magic.
The man said, “Tomorrow you will be driven to a safe house.”
A WOMAN WAS HURRYING up a winding stair. The cramped house had uneven floorboards, perhaps centuries old, with a threadbare carpet. He could see her hand at her bosom, holding her dark shawl tightly together, her black scarf tied beneath her chin. She came swiftly up the stairs, signaling for him to retreat from his room into the hiding closet. Grabbing his bedding, he crawled into the dark, hidden recess, and she pushed a chest in front of the small, low door. Dogs were barking on the street. Several heavy vehicles drove by. After a while, she mounted the stairs again and moved the furniture aside, releasing him.
The room contained one bed. Marshall was shut away like an attic child with nothing to do. On the walls were a crucifix, a picture of the Madonna and child, a pastel landscape of something that looked like misty mountains, and a photograph of a young man in a double-breasted suit. There was no chair, only the chest, the narrow bed, and a tiny mat on the floor. Each morning he heard a certain whistling from the street. Was someone so happy, or was it a signal?
The first morning, a shy adolescent girl brought him down the stairs into the kitchen, where four women in black garb were bent over large wooden bowls. He imagined they were widows or mothers from the first war, women aging with painful memories of young men. The women were working with cheese. The woman who had shown him upstairs the previous evening rose from her work and poured him a cup of coffee from a pot on the wood-stove. The small cup was fiercely hot, and the ersatz coffee was bitter and strong. She did not offer milk or sugar. Through the window he saw a tan mutt, its ears alert, facing the street.
Behind Marshall a low murmur of voices rose as the women resumed their tasks. The tallest of the women spoke to him, and from a cupboard she removed a piece of hard bread and gave it to him. She seemed to be apologizing for the lack of butter.
A heavily dressed man opened the door, and the tan mutt rushed in with him and a woman dressed in pale green. A babble of energetic French followed, and Marshall sensed seriousness but not immediate danger. The man left then, with the dog.
After he ate the bread, Marshall was shown where to empty his chamber pot. The woman in green dipped hot water from a cauldron on the stove into a handled jug, and she gave him something like a dishcloth that he understood to be a bathing towel. There was soap and a razor in the room upstairs. He took the jug and the towel upstairs and gave himself a spit bath. Later he brought down the chamber pot and emptied it. The women looked up from their work, stared at him as he passed through, then bent their heads again.
Marshall had nothing to make the hours pass. Over and over the plane slid into the field. Over and over he ran through the woods, smelling the smoke from the plane. He couldn’t remember when he knew he was afraid. He thought he was more afraid now, looking back.
The red-cheeked boy, dressed in brown baggy pants and a cap. The cigarette. Webb and Hootie lying on the ground. The plane burning.
Everything Marshall owned now was in his pockets. There was the yellow card with a few French phrases to use in case he was shot down in France. The silk map, the first-aid items, the tube of condensed milk. Because he wasn’t supposed to be caught with the map, he worked at memorizing it. It was so intricate, the print so small. He needed better lighting. He sat on the floor against the wall, staring at the blue floral bouquets of the wallpaper. He tried to focus his mind by counting the bouquets.
He heard shouts in the street. He heard a horse clopping along, dragging a cart of some sort. Through the tiny window he could see an arc of the street and a wedge of open field. He could see the traffic pass. Occasionally he saw a group of children walking by. Their spontaneous giggles and laughter
The man said, “Tomorrow you will be driven to a safe house.”
A WOMAN WAS HURRYING up a winding stair. The cramped house had uneven floorboards, perhaps centuries old, with a threadbare carpet. He could see her hand at her bosom, holding her dark shawl tightly together, her black scarf tied beneath her chin. She came swiftly up the stairs, signaling for him to retreat from his room into the hiding closet. Grabbing his bedding, he crawled into the dark, hidden recess, and she pushed a chest in front of the small, low door. Dogs were barking on the street. Several heavy vehicles drove by. After a while, she mounted the stairs again and moved the furniture aside, releasing him.
The room contained one bed. Marshall was shut away like an attic child with nothing to do. On the walls were a crucifix, a picture of the Madonna and child, a pastel landscape of something that looked like misty mountains, and a photograph of a young man in a double-breasted suit. There was no chair, only the chest, the narrow bed, and a tiny mat on the floor. Each morning he heard a certain whistling from the street. Was someone so happy, or was it a signal?
The first morning, a shy adolescent girl brought him down the stairs into the kitchen, where four women in black garb were bent over large wooden bowls. He imagined they were widows or mothers from the first war, women aging with painful memories of young men. The women were working with cheese. The woman who had shown him upstairs the previous evening rose from her work and poured him a cup of coffee from a pot on the wood-stove. The small cup was fiercely hot, and the ersatz coffee was bitter and strong. She did not offer milk or sugar. Through the window he saw a tan mutt, its ears alert, facing the street.
Behind Marshall a low murmur of voices rose as the women resumed their tasks. The tallest of the women spoke to him, and from a cupboard she removed a piece of hard bread and gave it to him. She seemed to be apologizing for the lack of butter.
A heavily dressed man opened the door, and the tan mutt rushed in with him and a woman dressed in pale green. A babble of energetic French followed, and Marshall sensed seriousness but not immediate danger. The man left then, with the dog.
After he ate the bread, Marshall was shown where to empty his chamber pot. The woman in green dipped hot water from a cauldron on the stove into a handled jug, and she gave him something like a dishcloth that he understood to be a bathing towel. There was soap and a razor in the room upstairs. He took the jug and the towel upstairs and gave himself a spit bath. Later he brought down the chamber pot and emptied it. The women looked up from their work, stared at him as he passed through, then bent their heads again.
Marshall had nothing to make the hours pass. Over and over the plane slid into the field. Over and over he ran through the woods, smelling the smoke from the plane. He couldn’t remember when he knew he was afraid. He thought he was more afraid now, looking back.
The red-cheeked boy, dressed in brown baggy pants and a cap. The cigarette. Webb and Hootie lying on the ground. The plane burning.
Everything Marshall owned now was in his pockets. There was the yellow card with a few French phrases to use in case he was shot down in France. The silk map, the first-aid items, the tube of condensed milk. Because he wasn’t supposed to be caught with the map, he worked at memorizing it. It was so intricate, the print so small. He needed better lighting. He sat on the floor against the wall, staring at the blue floral bouquets of the wallpaper. He tried to focus his mind by counting the bouquets.
He heard shouts in the street. He heard a horse clopping along, dragging a cart of some sort. Through the tiny window he could see an arc of the street and a wedge of open field. He could see the traffic pass. Occasionally he saw a group of children walking by. Their spontaneous giggles and laughter
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