| Kirby, Littlejohn, and Doc huddled around the fire in the old tin drum. The ruins of the stone barn offered only moderate shelter from the elements, but the concept of being inside and the glow of the fire was enough to create the illusion of some comfort. It had been a long forty eight hours since Kirby had caught up with the squad during an interval in the fighting. It had been twenty four hours since the squad had joined the rest of the company in an ignominious retreat to the lines of nearly a week ago. No one had said it would be easy, but lately it seemed that they were taking two steps backward…all the time. Sarge stepped forward from the shadows. “Hey, Sarge, did you find out where they’ve taken Caje? Is he with Billy at that hospital down near the old church?” Kirby stared at the squad leader anxiously. Saunders shoved his helmet back and scratched at the wisps of hair straggling down his forehead. His eyes swept over the small group before locking on Kirby. “Billy is doing fine. I found one guy from Danver’s squad -- they were hit pretty hard. Danvers is listed as missing. This guy, Rainers, he was able to point out on a map that farmhouse where you said you left Caje. I don’t know what Danvers was thinking, but Fox Company was never supposed to move that way.” Kirby was confused. “So what are you saying, Sarge?” “Looks like Danvers had a tough call to make, and didn’t feel like sharing it with you. Maybe he was hoping things would go our way.” Understanding dawned on Kirby’s face. “He really left Caje! Why that…I asked him, Sarge! He told me they were coming. Fox Company.” Saunders looked away and said nothing. Doc’s voice broke into the awkward silence. “Kirby, if Caje was as bad as you said, moving him probably would have killed him.” Kirby sat back down by the fire, and his entire essence appeared to crumple even tighter into his compact body. The firelight highlighted his drawn cheeks and reflected back from his expressionless eyes. He had gotten Caje into this mess, he thought, and promised to get him out. There was no way to keep that promise now. Failure -- of the worst kind. He didn’t even care what Sarge thought -- about his disobeying orders in the first place, his inability to get a hold of a map to know where he had left his friend, anything… Keeping a promise to a buddy, that’s what mattered in this whole damn mess. And if you couldn’t do that… Littlejohn came over and rested his hand on Kirby’s shoulder, thinking how the guy irritated the hell out of him but always came through in a pinch. Littlejohn recognized that what had happened could have happened to any one of them, and he knew how he would have felt in Kirby’s place, especially if had been Billy. “Are we going to go get him, Sarge?” “Hanley has ordered us to move back with the rest of the company.” Saunders continued focusing on a spot on the wall well away from the eyes of his men. “We’re going to regroup, get some new guys from the repple depple.” “And Caje?” “There's no way to get to him, Doc. Assuming that he's still there. That’s now nearly five miles behind Kraut lines.” Saunders paused and took in several deep, calming breaths. He empathized with Kirby, but he could understand what Danvers had done. Even if he didn’t necessarily agree with it -- or the way it was done. Soon after the death of the other Cajun in the squad on the beach, Saunders began having the quick, silent-moving Paul LeMay take the point on a regular basis. The soldier had shown an uncanny aptitude for the scout position and never questioned the decision. In fact, he seemed to rather enjoy both the confidence shown in him after his initial breakdown under fire and the solitude the position provided. Caje's ability to read both the enemy and his commanders, while remaining one of the guys, was like oil that lubricated the squad and helped it run smoothly. Of course, Saunders thought as he moved over the fire to pour himself a cup of coffee, you couldn’t replace any of the men. Littlejohn and his strength, Kirby and his often deliberately distracting humor, Doc and his genuine caring, and Billy… The one thing he couldn’t do was let his mind wander to what Caje may or may not be feeling, injured and alone. He was responsible for these men and couldn’t help the guilt that overcame him when one was lost. But those feelings could be sealed off for times when action wasn’t required. Mercifully, there were not many of those times. “Eat your chow, and be ready to move out in thirty.” **** Caje sat bolt upright, covered in sweat -- then immediately groaned from the pain in his shoulder the sudden movement created. He peered around the dark room, his mind trying to remember what had disturbed him from his deep sleep in the warm, comfortable bed. He heard it again -- the very distant rumbling of artillery fire. It almost sounded like thunder on a warm, Louisiana night. That was it -- somehow, he must have incorporated that sound into his dream, for he had awakened thinking he was somewhere at home. Different things from several time periods had converged in his dream -- the large, porticoed house of his childhood, the small, secluded house near the bayou he knew in later years…and the need to protect them from the oncoming onslaught of Germans. He wiped his brow and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on home -- wherever that was -- since Theo’s death. It made everything too confusing, and made him feel more vulnerable. He took a couple of breaths to clear his head. He shouldn’t have allowed the conversation to go that way with Claire Marie tonight. It was better to remain in this identity somehow created through the heat of battle over the last couple of months. “Caje" -- not Paul LeMay, or anything that went along with it. The irony of it was really quite funny. Everything his father had spent his son’s lifetime trying to erase from young Paul’s identity, trying to make him the ideal young Creole gentleman, right down to the perfect French accent -- gone. The boarding schools in Charleston, summer camps and college in Quebec -- all to have his heir end up as a private known by the scorned appellation of his mother’s heritage. Well, at least it wasn’t reflective of her original profession. Caje snorted at the thought. That would be an interesting label. Reflecting on the last couple months objectively, though, Caje had to admit he was finding more of his father than Angelina in himself. The ability to compartmentalize, to proceed forward toward the goal without any seeming regrets for what -- or who -- got in the way. The ability, face it, to become a killer of some real skill -- that ability was definitely from Armand. For the first time in his twenty plus years on this planet, he had found something he felt he was good at -- and the ruthlessness that that entailed he felt was not even his own. It was a sick thing to be proficient at anyway. He felt nauseated at both the train of thought as well as the effort of standing. He was weaker than he had anticipated, but after holding onto the bedpost for a second, he found his initial dizziness passing and being replaced by an overall looseness of limbs. He compensated for it by remaining close to the wall for security as he moved toward the moonlight streaming through the one dormered window. He wondered if he could see the distant lights of the artillery fire on the horizon. A rustle accompanied by a soft sigh from across the room made him stop and peer into the darkness to the left of the window. Ah, yes…he remembered the other bed tucked in the corner near the dormer. Someone was in it. Trying to be as quiet as his unsteady steps allowed, he passed through the light of the dormer and gazed into the bed. