Paul did too. The ground fell away beneath him.
Down he slid, headfirst, stifling cries as he bumped down the steep slope. Ander and Gigi slid on their backs, feetfirst, as if they’d expected it.
A spindly bush—Paul grabbed it, and his legs swung past him, wrenching his shoulder.
A soft whistle from Ander. About twenty feet below, the slope ended in a ravine filled with dark brush.
Paul let go of his little tree, slid down about ten feet, and crawled the rest of the way.
Ander pointed to a lean-to deep in the brush, and Paul crawled over.
They’d sleep by day, taking turns on watch, then traipse ahead after the sun set. No talking, no questions, only silent obedience.
Paul sank to the cold ground and massaged his sore shoulder. His legs ached from hiking. His feet and hands and face ached from the cold. His stomach ached from hunger. And his heart ached from missing Lucie and Josie.
After Gigi passed out dried fish, Paul gnawed off a frozen chunk. As he chewed, it melted and released an unpleasant flavor. But he needed the nourishment, so he swallowed the fish and swallowed a joke about passing the beurre blanc sauce.
And he prayed.
The Lord had made the fish, and Paul gave thanks.
The Lord had created Ander and Gigi and given them courage to risk their lives to help four strangers, and Paul gave thanks.
And the Lord had created Lucie and Josie, the sweet faces that drove him forward, and Paul gave deep and heartfelt thanks.
ATLANTICOCEAN
SUNDAY, JANUARY25, 1942
Josie steepled her hands and squeezed her eyes shut. “God bless Daddy and Maman and Madame Kahn and Monsieur Meow and Feenee. Amen.”
“Amen.” Leaning over the middle bunk, Lucie tucked the blanket under Josie’s chin.
Although they’d returned to their true identities, Josie still insisted on calling Lucie Maman.
On the frigid freighter, the passengers wore street clothes and coats to bed, plus the caps elderly Frau Abrams had knit for everyone. And life vests. They wore those day and night.
“Just think.” Lucie tucked the puppets in bed beside Josie. “Tomorrow morning we’ll be in New York City, and tomorrow night you’ll sleep at your grandparents’ house.”
“At fifty-seven Cedar Street.”
“First thing we’ll do is give you a bath.” Lucie poked her little belly, and she giggled.
The room stank of unwashed bodies and vomit. Lucie and Josie had been miserable with seasickness the first few days. Now they spun adventurous tales of Monsieur Meow and Feenee at sea.
Some of the women complained about the conditions, but most were happy to be on their way to America, and Lucie and Dominique led the charge to keep up morale.
A metallicthunk.
The ship lurched. Lucie lost her balance and grabbed the side of the bunk.
Women cried out in half a dozen languages.
“What was that?” Josie’s eyebrows bunched together, and she gripped the blanket.
“I don’t know.” But chilly, slimy truth flooded her mind. That loud a noise could only be a collision or a torpedo.
Dominique rolled out of the bottom bunk. “I’ll ask.” Since she spoke the most Portuguese, she often served as intermediary.
