Violins of Autumn by Amy McAuley Page A

papers are fakes … I frantically contemplate calling out to Denise and Robbie. I’ve been too hasty. I made a mistake.
    I watch them ride away and leave me behind.

TEN
     
    “I saw you looking at that girl!” Denise shrieks in shrill French as she and Robbie shoot past the truck. “You pig! You disgust me!”
    One of the soldiers steps into the road, his raised hand commanding me to stop. I swallow back sudden nausea.
    “
Bonjour
.” I lower one foot to the road and keep the other at the ready on a pedal.
    My best attempt at a seductive smile is only somewhat successful. The other soldier, who looks about my age, gives me a gap-toothed grin. The soldier blocking my path remains as expressionless as granite. Looking past him, I see Robbie glance back at me one last time over his shoulder.
    “
Geben Sie uns Ihr Fahrrad
,” the stony soldier orders.
    A well of fear in my chest overflows, trickling throughout my body.
    They want my bicycle.
    “
Je ne parle pas allemand
,” I say, stalling for time.
    The young soldier steps forward. “We need your bicycle,” he explains in halting French. “We have a flat tire, you see.”
    I climb off the bike and begin unfastening my suitcase. They’re not making off with that without a fight.
    Impatience radiates from the older soldier, like scalding steam. He grasps my handlebars. My panic grows as a creeping tug-of-war goes on between us. When at last I have my suitcase, the bike goes to him.
    Leaving them no time to check me further, I say, “
Au revoir
,” and march off. The first steps are the most difficult. They won’t let me pass without a search. They’ll shout. Or fire a bullet into the back of my head and be done with it. I put one foot in front of the other, ignoring a fierce desire to run.
    But nothing happens. Minutes pass, and still nothing. My relief, pacing in confinement like some caged animal, breaks free. Barely able to think straight, I leave the roadside. My suitcase falls from my hands into the shade of a gnarled apple tree. I crouch with my back against the tree and burst into tears.
    I stay several minutes longer than I should. I have to get up. I have to keep going.
    I dry my face with a handkerchief, knocking tiny blossom petals free from my hair. Then I continue my journey to Paris, on foot and alone.
    Just when I think I’m about to melt in the heat, leaving nothing but a mysterious puddle, sweat-drenched clothes, and a suitcase behind on the road to Paris, a car pulls up. Cars are rare in these times of rationed fuel. Any petrol that goes to the French deprivesthe German war machine. As far as the German army is concerned, that won’t do.
    The car putters beside me, looking like an overgrown slug in a metal shell. The lone occupant, a man, sits huddled over the steering wheel. His twiggy build assures me he’s not much of a threat. Unless he has a gun.
    He leans toward the open window. “
Avez-vous besoin d’aide, mademoiselle?
”
    I consider refusing his help, but then my suitcase suddenly seems to hold ten times more weight than before.
    “
Oui. Allez-vous à Paris?
” I ask.
    “I am going to Paris, yes. Climb aboard. Do you need help with your baggage?”
    I don’t like the idea of my suitcase being outside arm’s reach. “No, thank you. I’ll set my suitcase on my lap.”
    “Very well, then.” Regardless, he leaves the car with the ambition of an overeager bellhop, when I’m perfectly capable of opening a car door and taking a seat on my own.
    The passenger-side door squeals open on dry hinges. I settle onto the waxy-soft seat.
    When we’re off, he says, “I’ll begin the introductions. My name is Dr. François Devereux. I enjoy reading and bird watching. It is a pleasure to meet you on this fine spring day. Now it is your turn.”
    I contemplate creating a second false name. In the end, I say, “Adele Blanchard. Thank you for giving me a ride. I think my arms have stretched, lugging my suitcase around. It’s a hot day