“It’s an intervillage event,” Paul adds. “All four villages come together for the attractions and contests.”
Lorenzo chuckles. “Even the weirdos from Vosier-en-Haut!”
“Why are they weird?” Elise asks.
Lorenzo whispers theatrically, “They’re satanists.”
“Oh, please, that’s preposterous!” Paul shifts his hooded gaze from the manager to us. “Never mind him. Our neighbors are very fine people, and I won’t tolerate any hostility toward them. We are an open-minded and inclusive community.”
“Yes, we are,” Lorenzo agrees. “But can you say the same about them?”
Waving him off, Paul turns to me. “They aren’t satanists, of course. They just sent away their priest. That’s what gave rise to that ridiculous rumor.”
“Why would they kick out the priest?” I ask.
Paul shrugs. “He was a busybody who stuck his nose in things that were none of his business.”
Our food arrives.
Lorenzo stands up. “This hotel takes great pride in the quality of our services. If you need anything, even something extravagant in the middle of the night, all you have to do is just pick up the phone and call.”
“Do you have a pool?” I ask, no doubt disappointing him with the banality of my request.
“On the first floor, Monsieur Delaroche.”
Paul heaves himself to his feet, too. The two men wish us the best of luck with the search for our companions and a wonderful stay in Vosier-en-Bas. And then, at last, they leave us alone.
ELISE
With the mayor and the hotel manager gone, and the delicious smelling food in front of us, Theo and I dig in. We don’t talk much while we eat, too busy enjoying the lovely brunch after going hungry for twenty-four hours. I’m about to bring up how the mayor compared the size of the private team looking for Darrel and Jordan to a small army when Theo points at my phone. “Shall we read a letter?”
I open the next unread document. It’s a letter from Simon to Elise.
Sandeville, September 4, 1944
Mon amour,
I pray that this letter reaches you, so that my death doesn’t become a silence between us. My companions and I are currently detained in an empty farmhouse cellar. The Germans who captured us chatter and laugh overhead. Come morning we will be executed.
Over the past two years, I did what I had to do without hesitation. I fought for the scorched, manmade hell the Germans made of our country, once green and golden. All I feel is a burning hate for the invaders and the imperative to resist them so that you and little François can live free. I was thorough in all my duties. When it was time to shoot, I shot. When it was time to lay low and wait, I did it for long hours to ensure our plans would succeed. There was no fear in my heart.
But now I feel apprehensive about the loneliness my death shall bring you.
My dear, I want you to know that I will meet my end as a proud man with my head held high. I could have broken during my first drop. I could have broken when the first bullet flew past my head. I could have broken on the sleepless nights of marching or in the moments the dynamite struck its fuse. I could have been a hundred times broken, but your love keeps me strong.
Tomorrow at dawn I shall be no more, but here’s something to comfort you. Do you recall the heirloom key I told you about? I’m leaving it here, in this cellar, buried in a hole I dug by the wall. Come for it after the war is over. It will be something by which to remember me and all those who died for this country.
Give our son my love. May he grow into a fine man in a free France!
Forever yours,
Simon
P.S. (September 5, 1944): Yesterday, I was heartbroken that our jailers refused to post our last letters, but today I thank the Lord Almighty for it.
Mon amour, I’m alive! And I am coming home.
This morning, the Germans drove me and my companions to a nearby hilltop to shoot us for all surrounding villages to see. We were on our knees, heads to the sky, guns at our back, but the first shot fired was not at us. It came from the trees a distance away. The firing squad was outnumbered. My companions and I were freed.
