Shadows of Yesterday

Chapter 15

Camille waited for the plane to return. No one moved, muffled cries and curses coming from the road. After a few minutes, the refugees rose from the ground, screaming and sobbing. None were shot, although bullets came close. The pilot wanted to terrorize them, and he did. They again clogged the road, running to nowhere, assuming anywhere else would be safe. The line stretched south as far as Camille could see, but behind her, the end was less than fifty meters away. No more would flee. At least not today.

“Can you help me get him inside?” she asked Lucien. “We can’t leave him lying here.”

“We’ll have to lift him,” he replied, scanning the horizon.

“Do you have a wheelbarrow?”

He nodded. “Yes, wait here,” he said and went behind the chicken coop. He returned with a wooden wheelbarrow, weathered, the red paint faded, the wheel wobbly. He put it next to the Englishman. “Can you lift his legs?”

She struggled, protecting his wound, the bandage slowly staining. Lucien lifted his torso into the wheelbarrow, steadied it, and then helped her.

“We have to hurry,” he said. He pushed the wheelbarrow forward, the soldier’s limbs dangling over the edge.

Camille stood beside him, keeping the wheelbarrow steady. They pushed it across the lawn, moving as fast as they could. On any other day, they would attract the attention of all who saw them. But now no one cared. The refugees thought only of themselves. They had to. No one else would save them.

They shoved the wheelbarrow across uneven ground. Billowing clouds of dust formed in the east, floating across fields. “They’re coming,” she said quietly.

They wheeled the Englishman around shrubs that split the farm from the house. When they reached the cottage, Lucien opened the door and pushed the wheelbarrow across the threshold. “There’s a spare room,” he said, winded, nodding toward a closed door on the right.

She opened the door. The room was furnished sparsely, a worn green sofa, two half-filled bookcases flanking a closet, a picture on the wall of a mother and child. She paused to look at it, then went to a window with open white curtains. “Look,” she said, pointing east.

Vehicles approached. A staff car led, still far away, followed by troop trucks with gray canvas backs. Motorcycles rode between them, with sidecars and machine guns that brought death from any direction. The Germans came from Tournai. The city had fallen. Or maybe they had gone around it. But they were on their way to the main road, moving west.

“Put him on the couch,” she said. “We have to hurry.”

He pushed the wheelbarrow next to the sofa. “Grab his legs,” he said. “Gently.”

She lifted his feet as Lucien grasped him under the arms. The soldier groaned as they swung him on to the sofa.

“Take the wheelbarrow outside,” she said. “Quickly. Use the back door so they won’t see you.” She looked at the tracks on the floor. “Clean the dirt, too. Hurry.”

He looked at her curiously, the calm woman in control of a situation that was out of control. But he did what she said. As she watched the Germans from the window, he pushed the wheelbarrow through the kitchen and out the back door. He returned a moment later with a rag from the kitchen cupboard.

Camille came to the threshold. “They’re close.”

The German vehicles came down the road, infantry walking through the fields. They could come in the house, or they might assume it was safe—that no Allied soldiers hid within. Except one did—an unconscious Englishman sprawled on a worn couch.

She went back to the doorway as Lucien wiped the dirt from the floor and returned the rag to the kitchen. The British soldier grunted, his eyes fluttering open. He started to thrash about, as if trying to escape but not knowing from what.

“Please be still,” Lucien said in stilted English as he came back in the room.

The soldier stopped moving. His frightened eyes scanned the room. “Who are you?”

“We won’t hurt you,” Lucien said, not answering.

“We’ll help you,” Camille added. “You’ve been shot in the leg and lost a lot of blood. You were unconscious.”

“Where are the others?”

“They’re gone,” Lucien said.

“Germans are coming,” Camille warned. She looked out and drew the curtains. “They’re just up the road.”

Lucien glanced around the cottage, as if not sure what to do. “We have nowhere to hide you. You must be very quiet.”

“I’ll wait with him,” Camille said. “Just until they pass.”

“I hear their engines,” Lucien said quietly, the rumbling increasing.

Camille peeked from the window. “Soldiers cross the fields. They’re almost here.”

“I’ll go in the parlor,” Lucien said. “They may come to the door. Please, be still.”

Lucien went in the parlor, closing the door. Camille looked out the window. The refugees had passed, the end of the line beyond the edge of the farm, near the bridge that crossed the stream. They moved to the side of the road, making way for their new masters.

The first vehicle approached. Soldiers on foot came closer. They walked around the house, poking through shrubs, searching for an enemy that wasn’t there.

The front door burst open.