Aubrielle's Call (4 page)

CHAPTER 5

October 1939

Aubrielle
Cohen
arranged an assortment of colorful lilies, roses, and lavender sprigs in her market wagon and secured the awning. She leaned against her pony, Éclair, and scanned the
Champ-de-Mars
for customers. Few tourists remained in Paris at this time of year, especially now, after France had declared war on Germany. The exodus of tourists over the last two months left the streets empty. Everyone wanted out. Only soldiers and a few desperate vendors populated the park in the morning chill.

She pulled her old coat tight at her throat and allowed her sight to drift to the top of the Eiffel Tower. If she didn’t make a few sales soon, she wouldn’t be able to refresh her floral stock. Greenhouse flowers came at a dear price this season, and Papa’s decline had left his millinery shop floundering—their savings nearly gone.

Although Papa had stopped using the poisonous mercury to shape felt hats years ago, the damage had already been done. Often, his hands shook so badly he could hardly eat. Thank God her mother’s best friend, Mae Moroney, lived next door. She kept an eye on Papa and brought him lunch while Aubrielle tended her flower cart. If not for
Tante
Mae’s kindness, Aubrielle would not be able to make her daily trip to the park with Éclair.

At lunchtime, she ate a croissant with cheese, then split her apple with Éclair as she walked the pony and cart around the park. At their slow pace, the long circuit filled most of the afternoon. The sun played peekaboo with passing clouds, but the rain stayed away. Unfortunately, there were no tourists who wanted to purchase her flowers.

As she rounded the corner, near the Tower at the park exit, a young couple approached and purchased a small bouquet of lavender. They were Americans on their honeymoon, and quite obvious about both details.

“We’re leaving for New York at the end of the week,” the man told her, hugging his bride close to his side. “We don’t want to get caught in France when the Germans attack.”

“The Germans can’t attack us. They won’t get past the Maginot Line.” Her assurance, a repeat of what Papa told her every night at dinner while they listened to the latest broadcast news on the radio.

“The Maginot Line?” the American girl asked as she sniffed her bouquet.

“
Oui
. A line of defense my country built along the German border after the Great War. We are safe,” Aubrielle assured the couple before they hurried on their way.

When they left the park, she walked with Éclair beside the
Seine
and crossed over the
Pont de l’Alma,
or Alma Bridge as the American couple would have called it.
She passed the
Grand Palais
then turned down the side alley behind her father’s hat shop, not far from the
Avenue des Champs-Élysées,
in the
Le Marais
district
.

Aubrielle pushed open the wide gate and Éclair pulled the cart into the yard without prompting. She saw to her pony’s comfort first, then changed the water in each of the vases in the wagon. She refilled the flower jars with her mother’s particular water mixture of bleach, sugar, and vinegar. A loose tarp protected the delicate merchandise from Paris’s unpredictable fall weather.

As Aubrielle opened the back door, the aroma of freshly baked bread and braised beef filled her senses, and her stomach rumbled. Music floated down the hall from the radio in the sitting area. She hung her coat on a hook and slipped her shoes off in the cloakroom.

“Aubrielle, is that you?” Her father called over the music.

“It is, Papa.” She kissed his forehead as she came into the kitchen. “Is that dinner? It smells delicious.” She untied the scarf that covered her thick dark hair and smiled at
Tante
Mae. “Did you close the bakery early?”

“Aye, darlin’. Not a customer since noon.” Mae Moroney rolled her R’s and stretched her vowels with her Irish brogue. She’d kept the bakery open after her husband’s death in ’25 with persistent hard work and determination. Her beloved husband, Oscar, had fought in the Great War, like Aubrielle’s father, and had inhaled mustard gas in the trenches. Oscar came home from war a sick man and never fully recovered. Their decision to relocate to France to be near her dear friend Marguerite and her husband, Lou, never gave her a moment of regret.

Mae set a plate of braised beef and mashed turnips in the center of the table. “Could you get the place settings, Brie?”

“Of course.” She and Papa spoke English more than French these days, even to each other.
Tante
Mae spoke only her own peculiar English, as did the wealthy American tourists, who had become the largest portion of their meager income.

Now, even those sales have dried up.

Aubrielle set the table for three and filled her father’s plate. “Here you go, Papa.”

“I’m going to open the shop tomorrow,” her father announced. His hand shook as he brought the fork to his mouth. He raised his brow at Aubrielle as he chewed and swallowed. He pointed the empty fork at her to emphasize his word. His thin, spotted hand trembled. “I’ve decided to take on an apprentice.”

“An apprentice?” Aubrielle exchanged a guarded look with
Tante
Mae. “Papa, people are too frightened of war to spend what little money they have on a new
chapeau
.” She shook her head. “How will we pay an apprentice?”

