“Have you happened to see Monsieur et Madame Gilles?” Philippe winces a little, recognizing that he has just revealed his true last name to Rainy.
“Your maman and papa? Of course! How can I not see the headmaster? Or his wife?”
“It seems you do quite a good job of not seeing the headmaster when you prefer to go fishing,” Philippe says. “But tell me: Are they well?”
“Of course, monsieur. Only . . . well, everyone is afraid of what the Boche will do. Because of the invasion. They must be very angry. And . . .” He lowers his voice. “You heard what happened in Tulle?”
“No, what?”
Bernard makes a throat-cutting gesture. “The SS. They hanged a hundred men. They say it was because of the maquis.”
“Retaliation? My God, are you sure? A hundred men? There are not a hundred maquis in Tulle—there are not a hundred maquis in the Limousin!”
Bernard gives a worldly shrug. “I don’t think the Germans care. They are simply angry.”
Philippe shakes his head. “We cannot go into the village; it would give the Germans an excuse.”
Rainy sags. She’s been hoping for sleep and a meal. She’s been hoping to join up with more maquisards, to get back to her uncompleted mission. Her legs are a network of fine scratches. Her shoes are bundles of rags. Every muscle aches. And there is a deeper weariness of the spirit.
Bernard snaps his fingers. “You know old Brun’s cabin?”
“Is it still standing?”
“Of course! They took Brun for the forced labor, so he is gone, but the cabin is still there as he left it.” The boy grins. “You know old Brun. No one wants to anger him! He has a shotgun!”
“You must tell no one, Bernard,” Philippe says. “No one at all. Not your parents, not your friends. No one. Not a word!”
Bernard makes a cross over his mouth.
And Rainy realizes that her life is now in the hands of a mischievous boy. But at least he isn’t sleeping with a German officer.
“Show us,” she says.
The cabin is nicer than Rainy expects. To start with, it has furniture, an actual table and chairs, a mildewed sofa, and one low bed, also mildewed. There is a small kitchen area that seemingly relies on a wood-burning fireplace. And there is an outhouse. No hot shower, but joy of joys, there is a day’s worth of canned food. The cabin is dry enough, as long as you don’t count the corner where a leaky roof has caused the floor to discolor and buckle. And it is just up a wooded slope from the River Glane, so there is plenty of drinking water.
“Maybe we should just sit out the war here,” Rainy says.
Bernard flops contentedly on the sofa, reveling in his role as fixer for Philippe and Rainy. Philippe goes out to gather firewood.
“You’re a clever boy,” Rainy says. “So you know that if you say anything to anyone, there is a very good chance your friend Philippe would be arrested, perhaps shot?”
Bernard nods solemnly. “Why are you here? Are you a spy? I didn’t know women could be spies.”
Rainy hesitates. Her life is already in Bernard’s hands. He surely knows she is not French, and he seems bright enough to guess that she is either British or American.
“I’m here looking for German tanks.”
“I don’t know where they are,” Bernard says. “I only know where they were.”
Rainy blinks. “I’m sorry, did you just . . .”
“I have seen many tank tread marks. Not far from here.”
“Can you show us?”
“Tomorrow, in the morning before school?”
“Okay,” Rainy says, thinking, it can’t be this easy. Then again, this mission could hardly be described as easy so far. “Tomorrow, before school.”