Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
OUTSIDE CANNES, FRANCE
Marcel unfolded himself from the borrowed Renault and surveyed the fork in the road in the moonlight.
His mother didn’t budge from the passenger’s seat, but he knew she was trying to see their map in the dark.
Trying to help him decide where to look next.
They’d spent the last twenty-four hours knocking on doors, looking for anyone who knew Lizette Bridou.
He’d been praying with every ounce of his soul that whoever knew where Blaise and Elise were—because someone had to—would trust him enough to tell him.
Or if not him, his mother. No one could look at Mathilde Laurent and not trust her.
They’d tried all the likely places. The farmhouse he’d visited in October, the chateau, the church in the village—no one had seen the children.
He’d stopped in the grocer’s and the movie house while his mother tried the shops.
They’d ventured into Cannes itself and tried every place he could remember them mentioning during their visit in October.
Nothing.
Please, Father. I trust that they’re safe with Lizette’s friends . . . but the Nazis will come. You know they will. Help me find them before they do. Please.
He took some comfort in the thought that if he couldn’t find them, the German authorities wouldn’t be able to either. But that did little to bring him peace.
This was the one thing he could do for Zelie—make sure her children were safe.
The sound of another engine came out of nowhere, and he spun around, lifting an arm to shield his eyes from the beams of two unshuttered headlights. His stomach knotted.
Nazi autos were the only ones that weren’t ordered to dim their lights. He reached for his door, but too late. The jeep had already pulled up even with him, and a jolly-faced German peered out. “Good evening,” the man said in passable but accented French. “Are you lost?”
As good a word as any. “A bit.”
Mère exited the other side, the wind catching her auburn curls and sending them into her face. “Ask them if they’ve seen Blaise.”
He turned to face her, exasperation on his lips. He loved his mother—she was one of his favorite people in all the world. But that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “Mère—”
“Blaise . . . Bridou?”
Marcel’s head snapped back around, and he knew very well his shock was on his face. Zelie’s maiden name in conjunction with her son could be no coincidence. “You know him?”
The man laughed. “He and his mother had a tour of our base a few months ago. Bright boy. You must be his . . . uncle?”
“No.” It came out on a laugh. He couldn’t help it. Anyone who had spoken to him for more than a minute wouldn’t think to confuse him with the daredevil pilot.
The Nazi’s smile only went more genuine, and he chuckled too. “You must be his father then. Too bad for all the boys at the base—they’ve been plotting ways to catch your wife’s eye when next she strolls by. You have a beautiful family.”
“I do.” Not a lie, if still a deception.
“Forgive me, I know this sounds strange. Have you seen Blaise and his sister in the last couple days? Their grandmother left them here with a friend, and she and Zelie were doing some Christmas shopping in Marseille, but . . . they’ve been in an accident.
” Definitely stretching the truth there, but he couldn’t exactly tell this man that his cohorts had arrested them.
The officer’s smile fell. “I am so sorry to hear that. And you don’t know who the children were with?”
“I know Blaise was coming home from school with his friend Francois. But Lizette should have been back to meet them, only . . . she and Zelie . . .” He ran a hand through his curls. He winced. “I should have asked more questions, but I’ve been traveling with my orchestra . . .”
New guilt pierced. He should have been in Paris today, preparing the orchestra for their performance tomorrow night.
Instead, Vivi had supervised their travel, and he’d promised to meet them there—and prayed Von Eberstein had left Marseille and wasn’t watching the depots, to realize he wasn’t with his group.
He had to be on a train to Paris by tomorrow morning or he’d let seventy young men down.
But he couldn’t leave Zelie’s children thinking they’d been abandoned.
What had Blaise thought when his friend’s mother tried to drop him off and no one was there?
He prayed he’d found his way to wherever Elise was, that they were together.
“I saw your son this morning.” The German’s tone went soft. Soothing. “He was with another boy about his age and a little girl with blonde hair.”
“Elise.” He perked up. Could it be? Would this man—a German Luftwaffe officer of all people—be the one to help?
“They were walking along the road, by the base.” He gestured back the way he’d come.
“I was speaking to the soldier at the gate when they came by, and I said hello—I remembered Blaise. He reminds me of myself as a lad, so eager to learn all he can about aircraft. They returned the greeting but didn’t linger.