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the brightness of the moonlight to the semi-gloom of the shadowed nook. Claire Marie’s hair, now a silvery waterfall cascading over the side of the bed, was illuminated by a beam of light from the window. She was curled with her back toward him, still in her pants, but with her shirt untucked. She lay on top of the coverlet, but the small form next to her was carefully tucked in, with just her face peeking from underneath. Bridgette’s ringlets shone the same silvery gray against the pillow. Claire Marie’s forehead and that of her daughter’s were touching, and it was clear their breaths mingled as one. The protective position of the mother and the child stirred up emotions in Caje that he could not categorize, and he turned back toward the window. He leaned against the wall of the dormer, allowing it to support him as he pressed his forehead against the cool glass. The horizon shone with only intermittent bursts of light that were out of sync with the rumblings of artillery he could hear. Good. By his estimate the barrage was taking place over twenty miles away. Or was that good? The Allies had been here only a couple of days before. Apparently, the Germans were conducting an effective counteroffensive. Well, at least it was good momentarily for this small, unprotected family. Caje considered how weak he was and the substantial ache in his shoulder. He estimated that, at best, he would be ready to move out and try to get back to the Allied lines in three to four days. Maybe sooner if he pushed it, but that would be a danger to this family. The likelihood of avoiding capture if he left the house in his current condition was pretty small, and it would be obvious that he had received succor somewhere. Some of the soldiers here a couple of days before could be available to identify him and deduce where the help had originated. He rubbed his temples with his left hand and closed his eyes as another brief wave of nausea washed over him. Damn, what a position to be in. These poor people most likely couldn’t run and were hiding an Allied soldier. In for a penny…. **** She had been awakened by his mumbling and groaning before the soldier stood and came over to peer at them. Claire Marie had listened to the noises and realized that the man was dreaming as he had done during the days of his fever. It seemed that all he had seen in the past months had made rest nearly impossible, despite the demands of a wounded body. Well, that was something she understood. Only the warm body and sweet breath of Bridgette allowed her to occasionally relax and rest in the knowledge that life could be worth living. She had been feeling the innocent’s comfort a moment ago when the soldier came and looked at them, and she continued to lie still and tried to recapture it. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she saw him silhouetted in the moonlight by the window and knew that he was disturbed by what she now also heard. Emotions were illuminated on his face in a way they hadn’t been earlier, when he had been pleasant but guarded company in the light of the lantern. Her fingers twitched once again with the itch to capture the planes and angles of his face on paper -- the combination of the gray light and shadows that revealed his raw thoughts when he thought he was being unobserved. She couldn’t resist. She carefully rolled away from Bridgette and stood. Her movement startled Caje, and he turned toward her. His face was entirely in shadow now, and she could not tell from his voice whether or not he was happy about her disturbing his solitude. “You’re awake.” “As are you -- now. You fell asleep earlier during our conversation. I had to report to Uncle and Louisa that all my vast abilities for parlor conversation have been lost in this rural wasteland.” Caje’s voice was polite as he pointedly turned back toward the window. “You should get your rest.” It was clear that he wanted to be alone. Claire Marie sighed. It was typical that she was not working with the uncomplicated, simple American that was oft portrayed in cartoons and literature before the war. No, from the conversation earlier this evening she knew that this soldier was as educated as herself, able to converse easily about a variety of subjects. And all the while, he had maintained his own personal distance while respecting hers. Truthfully, it had been the most pleasant evening she had spent in awhile. Right up until the point Paul had drifted off in mid-sentence, startling her, as he had given no indication of how tired he was. Even that, she thought, was guarded like a great secret. Well, though he may want to be alone, she could not sleep either. And she really wanted to sketch him before he left. There were not many opportunities during the daylight hours when Bridgette was awake. Besides, this light was so perfect for what she had in mind. She went over to the bureau next to the stairs and slid open one of the drawers. Her paper supply was approaching depletion. She carefully removed one sheet and rummaged through the few pencils rolling around. When Bridgette got into the drawer last week and tore several sheets of the precious paper, it had been the first time she had gotten truly angry at her small daughter. The child’s sweet lower lip had protruded and shaped her entire mouth into an almost perfect square. That look, combined with the big blue eyes rounded in surprise at her mother’s outburst, had amused Claire Marie so much that she had taken yet another piece of her limited paper and quickly sketched the dismayed toddler. In the absence of photos to record these early days of Bridgette’s little life, Claire Marie was glad to have such a “candid” moment captured. Not that there would necessarily ever be an opportunity to look back… Her eyes misted over. No, no, no -- not even in the dark of the evening. She would not break down, would not think about what could happen. She would focus on the task at hand, whether he liked it or not. She sensed the American had turned and was now staring at her. He remained leaning against the wall of the dormer, the moonlight glinting off his dark hair. She needed him to turn his face back toward the window, where the light would be better for what she had in mind. Relighting the lamp on the bureau so that she could see her sketch pad finally drew a question from the American. “What are you doing?” “I want to sketch you. Can you turn your head back the way you had it?” “Why?” “Because I like the way the light reflects off your face and the rather reflective look you had. If you could just reposition yourself…” She looked at him and grinned innocently as she pulled up a chair and flung herself down, the sound of pencil scratching against paper already steady. “I shall call it ‘Brooding Liberator.’” He did not smile back at her attempt at banter. But he did comply with her request and returned to gazing at the glowing horizon. The shelling looked to have slowed down, Caje thought. He knew that that probably meant one of two things -- either the lines had been softened enough to move in the infantry, or something of import had been taken out. From this distance, there was no way to discern the answer. Or answers to anything… He really wanted to be alone with his thoughts for awhile. There was a lot he would like to try to sort through during his own personal lull in the battle, away from the daily onslaughts and struggle to stay alive. He believed that he was at a crossroads, that something in him would soon be determined that would affect the rest of his life. Whether that life was short or long was a matter largely out of his hands. Before this last patrol he wrote Bere, trying to explain his feelings -- how he found his own capabilities on the field frightening, how he felt he could not share this with the rest of the squad, including Sarge, and how he wasn’t sure what it meant about him as a person. God knew, or at least Uncle Bere knew, how all his life he seemed to have been struggling with similar issues -- those questions about who…or what…he was. He hoped that by the time he returned and the mail caught up, there would be yet another comforting letter from his uncle, chiding him once again not to be too introspective and to live life as it is. Uncle Bere never had the answers, but he had always provided the comfort of stability and unquestioning love. Too much thought -- his head ached, and Caje became aware of the slight chill in the room. He should go back to bed and rest, as he was going to soon need his strength. He turned and looked at Claire Marie. Her eye caught his, but the look and the smile were distant. Her thoughts were far away also. “Are you almost finished?” He sounded curious, not cross. Claire Marie focused on the man now rather than her subject. He appeared pale and pinched. “Sorry, I hope you were not remaining there just for me. I can become quite intent. Please, go back to bed. I have what I wanted.” “May I see?” Claire Marie shrugged and pushed herself out of the chair. With her hands full, she occasionally found maneuvering difficult. Caje started forward to help her, but backed off after Claire Marie frowned and shook her head. Caje snorted. Stubborn little thing… She slid in the small space in the dormer next to the soldier and turned the sketch toward the moonlight so that he could see. A low, appreciative whistle escaped Caje. “Shhh -- Bridgette!” Taking the paper from her hands, Caje tilted it slightly and studied the sketch. Claire Marie clearly was not just a young woman who had studied art at some