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Authors: Amy McAuley
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soldier’s knotted expression slackens. The rigid contour of his back slumps. Unbelievably, he waves good-bye to Denise and boards his truck. On a surface level, I notice the trucks pull away. The core of me is stunned, overcome with relief.
Denise marches back, arms swishing back and forth. She plunks down next to me and promptly falls over.
“Oh my gosh, are you all right?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I just need to catch my breath.” She lays an arm across her eyes to block the sun. “I’ll bet you thought his English was spot-on. He went to school in New York City.”
The German soldier and I were relative neighbors once. I can’t help but wonder about his life in America. Does it weigh on his mind that he now hunts American men like the pilot? And girls like me?
“We had a close call with that soldier,” Denise says. “He kept looking at you two over my shoulder, so I took his attention away by asking all sorts of questions about Radio City Music Hall and the Roxy Theater, even though I’ve only read about them in magazines. We made plans to meet in town this afternoon for a drink, and then off he went.”
“Thanks, Denise,” I say. “It was really brave of you to do that for us.”
I let her rest a few seconds more; all the time I feel we can safely spare.
“If they find out we’ve tricked them, they’ll come back,” I say, standing to leave.
She extends her arm and I help her up.
“Pilot,” Denise says. “Aren’t you coming? Up you get.”
He stares at his lap. His fidgeting fingers twist and pull at each other.
“Are you crying?”
The pilot wriggles backward onto the bed of moss. He goes about gathering the parachute, head bowed.
“What do you have to be crying about? I didn’t see you promising to go out on a date with that German.”
He hobbles away without us, quick even with the limp, in the direction of the road. We don’t have our bicycles ready. Off he goes anyway, without knowing where he’s headed or what he’s storming off to.
Denise chases him down. “C’mon now, pilot, toughen up. I’mtrying to protect you. Behaving like a six-year-old child will only get us captured or killed.”
“You’re right, I’m not six.” The pilot’s out-of-kilter stomping slows to shuffling steps. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m sixteen years old.”
Denise slowly spins around to face me. “Bloody hell.”
EIGHT
Our shadows, three dark spires against the dusty road, loom large ahead of us, as if impatient with our decision to walk the rest of the way to the farm. We’re nearly there, having passed an out-of-place stone fence that severs two barren pastures, the final landmark Madame LaRoche told us about.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Denise scan our surroundings. I’m still in disbelief that she had the guts to make a date with the German. She pulled personal information out of him in less time than it typically takes me to lace up my shoes. If I have to, if it means life or death, can I put so many stars in an enemy’s eyes that he won’t notice I’ve gotten away until it’s too late? If not, which tricks will I use?
“What did you say to that German?” I ask her. My curiosity always gets the better of me.
Denise shoots a sidelong glance at the pilot. “I told him he
must
be more exciting than my boyfriend. And I complimented him. Flattery works every time.”
He fell for flattery. That might be true, but it isn’t the whole story. Denise is pretty, and pretty girls know their power. The beautiful girls at boarding school got away with a lot more than the rest of us.
While I’m at it, satisfying my curiosity, there’s plenty I don’t know about the withdrawn pilot.
“If you’re only sixteen, how’d you get to be a pilot?” I ask.
“I lied about my age.”
So, the pilot and I have two things in common. We’re both Americans and we’re both liars.
“Then how’d you learn to fly a plane?”
“Crop
Denise marches back, arms swishing back and forth. She plunks down next to me and promptly falls over.
“Oh my gosh, are you all right?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I just need to catch my breath.” She lays an arm across her eyes to block the sun. “I’ll bet you thought his English was spot-on. He went to school in New York City.”
The German soldier and I were relative neighbors once. I can’t help but wonder about his life in America. Does it weigh on his mind that he now hunts American men like the pilot? And girls like me?
“We had a close call with that soldier,” Denise says. “He kept looking at you two over my shoulder, so I took his attention away by asking all sorts of questions about Radio City Music Hall and the Roxy Theater, even though I’ve only read about them in magazines. We made plans to meet in town this afternoon for a drink, and then off he went.”
“Thanks, Denise,” I say. “It was really brave of you to do that for us.”
I let her rest a few seconds more; all the time I feel we can safely spare.
“If they find out we’ve tricked them, they’ll come back,” I say, standing to leave.
She extends her arm and I help her up.
“Pilot,” Denise says. “Aren’t you coming? Up you get.”
He stares at his lap. His fidgeting fingers twist and pull at each other.
“Are you crying?”
The pilot wriggles backward onto the bed of moss. He goes about gathering the parachute, head bowed.
“What do you have to be crying about? I didn’t see you promising to go out on a date with that German.”
He hobbles away without us, quick even with the limp, in the direction of the road. We don’t have our bicycles ready. Off he goes anyway, without knowing where he’s headed or what he’s storming off to.
Denise chases him down. “C’mon now, pilot, toughen up. I’mtrying to protect you. Behaving like a six-year-old child will only get us captured or killed.”
“You’re right, I’m not six.” The pilot’s out-of-kilter stomping slows to shuffling steps. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m sixteen years old.”
Denise slowly spins around to face me. “Bloody hell.”
EIGHT
Our shadows, three dark spires against the dusty road, loom large ahead of us, as if impatient with our decision to walk the rest of the way to the farm. We’re nearly there, having passed an out-of-place stone fence that severs two barren pastures, the final landmark Madame LaRoche told us about.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Denise scan our surroundings. I’m still in disbelief that she had the guts to make a date with the German. She pulled personal information out of him in less time than it typically takes me to lace up my shoes. If I have to, if it means life or death, can I put so many stars in an enemy’s eyes that he won’t notice I’ve gotten away until it’s too late? If not, which tricks will I use?
“What did you say to that German?” I ask her. My curiosity always gets the better of me.
Denise shoots a sidelong glance at the pilot. “I told him he
must
be more exciting than my boyfriend. And I complimented him. Flattery works every time.”
He fell for flattery. That might be true, but it isn’t the whole story. Denise is pretty, and pretty girls know their power. The beautiful girls at boarding school got away with a lot more than the rest of us.
While I’m at it, satisfying my curiosity, there’s plenty I don’t know about the withdrawn pilot.
“If you’re only sixteen, how’d you get to be a pilot?” I ask.
“I lied about my age.”
So, the pilot and I have two things in common. We’re both Americans and we’re both liars.
“Then how’d you learn to fly a plane?”
“Crop
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