With France now wholly occupied by the Nazis, the men believed there were fewer resisters with the means to get them to safety. Each flier was equipped with an escape kit: a French passport with a fake identity, a compass, a bar of soap, a razor, fishhooks and line, a morphine injection, sulfanilamide tablets, Benzedrine tablets, gum, chocolate, matches, French Francs and German marks, a page of phrases in Dutch, French, and German, and a map of the European continent printed on a scrap of silk. These were, however, of limited use in the disorienting dark.

  As the final survivor floated to earth, the two who proceeded him sprinted in his direction, madly balling up the parachutes that had saved their lives but would now give them away. They flattened themselves into the earth, waiting for the Lanc to reach her end. Within moments, they felt a menacing rumble vibrate beneath them as the plane plowed into the ground several miles away, the bombs they had hoped to drop on a German oil refinery at Regensberg detonating instead into a French wheat field. The Germans would come looking for them immediately. They lay on their bellies, heads together, devising their next move—a run to a stand of trees in the distance where they could hide. Before they could act, a wagon approached, creaking over the rutted road that bordered the meadow, a farmer out to investigate. He slowly surveyed his property for anything untoward, the horses ambling along and drawing closer, their snorts audible to men who wished they could will their bodies to sink wholly into the ground. The wagon drew to a stop. The man jumped down and darted suddenly in their direction. As he neared, each flier prepared his response: one held a razor, a second rose on his haunches to run, and Oliver, dutiful grandson of a cleric, prayed that God would send an angel. As the man approached in the darkness, he began to whistle. After a false start, the noble melody asserted itself. The Marseillaise. Still whistling, he crept over to the three fliers and motioned them into the back of the wagon, helping collect their chutes, then turning his rig around towards a farmhouse hardly visible in the distance. At some point, his tune transitioned into God Save the King.

  He pulled the wagon into a barn and carefully closed the doors behind him. As he ushered the men out of the wagon, they realized their nimble, slightly built rescuer was a young woman, her hair tumbling to her shoulders as she removed her cap, eyes shining at their surprise. She directed them first to don civilian clothes from an assortment hidden between stacks of horse blankets in the mule’s stall. She then brought them into the kitchen and presented her mother, who had prepared them tea along with baguettes and cups of soup. The lights remained low; just a few flickering candles on the table, away from the windows. As the men ate, the young woman nodded a goodnight and turned to leave the kitchen. Before she departed, her mother reached for her daughter’s face, cupping her chin. Then she pursed her lips in a kiss in appreciation for her daughter’s good work. After the meal, the woman brought them into the living area and lifted a section of floorboards. The men climbed down into the crawl space and were soon fast asleep, cocooned atop and beneath soft cotton quilts.

  . . .

  They awoke surprisingly refreshed, relieved to have survived the night, knowing the next part of their journey would be fraught with peril. Over a breakfast of eggs and hash, they met the farmer and his teenaged son, Gilles. Albert’s English had vastly improved: two years of rescuing British and American pilots demanded it. While the English typically had a working knowledge of French, the Americans rarely did.

  “We are just south of Lille,” he explained, pointing out their location on their RAF maps. “We can arrange transit for you, but it has become more challenging. Until a few months ago, the Gauleiter for this region had trusted his ring of French informants to track the movement of their neighbors and to report unusual patterns. It was this group he would send out to hunt for Allied fliers when a plane went down. Would it shock you to learn the French ‘helpers’ proved unreliable? They would look and look and look but their luck was poor. So now, the Nazis send their own searchers and they leave no stone unturned. They cover a wide radius from the point of the crash and return to places they’ve already checked, hoping to catch a resister off-guard. We must stay ready. You will need to remain here for a number of weeks—perhaps longer. It will be safer when the weather turns colder. The Germans are not as fastidious in their searches when there is snow on the ground. But we will get you home.”

  “And what of the informants who were so terrible at informing? Are they part of this effort?” asked Oliver.

  “Oh, no, no.” replied Albert. “There were seven men—the mayor of the village among them. Executed by firing squad in the yard of the Catholic church.”

  “And yet, you are willing to do this?” asked Ryan, the bomb aimer.

  “We are. Because you are willing to give your lives to restore our liberty. It is a fair exchange, no? The only difference is that you wear a uniform to signify your allegiance while we,” and here he gestured to his family, “we have our allegiance engraved on our hearts.”

  . . .

  That afternoon, a clanking diesel engine announced the approach of a Nazi staff car. An officer on the Gauleiter’s staff stepped out, scanning the farmhouse windows, hand placed on his sidearm as he neared the front door. A junior officer trailed several paces behind. The driver remained with the car. At the familiar and foreboding sound of the engine, each member of the family moved into position. Albert and Gilles slipped silently out through the kitchen door, Gilles rubbing dirt on his tunic and the knees of his pants so it would appear he’d been hard at work all day. Albert picked up his pitchfork and positioned himself near the entrance to the barn. Ginette busied herself in the kitchen, pouring stock into her iron skillet and stirring it with a wooden spoon, placing bins of root vegetables at her side to complete the scene. Sylvi directed the dog to lie down on a specific section of the floor, then waited silently behind the door for the German’s knock. Still, when his knuckles rapped on the wood, she jumped. She exhaled and exchanged a smile with her mother.

