Lucie threaded the strap of her ballet bag through the handle of Josie’s little case, put both over her shoulder, and took the suitcase in hand. Then she descended the ladder backward with Josie in front of her.
Josie’s crystalline voice joined Lucie’s in the tune they’d sung countless times, as they descended another ladder, walked down a passageway, and stepped through oval doors.
I’m going to my grandparents’ house
To Frank and Margaret Aubrey’s house.
They live on a street called Cedar Street
At fifty-seven Cedar Street.
Waltham, Waltham, Waltham, Massachusetts.
A sailor pointed at two rooms, calling out orders.
“Men in there,” Dominique translated. “Women and children in here.”
They entered a cramped compartment filled with bunks stacked in threes. Lucie swung her suitcase on a top bunk. “Josie will sleep with me, so we can use this for our luggage.”
“Thank you.” Dominique lifted her suitcase up. “You are so good with Josie.”
Lucie smiled down at the girl, who rolled around on the bottom bunk and giggled. “She’s an easy child.”
“I hope my child will be that easy.” Dominique stretched her lower back.
“Even if not, you’ll love your child just as fiercely.”
“I will.” She cupped her hand below that child. The only living legacy of a courageous man.
45
PYRENEESMOUNTAINS
SUNDAY, JANUARY25, 1942
Paul’s feet sank into the snow, wet and numb. After three nights hiking the Pyrenees Mountains on the border of France and Spain, he just wanted to lie down and sleep.
Wrapped in a Basque coat with a cap low over his ears and a scarf around his bearded face, Paul trudged up the steep wooded path with only half a moon to light his way.
He wasn’t about to get shown up by the British airmen, nor by their guides, a Basque man two decades older than Paul and a tiny girl no older than sixteen.
He knew only code names, but the flyboys knew each other.
Nearing the top of a ridge, Paul adjusted the straps holding his satchel on his back.
The guides, Ander and Gigi, dropped to their stomachs and made patting motions.
Heart thudding, Paul fell to his knees and slid onto his stomach. He strained his ears, but he only heard the icy wind in the barren trees.
Then he heard faint voices behind him, and he shivered.
No one could be trusted this close to the border. Germansoldiers and French police patrolled for RAF airmen and résistants. Spanish troops also patrolled to keep out refugees—and many Spaniards were fascists.
Paul lay still, straining to hear, his blood pulsing in his ears, snow burning his cheek.
In a few minutes, the voices faded. For a few minutes more, the party didn’t stir.
Then Gigi swept her arm in an arc. Everyone crawled forward, elbows crunching in the snow, and the guides slithered over the ridge.
