Behind The Mask

By Marianne Petit

Blurb Mask

Author Marianne Petit mixes true life experiences with fiction to create a suspenseful tale of intrigue and romance set in the early days of war-torn France.

In 1940's Paris, both rich and poor are thrust together - a mixed society struggling to survive. American born Yvette Matikunas, one of the privileged few, goes underground with a deathbed promise to her grandfather that has her roaming the streets of France with a dangerous message. She quickly learns that no one is who they seem to be and trust is a thing of her past.

Injured in battle while trying to save the life of one of his men, Colonial André Rinaldo is disillusioned by a shell-shocked country and a weak government. Persuaded to go underground and unite his fellow compatriots by forming resistance groups, he meets the beautiful blonde Yvette whose determination to free France from foreign dictatorship is as strong as his.

In the middle of espionage and clandestine rendezvous, they form a partnership that deepens even under the ever-present threat of arrest. But with America’s interest in the war building in the background all Americans are finally ordered to leave the country. Will Yvette return to the States, or will André persuade her to stay and fight for love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marianne Petit
• Release date: Feb 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310252471

Marianne Petit

Marianne Petit’s love of history, time travel, and romance inspired her to write heartfelt novels that are both entertaining and informative. Her first book was a Native American time travel romance, A Find Through Time, which garnered her articles in several local newspapers and interviews on television.She is a past President of the Long Island Chapter of the Romance Writers of America and currently the District Governor of the Suffolk County Lions clubs, a service organization that raises money for the sight and hearing impaired. She loves to ski, white water raft, horseback ride, and enjoys the theater.Marianne lives on Long Island, has two sons and four grandchildren, and is happily married to the real hero in her life, her husband Steve.

Book preview

Behind the mask of indifference...

Behind the mask of secrecy and lies...

A group of resistance fighters grew, of dedicated men, women, and children who, despite the dangers of war, refused to give in to defeat.

This is their story,

One of Courage,

Love of country

and

Humanitarian heroism.

I dedicate this book to my parents, who lived in France during World War II:

to the brave men, women, and children, who fought for freedom:

and to those who, despite danger, risked their lives to save others.

The story you are about to read is fiction, intermingled with true stories remembered by family and friends who managed to survive the terrible ordeal of war.

Copyright 2014 Marianne Petit

All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. References to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously.

Factual timelines were altered for the sake of the story line.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Special thanks to my designer: Jennifer and Delores my editor.

Once to every man and nation,

comes the moment to decide,

In the strife of truth with falsehood,

for the good or evil side…

Some great cause,

some great decision,

offering each the bloom or blight,

And the choice goes by forever,

'Twixt that darkness and that light.

Then it is the brave man chooses,

While the coward stands aside

Till the multitude make virtue

Of the faith they had denied.

Author: James Russell Lowell (1845)

BEHIND THE MASK

BY

MARIANNE PETIT

Chapter One Tell me a story

Chapter Two Dawn broke

Chapter Three Two days later

Chapter Four August 1940

Chapter Five Life in the village

Chapter Six In the smoky room

Chapter Seven Bakery

Chapter Eight The next morning

Chapter Nine Finally home

Chapter Ten Marseille

Chapter Eleven On the job

Chapter Twelve Leaving the church

Chapter Thirteen Vichy propaganda

Chapter Fourteen The message

Chapter Fifteen The kiss

Chapter Sixteen Finding Fry

Chapter Seventeen Follow the river

Chapter Eighteen Christmas spirit

Chapter Nineteen Awakened

Chapter Twenty A New Year

Chapter Twenty One Not OK

Chapter Twenty-Two Crazy

Chapter Twenty-Three Rain

Chapter Twenty-Four A letter

Chapter Twenty-Five March 1941

Chapter Twenty-Six The End

True Stories

Reviews

About the Author

Chapter One

Mémère, tell me the story of when you were in France.

Yvette settled down into the worn oversized blue chair and glanced at her granddaughter, Marie, who placed an iPhone down on the coffee table between them, then pushed record.

We are learning about WWII and I have to write a report.

Yvette nodded. Ah, the war… so difficult to talk about; too important not to.