  “Oui, monsieur?” she said brightly, opening the door wide to make clear she had nothing to hide.

  “Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” he said, sweeping into the house, eyes casting about the room. “Are you alone here?”

  “She is not,” said Ginette, moving into the room from the kitchen. “I am her mother. My husband and son are working in our fields. May we help you, monsieur?”

  “I’m looking for information, madame, after the crash last evening of a British aircraft. We found evidence of four bodies, both in the aircraft and, not far from here, one hanging in a pine tree very close to your property. A British soldier with poor aim, apparently.” He smiled at his joke. “So, there are three men unaccounted for. It is these we are looking for. We need to know what you might have seen.” He moved into the center of the room, eyes continuing to scan, looking for anything out of order.

  “I heard it last night!” Sylvi volunteered, one hand on her chest, the other reaching for the Offizier’s arm. “It was just horribly loud and frightening. I stayed in my bed and pressed my pillow to my ears, afraid it might have been the Allies bombing us. Do you think they are, Herr Offizier?”

  “Never that, mademoiselle. Not here. You are safe from the Allies. Madame, what can you tell me?”

  “I must be honest, sir. These plane crashes frighten me so, that I simply stay in my bed, hoping the locks on the door will hold should an invader come to rob or rape us. Am I to understand that you wish us to involve ourselves when a plane crashes like this? We would have no weapons with which to bring any prisoners into your custody. And I would be so frightened if they intended to harm my Sylvi. I could speak with my husband, who has some farming tools we could put—”

  He cut her off with an impatient wave, clarifying that he did not expect her family to take direct action, only to report anything important they had witnessed.

  “Your husband, then. Where is he?”

  The younger officer stayed in the house, Sylvi distracting him with questions about his work, laughing flirtatiously at his one-word responses as if he were a brilliant and witty conversationalist. Ginette walked the other man through the kitchen and out the back door to the barn, where Albert posed with his pitchfork in the hay. The Officer repeated the questions he’d asked the women, Ginette then repeating them to her ostensibly hard-of-hearing husband. Albert shook his head and pointed to his ear, saying he had not heard the crash, but he appreciated the forewarning that enemy soldiers might be in the area. The Offizier appraised him through narrowed eyes. A critical part of his success involved differentiating between harmless old men and those intent on sabotaging the Nazi war effort. In this case, he saw nothing to raise his suspicions, but this farm would remain under surveillance.

  He took a quick turn through the barn, Gilles accompanying him and chattering alongside him. He informed the Offizier that he was nearing eighteen now and wondered: did that make him eligible to serve in the Wehrmacht? His facile babbling had become the quickest way to get undesirables out of their home and, indeed, after a quick perusal of the barn, the Offizier headed back to the house. They passed through the kitchen and as he walked through the living area, his gaze rested on their mongrel dog, lazing happily in the sun that fell through the window at the very spot she lay. When the man reached to give the dog a pat, she lunged, teeth bared, a furious bark followed by a low, persistent growl. The Offizier jumped in surprise.

  “Non, non, Sucre! Bad dog!” Ginette exclaimed. “Gilles, you must get this animal under control before she bites someone. My apologies, Herr Offizier. She is still a pup and unpredictable with strangers.”

  “Yes. I see that,” he responded, ruffled and annoyed. “Good day to you then.” Both visitors walked quickly out the door.

  Sucre listened intently to the sound of the diesel engine as it pulled away. Once she could no longer hear it—and this was minutes longer for her sensitive ears than those of her human family—she moved away from her spot on the floor to allow the floorboards to be lifted and the fliers to emerge from the dank crawl space. Gilles presented the dog with a hambone for her excellent performance.

  “Good girl, Sucre. Magnifique,” he said as he rubbed her ears, her fur purposely left matted because it made her look more fierce.

  . . .

  The Gauleiter’s man returned three times that week, his suspicions never yielding the fruit he’d hoped. Had he approached in a quieter vehicle, he might have had better luck. Oliver and the two crewmen hid there six weeks, moving from hayloft to attic to crawl space to mule stall, helping muck out the barn and contributing in whatever ways they safely could to express their appreciation. On an early November morning, Albert exchanged their fake French passports for forged German-issue papers and announced they would depart the next day. Their peasant tunics exchanged for business suits, Albert buried them in the back of the hay wagon before an unfamiliar man appeared and jumped into the driver’s seat. He took them south to a shack just outside Paris, where a bookish man appeared, put fedoras on their heads, handed Oliver a briefcase, and gave the others small valises.

  “I am an accountant. You are my assistants. We are visiting clients in Orleans who may have to liquidate their holdings. We will travel by train from the Bréguet-Sabin station and all of you will fall asleep the minute you are seated. Nothing—and I mean nothing—shall wake you.”

