Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty

One moment they were fine, the next they were not.

When Genevieve regained consciousness, she didn’t know if a second had passed or an hour. It was still near dawn: the mist rising from the marsh had that distinctive pinkish tinge that only came with the early morning light. She lay on her side on high, solid ground—the middle of the railroad tracks, she discovered as she felt the wooden ties beneath her and saw an iron rail. Her ears rang. Her head hurt. Lifting an unsteady hand to her forehead, she discovered she was bleeding. A cut above her eyebrow, a couple of centimeters long, from the feel of it. Pulling her hand back, looking at the blood on her fingers, she grimaced.

Somewhere not too far away, artillery boomed like thunder. Sharp barks of machine-gun fire punctuated the relentless ack-ack of the antiaircraft guns. The sky was thick with smoke. She could smell it, taste it.

She remembered looking out to sea, the dozens of landing craft riding the whitecaps, the lineup of battleships on the horizon...

Emmy.

Where was she?

“Emmy.” She said it aloud. Despite her bleeding head, she didn’t seem to be seriously injured. She could think, and see, and move and wasn’t in terrible pain.

Dashing away the blood starting to trickle around her eye, she struggled up onto an elbow.

Emmy lay on the railroad track, too, sprawled motionless on her back not far away.

Genevieve half crawled, half scrambled toward her. Her sister’s eyes were closed. Beneath the mud and grime on her face, her skin looked gray. There was no injury to Emmy’s face that she could see; her blond curls, flung back against the weeds between the wooden ties and matted now with mud, showed no trace of blood.

Genevieve touched her cheek. “Emmy.” She looked down at her sister’s shiny dark shirt and gray trousers.

The shirt was tan, Genevieve realized with a thrill of horror, noting the light brown sleeves. The reason the middle looked dark and shiny was because the front of it was soaked with blood.

“Oh, no. Oh, no. Emmy.” She unbuttoned her sister’s blouse, stared aghast at the gaping wound in her chest. Blood everywhere. Exposed red muscle, the white of bone, the pink of an internal organ...

“Genny.” Emmy’s eyes opened. Her voice was scarcely louder than a breath.

“It’s all right,” Genevieve said, while her heart raced with terror. “I’m here.”

Frantic, she looked around, spied a group of partisans not too far away, waved to signal she needed help. She had a length of parachute silk wound around her waist that she’d been cutting strips from to mark the paths. Snatching it loose, she pressed it gently, carefully, firmly over Emmy’s wound.

“Uh.” The sound Emmy made was full of pain, and it tore at Genevieve’s heart.

“Lie still. Help’s coming.” She covered Emmy with her coat, slid her hands beneath to keep gentle pressure on the wound. The silk was already warm and wet with her sister’s blood. A frantic glance told her that the partisans she’d signaled were moving carefully but quickly toward them along the marked paths.

Hurry. Hurry. But she couldn’t scream it as she wanted to do. The last thing they needed was to attract the attention of more guns.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” Emmy’s tone was almost conversational. The eyes that were so like Genevieve’s own seemed to be losing their brightness. Terror clutched at Genevieve’s soul.

“No, you’re not. Do you hear? You’re not going to die.” Genevieve leaned over her sister. “Emmy, do you hear me? You are not going to die.”

“Bébé.” Emmy’s eyes found hers, focused. She smiled. Beneath the coat, one of her hands moved to cover Genevieve’s. It felt cold as ice. “I’m glad you’re here. Je te tiens, tu me tiens.”

“Je te tiens, tu me tiens,” Genevieve repeated fiercely. Then her heart convulsed as Emmy closed her eyes.

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