It was 1940. Paris was so beautiful in the summer, exotic, exciting. I can still remember the smell of mildew from old books, lining the stalls along the Seine, the smell of ripe cheeses and robust wine fermenting in wooden barrels as I walked through the market place. Did I tell you the story about the cheese and your great grandfather?

Marie shook her head.

He always ate blue cheese, smelly and ripe. I swore I’d never eat that horrid cheese, said I’d rather starve… Yvette’s thoughts strayed to her past, her beloved grandpère and the day that changed her life forever. She had been so different then, a spoiled twenty year old who had a lot to learn.

Did you?

Her granddaughter’s question pulled Yvette from her thoughts. What? Oh, yes, as I was saying. This was my Paris. The street hawker who tried to entice you to buy their wares, the artists with their easels and paint. She sighed. This was the breath of Paris, the pulse attracting visitors to flood the city.

Yvette’s gaze settled on the large picture window overlooking her front yard. The warm summer sun, low in the horizon, cast a bright glare as she thought about the day the Germans came to town. Like ants on a crumb, they inundated her village. Their motorcycles gleamed under the sun, big and black. The sound of their polished boots marching in unison still gave her nightmares.

Where to start, Yvette thought, suddenly seeing Paris through the eyes of her youth…

***

May 1940

As an artist, one couldn’t help but admire the massive round windows of Notre Dame. When the sun shone through the stained glass, the vibrant red, blue, purple and green brilliance were breathtaking.

It was cool inside the massive church, despite the promise of summer’s breath of air. People sat and prayed in the various aisles separated by slender marble columns. Light filtered through multiple stained glass windows softening the cathedral’s long halls and vaulted ceiling.

The serenity here, so different from the noisy streets, softened the memory that last September after the Germans invaded Poland, France and Britain declared war on Germany. Other than the navy paint covering the street lamps and black cloth, covering shop windows, this phony war had little impact on Yvette Matikunas’ life. Even though rumors of German advancement was the talk of the town, she refused to dwell on such depressing thoughts.

Deciding to go shopping, Yvette dipped her finger in the holy water, made the sign of the cross and stepped outside.

The church bells tolled, echoing throughout the square. The resonant tone reverberated through her body and sent a startled flock of white birds into the air.

It took her a good thirty minutes to reach the Champs- Élysées. The boulevard and stores were bustling with shoppers and as the sales clerk neatly wrapped two pairs of silk stockings in white paper, a red leather bag caught Yvette’s eye.

And this. She pointed to the large pocketbook with a big brass buckle. She didn't need a new bag, but it was only money, she reasoned. One had to keep up appearances, didn't one?

The woman behind the counter walked over to the table and picked up the pocketbook.

Yvette couldn't help but notice the run in her stocking that ran from the back of her knee to her heel. How could anyone walk around in such a state of disarray? Yvette's nose wrinkled. So unkempt. Unbefitting, mother would say. Why didn't she just purchase new ones? The discount, as a sales person, had to be worthwhile.

Good choice mademoiselle, this is one of our finest. The sales clerk smiled.

Though the income this sale would generate probably put a month’s worth of food on the woman's table, Yvette could tell the smile was forced. Was it her fault money was of no consequence? Was it her fault her apartment was in the best part of Paris and her family owned a large country home? No. So why the attitude she encountered from people who couldn’t hide their jealousy? Everyone, including herself, had issues to deal with and she would not apologize or feel guilty for being among the privileged few. Having money was freedom; freedom to do as she pleased. Money got her away from her mother.

Yvette returned the smile, paid for her purchases and walked outside.

Bored. She was bored, she thought as she bit into the warm freshly baked baguette. She’d come to Paris to buy a few pieces of art. Since no one was buying, she’d met a few desperate artists willing to sell, all except Picasso, who had refused her. The art and history lectures she had taken at the Sorbonne were over. Perhaps she would go back to Pablo’s studio and try to convince him to sell.

Maybe she should just go home. Surely, René missed her. After all, they’d spent the entire winter snuggled up together making plans for the future. Yvette sighed. René. The love of her life and the man her mother disapproved of. The butcher’s son, she’d said, and so beneath you. Well, she didn’t need her mother’s approval. Thank God, Grandpère was on her side. A buffer between parent and child, his love, no matter what, fortified and kept her going when kind words never fell from her mother’s lips. Life without her grandpère would prove miserable.

