Freeing Shadows

Rita tried to open her eyes but the simple effort produced a stabbing pain. Everything appeared blurred; still, she could make out the shape of her hands. She squinted for a clearer look and saw they were covered in an odd shade of red. The sudden realization that she wasn’t alone shook her violently out of her daze. As she struggled to turn, an excruciating pain shot from her lower back and she could strain only her neck to look to her side. She saw nothing—he was not here.

The car was eerily quiet except for the smoke that hissed threateningly from the rear. Her eyes searched frantically for any sign of Kurt. He was sitting right here with me when it happened. Where has he gone? She couldn’t bring herself to look outside because she knew he must be out there if not trapped in here with her. She would brave the pain. The injuries can’t be that bad. She tried to reassure herself as she struggled with her seatbelt until the clasp broke free. Its dampness urged her not to think about blood.

In the dark, her hands trembled as they clutched and pulled at the handle to open the door. It stayed jammed shut. She attempted to move her legs and sighed with relief when she realized they were not broken. Clenching her teeth, she moved to the passenger’s seat where Kurt had been sitting moments ago and kicked the door free. She felt little strength left and sat still to catch her breath. Could this be a dream?

She looked down at her crimson-red hands then smelled the leak of gas and knew this was no dream and that she must move faster. She crawled out of the car on her hands and saw him as soon as she reached the ground. He was not moving but appeared to be breathing. She never knew she could withstand so much pain. The sight of Kurt lying bloodied on the ground was more than she had ever suffered, even now. She ran towards him and knelt beside him. He gasped for air and tried to speak and she bent forward, placing her ear beside his moving lips.

“Marie.”

Rita felt her heart sink.

Wartime—1944, Rouen

Kurt

Kurt was running, although he felt like he was flying, not in a free sort of way, but in flight from something—darkness, death, the ultimate ending. He was gasping for air, his heartbeat vigorous and alarmingly fast. But he couldn’t order his legs to stop. They were moving uncontrollably, and he believed he could make it—just a few more miles. He could already hear the bullet rounds and people screaming.

That sounded like François. They had played cards back at camp just last night and laughed hysterically about things he couldn’t call to mind now. He must focus—where is he running to? Rita. He was running back to her; if he could survive this war, he would fly home to her.

A rifle shot—it wasn’t far from where he ran. Who are they aiming for? Are they chasing him? When did he get separated from his group? He had thought he was between François and a group of five maquisards. Their disorganized group consisted mostly of young Frenchmen, inexperienced and clueless with respect to warfare strategies, whose sole determination derived from their desire to avenge their deceased families so brutally killed by the Germans. La Résistance, as they were known, was meant to be a crucial addition to their team in France, but Kurt had felt skeptical from the beginning. He had little faith to count on them to rescue him from this German-occupied territory.

When the war broke out in Britain, Kurt had been one of the first in his class to enlist. He was unattached to anyone at the time and had preferred it that way, having focused most of his time and energy in college to advance in his engineering studies—a path that his father had methodically planned out for him. But when war was declared on his country, it lit in him an unfamiliar, almost exotic desire he never suspected existed. Since childhood, he was not the kind to volunteer for any remotely risky tasks. In retrospect, it could be that his parents so fiercely shielded him from the enticing thrills of danger—a well-intentioned protection—that would later charm him into making drastically different decisions for himself. But no one, not even his parents, could have shielded him from war. And now, he was free to make decisions of his own. Why not be part of something greater than himself, bigger than his own ambitions that were apparently not his own to begin with?

And so it began. He went through grueling training with boys hardly older than seventeen; others were closer to his age. He unexpectedly came to love this newfound companionship, a kind of brotherhood seldom found elsewhere, even among his closest classmates. He had a sister back home, but he couldn’t equate her with someone close to him. So there he found himself, among friends, close confidantes, and brothers.