type of finishing school thing. He had been prepared to make a few polite remarks and head back to bed, but the image before him erased that thought. It was him. But it was not just a likeness. The essence of his thoughts were captured in the lines of the forehead pressed against the glass and around the brooding eyes looking out the window. Anyone looking at the picture could tell that the subject was at some moment of decision -- it was suggested by the way he leaned forward into the dormer and the way he seemed to be tilting his head, incredulous at the choice to be made. Aside from the uncanny ability of the artist, Caje was struck by his own unmistakable resemblance to Armand. There had never been any doubt that he favored his father’s very patrician, Creole looks. The strong face, the thick hair, the hooded eyes. But if this portrait were to be believed, he had started aging in the few weeks he had been fighting here in France, to a degree that left no doubt that if his portrait were to be hung in the family gallery one day alongside his father’s, the only real difference would be their dress. “You are quiet.” “You are good.” She shrugged, and cocked her head to the side. It seemed to be a dismissive little gesture of which she made much use. “I should be, from the hours of lessons my poor mother paid for. She saw to it that I studied with the best in Paris.” Claire Marie did not add that her mother often traded favors for those lessons. The knowledge of that as a young girl drove her to absorb every minute of instruction into her very essence. An innate talent, yes, but one practiced and trained to the highest degree. At least until now… She was drained artistically, she knew, and needed some type of sabbatical to recapture her creative spirit. That was not going to happen, though, at any time in the near future. “Keep it,” she said. “I’m not sure I’d like to. You may have captured a little more of myself than I can handle right now.” “I’ll put it with the others. Perhaps you will change your mind before you leave.” “I would like to see your others…” Claire Marie looked up at the soldier. He seemed genuinely interested, but… “Why don’t you go on to bed. I will bring you over a couple of my favorites. Then we must sleep. Who knows what tomorrow could bring?” She repeated her small shrug and started toward the bureau, but then paused. The soldier had not moved. Without saying anything, she turned back and placed his right arm around her shoulders. He acquiesced to her help without acknowledgement. Perhaps because of her weariness, or perhaps because of his additional weight, her limp was more pronounced. She favored the left side, Caje determined. They both grunted as he moved from her support to the bed. “You’re surprisingly strong for…” His voice trailed off. “What were you going to say? For a cripple, for a woman, for a dwarf?” Caje could discern the smile that took some of the defensiveness out of the words. He continued lamely, “I hadn’t thought of what to say. You’re just surprising, Claire Marie.” She tucked the blankets around him. He rewarded her with a small, tired smile. He was exhausted. The healing process could take longer than he had originally reckoned, but he -- the family -- might not have the necessary time. He truly did need to rest, but he also needed to turn off his mind. Talking a little more with Claire Marie might help him forget his troubled thoughts, might help him forget why he was becoming afraid of himself. “What happened to you?” he asked. “I was always small, even as a child.” “Your leg, Claire Marie.” “I know. It is actually my hip, not my leg. The Boches…they left me several things to remember.” “How long ago?” “Over two years.” They were silent. Caje wanted to ask further questions, but wasn’t sure how to proceed. Normally he was not so inquisitive -- it was definitely not part of his nature -- but something about the spirited woman provoked his interest. Still, this was not the time to risk getting more involved in even the slightest way with this family. He needed to stay emotionally detached in order to make rational decisions about the situation they all faced now. But he hated to leave their brief conversation on the last unsettling note. “How about showing me those pictures and telling me why they’re your favorites?” “I think now it would be better to show them to you tomorrow. You need to rest.” “I can’t sleep.” “I think you can. And I think I will. Good night, Paul LeMay.” Caje watched her petite, dark form cross the small distance to the other side of the room. The moon had shifted position and no longer illuminated the nook where she and Bridgette slept. Caje strained to see her hair again spill down the side of the bed, but the light was no longer sufficient. He relaxed back against the pillows. Despite his fear to the contrary, he was asleep instantly. **** The sunlight streaming through the dormer told him that he had slept until late morning. It was something he had not done in years -- not since college. He started to stretch, but the dull ache in his shoulder denied him the satisfaction of extending himself fully. Cautiously he sat up. He felt pretty well, all in all. He was still very tired, both from his illness and the interrupted sleep, but the soreness that had pervaded his body over the past several days seemed to have abated. He felt an urgent need to relieve himself. Reaching over the edge of the bed, however, he discovered that the cracked china chamber pot he had been using was missing. Swearing to himself, he got out of bed and gingerly looked underneath it to see if the chamber pot had been shoved further back, out of reach. It wasn’t there and neither were his boots. Nausea hit him suddenly, and he held onto the side of the bed until his stomach settled and his head cleared. The pitcher he had broken had not been replaced, but there was a glass of water on the nightstand. Caje took a small sip, then dipped his fingers into it and ran them through his tousled hair and over his face, following up with the wipe of a shirtsleeve. His beard was coming in heavy, four days’ worth at least, he judged. Despite feeling vulnerable because of his bare feet and having no weapon, he decided he had to go downstairs and find whatever latrine…facilities the family used. This wasn’t a battlefield, after all. There was no sound from below as he cautiously made his way down the steep steps. Peering around the corner, he could neither sense nor see anyone in the front parlor. He did not know the layout of the small cottage, but suspected that the kitchen would be behind the staircase. As expected, the short, dark corridor led to a small kitchen, with bright white walls and cheery red-checked curtains. No one was about, but the evidence of a morning meal on the table indicated some recent presence. A door led outside and was partially open, allowing in the cool morning air. Voices wafted in with the breeze. Caje pressed himself against the wall beside the door and looked outside, being careful to stay hidden from anyone glancing toward the back of the house. There was a small vegetable garden, which looked to have been surrounded at one time by a wooden fence. The fence was lying in pieces around the patch, and the vegetation had been trampled some days ago, as evidenced by their brown and bruised condition. Brigitte was sitting on a small dirty blanket, playing with some type of little toy. Claire Marie, on her hands and knees, was digging in the dirt with a piece of wood. As Caje watched, she scooped up her finds and placed them next to Brigitte on the blanket. She was talking to her small daughter, and Caje could detect no agitation or caution in her demeanor. The coast appeared to be clear. He stepped out onto the small stone porch, his eyes warily taking in the broader view. Nothing but a road and, on its other side, the magnificent valley in the distance he had seen from the dormer window the last evening. He coughed softly. Claire Marie did not hear him, but Brigitte did and looked up at him soberly. He waved, but she continued staring. Sensing her daughter’s shift in focus, Claire Marie stopped and turned toward her, then awkwardly turned again to follow her daughter’s gaze. Seeing Caje, her face broke into a smile, and she signaled him to come out. