Resist Read online

  “What? No!” Samira said. But once Clarke said it, she realized that the soldiers were settling in. Taking up defensive positions in the very same bunkers and trenches they had just cleared. “But you have to push on to Bayeux!” Samira told Clarke. “My mother is being held prisoner there by the Nazis!”

  Clarke looked genuinely apologetic. “Sorry, miss. We have a job to do. Your mother will be okay though. I’m sure of it.”

  Samira’s disappointment burst into a flame of anger inside her. How could he know her mother was going to be all right? Clarke hadn’t lived here in Normandy for the past four years. None of them had. They hadn’t seen the way the Nazis treated the French people here. What they did to their prisoners. He didn’t understand.

  “Please,” Samira begged. “If you could just talk to the major.”

  Clarke grimaced. “Oh, I couldn’t do that, miss. I’m sorry. It’s not my place to question orders. But there’s soldiers landing all over Normandy right this very minute. Maybe some of them are attacking Bayeux. And in any case, the boys coming off the boats’ll be up off the beaches before too long.”

  But not soon enough, thought Samira. Not soon enough for my mother and all the other prisoners.

  “Then I’ll go do it myself,” Samira said with more anger than she meant to, and she turned to leave.

  Clarke put out a hand to stop her. “Wait. How long has it been since you ate something? Here.” He pulled a cardboard box of biscuits out of his pack and gave it to her.

  “I’m not hungry,” Samira said. It was a lie. Samira was starving. She hadn’t eaten for hours, and then it had only been potatoes. Again. But she didn’t want food from Clarke, she wanted his help freeing her mother. Accepting anything else seemed like giving up.

  “For your dog, then,” Clarke said. “He looks hungry.”

  Cyrano had returned from his investigations and was standing on his hind legs, trying desperately to sniff at the food in the box.

  “For Cyrano, then,” Samira said, and the gnawing ache in her stomach subsided a bit, knowing she would give in and eat some of the biscuits soon.

  “There’s water too,” Clarke said. “Drink some before you go. You should stay here with us, but if you’re going to be roaming around Normandy all by yourself tonight, you should have this.”

  Clarke unhooked a leather scabbard from his belt and handed it over. Samira gripped the handle and pulled out a dagger with a blade as long as her hand. She gasped.

  “Be careful, miss,” Clarke said. “It’s sharp. Hopefully you won’t have to use that on anybody, but just in case. And I’m sorry we can’t come with you. If everybody did what they wanted and disobeyed their orders, the whole invasion would fall apart.”

  Samira softened. She wished it were otherwise—these soldiers could rout the Nazis in Bayeux in no time!—but she understood. Maybe she could find some soldiers whose mission was to take Bayeux. Maybe Allied soldiers were attacking the city right now! The only way to know was to get there as soon as she could.

  Samira had been walking for hours. It was almost dawn—that strange time when it’s still dark but the birds wake up and the forest comes to life with the scuttling of little animals. The air was sharp and cool, and dew glistened on the grass. Any minute now, the sun would peek up over the horizon, turning the blue-gray sky orange.

  And Samira would be too late.

  She was weary, but hope, fear, worry kept her moving. The biscuits Clarke had given her were long since eaten, shared with Cyrano, of course. Now Samira carried her companion, his little legs too tired to walk another meter. His head rested on Samira’s arm like she was his own personal pillow, and she could feel the rise and fall of his tiny chest as he dozed.

  Samira had left the fields and was walking along the road now. It was dangerous, but it was the best way to know she was headed in the right direction. Besides, the Germans had flooded most of the pastures close to the city, hoping to catch Allied paratroopers. She had seen more of those coming down in the night, but not so many now. And no more gliders. Was that all the Allies were sending? And where were all the ones she’d seen coming down through the night? What missions did they have? Were any of them attacking Bayeux? Or was that the job of the soldiers coming up off the beaches, like Clarke had said?

