Page 67 of Across Eternity

33

HENRI

On the morning of May 20th, I’m the only man smiling as I line up for morning rations. It’s the day Sarah, Marie and Cecelia are due in the Cotswolds, after several weeks in Cambridge with friends of mine. And though we’ve not received any mail here yet, when Sarah arrives at the house we’ve let, my hope is that she’ll find a stack of letters waiting from me. I’ve written each day since I left.

“What’s with the smile?” asks my commanding officer. “You’re aware we’re at war, Durand?”

It would be hard to miss. The sound of artillery fire is ever present, and growing louder by the minute. The Germans will take Norway any day now. “My fiancée arrives safely at the house we let in England today,” I tell him. “I’m just relieved.”

“Well, soon you’ll be able to wave to her from the other shore.”

I glance at him. “What shore?”

“Haven’t you heard? Germans have our boys trapped on the Normandy coast. We’re sailing out tomorrow to reinforce them.”

I think of Sarah’s warning. I feel a prickle of unease at the base of my spine. “Where in Normandy?”

He shrugs. “Place called Dunkirk,” he replies. “We leave at first light.”

Dunkirk. The one place she begged me not to go.

* * *

It takes a little over a week for us to reach the channel. The trip is relatively peaceful, and I spend it picturing my girls. I imagine Cece taking her first steps in the long grass, Sarah hovering, waiting for her to fall. I see them unaffected by rationing, though it’s unlikely, and not too worried about me, though I suppose that’s unlikely too. I picture coming home to them most of all. How long will it be? Will Cece be walking then? Will she remember me? It doesn’t matter, I remind myself, as long as they’re safe.

When we reach the channel, I stand portside, looking north. With a looking glass, I might see England’s shores. My family is so close I can almost feel them, and it’s harder than being far away.

Within an hour of entering the channel, we begin to hear the sounds of war, sharp after a week away from it. Soon, there are German bombers swooping low in the distance, and plumes of smoke over the water, indicating that they’ve hit their target.

I think of everyone trapped below decks on that boat in the distance, underwater and panicking, no exit in sight. Soon, their target will be us. Please God, I beg, let me return to my family.

The men crowd the top deck as the sound of bombing grows louder, and the rowboats are lowered, though we are far from shore and the water is rough. For some reason, I think of the story my mother told us as children, about a rickety old boat that survived an impossible storm. Of all the fantastic parts of that story—and there were many—the boat was always the bit I found most implausible.

Over the loudspeaker, we are told to man the boats. There aren’t enough for all of us, however, which means the men push forward toward the ladder in a desperate mob, throwing elbows.

Only four boats are filled when a bomber swings low. I hear its whine long before it reaches us and I can see the future unfold as surely as Sarah once did. I watch as the bomber’s hatch opens and two missiles are dropped in quick succession. Everyone watches—horrified, spellbound, praying for some act of God to save us. The water will be ice cold, and we are too far from shore to swim.

Sarah warned us about the war. She warned me how Germany would break into France, and she was right. She warned me about Dunkirk, and she was right once more. She seemed convinced I would die. I pray that just this once, she was wrong.

I dive off the boat because there’s no other option. I do it praying I’ll survive. Praying Sarah will forgive me if I don’t.

34

SARAH

It’s August, a rare moment of quiet in this house. Cecelia has cried all day, victim of one of those mysterious crying jags parents always blame on teething until the real culprit presents itself. Lucien and Charlotte helped me pick fruit all morning and are now drawing at the kitchen table, a level of contentment that won’t last long. They are sweet children—but they are still children, constantly in motion.

I peek out the window. This is how I spend my days now: looking after children, watching the road. And waiting. Waiting for the Germans to arrive and discover Lucien and Charlotte hidden here, waiting for them to take the last of our meager resources or ask for Cece’s papers. And the thing I most dread, because it’s the one I can’t defend myself against—waiting for a courier to tell me Henri is dead.

There’s been no word, though I wrote to tell him we weren’t able to leave. I try to reassure myself that he hasn’t received my letters and is healthy and whole, still writing to us in England. But as the days drag on it’s harder to believe it.

They’d have told me if he was dead, wouldn’t they? I ask myself this question ten times a day. Yes, I always reply. And at least he wasn’t at Dunkirk.

The tragedy at Dunkirk was in all the papers. The French and British forces were pushed to the shore and forced to evacuate while German bombers circled, taking out one ship after another. I’d read about it in my own time, of course, but it’s different now that I can picture the men. Luc Barbier and his friend Marc were there, and no one has heard from them. They were just boys. Too young to die. They’d barely even lived yet.

I watch the road all day long, in a constant state of readiness, but my mind often drifts the way it does right now, and I picture Henri coming home. In the distance, I’ll see a tall man with dark hair. It could be almost anyone, but something inside me will say it’s him. I can feel it, the way my breath will still, the way I’ll try so hard not to let myself hope while my heart beats harder and faster. I picture him cutting through the field and then that flash of his smile, the one he saves only for me.

I picture it so hard that for a moment it seems possible I can will him here. But the road remains empty, and my stomach drops, back to that pit of dread and fear that almost seems permanent at this point.