Читать книгу A Rendezvous To Remember - Geri Krotow - Страница 10

Esmée’s Journal

December 25, 1942

This is a Christmas I will always remember.

I now have a man to nurse back to health and a husband to grieve. I don’t grieve for Henri, but I grieve for the marriage that never was. For the hope I had at the beginning. For the hope of what I once thought was a mutual friendship that might blossom into a true marriage.

Let me start again.

I’ve learned during the past weeks that Henri has helped the Germans rout out the Jewish children from our village. He even knew where they were staying if they’d been sent to relatives.

As he beat me for what would be the last time, he snarled, “I’ll bet you think they’re the same as us, don’t you? Don’t you?” I said nothing. I couldn’t; my lip was swollen and bleeding. But I laughed inside as I knew that once I told the Group what Henri was up to, they’d take care of him. And I had to tell them. It wasn’t about my conscience or my soul. It was about saving innocent lives. The Nazis occupy our country but they can’t take my heart. And I’d die before my husband (in name only) could give them one more piece of information.

I went to Midnight Mass on my own on Christmas Eve. I figured Henri had some urgent evil business, so I went to pray it wouldn’t work out well.

The night was cold and crisp. For once we had no rain, just a wide clear sky above, with the stars floating close enough to touch. I relished my walk home in the dark. This isn’t a Christmas for parties and celebration; it’s one for prayer and hope that our hell will end soon.

I came home from Mass to an empty house. But Henri wasn’t passed out drunk on the sofa, as usual, nor was he waiting to pummel me. A frigid breeze blew through the house and I heard my dog, Belle, barking out back. Henri was always careful to make sure she was outside when he beat me—Belle would have killed him if he’d ever left her in the same room when he hurt me.

Her barks alarmed me with their persistence. I ran through the house to the kitchen door, which stood wide open. I could see a lantern about halfway across the field, which was lit up by the full, full moon. I made out Henri’s silhouette and Belle’s, across from him. But who was the figure next to Belle?

I grabbed one of Henri’s hunting rifles. I may never know why I did; I’d never allowed Henri to find out that I knew how to fire a weapon. He would’ve locked up the rifles, and for some perverse reason I’ve always felt safe knowing they were there. Just in case.

I ran into the field, the frozen mud crunching so loudly beneath my feet that the sound drowned out whatever Henri was saying to Belle, and to the figure. As I neared, I realized with a jolt that Henri wasn’t even aware of my approach. Belle’s barks had helped to cover my steps, but that’s not why he was distracted.

Henri was enraged. But for once, not at me.

“You stupid shit of the earth. Do you think I don’t know who you are, what you represent?” Henri had his rifle up and cocked, pointed at the figure.

It was a man. He wore plain dark clothes and there was a large cloth draped on the ground next to him.

A parachute.

The Group had said they’d use my pasture, but they’d give me advance notice—if they could. Obviously they hadn’t.

“Please, friend, let me explain.” The man spoke perfect Belgian French. Henri started to yell at him in German.

“I’m not your friend, nor am I a friend of any supporter of Churchill’s.”

“I don’t understand,” the man answered, again in fluent French, but I had the sense that he understood Henri perfectly. At this point he’d spotted me, although I noticed he gave away nothing in his expression. He was sitting, both legs in front of him. He held his right ankle in his hands.

“Understand this. You’ll be sorry you didn’t break your neck in the fall.” Henri raised his barrel and from his stance I knew he was a stroke from killing the man.

“Henri, don’t!”

Henri barely started. He didn’t even look at me.

“Shut up, Esmée. Take Belle back in the house before I shoot her, too. You know not to disobey me.”

Disobey him?

I hoisted my rifle and shot Henri in the head.

His body dropped in slow motion, and I wish I could tell you I felt guilt or recrimination or compassion at his fate. But all I felt is what I feel now. If I must suffer in hell for Henri’s blood, better that than letting him spill the blood of more innocent Jewish families. God only knows how many have met their untimely fate at his hands, through his help.

“Nice shot.”

Again, the stranger spoke in fluent French and I responded the same way.

“I just saved your ass and all you say is ‘nice shot’?”

“Merry Christmas?” he offered, and I laughed.

