Chapter Thirty
THIRTY
On an ice-cold mid-November day, Isabelle and Gaetan left Brant?me and boarded a train to Bayonne. The carriage was overflowing with solemn German soldiers—more so than usual—and when they disembarked, they found more soldiers crowding the platform.
Isabelle held Gaetan’s hand as they made their way through the gray-green uniforms. Two young lovers on their way to the beach town. “My maman used to love going to the beach. Did I ever tell you that?” Isabelle asked as they passed near two SS officers.
“You rich kids see all the good stuff.”
She smiled. “We were hardly rich, Gaetan,” she said when they were outside the train station.
“Well you weren’t poor,” he said. “I know poor.” He paused, let that settle between them, and then he said, “I could be rich someday.
“Someday,” he said again with a sigh, and she knew what he was thinking. It was what they were always thinking: Will there be a France in our future? Gaetan slowed.
Isabelle saw what had captured his attention.
“Keep moving,” he said.
A roadblock had been set up ahead of them. Troops were everywhere, carrying rifles.
“What’s going on?” Isabelle asked.
“They’ve seen us,” Gaetan said. He tightened his hold on her hand. They strolled toward the swarm of German soldiers.
A burly, square-headed sentry blocked their way and demanded to see their passes and papers.
Isabelle offered her Juliette papers. Gaetan offered his own false documents, but the soldier was more interested in the goings-on behind him. He barely glanced at the documents and handed them back.
Isabelle gave him her most innocent smile. “What’s happening today?”
“No more Free Zone,” the soldier said, waving them through.
“No more Free Zone? But—”
“We are taking over all of France,” he said roughly. “No more pretense that your ridiculous Vichy government is in charge anywhere. Go.”
Gaetan pulled her forward, through the amassing troops.
For hours, as they walked, they were honked at by German lorries and automobiles in a hurry to get past them.
It wasn’t until they reached the quaint seaside town of Saint-Jean-de-Luz that they were able to escape the gathering Nazis.
They walked along the empty seawall, perched high above the pounding surf of the Atlantic Ocean.
Below them, a curl of yellow sand held the mighty, angry ocean at bay.
In the distance, a lush green peninsula was dotted with houses built in the Basque tradition, with white sides and red doors and bright red tile roofs.
The sky overhead was a faded, washed-out blue, with clouds stretched as taut as clotheslines.
There were no other people out today, neither on the beach nor walking along the ancient seawall.
For the first time in hours, Isabelle could breathe. “What does it mean, no Free Zone?”
“It is not good, that’s for sure. It will make your work more dangerous.”
“I’ve been moving through Occupied territory already.”
She tightened her hold on his hand and led him off the seawall. They stepped down the uneven steps and made their way to the road.
“We used to vacation out here when I was little,” she said. “Before my maman died. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I barely remember.”
She wanted it to be the start of a conversation, but her words fell into the new silence between them and went unanswered.
In the quiet, Isabelle felt the suffocating weight of missing him, even though he was holding her hand.
Why hadn’t she asked him more questions in their days together, gotten to know everything about him?
Now there was no time left and they both knew it. They walked in a heavy silence.
In the haze of early evening, Gaetan got his first glimpse of the Pyrenees.
The jagged, snow-dusted mountains rose into the leaden sky, their snow-tipped peaks ringed in clouds. “Merde. You crossed those mountains how many times?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“You’re a wonder,” he said.
“I am,” she said with a smile.
They continued up, through the dark, empty streets of Urrugne, climbing with every step, moving past the closed-up shops and bistros full of old men.
Beyond town lay the dirt path that led into the foothills.
At last they came to the cottage tucked into the dark foothills, its chimney puffing smoke.
“Are you okay?” he asked, noticing that she had slowed her step.
“I will miss you,” she said quietly. “How long can you stay?”
“I have to leave in the morning.”
She wanted to release the hold on his hand, but it was difficult.
She had this terrible, irrational fear that if she let go of him she would never touch him again and the thought of that was paralyzing.
Still, she had a job to do. She let go of him and knocked three times sharply in rapid succession.
Madame opened the door. Dressed in man’s clothing, smoking a Gauloises, she said, “Juliette! Come, come.” She stepped back, welcoming Isabelle and Gaetan into the main room, where four airmen stood around the dining table.
