âOf all the women in my life, given the opportunity of art school, youâll make the most of it. Clare, youâre already a traveler. You wonât be satisfied until youâve seen how far you can go.â
âBut Grandfather, I know you, too. I know youâll be back on the trail of one dialect or another the moment Iâm in Glasgow. You wonât be able to stay alone in this empty house.â
âIâll stay.â He said it, surprised with himself. âDo you hear? I will. As long as you come back to visit, as often as youâre able, Iâll stay.â He shrugged. âI have to start writing the book eventually, donât I?â He lifted his hand from the painting and let me take it. âThe two of us, weâve been through French West Africa and back. Weâve braved crocodiles and malaria and eating nothing but goat for weeks. And nowâŠnow itâs time for the next adventure.â
âUs explorers, we have to stay together,â I said, taking up my painting of Luc.
On Bastille Day a unit of German gunners was taken prisoner. Theyâd been harrying our line for weeks and were escorted back to Brindeau amid hurled insults. They were lined up on the parade groundâa P.G., for prisonnier de guerre, chalked onto their jacketsâand then shoved into a crumbling cellar, our makeshift camp prison, until they could be moved. We all hoped the ceiling would come down on them.
They were kept without water or food for the rest of the day. It began raining mid-morning, but only mud seeped through the stones of their prison. The Germans bore it in stoic silence. When I came to the cellar with a petrol can of the same oily-tasting water we all drank, all I was greeted with were sullen stares.
I stood in the doorway, waiting for them to come forward. Better that then stepping down into the cramped, low cellar full of Boche. But they stayed hunched around the edges of the room. No one stood. No one even looked up. Muddy rain dripped from the ceiling.
âYeah, they donât deserve it.â The guard nudged me with the butt of his Lebel. âJust get down there and then get out.â
I took a deep breath and stepped down the stairs.
Iâd been given a can, but no tins for drinking. The prisoners had been stripped of anything apart from the clothes on their backs. I summoned up my long-disused German. âWölben Ihren HĂ€nden,â I instructed, sloshing through the mud. A rat skittered out of my way. One of the Boche cupped his palms for a handful of water, but the rest ignored me. They sat with knees up, battered and bruised from the capture, indifferent.
Except one, hatless, filthy, bleeding, who grabbed my ankle as I shuffled past. âWait,â he croaked in French. He tipped his head up and, through the black eye, the swollen jaw, the mud-gray hair, I knew him. âCrĂ©pet,â he said. âSorry I missed the Olympics.â
I stumbled. âStefan Bauer?â
He licked chapped lips and nodded.
âStefan Bauer?â I asked again, unwilling. This hollow-eyed man couldnât be Bauer, couldnât be the glowing, arrogant boy I used to face across the net. Bauer, always so sophisticated and sure. The boy Iâd known would never look so defeated. Heâd soonerâŠwell, heâd sooner die.
Then I remembered what theyâd said when they brought the prisoners in, that the tall one had fought furiously rather than surrender, swearing in French all along. Gaunt as he was, his back was straight. He could be that same boy.
âItâs really you?â My mind moved like marmalade. âHere? Now?â
âArenât we all?â He sank back and rested elbows on his knees. It was a sigh of a movement. âThese days, nowhere else to be.â
âYouâre talkative tonight, le Flemmard,â the guard said from outside the cellar.
Bauer stiffened, so I said, âItâs me heâs calling âlazybones.âââ I switched to German. âWe said weâd meet in Berlin in 1916. Instead, here we are.â I held up my can of water.
He cupped his hands. âA Frenchman wouldnât have exactly been welcome in Berlin.â Most of the water splashed through his fingers.
I tipped the can back up. âI was busy last year.â
He opened his hands and let the rest of the water soak into his lap. Iâd been busy, yes, killing his countrymen. A faded black and white striped ribbon, from an absent Iron Cross, was sewn to the front of his tunic. From his side of the line, heâd been doing the same.
One of the other Boche scowled and said, âWhoâs this frog-eater you talk to like a friend?â
I started, spilling water down my leg. I hoped the guard outside hadnât heard.
Bauer, though, growled out something that the German master at school hadnât taught us, something that earned him a glare and a muttered oath in return.
I backed up, towards the doorway. The water can banged at my shins.
âWait.â Bauer scrambled to his feet. âA familiar face I never thought Iâd see. CrĂ©pet, will you come back?â This time he spoke in English, the third language we shared, the one that neither the guard outside or the prisoners inside knew. âWe can talk about old times.â His English was better than I remembered.
I shifted the can to my other hand. âI shouldnât. I canât.â Out in the sunset, the rain slowed. âIâŠI donât have a reason to come back.â
âA letter.â His eyes were earnest, bright. âYou can bring me paper and ink.â He nodded, suddenly looking as boyish as he did when I last saw him, five years before. âI want to write a letter to my mama. Do you remember how often Iâd write to her?â
I did. âEvery week.â
âI always told her what our score was. What was it at that last match?â
âI donât remember,â I lied.
âI was winning, wasnât I?â
It was 299-299. âWe were tied.â
âCrĂ©pet, wonât you say youâll come back?â
I couldnât. Without a goodbye, I left into the drizzly sunset.
Chaffre was in the caves, sleeping. I tiptoed around him, but he woke, the way he always did when I was near. âIs it mess time already?â he asked with a yawn.
âNo.â I realized I was still holding the water can, and set it down with a slosh. âI donât know.â
âI wouldnât want to miss a mouthful of cold soup.â He stretched out first one arm, then the other.
âStop complaining.â I took off my cap and tossed it in the direction of my pack. âSome donât have anything to eat tonight.â
âI know that.â Chaffre nudged me. âHas it been too long of a week for a joke?â
âIâm sorry.â I ran a hand through my hair. âDonât mind me. Yes.â
âNow youâre getting this all dirty.â He yawned again and picked up my dropped cap. As though it could get any dirtier. âIâll shake it out. Itâs wet.â He was fussing again. He did that when he was worried.
âStop that. Everythingâs wet and dirty.â
âYou shouldâve worn your helmet anyway.â
âI forgot.â
âThey look like brutes, didnât they?â He brushed at the hat. âRemember the helmet next time.â
I took the damp cap back. âYou worry more than my mother.â I pulled a punch on his arm. âIâm fine.â
He ducked his head. âI know.â