Once More Unto the Breach Read online

  Charlotte downshifted and slowed the ambulance to a crawl. I rested the Luger on my knee.

  “Something is amiss here.”

  “Aye.” I peered at the rooftops and the shadowed doorways. Both remained empty in the late afternoon light. “Drive all the way through. We will search the town on foot.”

  She parked the ambulance behind an eighteenth-century farmhouse at the north end of town. While Charlotte disabled the vehicle, Otto and I made a circuit around the farmhouse. The gardens were well-maintained, vegetables still in the ground and sun-ripened berries still on the vine. The orchard at the side of the house was still laden with the last of the season’s peaches, the apple and pear trees awaiting the crispness of autumn and winter. A roughly hewn ladder leaned against a tree. A basket of cut flowers, now wilted and brown, lay on the back stoop, and no one answered my knocks.

  “This place seems…idyllic. Untouched by the war,” Charlotte said when she joined me. Her brow furrowed as she looked around. “It feels as if everyone has just stepped out of sight for the moment.”

  “It is eerie, but the entire town cannot be empty. There must be someone about.”

  But we found not a soul as we walked south and searched the western side of the village lane by lane. No one responded to our knocks. Several doors stood ajar, and Otto pushed them open with his nose and wandered within. Charlotte waited uneasily in the doorway each time the dog and I searched the empty shops and homes.

  There was evidence of abruptly interrupted life everywhere. Bowls of porridge were left to spoil on a table. A child’s bicycle lay on its side like a metal carcass in the street. In a shop, a sack of potatoes lay spilled across the floor.

  We followed winding paths through the outlying farms and crossed small canals all the way to the river and encountered no one.

  The sun had set and dusk was darkening when we reached the main lane upon which we had arrived. A twilight breeze eddied the hem of Charlotte’s dress. Otto’s attention caught on something fluttering along the cobbles like a wounded bird, and he gave chase. Charlotte followed him, kneeling to inspect his find. She stood as I reached them and offered it to me.

  It was a fine handkerchief, delicate and painstakingly embroidered with tiny flowers and the initials SMC. The white scrap of femininity was stained with dirt and three smeared russet droplets. Blood.

  “What has happened here?” Charlotte whispered.

  I had no answer.

  _______

  The farmhouse was likewise empty, though clean and well-worn from living. The stone floors of the lower level were swept, and the large hearth was cold and free from ash. There were no cobwebs clinging to the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling.

  The stairs creaked as I ascended them, but the railing was polished. The wooden floors of the second floor were smooth and rolling underfoot. The walls were papered with white and blue pinstripes in the bedroom. The bed was still unmade, and a woman’s wrap, all silk and lace, was draped over the end of the bed. The second bedroom was pristine with not a coat of dust on the mantle nor a wrinkle in the quilts on the bed, though the room did not appear to be in use. The other room on the upper level served as a study. Papers were neatly stacked on the desk, and heavy leather-bound tomes lined the shelves. A delicate teacup perched on a saucer beside one pile of papers, and when I dipped my finger into the tea, it was cool. The window was ajar, and I crossed to it, pushing it further open.

  The window looked down upon the orchard, and I caught sight of Charlotte and Otto wandering amongst the trees in the pale light of the gloaming. She had the hem of her dress clutched in one hand, and she filled the skirt of her garment with summer-heavy peaches. She glanced up as they made their way under the boughs back to the house and raised a hand when she caught sight of me.

  I met her in the kitchen as she placed the picked bounty on the long table in the center of the room.

  “I did not think whoever lives here would mind if I picked the ripest,” she said. She had also picked two tomatoes, a pepper, and a courgette.

  “If they return, I doubt they will miss this slight harvest.”

  She glanced at the ceiling. “Is it the same here as elsewhere?”

  “Aye. We will search the eastern side of the village tomorrow, but I doubt it will be to any avail.”

  “We can at least find the caves. They should be nearby.” She took down a copper pot from where it hung from the ceiling. “Will you check the larder?”