Pushing thoughts of her mother from her mind, Yvette stopped in front of a bookstore and peeked inside, admiring the leather bound and gold leafed covers. About to step inside, a woman's stifled cry caused Yvette to slowly turn toward the street.

A plump woman, nicely dressed in a black striped dress and matching hat, clutched a newspaper in her gloved trembling hands. Our troops are evacuating the harbor at Dunkerque.

What does that mean? I don’t understand. Yvette muttered, unable to grasp the meaning behind the woman’s words.

Belgium's King, Leopold the III, has surrendered to Germany. The woman’s face fell, as though the news sucked the life from her pronounced cheeks. It has begun, she mumbled under her breath.

What? What has begun?

War, she replied as she turned and shuffled away, her back hunched in defeat.

***

For five days, Yvette deliberated whether or not to leave the city.

Standing on the balcony of her apartment, she glanced to the streets below. Chaos ruled the boulevard. The streets were choked with people towing their belongings, animals on leashes, cars piled with people who hoarded bags of food and their belongings and horse drawn wagons exiting the city.

On June first, the government closed the schools and soldiers, ragged, defeated from the battlefield, poured into the streets. German troops had been seen advancing toward Paris.

Numb, in disbelief, Yvette stood in silence, staring, but not really comprehending the scene beyond her window. Refugees, vagabonds, thieves flooded the streets and soon German soldiers were said to invade, plunder and burn the city to the ground. Some of her friends were staying put. Rumors suggested Hitler was an avid lover of the arts. Surely, he would not destroy Paris they reasoned. Who knew what horrors one would encounter in the outskirts of the city?

Distant explosions jerked Yvette back to reality. The bombings were getting closer. She hurried inside, pulling the big glass double doors behind her.

She sat down at the carved mahogany desk, opened her diary and dipped her pen in the ink well.

The exodus has begun. My beloved city of Paris is dying. I went to bed last night calm, this morning I have given into my fears. I am going home.

A tear slipped from her eye and splattered on the page blurring the black ink. Unable to write another word, unable to believe the happenings outside her window, she stood. Her movements forced, she gathered up her diary and aimlessly walked around the room, her fingers trailing the gilt framed artwork she’d so painstakingly purchased. She thought about taking down a few of her favorites, but their size and the time needed to properly pack them would take too long.

They’re coming. The Germans are coming. The thought rolled around and around in her head. So surreal. So unthinkable. Emotion welling in her throat, she pinched the bridge of her nose, shook her head, then straightened her stance. It was time to go. Her family was probably frantic with worry.

Yvette stopped at the long gold framed mirror and checked to make sure the seam, running up the back of her silk stockings, was straight. Heaven forbid she left the house in any sort of untidiness. She could just hear her mother’s disapproval. She slipped on her navy coat, then gathered up her two suitcases. With a final glance at the mirror to assess her appearance, satisfied her navy and white brimmed hat sat perfectly on her coiffured blonde hair, and her makeup was perfect, she locked the apartment behind her.

At the curb, Yvette glanced up and down the noisy street looking for a taxicab and waved her hand to get their attention as they whizzed past her.

People on bicycles, their shoulders burdened with sacks of food and clothing, pedaled in between bottle-necked cars. Horse drawn wagons brimming with supplies left little room for the stunned men, women and frightened children. An old truck, filled with people and household items, stopped. Yvette noticed the sales clerk she'd made her purchases from days before among the riders.

Come on, gestured the driver, waving down toward her. There's room for one more.

She eyed the cramped truck, where a dog sat on its owner’s lap. A child, with a runny nose, wailed about as loud as the air raid now screeching through the streets. The boy’s mother, oblivious to his discomfort, stared over his head, her expression haunted.

Where are you headed? Once again, Yvette glanced up and down the street, hoping a cab would stop and whisk her away.

As far away from here as we can get, someone mumbled.

South, the driver answered.

South was closer to her family, who were probably in a panic thinking about her.

Well? the driver asked.

Yvette stepped up behind the truck trying to figure out how she was going to climb in. A scruffy bearded man held out his hand. His fingernails were black, his hands cracked from too much sun and hard work. Not wishing to dirty her white gloves, she grasped the wagon’s side.

