Rachel
Rachel would never know where her mother found the strength to control her fear. One minute, she was staring—gaping, actually—at the battle between Vivian and the Nazi. The next, her hand was on Rachel’s arm, pulling her in a stumbling run across the basement floor, up the stairs, through the back door, and out into the moonlit night. Camille’s footsteps pounded behind them. Her friend’s voice was a nonsensical buzz in Rachel’s ears. She heard words, but they were disjointed and tinny. Camille seemed to be giving them instructions, something about the passeur waiting for them a mile down the road, just on the edge of the forest.
Rachel already knew where they were supposed to go. Camille had given her the route in very specific terms. She’d shown Rachel a map and had drilled her relentlessly until she could see every twist and turn in her mind. She even knew the street names, though without the benefit of light, that information was useless.
Now she recalled every detail. Right at the first corner, go two blocks, another right, continue four more blocks, a left. Another left, right, right, left. Her bag slammed into her hip, and her breath came in snatches. Rachel focused only on the route.
Another left.
The residual heat of the day turned the air into a wet, sticky stew smelling of something quite foul. How close were they to the detention center? Too close, she decided, and was happy for the lack of light.
A hard right.
Rachel kept her mother close, nearly fused to her right hip. Camille moved in on the other side, sufficiently flanking the older woman. They shared a look over her head, and in Camille’s eyes, Rachel saw the apology Vivian hadn’t given. She also recognized a deep sense of kinship. Rachel would miss this woman, her friend, she would miss her very much.
But this wasn’t the time for sentiment. She should be thinking only of the next step in the difficult journey ahead. They took the final corner, and Rachel looked to Camille again. A hundred unspoken thoughts passed between them. Rachel didn’t want tears. They came anyway.
Now it was her turn to feel sorrow and regret. Not only for this friend she would never see again, but also, irrationally, for Vivian Miller. In the final moment, when it mattered most, she’d sacrificed herself. That’s what Rachel would remember. No matter how many times she relived the moment when von Bauer had pointed the gun at her, she would remember the American distracting him before he could shoot her.
She’s also the reason you’re on the run. With identity cards and American passports she’d provided.
Betrayal and sacrifice. Opposite sides of a very complicated coin.
“We’re here,” Camille said, her voice barely a whisper on the light breeze. They entered through the dense tree line. The night was thicker in the woods, the air stagnant, as if holding its breath. The unseasonable heat had Rachel’s hair sticking to her forehead. Frustrated, she shoved it aside, and sensed her mother watching her.
“We will survive this,” she said. “For the ones we’ve lost.”
Rachel didn’t think twice. She grabbed her mother in a tight, clumsy hug. “Yes. We will survive. For Papa and Srulka.”
A dull light flashed in the distance, just a shimmer. Then a girl came into view, wearing men’s clothing far too big for her small frame and a floppy hat that covered half her face. She was young, younger even than Rachel, and agonizingly thin. “I am Paulette.” She spoke French with the accent of privilege. “I will be your passeur, your escort.”
There was something tragic about the girl, something that transcended class and rank, and Rachel felt an instant connection.
Camille shifted into the thin beam of light, drawing Paulette’s attention. “This is Rachel and her mother, Ilka.”
The girl frowned. “I was told to expect only two, a mother and daughter.”
“That’s right.” Camille nodded. “I’m not making the journey.”
“Why not?” Rachel reached to her friend, the scene in the basement fresh in her mind. “You can’t go back to that house.”
“I can’t leave Vivian.”
“Yes, you can. She is the woman who...” Betrayed us. Rachel didn’t say the words, but they hung in the air between them. “What if she didn’t survive? What if he did? Don’t go back, Camille. Please.”
“I won’t abandon her. I can’t. And there is my family to consider. They need me.” She held Rachel’s stare. “No, I can’t leave France.”
In that moment, Rachel understood Camille in ways she hadn’t before. She felt a moment of shame. For all her doubts concerning this woman. A woman who’d offered her charity and a place to hide. And that slippery, elusive gift of all: hope. “Thank you, mon ami. I won’t forget what you’ve done for my mother and me.”
“I would do it all again.”
“I know.”
They reached for each other and held on tight. So tightly that Rachel could feel the thud of Camille’s heartbeat. They said not a word. They made no promises to meet again after the war. This was the end for them. Their friendship would not be rekindled once the weapons were laid down. “Merci,” she said again.
“De rien.”
They pulled apart, and Camille was turning one way, Paulette another. Rachel realized she had one last gift to give her friend. “Camille, wait.” She reached inside her bag and pulled out the garden shears. “For protection.”
There was nothing left to say. Rachel took her mother’s hand, and together, they followed their escort deeper into the woods. To Spain, or to capture. Around the fire, or through it. Either way, they would soon be free.