“Any boy who wants to learn a trade will work for free.” Papa’s dark eyes glared disappointment at her. The spots on his bald head showed stark against his white skin in the overhead light.

Aubrielle huffed in annoyance. “We would need to house and feed him.” She lifted both hands in despair and shrugged her shoulder. “How would we feed an apprentice? Where would he sleep?”

Mae settled at the table and folded her hands. Her soft black hair, highlighted with several silver strands had been pulled back into a tight bun. Hazel eyes closed and she bowed her head and spoke loud enough to still the heated conversation. “May God bless this food and all who share his bounty. Amen.”

“Amen.” Aubrielle’s head came up. She pushed her thick dark hair over her shoulder and picked up her fork. “I only sold one bouquet today.” She stirred the turnips on her plate and eyed her father as he ate.

“That reminds me,” Mae said. “The young man you buy your flowers from came by earlier today.”

“Henri?” Aubrielle looked up from her plate. “What did he want?”

“He didn’t say.” Mae’s eyebrow rose. “It could be about your flower order.”

“I don’t like that boy,” Papa stated, never raising his eyes. “A boy his age should be in the military defending our borders, not selling flowers to young girls in the park.”

“There won’t be new merchandise this month,” Aubrielle said. “Greenhouse flowers are too expensive.” She took a small bite of beef, chewed and swallowed. “I still have last week’s flowers, and they won’t last much longer.” She shook her head and raised an eyebrow at
Tante
Mae. “When the flowers are too wilted to sell, I’ll be finished selling until next spring.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best.” Mae nodded. “Two young women have been attacked in the hedgerows beside the park. It may be time for you to stay home with your Papa.”

Aubrielle lifted one shoulder. “I’m not concerned.”

They ate in silence and listened to the
Radio Normandie
, broadcast in English, a mixture of news and American band music.

Aubrielle rose and carried her plate to the kitchen sink. “I’ll clean up.”

“Don’t bother,” Mae said. “I’ll take care of the dishes. Your Papa and I haven’t finished yet.” She waved Aubrielle toward the hallway. “Go on, with you. Set your curlers. The kitchen won’t take but a moment to tidy.”

Aubrielle paused in the hall and looked back at her loved ones. Sometimes, Papa acted as though he didn’t remember who she was. At least tonight he hadn’t called her Marguerite, her mother’s name.

In her small room, she put her hair in rollers in front of her spot-stained mirror. Outside, the rain beat against the roof. It would be clear again by morning, and the tarp would keep her flowers safe.

Her dark eyes stared back from the mirror. There had been whispers in the park about Hitler’s
Mein Kampf
, and she’d felt the burden of antisemitism before, even in Paris. Her dark hair and eyes, along with the surname of Cohen, labeled her and Papa as Jewish, regardless of her faith. If the Germans came, they would be detained, or worse.

She blinked at her reflection and put another roller in her hair. Concern over Hitler would have to wait. Henri
Vogl
would insist she purchase more of his greenhouse flowers, and she could not. She took the few coins from her sale today and set them on her dresser. Little enough to buy meat and bread. She intended to repay
Tante
Mae’s generosity before purchasing any more of Henri’s flowers.

CHAPTER 6

Dark, turbulent clouds hung low and threatening above the
Giselle-Marie
. The storm over Nova Scotia had pursued them across the Atlantic. As though fleeing bad fortune, the sturdy ship ran swift before the approaching tempest. They rode the outer edges of the front, pushed ahead of rougher seas, for close to a week.

Tonight, rain would find them
. John could smell it in the air. He wore the yellow rain gear Bosun Sweeney had handed him after dinner. Although John appreciated the slicker, it only reached to his forearms and barely covered his backside. The headcover fit well enough, and would keep the rain from running down the back of his neck.

Lightning danced across the gray sky, accompanied by a sudden crack of thunder. As though that were a signal, the sky opened wide, and rain pelted down.

The popular rumor among the crew said Master Keats sailed for Portsmouth Harbor, but John knew better. Even if the steamer flew French colors, they risked being recognized in the busy British port.

Keats will seek a sheltered cove, perhaps along the French coast, to complete her business.

The call from the wheelhouse rang out instructing a change course. They’d tried to outrun the weather, but could not. Now they would turn and face the storm to ride it out. The all hands klaxon sounded to alert the crew.
Yesterday’s preparations had
left the ship ready to battle the weather. Hatches battened, cargo secured, and the deck cleared for rough seas.

As the ship came about to face the wind, the sting of Agaria’s urgent call sliced across John’s scalp and pressed against the back of his head. He lifted closed eyes to the pelting rain.