I actually laughed. I, who had just murdered my husband in cold blood, after Christmas Mass. War does strange things to a person, and sadly I’m no exception.

After our laughter stopped, we were left with the still, cold night and the prospect of figuring out if indeed this man belonged here. And what was I to do with him?

I studied him more closely. He looked like any local Belgian. A full beard and spectacles covered most of his face. I couldn’t see much more in the dark, no matter how bright the moon. But he had a quiet, intense presence about him.

“You are Muriel.”

He spoke my Resistance code name. He’d heard Henri call me “Esmée.” Still, he could be an undercover German. A double agent. But at that moment I decided to trust him.

“Yes, I am.”

“I am from across the way.”

This time he spoke in English.

He meant, of course, the English Channel. He was another one of the many Allied operatives who were landing in Belgium to help the Resistance.

I put down my rifle. It ran through my mind that this Ally probably thought I was crazy. That I could stand there having a calm chat with him in my cow pasture on Christmas morning, as my husband’s body lay next to us.

“Did you love him?” His question shocked me. I responded before I could think.

“I hated him.”

“So saving my ass wasn’t too much of a sacrifice, then?”

“No.”

I wish I’d been able to explain to him that I wasn’t a monster. That years of living with this horrible man in a horrible time had left me with no hope for my future. That my only reason for getting up each morning has been to save more people from the Germans, and to save any future victims of Henri’s efforts to aid the enemy.

But all I said was “no.”

Melinda heaved the journal off her lap and placed it on the mahogany end table she and Nicholas had refinished last year.

The conversation they’d had then played in her mind as if it had just happened.

She’d landed a position in Senator Hodge’s local office but she’d been offered one in Washington, D.C. She’d wanted to take it. Planned to take it.

Nicholas had rejected her suggestion that they move. His accounting practice was flourishing and, even though he’d have no problem landing a great job in D.C., he didn’t want to leave western New York.

“It’s all we’ve ever known. We’ve been so happy here,” he’d argued.

“Exactly. It’s all we’ve ever known. But it was pretty damned desolate while you were in Afghanistan.”

She’d loathed the entire year he’d been gone, and was grateful he’d returned in one piece.

But the year of separation and isolation had stirred a restlessness in Melinda that she needed to explore. She was like her father, James, who’d worked as a civil servant, first for the municipal government in Buffalo and then in Arizona. She was interested in federal politics. Grammy, like Nick, had thought maybe it was time they had a baby, but the baby never came.

They’d been unable to conceive.

“Honey, we’re in an adjustment period,” he’d said that fall day. “I’ve only been back six months, and we were apart an entire year.” He’d placed his hands on her shoulders, but Melinda couldn’t accept any comfort from him. Not then.

“You’ve only been home for six months but you’re already talking about leaving again.” Her words were spoken quietly but their weight was deadly.

Nicholas dropped his hands from her shoulders and took a step backward.

“You’ve always supported my Reserve training before. Surely you understood it was training for war.”

“Yes, but you seem so eager to go, Nick. It’s as though you have some sort of death wish. I mean, to agree, to volunteer again—”

“Cut me some slack here, Melinda. I’ve been with the same team for the past ten years. We’re like family. I can’t let them down now.”

“What about me? Us?”

“There’s always us. That never changes.”

“You say you want a baby, but how can we work on it when you’re halfway around the world fighting in a war?”

“The same way we’ll work on it while you’re in D.C. and I’m here.” His resentment at her more and more frequent business trips was reflected in his tone.

They’d thrown accusations at each other that day as if words didn’t hurt, wouldn’t stay ingrained on their hearts for a long while to come, if not forever.

On Sunday morning, Nicholas rose with the sun. Mornings were always the toughest time. He had to stretch, put on his prosthesis and remember how to walk with his new leg. Sometimes the phantom pain took his breath away. Not today.

Today he was under the same roof as Melinda. His heartache far outweighed any pain he’d suffered as a result of the IED, improvised explosive device, and the subsequent loss of his leg.

The pain he felt at the loss of his squad mate, Tommy, who hadn’t survived the IED, could still leave him breathless if he dwelled on it. But it didn’t compare to the pain he felt at the thought of losing Melinda.

Waking up in the trauma unit and finding out that Tommy had died, leaving a widow and three kids, was a gut-wrenching blow. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get over it. He’d certainly never forget Tommy.