You leaving your bags, mademoiselle? the driver asked.

Pardon?

Your bags, I am not your chauffeur.

Despite the pitiful looks on the faces of those above her, chuckles erupted from the truck.

Yvette lugged her suitcases and with difficulty shoved them in a sliver of space between some pots and pans and an old woman whose gray hair looked like it hadn’t met a brush in days.

No one offered her a hand as she struggled to hoist herself onto the truck and as the vehicle jerked to a start, she nearly fell out.

Indignant, she settled next to the store clerk and pressed her skirt neatly against her legs. That was when Yvette noticed the large hole in her own newly purchased stocking.

***

The congested streets hindered their movements. It took hours before Paris faded into the distance; a city forgotten.

Shrouds of black smoke, from distant fires, stung Yvette’s eyes and nose.

A fine drizzle fell and water dripped from her hat like tears splattering on her dusty jacket.

Casual conversation grew to a staccato chatter as the realization of the severity of their plight began to sink in. Others, like herself, stared into the distance, silent, and numb. Yvette was unable to comprehend anything, but that she felt cold and wet.

Behind them, broken down trucks were pulled by horses, people walked, shuffled in silence, while others too tired to continue gave up and sat weeping on the side of the dirt road. Young and old, struggling to stay a foot amid the pressing crowds and motorcars. Abandoned overturned cars, their wheels still spinning, and some vehicles burnt from previous bombs lay in adjacent fields. Suitcases, pots, and clothing littered the ground. French and British soldiers covered in sweat, blood, and mud, but with resolve and pride in their eyes, marched against the massive tide, impeding passage.

Her mind muddled, scarcely comprehending the gravity of her plight, she heard someone whisper, the military is retreating; they have given in.

No, a man argued, they are heading toward Paris. Vive la France, he shouted. Men, women, and children echoed his enthusiastic cry till the last row of men marched past their wagon.

Dazed, she watched a woman frantically pushed her way through the slow moving crowd. My boy, she screamed. My boy… tears flooded her cheeks, has anyone seen my boy? Some people shook their head and stared with grim despair, others, lost in oblivion, ignored her.

A man with two children in his arms tried to grab the end of their truck and was met by a foot pushing him away. The cries of children separated from their family, the wails of women, men arguing and the fierce claps of thunder or gunfire, she wasn’t sure which, attacked her nerves from every direction. Her body shaking by the sobering nightmare, Yvette brought her hand to her mouth to keep down the rise of vomit and panic. How can this be happening? This just can’t be happening. Numbness overtook her body as she stared over the heads of people too numerous to count.

Daylight gave way to night and as they fought their way deeper into the country, the atmosphere grew tenser. The headlights of the truck, blacked-out with navy paint, barely penetrated the darkness. Fires lit the sky, casting eerie shadows over the herded mass. High-pitched air raids whined, warning nearby villages. They pushed on, the driver feverishly slapping the reins in an effort to move the nervous horses forward.

Her thoughts exhausting, the scene before her too surreal, Yvette closed her eyes, unwilling to look at one more haunting, desperate face, unwilling to believe what her eyes beheld.

The tremor of rapid-firing guns, from over the ridge, made her heart leap. She gripped the side of the wagon tighter. Splintered wood bit her palm. Every rock they rolled over or bomb crater they avoided pitched the truck back and forth, turned a startled head and jerked a tight shoulder. A low rumbling, heard in the distance, caught everyone’s attention. Gazes rolled upward. Fear and apprehension etched faces, as they searched the sky for aircraft.

Within seconds, chaos broke out as people tried to exit the truck. One of her high-heeled shoes was knocked off and flew over the side of the vehicle. Someone elbowed her in the ribs, and the child, who never stopped screaming, caught a fist full of Yvette’s hair and proceeded to pull out what seemed like a handful. The street parted like the biblical Red Sea. People pushed and shoved their way into the bushes trying to hide from the advancing low flying aircraft. Authoritative shouts and the barrage of crying women rose above the now droning planes thundering above.

Yvette ran toward the woods with the mass. Crouched beside a tree, she covered her ears with her hands to muffle the deafening sound of low flying planes.

Soldiers crouched on both sides of the street, their guns aimed upward.

