They crossed one by one, hand over hand, rifles carefully secured across their shoulders to keep them dry, the rope drawn taught to prevent them being pulled under and swept away. By the time the last man crossed behind her, they were all soaked to the skin and freezing, but they had made it across.
The farmhouse wasn't far, Françoise promised, as they all fell into line behind him, silently shaking, teeth clenched together tokeep them from chattering, and always, always, an eye and an ear to the path behind them and the forest surrounding them.
There was blood on her hands, not the first time. But this had been different, not at a distance with a shot taken, but almost intimate and terrifying. Then the anger that came after.
She didn't want to think about that now. There was only one thing that mattered—getting the information to the Allies.
Her hands and feet were numb. It took every ounce of strength to continue, when Françoise slowed his pace, then cut off the path to the edge of the forest. The dark shape of a farmhouse was barely visible through the falling snow.
He went first, as they had long ago established—count to thirty, then the next one follows, until all were across that open space.
There was no light from the windows or door, nothing that indicated anyone even lived there, until they were all inside and the warmth of the fire in the stone hearth stung their faces and hands.
The boy, no more than nine or ten, greeted them, motioned for the door to be closed and the blanket dropped back into place that prevented any light escaping.
No names were asked, or given. It was necessary to protect the boy and his mother. They were each handed blankets, then followed the boy to a storeroom off the kitchen. A candle lit their way, flickering as the boy crossed the storeroom, then almost extinguished as he removed a plank of wood in the floor.
Françoise dropped down beside him, lifting one board after another, exposing an opening with a wooden stepladder that descended deep into the ground. One by one they went down the ladder into the darkness.
The subfloor chamber was damp, but warmer than outside the farmhouse. Along the walls were shelves, almost barren now, but had no doubt once held food put up for the winter, beforethe war. There were other signs of war, more blankets carefully folded and set aside on a bench by others who had no doubt made their way to the widow's farmhouse, with two cots in addition to the bench, a small cook stove, and a crystal radio set.
The walls were made of stone, angling back, until they disappeared into the shadows as the boy lit an oil lamp.
They were cold, exhausted, and one of the other men, Phillipe, who had been with Françoise, was badly injured as they made their escape.
She asked for bandages and something to disinfect the wound. The boy returned with cognac, a sheet torn into strips, and hot soup his mother had prepared. They all shared the cognac, then while the others ate soup with warm bread, she bandaged Phillipe's wounds. The one in his shoulder was the worst of it—a gunshot wound as he pulled her from the German captain's tent.
He was a small, wiry man, agile like one of those circus performers, capable of sneaking into small places which was probably the only reason she was alive.
“Merci,” he whispered. “It is much better now. You have done this before.”
She gave him a faint smile, along with more cognac against the pain.
There was no physical resemblance, but it was there in the kindness of his eyes—an encounter months before, and someone she would always remember.
“A few times,” she replied, and finished tying off the bandage. “You will live,” she told him, and prayed it was true, for all of them.
France was going to need people like Phillipe—small, but with a big heart—when all of this was over. Françoise was another matter—big, rough, cold, with a hatred of the Germansthat was never explained but that she could only guess at. Didn't they all have their reasons?
And then there was the young man, a thief in a former life, according to the little they knew about him. More than once he had 'acquired' something badly needed, with a shrug of the shoulders and a too-handsome smile that she was certain could acquire just about anything from the girls.
She wasn't interested, not that he hadn't tried. It had ended with a knife at his throat, but it hadn't dimmed that smile. Afterward he accepted that whatever he intended with her would probably get him killed. In that strange way of things, afterward, they became friends who knew they could rely on one another.
They all came from different places—Françoise from the northern district near the border with Belgium, her wiry friend from Calvados before the war, Phillipe from a dozen different places.
They had been laborers, a postal clerk, a thief, simple people like herself who worked on the farm near the old quarries. But all of that changed with the war. They were all the same now.
They took turns drying their clothes over the small cook stove, the smell of damp wool thick in the cold of the cellar. Then while the others took turns sleeping, she sat in a corner, wrapped in two of the blankets, and thought about the information she had learned.
The Germans were planning a massive offensive against the Allies. They had been coordinating infantry, tanks, and air cover along the border with Belgium.
They called it the Ardennes Offensive, and according to the information she had been able to obtain, the high command was determined to split the Allied forces, creating a wedge that would divide them, then bring defeat.
But that information had come at a cost. Even now, she could still feel the German officer's hands on her, smell him on herskin, the blood. The cast she had worn on her arm, part of her disguise as a young girl working at a local inn under German control had not deterred him. He liked young girls.
She had always been slender. In school she was teased because of her flat body, until she wasn't. The simple, straight dress, thick stockings, and worn shoes, with no make-up and her hair pulled back with a ribbon completed her disguise as she worked among the tables, delivering food and wine to the German officers in spite of the cast on her arm.
It was a word, then a phrase, spoken in German, in between crude remarks in halting French that they prided themselves on. But among those phrases spoken in their own language was enough to tell her that something big was going to happen.
