Epilogue
One hundred and twenty-five miles from Metz, on the banks of the High Rhine, three nations collide. Germany and France grind against each other as they have for years. Beyond the river that runs scarlet with their soldiers’ blood, Switzerland abides, beholden to none. The Swiss border city of Basel, defiantly neutral, offers solace to anyone weary of war.
Though the summer morning is only an hour old, Kjell has been awake for quite some time, having fired his ovens while others slept. His bakery has persevered while his rivals have lost business during these times of privation and mindful spending, primarily because he keeps to the basics of bread and croissants and doesn’t bother with unnecessary treats. Artfully rendered macarons and creamy religieuse doomed many of his peers. Kjell is sweeping up a flour spill near the window when he sees the man and woman approach.
They hold hands. He is tall and yellow-haired and wearing horseman’s boots. She’s clad in a uniform reminiscent of the military. Kjell has never seen anything like her. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders instead of being pinned away. Her jacket is unbuttoned, revealing the curve of her breasts beneath her sweater.
Kjell knows all his customers, but he does not know them. When they enter his shop, he carefully sets his broom aside.
****
“I don’t know why you’ve brought me here if we have no money,” Ellenor says.
“Who says we have no money?”
She gives him a glance as they observe the array of baked goods. “You need to shave.”
“I’m told that some women find this look attractive.”
“Do these women live in caves?”
He smirks. “Tart.”
She bumps him with her hip. “You haven’t answered my question.”
Alec withdraws a roll of Swiss francs.
“Where on earth did you get that?”
“Sarah. She insisted on looking after me.”
“How much is it?”
“Enough for two days.”
“Two days? And what do we do after that? On day number three? And day four?”
“Find work, I suppose.”
“Find work doing what?”
“I don’t know. Do you think anyone around here needs to hire a handsome pilot and a beautiful machine-gunner?”
Ellenor slides her hand into the crook of his elbow. Smiling, she returns her attention to the loaves, filling herself with their scent. Nothing seems to matter at the moment but choosing the right one. Without looking away from the sourdoughs and pumpernickels and ryes, she says, “Will we live here in Basel?”
A few seconds pass before he replies. “Is that what you want?”
“For a while.”
“And when a while is over?”
Ellenor has narrowed it down to the yeast rolls and the rye with warm butter. “I think I’d like to see my bees again.”
“I’m sure there are beekeepers in Switzerland.”
“That one,” she says, pointing to the loaf of rye.
On the other side of the counter, the baker nods and fetches a square of newsprint and a length of twine.
She watches the man work. “Will we ever know if the French made it through?”
“I’m sure they did. I never met a Frenchman who wasn’t as tenacious as a terrier.”
“A nucleus won’t be cheap, you know.”
“Nucleus?”
“That’s what you call the queen and a small amount of bees you buy from a beekeeper in order to raise your own colony. And we’ll need at least two of them to get started, just to be sure. We’ll have to hurry, because the hives need time to build up their honey stores before winter.”
“What do you say we worry about getting a roof over our heads first, and then we’ll look into acquiring a few bees?”
Ellenor accepts the wrapped bread and looks up at Alec. “I warn you that my domestic skills are unrefined.”
“How’s your sharpshooting?”
She smiles and puts one arm around his neck. “Better than average.”
Alec buries his hands in her hair, pulls her onto her toes, and kisses her.
The baker, embarrassed, hurries back to his broom.