Soon, my love.

Ahead, the ship nosed down into a trough and the sea broke over the bow of the vessel, swamping the forward deck. In the next instance, the
Giselle-Marie
surged upward in a race toward the crest of the next wave.

Keats had turned the ship into the storm at the last possible moment.

The swells grew as the tempest rolled over the stalwart vessel. John rode the sea, back pressed to the wheelhouse, memories crashing over him with each wave.

He had no fear of the storm or concern for himself. He’d been cursed with incredible fortune since before he’d stopped aging. The fear in his heart had always been for those around him. His current shipmates, and of course, for Agaria.

For five days, the steamer faced into the rolling waves. The
Giselle-Marie
and her crew rode the tempest until the angry sea and sky calmed.

Unfortunately, the unfavorable weather had blown them off course, driving them south of their original heading. They put in at
Marina d’Angra
on Terceira Island in the Azorean Archipelago to take on fuel. Although several of the crew members were native Portuguese, when Master Keats discovered John spoke the language, she called upon him to negotiate with the harbormaster for oil.

They reached the coast of France two months past the date of their original assignation. Master Keats weighed anchor offshore from their rendezvous location until their contact with the French smugglers could be reestablished.

Off duty, John waited in his cabin until called to accompany the cargo to shore. He’d spread several precious items on the bunk before him, examining each one.

Hurried footfalls on the deck and a call to prepare the small craft for departure alerted him. He scooped up his treasures and placed them back into his leather drawstring pouch one at a time. A silver wedding band, inscribed. A small brass key, with the number seventeen, etched into the head. The tarnished silver key tied with yellowed lace would open the front door of the house in Denver. He dropped a smooth black stone, painted with a protective rune, into the pouch beside the ring and keys.

Memories.

He pulled the bag closed and laid it alongside his papers in a hand-tooled wooden box.

At the knock on his door, he placed the box back in his small sea chest and closed the lid. “Come in.”

Taylor poked his head into the small quarters. “Master Keats wants you.” Sober, the stocky sailor displayed a dependable and friendly persona. Despite their initial meeting, Taylor and John had become friends.

“I’ll be right up.”

Taylor nodded and pulled the door shut.

John tucked in his shirt, ran a hand through his hair and pulled on his coat. Outside his cabin, the wind blew sharply out of the north. Above the wheelhouse flew the French Tricolor. He crossed the deck with long strides, double-stepped the stairs and knocked at the master’s office door.

“Come.”

John entered as Master Keats looked up from her desk.

Her silver-veined braid, pinned neatly to her head, crowned her master’s uniform. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Larson.” She nodded at the chair across the desk and slid the pen she held into its holder. “We’re in radio contact with our buyers, and will rendezvous with them in a few days.”

“Yes, sir.” John unbuttoned his coat and sat across from Master Keats.

She studied him. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind and still intend to leave us when we land.”

“I must.” John shifted in the chair and gave a small shrug. “I’m—compelled to walk this path, sir. Otherwise, I would stay on the
Giselle-Marie
.”

“In that case, I want to pay you now.” Master Keats opened the top drawer, withdrew an envelope, and pushed it across the desk. “We may not have another moment to speak in private before you depart.”

Inside the envelope, John found both American dollars and French francs. His eyebrows arched as his gaze rose to Master Keats. “You appear to be overly generous.”

“Smuggling is a profitable venture.” She grinned at John. “That is no more than your share. Besides, I have a soft spot for ambitious endeavors, as you may have noticed.”

John chuckled and put the envelope into his inside pocket. “Yes, sir.” John stood as Master Keats came to her feet.

She held out her hand. “I wish you the best of luck, John Larson. Godspeed in locating your family.”

He took her hand. “Thank you, and luck to you as well, sir.”

“My given name is Giselle. It was my husband’s ship, after all.” She released his hand and shoved hers deep into her pants pockets. “If you’d be interested in sailing with us again, once your family is safe, leave a message at the tavern where we met. Steven, the owner, was my husband’s brother. He’ll know how to contact me.”

Should I warn her about the coming war?
There would be too many explanations needed and not enough time. “Sir? Giselle? The Nazis won’t be satisfied with Poland.” John pressed his lips. “Be careful.”

“I will, John. You take care, as well.” She gave John a nod and returned to her desk. “Carry on.”

“Yes, sir.” John backed from her office and closed the door behind him.

Later that night, Bosun Sweeney tapped his shoulder while John stood watch. “The master needs you in the armory. I’ll stand your watch.”

John paused as he walked past the Bosun. “Thank you, Pete, for recommending Keats bring me on board.”

