Violins of Autumn Read Online Free PDF Page B

brush. On either side of his mud-caked boots, I spot the faint indentations of wheel marks in the grass. The tracks disappear into the woods without circling back, as if the cart usually lifts into the air and flies away.
    Pierre wedges his hand through the tangle of leafy branches. A latch clicks. An entire section of the woods swings open on hinges.
    “How fun! A camouflaged gate,” I say.
    I turn to share a grin with Denise about the secret opening to the forest, but she gives me an odd look. I quickly glance away, wondering what I said to make her react that way. But then again, maybe it wasn’t so much what I said, as how I said it—as a seventeen-year-old tomboy she doesn’t know rather than a professional grown woman named Adele. I’ll have to be more careful about slipping into my old self.
    Beyond the gate is a fairy-tale forest, with mossy rocks, yellowed autumn leaves still scattered over the ground like gold coins, and slender sunbeams sneaking through the treetop canopy. Reins in hand, Pierre leads the horse-drawn cart through the gate. After securing it again, he climbs back into the driver’s seat.
    Moments later, Denise taps me on the shoulder. “Can yousmell that?” She wraps her arms over her stomach. “A cooking fire. And I am so hungry.”
    I close my eyes and sniff the air for one of my all-time favorite scents. Every Sunday afternoon during the dreary winter months, my aunt sent her boys to collect whatever small logs and branches they could find. As a special treat, they were allowed to toss them into the coal fire. I loved how wonderful it made the front room smell, like pine or applewood. We sat around together, huddled under blankets, listening to radio shows and singing songs like “Roll out the Barrel” and “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.”
    The forest opens into a clearing. At least twenty-five men mill about in a camp of tents and thatched huts. A patchwork of canvas tarps, strung up in the trees like a giant moth-chewed blanket, protects the camp from bad weather and hides it from view of the German scout planes.
    Pierre steers the cart around until the supply-laden back end faces the camp.
    A stocky man stirring something in a metal bucket atop the fire gets to his feet. Pointing a long-handled spoon at me, he says, “You brought the potatoes, I hope.”
    “We brought your clean laundry,” I reply.
    “Well, we can’t eat laundry.”
    As he hops down from the driver’s seat, Pierre laughs. “Leave her alone, Gus. We brought the potatoes.”
    Pierre lowers the back of the cart. Propping his elbow against the wooden slats, he says, “These men are the reason you are here in France.”
    I stare in disbelief at the scruffy bunch dressed in a hodgepodge of drab civilian clothes, leather jackets, and bits andpieces of old uniforms. Wooden peasant clogs and dilapidated field boots are the norm. Their hair, at least on the men who haven’t tucked it under a beret, catches my attention the most. Some have slicked it into a long shiny plume from forehead to nape. Others let it hang loose and defiant.
    This isn’t what I was expecting. My chest tightens with irritation at being dropped into this place. I’m not sure if any amount of equipment or training can whip this camp of disorganized, amateurish men into a force capable of harassing an elite and powerful army. Even with our help, can they sabotage trains carrying German troops and supplies, or demolish telephone lines so the enemy can’t coordinate attack plans? Do they honestly have what it takes to weaken the Germans in time for the Allied invasion? The man at the fire, Gus, can’t even muster up the energy or discipline to tie his bootlaces and shave. If all Resistance members are like these, France is in big trouble.
    Denise scoots to the end of the cart and dangles her legs over the edge. I wrap my skirt around my knees to copy her.
    “It must be awful to live hidden away, separated from their families,” Denise