sweetheart. His height, weight. Marshall realized that a German would have hesitated, his mind running through conversion tables. Reluctantly, he answered.
“What is a cockpit?”
The place where I feel cocky , Marshall thought.
“Who won the World Series last year?”
Marshall was relieved to answer that. He was a Yankees fan.
The questions ended abruptly. He wondered if he had passed the grilling or if he would have to bolt.
IN THE MORNING , a different woman appeared with his breakfast. She was heavyset and wore work garb, a canvas jacket, and clog shoes. Speaking in heavily accented English, she explained that her sister had answered the door the day before.
“This is some real coffee,” she said. “We have saved it for two years, for a special occasion.”
“Thank you.”
She gave him some bread and some jam.
“There is no butter. The boches took our cow.”
The bitterness in her voice made him trust her somewhat.
“How do you know English?”
“I used to know an Englishman.”
“Am I in France or Belgium?”
“France, monsieur. ” Her eyes were hazel.
She said, “We will take care of you until the Résistance arrives. You are safe here, but you must stay hiding. Do not make a sound.”
She brought him a jug of warm water, a razor, and a sliver of soap. Later in the day she brought him newspapers and books and kept him company while he ate bread and cheese.
“I will teach you my language, a little. Un peu. ”
“I know a little.”
“Say ‘s’il vous plaît.’ Please.”
“ S’il vous plaît . I know that much. Merci . I know that.”
His college French had been in books. Pronunciation was guesswork.
“Say my name. Jeannine. Jan-neen. ”
“Jan-neen.”
She offered him a French grammar book, and the next time she came, he had reviewed the verb forms. He heard her doing the barnyard chores, feeding the hens and ducks. Her sister cooked him a duck egg, which was delicious. Years after the war, he asked Loretta why she never bought duck eggs. Why always hen eggs? She laughed so loudly. “I never heard of people eating duck eggs,” she said.
HE SPENT THREE DAYS in the barn studying French vocabulary. La table, la fenêtre, le canard . Table, window, duck. Sometimes the words in the lessons were sad. Teapot. Fireplace. Pillow. Tender words that could spontaneously pierce his heart like shrapnel. Jeune fille. Bébé .
“My son is in Germany,” she said. “Say la guerre. ”
“La guerre.”
She lowered her eyes. “The boys cannot fight the war,” she said. “They are in the work camps.”
She did not ask about his life in the States or about his plane crash. She brought him a piece of bread fresh from her oven. She had hoarded some flour for special occasions. He savored the bread, its chewiness a challenge.
He rested in the nest of hay. Outside a goose honked. He watched dust motes in the crack of light across the dirt floor; in them he imagined he could see swarms of aircraft. In the night he heard RAF bombers, and soon after daybreak he heard a lone B-17. The familiar sound was unmistakable. He tried to see through the cracks in the barn walls. He couldn’t spot it, and the sound faded. It was another straggler, another crew in trouble. He fantasized being rescued by it. He listened for a crash, but he heard nothing, and he did not mention it to Jeannine.
On the third night his interrogator reappeared.
“We checked you thoroughly with the English authorities, and you are Marshall Stone, of the 303rd Bomb Group. I am happy to say that we will help you get back to your base in England.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” Marshall was elated. The coil inside him began to unwind. “Can I get over the mountains to Spain?”
“I do not know the next stage. I know only one stage.” The man handed Marshall the dog tag. It was still warm from the man’s trouser pocket. Marshall held it tightly in his hand, as if it were a good luck charm and he suddenly believed in
“What is a cockpit?”
The place where I feel cocky , Marshall thought.
“Who won the World Series last year?”
Marshall was relieved to answer that. He was a Yankees fan.
The questions ended abruptly. He wondered if he had passed the grilling or if he would have to bolt.
IN THE MORNING , a different woman appeared with his breakfast. She was heavyset and wore work garb, a canvas jacket, and clog shoes. Speaking in heavily accented English, she explained that her sister had answered the door the day before.
“This is some real coffee,” she said. “We have saved it for two years, for a special occasion.”
“Thank you.”
She gave him some bread and some jam.
“There is no butter. The boches took our cow.”
The bitterness in her voice made him trust her somewhat.
“How do you know English?”
“I used to know an Englishman.”
“Am I in France or Belgium?”
“France, monsieur. ” Her eyes were hazel.
She said, “We will take care of you until the Résistance arrives. You are safe here, but you must stay hiding. Do not make a sound.”
She brought him a jug of warm water, a razor, and a sliver of soap. Later in the day she brought him newspapers and books and kept him company while he ate bread and cheese.
“I will teach you my language, a little. Un peu. ”
“I know a little.”
“Say ‘s’il vous plaît.’ Please.”
“ S’il vous plaît . I know that much. Merci . I know that.”
His college French had been in books. Pronunciation was guesswork.
“Say my name. Jeannine. Jan-neen. ”
“Jan-neen.”
She offered him a French grammar book, and the next time she came, he had reviewed the verb forms. He heard her doing the barnyard chores, feeding the hens and ducks. Her sister cooked him a duck egg, which was delicious. Years after the war, he asked Loretta why she never bought duck eggs. Why always hen eggs? She laughed so loudly. “I never heard of people eating duck eggs,” she said.
HE SPENT THREE DAYS in the barn studying French vocabulary. La table, la fenêtre, le canard . Table, window, duck. Sometimes the words in the lessons were sad. Teapot. Fireplace. Pillow. Tender words that could spontaneously pierce his heart like shrapnel. Jeune fille. Bébé .
“My son is in Germany,” she said. “Say la guerre. ”
“La guerre.”
She lowered her eyes. “The boys cannot fight the war,” she said. “They are in the work camps.”
She did not ask about his life in the States or about his plane crash. She brought him a piece of bread fresh from her oven. She had hoarded some flour for special occasions. He savored the bread, its chewiness a challenge.
He rested in the nest of hay. Outside a goose honked. He watched dust motes in the crack of light across the dirt floor; in them he imagined he could see swarms of aircraft. In the night he heard RAF bombers, and soon after daybreak he heard a lone B-17. The familiar sound was unmistakable. He tried to see through the cracks in the barn walls. He couldn’t spot it, and the sound faded. It was another straggler, another crew in trouble. He fantasized being rescued by it. He listened for a crash, but he heard nothing, and he did not mention it to Jeannine.
On the third night his interrogator reappeared.
“We checked you thoroughly with the English authorities, and you are Marshall Stone, of the 303rd Bomb Group. I am happy to say that we will help you get back to your base in England.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” Marshall was elated. The coil inside him began to unwind. “Can I get over the mountains to Spain?”
“I do not know the next stage. I know only one stage.” The man handed Marshall the dog tag. It was still warm from the man’s trouser pocket. Marshall held it tightly in his hand, as if it were a good luck charm and he suddenly believed in
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