But if he lost Melinda, their marriage, he’d lose his most important reason to live.

Melinda was his life, his soul mate. But they’d gone wrong somewhere in their fifteen-year marriage. He intended to right whatever he’d screwed up.

He went downstairs and started a pot of coffee. He was happy to see that Melinda had replaced the Starbucks coffee he’d left in the cupboard seven months ago. While the coffee brewed, he walked to the front door, intent on the morning paper. After he opened the front door and was greeted with an icy blast he realized the paper service had been terminated.

Of course. He’d made the call himself two days before his departure.

A week after Melinda had left.

“You’re up early.” Her voice seemed to touch the tender place inside that he’d thought was dead.

“Habit.” He turned away from her, and went back into the kitchen. But not before he caught a whiff of her morning scent. Shampoo, hair products, perfume. For a split second, all their bitter words dissolved and all he wanted was to pull her into his arms.

Instead, he settled for looking at her.

Big mistake. The IED had taken his leg but, thank God, nothing else. Right now he was acutely aware of his physiological response to her.

Big blue eyes stared at him from behind fringed lashes that he knew to be pale blond when not coated with mascara, as they were now. She’d cut her hair, and as much as he missed the straight, silky length that fell to her shoulders, the new sleek chin-length style was stunning on her.

When she raised an eyebrow, Nicholas turned away. He had to stay cool if he was going to pull this one off.

“Learn anything interesting from Grammy’s journal?” He poured them each a cup of coffee. He was generous with her half-and-half, just the way she liked it.

Melinda’s expression looked as if she’d refuse his attempt at a truce. After a few tense moments, the lines in her face relaxed.

He watched her slim hands wrap around the ceramic mug. She lifted it to her lips and he had to avert his gaze or risk another surge of hormones.

“I’ve—” she narrowed her eyes “—we’ve always known that Grammy was a strong person. But I’m reading about someone I don’t know at all.”

She related what she’d read so far, and while Nick was saddened that Grammy had suffered at the hands of an abusive husband, he wasn’t surprised to learn how resourceful she’d been.

“This guy who landed in her pasture—he was a Brit, I assume? Grandpa Jack?”

Nick took a long sip of coffee and watched her across the kitchen table. The sun was rising and sent slanted beams of light across Melinda’s face.

“I haven’t read that far yet. They always said they met during the war, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but neither one of them ever told me the full story. They were experts at enjoying today, the here and now.”

Nicholas longed to share the last conversation he’d had with Grammy. But not now. Not until Melinda was ready to hear him out. After he’d told her about his leg.

Melinda sighed.

“It’s weird. I thought I was coming home to take care of Grandpa Jack. You know how lifetime couples often pass on very close to each other? I’ve been expecting to hear Grandpa’s gone, too. Instead, I come home to find him in his garden, working away, and he gives me these journals to read. Tells me they’re very important.”

She swished her coffee around in her mug.

“I keep thinking I should feel more grief or an extra closeness to Grammy as I read this. But like I said, it’s as though I’m reading the story of another woman’s life.”

She stood up and went to the refrigerator.

“Most of us don’t see our parents or grandparents in an objective light, the way the world sees them.”

Nick smiled to himself as Melinda pulled out eggs, cheese, vegetables and Tabasco sauce. She was making them an omelet. Did she realize how easily they’d slipped back into their Sunday-morning breakfast routine?

Minus the lovemaking, of course.

“True. But, Nick, she killed a man!”

Melinda’s voice snapped him back.

“I see what you mean.” He shook his head. “Hell, she wouldn’t even let me kill the slugs that were eating her prize tomatoes two summers ago. She said ‘just let me take them down to the creek.’”

“Right, exactly.” She cracked two more eggs against the ceramic mixing bowl.

He studied Mel’s movements about the counter and stove. God, he’d missed her grace, her warmth.

“You know, Mel, We’re all capable of things we wouldn’t have any reason to think about unless—or until—we’re faced with the circumstances.”

What would Melinda think of him if she knew he’d killed? Even in self-defense, in war.

What if she knew about the hatred he’d carried in his heart for the person or persons who were responsible for the IED that killed his friend and blew his leg off?