A fire burned in the hearth, and above the flames a black cast-iron pot bubbled and hissed and popped.
Isabelle could smell the stew’s ingredients—goat meat; wine; bacon; thick, rich stock; mushrooms and sage.
The aroma was heavenly and reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day.
Madame gathered the men together and introduced them—there were three RAF pilots and an American flier. The three Brits had been there for days, waiting for the American, who had arrived yesterday. Eduardo would be leading them over the mountains in the morning.
“It’s good to meet you,” one of them said, shaking Isabelle’s hand as if she were a water pump. “You’re just as beautiful as we’ve been told.”
The men started talking all at once. Gaetan moved easily into their midst, as if he belonged with them. Isabelle stood beside Madame Babineau and handed her the envelope of money that should have been delivered almost two weeks earlier. “I’m sorry about the delay.”
“You had a good excuse. How are you feeling?”
Isabelle moved her shoulder, testing it. “Better. In another week, I’ll be ready to make the crossing again.”
Madame handed Isabelle the Gauloises. Isabelle took a long drag and exhaled, studying the men who were now in her charge. “How are they?”
“See the tall, thin one—nose like a Roman emperor?”
Isabelle couldn’t help smiling. “I see him.”
“He claims to be a lord or duke or something. Sarah in Pau said he was trouble. Wouldn’t follow a girl’s orders.”
Isabelle made a note of that. It wasn’t a rarity, of course, fliers who didn’t want to take orders from women—or girls or dames or broads—but it was always a trial.
She handed Isabelle a crumpled, dirt-stained letter. “One of them gave me this to give to you.”
She opened it quickly, scanned the contents. She recognized Henri’s sloppy handwriting:
J—your friend survived her German holiday, but she has guests. Do not stop by. Will watch out for her.
Vianne was fine—she had been released after questioning—but another soldier, or soldiers, was billeted there.
She crumpled the paper and tossed it in the fire.
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or more worried.
Instinctively, her gaze sought out Gaetan, who was watching her as he spoke to an airman.
“I see the way you’re watching him, you know.”
“Lord big nose?”
Madame Babineau barked out a laugh. “I am old but not blind. The young handsome one with the hungry eyes. He keeps looking at you, too.”
“He’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.”
“Ah.”
Isabelle turned to the woman who had become her friend in the past two years. “I’m afraid to let him go, which is crazy with all the dangerous things I do.”
The look in Madame’s dark eyes was both knowing and compassionate.
“I would tell you to be careful if these were ordinary times. I would point out that he is young and engaged in a dangerous business and young men in danger can be fickle.” She sighed.
“But we are cautious about too much these days, and why add love to the list?”
“Love,” Isabelle said quietly.
“I will add this, though, since I am a mother and we can’t help ourselves: A broken heart hurts as badly in wartime as in peace. Say good-bye to your young man well.”
* * *
Isabelle waited for the house to go quiet—or as quiet as a room could be with men sleeping on the floor, snoring, rolling over. Moving cautiously, she eased out of her blankets and picked her way through the main room and went outside.
Stars flickered overhead, the sky immense in this dark landscape. Moonlight illuminated the goats, turned them into silver-white dots on the hillside.
She stood at the wooden fence, staring out. She didn’t have long to wait.
Gaetan came up behind her, put his arms around her. She leaned back into him. “I feel safe in your arms,” she said.
When he didn’t respond, she knew something was wrong. Her heart sank. She turned slowly, looked up at him. “What is it?”
“Isabelle.” The way he said it frightened her. She thought, No, don’t tell me. Whatever it is, don’t tell me. In the silence, noises became noticeable—the bleating of goats, the beating of her heart, the tumbling of a rock down a distant hillside.
“That meeting. The one we were going to in Carriveau when you found the airman?”
“Oui?” she said. She had studied him so carefully in the past few days, watched every nuance of emotion cross his face, and she knew whatever he was going to say, it wouldn’t be good.
“I’m leaving Paul’s group. Fighting … a different way.”
“Different how?”
“With guns,” he said quietly. “And bombs. Anything we can find. I’m joining a group of guerrilla partisans who live in the woods. My job is explosives.” He smiled. “And stealing bomb parts.”
“Your past should help you there.” Her teasing fell flat.
His smile faded. “I can’t just deliver papers anymore, Iz. I need to do more. And … I won’t see you for a while, I think.”