  They climbed aboard a horse-drawn fiacre for the trip to the station, their guide reminding them to appear familiar with, not astounded by, their surroundings. What they saw was Paris subdued, bent under the weight of occupation, although the smiling German soldiers who filled the sidewalk cafés seemed not to have noticed. There were but a handful of cars on the streets, most of them belonging to the German military command since gas was unobtainable. Bicycle-taxis pedaled past them as well as an occasional bus. But the quiet of the city was unnerving. Parisians, known the world over for their cosmopolitan confidence, moved listlessly through the streets, their very postures conveying their contempt for the occupiers. As the fliers crossed the station to board their train, they assumed the same defeated torpor as the Parisians around them.

  When they arrived at the Orleans station, their accountant exited the train at one door as he directed them to another, where a new guide fell in step with them as they walked, deftly guiding them out a seldom-used exit and into a waiting truck. He took them to a dilapidated barn where they abandoned their business suits for farmer’s clothing. The next morning, he was gone and a young girl appeared to begin the trip southwest toward Bordeaux. They began on foot, the men wondering how she was able to discern the path through dense woods, across streams, up rocky hillocks. After three days, she left them with some bread in the chill darkness of a pine forest, walking off without a word. Hours later, a rickety cart pulled by two skinny horses arrived, the driver giving a nod to indicate the men were to ride in the back with his supplies and tools. Amid a light snowfall, this guide transported them to Bordeaux, depositing them at the banks of the Garonne. He left several blankets to fight off the cold, instructing them not to light a fire. They were to bury the blankets under the pine needles when they departed. With the hooks and wire from their escape kits, they fished the river, catching several carp that they consumed cold and raw.

  Two days later, just as the fliers were beginning to think they’d been forgotten, two young men arrived with food and warm coats. The group hiked for a day and a half into the foothills of the Pyrenees, arriving suddenly at a well-camouflaged mountain cabin. The door opened. A fire blazed in the hearth—permitted irregularly when they had a good fix on the movement of German patrols. They smelled a warm stew on the stove. But to Oliver, far more significant than any of these amenities, was the person standing at the stove stirring the stew. William Hughes, grandfather’s butcher from Elsworth. He moved to speak just as Wills put down his wooden spoon and turned to greet the newest fliers he would escort into Spain. Wills’ eyes registered mild alarm at seeing vicar Dowd’s grandson, indicating this was no time for reunions. Wills introduced himself to the three fliers as Carlos, shaking hands with each, locking eyes with Oliver long enough for the Flight Sergeant to realize he must not speak.

  After the meal, when the men had bedded down, snores resounding through the cabin, Wills inched his way to where Oliver lay, placed his hand over his mouth, and shook him gently awake. Oliver started, then recognized Will’s face inches from his own, tears streaming from his eyes. “The less we say,” Wills whispered, “the safer we are.”

  Wills handed his wedding ring to Oliver, who clenched it tightly and nodded. Soundlessly, the men embraced.

  . . .

  After a brutally cold hike through the Pyrenees, their escape route improvised and extended because of a suddenly closed border crossing, they arrived at a hilltop monastery. There, two Benedictine monks, one with a pistol in his cassock, brought them the final twenty miles into San Sebastián, where they found the Spanish police assiduously disinterested in them. The bribes had been paid. A British embassy attaché—in actuality, an agent with the British foreign intelligence service MI6—picked them up in an embassy car which drove them first to Madrid, then eventually to Gibraltar. There, the men, along with a dozen other escapees, climbed aboard a Dakota military transport plane that took a roundabout route back to England. And after two weeks of debriefings, followed by a week of leave during which Oliver slept a solid sixteen hours a night, he made the trip to Elsworth to see his grandparents and to hold his whispered conversation in the Holy Trinity chancel with an overjoyed Ivy.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  War is both the product of an earlier corruption

  and a producer of new corruptions.

  –Lewis Mumford

  Sagan, early 1944

  The notion of Gordon dying when his presence offered the one pleasurable thing in Annalise’s life was flatly unacceptable to her. So she resolved to make him well, even if, in doing so, she put herself at risk. It was a week after he missed his appointed day at the house before she realized he was gravely ill and several days beyond that before Reinhard reported the diagnosis of typhus as they shared breakfast.

  “Have they given him Prontosil?” she asked, trying to make her question sound matter-of-fact when she well knew this drug, its infection-fighting properties discovered only a handful of years earlier, was not available to prisoners.

  “And, my darling, what do you know of Prontosil? I had no idea you stayed current on available medical treatments.”

  “I know of it because of the children, Reinhard. Every mother who is concerned about infectious diseases of childhood followed the development of this German miracle—this wonder drug. They use it on the battlefield, I understand, and it has reduced incidents of sepsis.”

  “This is true, Annalise, which means we wouldn’t waste it on a prisoner of war. They are not treating him. He is an English officer, remember, not a German one. They’re just keeping him in the medical building until he dies.”

  “Reinhard, my arbor! Are you saying he will not be available to complete it?”

  “Available?” Reinhard gave a laugh at her question. “Yes. It is safe to say he will be unavailable, my love, unavailable for anything at all. We will have to find you a new helper.”