Early morning, before dawn, with the dark of night fading bit by bit, two Resistance fighters struggled to stay awake as they kept watch outside the hunting lodge. The surrounding woods were quiet, and there was not a soul in sight.
The safe house, which held the weapons cache, was not especially large, but it was comfortable enough. The living room on the ground floor also served as a rustic kitchen, with a countertop and a stone fireplace, while a trapdoor further down led to the cellar. The bedroom Sam and his daughter shared was down to the right, and Robert’s room was to the left. Upstairs, five Resistance fighters were snoring away in the attic-turned-barracks. At five in the morning, Robert rose from bed and shaved in front of the little mirror in the kitchen. As he packed up his gear, his partner, Titon, the Italian member of the crew, was watching.
“Don’t take your gun,” Titon advised. “If we get stopped, they’ll search us, and we need to pass as local farmers.”
“Good luck with that!” Maurice snickered from the kitchen. “He’s got a mighty strange accent for a local farmer. If you two get stopped, have him hand over his papers, but don’t let him say a word.”
“Hurry up,” another member of the crew urged. “The factory opens its doors at six o’clock. You’ll need to walk in with the workers; that’s the only way to get in unnoticed.”
Titon and Robert’s mission was to infiltrate the cartridge factory.
“Go to the manager at the workshop, and give him this message: ‘There were doves flying overhead this morning.’ He’ll give you a haversack full of what you’ll need.”
“Then what?” asked Titon.
“Then, you blend in with the others and discreetly insert the rigs under the assembly lines.” The rigs were gutter pipes they had swiped from a scrapyard and modified to suit their needs. Bolted end-caps had been added to each side, and each had a hole for a fuse leading to Ablonite charges to pass through. The explosives had been scavenged by sympathetic miners from a nearby quarry.
“At noon, the workers will head to the courtyard for a break. You two light the fuses. You’ll have two minutes before the explosion, and then you take advantage of the chaos to get out.”
Robert and Titon served themselves soup from a large pot hanging in the hearth above coals still burning from the night before. They needed to get something in their stomachs; they wouldn’t be back at the hunting lodge until after nightfall.
Sam Goldstein and his daughter stepped out of their room. Hanna leaned against the doorframe silently, while Sam came up to shake Robert’s hand. “Be careful,” he whispered, pulling Robert in for a tight hug. “I am hoping to never have to hold up my end of our deal.”
Hanna watched, still walled up in her world of silence. Robert waved at her, then grabbed his gear and followed Titon outside. They made their way down the path through the woods and hopped onto a tandem bicycle that lay awaiting them, Titon in front and Robert behind. Titon asked Robert if there was something going on between him and the Jewish girl. Everyone noticed the way she looked at him.
“Well, she’s a bit young, don’t you think?” said Robert.
“Il cuore pien di dibolesses,” sighed Titon in his native tongue, a patois from Treviso.
“Sorry, what does that mean?”
“It means it’s a shame to see a child’s heart so full of sorrow. But you, you’re American. Why do you come to fight so far from home?” asked Titon.
“I’m not exactly sure. To rebel against my father, I guess. My heart was full of romantic ideals.”
“Ah, so you’re a fool, then? There’s nothing romantic about war.”
“What about you? Didn’t you come from far away to fight?”
“I was born here. My parents arrived in ’25. But to the French, I’ll always be a foreigner. They don’t like us all that much. I’ve always found them to be quite an odd people. Our parents showered us with affection, but the French never even kiss their children. When I was growing up, I thought it meant they didn’t love them, but it’s simply that they don’t know how to express their feelings.”
“If they have so many flaws, why do you fight for them?”
“I fight fascists wherever they are. And next time someone asks you that question, you should say the same thing; you’ll be better off.”
Ten kilometers later, they ran straight into French militiamen at a crossroads and were stopped for questioning. Robert handed over the papers and Titon did the talking, just as planned. He explained that they were workers on their way to the factory. Titon begged the ranking officer to let them go on their way, explaining that their foreman would dock their pay if they were even a minute late.
One of the soldiers approached Robert. “What’s the matter with you? Cat got your tongue?”
Titon spoke for Robert: “He’s deaf and dumb.” The officer ordered the two men to dismount the bike.