we’re approaching fast.
Over her shoulder, Denise says, “I have an idea. We’ll have a picnic.”
“But I have a gut feeling that the trucks are practically on top of us.”
“We’ll stop there, by that brook, like we did before.” As I pull alongside her, she says, “We can’t speed past the German trucks without arousing suspicion.”
We veer off the road and continue across rough ground. The handlebars bounce in my hands, jarring my entire body. Denise, the lucky one with a bike all to herself, speeds ahead of me. I grunt and groan my way forward, desperate to catch up. That’s what I get for trying to be a hero.
At the brook, Denise runs with her bicycle to a nearby cluster of squat evergreens, and then she hurries back to a shady patch of flat ground near the water. I drop the pilot off there and I hide my bike with Denise’s. By the time I get back to them, they’ve laid out the parachute like a picnic blanket on a carpet of velvety moss.
We sink onto the silk and sit ramrod straight, looking nothing like relaxed picnickers.
“Why are we waiting for the Germans?” the pilot asks.
An uneasy giggle prickles up inside me. Why
are
we sitting out in the open and not hiding? The plan that made perfect sensea few seconds ago is falling like one of my aunt’s cakes when her boys stampede through the kitchen.
The pilot inches away from me. “Why are you smiling?”
Denise and I snatched up a perfect stranger, ranting about Germans and trucks that he hasn’t seen any evidence of, and carried him off on our bicycles. For all he knows, we’re setting him up to be captured. And here I am, grinning at the poor guy like a lunatic, when in truth my nerves are unraveling a little.
“Places, everyone,” Denise whispers. “We’re relaxed, we’re having a brilliant good time, we are on the lookout for fun, not Germans. Ready, and … action.”
We fall into laid-back poses just as the trucks speed into view.
Without turning my head, I keep one eye on the trucks. “They’ve spotted us.” The stiff smile at my lips barely moves when I say, “I sure hope they keep going.”
The trucks slide through my peripheral vision.
“They’re not leaving,” the pilot says, in English, and far too loudly. He might as well wave a sign that reads I’M THE AMERICAN YOU’RE LOOKING FOR! “They’re coming back.”
His trembling legs jerk. I grab hold of his flight trousers as his seat leaves silk and yank him back to earth.
“If you run, you’ll get us all killed. Calm down.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
The trucks reverse and come to a stop. The driver’s door of the second truck swings open. A soldier steps down to the road. Pebbles crunch beneath his heavy boots. He straightens his glasses, carefully analyzing each member of our group.
Unless by some miracle he stops walking, we are finished. I chew the inside of my mouth, counting each crunching footstep.
Standing tall, arms stiff at his sides, he calls out to us in perfect English. “Have you seen an American here?”
Fear clangs through me. We all speak and understand English. While Denise and I are trained to gauge our responses to the unexpected, I’m not so sure about the pilot. If he falls for the soldier’s trap and shows a hint of understanding or fear, the jig is up.
“Watch yourself, pilot,” Denise whispers out of the side of her mouth. “And bloody well keep your mouth shut.”
“Have you seen an American here?” the soldier repeats. “An American pilot?”
Denise shrugs and calls back, “
Pardonnez-moi?
”
“
Vous avez vu un pilote américain?
” he says, in the same calm monotone he’s used since he first spoke.
From inside the truck, another soldier is keeping an eye on us. I watch him reach for the door handle.
Without saying a word, Denise scrambles to her feet and sashays to the soldier. I pick up the odd muffled word as they talk, but it’s not enough to get a good read on their conversation. The
Over her shoulder, Denise says, “I have an idea. We’ll have a picnic.”
“But I have a gut feeling that the trucks are practically on top of us.”
“We’ll stop there, by that brook, like we did before.” As I pull alongside her, she says, “We can’t speed past the German trucks without arousing suspicion.”
We veer off the road and continue across rough ground. The handlebars bounce in my hands, jarring my entire body. Denise, the lucky one with a bike all to herself, speeds ahead of me. I grunt and groan my way forward, desperate to catch up. That’s what I get for trying to be a hero.
At the brook, Denise runs with her bicycle to a nearby cluster of squat evergreens, and then she hurries back to a shady patch of flat ground near the water. I drop the pilot off there and I hide my bike with Denise’s. By the time I get back to them, they’ve laid out the parachute like a picnic blanket on a carpet of velvety moss.
We sink onto the silk and sit ramrod straight, looking nothing like relaxed picnickers.
“Why are we waiting for the Germans?” the pilot asks.
An uneasy giggle prickles up inside me. Why
are
we sitting out in the open and not hiding? The plan that made perfect sensea few seconds ago is falling like one of my aunt’s cakes when her boys stampede through the kitchen.
The pilot inches away from me. “Why are you smiling?”
Denise and I snatched up a perfect stranger, ranting about Germans and trucks that he hasn’t seen any evidence of, and carried him off on our bicycles. For all he knows, we’re setting him up to be captured. And here I am, grinning at the poor guy like a lunatic, when in truth my nerves are unraveling a little.
“Places, everyone,” Denise whispers. “We’re relaxed, we’re having a brilliant good time, we are on the lookout for fun, not Germans. Ready, and … action.”
We fall into laid-back poses just as the trucks speed into view.
Without turning my head, I keep one eye on the trucks. “They’ve spotted us.” The stiff smile at my lips barely moves when I say, “I sure hope they keep going.”
The trucks slide through my peripheral vision.
“They’re not leaving,” the pilot says, in English, and far too loudly. He might as well wave a sign that reads I’M THE AMERICAN YOU’RE LOOKING FOR! “They’re coming back.”
His trembling legs jerk. I grab hold of his flight trousers as his seat leaves silk and yank him back to earth.
“If you run, you’ll get us all killed. Calm down.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
The trucks reverse and come to a stop. The driver’s door of the second truck swings open. A soldier steps down to the road. Pebbles crunch beneath his heavy boots. He straightens his glasses, carefully analyzing each member of our group.
Unless by some miracle he stops walking, we are finished. I chew the inside of my mouth, counting each crunching footstep.
Standing tall, arms stiff at his sides, he calls out to us in perfect English. “Have you seen an American here?”
Fear clangs through me. We all speak and understand English. While Denise and I are trained to gauge our responses to the unexpected, I’m not so sure about the pilot. If he falls for the soldier’s trap and shows a hint of understanding or fear, the jig is up.
“Watch yourself, pilot,” Denise whispers out of the side of her mouth. “And bloody well keep your mouth shut.”
“Have you seen an American here?” the soldier repeats. “An American pilot?”
Denise shrugs and calls back, “
Pardonnez-moi?
”
“
Vous avez vu un pilote américain?
” he says, in the same calm monotone he’s used since he first spoke.
From inside the truck, another soldier is keeping an eye on us. I watch him reach for the door handle.
Without saying a word, Denise scrambles to her feet and sashays to the soldier. I pick up the odd muffled word as they talk, but it’s not enough to get a good read on their conversation. The
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