Page 88 of Across Eternity

Lyon is 300 miles from Paris. The ride there feels much longer than it is, waiting as I am for Germans to board and take me away. I was panicked as I snuck onto the train at Gare du Nord. Now, between the rocking motion of the car and the smell of the people on board, I’m almost too sick to care if I’m caught.

Could I have handled the situation with Yvette better? Undoubtedly. I didn’t have to kill her, but I can’t bring myself to regret it. She fueled that fire inside me, and she deserved to die. I just wish I hadn’t added so much danger to an already tenuous situation. And I wish I’d had more time with the children before I left. Instead, I shoved what I could into a bag, kissed them each on the head, and ran. If this all goes wrong, that careless, panicked goodbye will be their last memory of me, if they remember me at all.

I arrive in Lyon late in the afternoon, and take another train from there to Valence, a hundred miles to the south. It’s dark when we finally pull into the station. No place in this country is safe for a female traveling alone, especially at night, but I’m just glad to be off the train. Soldiers patrol the platform, but I keep my head down and walk away as if I don’t notice them, clutching my bag to my chest.

“Mademoiselle!” a voice calls behind me.

I stiffen—mentally searching for the weight of the knife in my pocket though I force myself not to grab it. He’s done nothing yet, but that bloodthirst inside me suggests I stab him anyway.

I turn. He’s holding out a gray wool glove. His smile is almost apologetic.

“Yours?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. But thank you.”

“You have somewhere to stay in town?” he inquires, flushing. He’s a boy with a crush, and one who probably did not want to fight, yet a part of me wants him to die anyway. It’s as if I’ve let the lid off something that refuses to lay dormant again.

“My aunt is right around the corner,” I reply.

He tips his hat. “I hope I will see you again.”

I scurry away, my breath coming fast, and head out of the city, looking for a place to sleep—with the trip behind me, I’m so exhausted it’s a struggle to even push forward. About a mile outside of town I find a barn and sneak in, burrowing into the hay for warmth. It still feels as if I’m on the rocking train and my stomach revolts. I try to put my mind on other things, better things, and as always, I think of Henri, remembering those early days with him, after he’d caught me trying to steal an apple from his barn. How I loathed his nickname for me back then.

I’m not a thief, I once said.

Not a good one, anyway, he’d replied with one of his arrogant grins.

My smile at the memory fades quickly. What would he make of the things I’ve done this past week? As forgiving as he is, I can’t picture him accepting that I’ve killed two people he knew well.

* * *

I’m up before sunrise, crouched in the woods just off the main road, shivering despite my wool coat and the tights I wear beneath my trousers. There is little traffic these days aside from military vehicles, and Henri is not with them, but none are safe from me. That rage, that urge to destroy, leaves me both fearless and bloodthirsty. I fight against the desire all day long, and retreat to the barn after nightfall, dissatisfied, hungry for it.

I wake with my stomach in knots, too tense to eat, and spend another long day shivering by the side of the road. Snow begins to fall. It will make us easier to trace when we escape, and increasingly this feels like a fool’s errand.

That day passes, and then another. The snow melts, and finally something happens. A distant sound shatters the silence of the woods—a vibration at first. Boots, hitting the ground. Many of them.

The rumble of it grows, and the ground seems to tremble as they approach, until they are walking right by me—ten German soldiers and around fifty prisoners, tied together in groups of three or four. They are a ragged bunch, many limping and wounded. One of them is Henri if I’m lucky, and if he’s as bad off as some, he might not survive the escape. Am I saving him or dooming him? If he died during the war, I can’t change that. But if he survives…I could ruin it.

I creep through the brush alongside them, unable to distinguish one from the other through the haze of trees. A few minutes down the road, a soldier stumbles, and the men on each side—already struggling themselves—try to hold him up. It only takes a moment before a German soldier sees what’s going on and shouts at them to stop. The prisoner is cut loose and my breath holds, hoping for a miracle, until he is tossed on the ground. Casually, as if lighting a cigarette or waving to a friend, the German pulls a revolver from its holster and shoots the man in the head.

My hand reaches for the gun in my pocket. He deserves to die, I think.

Except there are only five bullets in the chamber of my gun and there won’t be time to reload before I’m caught. I should at least go to the man after the prisoners disappear. I could hold his hand, look for the name of a loved one to inform. But instead I leave him there, wondering if that makes me as empty as the soldier who shot him in the first place.

* * *

I remain behind the prisoners for the rest of the day. They take only one break, during which the German soldiers mostly laze about, smoking and laughing, while the prisoners sit, dazed and thirsty, saying nothing. When the break ends, they begin again. My legs are in agony, and I have blisters I didn’t notice until we stopped. How long have they gone like this? How long have they marched with their shoes falling apart, deprived of water and food? I feel like I’ll barely survive a single day of it.

It’s dark when they stop for the night. The prisoners are huddled together in a ditch, in groups of three or four, while the Germans cook something over a fire. The smell of it turns my stomach—tension has made it difficult to keep food down this week—but it must be torture for Henri and the others.

Eventually, half the soldiers retire, while the other five patrol the road, pointing their shotguns toward the ditch. I wait until it’s late, until I’m certain all but the patrols are sound asleep, and then I creep forward, trying to get close enough that I can see the prisoners’ faces in each small group. My coat catches on a bush and a soldier’s head swivels, looks right toward where I stand before he resumes his watch.

How the hell am I going to save Henri when I can’t move a foot without being overheard? I wait for the wind to gust before I move on to the next group, and soon a light rain begins, making it easier.

I spot someone with Henri’s dark hair, his size. Hope rises in me as I creep closer, and closer. And then the hope vanishes. The man has Henri’s build but not the full lips I love, not the cheekbones that rise so sharply from that square jaw, the aristocratic nose.

I begin again, angry at myself for not planning better. I have no idea what I’ll do when I find him, if I find him. Pulling him out of the trough will wake everyone for miles.