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Some soldier you must be if you could sleep through all the ruckus this morning.” “I believe I could have slept the entire day, Claire Marie, but, uh….I need to…” Caje paused, hesitant to continue. He had been too much among rough male company in the past several years. Claire Marie scrunched up her face and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I forgot to take it back up this morning. The outhouse was destroyed with the barn. The chamber pot is still in the kitchen. And, please, there is some bread left if you are hungry. We will be done soon.” Caje went back inside. Feeling awkward about his surroundings, he hastily took care of his need and then returned to the kitchen. There he found the bread covered by a cloth, and he sat down in one of the mismatched chairs around the small table. Biting into the bread, he kept an ear out for unusual sounds. Three days. He would give himself three days. No more. After he had thought more about it, Caje decided that Claire Marie’s plan to pass him off as her husband’s friend, in the event the Krauts returned, would not work. Especially if it was the same Kraut unit that had been around a couple days ago and knew who belonged in the area and who did not. He had to figure out which way was back to the Allied lines. He and Kirby had taken so many twists and turns when they’d looked for Hanley, followed by the period during which he had been semi-conscious after the shooting, that his normally acute sense of direction could provide no guidance. Maybe the old man had some idea. Where were Msr. Bertrand and Madame this morning, anyway? Claire Marie had mentioned a disturbance, but he wasn’t so out of it now that he could have remained asleep if it had been serious. Besides, Claire Marie seemed calm enough. The bread finished, but his hunger not abated, Caje started to get up to find something else to eat. Looking out the window, however, and seeing the small, lame woman hard at work trying to salvage some vegetables, he sat back down. He would like to go out and give her a hand, but he let prudence dictate both the conservation of his strength and the concealment of his presence. He was rested, fed -- more or less -- and too weak to leave. Now what? The ability to be still was something that he could do only when listening to or hiding from the enemy. To be still for the sake of being still… He got up again and decided to look around the house and maybe locate his boots. The corridor only led to the front parlor room, with a side door to what he ascertained was another bedroom. Three rooms down and one up -- that’s all there was to the house. Not many places to hide, as Claire Marie had said. There were a couple of pictures on the small, wooden mantle above the fireplace in the front room. The glass was shattered and cracked in all of them -- reminders either of the recent fighting or the flight from Paris Claire Marie mentioned last night. All were of happier times -- Monsieur, his face younger and even fuller, and a clearly ill, but beautiful woman in formal dress at what appeared to be an outdoor luncheon somewhere, where a river flowed behind the tables... Paris, Caje decided. There was also a picture of a young Claire Marie, her cheeks more rounded and flushed, standing next to an incredibly handsome -- almost pretty -- young man laughing with his eyes turned away from her adoring gaze. A third picture showed a very young girl of about four, standing solemnly, holding the hand of the same but healthier, beautiful woman in the luncheon-by-the-river photo. Though the woman appeared to be trying to look formal and respectable for the camera, one could sense the laughter and the sensuality pent up behind her merry eyes and full-lipped smile. The little girl appeared to be a much paler, less substantial version of the older woman, who, Caje decided, must be Claire Marie’s mother. He heard the back door of the house opening and Claire Marie’s uneven gait. She came down the hallway toward him, carrying a sleeping Bridgette in her arms. Carefully placing her on a bedraggled sofa along the wall, she turned back to Caje and put her finger to her lips. He followed her to the kitchen. “How are you doing this morning?” she asked him. “Pretty well. I haven’t slept that late in awhile.” Caje took a seat at the table. “I am sure. You seemed quite peaceful this morning.” “As opposed to…” “You are very restless in your sleep.” She left the statement hanging and turned to pour some water into the stone sink. She began to wash the dirt from her small hands. “I hope I don’t keep you awake.” She shrugged. “The war keeps us all awake at night and makes our days like something out of a bad dream. Right? But what can we do?” She continued scrubbing her hands, but without the benefit of soap, they were not becoming as clean as she wanted. Irritated, she dried them on a small towel beside the wash basin and then leaned back against the wall and faced Caje. “Claire Marie, where are your aunt and uncle? You mentioned a disturbance this morning…” Pushing her hair back, Claire Marie tied it behind her in a loose knot before answering. “They went to see old Elise again. She is convinced that she is dying. Who wouldn’t be right now? But since Elise is his wife, Uncle goes whenever he can to check on her.” “Isn’t Louisa your uncle’s wife?” “Louisa?” Claire Marie laughed. “No, no. Louisa was my nursemaid and my tutor. Uncle hired her to help tutor and take care of me when my mother became ill. After my mother died, she – Louisa -- stayed with us.” “So, your mother and Bertrand were brother and sister?” “No, no. My mother was his mistress. She was a dancer at -- well, near -- the Moulin Rouge before we went to live with him. Well, way before….” She sighed and looked away. “Elise and Uncle have had an arrangement pretty much since they were married. He obtained her title, she got his money and was able to keep her family’s old homes. I married his nephew, his brother’s son. Everyone is happy…was happy.” Caje nodded. He had definitely had experience with complicated family relationships. “So this morning….” “Elise lives a couple kilometers or so down the road toward town. Where we are now is the cottage owned by the overseer of her estate here. Old Pierre, who helps at the chateau, comes down all excited about every other day to fetch Uncle to see her. Like I said, Elise always thinks she’s dying.” Claire Marie walked toward the door, her face now clouded with worry. Caje watched her, unsure of what was wrong. “Where are you going?” “To bring in the vegetables. I told Louisa I would try to prepare something for dinner.” “Is there anything I can do to help?” Claire Marie paused at the door, looking grim. “No, you should rest. But I am afraid that my youth was misspent, for a female. I failed to learn to cook. Louisa would look at our pantry and see endless possibilities for a feast. I look and see a few rotting vegetables. I’m afraid your dinner tonight may not be edible.” Caje smiled his first real smile in days. Claire Marie looked forlorn and somewhat embarrassed by her admission. “Madame, I can assure you that if you are experiencing performance anxiety because of me, you should not. My experiences here in France thus far have been very limited.” Claire Marie’s expression instantly turned from one of gloom into one of true mirth, and her eyes danced as she responded mischievously, “I assume, Monsieur, that you speak of your culinary experiences?” Caje laughed. She was fun to spar with verbally, and he was pleased he had succeeded in diverting her attention from their unfortunate situation. Besides, he enjoyed seeing her smile. It lit up her face and her eyes, illuminating her from within and highlighting her delicate features. A girl with a sharp wit was something he appreciated…which probably explained why his only two semi-serious relationships thus far in life had been with older, very clever and experienced women. Lust, he had found, could be satisfied quickly, but often left him bored in the aftermath. Laughing, however, jostled his shoulder and the sudden pain reminded him of the reason he was sitting in France. Though it was not what he wanted to do, he realized he should go back upstairs and lie down. But to just lie down, when not mentally tired… “Claire Marie, I’ll make a deal with you. If you’ll come show me some of your drawings and where you’ve put my stuff, I’ll help you cook in a while. Just tell me what you have so that I can be thinking about what we can do.” He paused as he noticed the change in her expression. “What’s the matter?” “Your wife let you cook?” It slipped out before Claire Marie could stop herself. “What makes you think I have a wife?” Claire Marie faltered. There was no bantering tone in Caje’s question. She sensed she had stepped unwittingly into a very private area. Once again she felt like a voyeur, only this time she had been caught. She straightened herself and looked directly