The first burst of bullets swept the road, shooting dirt and debris into the air. The hissing of shells and banging of gunfire came from all directions.

Yvette clung to the back of the store clerk, trying to shield herself, her close presence oddly comforting. The woman turned around with a vague smile, and the fear she saw on the woman’s face, she felt reflected on her own.

Chapter Two

Dawn broke with a hailstorm of bullets and shrapnel raining on the freighters and British navy vessels gridlocked in Dunkerque Harbor.

Colonel André Rinaldo darted for cover among bales of blankets stacked along the jetty. Around him, men scrambled on the decks trying desperately to haul frantic soldiers to safety. Hundreds of men thrashed about in the water trying to catch a ride, while dive-bombers knocked out ships.

Land and sea vibrated.

André watched, sickened, as men, wounded or merely too weak to sustain their weight, clung to rope ladders. Some men fell back into the sea and drowned.

A German fighter plane, looking for its next victims, drew white circles in the sky then dove. Whistling bombs dropped overhead. Engines screamed across the sky.

André buried deeper into the blood and sweat-stained blankets trying in vain to cover himself completely only to have a leg or arm in plain view. He listened intently as the planes flattened out, zeroing in on their next target. He held his breath as anti-aircraft blasted their guns. To his left a blazing storage house collapsed, adding flames and smoke to the already huge, dense clouds hanging low over the harbor.

The deafening air raid at a reprieve, André calculated he had about eight minutes before another squadron crossed over.

Though his men had stood fast in the face of danger, it became clear to him, they didn’t have a chance against the German aircraft, so he gave the order that every man save himself. He’d helped several get onto ships crossing the channel to England. Others were laid up in makeshift hospitals where ambulances waited to take them to safety. Others hid. Those were the ones he had his sights on.

For one solid week, with no time to clean his blood soaked leather jacket, his feet swollen in his muddy boots, he secured his men's locations. He promised not to leave any man behind and he planned on keeping his word. One man remained, hidden under a burnt-out jeep.

With a quick glance to the sky, André ran. He slid beside his comrade to the pelting of bullets at his heels.

Marc Porteret, a young man of about sixteen, had joined the war thinking, like many Frenchmen, they would win over Hitler because they were stronger. They’d had a rude awakening.

Colonel Rin, you’re a sight for sore eyes. The desperation on his soot-freckled face gave way to hope.

André glanced at the mangled leg. Think you can put any weight on that?

Don’t know, Sir, but I’ll give it a try.

André nodded and eyed the torn-up dock where shards of wood lay scattered. Keep your head down, he ordered, then dashed toward the water.

A German Messerschmitt flew overhead gunning the dock. Men stampeded across planks, jumped into the nearest vessel and over the side of the pier. André dove into a small Dutch fishing boat and landed on rags and nets stinking of fish.

When the raid ended and the docks crowded, André stepped from the boat. Back at Marc’s side, he rigged together a splint from the wood he collected.

I'm not going to England, Sir. France is my home. No, sir. I’d rather die on French soil.

André felt the same way. This was his home. He’d be deserting his country, his countrymen. We’ve got about five miles, maybe more. Think you can make it?

Marc’s response was a slight nod and grimace from obvious pain.

We’ll head to those dunes. With any luck, we’ll take cover in the woods. There’s a village not too far. We’ll hole up there till I can get a better look at your leg. Odds were against them making it off the beach.

After the rain of fire, when the deafening roar of planes diminished, André hoisted Marc to his feet. Let’s go. He slipped his arm around Marc’s waist and they ran. They maneuvered among hoards of men, jeeps, and ambulances.

Fortunately, the bombs did nothing more than blow up loads of sand, which made it difficult to see, but it gave them some cover. What he feared was the machine guns blasting the top of the dunes where men huddled together.

Marc’s leg lagged behind, slowing them down and he wasn’t sure if the lad would make it much farther. He tightened his hold on Marc and picked up his pace.

More fragments of debris and bits of shells rained from the thunderous sky. André threw Marc into a bomb crater and landed on top of him, shielding him from the streaming bullets that by some lucky miracle missed them.

Hours later, as they dodged bullets from German snipers, they spied a house up ahead. André paused at the edge of the woods. The silence didn’t feel right. Stepping out into the open didn’t feel right. His gaze darted toward the house, then back at Marc. His wound bled profusely, it was only a matter of time and he’d bleed out; they had to get shelter. With Marc at his side, they moved forward.

