcohol, and his wide grin revealed mottled teeth.

Her hands open helplessly by her shoulders, she tried to recall the self-defense tricks she’d learned in training, but her own gun was aimed at her head, rendering them all useless. He seemed in no hurry, and the fly buzzing around his head seemed to underline the vast stretch of time in which he decided what to do with her.

Then, a sudden twist of his mouth suggested he’d decided to be done with it, and he pressed the nozzle of his pistol under her chin.

The fly returned, landing on his face, and he twitched sideways, his gun hand moving slightly away from her throat. She seized the moment and threw out her right hand, knocking the gun muzzle to the left, but the shock of her blow caused him to pull the trigger.
The gunshot so close to her ear deafened her, but immediately with the sound came a horrendous jolt of pain as a bullet tore through her left hand.

Drunk as he was, the gunshot also seemed to shock him, and he swayed, apparently befuddled, for a moment, until another gunshot rang out. She flinched, waiting for another jolt of pain to erupt somewhere, but nothing happened.

Instead, his face relaxed and he toppled sideways onto the ground.

She struggled to sit up, pressing her profusely bleeding left hand against her chest, and a figure rose over the body of the carabinero.

“Sandrine! What a relief! Where’s the other guy?”

Sandrine knelt down next to her. “My God, you’re covered with blood. Where did he shoot you?” She cradled Antonia in her arms.

“It’s my hand. Where’s the other Spaniard!?” she repeated.

“I don’t know. I saw him run toward the car trying to shoot Nick, but he was too drunk. Nick made it into the car and they took off. Then I ran back here. Just in time, obviously.”

She ripped the blue bandana from her head and wrapped it tightly around the bleeding hand, tying it at the wrist. Renewed gunfire urged them into motion. “Can you walk? I don’t want a gun battle with number-two man.”

Antonia grunted. “Yes, just help me up.”

Standing behind her, Sandrine gripped her under her arms and hauled her to her feet. Antonia tottered for a moment, a rush of pain scalding her hand.

Sandrine snatched up the pistol from the dead carabinero’s hand and tucked it into her belt. Slinging the Spanish rifle over her shoulder, she slipped an arm around Antonia’s back. “Come on. Think about God, England, and Saint George.” She pulled her forward and they began an awkward jog back toward safety.

Gunshots continued to ring out, but with no signs of anything being hit, and the sounds became ever more distant.

When they were once again among the trees, with only silence below them, they halted and Sandrine rummaged through her kit.