  It was tucked away under the stairs, and within I found a modest storehouse of provisions. I cut four thick slices of cured ham and a wedge of cheese but left the rest.

  As Charlotte prepared the meal, I lit the lamps in the kitchen and then sat on the front steps and fed Otto two of the slices of ham. He took each morsel from my fingers delicately and seemed to savor each bite before turning to me for the next.

  I sat at an angle on the steps, watching over the stone wall that girded the front lawn, but no lights flickered to life in the village. I thought I heard a rumble of an engine from the opposite side of town, but it went silent suddenly. I unclasped two of the buttons of my shirt for easier access to the Luger and waited, but all was quiet and I heard nothing more. As full dark settled about La Balme-les-Grottes, Otto and I retreated within the farmhouse.

  Our meal—the flavors, eating from a plate using cutlery while seated at a table—seemed luxurious. I glanced at Charlotte and caught her closing her eyes as her lips closed around the tines of the fork. The peach was weighty in my palm, and the taste so sweet and bright I savored three of them. I set the pits aside to dry, of a mind to take them home and try to plant them.

  The lantern guttered as we cleaned up after the meal and returned everything to its place. After Charlotte returned from filling a bucket at the pump, I bolted the doors and led the way upstairs with the lantern. Otto bounded up the steps ahead of us. Charlotte distributed the bucket of water into the basins in the two bedrooms while I lit the lamp in the room with the white and blue pinstripe walls.

  Otto leapt onto the bed and curled up in the center of the mattress with a deep sigh. Charlotte fingered the silk of the dressing gown and then folded the garment and placed it on the padded stool before the vanity.

  “I cannot imagine why anyone would abandon this place,” she said as she gazed around the elegant room.

  “They may have had no choice.”

  She nodded, face troubled. “I hope we find answers tomorrow.”

  “I do as well.”

  “And your son.”

  “Aye. Nos da, Charlotte.”

  “Good night,” she whispered, eyes dark in the low gleam of light.

  I retreated to the bedroom across the hall, placed the lantern on the night stand, and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. My chest was tight as I pulled the letter from my pocket. I unfolded the worn, creased paper with care.

  Dear Nhad,

  I found a way to fight that I believe in.

  I do not do it to make you proud, but I hope you are.

  -Owain

  I swallowed around the lump in my throat and stared at the words until they blurred before my eyes. I brought the paper to my face and inhaled. If there had ever been a lingering scent from the moment my son had scrawled those words in his slanted, quick hand, it had long faded. All I smelled now was the acrid hint of smoke that clung to me. I refolded the letter, tucking it into the safety of my pocket.

  I scrubbed my hands over my face, grimacing at the beard that scraped my palms, and blew out an uneven breath.

  A cake of soap and a cloth lay next to the basin Charlotte had filled on the washstand, and it was a relief to bathe away the grit of the fire and the grime of travel. The swelling in my jaw and at my temple had abated, and now both bore a faint tint of green and yellow. The gash at my temple was healing, but my shoulder and the blisters on my arms were raw and sore.

  I found a shaving kit in the top drawer of the dres
ser and relieved my face of the weight and heat of beard growth. As I drew the razor down my throat, a tremulous sound quavered through the farmhouse. I paused and glanced toward the closed door. It came again, melodic and resonate, but hesitant and tuneless. I finished shaving and pulled my shirt back over my shoulders, leaving my braces hanging and the shirt unbuttoned over my undershirt. The Luger still rested in the holster at my side. That faint rumble of an engine had left me uneasy.

  I opened the door silently as the music began to take shape, a haunting, solemn series of notes underpinned softly and steadily by low chords. I followed the refrain down the hall to the study. The door was ajar, the edges gilded in light, and I pushed it further open.

  Charlotte sat at the upright piano in the far corner of the room. The lamp from the bedroom sat atop the piano, and the light spilled over the black and ivory keys and over Charlotte’s bent head and agile fingers.