When he was selected to focus on operating radios, a sense of relief came over him. He knew he wasn’t the brave, hardened soldier he strived to be; but as that burden lifted from him, he was simultaneously overcome by guilt. Why shouldn’t he want to be amidst the brothers he had come to respect and love and fight beside valiantly for his country? And then, as if life had decided to give him a second chance to make things right, after a few weeks into his training, he received from Milton Hall a letter with vague content, lacking all the important details soldiers should know before committing to a specific operation. Without much thought, he left for Milton Hall. After a few days of interrogation, mostly regarding his skills as the top radio operator of his regiment and his fluency in French, which he had studied since grammar school, he was approved and transferred into the British Special Operations Executive (SOE).

There, he was taught to shed his previous notions on being a dignified soldier of war, adhering to the common rules that would dictate his integrity, even when facing the enemy—and take on a wholly new and foreign perspective as an agent for a clandestine operation named Operation Jedburgh, excelling in sabotage schemes such as cutting radio lines and destroying railroads and bombing bridges to pave way for the Allies’ troops into Normandy.

When the Americans arrived at Milton Hall, they were then separated into groups of mostly three, consisting of one commander, an executive officer, and a radio operator. He soon found himself in Group Luke, the name of the commander who would lead their team. They were to land before the Allied invasion, parachuting into Normandy and making their way up through the Rouen forest, where they would meet up with groups of maquisards from the surrounding villages and begin training for the eventual assault on Cherbourg.

When they first dropped into Normandy, it took them about a week to get things organized. Other than training the overzealous and inexperienced maquis, they were given the task of filtering out the undercover Vichy government spies who would foil their entire mission. It was a precisely detailed operation, and Kurt was beginning to have his first taste of what the other agents called “guerilla warfare”. He felt himself drawn to the dangers of such an exclusive and clandestine operation. Perhaps he would have a chance to prove himself yet. Luke led the mission, or at the very least, tried to. It was obvious to almost everyone but Luke that he wasn’t quite equipped for the role. He was too inexperienced and young.

But who was he to judge? Kurt smiled when he thought of himself in comparison with Luke. He was twenty-one and had barely held a rifle. He left home because, well, everyone did, and who didn’t want to be in a victorious war against a failing enemy? Today, though, he didn’t feel as confident as he once did, and he thought this may well be his last day on Earth.

A twig snapped. Kurt thought he heard Germans in the distance, and he stopped in his tracks to listen intently for any kind of movement. This had been taught in training. What were they supposed to do when they came across a troop of German soldiers while separated from the group—alone with no ammunition? He closed his eyes, but all that appeared were flashes of Rita and him laughing under the stars as they made a promise to each other. What was that promise? Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a worn-out picture and tried to steady his hand to get a clearer glimpse of her.

They had met right before he left for Milton Hall. She was an unexpected attachment he had been trying to avoid throughout his college years. But as fate would have it, she entered his life with such intensity that he couldn’t help but reciprocate her affections. Long before he knew it, this mutual fondness had transformed into a loving commitment he had no willpower over. A smiling, happy Rita—he squinted at the sight of her, not knowing whether it was from the sweat beads forming on his forehead or his tears. He looked at the picture a second time, not knowing where he would be in the next minute. For a short, fleeting moment, he tried to muffle out the sounds of rifles and the rushed, chaotic movements of his friends and enemies surrounding him. He took in the whole image—Rita with her straight, lustrous brown hair, her beautiful hazel eyes saddened by his leaving her so soon after their engagement. What had she said when they exchanged good-byes at the train station? He cursed himself when he couldn’t remember anything, not even her voice.

Another rifle shot.

His legs started to move again. He wasn’t going to stop this time. The grass was soft and wet with morning dew under his worn-out boots. He imagined for a brief instant that he was running away from his brother, who loved to chase him in the yard after the first snowfall of the year. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the sun shone down on him, burning his back and blinding him like an unwanted spotlight. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could run, and he wondered how many of them were scattered throughout the city, fleeing from the Germans with no clear destination. He suddenly realized he was running in a forest with tall pine trees surrounding him, trees that reminded him of Christmas back home. He could almost smell the baked turkey and hear the clinking of wine glass and the laughter of his family.