I admit I was a bit concerned—three children walking on such a busy road, you know.
So I followed them at a distance to make sure they got home safely.
They went into a house about a mile past the base.
Stone cottage. The woman who answered the door looked like she was the other boy’s mother. ”
Marcel didn’t have to try to feign the relief, the gratitude, the high emotion threatening to choke him. He reached out a hand. “Thank you. I’m in your debt.”
“Nonsense.” But he reached out the window, shook. “Family is the most important thing. I will be praying for your wife and her mother.”
“Thank you,” he said again. And again felt a wriggle of guilt, this one bordering on hysterical.
Would this Nazi officer really pray for Zelie?
Lizette? And what must it be like to be the Lord, receiving such prayers from a German who seemed to have a decent heart, while his comrades were hunting her down?
How did the Lord sort through such tangled prayers?
With all-knowing wisdom. And praise to him that Marcel didn’t have to try to sort it out. He stepped back, waved another thanks, and got in the Renault as the jeep trundled off.
His mother shut her door a second before he shut his, a syncopated rhythm. “And you were going to chide me for asking him.”
His breath curled around a chuckle. “God must have whispered in your ear.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” She crossed herself, punctuating it with, “Thank you, Lord.”
Marcel turned around in the road and drove toward and then past the Luftwaffe base. Sure enough, a mile beyond it he could make out a stone house, slivers of light glowing behind blackout curtains. He pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. Another prayer, and he and his mother both got out.
He knew the chances were slim that anyone would send two children off with a strange man, hence his mother’s presence. He drew in a fortifying breath and knocked.
Mère chafed her hands together. He’d rushed her away from Marseille so quickly, she hadn’t grabbed her gloves. But she’d been a good sport about it and had been all smiles at the prospect of children in her home for Christmas.
The door opened, and a woman who looked around his age stood there, question on her face. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m looking for—”
“Monsieur Marcel!” Elise came flying from somewhere, squeezed past the woman’s legs, and launched herself at him.
Habit took over from the many times his little cousins had done the same in Paris. He swept her up and settled her on his hip. “There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Her arms snaked around his neck and held on.
“Grand-maman left me with Madame Trideau, but Madame got cross when she was late coming back. Then Madame Garnier showed up at the house with Blaise, and Madame Trideau said I would have to go home with her until Grand-maman got home, and she still hasn’t come. ”
“I know.” He rubbed a hand over her back and nodded to Blaise when the boy came into view as well. Marcel directed his gaze to the woman he assumed was Madame Garnier. “Thank you for taking care of them. Lizette’s . . .” He hesitated, not knowing what to tell her.
His mother jumped in before he could decide. “Been in an accident, and Zelie with her. They were in no place to tell us where to find the children, so we’ve been at our wit’s end, looking everywhere we could think.”
“What happened to Maman?” Blaise pushed forward now, panic in his eyes. “Is she all right?”
Marcel held the boy’s gaze. Zelie had trusted him with the truth—how could he do anything else? “I don’t know, Blaise.”
Madame Garnier’s frown looked more confused than concerned. “You’re their mother’s . . . ?”
“Friend and colleague. Marcel Laurent. And my mother, Mathilde.”
Now the woman’s eyes went wide. “You’re the concert pianist! Elise was telling us you were teaching her piano . . . I admit I thought she was telling tales. We have your records.”
“Ah . . . I am, yes.” He never knew what to say when someone announced that, especially if they didn’t go on to claim they liked his records.
Elise’s head lifted from where she’d rested it against his shoulder, and she sent a glare at the woman. Then turned back to him. “Are we going with you? To see Maman?”
“I want to go to Marseille with you.” Blaise’s gaze dared him to argue.
As if he’d want to. Marcel nodded. “That was my plan. If it’s all right with you, madame?”
Madame Garnier stepped back, shrugging. “I have no say, really. They obviously know you and trust you, and if you’re here at their mother’s behest . . .”
She hadn’t told him to make sure her children were protected. But she didn’t have to. He nodded.
“Well then. Let’s gather your things, children. Do come in, Monsieur Laurent. Madame. Out of the cold.”