charged him with a bit of hope.
IN THE EVENING the women closed the shutters and drew the dark drapes to conceal the candlelight of the kitchen. He was brought downstairs to share a rabbit stew with the eight family members—the four older women, two young girls, and their parents. Reticent, Marshall observed them. His knowledge of French collapsed under the rush of their conversation. He learned to interpret tones if not their run-together words. He saw their skeptical looks, the gestures they made over their food. He could tell when they were talking about the Germans. The Germans apparently took the family’s goose for their Christmas. The Germans gorged on chocolate! Chickens! Butter!
The women in black had an authority that made the girls and their mother cower. There were no young men. The women barely spoke to Marshall, but when he tried to draw them out with his makeshift vocabulary, they modestly but eagerly queried him about America.
“FDR? Connaissez-vous FDR?”
“Shirley Temple?”
No one in the family revealed their names except for the man, Reynard. He was short and slender, with knobby hands. He pulled a leather wallet from his pocket and showed Marshall his identity papers. He pointed to his photograph, his name, his occupation, his citizenship. He flipped through the papers quickly.
“À Paris,” Reynard said. “In Paris you will obtain the fausse carte d’identité .”
“À Paris,” they all said, nodding in assent.
They were saying he would need a false ID card.
Every evening he heard German soldiers marching through the village on night patrol, singing a mournful song that sounded like homesickness itself. Warmth from the evening fire drifted up the open stairway door to his garret. He crept out and sat on the stair.
Sometimes he heard the Luftwaffe overhead, a nasty roar that he could feel in the pit of his stomach.
At night the face in the cockpit of a Focke-Wulf 190 visited him, a fighter pilot who had suddenly, briefly, flown alongside the stricken Dirty Lily . Their planes were so close, like cars on a street.
He replayed his mission, instant by instant. He didn’t want to forget it, but neither did he want to relive its most terrible moments. He was heartsick; he didn’t know the fate of the crew. They had lost the plane.
He had been in England kissing Nurse Begley, and suddenly here he was in a claustrophobic hidey-hole, waiting, waiting, in a house of strangers jabbering gibberish, women in shapeless black garments plodding through their days worrying with food, fragments of food, roots from a cellar. He was a helpless pipsqueak. When he went down to empty his chamber pot one morning, he saw the girls’ mother come in from the garden with a green leaf. She waved it in his face and chattered excitedly.
France didn’t seem as cold as New Jersey, from what he could gauge by the quality of the unheated air, the chill in the house.
He heard voices downstairs during the night, and footsteps ascending the stairs. “Monsieur, monsieur, des Américains! Américains! Aviateurs!”
He opened the door and there stood two men—disheveled, large, haggard, sleepy-looking.
“Des aviateurs!” one of the women in black—the tallest—said. She was carrying a small candle.
“We were shot down,” the taller one said sheepishly.
“You suis américain too?” Marshall asked, startled.
“Yeah boy!” said the other. “I’ve been on the run, like a wild pig rooting around in the woods. Four days. Then I met some friendly guys who took me to a farmhouse and I got grub, and next thing you know I met Pete and they brought us both here.”
“Pete Drummond, 403rd,” the tall one said. “Waist gunner. Our Fort got hit on the way back from Frankfurt, and I bailed out. Let me tell you, that was some ride.”
The woman left, and for a time the flyers filled the room with their stories. Marshall was glad to hear English. Probably one of these flyers was from the Fort he had heard
IN THE EVENING the women closed the shutters and drew the dark drapes to conceal the candlelight of the kitchen. He was brought downstairs to share a rabbit stew with the eight family members—the four older women, two young girls, and their parents. Reticent, Marshall observed them. His knowledge of French collapsed under the rush of their conversation. He learned to interpret tones if not their run-together words. He saw their skeptical looks, the gestures they made over their food. He could tell when they were talking about the Germans. The Germans apparently took the family’s goose for their Christmas. The Germans gorged on chocolate! Chickens! Butter!
The women in black had an authority that made the girls and their mother cower. There were no young men. The women barely spoke to Marshall, but when he tried to draw them out with his makeshift vocabulary, they modestly but eagerly queried him about America.
“FDR? Connaissez-vous FDR?”
“Shirley Temple?”
No one in the family revealed their names except for the man, Reynard. He was short and slender, with knobby hands. He pulled a leather wallet from his pocket and showed Marshall his identity papers. He pointed to his photograph, his name, his occupation, his citizenship. He flipped through the papers quickly.
“À Paris,” Reynard said. “In Paris you will obtain the fausse carte d’identité .”
“À Paris,” they all said, nodding in assent.
They were saying he would need a false ID card.
Every evening he heard German soldiers marching through the village on night patrol, singing a mournful song that sounded like homesickness itself. Warmth from the evening fire drifted up the open stairway door to his garret. He crept out and sat on the stair.
Sometimes he heard the Luftwaffe overhead, a nasty roar that he could feel in the pit of his stomach.
At night the face in the cockpit of a Focke-Wulf 190 visited him, a fighter pilot who had suddenly, briefly, flown alongside the stricken Dirty Lily . Their planes were so close, like cars on a street.
He replayed his mission, instant by instant. He didn’t want to forget it, but neither did he want to relive its most terrible moments. He was heartsick; he didn’t know the fate of the crew. They had lost the plane.
He had been in England kissing Nurse Begley, and suddenly here he was in a claustrophobic hidey-hole, waiting, waiting, in a house of strangers jabbering gibberish, women in shapeless black garments plodding through their days worrying with food, fragments of food, roots from a cellar. He was a helpless pipsqueak. When he went down to empty his chamber pot one morning, he saw the girls’ mother come in from the garden with a green leaf. She waved it in his face and chattered excitedly.
France didn’t seem as cold as New Jersey, from what he could gauge by the quality of the unheated air, the chill in the house.
He heard voices downstairs during the night, and footsteps ascending the stairs. “Monsieur, monsieur, des Américains! Américains! Aviateurs!”
He opened the door and there stood two men—disheveled, large, haggard, sleepy-looking.
“Des aviateurs!” one of the women in black—the tallest—said. She was carrying a small candle.
“We were shot down,” the taller one said sheepishly.
“You suis américain too?” Marshall asked, startled.
“Yeah boy!” said the other. “I’ve been on the run, like a wild pig rooting around in the woods. Four days. Then I met some friendly guys who took me to a farmhouse and I got grub, and next thing you know I met Pete and they brought us both here.”
“Pete Drummond, 403rd,” the tall one said. “Waist gunner. Our Fort got hit on the way back from Frankfurt, and I bailed out. Let me tell you, that was some ride.”
The woman left, and for a time the flyers filled the room with their stories. Marshall was glad to hear English. Probably one of these flyers was from the Fort he had heard
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