But when I looked back up, there was no one there.
The next day, I boarded a train, then a ship to the port of Saint Nazaire. I took Kendra’s mirror so I could communicate with her. I didn’t want to upset my parents. I didn’t want to admit my troubles.
When I finally reached the port of Saint Nazaire, everything was bustling. I saw a group of soldiers and thought perhaps they could help me. Then I saw the swastika emblem on their arms. They were German soldiers! I remembered that Father had said France was occupied by Germany now! I held tight with one hand to the travel papers the old woman had given me, the apple with the other, though I was careful to keep the apple hidden.
To my surprise, they ignored me and let me pass without question.
I passed more soldiers as I walked into town. I tried to avoid their gaze. The town was gray and plain, with little sun and patches of dirt peeping through the dirty snow. There were few civilians outside, but in front of a grocery store, I saw an old woman sitting in a straight-backed chair, holding a carding comb that she was using to separate a small amount of sheep’s wool.
Fortunately, I had studied French, so I approached her and said, “Excuse me, madame. I am looking for a castle.”
She seemed not to understand me for a moment, which made me wonder if I had mispronounced something, or if she was merely being unfriendly. But finally, she said, “No. There is no castle.”
“I am looking for a castle, east of the sun, west of the moon. My husband was on a . . .” I didn’t know the French word for ship. “A boat. Under the water.” I mimed a sinking ship.
“Ah!” she said, “navire de transport! British.” She pointed to a house by the sea and said, “She is the one who takes in all the soldiers’ bodies. Maybe if you help her, she will help you.”
“Help her?” I asked.
“With the memorial,” she said.
I remembered what the old lady at the War Office had said about paying my respects. Perhaps that was what she meant.
“Have you lost someone in this war?” I asked.
The woman nodded. “Yes. My son.” She began to cry.
“I am sorry about your son,” I said, but she kept sobbing and I took her in my arms, dried her tears, thinking of my own mother, distracted with grief over George.
After a long time, her shaking shoulders went still. She sniffled. “I must get back to my work.”
I understood that she was embarrassed to have been so emotional. “Merci,” I told the woman and started toward the house.
“Attendez!” the woman said. She handed me the carding comb, meeting my gaze. I noticed that her eyes were blue as the ocean on a cloudless day, and the comb, which I had thought a dull metal, was pure gold. “For your kindness in comforting me. I hope you find your husband. I hope this will help you.”
I took it from her with another “Merci” and went on.
The house was up a small hill, on a bluff. I climbed it. It was difficult, for it was rocky and blustery. From the top, I could see the cold, gray ocean, and I wondered if the house’s occupants had seen the ship sinking, heard the men screaming on that fateful night.
I wondered if they still heard them, in their dreams, on dark nights when my family heard sirens and dropping bombs, or in their nightmares, as Phillip did.
When I reached the house, there was an old woman on the porch. This surprised me because it was quite cold, and she wore no coat. She held a spindle in her hand and was simply twirling it.
I spoke to her in French. “Hello. I’m looking for a castle.”
She ignored me, still fiddling with the spindle.
“My husband was on the ship that sank. He has been tormented by nightmares of it, and now he has disappeared. I’m here to find him.”
When I said “the ship,” I saw her eyes look up to me. She kept looking at me as I said I was there to find him. Then she spoke to me in English.
“The ship, it sank in June. I did not see it, for it was too far away, but I heard the bombs that hit it. For weeks, even months after, the bodies, the bodies, they washed ashore, bloated, ripped apart by crabs and fish. The people of this town gave them Christian burials, sometimes under cover of darkness to avoid the soldiers. Would you like to see?”
I shuddered, imagining it, but said, “Yes. Please.”
She stood, still holding the spindle, and beckoned to me to follow her. I did, though my feet were hurting now from all the walking and climbing. We trudged down the hill to a small road. It was late afternoon, and the sun was in my eyes as we waded through the snow. At the end of it was a gate, and we pushed through it.
Before us, in every direction, as far I could see, were graves. Some were regular graves with headstones like I’d seen at home, but many, too many, were marked with simple homemade crosses. I walked among them. Were these the men who had been on the ship with Phillip that night? Could he have been among them?