  What will I do if the soldiers are too late? Samira wondered. She had Clarke’s dagger now, but what good was a girl with a dagger against an entire German garrison? And what if she didn’t even get the chance to fight? What if her mother and the other prisoners were shot before she even got there?

  Samira stumbled and dropped to her knees on the pavement, doing her best not to fall over on Cyrano. Her scraped knee screamed in pain, and she cried out softly. She was exhausted. She couldn’t remember the last time she had stayed up all night long. Had she ever? She was so tired it was hard to think. She wanted to lie down. Close her eyes. Just rest for a few minutes. But she knew that if she did, she wouldn’t get up again. Not in time to save her mother.

  A bright light appeared in the road ahead of her, and Samira squinted. The purr of an engine reached her, and she clambered to her feet. Someone was coming!

  Samira staggered off the road just as a motorcycle buzzed by, going so fast in the gray predawn that she couldn’t even see if it was German or otherwise. She was just wondering if the motorcyclist had spotted her when another light broke down the road. And another. And another. And then suddenly there was a thunder of engines, and a herd of motorcycles roared past her. Cyrano was wide awake now, and he barked furiously at the rumbling things as they passed, his protests drowned out in the noise. Samira held on to him as he wiggled. Who were they? And where were they going in such a hurry?

  Samira watched, dazed, as the motorcycles were followed by truck after truck of soldiers. Some of the trucks had no covers on the backs, and she could see the soldiers sitting side by side on long benches, facing one another, rifles between their legs. Other trucks were covered with canvas tops, and she could see the soldiers inside when they passed.

  German soldiers.

  Samira blinked in wonder at the never-ending procession. Troop transports. Motorcycles. Field cars. Half-tracks—that strange combination of truck and tank with rubber wheels in the front and treads in the back. And then actual tanks. At least a dozen of them, clanking by in slow motion, belching exhaust. Samira didn’t know how long she’d stood there gaping before she realized she should hide. Take cover somewhere. Her mind flashed to the scabbard she’d tied to her belt, the knife Clarke had given her. She could defend herself, if she had to.

  But no one seemed to care about her. They all saw Samira—the truck drivers and infantrymen and tank crews and officers. They all saw her, out after curfew, and not one of them stopped, and not one of them said anything. It was like Samira didn’t matter anymore. They had something bigger to worry about now, and no one had time for a girl and her dog. Samira remembered just a few hours ago, when she and the boy from the French Resistance had been so worried about being caught in the street. But that was before the Allies had dropped thousands of soldiers on Normandy. Before the invasion had really begun. Now she might as well have been a rock for all any of them cared.

  One of the soldiers manning a mounted machine gun in the back of a half-track noticed her at last. He aimed his big machine gun at her and tracked her through its sights. Samira sucked in her breath, suddenly regretting that she hadn’t run and hidden when she had a chance. It was too late now, and if she moved, he would only gun her down for sport.

  Samira held her breath and looked right back at the soldier. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew he could see her looking at him, could tell from the way the barrel of his machine gun stayed on her that he was still watching her as the half-track drove past.

  Pakow. Samira could see the soldier’s mouth silently form the word as he pretended to shoot her. He didn’t pull the trigger though. Not for real. As the half-track drove out of range, he stood and rested his arms on t
he top of the gun, smirking at her like a tiger who had let a mouse go by.

  And then they were gone. The last of the trucks rumbled down the road, and everything was still and quiet again. Samira trembled but stayed on her feet. She put Cyrano down, and he ran out into the road to sniff at all the new smells the trucks had left in their wake. Samira couldn’t believe it. It felt like the entire German army had passed them by. That wasn’t all of them, she knew, but it was more soldiers, more trucks, more tanks than Samira had ever seen in one place. Were they headed for Major Hughes and his team at the bridge? Or were they going somewhere else? Wherever it was, she was sure it was because of the Allied invasion.

  Today’s Allied invasion. With a start, Samira realized that while she’d been mesmerized by the German army driving by, the sun had come up. It was officially morning, and the Germans shot their prisoners at dawn.

