The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [92]
The truck engine churned to life. Claire charged into the yard and pointed the machine gun at the soldier through the windshield. He jerked the wheel as the truck lurched forward, accelerating toward Anna.
Marta broke from the trees, screaming. Anna looked up at her sister then stumbled under the rusted iron toe of the wagon. The truck hit, then skidded down the side of the wagon bed. The heavy boards groaned as they were splintered by the force of the metal fender. The truck broke loose and tore out of the yard.
Claire dropped the gun, running. Anna was crumpled in a pile under the shattered but still standing wagon; shaking and crying; her little fist balled and stuffed in her mouth. Marta crawled under the wagon and pulled the girl to her. Claire dropped to her knees and hugged them both.
“Are you hurt? Are you hurt?” Marta said, holding Anna too tight for her to reply.
Anna looked up at Claire, her cheek was bruised, and tiny teeth marks dented her pudgy fingers. “You’re not wearing any clothes.”
Claire’s legs gave way and she crumpled into Marta. They both slid to the ground, Anna tucked between them. She felt their bodies against her skin, inhaled the smell of dirt and blood and tears. She gave herself a couple of breaths to stop shaking, then stood, pulling them to their feet.
Claire stared down the road. “Marta, go pack your bags. Quickly. They’ll be back.”
Claire pushed the girls inside the house then turned back toward the barn. She retrieved the empty Luger and wrapped her discarded dress around her. Gritting her teeth, she kneeled next to the officer and rummaged through his pockets. There was a tin of bullets and a wallet. She flipped open the wallet and found his identification, the unsmiling photo of a woman and a thick wad of Occupation reichsmarks.
His skin was chalky, his eyes blank. Blood was everywhere. She started to shake, then doubled over and vomited. After a breath, she reached for the bullets and the money, covered her face against the smell of blood and gunpowder, and ran.
In the kitchen, she dunked a cloth into a full bucket and scrubbed at the dirt and sticky blood that was starting to dry on her skin. She could hear Marta talking to Anna, shoving things around in the other room.
“Claire?” Marta waited in the doorway, cases in one arm, Anna in the other.
Claire pulled a dress over her head, slipped on shoes. Wrapping up the rest of the food in a cloth, she reached for her bag.
With the girls waiting by the door, Marta’s eyes on the road, Claire glanced around the house. Nothing could be left behind to reveal identities. No signs of Grey. No signs of the moments they shared. Not a word of the stories that Captain Walker told. Just dead Nazis in the barn.
She led the girls out of the clearing, toward the forest.
“Where are we going, Claire?” Marta said.
“There is only one place where I know people who can help us. Help you.”
“Paris,” Marta said, her voice soft and grim.
“Paris.” The city Claire loved, where she found beauty and self-worth. The city where Marta’s life was destroyed. The world had gone mad.
Claire reached down to the dirt, squeezing a handful in her fist. The faint smell of rich, peaty earth, it crumbled through her fingers onto the ground. Another glance at the farm, and she led the girls into the trees.
The forest was shadowed, the sun slipping below the treetops when they heard the whine of an engine. Claire’s shoulder throbbed. Without looking she knew it was bruised. The price of firing a machine gun. Her other arm ached from carrying Anna for the last few hours, but the girl finally slept, her cheek red and swollen. Claire winced as she set Anna onto the ground next to Marta, motioned for them to remain still and crept to the edge of the trees overlooking the road.
The asphalt turned in a serpentine bend below. A motorcycle sped by, the soldier crouched low over the handlebars. Claire