This is not the end. Please, let this not be the end.

It happened with no warning. He heard the sharp sound of a bullet shot into the air, and he could determine to the second when he felt it pierce his left knee. He leapt high, almost gracefully, like a choreographed dancer, before he crashed unceremoniously to the ground.

It felt like a lifetime before he was able to open his eyes, but all he can see was darkness. Is this the end?

He heard bodies shifting, and people whispering above him. He tried to squint, hoping to recover his vision. He wasn’t going to die in German hands. His hands were trembling but he managed to bring one into his left pocket in the frantic search for a grenade. He was going to end this, right here, right now.

“Papa, Papa! Il bouge!”

It was a woman’s voice, clear as the bells that hung on his family’s Christmas tree by the fireplace. The voice sounded sweet enough to relieve him from the pain shooting through his left leg. His fingers loosened the grenade in his hand. He let out a sigh of relief and thanked God that he recognized the French words she whispered like a lullaby before he did anything foolish. He tried to move his head towards her voice, but he was fading out again, and he wondered how complete darkness could get darker.

“Rita,” he heard himself mutter before he let the darkness swallow him whole.

Present—1953, Paris

Catherine

It was a small, cramped room that smelled of old library books—the kind that no one cared enough to even flip through. She could barely see the walls in the enclosed space as it was filled with boxes piled atop one another. The sense of entrapment felt familiar.

“Mlle Aumont?” A middle-aged man with a hastily groomed beard and beady eyes stared from behind thick-framed glasses and greeted her with an apologetic smile. She could tell that he knew who she was; his recognition was apparent, although he tried to hide it. This was an odd place for her to be—a renowned, world-class ballerina sitting in a cramped interrogation room.

“Bonjour.” Catherine nodded nonchalantly, and reached into her bag in search of her much needed cigarettes. She had control of the situation, or at least that was what she tried to convince herself from the moment she stepped into the foul-smelling room.

There was very little information divulged to her when she received the phone call requesting her to pay the detective a mandatory visit. Slowly, her eyes scanned the board that hung on the wall. Several pictures were pinned up haphazardly, and below each of them was a brief paragraph describing who the subjects were and what atrocities they had committed. The handwriting was small and almost incomprehensible, but she could make out the words as she skimmed through them. Years of torture summed up in a few sentences. She winced at the thought of her darkest hours—the ones she spent underground—out of sight and out of harm’s way.

“Mlle Aumont, I’m Pierre Duprès.” The detective extended his hand as he stared at her in admiration. “I’ve asked you here to inquire about . . . uh . . . how shall I put this . . .”

The detective lowered his gaze, exposing his embarrassment about the meeting.

“Please, continue.” Catherine looked directly at the man designated to intimidate her. She felt empowered by his hesitation to interrogate her.

“Mlle Aumont, we have been informed by someone that you are, or have been, a Nazi sympathizer.”

The uncertainty lingered in his eyes, and he let the pause go on for too long. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and cleared his throat. He needed to start anew to reassert himself before the great Catherine Aumont.

“To be frank, we are still searching for a few high-ranking officers that were stationed in Rouen where you were . . . lived . . . what I mean is—if you have any information pertaining to the . . . ” His voice trailed off and Catherine felt sorry for him.

“Monsieur Duprès, I do not have any information on any ex-Nazi officers.” Her voice was graciously firm with a hint of refined arrogance. She was not going to stay here another minute. Calmly, she slid her hands into her fine leather gloves and stood up to face the detective. Before opening the door, she tilted her head slightly towards him, her eyes cold and unforgiving, as if addressing a lowly servant who had no place in her parlor.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me, Monsieur Duprès, who it was that gave you this information?”

