obviously has no interest in him. What kind of pathetic man does such a thing? Of course, Phillipe was French and had rarely met a woman that said no.
Abigail never admitted it to anyone, but she found herself feeling sorry for the Captain in spite of her fear of him. To some extent Phillipe was right: she had never encouraged him and other than the day he took her to view her father’s body he had never tried to touch her. Perhaps he’d never been with a woman and the thought was terrifying to him. She could believe that: every woman she spoke to had the same reaction to him that she did.
He wasn’t … right. He had ice water in his veins.
For a while the warm-blooded German men had definitely been scarier. Sometimes they got bored, and when soldiers got bored and had access to alcohol women had best be hidden and forgotten about. The Richards had relatives around Boulogne that had been slaughtered in their home, their daughters raped; the youngest of them just fourteen years old.
No German soldier had so much as looked at Abigail, and if that was the effect of having Hauptmann Bossong interested in her she’d endure the occasional awkward conversation. Recently his visits were becoming few and far between as the Allies seemed to be gaining momentum.
Despite her boredom and isolation, she didn’t dare hope for too much. The arrival of American and British/Canadian forces were certainly good news, but if it amounted to nothing she’d hate to be denied something as precious as hope. What she needed more than anything was confirmation that her husband still lived. Anything else was background noise until she knew for a fact, one way or the other.
There was the slightest trembling that shook the walls of her shelter suddenly. After flickering, the page of her book before her went black as the lights went out overhead. She hesitated, then snuck up the cellar stairs and crossed the kitchen to where she knew her odds and ends were kept in a drawer. She found a candle, then after more groping in the dark she found some matches. She should really keep some of these in the shelter, but usually she was sleeping when the power went out so it didn’t matter.
She struck the match and lit the candle’s wick. It wasn’t the power outage that had her concerned. It was that sound that had come first. She knew what explosions sounded like.
A peek out the front windows told her nothing was happening outside. In the moonlight everything looked like it normally did. A glance out the kitchen window confirmed that the road was empty, as well.
Something was wrong. Abigail wondered if maybe the Resistance had made its first strike this close to her house.
Next she went upstairs, checking out the windows up there. All the way to the coast nothing was stirring that she could see. Out the bathroom window she saw it.
Orange flames, high enough for her to see from five miles away. That explosion was definitely the work of people she knew, and it most certainly caused this power outage.
Headlights were racing from the fire at that moment. She let the curtain fall back in to place, returning to her bedroom, sitting on the edge of her bed and listening so intently she could hear her own pulse. On a night as quiet as this she heard the vehicle on the road as it got closer to her yard. And then it stopped. A car door shut. She heard frantic voices, yelling, not even trying to be quiet. They certainly weren’t local, were they?
Pounding from the back door made her jump.
“Abigail! Abigail, open up at once!”
Her heart leapt in to her throat but she carried her candle to the kitchen. Before she could get to the door it burst inward, making her cry out and nearly drop the flame.
Large men in uniform crowded in to her kitchen, making it feel very small. They carried someone with them, and he was moaning loudly. Everyone was shouting in panic. Something was dripping dark liquid on the floor. A boot smeared it. It looked like blood.
Abigail never admitted it to anyone, but she found herself feeling sorry for the Captain in spite of her fear of him. To some extent Phillipe was right: she had never encouraged him and other than the day he took her to view her father’s body he had never tried to touch her. Perhaps he’d never been with a woman and the thought was terrifying to him. She could believe that: every woman she spoke to had the same reaction to him that she did.
He wasn’t … right. He had ice water in his veins.
For a while the warm-blooded German men had definitely been scarier. Sometimes they got bored, and when soldiers got bored and had access to alcohol women had best be hidden and forgotten about. The Richards had relatives around Boulogne that had been slaughtered in their home, their daughters raped; the youngest of them just fourteen years old.
No German soldier had so much as looked at Abigail, and if that was the effect of having Hauptmann Bossong interested in her she’d endure the occasional awkward conversation. Recently his visits were becoming few and far between as the Allies seemed to be gaining momentum.
Despite her boredom and isolation, she didn’t dare hope for too much. The arrival of American and British/Canadian forces were certainly good news, but if it amounted to nothing she’d hate to be denied something as precious as hope. What she needed more than anything was confirmation that her husband still lived. Anything else was background noise until she knew for a fact, one way or the other.
There was the slightest trembling that shook the walls of her shelter suddenly. After flickering, the page of her book before her went black as the lights went out overhead. She hesitated, then snuck up the cellar stairs and crossed the kitchen to where she knew her odds and ends were kept in a drawer. She found a candle, then after more groping in the dark she found some matches. She should really keep some of these in the shelter, but usually she was sleeping when the power went out so it didn’t matter.
She struck the match and lit the candle’s wick. It wasn’t the power outage that had her concerned. It was that sound that had come first. She knew what explosions sounded like.
A peek out the front windows told her nothing was happening outside. In the moonlight everything looked like it normally did. A glance out the kitchen window confirmed that the road was empty, as well.
Something was wrong. Abigail wondered if maybe the Resistance had made its first strike this close to her house.
Next she went upstairs, checking out the windows up there. All the way to the coast nothing was stirring that she could see. Out the bathroom window she saw it.
Orange flames, high enough for her to see from five miles away. That explosion was definitely the work of people she knew, and it most certainly caused this power outage.
Headlights were racing from the fire at that moment. She let the curtain fall back in to place, returning to her bedroom, sitting on the edge of her bed and listening so intently she could hear her own pulse. On a night as quiet as this she heard the vehicle on the road as it got closer to her yard. And then it stopped. A car door shut. She heard frantic voices, yelling, not even trying to be quiet. They certainly weren’t local, were they?
Pounding from the back door made her jump.
“Abigail! Abigail, open up at once!”
Her heart leapt in to her throat but she carried her candle to the kitchen. Before she could get to the door it burst inward, making her cry out and nearly drop the flame.
Large men in uniform crowded in to her kitchen, making it feel very small. They carried someone with them, and he was moaning loudly. Everyone was shouting in panic. Something was dripping dark liquid on the floor. A boot smeared it. It looked like blood.
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