“My Uncle Ferrand is an artist. He made your papers.”
Jeremy’s head jerked around. Momentarily, he stared at Nicolas in amazement. “He forged my documents?”
“Yes.” Nicolas tapped his head. “He’s very smart. He knows how to do things. But…” He shrugged. “The papers were not hard. They were my brother’s. He altered them.” As he spoke, his face became sad. “My brother was the same age as you. He suffered a brain injury in an automobile accident. He died two years later.”
Horrified, Jeremy said, “I am so sorry.”
Nicolas clapped Jeremy’s shoulder. “Eh, not your fault. That’s life. Today, you’re my brother, and tomorrow. Forever.” He laughed.
As they rumbled on in silence, Jeremy’s mind again returned to home, and then the battle and the killing fields, and then came around inevitably to Amélie.
“Your cousins also helped me. I can never repay the kindness of your family.”
“You owe us nothing,” Nicolas replied. “But you can help. You tell the people in England what we did. Not just my family. Many people are helping to get you home. You spread the word that we are free French. We’ll fight. We’ll resist.” His voice had taken on a grim note, and he glanced at Jeremy. “You tell them.”
A short silence ensued, and then Nicolas grinned. “You like my cousin, Amélie?”
Startled, his cheeks flushing crimson, Jeremy turned to Nicolas. “Of course,” he stuttered, “she saved my life. Chantal too, and your Uncle Ferrand.”
Nicolas beamed wider and shook a crooked finger at Jeremy. “Yes, but you like Amélie. Why not? She’s good-looking.” Glancing at the road, he made a corrective maneuver. “You think she’s pretty?” Then he leaned toward Jeremy and whispered conspiratorially, “I can tell you; she likes you.”
Jeremy’s heart skipped a beat, his throat caught, and he felt suddenly, involuntarily exultant, not missing the irony under the present conditions.
“You like her,” Nicolas went on. “I see it. Your face is red like a tomato.” He laughed uproariously.
In spite of himself, Jeremy laughed along. “Did she say that?”
“She didn’t say anything. But I’m her closest cousin. We’re the same age. I know her. She changed when she met you. She grew up.”
“We’re in a war,” Jeremy said soberly. “She saw awful things. She had not met or even seen me up close when she risked her life, and that was not even three days ago.”
“You’re right. She’ll help anyone. But”—Nicolas wagged a finger in the air— “she worries about you. I saw her last night. She’s very worried about you. I could see it.”
Feeling overwhelmed with unfamiliar emotion, Jeremy locked his eyes on the road and remained silent. “I’ll probably never see her again,” he muttered.
“Why?” Nicolas bellowed with genuine concern. “We’ll win this war. You know where we live. You’ll be back.” He clapped Jeremy’s shoulder again. “We’re brothers. When you come again, you’ll see that you and Amélie like each other.” He set his jaw firmly. “I see it.” Then he looked across at Jeremy. “Write her a note. I’ll give it to her.”
Jeremy exhaled. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
Nicolas let loose a peal of laughter. “Don’t worry. I’ll write it for you. I’ll be your Cyrano de Bergerac.”
8
Two days later, June 15
A road northwest of Paris
Jeremy trundled along in the small farm truck on the outskirts of Paris with Nicolas at the wheel, trying to blend in while pressing ahead of a mass of humanity that clogged the roads, some in horse-drawn wagons, cars, and trucks of every description, and many on bicycles, all fleeing the German juggernaut. The two men had escaped Dunkirk by heading southeast for roughly forty miles to Hazebrouck, then turning south on tiny backroads through Béthune and Arras. At Roissy-en-France, a town north of Paris, Nicolas changed course again, and instead of going into Paris, they headed west to skirt the city.
They had expected to encounter refugees streaming to sanctuary, but the vastness of the fleeing throng boggled their minds. Now, the truck labored under a load of people that had climbed on unbidden, displacing the bales of hay as more and more men, women, and children clambered aboard to continue their desperate journeys.
Nicolas had shed his jovial countenance, and he glanced worriedly at the fuel and temperature gauges and then through his rearview mirror at the traumatized passengers on the truck bed. They left behind a torn countryside. Some villages had been flattened to rubble while others were untouched but abandoned except for the roiling, unending throngs of a terrified populace in search of safer ground.
Fathers pushed makeshift carts with elderly parents clutching precious mementos, mothers struggled with baby carriages laden with necessary articles heaped over crying youngsters, and older siblings struggled to keep up. Already, as whole families and communities pushed south, discarded items no longer deemed crucial to survival lined the roads along with abandoned vehicles that had encountered mechanical difficulties or simply run out of gas. Among the waste were bodies of unfortunates too old, weak, or young to continue who had slumped where they last stood or had been trampled.
The smell of the dead mixed with that of unwashed bodies and their waste, filling the air, as did the cries of anguished mothers and toddlers separated from each other by the press of the struggling crowds. As Jeremy and Nicolas slowly progressed, they passed farms with animals standing in barnyards, some waiting to be fed or milked, not perceiving that their owners had abandoned them. Some poor beasts sprawled on the ground with bloated bellies, their carcasses growing ripe under the spring sun, and already, packs of dogs ran loose, devouring food where they could find it, including corpses of any type that they encountered.
Although at first the two companions were stoic, the depraved scenes bore down on them. Nicolas fought to maintain his composure, but Jeremy saw that often his mouth quivered, and he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. He viewed the horrors numbly, willing his