Present—1953, Paris

Catherine

She sat on her bed, waiting for her him to come home—an exhausting game that Luke had forced her into for the past few months. A waiting game. It had surfaced unexpectedly—this drunken, unpleasant side of Luke that she wasn’t familiar with until now. A loud noise in the hallway announced his return.

Luke staggered forward, and when his legs felt the hardness of the bedframe, he let himself collapse onto the bed. Even in his drunken state, he knew his side of the bed. He was dressed in full tuxedo, with his bowtie still in perfect place, although his hair looked disheveled. She subconsciously ran her fingers through its thick curls, an affectionate gesture she had grown accustomed to despite the anger she felt for his behavior.

“Marie.”

It used to hurt her when he would say the name in his sleep, or in a drunken state, or when he thought she wasn’t there—as though saying it would bring Marie back to life. Catherine felt almost nothing because she was stronger now—and indifferent. Still, she winced whenever she heard her sister’s name. But today, perhaps due to the awkward meeting with Detective Duprès, overwhelming memories rushed back. Her eyes filled with tears, and she felt surprised by how bitter they tasted as they rolled down her cheeks into the corners of her pursed lips.

She was always the brave one in the family. Marie had her strengths, too, but they shone through a different light. For nine years now, Catherine tried not to think about her, but her shadow seemed to be lurking everywhere—in Caroline’s journal, in her childhood memories, in her own reflection. Neither she nor Marie would ever admit it, but they did shared similarities. And try as she might, Catherine couldn’t pinpoint what they were. Marie was shorter, with straight, flaxen hair and her bright hazel reflected her sweet, loving disposition. Taking more after her mother, Catherine inherited her blond curls, distinctive ocean-blue eyes, and a character “as stubborn as a yew,” according to her father.

It was difficult not to love Marie, her younger, gentle-spirited sister who, to her, was almost flawless save for her unintelligibly messy handwriting. There was little they disagreed on, and one of the few things they fought about was whether to bring a wounded soldier into their cave. She remembered that day, and replayed it in her head as a reminder of her beloved sister.

It was 1944.

Wartime—1943-1944, Rouen

Catherine

She usually sat at the table with Marie, and they would read all day. It didn’t matter what they read, as long as they could keep their minds focused elsewhere. Not here—not in the middle of this ongoing war. Maman kept herself constantly busy, preparing dinner—and dinner meant any variation of potato recipe her genius Maman could conjure up. A “rich” meal meant potatoes and beans with a small portion of meat they had saved up since last week when Catherine spotted a rabbit near the door of the cave. One day, Catherine had to venture outside to capture it so that they might eat something else for dinner. Maman came close reprimanding her for going without her permission. Catherine could tell by her eyes as they changed from a soft kindness to a fiery rage that shone whenever she got furious at Catherine’s shenanigans. But that day Maman didn’t say a word. Catherine knew that even Maman longed for an uplifting change in their mundane meals, and any kind of meat would mean a feast.

She could still taste the stale bread that was their most common meal and recalled how her stomach churned painfully whenever that was the first food she tasted after two days. She didn’t miss that part, but she ached for her family and wondered if she would mind being back in the cave again, just to be together with them for one more day.

Seeing the cave for the first time had been one of the most depressing days in her life. She remembered being led down by Papa, her hand clenching his so tightly that day. She didn’t want to let go until he hugged her tightly and reassured her with kisses on her forehead. The cave was dark, cool, and empty, and she couldn’t imagine this being their home for the next few weeks or perhaps longer. Maman’s eyes were sullen but not cast down; she looked determined to survive these evil times.

“Come, girls,” Maman’s cheerful tone tried to brighten the darkness that enclosed them.

She led Marie and Catherine by the hand, and they knelt together for berakhot, a prayer to ask God for blessing. To this day, Catherine could not decipher whether it was to thank God for the cave or to ask him to somehow bless the dark hole that was going to be their refuge, their new home.

