Good god, she’d missed.
She widened her stance for better aim even as the Nazi was reaching for his own gun.
And now his comrades were turning to her, to the sound of the shot.
They were drawing their guns.
She pulled the trigger a second time.
He crumpled. Had she killed him?
Another gun pointed straight at her. Firing.
She shot again, now at the other Nazi shooting at her.
A burning sting. Searing pain.
She shot again, a fourth shot.
And again, pushing away the pain.
And again.
Aiming now at the man landing on the path up ahead of her. Good god, where had he come from?
The firing pin clicked dully, striking the empty cartridge.
Monday, December 9, 1940
THE PYRENEES
Luki’s face was buried in Papa’s chest. He stooped to the ground, holding her against him so she couldn’t see.
The scary bangs had stopped. She felt Papa’s chest pounding, and also shaking the way it did when he was sad. She wanted to look at him, to see him still there even though she could feel his heart, but he held her head so firmly that she couldn’t see, she could only hear someone calling faintly for his mutti, in the old words. Then nothing but the quiet shhhhhh of the wind.
“Luki,” Papa whispered, “I want you to keep your eyes closed. Promise me you’ll keep your eyes closed?”
She nodded, her head still pressed to his chest.
She felt the scratchy mohair of Pemmy being placed into her hands, the smooth slidiness of the angel wings at her neck. One of the bad men had heard Joey singing. Joey hadn’t meant to sing. It was Luki’s fault. Luki had dropped him. She didn’t mean to drop him, and he didn’t mean to sing.
Papa lifted her, still holding her like that, so she couldn’t see, and he carried her as he walked.
Monday, December 9, 1940
THE PYRENEES
They moved fast, carrying on along the cliff wall, putting distance behind them before anyone came along the road and found the Gestapo. They stopped only when they were out of sight of the men. Nanée had been walking with the edge of her flight jacket sleeve pressed to the side of her head, and she hesitated to let go. So much blood, as if it were bleeding from inside her head and pooling in her ear.
She removed her hand to let Edouard see. If it was a serious wound, she wouldn’t survive anyway.
It was her ear—not exactly a superficial wound, but more blood than guts.
“A single inch from deadly,” Edouard said.
Deadly.
“Do you think . . . all three of them?” Nanée asked.
“Even the one calling for his mother went quiet before we were out of earshot,” Edouard said, relief rather than regret in his voice.
“Earshot,” she said. “Ear. Shot.” Making a joke of it as Edouard dressed her wound with provisions from Hans’s medical kit. They laughed and laughed, not because it was funny but because Nanée had just shot three Gestapo dead. Shock expressing itself.
She thought Edouard was right, the men were dead, but it had all happened so fast, in just seconds. Robert, on the path, was certainly dead—shot right in the center of his chest. His dead body sliding over the cliff’s edge onto their path even as she was shooting the others. She and Edouard laughed and laughed at that too, after they had her ear bandaged: Nanée firing an empty pistol at a man who was already dead.
They stopped for a slightly longer rest, finally, at a narrow ridge near the top of the climb. Nanée was shivering despite the exertion of moving so fast. This was shock too, she supposed. She needed something to eat. She might have pulled a few sweet grapes from the vines here, but they were bare, saving her from the ingratitude of stealing fruit from a path left open to freedom. She took a canteen from her musette bag and gave it to Luki.
“You need to drink too,” Edouard said. “You’re awfully pale.”
Nanée pretended to sip without actually drinking anything. They were running low.
Edouard gave Luki another sip.
The wind was so much gentler now, but the cold bit at her face. Or maybe that was the pain of her wound.
There was snow up here. Not so much that you sank into it, but enough to make the path slippery.
They carried on, turning with the path, which rose more slowly now. They trudged on as quickly as they could manage for perhaps another hour.
When they crested the summit, they stopped altogether. The steep cliffs fell away to a little town with red tile roofs far in the distance, and just beyond, the white-capped blue of the Mediterranean, all the way until it met the blue of the sky. Was that the Spanish coast?