  Samira ran.

  The city of Bayeux was still asleep—or in hiding—as Samira ran through its streets. Ever since the Nazi occupation began, it was always safer inside your home than out. But something was wrong. More wrong than usual, even during the occupation. What should have been a bustling, living city was quietly hibernating. It was eerie.

  The lights were off in the bakeries. Cafe chairs were stacked on their tables. The druggists were closed. White lilies filled the buckets in a florist’s shop window, but no one was there to sell them. Blinds on windows were drawn, and shutters were closed. When the Bayeux cathedral’s bells chimed seven o’clock in the morning, Samira started at the sound. Up and down the narrow cobblestone streets, not a soul was out and about.

  That’s when Samira realized what else was missing: the Nazis. For four years, they had been an ever-present menace everywhere you went. Nazi soldiers on street corners. In village pubs. In shops and restaurants, on bridges and trains. You couldn’t turn around without running into a German soldier. But here in Bayeux, they were all gone. She hadn’t seen a single Nazi soldier since a parade of them had driven by her a half hour ago. Were they hiding too?

  No—the parade she had seen was Bayeux’s Germans! She didn’t see any soldiers here in the city because they had all just driven past her. The Nazis had abandoned Bayeux! Whether they were going to attack Allied soldiers somewhere else or defend some other larger city, she didn’t know. But it didn’t matter! All that mattered was that her mother and the other prisoners might not be dead!

  But where were they?

  “Cyrano, we have to find our families,” Samira told her little companion. Cyrano was trotting from sidewalk to sidewalk, sniffing at things and lifting his leg here and there to mark where he’d been. She wished he understood her urgency. Just because the Nazis had retreated, that didn’t mean her mother and the others were safe. The Nazis were like wasps. Even if you thought they were ignoring you, one of them could still sting you when you were least expecting it.

  If anyone would know where her mother and the prisoners were being held, it would be one of the people of the city. But where were they? There was only one way to find out.

  Samira ran up to the first door that looked like someone’s home and knocked.

  “Hello?” Samira called. “Is anyone there?”

  She saw a curtain rustle in the window, but no one answered the door.

  “I’m looking for my mother. She’s with other prisoners, brought here to the city overnight,” Samira called through the door.

  Still no answer.

  She went to the next door and tried again. Nothing. There were people behind these doors. She was sure of it. But they were too scared to answer.

  “Look! The Nazis are gone!” Samira called out. “I saw them! They’re headed south and east. It’s the invasion! It’s beginning!”

  “Go away,” someone called from an upstairs window. Samira spun, but she couldn’t see who or where they were. “They can still come back. They always come back.”

  “No, you don’t understand!” Samira called. “I just need to find out where my mother was taken!”

  Cyrano yipped, joining in on the conversation, but as the sound of his bark echoed away, the city became silent again. Everyone was scared. No one knew what was coming next, and not knowing was the worst part. Would they be freed by the Allies? Or would the invasion fail, and the Nazis come back stronger, meaner, and angrier than before?

  Samira understood their fear. But she was frustrated too. She was so tired. So very, very tired. She had worked so hard to help the Resistance, to help the Allied soldiers, to hike back and forth across Normandy on foot to get here just after dawn. And now the Nazis were gone and her mother might be somewhere close by, but no one would help.

  “Please,” Samira begged. She couldn’t keep the tears out of her voice. Cyrano came up alongside her and whimpered, sharing her sadness, and Samira slumped.

  “Girl, come here,” someone whispered. It was an elderly white woman with a faded red kerchief tied around her head. She had opened her door just a crack a few houses down and was peeking outside.

  Samira dried her eyes and ran toward the house. Cyrano was faster, and when he tried to run inside the woman closed the door even more, making the space too small for him to fit. Samira’s heart skipped a beat—she didn’t want the old woman to close her door again just because of Cyrano! Samira snatched up the little dog and waited hopefully.

  The old woman opened the door again and took a quick look up and down the street.

