The Stolen Years. Fiona Hood-Stewart

the voices. Calm, friendly voices. There was obvious relief in the officer’s tone. His heart beat fast as he debated what to do.

      After what seemed like ages, he heard footsteps, the distant sound of shutters being closed and doors being shut. They’re closing the house, he realized, trembling. They’re taking her away. He raised his hand, about to bang the door down, but knew it was useless. The echo of the front door closing and the far-off rumble of the car’s departure left him sinking to his knees on the cellar stairs, besieged by guilt and frustration, praying she would be all right.

      It was impossible to absorb that, in a few short minutes, their magical world had fallen apart, disappeared, whisked from beneath them like a tablecloth sending china flying in every direction. It seemed unbelievable that less than two hours earlier she had been lying comfortably in his arms, wondering whether or not to bake today. Now cold reality and doubt seeped through the damp stone steps. Perhaps he should have stood firm and taken her with him. They could have not answered the door, pretended no one was there, escaped together into the forest. He buried his face in his hands. Why had he allowed her to persuade him?

      Because instinctively he knew she’d be safer without him. Slowly he drew his head up and rose, leaning against the wall, pulling himself together little by little. It was better for her this way. It was the right thing. He could manage on his own, but taking her with him would have made her a criminal. He reached up and tried the door one last time, knowing full well that it was locked and there was little choice left but to follow Greta’s instructions.

      He felt his way numbly down the steps, lighting the small gas lamp at the bottom, his eyes seeking the safe tucked between two casks to his right. Should he take the money? Yet what choice did he have? He braced himself and, crossing the cellar, opened it as Greta had instructed him. Stuffing his pockets with French francs, German marks and British pounds, he then searched for a bag to carry some food with him. He found a sack of flour and emptied it in a corner. After giving it a good shake, he filled it with sausages, dried meat, a bottle of red wine and some cheese. At least that would keep him going for a while.

      Reluctantly he picked up the loden shooting jacket Greta had thrown at him and put out the lamp, afraid it might set fire to the place. Reaching for the secret lock on the panel in the wall, he waited, his pulse racing anxiously. What if it didn’t open? He would be trapped alive in this dark, dank dungeon of a place…But it sprang open promptly and he delved into the blinding darkness.

      Banging his head hard on the low ceiling, he saw stars and swore. After a while his eyes became accustomed to the dark. Thanks to Greta’s tender care, his thigh and hip were much better. Thank God, for the narrow passage was so cramped there were places he could barely crawl. But he ignored the musty, festering smell, the fleeting shadows and scuttle of vermin, determined to reach his goal.

      “Voilà!” The waitress’s singsong voice brought him back to the present with a bang, and he blinked for a moment at the croissant and large, chipped cup of milky-brown coffee on the counter. Then he smiled and thanked her before dipping the tip of the flaky crescent pastry carefully into the beverage, relishing the moment.

      “Are you from near here?” she asked coquettishly.

      “No. I’m from Limoges. Ever been there?” He grinned, sinking his teeth into the soft, buttery texture, willing it to last, not knowing when he’d see another. The change in his pocket had dwindled to a few coins, just enough to get him to Nancy, where he hoped to meet up with a British or American convoy and rejoin his regiment.

      “I’ve never been far away at all,” the girl answered wistfully. “Why aren’t you at the war?”

      “I was wounded at Chemin des Dames,” he lied. “Most of us were. I’m just getting back on my feet. I’m off to join my regiment.”

      “I heard the Germans are trying to get to Paris,” she said in a sober voice. “They have a terrible cannon that shoots from miles.” She shuddered, apparently glad to be many miles away.

      “Well, now that the Americans are here, that should help.”

      “Oh, oui! Les Américains. Aren’t they wonderful? I met one. He was so handsome.” She giggled and looked at him from under her lashes. “But he didn’t speak any French, so I couldn’t talk to him. Do you think the Allies will win the war?”

      He was saved from answering by the distant chuffing of the train entering the station. “Here.” He shoved some change in her direction. “It was nice meeting you. Au revoir.”

      “Au revoir, et bonne chance.” She sent him a wistful wave, wishing him good luck as he headed for the platform where the train, packed with soldiers heading north to the battlefields, wheezed to a shuddering stop. Not many passengers alighted, and before long the stationmaster announced tous les passagers à bord.

      It took some time to find a seat, but finally Gavin squeezed in between a fat woman in a threadbare green coat that reeked of garlic, and a sniveling toddler who proceeded to wipe his nose on Gavin’s trouser leg. He glanced through the foggy window as the train heaved out of the station, then leaned back, his thoughts picking up where he’d left off before the croissant. Soon the monotonous rattling of the carriage sent him into a doze and his memories drifted back, into the thick of the forest.

      Panting, Gavin emerged from the tunnel and sat against a tree trunk, exhausted, his hip nagging. He wiped away the grime and spiderwebs before squinting at the few thin slivers of sunlight piercing the heavy, dark fir trees. Realizing the sun was his only compass, he knew his best bet was to head south and try to reach Switzerland, which Greta had said was less than one hundred kilometers away.

      They’d had no reports of the war during their blissful interlude at Schloss Annenberg, as though nothing existed but their own idyllic world. But as he began to trudge through the forest, reality loomed, stark and menacing. He was an escaped prisoner of war on enemy territory, alone in the vast ominous silence of the forest, with only a pocketful of foreign currency and odd glimpses of setting sun for company.

      Night descended, damp and chilly, and he searched for a dry spot, glad of the heavy loden jacket. Alert despite his fatigue, he listened intently to the noises of the forest, the scuttling and scurrying, the distant howl of wolves and the eerie echoes, wishing for the sound of Greta humming in the kitchen, the crackle of logs in the huge fireplace, all that they’d shared over the past months.

      Finally exhaustion won and he slept, waking early to the twittering chatter of birds, scampering rabbits and deer grazing peacefully in a clearing close by.

      He walked on for several days, checking the sun every so often, careful to stick to the depths of the forest. Progress was difficult, and after a few days his food dwindled to a last nibble of hard sausage. Hunger twisted his gut until he thought he would die if he didn’t eat. It was then he remembered Miles’s knife, which he kept as the stark reminder of a mistake he would carry with him always. He unsheathed it, averting his gaze from the lethal blade, realizing he had little choice but to use it. Either he hunted for rabbit or deer, or he’d starve to death.

      After several hours of stalking warily, he cornered an un-suspecting rabbit. Soon the smell of roasting meat sizzling over a small campfire filled the air around him.

      As the days passed, the landscape changed; the trees became sparser, until open country and vineyards stretched before him. Trying to find his bearings, he was careful to stay concealed from the narrow road that wound among the orderly rows of vines standing like toy soldiers under a clear blue sky.

      Three days without food and water had left him so weak he could barely stand. Still he ventured out into the open, driven by hunger and the knowledge that to survive he must move forward despite the risk. Praying the border was nearby, he crouched low among the vines, staying clear of a distant village. Then, unable to take a step farther, he collapsed onto the dank earth and slept.

      When he woke, Gavin knew at once that he was not alone. He held his breath, lest the person realize he was awake. Then, to his amazement, he heard an exchange in French.

      “Frère Siméon, do you think we should take him back