on our bicycles, we follow Madame LaRoche’s directions, which we coordinated with our map, along a path of minor roads. The route to the farm isn’t well traveled. The roads aren’t roads at all, we find, but wide dirt tracks through the forest.
Denise leans out over her handlebars. She cranes her neck. “Do you hear that?”
My ears snag a subdued drone out of the peace and quiet.
“It’s coming down fast,” Denise says. “Hear the sputter?”
The sound screams toward us like a runaway locomotive careening through the sky, and we hurry to the side of the road. Our heads tilt back to watch as a damaged fighter plane buzzes the treetops. Thick smoke, the plane’s dying breath, billows out behind it. Time stretches like warm taffy until we hear the inevitable crash. I can hardly believe that what happened right above our heads was real. It’s a startling reminder that in spite of our bike ride through an idyllic countryside, we’re not here to play.
Denise whistles. “That was a Mustang, a real stunner of a plane.”
“Think the pilot made it out?”
We scan the sky, but our view is limited, since we’re nearly surrounded by forest.
“There he is,” I say. Low in the sky, straight ahead, sunlight glints off silk. “He’s about to land in that meadow down the road.”
Denise taps her thumb against a handlebar. “That crash is a beacon to every gendarme and Nazi soldier around for kilometers.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Should we go get him, then? Before they do?”
I nod, already pushing off.
We ride standing, our full weight pressing the pedals, and set a quick pace. Denise leans over her handlebars, pushing the bike to go as fast as possible. I do the same, rapidly running out of breath. We’re in a race against an unseen opponent who won’t let a downed airman slip through its fingers, lest he escape death or hell on earth, and there’s no way of knowing how much or how little time we have.
Once past the trees the hulk of the plane becomes clearly visible, its smoke signals boldly broadcasting the location of the crash. What we can’t see is the pilot.
“All he has to do is stand. Wave an arm. Anything,” I say.
“They don’t waste time, do they?” Denise draws my attention to the horizon. “Look there on the hill, past that field of yellow colza flowers and that small stand of trees in the middle of nothing, to the left of the grass but not quite to the wheat.”
My eyes zig this way and zag that way, until I see two trucks coasting down the hillside, so far off they look like my cousins’ toy automobiles rolling through the pretend cardboard scene they painted.
“Eagle Eyes, you’re supposed to be looking over here!”
Denise surveys the proper side of the road. “Right, then. There he is. Do you see the spot of color near the dilapidated wire fence?”
“I see him now,” I say, hopping off my bike.
At the side of the road, we jostle our bicycles into the hedgerows, past the cover of new leaves to the brambly branches beneath that tug at my clothes and hair.
When I stand upright, I say, “I guarantee you, Denise, the Nazi soldiers in those trucks do not suspect they’re about to be outfoxed by two girls.”
In the stillness before we spring back into action, Denise looks to me, grinning like mad. She quotes a line from
King Kong
, one of my favorite movies I watched with Tom.
“‘Oh no. It wasn’t the airplanes. It was Beauty killed the Beast.’”
In this one surprising moment she becomes my friend.
SEVEN
“Should we slap him?”
“No,” I say, heart racing. He lies on the ground at my feet, eyes closed, looking like a high school quarterback who’s been knocked out cold. “Okay, maybe we should.”
Denise leans over the pilot with the back of her hand poised to strike his clean-shaven cheek.
Whack!
The pilot’s eyes open with a start. He stares through his goggles at the two female heads hovering over him.
“Am I in heaven? Are you
Denise leans out over her handlebars. She cranes her neck. “Do you hear that?”
My ears snag a subdued drone out of the peace and quiet.
“It’s coming down fast,” Denise says. “Hear the sputter?”
The sound screams toward us like a runaway locomotive careening through the sky, and we hurry to the side of the road. Our heads tilt back to watch as a damaged fighter plane buzzes the treetops. Thick smoke, the plane’s dying breath, billows out behind it. Time stretches like warm taffy until we hear the inevitable crash. I can hardly believe that what happened right above our heads was real. It’s a startling reminder that in spite of our bike ride through an idyllic countryside, we’re not here to play.
Denise whistles. “That was a Mustang, a real stunner of a plane.”
“Think the pilot made it out?”
We scan the sky, but our view is limited, since we’re nearly surrounded by forest.
“There he is,” I say. Low in the sky, straight ahead, sunlight glints off silk. “He’s about to land in that meadow down the road.”
Denise taps her thumb against a handlebar. “That crash is a beacon to every gendarme and Nazi soldier around for kilometers.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Should we go get him, then? Before they do?”
I nod, already pushing off.
We ride standing, our full weight pressing the pedals, and set a quick pace. Denise leans over her handlebars, pushing the bike to go as fast as possible. I do the same, rapidly running out of breath. We’re in a race against an unseen opponent who won’t let a downed airman slip through its fingers, lest he escape death or hell on earth, and there’s no way of knowing how much or how little time we have.
Once past the trees the hulk of the plane becomes clearly visible, its smoke signals boldly broadcasting the location of the crash. What we can’t see is the pilot.
“All he has to do is stand. Wave an arm. Anything,” I say.
“They don’t waste time, do they?” Denise draws my attention to the horizon. “Look there on the hill, past that field of yellow colza flowers and that small stand of trees in the middle of nothing, to the left of the grass but not quite to the wheat.”
My eyes zig this way and zag that way, until I see two trucks coasting down the hillside, so far off they look like my cousins’ toy automobiles rolling through the pretend cardboard scene they painted.
“Eagle Eyes, you’re supposed to be looking over here!”
Denise surveys the proper side of the road. “Right, then. There he is. Do you see the spot of color near the dilapidated wire fence?”
“I see him now,” I say, hopping off my bike.
At the side of the road, we jostle our bicycles into the hedgerows, past the cover of new leaves to the brambly branches beneath that tug at my clothes and hair.
When I stand upright, I say, “I guarantee you, Denise, the Nazi soldiers in those trucks do not suspect they’re about to be outfoxed by two girls.”
In the stillness before we spring back into action, Denise looks to me, grinning like mad. She quotes a line from
King Kong
, one of my favorite movies I watched with Tom.
“‘Oh no. It wasn’t the airplanes. It was Beauty killed the Beast.’”
In this one surprising moment she becomes my friend.
SEVEN
“Should we slap him?”
“No,” I say, heart racing. He lies on the ground at my feet, eyes closed, looking like a high school quarterback who’s been knocked out cold. “Okay, maybe we should.”
Denise leans over the pilot with the back of her hand poised to strike his clean-shaven cheek.
Whack!
The pilot’s eyes open with a start. He stares through his goggles at the two female heads hovering over him.
“Am I in heaven? Are you
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