Chapter 21
947 Words
Camille hesitated, not sure if she should share where she hid the Englishman, even if it was his house. Not with Germans just outside. She glanced at the half-empty bottle of whiskey, went to the window, and looked out, and then walked to the kitchen and did the same. She made sure the back door was locked. Not that it mattered.
“Check from my bedroom windows,” Lucien said as she eyed the partially closed door.
She went in and looked out the windows. “No more Germans are coming. But a handful wait near the stream.”
“They’re camping for the night.”
She paused. “They may come back at any time.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where’s the Englishman?”
“Come,” she said.
She led him into the spare room, just past the threshold. They stood in the doorway, the empty couch to their right.
He glanced at the photograph on the wall for a moment, and then looked away, pain on his face. He sighed, studying the room. It took him a moment to notice.
“The two bookcases had flanked a closet door,” she explained. “I hid the Englishman in the closet, and slid the bookcases together.”
“Brilliant,” he said, moving his hand to rub the welt on his head. “I’m impressed.”
“It’s all I could think to do.”
“It worked,” he said, glancing at her curiously. “At least for now.”
She slid the first bookcase far enough to expose the closet door. She opened it and the Englishman slumped on the floor. “Are you all right?” she asked, kneeling over him.
“Yes,” he mumbled, barely conscious. “A bit thirsty.”
“What’s your name?” Lucien asked.
“Henry Green.”
“We’ll take good care of you, Henry,” Camille promised. “Where are you from?”
“St. Albans,” he said. “Just outside of London.”
“London is a fabulous city,” she said.
“Yes, it is ma’am.”
Lucien studied her for a moment. “Have you ever been to London?”
She ignored him. “Lie down on the floor, Henry. But if the Germans come back, we have to rush you back in the closet.”
Lucien went in the kitchen and got a glass of water. When he returned, he put the glass to Henry’s lips and helped him drink.
“Are you in pain?” Camille asked.
Henry nodded. “I can’t stand much more.”
Lucien looked at his flush face. “The bullet has to come out,” he said softly.
Camille glanced at Lucien. She suspected Henry Green would get worse with each hour that passed. “You can’t do it with the Germans so close.”
“We may have no choice.”
Henry’s eyes fluttered closed. He was losing strength.
“He’s just a boy,” Camille whispered. “Maybe twenty, not much more.”
What are we going to do with him?”
“We have to hide him in the closet overnight.”
He looked at her, perplexed. “Why are you here? Don’t you have to go home?”
“How?” she asked tartly. “Should I run across fields filled with Germans?”
“Do you have a husband?” he asked bluntly.
“Is he going to die?” she asked, pointing at Henry.
Lucien touched his forehead. “We have to get him to a doctor.”
“You’re a doctor.”
He frowned. “I was a doctor.”
“You’re still a doctor.”
“I can’t help him,” he snapped.
She left the room and circled the house, checking all the windows. “The Germans will leave in the morning.”
Lucien studied the bandaged leg, blood staining the gauze. “I can’t be responsible for him—and I shouldn’t have to be.” He paused, glaring at her. “I can’t be responsible for you, either.”
“You’re not even responsible for yourself,” she muttered. “Will he last until morning?”
“I think so.”
“They’ll leave at dawn. They’re moving quickly.”
“The Allies retreat,” he said. “The Germans trapped them.”
“It’s worse than you know,” she said, and looked at Henry Green. “Can you give him something for the pain?”
Lucien opened his medical bag, removed a glass syringe, and drew medication into it. He stuck it into Henry’s leg. “This should help him.”
“I’ll stay with him,” she offered. “If the Germans come, I’ll get him in the closet.”
“We’ll take turns,” he offered. “We can’t take chances. The Germans will kill us both if they find him.”
They went in the parlor, looking from the window. The last of the Germans had stopped down the road and were setting camp for the night. Many more sprawled across distant fields, hundreds of them.
“In the morning they’ll be gone,” Camille said. “And the chase will continue. An occupation force will stay in Tournai.”
He sat in the chair by the window, holding his throbbing head, a knot by his right temple. He picked up the bottle of whiskey, removed the cap and took a swig.
“To calm your nerves?” she asked. “Or ease the pain?”
Lucien didn’t reply. He took another drink, and the tremor in his hands eased.
He took another swig. And then another.
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