fiery death to Pierreâs people within minutes of takeoff.
Â
Of course, he couldnât run far. The road soon turned into a hard upward slope. His legs slowed to a walk, an aching scramble, as he leaned forward for balance. With dread he noticed a deserted Mercedes-Benz, pockmarked with bullet holes; an overturned truck, gutted; emptied strings of machine gun cartridges; a little further, crushed cans of gasoline and long, ragged scorch marks scarring the land. Idiot! What did you expect?
Henry climbed up into winds and looked back to a world laid out in a serene patchwork of lavenders, golds, and greens. The sun was setting low, beneath him. Where he stood clouds were gathering around him, wet, cold. He felt none of the joy he usually would when wisps of cumulus brushed his hands. He was in for it in terms of weather. By the time he made it to the crest, it was raining, water streaming down the road. He recognized the pass, Col de la Bataille, and found its tunnel through the rock. Huddled inside, he watched lightning crackle along the plain. He couldnât yet see into the mountain valleyon the other side, the green pocket where Pierreâs farm lay. His view was blocked by a thick forestâthe woods where he and Pierre had met up with the local maquis, hurrying to retrieve guns and chocolates parachuted in by the British.
Henryâs worries thundered in his head. Would the priest, the monks, have been able to shelter Pierre during a Nazi air raid? Surely the Nazis wouldnât have gone after everyone, not women, not children. Chabeuil looked intact. He paused in his thinking, remembering the brutal raid on Pierreâs home and how the Milice had gunned down the ancient grandfather without asking him a single question.
Henry made himself watch the storm. After months of agonized speculation, heâd gotten within a few hours of discovering the truth of Pierreâs circumstances. Henry had at least learned one thing while on the runâto hunker down and wait things out when he had no other options.
He sat down with the rock at his back, glancing back and forth between the two tunnel entrances, instinctively checking his camp perimeters, as theyâd been taught in basic training. Such habits were dying hard. Henry pulled out a can of Spam, twisted the key along its top to roll back the tin, and forced himself to swallow.
C HAPTER N INE
S even white crosses.
They were the first things Henry saw as he came out of the cool, sweet-smelling beech-wood shadows of Forêt de Lente. The bright sunrise cast a crimson glow on the roadside graves. He rounded the bend in the gravel path. Five more wooden crossesâthe dead obviously laid to rest where they had fallen. There, another ten. And just beyond, a farmhouse charred, nothing but a rectangle of sooty stone.
Henry filled with dread.
After ten more minutes of scrambling down slopes, Henry came to the rim of the Vassieux valley. Beneath him should have been a lush green cup of fields and farms, wildflowers and sleepy cattle, ruled in the center by a little village of creamy houses with cheery pink-tiled roofs that were nestled around a churchâits bell ringing out thehour, clear and sweet, rejoicing in another day.
Instead there was silence. A wide field of white crosses. A thin dirt runway, pockmarked with bomb craters. Skeletons of small aircraft that looked like German gliders.
And where the village should have beenâalive with roosters crowing, children yawning over cups of frothy warm milk, mothers humming as they poached eggsâwas rubble.
Oh, no. No, no, no. Henry shaded his eyes against the horizontal sunlight, and scanned up the valley to where he knew Pierreâs cluster of farm buildings should be. Please. Let it be there .
Gone. Everything gone. As if God, large as the mountains, had stood on that ridge and rolled boulders down into the valley, smashing and crushing things the way a bowling ball would glass.
Â
Of course, he couldnât run far. The road soon turned into a hard upward slope. His legs slowed to a walk, an aching scramble, as he leaned forward for balance. With dread he noticed a deserted Mercedes-Benz, pockmarked with bullet holes; an overturned truck, gutted; emptied strings of machine gun cartridges; a little further, crushed cans of gasoline and long, ragged scorch marks scarring the land. Idiot! What did you expect?
Henry climbed up into winds and looked back to a world laid out in a serene patchwork of lavenders, golds, and greens. The sun was setting low, beneath him. Where he stood clouds were gathering around him, wet, cold. He felt none of the joy he usually would when wisps of cumulus brushed his hands. He was in for it in terms of weather. By the time he made it to the crest, it was raining, water streaming down the road. He recognized the pass, Col de la Bataille, and found its tunnel through the rock. Huddled inside, he watched lightning crackle along the plain. He couldnât yet see into the mountain valleyon the other side, the green pocket where Pierreâs farm lay. His view was blocked by a thick forestâthe woods where he and Pierre had met up with the local maquis, hurrying to retrieve guns and chocolates parachuted in by the British.
Henryâs worries thundered in his head. Would the priest, the monks, have been able to shelter Pierre during a Nazi air raid? Surely the Nazis wouldnât have gone after everyone, not women, not children. Chabeuil looked intact. He paused in his thinking, remembering the brutal raid on Pierreâs home and how the Milice had gunned down the ancient grandfather without asking him a single question.
Henry made himself watch the storm. After months of agonized speculation, heâd gotten within a few hours of discovering the truth of Pierreâs circumstances. Henry had at least learned one thing while on the runâto hunker down and wait things out when he had no other options.
He sat down with the rock at his back, glancing back and forth between the two tunnel entrances, instinctively checking his camp perimeters, as theyâd been taught in basic training. Such habits were dying hard. Henry pulled out a can of Spam, twisted the key along its top to roll back the tin, and forced himself to swallow.
C HAPTER N INE
S even white crosses.
They were the first things Henry saw as he came out of the cool, sweet-smelling beech-wood shadows of Forêt de Lente. The bright sunrise cast a crimson glow on the roadside graves. He rounded the bend in the gravel path. Five more wooden crossesâthe dead obviously laid to rest where they had fallen. There, another ten. And just beyond, a farmhouse charred, nothing but a rectangle of sooty stone.
Henry filled with dread.
After ten more minutes of scrambling down slopes, Henry came to the rim of the Vassieux valley. Beneath him should have been a lush green cup of fields and farms, wildflowers and sleepy cattle, ruled in the center by a little village of creamy houses with cheery pink-tiled roofs that were nestled around a churchâits bell ringing out thehour, clear and sweet, rejoicing in another day.
Instead there was silence. A wide field of white crosses. A thin dirt runway, pockmarked with bomb craters. Skeletons of small aircraft that looked like German gliders.
And where the village should have beenâalive with roosters crowing, children yawning over cups of frothy warm milk, mothers humming as they poached eggsâwas rubble.
Oh, no. No, no, no. Henry shaded his eyes against the horizontal sunlight, and scanned up the valley to where he knew Pierreâs cluster of farm buildings should be. Please. Let it be there .
Gone. Everything gone. As if God, large as the mountains, had stood on that ridge and rolled boulders down into the valley, smashing and crushing things the way a bowling ball would glass.
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