into the soldier’s unblinking gaze. She had done nothing to warrant feeling this way. “You called out for a woman during your fever. Many times. I -- we -- assumed it was your wife -- or girlfriend.” She tried to lighten the mood. “I am just surprised anyone let you in the kitchen.” Caje’s expression did not change. He stood up from the table and started toward the corridor. Softly over his shoulder he asked, “What name did I call?” “Angelina.” As he stepped into the darkness of the corridor, Claire Marie heard him sigh. She did not follow. Paul LeMay was amusing and she enjoyed his company. He was, to her, very good looking, though without that beauty that caused both women and men to pause and look at her husband as he strode down the streets of Paris. But she had been down the complicated relationship route before, and look what it had brought her. Besides, he would only be here for a few more days…if they were all very lucky. “They are in the bureau!” Caje stopped. “What?” “Your things…they are in the bureau.” He didn’t answer. **** A wife! Caje snorted even though his breathing was heavy from the brief trip up the stairs. And Angelina, of all people. If it wasn’t so ludicrous, it would almost be funny. His stomach still called out for more food, but the bed was soft and the small exertion had cost him more than he realized. He slept without dreams…for nearly two hours. **** Krauts! Caje opened his eyes, scanning the small attic room while lying perfectly still. The Germans were downstairs. He could hear them conversing, their voices relaxed. If they knew he was here, they weren’t concerned about him going anywhere. Cautiously he sat up. He looked around again, but other than possibly under the bed, there was nowhere to hide. Then again, it would probably be worse for Msr. Bertrand and his family if he were found hiding. Although he still doubted that trying to pass himself off as part of the family would work if these Krauts had been stationed anywhere near here, it probably would be best to be open about his presence. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that. He could pick out Claire Marie’s voice and, by listening closely, two additional voices. Add two more outside -- four men at least. They could be setting up an OP, but even for that, given what had happened here a few days ago, he assumed they would have sent more troops. They also would have been up here already. He debated getting out of bed to listen better to the conversation. Not that he knew any German other than that which would indicate that the conversation had taken the worst possible turn. He willed himself to be even more still -- an art he was perfecting as a scout. The voices were getting closer. They were moving toward the stairwell. He could now distinctly pick out Claire Marie’s voice, but as he strained to make out the words, he realized with a jolt that she was speaking quickly and rapidly in German. A man’s voice was trying to talk over her. It was moving with her. Caje could make out that she was protesting something, and he could pick out Bridgette’s name in the conversation. The German male’s voice was alternately chiding and reassuring. Caje heard Bridgette’s name repeated. Abruptly, the male voice switched to French. “Claire Marie, Bridgette is fine with Wilhelm. He likes children, I told you. You know I would do nothing to hurt her. I need to speak with you -- alone.” “Then why don’t we stay down here and speak? Your men don’t understand us, and I can be near Bridgette.” “I told the Commandant that we were coming here to check for additional wounded and would see if this still remained viable as a potential OP. I at least need to pretend there is a reason. I have to be more careful now. Things are not like they used to be.” The man’s voice was now a cautious whisper. The footsteps continued moving toward the attic space. Caje weighed the direction of the conversation, and slid quietly under the bed. The old fashioned bed had plenty of space beneath, which allowed for easier access, but also for a better view -- both ways. Caje moved back as far as he could before the inevitable shoes came into view, and then slowed his breathing as he did on the field. “Well, you can tell Oberfuhrer Weisner that the view of the valley from here is still unobstructed. The only thing that has changed since last week is that we are minus a barn, our food supplies, and…. Stop looking at me that way, Rolf.” Caje could see Claire Marie’s small feet turn abruptly and move toward his hiding place. She had to know where he was, but as to what was happening here and her intentions with this Kraut soldier, Caje was uncertain. If she was going to turn him over, she probably would have already done so. But her voice made her sound comfortable and even familiar with the German. A Kraut lover? Claire Marie a collaborator? For some reason above and beyond his own safety, Caje found the thoughts disturbing. The silence continued for several more minutes. In his dusty refuge under the bed, Caje could feel the tension in the room. With decisive steps, the Kraut boots finally moved toward Claire Marie. Caje could see from the way that Claire Marie’s clogs turned that the soldier must have spun her around. Instinctively, his left hand reached for the knife that he usually kept sheathed at his side, but it was not there. “Claire Marie, I must have an answer before it is too late. To stay here is foolish. Let me help you -- let me take care of you -- and Bridgette. You know I care for her, and as a mother, you must know that this is the right thing.” “Rolf, I cannot leave them -- Uncle and Louisa -- and I do not want to. You are a sweet boy, and I will always appreciate all that you have done for us. But I cannot do what you ask. Please don’t ask again. Let us continue as we have been.” There was a slight pause, and she whispered, “I am sorry about Reiger. He was quite kind.” There was a catch in Rolf’s voice as he answered, “Thank you. He was. And this is why we cannot continue, Claire Marie. Look at what happened this week. Look at what happened to Reiger! Of course, the Reich will prevail -- the Allied supply lines are stretched too far and too thin. But until they realize this, what happened will happen over and over again. This will be contested ground. And you -- and Bridgette -- will be caught in the middle. How long do you think you will last?” “How long do you think we will last in Germany?” “You know my father is powerful. Your German is perfect. I will see to it that you are set up and Bridgette is given all the opportunities…” “Until your wife finds out, or you grow tired of a mistress with a child.” “I could never grow tired of you. You are different from the rest.” “Different from your wife, perhaps. But isn’t it that very difference that your Fuhrer is trying to annihilate?” “You know that is not the same….” Bridgette’s high-pitched wail floated up the stairwell. Caje could see Claire Marie freeze for a second as she assessed the cry, and then her feet moved quickly, stumbling slightly on the edge of the rag rug. The Kraut’s shiny black boots moved quickly also, and Caje could visualize him offering a steadying arm to Claire Marie. “You must decide within the next week. I have been patient, Claire Marie. Think about Bridgette -- I will be good to her. You know that.” “I am thinking about Bridgette -- let me go to her.” Claire Marie disappeared down the stairs. The Kraut remained a few minutes longer, pacing around the room. He stopped, and then moved toward the bureau where Caje had seen Claire Marie store her art supplies. Caje sucked in his breath, remembering the sketch from last night that he had seen her place in the drawer. And she had indicated his other belongings were also inside the chest. Just as the soldier reached for the bureau, Claire Marie called from downstairs. Although it was in German, Caje recognized the insistency in her voice. The Kraut boots also disappeared down the staircase. Whatever had happened with Bridgette and drawn Claire Marie and the Kraut Rolf away had occurred away from the staircase. Caje could make out quiet murmuring back toward the kitchen area. He relaxed from the tense position he had unconsciously been maintaining, but didn’t dare venture from beneath the bed. Instead, he simply craved a cigarette to go along with his musings. So, Claire Marie had a Kraut lover. Or seemed to. And the guy wanted her to move to Germany. The voices continued downstairs, muffled and indistinguishable. Caje rolled from his side to his back, his shoulder making him painfully aware he had been straining as he peered out from under his dusty