though she’d been caught underdressed by a man she quite liked. Nicholas didn’t understand such things, but he saw the oddness of her reaction—no shock, not even surprise, just complete absorption in keeping the attention of the man at the window.
She told Nicholas to stay in the truck.
There were two cars parked on the road, long black cars: staff cars, Mercedes cabriolets, with great rolls of mudguard on either side of the high radiator and their enormous headlights blinded. Nicholas classified the cars, as usual. The first one looked like a 320, so it had to belong to someone important.
There were six men, standing by the cars in long leather coats. There must have been some light—moonlight, starlight—because he distinctly remembered glints on the coats as though they were polished. Lucia was arguing, gesturing.
He had to trust her so perfectly. They were out in the middle of a wood, nobody around, six men with guns in big, official, influential cars, and she had to explain how seven civilian trucks were on the move, how a woman came to be in charge, how an Italian and Swiss woman could have business here, how anybody could legitimately be heading for Switzerland; because Nicholas knew she could not tell a lie. There was no time or material for a lie.
The sky began to come back: like a pale cloth, then all suffused with pink, then bright.
The men seemed amused. Nicholas didn’t know if that was good or not. They seemed to like to keep Lucia talking at the roadside, to alarm her, to make her flirt and chat and charm, to detain her.
Nicholas watched the sky turn red behind the trees.
Lucia shrugged her shoulders hugely. She came back to the truck and she picked up a thick envelope of papers for them to read.
One of the men, the oldest, considered the papers and clicked his heels and said: “Madame” in a parade-ground voice, as though he meant it. It was definitely “Madame”; he was trying to be respectful to a foreigner.
The sky was blue like a robin’s egg is blue. Lucia smelt of sweat when she got back into the cab.
He should have asked her. But he wouldn’t have known how to frame the questions: What are we carrying, why are we carrying it, why does it matter, why did they let us go? If he’d been able to ask those things, he would already have learned mistrust, and he still had to depend on Lucia.
Besides, he saw how serious she was. This was not the time for him to ask questions.
Much later, when he woke up in the long nights, eyes wide, brain stopped, and wondered how he could even be connected to such things, he had others to protect. He wanted wife and child, all the years, to live as they wanted and not to concern themselves with a convoy creeping down to the Alps. He didn’t want to infect them with his doubts.
So the doubts grew until they stole his sleep. He was a realistic man, and knew he never had a choice—just a boy in a wood in a war—but he was sure he could never trust anyone who claimed that all morality was suspended for them because they had no choice. Year by year, he learned not to trust his own story, then not to trust himself.
The official cars droned away into the dawn. The drivers woke, complained, went off into the woods, and came back for cold coffee. One of them wanted to make a fire, but Lucia kicked wet leaves over the first flames and told him to get on.
They rolled around Magdeburg and Dessau and Weissenfels. They avoided Bayreuth and Nuremberg and Augsburg. They held to local roads, and then made dashes on the autobahns where they could, and then went back to the slow, narrow roads that they blocked for hours. Lucia muttered that she didn’t know if it was worse to be bombed by the Allies or harangued by the peasants up ahead and behind them. She used a bad word before “peasants.”
They saw the smoke coming up from Stuttgart.
Lucia argued with the driver; she wanted nothing to happen without her orders. She said they’d be faster crossing Lake
She told Nicholas to stay in the truck.
There were two cars parked on the road, long black cars: staff cars, Mercedes cabriolets, with great rolls of mudguard on either side of the high radiator and their enormous headlights blinded. Nicholas classified the cars, as usual. The first one looked like a 320, so it had to belong to someone important.
There were six men, standing by the cars in long leather coats. There must have been some light—moonlight, starlight—because he distinctly remembered glints on the coats as though they were polished. Lucia was arguing, gesturing.
He had to trust her so perfectly. They were out in the middle of a wood, nobody around, six men with guns in big, official, influential cars, and she had to explain how seven civilian trucks were on the move, how a woman came to be in charge, how an Italian and Swiss woman could have business here, how anybody could legitimately be heading for Switzerland; because Nicholas knew she could not tell a lie. There was no time or material for a lie.
The sky began to come back: like a pale cloth, then all suffused with pink, then bright.
The men seemed amused. Nicholas didn’t know if that was good or not. They seemed to like to keep Lucia talking at the roadside, to alarm her, to make her flirt and chat and charm, to detain her.
Nicholas watched the sky turn red behind the trees.
Lucia shrugged her shoulders hugely. She came back to the truck and she picked up a thick envelope of papers for them to read.
One of the men, the oldest, considered the papers and clicked his heels and said: “Madame” in a parade-ground voice, as though he meant it. It was definitely “Madame”; he was trying to be respectful to a foreigner.
The sky was blue like a robin’s egg is blue. Lucia smelt of sweat when she got back into the cab.
He should have asked her. But he wouldn’t have known how to frame the questions: What are we carrying, why are we carrying it, why does it matter, why did they let us go? If he’d been able to ask those things, he would already have learned mistrust, and he still had to depend on Lucia.
Besides, he saw how serious she was. This was not the time for him to ask questions.
Much later, when he woke up in the long nights, eyes wide, brain stopped, and wondered how he could even be connected to such things, he had others to protect. He wanted wife and child, all the years, to live as they wanted and not to concern themselves with a convoy creeping down to the Alps. He didn’t want to infect them with his doubts.
So the doubts grew until they stole his sleep. He was a realistic man, and knew he never had a choice—just a boy in a wood in a war—but he was sure he could never trust anyone who claimed that all morality was suspended for them because they had no choice. Year by year, he learned not to trust his own story, then not to trust himself.
The official cars droned away into the dawn. The drivers woke, complained, went off into the woods, and came back for cold coffee. One of them wanted to make a fire, but Lucia kicked wet leaves over the first flames and told him to get on.
They rolled around Magdeburg and Dessau and Weissenfels. They avoided Bayreuth and Nuremberg and Augsburg. They held to local roads, and then made dashes on the autobahns where they could, and then went back to the slow, narrow roads that they blocked for hours. Lucia muttered that she didn’t know if it was worse to be bombed by the Allies or harangued by the peasants up ahead and behind them. She used a bad word before “peasants.”
They saw the smoke coming up from Stuttgart.
Lucia argued with the driver; she wanted nothing to happen without her orders. She said they’d be faster crossing Lake
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