  “The old hotel, across from the cathedral,” the woman whispered. “That’s where they take the prisoners they bring in from the countryside. If your mother is still alive, that’s where she’ll be.”

  A hotel across from the cathedral! Samira didn’t know the city, but the cathedral was easy enough to see. Its twin spires stood tall over the rooftops in the distance.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” Samira cried as she ran. Maybe her mother was still alive. Maybe there was still time …

  “Good luck, girl,” the old woman called after her. “Maybe the cabbage heads really are gone for good!”

  Samira turned the last corner to the town square, where the cathedral stood. It was a huge brown and gray building, ancient and imposing. It had gargoyles for rainspouts, and arches to hold up its walls, and the whole front of it was covered with beautiful, intricate, stained-glass windows that had somehow survived the Allied bombing of Normandy, just like the rest of the city. Somebody up there must like Bayeux, Samira thought. Somebody up in those bombers.

  Another day, Samira would have stopped and stared. But not today. Today she only had eyes for the humble building across the street from the cathedral, an old hotel the Nazis had turned into their headquarters.

  As she ran down the street, the front door of the hotel opened, and out walked the first person Samira had seen on the street that whole morning:

  A Nazi soldier with a rifle over his shoulder.

  Samira slid to a stop, turned, and ran for the protection of a doorway. She slammed backward into the door, Cyrano still in her arms, and peeked out around the door frame.

  The Nazi soldier looked up and down the street, and Samira ducked back behind the wall before he could see her. She waited a long, breathless moment, then peeked out again.

  The Nazi soldier signaled to someone inside, and a woman staggered out into the street as though she had been pushed. She was followed by a young boy around Samira’s age, and another woman carrying a baby, and an older man. Samira didn’t recognize any of them, but her heart sank into her stomach at the thought that these might be the prisoners the Nazis had collected from the village last night.

  And then, halfway back in the line of prisoners, Samira saw her mother. Kenza Zidane. She still wore a tan raincoat over her blue dress, and she held her back straight and her head up high. But Samira knew her mother. Knew she was tired, and afraid. Samira’s heart stopped.

  The last of the prisoners came out of the hotel, followed by a second Nazi soldier with a machine gun. He barked something at the pris
oners, and together Samira’s mother and the rest of them marched down the street, away from Samira.

  Arms and legs shaking, Samira leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. No. No no no no no. The Nazis had abandoned Bayeux, but not their prisoners. They had left two soldiers behind to finish what they had started the night before, and now her mother and the other prisoners were being marched out of town, to be shot in the woods.

  Samira trailed the prisoners and their Nazi guards through the streets of Bayeux. How could she stop the Nazi soldiers from shooting her mother and the other prisoners? She turned the problem over in her mind again and again. She had the knife the British glider soldier had given her. She had Cyrano too, and he was brave—braver than she was—but he was small. Samira had been the one to save him from the Nazis. Where was the French Resistance? Where were the Allied soldiers? The people of Bayeux? Was there no one who could help her?

  The city gave way to fields and farmhouses, and Samira followed along behind a hedgerow, out of sight of the soldiers and the prisoners. She wished she could catch her mother’s attention, let her know she was here, at least. But Kenza Zidane kept her eyes on the ground, just like the rest of the prisoners.

  The soldiers steered the prisoners toward a small grove of trees, and Samira knew she was running out of time. She had to think of something. Had to do something.

  I will attack them with my knife if I have to, Samira thought. It was suicide. She would be shot before she could do any real damage. But she would try. She was not going to let her mother and the others die without doing something.

  It was harder to stay hidden in the woods. The trees were old, and tall, like giant pillars that held up a roof of green leaves, and there were wide-open spaces between them. Sunlight trickled down here and there, occasionally breaking through with a bright shaft, like a ray of light through a stained-glass window. The leaves formed a thin, soft, brown carpet that muffled Samira’s footsteps. The tingle Samira got walking through the quiet, beautiful grove reminded her of the way she’d felt in the garden of the Grand Mosque in Paris.