hideaway. He thought concealing himself was what Claire Marie had intended by giving him time as she paused, arguing, with the Kraut on the stairs. But he couldn’t be sure. He absently ran his left hand through his damp hair, noting that the tension and pain had caused him to break out in a light sweat. Collaborator? Lover?! His mind continued to circle the possibilities. Claire Marie seemed awfully familiar with the German soldier. And she spoke fluent German -- at least, it sounded fluent to him, and the Kraut had indicated that it was. Well, speaking different languages wasn’t that unusual here on the continent, he supposed. But her tone, her familiarity with the man…they undeniably bothered him. She hadn’t led them to him, but what kind of game was she playing? Or was it a game? Maybe Claire Marie was acting in self preservation. The Krauts had been here for nearly three years. Living side by side with the people in France and actually welcomed by many who saw a chance to regain some of the glory that they perceived the country had lost between the wars. How does one act when living with occupiers day after day? He couldn’t answer that for himself, and realized that he was glad for his unambiguous situation with regard to the war. He heard the front door close and the start of an engine. The car roared away with an angry screech of tires, as though the driver deliberately gassed the engine before putting the vehicle into drive. After what felt like hours but was more like five minutes, Caje decided to risk moving out from under the bed. Stealthily, he crossed the room and leaned against the doorway at the top of the steps. Standing again left him lightheaded, and he waited patiently for the pounding in his ears to abate before trying to hear any sounds below. He could make out someone crying. Claire Marie. He debated about what to do, then decided to take a moment and put on his boots. Though he was certain there was no one else in the house, he still felt at a disadvantage without footwear. After rummaging in the bureau, he located them in the bottom drawer, under some men’s clothes. Her husband’s, he surmised. Finding his dog tags crammed in the toe of one of the boots, he hesitated before slipping the tags back in the drawer. There was no use calling attention to himself if any more unexpected visitors dropped by. He crept down the steps and peered into the sitting room. Claire Marie was on the floor, Bridgette in her arms. “Are you alright?” Claire Marie jumped. Her eyes were red and tears spilled down her cheeks. She did not even try to wipe them. Bridgette looked at him and answered, “Mamma boo boo.” Caje strode across the floor toward Claire Marie. She turned her face away from him. He knelt and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you hurt?” He could feel her shoulders trembling beneath his touch. Her hair hid her expression, but her voice quavered as she answered, “It is only my pride. I am fine. I should have come up and told you it was safe to come out.” Relief flooded through Caje, only to be replaced by uncertainty. He would rather be caught in live fire than in a maelstrom of female emotions, especially the emotions of a woman involved with a Kraut lover. However, he at least owed her the courtesy of appearing to care, given that her entire family was endangered by his presence. “Is Bridgette okay? I heard her cry earlier.” “She simply fell while Wilhelm was chasing her. She’s fine. There is food in the kitchen if you are hungry. Rolf has saved us from me attempting to create something.” Caje jerked his hand away at her mention of the amorous German. Claire Marie colored at his repulsion and addressed his unasked question. “I know you heard our exchange upstairs. I am not a collaborator. Rolf was -- is -- Uncle’s nephew, through Elise. He is not a bad boy. Just caught up in this whole mess.” “He wears the uniform of the Reich.” “It is easy for you to make judgments, Ami. You have not been here these past years.” Bridgette started squirming in her mother’s arms, her fear of her mother’s tears forgotten. She looked at Caje hopefully with her almond shaped eyes. “Chase?” Claire Marie laughed harshly. “She sees only friends, no matter the uniform.” Pushing her hair away from her face and taking a quick swipe at her eyes, she started to get up from the floor. The effort appeared somewhat difficult for her, and Caje proffered a helping hand, which she pointedly ignored. “Come, Bridgette, let Mamma find you something to eat. Maybe there is a treat, eh?” As she walked toward the kitchen, Caje caught his breath. The outline of an open hand was visible on Claire Marie’s left cheek. Hearing his unguarded response, Claire Marie swung her hair forward over her shoulder, masking the ugly, red mark. Without looking at Caje she said, “There is no reason for Uncle and Louisa to know of this. They have enough concerns.” Caje took a moment to think and to peer out the tattered lace curtains of the drawing room. The small compound appeared clear. The afternoon was overcast, the gray clouds contributing to the desolate appearance of the farm yard. The barn where he and Kirby had been kept still smoldered from the fire that had destroyed it. Caje remembered very little of the area before the Allied counteroffensive and decided that today he would take a look around for additional hiding places beyond the confines of the house. Furthermore, he would sit down with Msr. Bertrand when he returned and try to get some idea of the direction to go to get back to his own lines. Given the situation here, it appeared more prudent than ever to be prepared. **** They ate in silence from the small stores of food that the Germans had left. Caje noticed that Bridgette seemed familiar enough with the food that she continued pointing with excitement at one small tin in particular. Claire Marie noted his attention, and returned his gaze with one equally unfathomable. Finally, she acknowledged Bridgette’s excitement with a forced smile. “Soon, petite. Let Mamma and her guest finish our lunch. Then you can have your treat.” She addressed Caje for the first time during the uncomfortable meal. “There is some wine if you would like it. It is German.” “There are some fine German wines, are there not, Claire Marie?” Caje hated himself for baiting her, but he couldn’t resist. “There are fine wines from many countries, Monsieur, though I am not very familiar with those from America.” She stood up briskly and grabbed Bridgette’s desired tin from the counter. From a fresh loaf of bread, she cut two slices and then opened the tin and smeared sticky, red jam thickly across them. Bridgette jumped up and down beside her. “Here, darling. Be careful and don’t get it everywhere.” Bridgette grasped both pieces of bread in her hands, and ran pell mell toward Caje, plastering one on the front of his shirt. “Bridgette!” Caje smiled at the upturned face that looked anxiously into his. “I believe this is how we met, little one.” He reached down and peeled the bread away from the shirt and set it on the table. “Why don’t you sit beside me and show me if you can eat the whole thing?” He patted the seat of the chair next to him, and Bridgette scrambled onto it, smears of jam trailing behind her. “Claire Marie, if you hand me a cloth, I’ll clean this up for you.” Claire Marie wet a cloth from the pitcher alongside the sink and handed it across the table to Caje. “I’m sorry for the mess she made. She does not get such treats often.” She paused and looked at Caje closer. “I’m afraid that between being under the bed and now Bridgette, you are a mess. After lunch we shall heat you some water to clean up and I will change your bandages.” Caje ran a hand through his hair and looked at it closely. Specks of dust and gray cobwebs clung to his fingers. He nodded and decided not to mention anything else, at the moment, about the incident that caused him to seek refuge earlier. “I wish I had a K ration and my pack. I’ll bet she would love some chocolate. And I’d like a razor.” “I’m sure she would like that. Your soldiers brought little and left nothing behind.” The momentary diversion caused by the child relieved some of the tension in the air. Claire Marie sat back down at the table, with a small glass of wine for herself and a slightly larger one for Caje. “Rolf has been here for nearly two…” “You don’t have to explain to me.” “You’re right, I do not. But I want to. It would be a relief to be able to talk to someone about this, and since you will be going soon…well, if I regret sharing a confidence, it won’t be for long.” For a moment, they both broke their intense eye contact and focused