A Rendezvous To Remember. Geri Krotow

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      “Still, it has to be a welcome distraction from his grief.”

      Melinda looked at him, her eyes large.

      “When did you get so introspective?”

      “Every now and then I actually do reveal some human characteristics, Mel.”

      Esmée’s Journal

      February 1, 1943

      The man with the broken ankle will only tell me his name is “Mac.” But I doubt that’s his real name. I went through all his clothes as I washed them but there’s no identification, no indication of who he is or where he came from.

      I’m almost positive he’s RAF, or an agent for the Brits. No matter, as we’re all on the same side. We speak in a mixture of French and English.

      Philippe from the Resistance Group has become invaluable to me. He and three other members came and took care of Henri’s body. Philippe told me to tell my neighbors, family and friends that Henri went away on Christmas Eve and never came back. He wouldn’t be the first Belgian to disappear in the middle of the night. No one questioned my explanation.

      I live in fear of a German soldier rapping on my door, demanding to know what I’ve done with Henri, but so far it hasn’t happened.

      I should worry more about how I’ll explain my new visitor. Yet none of my neighbors even know of him. Since I helped him into the house that night only a little over a month ago, he’s remained hidden from them.

      I’ve been able to keep Maman and Papa away thanks to the cold weather. I don’t want them implicated in any of my doings.

      February 3, 1943

      I’ve seen him looking at me. At first his glances were questioning, as though he was trying to figure out how I could have shot my husband. He speaks to Philippe in quiet, hushed tones whenever he stops over. Philippe tells me nothing except “You’re doing a great patriotic service to your country, Esmée.”

      When I joined the Resistance I understood that I’d be given many tasks I would not be able to ask the why or how of. That lack of information is to protect our cause, ourselves and our Allies. Even if we’re captured and tortured, we can’t give the enemy what we don’t know.

      But I long to find out more about Mac. Where is he from? What lies behind those dark blue eyes that watch me with such intense interest through the coldest months of the year?

      His eyes reveal more to me than he realizes. When he first arrived, during those terrible days after Henri died, his eyes would glaze over with pain, or from fever, and show me his need. Need for healing, for comfort, yes, but I saw more in his eyes. I saw his soul.

      This is a good man, perhaps haunted by something, some need I can’t identify.

      I haven’t craved a man’s touch in so long. When my marriage to Henri went sour early on, I sometimes fantasized about having a husband who really loved me, whose caresses I cherished. But as my reality became more and more gruesome, it wasn’t worth the pain to tease myself with fantasies of a happy relationship.

      The longer Henri is gone, the more aware I become of my own needs. I’m twenty-one years old. I’m no longer a girl. I know what goes on in the marriage bed, physically if not emotionally and spiritually. I can imagine how a true joining would be.

      But to imagine it with Mac—have I lost my mind? Perhaps one of Henri’s slaps or punches wiped out my sanity and common sense.

      A man’s touch, other than my father’s, has only brought me suffering.

      Yet my fingers itch to touch Mac.

      I did touch him, when I cleansed him, and when he had the fever. I told myself it was to soothe him, but even in his sweat-drenched sleep I wanted to touch him. To feel that the skin over his bones was real. That he was real. That my nightmare with Henri had ended.

      I protected his privacy, of course. I helped him with the bedpan as much as he needed, but kept my eyes averted.

      All right, I did get a glance. Or two.

      Mac is an attractive man.

      Or would I find any man who isn’t beating me attractive?

      February 4, 1943

      Mac’s socks are taking longer than I expected. I keep dropping stitches when he speaks, which has been more often lately. I speak to him of my hopes for the future, always careful to leave it simple. To let him think that I have my own life to get back to after the war.

      He is so endearing, even when the pain or his restlessness makes him cranky.

      I had to put my pen down a minute—I thought I heard Mac’s bell tinkling from his room. But he’s still sound asleep. It’s twelve-thirty in the morning and I can’t sleep. I should be exhausted these days. The simple act of bathing myself, of using the bathroom, is a strain in the cold. We have an indoor toilet, but it’s off the kitchen and not heated. I dread removing even one layer of clothing, let alone stripping down to wash. Each day I have to make sure my windows are blackened so the house won’t draw the attention of the Germans.

      There’s only one explanation for my desire to remain awake, to savor every minute of every day.

      Mac.

      His steps are stronger and his complexion looks healthy now. Even on the meager potatoes and scraps of pork I manage, he’s healed.

      I can’t think about his departure. It’s crazy, I know. When this man dropped into my life, I was already deciding to leave Henri. Instead, I killed him.

      Yet Mac seems to like me. He’s never judged me for my sin.

      Whenever I see Mac, I can’t help feeling all warm inside. His presence makes me aware of my body as I’ve never been before. My hands tremble, my skin tingles, and I swear, I can feel my blood’s heat as it courses across my breasts and down my stomach…No one’s ever made me feel such things before.

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