Sunlight glinted off metal, catching André’s attention. He swung Marc over his shoulder and ran, zigzagging through the sudden gunfire. They collapsed in a dugout trench alongside the dead body of a British soldier.

When the firing subsided, the front door of the house opened and an old woman stepped out. In her hand, she carried a pitcher and glass. She had to be crazy André thought as he watched her walk straight toward them, her bright white apron flapping like a flag of truce against her black dress. With a toothless smile, she handed them water and headed back to the house. She stopped, spat and shook her fist. Nazi bâtard she screamed, then slammed the door.

Bastards. He couldn’t have said it better.

Thankful for her braveness, he brought the water to Marc’s lips.

A fast approaching bomb whistled. André never saw the plane coming. The earth seemed to leap skyward. Debris tore into his right hip and his world went black.

Chapter Three

Two days later, having abandoned the truck when it ran out of petrol, exhausted from walking, famished, Yvette stood at the train depot. Multitudes of people lined the platform, all trying to hop a train out of the village. Black locomotives bellowed smoke and bewildered faces peered through dirty windows. Bottlenecked trains waited for a free track.

Yvette clutched her suitcases that held her favorite artist paints and brushes, guarding them against thieves looking to pluck a quick stash in the bedlam.

Her mind reeling, thankful to put the terrible ordeal of the past few days behind her and anxious to get on board, she made her way toward the rails.

A heated argument, between a man in military wear and a railway authority, caught her attention. She squeezed her way past the two men as they argued about whether or not to move a train containing a deadly cargo of high explosives. She favored on the side of the railway official. The further away the better.

Est-ce le train pour Luceney? she asked a woman with a child in her arm.

Oui.

Tears of relief sprang to Yvette’s eyes. Thank God, she was finally going home. She thanked the woman and hurried up to the train.

Squeezed against one another, people rammed and nudged their way along the ledge. Several times, she felt a hand or elbow cut into her back or sides.

Disheartened when she couldn’t find an inch of space on board, she made her way from one window to another, stretching on tip toes, lugging her suitcases, determined not to lose her possessions, determined to get home. Gaunt faces, some grateful, some horrified, peered back at her. The corridors were packed, making it impossible to see into the compartments for available seating.

Someone in their frantic rush knocked off her hat and Yvette bent to grab it.

The Germans! a deep male voice screamed.

Everyone looked to the skies.

Warplanes with the German cross were flying at a low altitude in the distance.

They’re going to bomb the tracks!

Get out of the train, the conductor yelled.

Yvette grabbed her hat and stood frozen.

People on the platform panicked and a stampede for cover erupted. Like water released from a dam, the train emptied as frightened passengers, once again, pushed and shoved through the solid wedge of people crammed in the exit. Some tumbled down the stairs and landed face first on the ground, only to feel heels jammed into their backs as others walked on top of them with little regard.

Engines roared like approaching thunder over the cries of the terrorized crowd.

A little boy, separated from his family, stood crying.

Move.

The shove to her back knocked away her stupor. Yvette dropped her bags and grabbed the hand of the lost child. Practically carried by the crowd toward a nearby house, she glanced over her shoulder, realizing she had left her bags behind.

Dazed, she stumbled down the four-rung ladder of a shelter built partially into a nearby hill. Shoved into the already crowded space, she clung to the child in her arms and stared at what she prayed would be their safe haven. She watched condensation run down the rusty sides. The door slammed shut, leaving them in darkness and her heart pounded.

Overhead, the hiss and whine of shells grew closer. A hush settled over the crowd as everyone held their breaths and waited for what could be their demise. A pregnant young woman wept beside her. Yvette placed her arm over her shoulder in an effort to comfort her.

The door above opened and more people pushed their way in, forcing everyone to huddle together in the middle of the six-foot by maybe eight-foot shack. Yvette willed away the claustrophobia tightening her chest and smiled at the little boy whose arms encircled her in a vise grip.

An enormous explosion shook the town. The shelter quaked. Someone gasped, others cried or prayed and even in the dark, she knew people stared wide-eyed at nothing, their faces as solemn and drawn as hers. Glass shattered. Clay tiles tumbled down rooftops, then crashed to the ground.

