the man's broad back, his hunched shoulders. “The Germans have got two of them,” he said with disgust. Claire wondered if Antoine thought himself to blame, that somehow the Resistance had not acted quickly enough.
She did not like to think about what happened to the Allied airmen when the Germans had captured them. She knew they were sent to Breendonk in Brussels, or to similar Belgian prisons in Antwerp and Charleroi. Some were tortured by the Belgian as well as the German SS. Those who survived considered themselves lucky to be deported further east into Germany, to the Stalag Lufts there. Claire had heard about the English pilots at the beginning of the war who had had their eyes put out and had been buried without coffins in the cemeteries near Breendonk. There were members of the Resistance whose ghastly task it was to locate the graves of these unlucky airmen, dig them up, and give them a proper burial. All over Belgium there were graves of unknown soldiers.
Chimay left as silently as he had come. Dinant stood and walked to the sink. She washed the blood from her hands. “You can finish this,” she said to Claire. “He needs water and to be bathed. No food until midday. Any sign of infection, send Henri to me at once.” She dried her hands on a towel. “The old woman is upstairs?”
Claire nodded. Dinant left the room with her bag, and Henri for the first time that night sat down. Claire suspected that her husband had had nothing to eat since noon.
“I saw the wounded American,” Henri said. “The one we found near the plane.” His face was ghostly with the memory. He put his head into his hands. “Dinant had him on the table in the kitchen when I went to fetch her. I’ve never seen …”
“Henri, go to bed,” Claire said quickly. “You have to sleep. I can manage here, and tomorrow Antoine may come again and need you. Do you want any food?”
Henry shook his head vehemently. “I couldn't eat,” he said.
“Then do as I say.” Claire had seldom spoken to her husband in such a sharp tone, but she knew that if she didn't he would not move. That he had seen something terrible she did not doubt. Only sleep might put the images at a bearable remove.
Henri rose slowly from his chair. “I’ll just sleep on the sofa in the sitting room,” he said. “If you need me …
When Henri had gone, Claire rose and washed her hands at the sink. She filled a large kettle with water, set it on the stove. The man on the floor groaned. When the water was boiling, she added it to cooler water she had already poured into a basin. She unwrapped a small bit of soap, real soap, not the black soap made from ashes. She brought it to her nose and inhaled its fragrance. She set the basin on the stone floor.
By the fire, Claire hesitated, then rolled the airman over. He did not seem to waken, but some color had returned to his skin. She cradled his head and washed his face and neck, his chest and the hollows beneath his shoulders. She wet a sponge with warm water and let it run over him, soaking into the towels she had put at his sides. He was more muscular than she had imagined, but his pelvic bones were sharp in the firelight. Gently, she rubbed away the dried blood that had matted the sworls of dark hair on his good leg. She filled and refilled the basin with clean, warm water.
Theodore Aidan Brice.
She said the name aloud. A man was in her kitchen, on her floor, and she knew nothing about him except that he had flown a plane and landed in her village. The man might die in her kitchen, and she would know nothing more about him. On the floor beside him were his possessions—a photograph of a woman, his identification tags, his escape kit, a crumpled pack of cigarettes. The flight suit itself, or what was left of it, would be burned or buried. She wondered if he was married to the woman in the photograph—a pretty, dark-haired woman who looked very young. But then she thought not, because he had no wedding ring.
She did not like to think about what happened to the Allied airmen when the Germans had captured them. She knew they were sent to Breendonk in Brussels, or to similar Belgian prisons in Antwerp and Charleroi. Some were tortured by the Belgian as well as the German SS. Those who survived considered themselves lucky to be deported further east into Germany, to the Stalag Lufts there. Claire had heard about the English pilots at the beginning of the war who had had their eyes put out and had been buried without coffins in the cemeteries near Breendonk. There were members of the Resistance whose ghastly task it was to locate the graves of these unlucky airmen, dig them up, and give them a proper burial. All over Belgium there were graves of unknown soldiers.
Chimay left as silently as he had come. Dinant stood and walked to the sink. She washed the blood from her hands. “You can finish this,” she said to Claire. “He needs water and to be bathed. No food until midday. Any sign of infection, send Henri to me at once.” She dried her hands on a towel. “The old woman is upstairs?”
Claire nodded. Dinant left the room with her bag, and Henri for the first time that night sat down. Claire suspected that her husband had had nothing to eat since noon.
“I saw the wounded American,” Henri said. “The one we found near the plane.” His face was ghostly with the memory. He put his head into his hands. “Dinant had him on the table in the kitchen when I went to fetch her. I’ve never seen …”
“Henri, go to bed,” Claire said quickly. “You have to sleep. I can manage here, and tomorrow Antoine may come again and need you. Do you want any food?”
Henry shook his head vehemently. “I couldn't eat,” he said.
“Then do as I say.” Claire had seldom spoken to her husband in such a sharp tone, but she knew that if she didn't he would not move. That he had seen something terrible she did not doubt. Only sleep might put the images at a bearable remove.
Henri rose slowly from his chair. “I’ll just sleep on the sofa in the sitting room,” he said. “If you need me …
When Henri had gone, Claire rose and washed her hands at the sink. She filled a large kettle with water, set it on the stove. The man on the floor groaned. When the water was boiling, she added it to cooler water she had already poured into a basin. She unwrapped a small bit of soap, real soap, not the black soap made from ashes. She brought it to her nose and inhaled its fragrance. She set the basin on the stone floor.
By the fire, Claire hesitated, then rolled the airman over. He did not seem to waken, but some color had returned to his skin. She cradled his head and washed his face and neck, his chest and the hollows beneath his shoulders. She wet a sponge with warm water and let it run over him, soaking into the towels she had put at his sides. He was more muscular than she had imagined, but his pelvic bones were sharp in the firelight. Gently, she rubbed away the dried blood that had matted the sworls of dark hair on his good leg. She filled and refilled the basin with clean, warm water.
Theodore Aidan Brice.
She said the name aloud. A man was in her kitchen, on her floor, and she knew nothing about him except that he had flown a plane and landed in her village. The man might die in her kitchen, and she would know nothing more about him. On the floor beside him were his possessions—a photograph of a woman, his identification tags, his escape kit, a crumpled pack of cigarettes. The flight suit itself, or what was left of it, would be burned or buried. She wondered if he was married to the woman in the photograph—a pretty, dark-haired woman who looked very young. But then she thought not, because he had no wedding ring.
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