smiled and watched the First United States Army march into Etaples, filled with deep respect and gratitude toward these dignified, purposeful young men willing to endanger their lives in the name of justice, a sentiment that she was determined to remember always.
As she made her way back to the ward, she sent up an inner prayer of thanks for the hope these soldiers brought with them.
8
Pontalier, Switzerland, 1918
If the Americans were here, he was jolly well going to find them, Gavin decided, standing on the platform of the tiny station at Pontalier, a Swiss border town north of Lake Geneva. His false identity papers, which had been provided by a priest named Frère Siméon, identified him as Michel Rouget. He grimaced, not liking the idea of being named after a fish, but he knew he could pass perfectly as a young Frenchman.
It was barely six o’clock, and the station was empty, for the passengers departing to Nancy on the 6:40 had not yet arrived. He eyed the stationmaster, his crisp, blue uniform and brisk gait as pompous as his curled mustache, crossing the tracks in the chilly, damp mist, then peered through the window and shabby net curtains of the Buffet de la Gare, 2ième classe. The door swung open and a whiff of coffee and fresh croissants made his mouth water, bringing back poignant memories of Greta, who was never far from his mind.
He fingered the meager change in his pocket, wondering whether to invest in breakfast or wait till later. But there was no sign of the train, so he rose and went inside where a sleepy young waitress stood behind the counter, flicking a feather duster halfheartedly over a tightly packed row of bottles. She cheered at the sight of a young customer and laid down the feather duster, smiling.
“Is that real coffee?” Gavin asked.
“Yes. But you’d better order now, before the morning crowd comes in. After six o’clock it’s usually all gone. What’ll it be?”
“A café au lait and a croissant,” he replied, remembering the many coffees that Eugène, Angus and he had so often enjoyed in Ambazac, after an early-morning fishing expedition. It too reminded him of Greta and his hasty departure. He gazed down at the hard-boiled eggs, his mind far away as he remembered the sound of the approaching car, the two of them peering, unbelieving, from behind the heavy damask curtains; Greta’s terrified look as the vehicle finally entered the courtyard, coming to a slow stop in front of the pavilion.
“It’s an army car,” she said, voice trembling. “Oh my God. You have to flee, Gavin. You must go to the cellar immediately. God knows what will happen if they find you here.”
“That’s absurd. I can’t leave you. I won’t.”
“Wait,” she whispered, clutching his sleeve as the car door opened. “That’s General Meinz-Reutenbach, one of my father’s best friends. He tried to save poor Franz.” She turned, lips white and eyes pleading. “Darling, you must go. It’s safe for me, but not for you. If they find you here, they will be obliged to take us both prisoner. I would be hiding an enemy—they wouldn’t have a choice. Please,” she begged, seeing the other officers exiting the vehicle, stopping to admire the facade before they approached the front door. “Go.” She pushed him into the hall toward the cellar door, desperate.
“How can I leave you alone? What if you are wrong? What if—”
“Just go, Gavin, I implore you. You must,” she sobbed, her face ashen. “Take some money from the safe, as we planned, and go,” she said in a tremulous whisper, grabbing a jacket from the newel post and thrusting it at him. Gavin lingered reluctantly, part of him telling him to stay and defend her, whatever the consequences, the other knowing she was right, and that by staying he was placing them both in danger.
“But I can’t abandon you, for Christ’s sake,” he insisted as she pushed him relentlessly toward the top of the cellar stairs.
The doorbell clanged through the hall.
“Go,” she whispered, eyes wild. “I beg of you. Do it for me, darling.”
“I’ll wait in the cellar.”
“No.” She shook her head desperately.
“Greta, I won’t leave you to face this alone. I—”
“For goodness’ sake, go, or you’ll get us both killed.” She shoved him down the stairs, but he held her.
“I love you, Greta. Remember. I’ll be back, I promise.” He gave her a last tight hug. “Where will I find you?”
“My aunt’s—Louisa von Ritter in Lausanne.” She touched his cheek as the doorbell rang a second time, then tore brusquely from his hold, closing the cellar door and locking it firmly behind her. He stood, powerless, his ear glued to it in helpless frustration, hearing the voices. Calm, friendly voices. There was obvious relief in the officer’s tone. His heart beat fast as he debated what to do.
After what seemed like ages, he heard footsteps, the distant sound of shutters being closed and doors being shut. They’re closing the house, he realized, trembling. They’re taking her away. He raised his hand, about to bang the door down, but knew it was useless. The echo of the front door closing and the far-off rumble of the car’s departure left him sinking to his knees on the cellar stairs, besieged by guilt and frustration, praying she would be all right.
It was impossible to absorb that, in a few short minutes, their magical world had fallen apart, disappeared, whisked from beneath them like a tablecloth sending china flying in every direction. It seemed unbelievable that less than two hours earlier she had been lying comfortably in his arms, wondering whether or not to bake today. Now cold reality and doubt seeped through the damp stone steps. Perhaps he should have stood firm and taken her with him. They could have not answered the door, pretended no one was there, escaped together into the forest. He buried his face in his hands. Why had he allowed her to persuade him?
Because instinctively he knew she’d be safer without him. Slowly he drew his head up and rose, leaning against the wall, pulling himself together little by little. It was better for her this way. It was the right thing. He could manage on his own, but taking her with him would have made her a criminal. He reached up and tried the door one last time, knowing full well that it was locked and there was little choice left but to follow Greta’s instructions.
He felt his way numbly down the steps, lighting the small gas lamp at the bottom, his eyes seeking the safe tucked between two casks to his right. Should he take the money? Yet what choice did he have? He braced himself and, crossing the cellar, opened it as Greta had instructed him. Stuffing his pockets with French francs, German marks and British pounds, he then searched for a bag to carry some food with him. He found a sack of flour and emptied it in a corner. After giving it a good shake, he filled it with sausages, dried meat, a bottle of red wine and some cheese. At least that would keep him going for a while.
Reluctantly he picked up the loden shooting jacket Greta had thrown at him and put out the lamp, afraid it might set fire to the place. Reaching for the secret lock on the panel in the wall, he waited, his pulse racing anxiously. What if it didn’t open? He would be trapped alive in this dark, dank dungeon of a place…But it sprang open promptly and he delved into the blinding darkness.
Banging his head hard on the low ceiling, he saw stars and swore. After a while his eyes became accustomed to the dark. Thanks to Greta’s tender care, his thigh and hip were much better. Thank God, for
