Read Online Clash by Night by Doreen Owens Malek - Free Book Online
Authors: Doreen Owens Malek
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opening sentence of the planned exchange. Alain moved forward carefully, still not convinced.
“ Certainement, c’est ma ville ,” he replied. “Certainly, it is my town.”
The visitor faced Alain squarely. He could see a strong jaw, pale eyes flashing in the scant light, and thick dark hair beneath the cap. So this was the American, Alain thought. Bon Dieu ! Were they all so big? He stood as high as a bucheron , a lumberjack.
“Good,” the man said. “I’ve come a long way and I’m tired.” As he completed the sentence in French, the last three words, “ Je suis fatigué ,” sounded heartfelt.
Alain could imagine that he was tired. “We’ll go together,” he replied, finishing the ordained greeting, and then added quickly in English, “You have hunger? I brought food.”
The American shook his head. “Brought my own, and took a drink from the river.” He smiled suddenly, and Alain got an inkling of why he’d been chosen for the mission. Confidence radiated from that smile like pure white light from the sun. “Dan Harris, pleased to meet you,” the American added, extending his hand.
Alain shook it, inwardly exulting, and then startled the American by kissing him rapidly on both cheeks. “I am Alain Duclos, and I am having great happiness to see you. The barn where you stay is not far. Please to come with me.”
“You bet.” Harris followed where Alain led, to Langtot’s barn. They made the trip in comfortable silence, each man content with his role in the night’s drama. Langtot was waiting for them with a bottle of wine. Unable to speak English, the old man pumped Harris’ hand, beaming, and offered both travelers a drink. The brief celebration concluded, Langtot conversed quietly with Alain and finally gestured to the loft where Harris was to spend the night. He presented Harris with a blanket, a bottle of water, and a small basket of food. He wrung the younger man’s hand again and said something in French.
Harris looked at Alain and shook his head. Either he was tired, or he wasn’t as fluent as he’d thought.
“He says that it is a brave thing you do to come so far to help us,” Alain explained.
“He’s taking just as big a risk hiding me out,” Harris replied.
When Alain translated this, Langtot shook his head vehemently and said, slowly, so that Harris could understand, “I am an old man, and ready to die. It’s not the same to take such a chance with a young life.” Then, with carefully rehearsed deliberation, he added, “‘Sank you.”
“Y’welcome,” Harris replied, looking away. Their gratitude was so effusive that it made him uncomfortable. He felt he hadn’t done anything yet to deserve it. The act of arriving, by itself, didn’t strike him as particularly praiseworthy. It would be a while before he understood that any step toward liberation, however small and insignificant it might seem, proved to these people that they had not given up and would never do so. But their desperate urgency to do something, anything, to get their country back again communicated itself to him from that first night. It made him all the more determined to make the mission a success.
With a final wave Langtot slipped out the barn door, returning to his house.
“I must go also,” Alain said. “The patrol passes soon. I am coming back next night, yes?”
“Tomorrow night?” Harris asked, glancing around at his new accommodations.
“Yes, tomorrow. Exactement . I bring Curel and, to translate, the wife of my brother. D’accord ?”
“Fine.”
“Langtot returns in the morning. Sleep now.” Alain opened the door and then shrank back as the patrol car passed along the lane running between his house and Langtot’s. The Germans, defeated by their own punctuality, drove on through the night in ignorance.
Alain glanced over his shoulder and said, “I go. Salut .”
Harris watched as the boy darted through the opening and sprinted across the field to his house.
“ Certainement, c’est ma ville ,” he replied. “Certainly, it is my town.”
The visitor faced Alain squarely. He could see a strong jaw, pale eyes flashing in the scant light, and thick dark hair beneath the cap. So this was the American, Alain thought. Bon Dieu ! Were they all so big? He stood as high as a bucheron , a lumberjack.
“Good,” the man said. “I’ve come a long way and I’m tired.” As he completed the sentence in French, the last three words, “ Je suis fatigué ,” sounded heartfelt.
Alain could imagine that he was tired. “We’ll go together,” he replied, finishing the ordained greeting, and then added quickly in English, “You have hunger? I brought food.”
The American shook his head. “Brought my own, and took a drink from the river.” He smiled suddenly, and Alain got an inkling of why he’d been chosen for the mission. Confidence radiated from that smile like pure white light from the sun. “Dan Harris, pleased to meet you,” the American added, extending his hand.
Alain shook it, inwardly exulting, and then startled the American by kissing him rapidly on both cheeks. “I am Alain Duclos, and I am having great happiness to see you. The barn where you stay is not far. Please to come with me.”
“You bet.” Harris followed where Alain led, to Langtot’s barn. They made the trip in comfortable silence, each man content with his role in the night’s drama. Langtot was waiting for them with a bottle of wine. Unable to speak English, the old man pumped Harris’ hand, beaming, and offered both travelers a drink. The brief celebration concluded, Langtot conversed quietly with Alain and finally gestured to the loft where Harris was to spend the night. He presented Harris with a blanket, a bottle of water, and a small basket of food. He wrung the younger man’s hand again and said something in French.
Harris looked at Alain and shook his head. Either he was tired, or he wasn’t as fluent as he’d thought.
“He says that it is a brave thing you do to come so far to help us,” Alain explained.
“He’s taking just as big a risk hiding me out,” Harris replied.
When Alain translated this, Langtot shook his head vehemently and said, slowly, so that Harris could understand, “I am an old man, and ready to die. It’s not the same to take such a chance with a young life.” Then, with carefully rehearsed deliberation, he added, “‘Sank you.”
“Y’welcome,” Harris replied, looking away. Their gratitude was so effusive that it made him uncomfortable. He felt he hadn’t done anything yet to deserve it. The act of arriving, by itself, didn’t strike him as particularly praiseworthy. It would be a while before he understood that any step toward liberation, however small and insignificant it might seem, proved to these people that they had not given up and would never do so. But their desperate urgency to do something, anything, to get their country back again communicated itself to him from that first night. It made him all the more determined to make the mission a success.
With a final wave Langtot slipped out the barn door, returning to his house.
“I must go also,” Alain said. “The patrol passes soon. I am coming back next night, yes?”
“Tomorrow night?” Harris asked, glancing around at his new accommodations.
“Yes, tomorrow. Exactement . I bring Curel and, to translate, the wife of my brother. D’accord ?”
“Fine.”
“Langtot returns in the morning. Sleep now.” Alain opened the door and then shrank back as the patrol car passed along the lane running between his house and Langtot’s. The Germans, defeated by their own punctuality, drove on through the night in ignorance.
Alain glanced over his shoulder and said, “I go. Salut .”
Harris watched as the boy darted through the opening and sprinted across the field to his house.
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