After dinner, as dusk settled in, Nicolas quietly asked his father to keep Chantal engaged while he spoke privately with Amélie. Seeing the grave expression on his son’s face, Claude asked no questions. Chantal had been enlivened a bit by Nicolas’ appearance, so Claude cajoled her into walking with him along the farm roads.
When Nicolas and Amélie were finally alone, she asked about Jeremy. “You haven’t mentioned him. Did you get him to a port?”
Nicolas nodded, but tightness in his throat prevented him from speaking momentarily. Amélie put her hand on his forearm, her eyes wide with alarm.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
Nicolas told her of their hike across France, arrival in Saint-Nazaire, and meeting with Jacques. He spared horrific detail but included his last moments with Jeremy and the sinking of the Lancastria.
“Were there any survivors?” she asked through tears.
“Many. But also, many dead. We stayed out most of last night searching, and we saved as many as we could find, but…” His voice trailed off.
“And other boats were out too?”
Nicolas nodded. “And some managed to get survivors onto other ships.”
“So, he could be alive.”
“It’s possible.” Nicolas took a piece of paper from his pocket. “Just before he left, he asked me to give this to you.” He laughed quietly, ruefully. “I offered to be his Cyrano de Bergerac. Anyone could see the chemistry between you two.”
Amélie dismissed the comment and carefully unfolded the note. It read:
Dear Amélie,
I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to you and your family that is impossible to repay.
You live in my mind. My first waking thought is of you. My last image before going to sleep is of you. I see your hair, your hands, your face, those honey-colored eyes, and I hear your kind voice.
I pray that someday I might see you again, and hope when this war is over, you will welcome me to visit and get to know you better. Until then,
Jeremy
With an almost unbearable mix of emotions convulsing in her mind and heart, Amélie suddenly found breathing difficult. She leaned her head into Nicolas’ chest and then patted his shoulder.
“Please, I need some time alone.”
Nicolas squeezed her hand and stepped away.
Amélie ran through the half-light of late evening down one of the paths she had visited earlier in the afternoon, head down, shoulders hunched, one hand covering her mouth. She saw her surroundings only in a blur. How could so many bad things happen in less than two weeks?
She slowed her pace and walked on, remembering Jeremy’s face, strong even when asleep with exhaustion. Darkness overtook the last vestiges of daylight, and the half moon, already high in the sky, shone brightly. She found a secluded place off the path. There, she sat alone on a large stone under the light of the silvery orb, and wept.
“Could I have loved you, Jeremy?” she sobbed. “Were you an infatuation only, because of this war?” She let the tears flow freely until she raised her head to stare up at the moon.
The time with Jeremy had been so short, and yet they had laughed together and learned something of each other’s character beyond surface attractions. “I will never forget you,” she murmured, “and whether I live through this war or die, with my last breath, I will remember that I was loved, and that I loved.”
A thought pressed on her conscious mind. Nicolas said that some survivors made it to shore, and some were taken to other ships.
“Could you have made it to England, Jeremy?” she whispered. “How I hope so.”
Her thoughts turned to her father. His transformation from sad, retiring widower to a decisive leader in a war against the merciless Nazi machine had shocked her. And Chantal. She is so young to have gone through what happened.
Through her grief, Amélie perceived that her father’s and sister’s emotional states were at opposite ends of a range, and probably tenuous. To survive, the three of them would need each other. Achieving victory in this war depended on fighting to the utmost. Returning to normalcy with a life worth living required being humane.
Jeremy rose again in her mind. “I barely knew you,” she breathed, “but I’ll hold to the belief that you lived, and that someday, we’ll see each other again.”
She sat a while longer, her emotions calmed. Then she climbed to her feet, returned down the lane, and found Nicolas waiting for her under a tree.
“You’ve been my best friend all my life,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“We’ve always been there for each other.”
They sat in the grass, lost in thought. Amélie told Nicolas what had happened to Chantal and what she had done to Kallsen.
“That’s why we had to flee.”
“Will this never end?” Nicolas groaned. He fell back in the grass, seething with anger, and remained silent for a time.
At last, he sat up. “Have you heard from your father?”
Amélie tossed her head. “I’m very worried about him. Uncle Claude calls into that wine cellar under the bombed-out restaurant, but Papa is always out. The lines will be cut sooner or later, I’m sure of that, or the Germans will figure out a way to listen in.” She wiped her eyes as tears once again trickled down her face. “What will you do now?”
Nicolas told her about Jacques and the resistance group taking root in Marseille. “He’s expecting me. I’ll leave tomorrow.”
Dismayed, Amélie implored him, “Can’t you stay a day or two? I worried about you so much.”
Nicolas shook his head. “This war won’t slow down or wait, and I’ve already seen that individuals can make a big difference.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and they rocked together. “You and Uncle Ferrand showed the rest of us how to fight. You killed a monster. Your father put a group together very quickly to help people escape. My friend, Jacques, connected with