  Otto was sprawled behind the piano bench, and he lifted his head when I opened the door and then settled back on the floor. Charlotte’s back was to me, and her hair was damp and loose about her shoulders. The narrow line of her back followed a gentle curve reminiscent of a fiddle, and she swayed into the piano as her fingers coaxed the notes from the worn keys.

  I leaned in the doorway and closed my eyes as the melancholy piece crept in reverberations between my ribs, twining around emotion and memory.

  “Where’s Mam, Dadi?”

  I could not answer him as I stared at the simple stone marking where she lay. Nausea churned in my gut at the thought of her sweet, soft body buried beneath the cold, wet earth, slowly rotting away to dust. A shout or a sob, I knew not which, rattled in my chest, and the urge to claw at the ground to reach her in the depths bore at me. Rage rode me, and despair nipped closely at its heels.

  “Dadi.” The voice was small and confused, and a tiny hand gripped my fingers, shaking my arm to gain my attention. “Dadi, where’s Mam?”

  I looked blankly down at the small child by my side. Rain fell on his upturned face, and what had once been a source of pride and humor suddenly pierced me. My son looked exactly like me, the same dark hair and green eyes, the same stubborn jaw. I studied him with a sense of desperation, searching for a hint of Aelwyd’s beauty in him, heart clenching when I found only remnants of myself in his features.

  “She is gone,” I whispered, voice raw.

  “She will not be for long,” he said, innocent and certain. He was incapable of understanding the weight and tragedy that lay under a mound of rain-washed earth before us. “Mam always returns. But she always tells me while she’s gone, I should look after you.” He beamed up at me and broke into a peal of laughter. “I tell her she is so silly! You’re the dadi, not me!”

  I knelt and clutched him to me, clinging to his small body, to the echo of Aelwyd’s laughter in his.

  “I hope I did not wake you.”

  I blinked at Charlotte and straightened away from the doorjamb, rubbing a hand over my burning eyes. “Not at all.” The last notes still hung in the air. “What was that?”

  She had turned on the piano bench, studying me, but she made no mention of the dampness I felt on my face. “A transcription of Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise. I’m afraid I am sorely out of practice.”

  “It was beautiful, it was,” I said, voice hoarse. I moved further into the study and pulled the chair away from the desk. I angled it to face the piano, and Charlotte turned on the bench to look at me as I took a seat. “How did you become involved in smuggling art?”

  Her gaze shot to mine, and then she looked away, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “It was not something I set out to become involved in.”

  “But you did.”

  “At first, it was simply a matter of helping move the collections from the Louvre to a number of châteaux outside of the city at the first rumors of an eventual invasion.”

  “To keep them safe from the Nazis.”

  She nodded. “And from bombing. We began in 1938, and we had ensured all of the most precious works were hidden by early September of ’39. The art was safe, hidden away in the countryside. I thought that would be the end of it.” She was silent a moment. “The Nazis ordered the reopening of the museum in September of 1940, but most of the galleries were empty. The itineraries were in German, and the opening was merely symbolic. I was not going to be party to that farce, so I joined the American Hospital’s Ambulance Field Service.” She folded her hands in her lap and studied them, brow furrowed. “I told you of how the Nazis plundered the collections of prominent Jewish families and dealers.”

  “You did.”

  “What I did not tell you is that they used the Louvre to store the collections they had stolen. The Nazis requisitioned the galleries devoted to Near Eastern antiquities, closing it off to museum staff, and used the rooms for storage and a showcase for the higher-ups to come pick over.” Bitterness and disgust laced her voice. “Monsieur Jaujard knew I had my own ambulance, and when he approached me and told me of the sequestration, I could not refuse.” She took a deep breath, and her face tightened. “I…maneuvered myself into a…position of trust and worked with the Nazi officials at the museum, cataloging every stolen piece of art that was transported to Germany.” She ran a hand over the keys but added no weight, leaving the gesture soundless. “And when I was able, I worked with a number of the museum staff and the Resistance to secret pieces out of the Nazi’s plunder and back into hiding in France.”

