Violins of Autumn by Amy McAuley Read Free Book Online Page A

true. What if I’m incapable of handling the atrocities I might witness here?
    When the town comes into view on the horizon, Pierre brings the cart to a stop.
    He points to a nearby road dividing the fields. “That road east is the one you want.”
    Denise and I hop down after Pierre. We meet him around back of the cart as he retrieves our bicycles.
    Giving us an upward glace as he fastens Denise’s suitcase more securely to her bike, he says, “You know where you’re going?”
    Denise shows him what appears to be a small button pinned to the waist of her trousers. “We have compasses. And a map.”
    “Good,” he says, returning to the driver’s seat.
    “I’ll be seeing you soon,” I call up to him as he pulls the cart around.
    The bewilderment on his face doesn’t shock me. He’s already forgotten our plan to spy on the factory.
    “Yes, okay. Good-bye,” he says. “And good luck to you.”
    With a brisk nod and a wave, he rides off for home.
    “Well, this is it,” Denise says.
    “I guess so.”
    We push our bikes along, down a long, winding hill and up the other side. The road curves, and as we’re about to hop on our bicycles, I hear approaching vehicles.
    I hurriedly grab our map, cleverly printed on a square of silk, and tie it around my neck like a pretty scarf. Denise’s suitcase radio will fool the eye, but not an inspection.
    A convoy of trucks comes toward us from the other side of the bend.
    “Keep going,” Denise says. “Act normally. Everything will be fine.”
    She can’t quite fool me into believing she isn’t as frightened as I am.
    We walk on, nonchalantly pushing our bicycles. I go over my cover story in my head. I prepare myself for the inevitable handing over of my papers.
    The first truck rumbles past. Then another. All the trucks continue down the road. A handful of German soldiers march byon foot. Still no one asks for papers or questions what we’re doing. I raise my face. A boy at the tail end of the group catches me looking and he smiles. He can’t be a day over eighteen.
    In passing, he speaks, tossing out a remark the same way a school chum would. I don’t react and I don’t look back. Neither does Denise.
    “I wonder what he said,” she whispers.
    I put one leg over my bicycle and settle onto the seat. Denise does the same.
    My shaking hands grip the handlebars. “Roughly translated, he said, ‘Hiya, babes.’”
    Our journey into an unfamiliar land, into all its wonders and dangers, has begun.

SIX
     
    I push the bicycle pedals through another cycle of pain. Our trip has become all about mindlessly pedaling our feet in circles to make round gears turn and wheels go round.
    Beyond the wooded valley and the patches of brilliant yellow flowers and deep-green grassy wheat, the clouds skim the hills on the horizon like meringue on a cake. The bright sky reminds me of summers in Connecticut, fishing with homemade poles and catching frogs with Tom in the muddy creek behind our house. If we were riding in a car or a train the past hours would have seemed more like a holiday. It would be easy to forget that a war is on. Too easy to lapse into a sense of safety and let our guard down.
    “Susan B. Anthony said the bicycle did more for the emancipation of women than anything else,” I say, “since women wore pants to make riding more comfortable. If not for the bicycle, you’d probably be in a frilly dress right now.”
    “If you ever catch me in a dress, don’t look down. I haven’t any ankles. My legs go straight into my feet, like tree trunks. I’m surprised Mum didn’t sell me to the circus.”
    “One of my toes is much longer than the others.”
    “Like a monkey toe.” Denise giggles quite loudly over my long toe, even though I didn’t say a thing about her deformity. “Does it help you swing through trees?”
    “I don’t find that very funny,” I say, but I crack up anyway. “Can you picture me going vine to vine, upside-down and holding on for dear