out the other end and along the road some more. Finally, finally, as dawn broke and his confidence broke, a small figure had walked up the road, taken his hand, and led him to a safe house. Pierreâall of eight years old but with the courage of a medal-valor soldier.
Walk.
This would be easy. It was daylight for one thing, and the twenty miles it must be to the base of the mountain range were flat and beautiful. Stretching out around him were miles of chest-high sunflowers. Their faces were just beginning to stretch skyward and to open, bursts of gold, as if the sun had sprinkled bits of itself to the earth. He felt the distress of Marseille, the train ride, and the food riot slide off him.
No sweat. Iâll walk. My pleasure.
Henry set a steady pace. Back home heâd made the two miles to school in forty minutes, so he should make the mountains in about seven hours. He tried not to rush with impatience, knowing that would tire and ultimately slowhim. Heâd have to camp out that night. But by tomorrow heâd be in Vassieux, Pierreâs village. Tomorrow, heâd know.
Henry let the land seduce him, glancing around, not warily as in the previous yearâsearching shadows, trees, rocks for Nazisâbut with a touristâs sense of awe. Virginia was gorgeous when it greened up in spring, but the colors here were so much more vibrant. The gold-green carpet of sunflowers reminded Henry of one of the paintings Madame Gaulloise had hanging in her aristocratic home. Itâd been a landscape of illusion: from afar, a wash of colors, like dappled sunlight on water, revealing ponds, flowers, trees, clouds. Up close the picture spread itself into a blur of thick dots and smears of paint. Impressionism, sheâd called the style of painting.
Madame. Henry couldnât let his mind wander there. There was another incredibly brave person he had endangered. He didnât see how her quick-witted playacting could possibly have saved her from the Gestapo once they had her. The only solace there was that she had made the decision to be a freedom-fighter for herself, as an adult. Could an eight-year-old boy really understand what he risked, what he was facing if caught?
Henry shook his head to shake out the thoughts. He didnât want to mourn right now. He wanted to hope, hope that just on the other side of the mountain he would findPierre, safe, and therefore find himself. Then he could go home, whole, home to Patsy, ready. Henry forced himself to whistle a happy tuneâhis carefree loudness another luxury of liberation.
Â
Three hours of warm sun and watching small birds flitting among the flowers to hunt bugs brought Henry to Chabeuil. He decided to skirt the townâs edges. Not much longer to go now. The mountains were rearing huge ahead, three thousand feet of ragged rock, like the sawtooth walls of a castle-fort, guarding the entrance to heaven.
From inside the town, he heard playful shouts of children and a ball bouncing against a wall. He smelled wood fires and meat being smoked. He saw small, square gardens, neatly lined with sprouts of lettuce and bean plants. Life was beginning anew here. He felt like skipping.
But on the mountain end of the town, Henry pulled up short. Ahead of him were balls of tangled barbed wire, the fence posts long gone for firewood. Huge, thick ruts furrowed the ground, stretching for miles toward the Vercors. Henry knew what had cut so deeply into the earthâtanks. But what horrified him was the sight of a long strip of paving and the scattershot debris of planes along its edges. The hulls had been burned, the engines ripped open for parts, the gun racks stripped, but Henry could still recognize the outline. Nazi Junkers.
He looked up at the mountains, thinking air speed. Sweet Jesus . It would have taken only five minutes for those Luftwaffe planes to cross over intoâ¦
Henry started to runârun along the flight path he knew could deliver a
Walk.
This would be easy. It was daylight for one thing, and the twenty miles it must be to the base of the mountain range were flat and beautiful. Stretching out around him were miles of chest-high sunflowers. Their faces were just beginning to stretch skyward and to open, bursts of gold, as if the sun had sprinkled bits of itself to the earth. He felt the distress of Marseille, the train ride, and the food riot slide off him.
No sweat. Iâll walk. My pleasure.
Henry set a steady pace. Back home heâd made the two miles to school in forty minutes, so he should make the mountains in about seven hours. He tried not to rush with impatience, knowing that would tire and ultimately slowhim. Heâd have to camp out that night. But by tomorrow heâd be in Vassieux, Pierreâs village. Tomorrow, heâd know.
Henry let the land seduce him, glancing around, not warily as in the previous yearâsearching shadows, trees, rocks for Nazisâbut with a touristâs sense of awe. Virginia was gorgeous when it greened up in spring, but the colors here were so much more vibrant. The gold-green carpet of sunflowers reminded Henry of one of the paintings Madame Gaulloise had hanging in her aristocratic home. Itâd been a landscape of illusion: from afar, a wash of colors, like dappled sunlight on water, revealing ponds, flowers, trees, clouds. Up close the picture spread itself into a blur of thick dots and smears of paint. Impressionism, sheâd called the style of painting.
Madame. Henry couldnât let his mind wander there. There was another incredibly brave person he had endangered. He didnât see how her quick-witted playacting could possibly have saved her from the Gestapo once they had her. The only solace there was that she had made the decision to be a freedom-fighter for herself, as an adult. Could an eight-year-old boy really understand what he risked, what he was facing if caught?
Henry shook his head to shake out the thoughts. He didnât want to mourn right now. He wanted to hope, hope that just on the other side of the mountain he would findPierre, safe, and therefore find himself. Then he could go home, whole, home to Patsy, ready. Henry forced himself to whistle a happy tuneâhis carefree loudness another luxury of liberation.
Â
Three hours of warm sun and watching small birds flitting among the flowers to hunt bugs brought Henry to Chabeuil. He decided to skirt the townâs edges. Not much longer to go now. The mountains were rearing huge ahead, three thousand feet of ragged rock, like the sawtooth walls of a castle-fort, guarding the entrance to heaven.
From inside the town, he heard playful shouts of children and a ball bouncing against a wall. He smelled wood fires and meat being smoked. He saw small, square gardens, neatly lined with sprouts of lettuce and bean plants. Life was beginning anew here. He felt like skipping.
But on the mountain end of the town, Henry pulled up short. Ahead of him were balls of tangled barbed wire, the fence posts long gone for firewood. Huge, thick ruts furrowed the ground, stretching for miles toward the Vercors. Henry knew what had cut so deeply into the earthâtanks. But what horrified him was the sight of a long strip of paving and the scattershot debris of planes along its edges. The hulls had been burned, the engines ripped open for parts, the gun racks stripped, but Henry could still recognize the outline. Nazi Junkers.
He looked up at the mountains, thinking air speed. Sweet Jesus . It would have taken only five minutes for those Luftwaffe planes to cross over intoâ¦
Henry started to runârun along the flight path he knew could deliver a
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