Violins of Autumn by Amy McAuley

a haphazard bundle and takes his place behind me. When I check on him, his expression makes it clear he’s hopelessly confused.
    “Rat says we have to leave immediately,” I explain. “The Germans are doing inspections and they can’t find us here. You can ride Rat’s bicycle.”
    “Okay. I’ll just follow along. I trust you.”
    I hustle down the ladder. He trusts me. To keep him safe. To keep him alive. The gravity of what Denise and I have chosen to take on by rescuing Robbie and bringing him with us to Paris, in a country swarming with the enemy, hits me smack in the chest. I let go of the ladder rung and drop the rest of the way, landing with a thud.
    When we have our bikes we run with them, still stiff-legged from sleep, into the yard. Tiny beads of mist cling to my face and clothing. Rat and Louis are bent over a bicycle—Rat’s, I guess—around the side of the house. A suitcase has been strapped to the back and another sits at Rat’s feet.
    Rat motions for Robbie to join them, and he runs off, swimming in the cinched-up work trousers and shirt that are loose-fitting on Louis. With the parachute packed away and the suitcases loaded up, Robbie pushes the bike to us.
    “
Merci, Louis. Nous sommes reconnaissants pour votre aide
,” I call, genuinely thankful for the hospitality Louis showed us, despite being forced to live on rations and without running water and electricity.
    With a curt wave, Denise says, “Yes, thank you.”
    We’re back on the road again. At least we got some sleep.
    Once we’ve distanced ourselves from the town of Chevreuse, we slow to a pace we can keep up over hours. By the time the sunhas burned off the last of the fog, my stomach is growling for food.
    “Have anything to eat in that suitcase, Robbie?” I ask.
    “Yes. Louis packed some rations for us.”
    Denise says, “I’m not hungry, I can wait.”
    Not hungry? I don’t believe her.
    “Are you still upset that Louis served us goat kid last night, Denise?”
    She shrugs without answering the question.
    “You know you’re here to kill people. You’re upset about the death of a goat?”
    “People do wrong and evil things all the time. That kid did nothing.”
    “Didn’t you keep rabbits back home, after the war broke out?”
    Denise’s hair drapes over her profile. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
    I fall back in line with Robbie, and we continue on without breaking to eat. Luckily, Paris is only a few hours away. I know from studying our map that we’re about to enter the town of Palaiseau. At that point, one-third of today’s trip will be complete.
    The farther we ride, the flatter the countryside becomes. We speed along.
    In French, I say to Denise, “We’ve seen quite a few German vehicles from a distance today. There will be soldiers in town and we won’t be able to avoid them.” With a sideward glance Robbie’s way, I add, “What will we do then?”
    We round a bend in the road. The German soldiers leaning against their truck see us coming in the same instant we see them.
    My automatic reaction is panic. I take a breath, pedaling slower, and force myself to relax. Looking guilty or fearful will only raise suspicions.
    We appear to be ordinary young people riding bicycles, a sight the soldiers see every day, and we’re not outwardly breaking any laws. If we don’t give them a reason to stop us, we should be able to ride past them unprovoked.
    But we can’t take that chance.
    “Denise, you and Robbie have to go on without me. Pretend you’re a couple having a spat and ride around the truck. I’ll divert their attention.”
    “No. I won’t leave you.”
    “If they find the radio, they’ll shoot us. And Robbie has no papers. It’s the only way.”
    Denise lets out a slow breath. “See you in Paris.”
    I can’t bring myself to say good-bye.
    “Keep your mouth shut, Robert,” she says, pushing off. “I’ll do the talking.”
    If the Germans search my suitcase, if they realize my