Emma’s habit was to distract Mémé during the actual exchanges, lest she blurt something later in front of Thalheim. It meant inventing games to occupy the old woman’s mind—count-the-birds proved a favorite, as was how-many-flowers. It would have been pleasant if Emma had not possessed such strong memories of her grandmother at the peak of her intellect. Wise Mémé had gone simple, aged Mémé had become childlike. Sometimes Emma returned from a transaction to find her grandmother sitting straight-legged on the ground, petting a frog or contemplating a grasshopper. Once Mémé was toying with a wasp, yet inexplicably went unstung.
That June day there were no birds in sight, and the hedgerow lacked blooms for anyone to count. At the base of a knoll, Emma poured a bit from her canteen into the watering can in Mémé’s lap. Swirling the liquid within, she tapped the side with her fingertips. It made a wobbling, musical sound. Mémé’s face brightened. She hoisted the can near one ear and tapped it for herself.
“That should keep you for a bit,” Emma said, kissing her grandmother’s brow, then hurrying up the rise to see. Yes, the red scarf flew from Michelle’s upper window like the national flag of indecency. The motorcycle stood in the yard, leaning on its stand like a braggart on a lamppost. Emma angled a small brown egg into the cleft of the chestnut tree. Then with one hand she raised her dress a few inches, the easier to bustle up the hill. With the other hand, she held a large glass jug. In a swift motion she uncapped the fuel tank, poked one end of the black hose she had stolen from the army’s truck into the opening, covered the other end with her mouth, and sucked.
There was an art to siphoning which Emma had yet to master. Sometimes she pulled exactly long enough, moving her mouth away at the perfect moment while pointing the tip of the hose at the jug. More often she sucked for too long, earning herself a sip of the petrol. No amount of spitting, nor any food she ate for the rest of the day, would rid her of the rancid flavor. It tasted like deceit.
That morning the fuel had just reached her mouth when she spun the hose away, only a trace touching her lips. Good thing she had no kissing planned, Emma mused, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. The jug made a musical tinkling as it filled.
Faintly, too, she could hear Mémé tapping the watering can down the hill. It provided a reassuring rhythm. By contrast the bungalow behind her remained silent. Emma did not bother to imagine what might be taking place within. It served her purposes and that was enough.
The other technique she had not yet learned was how to stop the flow before the tank was empty. After all, the lusty lieutenant needed to drive several kilometers back to the motor pool, where the motorbike’s next rider would fill the tank not knowing the machine had sat unused nearly the whole time it had been gone. If Planeg ran out of gas on the way back to duty, it would reveal what had been stolen. But Emma had no way of telling how full the tank was, or when to stop. Eventually she settled on draining it completely, then pouring a portion back in from the jug. Better not to arouse suspicion.
Emma straightened, rubbing a sore place on her neck. Was that the sound of an airplane? She squinted north, the sky blank, when the source of the noise revealed itself: another motorcycle, burning a trail of dust uphill toward the place where she stood.
She yanked out the hose—no time for a partial refill—capped the tank, and scurried for the woods. Had the rider seen her? Emma could not run with the jug, but she hugged to the edge of the brush, working her way down toward Mémé. This motorcycle was larger than Planeg’s, and roared up to the front of the bungalow. The soldier hopped off, leaning the bike on its stand but leaving his engine running.
“Planeg?” he shouted. “Plannn-eg.”
There was no response. Emma inched farther down the hill, fringing the rough bracken. If she were caught, how would she explain being in this place? With a jug of petrol? And would there be enough in the tank for the lieutenant’s return trip?
“Damn it, Planeg,” the soldier yelled. He pounded the blue door with the side of his fist.
An upstairs window opened and the lieutenant’s head poked out. His arms and shoulders were bare. He and the soldier exchanged bursts of words, the new arrival’s gestures expressing urgency and Planeg’s tone one of reluctance. The soldier outside gave a last volley of anger, scuffing his boot in the dirt before climbing on his machine and barreling down the hill. He did not notice Emma, bent small at the edge of the woods.
Moments later Planeg burst out of the house buckling his belt. He wore his uniform jacket but the shirt beneath was open and untucked. Kicking the motorcycle into life, he popped a helmet on his head. Michelle appeared at the doorway, but whatever she called to him was lost over the engine’s grumble.
Worried that the commotion would pique her grandmother’s curiosity, and assuming she had time yet while the soldier finished dressing, Emma sidestepped through the steep brush toward Mémé. But no, the motor revved and here he came already, one hand holding the throttle and steering while the other fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. Emma froze.
It was too late. Planeg zipped past, glancing at first, then turning to look again, directly at Emma. She felt it like cold water thrown in her face. He had seen her plainly and without cover. The hose in her hand, the jug. He buzzed away, not pausing, a black comet trailing brown dust. Whatever he had been summoned for mattered more than her presence in the trees, but he would certainly remember seeing her there. Emma sat on the ground, the jug to one side. For the second time that day, she had been found out.
The motorcycle’s whine dwindled and then the woods were quiet. Emma waited a bit longer, in case Michelle had lingered to gaze after her lover, before rising to continue downhill. But there was noise in the brush. Emma leaned past a fan of ferns to see Michelle, tiptoeing up to the chestnut tree.
Her dress hung loosely open, not one button fastened, but with a webbing of lace beneath. Emma pulled a fern aside for a better view. She knew women’s bodies, of course—her own, Mémé’s—but strictly in matter-of-fact fashion: washing to avoid illness, dressing for durability and work. This attire, this allure, was something different, brazen, arresting.