Of all the things he’s said, this frightens me most. “What kind of choice?”
“One I don’t know how to make—or live with.”
Suddenly I can’t breathe. I lace my fingers through his, trying not to think of whips and shackles and tubs of icy water. But the question must be asked. “Did they . . . hurt you? I’ve heard the stories about what they do to make people talk.”
“No.” His eyes are dull and unfocused, his voice queerly flat. “It wasn’t like that.” He pauses, looking down at our hands, mine small and pale, his tan and work roughened. “The Germans have an arrangement with the hospital higher-ups; they leave us alone so long as we don’t make waves and spare them the expense of treating wounded Brits and Americans. It’s the only reason Sumner hasn’t been taken yet. Beating information out of me would have looked bad—so they threatened me instead.”
“With what?”
“With you.”
My mouth works mutely, trying to digest the two words. “With me? I don’t understand. How do they even know who I am?”
“I told you. They know everything. Last night wasn’t about finding out what I know. It was about telling me what they know. They know we’re getting forged papers, but not where we’re getting them. They also know we’re using a network of couriers.”
“And they know I’m one of them,” I supply quietly.
“No. At least I don’t think they do. But they do know about us, that we’re . . .”
Lovers. The word hangs unspoken in the air between us. Not strictly true—not in the physical sense of the word—but true in every way that matters.
“Is love a crime now too?”
“No,” he says, standing abruptly. “But it’s . . . useful.”
I stare at him, rolling the word around in my head. Useful. And then suddenly it falls into place. They didn’t have to threaten him. All they had to do was threaten me.
“You have to leave, Soline. There’s no way around it.”
I get to my feet slowly, silently. They tell us what can happen, and we say we understand. But somehow we’ve all managed to convince ourselves it won’t happen to us. That as long as we’re careful, there will be no late-night knock at our door, no boots following as we slip down an empty alley, no neatly typed list with our name on it. We believe it until we can’t believe it anymore.
“Do you understand, Soline?”
I nod numbly. “You’re saying I have to leave the hospital.”
“I’m saying you have to leave France.”
It takes a moment for the words to penetrate, and even then I can’t make sense of them. “Leave . . . France?”
“It isn’t safe for you here.”
I wet my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. “But where will we go?”
He looks at me, unblinking. “Not we, Soline. You.”
The moment seems to slow, spooling out between us. I’ve heard people describe the moment they received bad news—they felt the blood drain from their face or the air leave their lungs—and for me, in this moment, every bit of that is true.
Leave France without him? He can’t possibly have just suggested such a thing. But when I look at him again I realize he has, and that he means it.
“I won’t go,” I tell him flatly. “Not without you.”
“I can’t leave now, Soline. Surely you know that. There’s too much left to do, too many people depending on me.”
“You’re one person, Anson. They can do without one person. And what about the Gestapo? You think once I’m gone, they’ll just leave you alone? They won’t. You know they won’t.”
“Of course they won’t. But if you’re safe, it won’t matter what they do to me.”
“It will matter to me!”
He heaves a sigh, so very tired. “I need you to do this. Please.”
“I can’t go, Anson. I can’t leave without you.”
“I’ve already arranged it.”
I blink at him, astonished. “Without talking to me?”
“There wasn’t time. I’ve spoken with Sumner. You go tomorrow. A safe house first, then out through Spain, like the rest.”
“No.”
“Soline, we talked about this.”
“Not like this, we didn’t! We talked about going together. When the war was over. It was never supposed to be just me. Are you trying to get rid of me? Is that what this is, a way to get me out of your hair?”