on their wineglasses. “Paul, Rolf has been here nearly two years. I knew him in Paris, he attended my wedding, and then, once he was posted as a doctor here -- which his father arranged -- he helped deliver Bridgette. It has been a gift, to have him nearby. It could have been so much worse, without him. He’s…. Caje stiffened and held his hand up for silence. Claire Marie started to protest, but saw that the soldier’s attention was not on her, but rather drawn to something she could not perceive. His entire body froze, his head cocked to the side. Even Bridgette sensed the intensity of his concentration and quieted her babbling to look curiously at the American. “Is there a gun here?” Caje asked abruptly. “I don’t know.” More quickly than Claire Marie could imagine, the American slid away from the table and moved across the room. He was back by her in an instant, the large knife she had been using to slice the bread in his left hand, his right hand on her shoulder. “When do you expect your Uncle back?” “He usually returns in the evening.” “I’ll wait in the staircase.” He was gone. Claire Marie pushed her chair back from the table and went over and grabbed Bridgette. She was just able to distinguish the voices that had alerted the American. Whoever was out there was approaching the front door. She carried Bridgette on her hip, her step slowed by the additional weight. As she moved down the hallway, she began to make out the voices. It was Uncle, but someone else was with him besides Louisa. She set Bridgette down on the floor, pushed the little girl behind her skirt, and stood by the door, waiting for it to open. “You are back earlier than I expected, Uncle. Oh, Msr. Guileau! Welcome.” Bertrand was accompanied by a large, florid man of powerful build. His bald head shone with perspiration, despite the coolness of the afternoon. He leaned over and grinned wickedly at Bridgette, growling, “How is this delicious little morsel? I have not had my lunch yet, you know…” Bridgette squealed in delight as she jumped up and threw her arms around the visitor. He stood upright, with the child clinging around his neck, and the wicked smile on his face turned positively lurid as he threw a huge arm around Claire Marie’s shoulders. “Has your mother changed her mind about my proposal yet, petite? It’s an honest woman I would make of her, you know.” There was laughter in Claire Marie’s voice as she replied, “It is too late for that, you know, Msr. Guileau. And even if my becoming an ‘honest woman’ could be accomplished, I do not think you are the man to do it.” “You wound me again, Claire Marie. You should take pity on those of us who have served the Republic and given so much.” “Ah, men! I believe you start these wars just to use as fodder for your romantic forays.” The man’s voice turned sober as he replied, “I wish, Claire Marie, I wish.” The group was quiet for a moment, the mood clearly changing. “Uncle, where is Louisa?” Msr. Guileau replied, “Your uncle and I decided to let her stay tonight with Elise. We need to either move you to the old chateau or move Elise here. To keep running back and forth is getting more and more dangerous. I would take her into the house with us, but it would raise some eyebrows among the Boches, and I don’t need to draw any more attention to myself. I believe that the best solution for the Resistance is to go ahead and have you all move to the chateau…” Claire Marie started to protest, but the large man held up his hand and stooped to let Bridgette slide to the floor and go to her uncle. “I understand your reluctance to live among the soldiers there, Claire Marie. But we cannot give up that source of information, especially now. And we cannot have you here alone so often. You know it is not safe.” Bertrand broke in at this. “Your concern is appreciated, Bernard. But I can talk to Elise…” “Elise is getting more and more erratic in her behavior, and you know it. She is starting to annoy the Boches, and she is your wife. We need to deal with this now, before something happens. But I understand that there is an additional consideration now. Where have you hidden him?” At the top of the stairs, Caje started at the clear mention of himself. He had listened intently over the past several minutes to the conversation below. Now he waited to judge Msr. Bertrand’s response, continuing to grasp the knife in his left hand. “Claire Marie, is the boy asleep?” “No, we just finished lunch. Rolf brought some food by.” There was an audible intake of breath. Claire Marie continued, “Rolf does not know he is here.” “What did he want?” Caje was not sure who asked the question. “He was checking for any wounded and the condition of the farm. I had the feeling his superiors were not intending to move anyone here right away.” “That would fit with what we know. I believe they are concentrating everything toward town.” Guileau grunted and thought for a moment. Bertrand nudged Claire Marie. “Will you get the boy?” “He is hardly a boy, Uncle. What do you want with him, Msr. Guileau?” “Hmm, oh, just an exchange of information. Figure out what he knows, see if there is anything we can tell him of value to take back with him. Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about.” “Don’t patronize me, Msr. Guileau. I’ll get…” She stopped as Caje emerged from the stairwell, the knife at his side, his face pale but set. He and Bernard Guileau sized each other up. Caje saw before him a bull of a man, which he had expected from the resonance of the voice as it had carried up the stairwell. However, he had not anticipated the rest of the man’s appearance. Guileau’s face had been severely burned, with the most extensive damage concentrated on the right side. The eyelid was fused shut with the shiny scar tissue that swirled across the forehead and down to the jaw line. The right ear was at least partially missing, though covered with one of the wet patches of snowy hair that were interspersed across the man’s large head. His right arm was missing from the sleeve of his jacket. Caje had seen burn injuries both in battle and before the war effort while working in the oilfields in east Texas. However, he had never been exposed to the aftermath of the horrific wounds burn victims suffered. This creature was beyond the imagination of anything he had seen even on movie screens. But the members of the household were clearly used to the large, maimed man, so Caje tried not to let his shock show and stood his ground as the man looked him over. Silently, though, he sent up a prayer to whoever was listening that when it was his time, it would not be by fire. For his part, Guileau measured up the Allied soldier. His initial impression was one of disappointment. The man was of medium build, but appeared smaller due to the fact that the clothes he wore were a size or so too large. His right shoulder, though, nearly filled out the shirt with what was clearly significant bandaging around the wound Bertrand had mentioned. His features, more Gallic than many of the townspeople’s, were set in a face that was both pale and drawn. This was no American cowboy such as he had seen in the few movies viewed on trips to Paris. However, the man’s eyes, when Guileau locked on them after initially taking stock of the American’s physical attributes, reflected both intelligence and resolve. Guileau altered his initial assessment of the man -- which usually consisted of whether he could take him -- and decided that this one could pose a bit of a fight. Decision made, he forced his mouth into a grimace that approximated a smile and said softly, “You can put the knife down, GI; we are all friends here.” Without taking his eyes off the larger man, Caje flipped the knife in the air and caught the blade in his left hand, proffering the handled end out. Guileau’s grimace widened as he took the knife. “I hope you are as quick on your feet as you are deft with the knife, GI. You have a long way to get back to your own.” “Maybe they’ll meet me here.” Guileau laughed aloud. “Perhaps…perhaps, indeed. Bertrand, Claire Marie, let’s sit. Bring out some wine if you have some, and let me talk to this front linesman of the Americans.” “I’m afraid we have no wine left…” “Yes, we do, Uncle. Rolf brought some.” Claire Marie started toward the kitchen, turning with an urgent whisper. “Come, Bridgette.” Guileau took the large, battered cane chair near the window, where he could peer out the curtains. Bertrand took one end of the divan shoved haphazardly in the corner near the fireplace. Seeing that there was nowhere else to sit, Caje took the other end of the divan. Bertrand peered closely at the American sitting