The heat oppressive, the stench of body odor overwhelming, Yvette squeezed her eyes shut, willing the noise to stop, praying the bombs would somehow miss this tinny death trap. She focused on thoughts of her sister riding her bicycle and the big smile of pleasure on her face. She drew strength from the thought of her new baby brother, who she couldn’t wait to get home to and to her grandpère who could turn worries into a day of possibilities.

After what seemed like an eternity, the noise subsided and an unsettling silence blanketed the shelter. On rusty hinges, the door creaked open, blinding them with sunlight. Startled, Yvette’s shoulders jerked. Hesitant to leave, afraid the Germans hovered over the skies waiting for them, afraid to witness the horror she knew awaited her, she followed everyone outside.

Attacked by thick black fumes hanging over them like a death veil, she coughed. An enormous crater, some twenty meters in diameter spouted flames. Like angry serpents, smoke and fire attacked the sky. Fire engines, their bells screaming, raced down the street toward the spot where the munitions train once stood.

Yvette’s eyes stung from fumes as she stepped over shattered window glass and charred debris. The station house lay in shambles. Slate from its roof lay in heaps where moments ago, she had stood. Bodies, like the red and orange roof tiles, littered the street. She stifled a gag. Panic fisted her chest. She wrapped her arms tighter around the small child whose heart beat wildly against hers.

She tried not to think about those unfortunate people who lost their lives. She tried not to breathe the stench she knew was charred death and tried not to stare at children, torn limbs, and bleeding bodies, for if she did she wouldn’t be able to move.

Her eyes lifted to a part of the track still intact. With any luck, a train could make it out. She forced her trembling legs toward the station amidst a hoard of others who had come to the same conclusion.

Firemen and rail workers helped injured men, women, and children, while those who could, helped move bodies, branches and metal off what was left of the tracks.

A woman, with outstretched arms and covered in black ash, rushed up to her. My baby my baby. Merci. Thank you. Tears streamed down her soot covered face and Yvette realized she must have been searching the tumbled burnt heaps of debris for her child. She handed the boy over and with a numb nod, watched them disappear into the crowd.

Eyeing a vacant train step to her far right, she rushed over. Simultaneously, she stepped up with a man who shoved her and she lost her footing. Someone from above grabbed her hand and helped her on board and when she looked back, the rude man stood on the platform shaking his head. To her relief, she found a seat in a crowded compartment. A gentleman acknowledged her with a tip of his hat and she returned his smile. It seemed common courtesy hadn’t been lost by everyone.

The locomotive started up with a jerk that rocked Yvette in her seat. She welcomed the clickety clank of the wheels, finding comfort in the thought that soon she would be with her family.

The compartment, combined with oppressive heat, perspiration, strong perfume and stale cigarettes felt overwhelming. Conversation was one of gratitude, fears, and speculation. Beyond the closed doors of her booth, a heated argument broke out between two men.

It is not our military's fault. Manpower shortages made mobilization sluggish.

Mais non! The other man disagreed. It is our naive mindset. A few forts along the border should not make us feel secure.

It would be a waste of military personnel, needed elsewhere, to guard our land. The Ardennes are impenetrable, the other man argued, the woods too thick for passage.

Well, my friend, no one told that to the Germans.

In her compartment, the conversation centered on news that on June third, one day after her departure from Paris, the German Air Force bombed the French capital, killing civilians. She was thankful she’d made the decision to leave when she had.

Yvette rubbed the throbbing pulse in her temple, easing a building headache.

She thought about René and wished desperately she was far away from all this turmoil and once again in his arms where she felt safe and protected.

Though her feet hurt, which was her fault she reasoned, having ignored the suggestion she lob off her high heels to prevent blisters, she was grateful to be alive. She tried to ignore the feel of her toes pushing through a hole in her stockings. Despite her hat, her face felt weather-beaten.

She dragged her gaze to the window. Scenes of destruction passed by, one after the other, houses bombed and burning, cars lying upside down, their roofs crushed, their contents spewed on the ground. Lines of people walked dazed-like until they saw the train; then, they came to life, running, leaping, trying to latch on to the passing locomotive as