Papa didn’t join them as he was not a believer of spoken prayers. He preferred to keep to himself and mouth silent prayers to God.

“Can we pray for Philippe too?”

Marie’s request surprised them all. It was the first time someone had spoken his name since he died the year before. The family huddled in a hastily formed circle around the last of their luggage that had been moved from their home aboveground.

Maman’s eyes shone with overwhelming love and sadness, and she was thankful still because her two daughters were spared from the wrath God had thrown at her family. She nodded softly to Marie and squeezed her hand gently. It was a gesture that best showed her affections when she couldn’t find words.

“Certainly, we’ll say a prayer for Philippe.”

As the family prayed in the cave that would be their home, they couldn’t know that it would be another sixty-seven days before another person arrived and shared in their darkness.

Catherine recalled the events of that day just like it was yesterday.

There was a loud thump above them, and they froze in the midst of their actions. Papa, who was reading old newspapers, all from before the war to refresh his memories of better times, titled his head sharply upward towards the source of the noise. He clumsily steadied his glasses and waited for the next movement. Or gunshot.

Maman had been sewing an old, worn-out skirt. The needle fell out of her hand, and Catherine was certain that she heard it drop to the ground. Marie was drawing, practicing her knowledge of human anatomy from memory as she had forgotten to bring her biology books when they had moved into the cave.

Naïve and inexperienced with war, they thought they would have a second chance to bring their cherished photo albums, clothes, or favorite books from their home, but returning to their house was not an option once the Germans occupied the town. Before then, they had heard stories told as if they were tales from a distant land. No one believed the war would ever affect them. They heard when the German soldiers had slaughtered a family including five children, the youngest not yet five years old. Each family member sobbed and begged while they waited for their own execution.

One day, when Papa returned from a short walk in the forest looking for firewood, he was astonished to see so many roofs lit up like torches. Shaken at the horrific sight of their beloved town, he had entered the cave with little to say other than “it is gone. . . just gone.” Since that day, Marie and Catherine stopped asking when they might return home to rescue Mignon, the family dog. They just prayed that she got away. After all, Germans couldn’t tell which dogs were Jewish.

Marie stopped studying the meticulously complex details of the heart organ as soon as she heard the daunting thump. She glanced silently at Catherine and stayed motionless, as if any movement would betray their presence. Marie had indisputably the most beautiful hazel-green eyes Catherine had ever seen, but on that day they were filled with dread and silent screams.

Catherine continued peeling potatoes for dinner after hearing the strange sound. Maman cast an angry glance her way and glared at the potatoes as if the very sound of peeling would give them away. Catherine rolled her eyes. What harm could her peeling potatoes do?

With a quiet, swift movement, Marie surprised them all by standing up abruptly and scurrying towards the “door” of the cave. It was not much of a door, rather more of a small opening hidden by branches and leaves that Papa re-arranged every morning and night. Maman watched in horror as Marie slowly climbed up the wooden ladder leading towards the opening. Catherine turned to Papa, who also looked dismayed.

She found herself captivated by Marie’s sudden bravery, and her eyes followed carefully until Marie disappeared from sight. A sob came from Maman, and as soon as she heard it herself, she stifled it but couldn’t stop her tears as she stood shaking uncontrollably. Papa hurried towards the ladder and hesitated for a few seconds before starting to climb.

Catherine was now in the cave alone with her mother. Her heart pounded so fast hard against her chest she thought she might vomit. Why aren’t they coming back?

Marie’s voice punctured the overwhelming silence and Catherine’s heart almost leapt out of her chest. She gasped for air, and started to choke.

“Catherine! Maman! It’s a wounded soldier!”

Maman steadied herself against the table. She looked pale and fragile and still beautiful in her mid-forties.

Catherine remembered that moment. Maman had looked like a frozen rose about to crumble in the harshest of winters.

“He’s not German,” Papa whispered as he popped his head back in. He glanced reassuringly at Maman.