near him. “What have you been doing?” “What do you mean, Monsieur?” “I mean what have you been doing? You have cobwebs in your hair and your shirt… Has Claire Marie taken you from your sickbed and put you to work?” Caje hesitated before answering, “No, Msr. Bertrand. When the Boches came, I slid under the bed upstairs.” For some reason, admitting this in front of Guileau made him uncomfortable. And as he had anticipated, Guileau pounced on the statement. “No wonder you are losing the war, GI! Hiding from the Boches while our women and children entertain them.” Tired, his shoulder throbbing, Caje did not bother to try to keep his quick temper in check. “Perhaps you should worry more about how your women entertain the Boches than how we fight them.” A movement in the hallway caught his eye. Caje saw Claire Marie looking at him without expression, and he returned her look then turned away, his attention caught by an uncomfortable lump pressing into his left kidney. Reaching behind himself, he pulled out the ragged toy he had seen Bridgette dragging around for the past day or so. It was a small, obviously hand-sewn doll, made beautiful by the sweet face and exquisite dress painted on the rough cloth. Bridgette came flying across the room to claim her precious possession. “Noo noo!” She snatched the doll out of Caje’s hands and gave it a passionate embrace. Guileau noted the look that had passed between the American and Claire Marie. He remained silent and considered his next statement while everyone gratefully focused on Bridgette and her doll. “GI, you will need help to get out of here and back to the Allies, as we have all needed help in recent times. I would keep that in mind if I were you.” He looked directly at Caje, his single-eyed stare unblinking. Caje waited a moment, glanced again toward Claire Marie still standing in the doorway, and then returned Guileau’s gaze along with a nod. “Now, Msr. GI, as Bertrand or Claire Marie may have mentioned, I am the leader of the Maquis in this area. As such, I thought perhaps we could be of help to each other…exchange what we know, and I could use you when you go back to your own.” Caje did not reply, so Guileau continued. “The Allies have requested information about Boches defenses and strength in this area. We have been providing this information for awhile, but now we are without a means of getting it to them. Our radio is compromised -- I only want to use it if we have no choice, and I have no more young men to send out. It is getting to the point that someone missing will be noticed, and not in a friendly way. The Boches are quite anxious, as you can imagine.” Guileau paused and took a breath. Claire Marie used the break to hand out small wineglasses to each of the men. Then she took Bridgette’s hand and led her back to the kitchen, as the girl talked unintelligibly to her doll. Again, Guileau noticed Caje’s eyes following Claire Marie, and he looked questioningly at Bertrand. Bertrand had also noted Caje’s gaze and shrugged his shoulders as he took a large sip of his wine. Guileau scowled and continued, “Our resources are limited, as I mentioned, and I cannot take chances with those we have here. Bertrand tells me your French is very good. I have heard from other Maquis that the French some of the Brits dropped in here speak is appalling, despite the fact they had supposedly been trained by their Intelligence. So, let’s hear you speak more than a practiced phrase or two. Talk a little more for me.” Caje resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he replied in the precise accent he had gained through boarding and prep school, “I grew up speaking French in my home. However, you will have to judge if I can pass for a native with the Boches. As for carrying information, it would depend. I do not know you to be Maquis, or even with whom within the Maquis you are allied. From a personal consideration, it would be better to be caught as an Allied soldier than, perhaps, a Maquis conducting espionage.” “You will not help us?” Guileau leaned forward, his face reddening. Bertrand interrupted hastily. “I do not think that that is what the boy said, Bernard. He obviously is aware of the fractionalization of our resistance. If I were in his shoes, I would question also who was asking him to do something. After all, it could be the difference between being a Prisoner of War and being, well...” As Guileau continued to look unmollified, Bertrand pushed on with determined conviction, “As for his accent, I don’t know what you think, but he could pass, with most of the Boches, as being from here. Those few who would know the difference -- well, we can concoct some story about school in Paris or something, no?” Guileau sat back in his chair, appearing to consider what Bertrand had said. A reluctant smile played across his scarred lips, but did not carry to his eyes. “I am not used to being questioned, American, but perhaps I would do the same. It sounds as though you have had some experience with some of our brethren, eh?” “We have worked with the Maquis from time to time. Help is always appreciated.” “Who is ‘we’?” “Does it matter? I am sure that our lines have been scrambled considerably since I was separated from my platoon.” “You do not trust us?” “I just prefer to be careful, Monsieur. I am sure that as an experienced member of the Maquis, you can understand.” “You will do, American, you will do. I will check on you over the next few days. As you get closer to taking your leave of Bertrand’s hospitality…” he raised his one eyebrow suggestively at this, “I will give you our latest information to take with you to whomever you feel is appropriate.” Caje nodded and started to rise as Guileau got out of his chair. Guileau waved him down. “Conserve your strength, boy. You will need it.” Bertrand followed Guileau out the front door, leaving Caje alone in the parlor that had seemed to be crowded just a moment ago by Guileau’s hulking, disfigured presence. Caje sighed and put his head in his hands. It wasn't that he minded providing help to the Resistance, but it was hard to know exactly whom you were helping. Communist, Fascist, so many others…the Maquis couldn’t just be lumped together as ‘Resistance,’ as many of his fellow soldiers thought. It was a situation he wouldn’t be privy to if his abilities to translate French had not brought him into many recent discussions between commanding officers and the country’s natives. The situation was further complicated by the help he was receiving from Bertrand’s family. If it was discovered that he, as an Allied soldier, had been helped, well, he might be able to convince the Krauts either that he was able to force the help or that Bertrand had simply aided him as any doctor would. If caught as a Maquis, however, the entire family would fall under the suspicion of espionage. The answer, of course, was to take only information that could be memorized. Then he could play the situation -- if it came to that -- whichever way was needed. “He is a bit overwhelming, isn’t he?” Claire Marie stood over him. “I think he tries to be so, so that you don’t have time to think about how he looks.” When Caje didn’t respond, she continued, “I have heated some water in the kitchen and stolen Uncle’s razor and a little soap. Perhaps you would like to clean up?” Caje looked up and gave Claire Marie a small smile. “Thank you, Claire Marie. I would like that very much.” **** When Bertrand returned to the house a few moments later after talking to Guileau, he paused in the parlor and listened with appreciation to the sounds of domesticity coming from the kitchen. Splashing could be heard, and Bridgette’s giggle. He could discern the low voice of the American, gently teasing the small child, and then Claire Marie’s voice laughingly protesting, “You’re getting everything wet, you two!” It was a good sound. Louisa would have run in and disrupted the little scene. In their approach to this war, they were diametrically opposed. Louisa found it unseemly to try to retain normalcy and enjoy the small bits of it that came their way. Bertrand, on the other hand, relished the moments when they could pretend that the country was not ravaged and that life could go on. There was no harm in remembering why they struggled from day to day, of remembering what still could be. However, Louisa’s caution and approach were appreciated, and had saved them from difficult situations many times. Such as when she forced them to leave Paris… Well, tonight she was not here, and Bertrand would give in to the small tableau he saw in his mind. Besides, it would be good for Claire Marie and the child. **** Part Three |