“Aye.” Pete nodded and leaned against the bulwarks. “You’re a good man, John Larson.” He grinned at John with a matchstick clenched between his teeth. “Be safe tonight.”

* * *

John sat point in the small boat, his duffel and sea chest tucked behind him. He held the Thompson tight against his chest and carried the unfamiliar weight of the .38 strapped to his side, beneath his jacket.

The swells remained high, and the rough surf pounded against the boat, rocking the men and the cargo.

Mr. Rice echoed the instructions Keats had given the men before the winches lowered the small craft to the sea. “We’ll make three trips with the four boats.” The hushed tone of his voice reached only the men in the small craft. “John and I will stay on the beach and guard the cargo while you return to the ship for the rest.”

“Aye.” Four whispered voices acknowledged the first officer.

Clouds scuttled across the moon and cast the shoreline in an eerie darkness. A brief flash of light caught John’s eye. “Starboard two ticks.”

Mr. Rice raised his flashlight and gave a signal to the boats that followed. They adjusted course.

The clouds parted, and moonlight reflected off the beach. Several armed men and two trucks waited for them.

“Master Keats knows these men?” John whispered to Rice.

“Aye. You’ll be safe enough.”

John chuckled. “I wasn’t worried about me, sir.” He vaulted over the side of the craft into the thigh-high surf and guided the bow of the boat onto the shore. The other craft from the
Giselle-Marie
came to rest beside them.

John stood watch as Mr. Rice spoke with the leader of the Frenchmen. Rice hunched his shoulder to the wind to light a cigarette, nodded and shook hands with the man, then hurried back to the rowboats. “They’ll help us unload.” He nodded across the beach to the furthest craft. “Stow your weapons and transfer the cargo—everyone except John.” Rice grinned at John. “You can take your gear and be off if you like.”

“I’ll stay and stand watch, sir. If you don’t mind.” John shouldered the machine-gun and grabbed his duffel. “If they’ll give me a ride to the nearest town, I’ll leave with your friends.”

The Frenchmen loaded the textiles, wine, and tobacco into the back of their trucks. Before the moon set into the sea, the large trunks of arms were hauled from the shore boats and loaded as well.

The man Mr. Rice had spoken with crossed to John as the boats returned to the
Giselle-Marie
. “
Monsieur
Rice said you might need a ride into town.” He held out his hand. “François
.”

“I’m John, and yes, I’d appreciate a lift.”

“Our first stop is at
Caen.
” François smiled and held out his arm toward the open door of his truck. A blond-haired smuggler watched from the cab. “Billy and I shall make room.”

The last boat cleared the beach. Mr. Rice raised his hand to John in farewell.

John had returned the machine-gun, but Rice had told him to keep the .38. A parting gift from Master Keats. The gun’s weight pressed against John’s side as he waved back to the first officer then followed François to the vehicle. “
Caen
will be perfect. Thank you.”

* * *

I
n Caen,
John took his leave from the smugglers and sought a tailor to purchase civilian clothes. The garment-maker agreed to lengthen the dark slacks and double-breasted jacket to fit John’s height. While he waited for the alteration, John bought shoes from the shop down the street. A new overcoat, two new shirts and ties, and a fedora completed his transition from mariner to civilian. The tailor had his clothes sized and ready by late afternoon, as promised.

John changed in the tailor’s dressing room and hurried to the train station. Three
months had passed
since he first felt Agaria’s call.

It’s taking too long to reach her.

When the station came into view, anxiety twisted in his chest.

Both British and French soldiers filled the station’s benches and slept beside their duffel bags along the outer wall of the building. Inside, the crowd was worse. Men packed the small building, sprawled wherever they could find.

The man behind the window shook his head when John inquired about a ticket to Paris. “
Non.
” He indicated the soldiers who waited along the platform and shrugged. “The next two trains are filled as well.
Désolé.
”

“
Merci
.” John nodded to the tired ticket attendant and paused to study a map of France tacked to the wall beside the window. His love was still to the west, but how far away remained a mystery. She could be as near as Paris, or as far as Munich.

I’ve no way to know.

He left the train station and looked down the road in the direction of her call. With no choice remaining, he walked
.

Outside of town, a convoy of military vehicles forced him off the road. He waited until they passed before he returned to the road. He waved at two other cars as they passed, intent on begging a ride, but the drivers never slowed.

John’s shadow faded before him as the sun slipped below the horizon.

I’m a fool. I could have taken a room in Caen for the night and sought transportation in the morning. As it is, I’ll sleep in a ditch
.

Headlights on the road behind him brought his long shadow back to life. Instead of stepping to the side, he stopped and faced the vehicle.

A lift to the next town isn’t too much to ask.

He shielded his eyes as the vehicle slowed to a stop.