Violins of Autumn by Amy McAuley Read Free Book Online

of playing a real role in this war.
    The horse-drawn cart, driven by Pierre, bumps down the lane and stops outside the gate. Pierre leaps down with ease, his brown hair fluttering back from his handsome face.
    “Pierre will take you as far as the nearest village,” Bishop says.
    Madame LaRoche runs at us, a half-empty basket of eggs swinging from her hand. “Girls, have a safe trip. Promise me you will take care.”
    After loading our bicycles into the cart, Bishop extends a hand to help Denise climb to her seat. She swats him away. In one graceful motion she steps up and into the cart, flaunting her obvious horse-riding talent.
    Pierre steps closer. Uncomfortably close. The slight breeze stirred up when he kneels brings his earthy, manly scent to me.
    I stare at his cupped hands so long he finally says, “Step up, Adele. I’ll help you.”
    Accepting his offer of help means I’ll have to touch him. My mouth goes dry. My heart pounds. In movies, handsome men make women weak in the knees, a silly made-up ailment that doesn’t affect girls in real life. I’m wrong about that. It does.
    I set one foot on his hands and push off with legs as wobbly as a gelatin salad. With nothing to hold on to, I’m thrown off-balance. Flailing, I grab a fistful of his woolen sweater. His strong arm protectively reaches around my back to catch me, and he lifts me to the runner board.
    “Thank you, Pierre,” I say.
    As he climbs into the cart he nods. “I wouldn’t let you fall.”
    This sentiment flusters me even more. There’s no hope for regaining the strength in my weak knees now. I drop into the empty space next to Denise.
    Madame LaRoche waves as we leave. “Our door will always be open to you.”
    At the end of the laneway, I shield my eyes against the bright sun to catch one last glimpse of Bishop, Madame LaRoche, and the others. I have no way of knowing if I’ll ever see any of them again.
    For a long while we ride in silence. The rhythmic clomping of horse hooves down the dusty road calms my nerves and whirling thoughts.
    “One of your men was captured last night, Adele?” Pierre asks.
    I jump, not expecting him to be the one to speak up.
    “Yes, he was arrested by four gendarmes,” I say.
    “The French police obey all German orders like obedient little children. They’re in charge of rounding up the Jews, you know. French Jews, their own countrymen. It’s unforgivable. Two years ago, the police rounded up more than thirteen thousand Jews in the
Vélodrome d’Hiver
, a cycling stadium near the Eiffel Tower. They were held there for nearly a week, in vile conditions. All of them were sent to camps. My sister and her husband were able to hide only ten people before the raids.”
    I cover my mouth with my hand.
    “They are committing unspeakably evil atrocities in Germany, and in Poland.”
    “What do you mean?” I ask, as fear of the answer grows in my chest.
    “I don’t want to tell you. It’s worse than you can imagine. My sister’s friend runs an underground newspaper in Paris. They have photographs of the true story and eyewitness accounts from those who have escaped. My sister, her husband, their friends, they do what they can to expose the lies. The Germans are terrified of the truth getting out. They know that if one person reads an underground paper or listens to Churchill or De Gaulle on the BBC, they will tell someone else what they saw or heard. The Germans can’t allow that to happen. They justify every action they take to prevent it. It is considered a brave act now just to print a newspaper.”
    “Pierre, when you say it’s worse than we can imagine—” Denise turns away, her body nestled into the corner of the bench. “They’re not hurting children, are they?”
    “They are.”
    She holds back a whimper with her fist, and stares at the grassy fields for the remainder of the ride.
    Adults are purposefully harming children rather than protecting them. That seems almost too horrific to be