  The haunted tension in her face stayed my questions. “That was courageous of you.”

  “For four years, I transported prisoners of war to the hospital from the camps. And when they were recovered, I had to take them back to those hell holes, knowing they would rot and starve and die.” She swallowed. “And until the autumn of ’42, I hid paintings and small sculptures under a false floor in the back of the ambulance. En route, I would meet a…” Her gaze slid away from mine. “I would meet a contact to make the exchange, and he and a partner would transport the art to safety.”

  I braced my elbows on my knees and rubbed my jaw. The connection struck me in her careful tone and the way she avoided my gaze. Owain was her contact. “What happened in ’42?” I asked carefully.

  “My contacts did not make our rendezvous one day. It was too dangerous by then to continue the subterfuge and smuggling. There were others braver than I who continued the work. But I know myself well enough to know that I would not have held up under torture if captured. So I did not risk it further.”

  We sat silently for several long moments, the quiet broken only by Otto’s snuffling snores. “I have a request to make of you.”

  The faraway look in her dark eyes faded as she arched a questioning brow.

  “Will you play for me?”

  A smile bloomed across her face like a flower opening to the first warmth of the sun. “Of course.”

  She turned back to the keys, and I closed my eyes as her fingers began to coax forth the notes.

  _______

  Steep cliffs abutted the eastern side of the village, and when we turned down a narrow lane that branched off from the main track, Charlotte touched my arm.

  “Rhys, there.”

  I followed the direction of her extended arm, squinting in the morning light. The cave was a towering dark shadow against the cliff face, cathedral in its size. A chapel was built at the entrance to the cave, constructed against the rock wall in such a way that it appeared monolithic.

  “This is magnificent,” Charlotte breathed as we approached, neck craned to take in the scope of the cave and chapel.

  The chapel sat atop a tall flight of stone steps. The stairs were narrow and steep, and we climbed them well away from the edge. The chapel was small within, and I shone the torch around the room. The tapestries were tattered, and the paintings on the walls were so faded I could not discern if they depicted saints, madonnas, or messiahs. The prayer benches were covered in a fine layer of dust. The room
was empty and had been for some time.

  When I exited the chapel, I directed the beam of my torch into the cave to little avail. The light was too weak to penetrate the depths, even from this elevated vantage point.

  “I have never seen anything like this,” Charlotte said. “Do you think it is very deep?”

  I looked up and studied the arch of the ceiling above us. The rock was solid, sloping toward the back of the cave. “I think we should find out.”

  We descended the steps and ventured deeper into the cave. A semblance of a path led us further into the dark heart of the cliffs. In the evening, with the sun in the west, the daylight would illuminate the depths of the cave. As it was, the torch I carried was imperative once we reached the rock fall at the back of the large cavern.

  Crude steps were cut into the ancient fall, and Charlotte held up a hand toward Otto. “Stay, boy. I do not want you getting separated from us down here. Bleib.”

  He whined his disapproval of the command but remained in place as we climbed the roughhewn steps. The ceiling sloped lower and the walls of the chamber narrowed toward us as we climbed, funneling us onto a high overhang in the next chamber.

  It was cooler in the second chamber, and the sound of dripping water echoed in the darkness. The black was absolute save the weak light behind us and the fragile beam of the torch.

  I closed my eyes against the oppressiveness of it, and my heart began to knock against my breastbone. Sweat beaded on my brow.

  “Rhys?”

  Charlotte’s voice grounded me, and I opened my eyes, breathing slowly through my nose. I played my light over the second cave, and Charlotte sucked in a breath. We stood at the pinnacle of the chamber. The cavern sloped down from the precipice on which we stood and branched into a number of twisted labyrinths. A fluttering disturbed the air above us, and Charlotte ducked, pressing her head against my arm.

  I swept the light over the ceiling. It was closer above our heads than I realized, and my fingers clenched. I swallowed around the growing vice encircling my throat. “Bats. They are merely—”