Chapter Text
Illustration by jeffsharz
She didn’t have far to walk.
The truck sat at the edge of the road, just two hundred meters from the farm—far enough to stay out of the courtyard’s view, close enough to witness every flicker of movement.
The driver leaned against the door, shoulders hunched, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He shifted his weight from one heel to the other, and at his feet lay a small pile of spent butts—six, maybe seven. How long had he been standing there, waiting?
She stepped toward him. The moment he saw her, he stomped the cigarette under his shoe with a little too much force, sending a curl of smoke into the cool morning air. He waved it away, straightened, and gave her a tentative smile—quick, brittle, already fading.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice low and careful, as she came to a stop in front of him, her bag clasped in both hands.
She held his gaze without flinching.
“Good morning, Pierre.”
His blue eyes widened so quickly they almost seemed to jump:
“How… how do you know my name?”
“They told me about you. And… I guessed.”
He had Gaston’s jawline, Marcel’s blue eyes, and his mother’s copper-red curls tumbling over his forehead.
“There’s a strong family resemblance,” she added, offering a small, disarming smile.
He cleared his throat: “Do they… know I’m here?”
She shook her head.
“I didn’t tell them about you.”
Relief slid through him. His shoulders sagged slightly, as if he’d been holding them aloft against an invisible weight. She let him have a moment, standing quietly.
“How… how are they?” he asked, voice tight.
“Fine,” she said steadily. “Very fine. And you have a little sister now—a beautiful baby girl. Perfectly healthy.”
“And my mother?”
“In excellent shape. She’s strong. Truly strong.”
“That’s… that’s good… that’s good…”
His gaze fell to the ground. He nudged the tiny pile of cigarette butts with his shoe, an almost ritualistic gesture, as if testing whether they would again catch fire. The silence threatened to stretch, so Soizic broke it.
“They miss you, you know.”
He looked straight at her.
“They told you that?”
She shook her head, adding a small, apologetic shrug.
“I can read between the lines…”
He stared past her, at the sky, at the fields, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides.
“I can’t go back,” he said, voice low, almost breaking. “You know that.”
She said nothing.
“As long as he’s there… I can’t.”
“And if he weren’t there?”
He drew a slow, ragged breath, shoulders stiffening as he shook his head.
“Still… no.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightened. “I put my revolver to his head.”
He brought his fingers together, stiff and pointed, like a child pretending to wield a gun. Stepping closer, he pressed them lightly—but rigidly—against her forehead. Soizic had to summon every ounce of self-control not to flinch.
“I put the revolver to his head,” he said again, voice trembling, “and I said I was going to kill him—the man who had just saved my brothers.”
Each word trembled through him; his breathing grew ragged, his jaw quivering with barely contained fury and shame.
“Why?” she repeated softly.
He stepped back, lowered his arm. His chin quivered, and he waited until he had it under control before continuing.
“There had been a massacre. Farmers. With small children. We found them all dead—shot in the head. The children… The oldest was Gaston’s age. Not even…”
He paused, as if giving her time to ask questions. She didn’t.
“So when I saw him in the village, among the prisoners the Canadians had taken… and my mother comforting him…”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know what happened. I saw red. I was furious. I’d never felt rage like that before. I accused him—right there, in front of everyone.”
He swallowed again.
“At first, the Canadians didn’t know what to believe. They were convinced they’d already caught the real culprits. So they left us the prisoners to go speak to their superiors. And the moment they turned their backs—”
Soizic realized she was barely breathing.
“He didn’t even defend himself. He just looked at me. Straight in the eyes.”
He shook his head, as if trying to shake the memory loose.
“My mother was crying. She was begging me, screaming that it wasn’t possible, that Otto was with her. And of course, everyone understood she loved him. And the more she cried, the more they hated her…”
He stopped, teeth clenched.
“And the more I wanted to kill him.”
Pierre took a deep breath.
“If Gaston hadn’t stepped in… if the Canadians hadn’t returned… you wouldn’t be here right now.”
He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, leaving streaks across his cheeks. When he looked at her, his eyes were red-rimmed and raw. Soizic felt a tight knot rise in her throat.
“I tried… I tried to kill him,” he admitted hoarsely. “In front of my mother. How… how could I ever go back after that?”
Soizic didn’t answer. It wasn’t a question she could answer.
Pierre squatted down with his back against the truck. For a moment, she thought he was finally going to break. But he was his mother’s son. He would keep going, pain or no pain.
She let a little time pass, then held out her water bottle. He took a few sips, stood, wiped his face, adjusted his cap, and handed the bottle back.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You didn’t deserve any of this.”
Soizic let out a small laugh.
“Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s divine punishment—for all my sins. And if that’s the case… I’ve come out of it rather lightly, all things considered.”
He snorted, and his face relaxed. She asked,
“What are you going to do now? Keep staying close, helping them without their knowing?”
He stared at her, eyes wide.
“How do you know that?”
“I guessed. It wasn’t a coincidence that you found me on that road, was it?”
He shook his head.
“How did you know?”
“You said the road led nowhere. If that were true, why were you on it?”
He let out a low, appreciative whistle. “You really are clever…”
“I know,” she said. “It’s a gift not everyone gets.”
He laughed again, then grew serious.
“Maybe it’s time I moved away. Let them live their lives. Maybe I should start over—somewhere else.”
She nodded. She didn’t want to encourage him. Or discourage him. But it was probably the right choice.
“In the meantime,” he said, his voice slightly clearer, his head held slightly higher, “I could give you a ride. Where do you live?”
She looked at him, and this time she didn’t hide her smile.
“At the moment? Rouen. It’s quite a distance from here.”
He smiled and held out his hand.
“Get in.”
Once seated, she grabbed the truck’s handle and said,
“You’re not going to drive like a madman again, are you? I think I’ve suffered enough for one night.”
He laughed slightly, then asked:
“What’s her name? My sister?”
"They named her Suzanne." She replied
"Suzanne," he repeated, slowly, as if to taste the name in his mouth.
"Yes. Your stepfather… Otto… he wanted a name that worked in both languages. And your brothers picked the nickname."
"Let me guess," Pierre said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Suzette?"
"You know them well."
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Suzette," he whispered. "Like the crêpe…"
"Exactly."
He started the engine and turned to her:
“I’ll drive slowly. This way you can get some sleep.”
“I don’t want to” she protested, and he shot her an amused look, his beautiful blue eyes laughing for the very first time.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell. And anyway, one evening with my brothers? You more than earned it”
As sleep finally pulled her under, her last thought wasn’t of the baby, or the apple-sauce disaster, or the stoic German with the happy, exhausted eyes. It was of a man who thought he was lost, but who now knew, at the very least, his sister’s name.
Suzette.
It was a start.
THE END