Mama sighed in relief, her eyes still angry. She glared accusingly at her husband. He should have announced this news sooner.

“For goodness sakes, you two, get back down here!” Maman’s voice trembled. “Don’t make me go up there.” She sounded slightly steadier now, but Catherine instinctively knew that Maman was bluffing. She hadn’t moved an inch from where she stood.

“Papa! Papa! Il bouge!” Marie was almost shrieking. Catherine couldn’t withstand the suspense. She ran towards the ladder, ignoring Maman’s furious whispers ordering her to come back.

She wasn’t prepared for the blinding sunlight and had to shield her eyes with both hands, almost forgot she was on the ladder. She steadied herself and heard her mother sigh with relief. They usually emerged during late afternoons or evenings and rarely in broad daylight. Catherine climbed out of the cave clumsily and while she knew that the area was clear, she still crouched, and her eyes darted back and forth to check for suspicious movements.

Then she saw him. A wounded young man dressed like a maquisard. His eyes were closed and he looked so peaceful and still as he lay on the ground. The grass below his left knee was covered in dark crimson red. She couldn’t take her eyes off the blood that flowed out of his knee.

“We have to move him.” Marie took off her coat to cover him and started to inspect his breathing, acting like the nurse she was meant to become if not for the brutal interruptions of war.

Papa could only stare back blankly at Marie. He wasn’t ready to take another person into the cave, let alone an injured one. He was a compassionate man, but in a time of war, desperation, and hunger, he couldn’t be sure he was able to care for someone outside his family. He thought about how many potatoes might be left in the cave, and how many more times he could venture outside to hunt for meat.

His heart told him that he should while he knew fully well that he couldn’t.

Catherine watched the blood drain from his face and she thought he would faint. She took his hand in hers and felt him jump at her touch. He quickly wiped away the tears that he thought were falling down his cheeks but soon realized that his eyes were dry. He looked up and saw the lingering morning dew on the branches of the apple tree by their cave. The sun was strong and it hurt his eyes to look directly at it. How many more times would he be able to see the daylight before being dragged from their cave by German soldiers?

Death, it seemed, was inevitable—and he felt it more closely as he watched the young man struggling to breathe, his life slipping away as quietly as he had imagined his own death.

“Marie, he’s not going to live down there.” Catherine thought about Philippe, and how he struggled and fought to stay alive on that fateful day.

Why hadn’t anyone helped Philippe? And why should they help this man now? Her heart stung a little, but she kept her eyes stern and steady. She had to protect her family who was still alive and well.

Marie said nothing and didn’t look at Catherine. Instead, she tore the seams of her skirt and vigorously tied the soldier’s badly injured knee. Catherine turned her face away. She knew that Marie was training to be a nurse one day but she didn’t know how her shy, inexperienced sister was brave enough to withstand such gruesome war injuries.

“He reminds me of Philippe,” Marie muttered, not expecting anyone to hear her, but they all did—every word.

Papa took a few cautious steps forward and looked for himself, his eyebrows raised, still suspicious of whether this young man was spy for the despicable Germans. His serious face softened after a closer look. The man did resemble Philippe with his dark brown hair and long nose—a few more years and Philippe would’ve been about the same age and height.

Catherine didn’t want to look at the stranger laying on the ground, as if the resemblance alone would prompt them to rescue him. But then he coughed, causing him to wince and let out a soft groan. Hearing him, she realized that he wasn’t Philippe, but he was still full of life.

“Papa, Catherine, help me!” Marie grunted as she lifted the man’s arms. Her breath was visible in the air, her nose red with the biting cold, but her eyes were incandescent and burned with hope. Was this her way of bringing Philippe back to them?

Catherine and Papa, as if under a spell, heeded Marie’s orders and began to lift the man’s legs. It was then that Catherine felt the full weight of the war, the heartbreaking atrocities following endlessly violent battles, and the goodness that struggles to push through every horror and bring a glimpse of hope into every darkened cave.