Amélie looked at him in astonishment. “I didn’t know. I’m so proud of him. He’s like a man I never knew.”
Nicolas nodded in agreement. “He would never talk about his Great War experiences. Something tells me that he draws on them. He set up that network to help British and French soldiers get across the country without being captured. He used it to help get our families away so quickly. Groups like his are forming all over the country. I have to be part of them, to save France.”
Early the next morning, Amélie waited for Nicolas on the front porch. Next to her was a small traveling bag. She had looked at a calendar hanging in the kitchen on her way out the door, showing the date of June 20. As she sat, she was once more gripped by all the tragedy that had taken place since Jeremy had appeared on the beach at Dunkirk only twelve short days earlier.
Nicolas emerged a few minutes later carrying two cups of coffee. “I knew I’d find you here.” He handed her one of the cups, and they sat next to each other on the steps.
“When do you leave for Marseille?” Amélie inquired.
He sniffed. “As soon as we finish this coffee.” He glanced at her. “I’ll miss you.”
She tilted her head toward him. “You won’t have to. I’m coming with you.”
Startled, he almost lost his coffee. “No,” he retorted. “You can’t.”
“I can and I will.”
“I don’t even know what I’m getting into.”
“Exactly. No one does. It’s a war, and everyone will have to choose sides and fight, one way or another. If I go to help my father, he’ll send me away again. I can’t sit by and watch while so many people I love risk their lives.”
“Men.” Nicolas enunciated the word. “Men fight the war.”
“Not so,” Amélie retorted, her voice rising. “I distracted those soldiers the night we saved Jeremy, and you know what else I did. Kallsen. And when I went into that wine cellar in the bombed-out restaurant, there were men and women there, planning for action with the resistance.”
Nicolas had no response.
“I’m going, and that’s that.”
Nicolas remained silent for a few minutes, deep in thought. “What about Chantal?”
“I’ve thought of that. My cousins will look after her. We might see things differently about this war, but they love her, and she’ll be cared for.”
“I’m going too,” Chantal said from behind them.
Nicolas and Amélie whirled around. “How long have you been listening?” he demanded.
“Long enough,” Chantal replied. “My sister is right. We all have to fight. I’m going with you.”
“No,” Amélie said firmly. “You need to recover. Besides, you’re only fourteen.”
“That was last week, and I’ve been feeling sorry for myself.” She stepped between them and pivoted to face them. “I can’t leave the fighting to everyone else.” She leaned over and kissed her sister’s forehead. Her voice caught. “Amélie, I’ll never forget how you fought for me.”
Amélie stood and they embraced.
Chantal pulled away. “Nicolas, your arrival is the first good thing that’s happened to us since that awful night. You woke me up.” She turned to Amélie. “Papa told us we’d have to grow up fast. I did. I feel like I’m forty-nine years old now, and I’m coming with you. There are things I can do, even if I just make meals for everyone else.”
Seeing the hesitance in their eyes, Chantal added, “There’s a lot more I can do, I promise you.” She took a deep breath. “If I don’t go with you, I’ll leave on my own and find another group. Either way, I will fight.”
Her expression changed to one of curiosity. “I have two questions. Why Marseille? Why not go help Papa?”
“He would never let us,” Amélie cut in. “You know that.”
Nicolas frowned and sighed. “To answer your questions, Chantal, there are two reasons: resistance in Marseille was organizing even before the war. I can’t say more about that now, but believe me, that reason alone is enough.
“The second is that to get back north, we’d have to cross German lines again, and they’re much more dangerous now than a few days ago. I talked with my father about that last night. He got you out just in time.”
“Isn’t he going back?”
Nicolas grunted. “He is, and I wish he wouldn’t, but my mother is still there. He says that his wrinkles and gray hair will keep him from being detained, but if not, he’ll put on a show of being a most enthusiastic supporter of Pétain and admirer of Hitler.
“I want to fight, but the risk of being found out at home is too high, since we’re of military age.” He grinned and corrected himself. “Well, Amélie and I are.”
“I am too,” Chantal muttered stubbornly. “They just don’t know it.”
26
Marseille, France
The train chugged into the Gare de Marseille-Saint-Charles late in the afternoon. The crowds that Nicolas had witnessed bogging them down the previous day had thinned out. All of France seemed to be waiting with bated breath for the outcome of Pétain’s overtures to the Third Reich. Travel was also much more amiable, the passengers less frantic, more inclined to friendly exchanges, although an undercurrent of unease permeated with furtive glances and instances of suspicious stares.
Nicolas and the Boulier sisters kept to themselves for the most part, only interacting with others when they needed to buy tickets or food. On arrival, they emerged and skirted the front of the station, descended a wide set of marble stairs, turned left onto Boulevard Marseillaises, found Boulevard d’Athenes, and there caught a bus for the beaches on Avenue du Prado.
As they rode through the streets, they took in the relatively relaxed atmosphere, gaping at storefronts burgeoning with merchandise and customers carrying assortments of bags and boxes. Through the bus window, they peered into a
