I don't remember much, but I remember pushing open the door. I remember the screams that came from the bedroom above. I remember the moans that came from the basement below.

But I did not go upstairs or downstairs. Instead, I walked to the back of the house and sat myself gently on the sofa in the sitting room. I think I sat there a long time, not thinking much of anything, but just listening.

Then, at nearly the same exact moment, Laurent came down from the bedroom and Cosima came up from the basement. They met on the landing. They both called my name.

"I'm here," I said.

But I said it quietly. I didn't really want them to find me. I didn't want anyone to find me. I had disappeared into a cloud of pain and confusion and I didn't want anyone to find me.

They called again.

"I'm here!" I said, wiping a tear from my face. "I can't really move."

Cosima ran to me, kneeling by my side and grabbing my hand. Laurent stayed at the door.

"I must go get help," he said. "You should stay with the girl."

"Her name is Aishe," I spat. "And I asked you to watch her."

"Delphine..." Cosima whispered, squeezing my hand.

"I was watching someone else!" he said. "Or did you forget about the Nazi in the basement?"

"Yes, and you did a very good job, didn't you?!"

"Delphine, stop," Cosima said softly.

"Well, thank god I was watching him? What would have happened if he had escaped while I was outside with Aishe? Did you think of that? This could have been much worse, Delphine!"

"It could have been much better, too!"

Cosima stood up, her fists clenched.

"Enough!" she shouted. "This is not the time for blame. Laurent, go!"

Laurent took one last look at me, and then rolled his shoulder back from the door frame. He ran out of the house.

"Can you stand?" Cosima said.

"I don't know."

"Aishe needs you."

"I don't think I can," I said. "I don't think I can see her like that."

"Alright," Cosima said. "Then take this."

She reached behind her, pulling out the pistol and handing it to me handle first. I reached for it without thinking, the weight of it familiar in my hand.

"But…" I started.

"It's your only choice," she said. "Be strong."

Then she kissed me on the forehead before leaving me alone in the sitting room. Only a few moments later, I heard her footsteps overhead. I heard her voice, kind and gentle and loving. I wished it could be me, but I knew that even if I could get myself up those stairs, I would only cry and holler and be of no comfort to anyone.

Slowly, painfully, I lifted myself from the sofa and shuffled into the hallway. I leaned myself against the wall opposite the basement door. I slid down, down, until I was sitting against it, my knees tucked up. I clenched the handle of the pistol with both hands, the barrel pointing over the tops of my knees.

Pain radiated up from my mid back, right up through my neck, catching at the base of my skull and then shooting straight forward into my brow. And at the same time, the same pain reached out through my arms and down through my legs, gathering all of me up in it's web-like grasp.

I did not move.

I sat against the wall and watched the door.

But the pain in my heart hurt much more than the pain in my limbs. I comforted myself with that thought. Somehow knowing that my physical pain could be overshadowed was a comfort. Perhaps there was something else, something even larger and darker, that could overshadow my emotional pain, too. Perhaps, hate?

I ran my thumb back and forth over the ridge of the pistol hammer. I pulled it back, over and over, just far enough to almost cock it, then I let it fall back into place. I pulled it back, released it; pulled it back, released it. I did this an innumerable amount of times.

Until finally Laurent and Lumiere walked in through the door. There was a third man, a doctor. He carried a black leather bag, and he followed Lumiere upstairs. Laurent stayed with me, sinking down along the wall beside me until the both of us sat together, staring at the door.

I did not offer the pistol to Laurent, and he did not ask for it.

No, together, we sat silently and stared.

"Why do you hate him so much?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

"Why don't you?"

"That's not an answer."

Laurent sighed. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes."

"He was here… that night."

"Yes, I know."

"He came here to take us all away."

"But he saved my life."

At that, Laurent turned toward me, disbelief in his eyes.

"It's true," I said. "He knew where I was hiding — up in the tree — but he didn't say a word."

"Well, he always did have a soft spot for you."

"Tell me what happened that night. Tell me all of it."

"All of it? Well, I don't think I remember all of it."

"Me, neither."

"You left out the back door, and we went out the front. I couldn't stop the pounding in my heart. I couldn't go back, not to the eastern front. I was selfish."

"If you were selfish, then so was I," I said.

"Yes, I guess we both were."

"So you ran? Into the vineyards?"

"Oui, I hid in the vineyards, but I heard the gunshots..."

"Three of them," I added, filling in the empty space.

"Yes. Three of them. Then I heard the screaming — a man's voice. I crawled along the ground until I could get a better view. That's when I saw them. The bodies. And the officer. He screamed and cried like a child, writhing on the ground. But mother and father...they did not scream. Father did not move, but mother...she crawled for a bit. She was crying. She crawled right into his arms. And do you know what I thought?"

"What?"

"I thought, thank god that piece of shit is squirming like a worm, otherwise they never would have let her get that close to him. They would have kicked her away in a second — I know how these men work — they would have kicked her away and forced her to die alone. And so I watched that bastard scream and clutch at his eye and I thought, that's right, keep crying, keep crying. And all of his lackeys ran to his side, paying no attention to mother and father. And that's when I saw it…"

"Saw what?"

"Mother laid her head on father's chest, and I had thought that he was already gone... but then he lifted his arm and he touched her head."

Laurent became quiet. My hot tears splashed down against my chest.

"At least they were together," I said.

"Yes, we can give thanks for that."

"At least."

"Soon after that, Ethan and the other soldier came running back. The crying bastard was loaded back into the truck, but before he left he barked orders for Ethan to stay, to wait for the survivors — to wait for me and you."

"I knew it was Ethan!" I said, suddenly remembering the light in the sitting room, the one I had seen from the top of the cherry tree.

"Ethan asked what he should do with the bodies. The bastard said to bury them. Ethan saluted and said he would. Then the truck drove off and Ethan stood outside for a few moments. I could swear he looked right at me, but there was no way he could see me in the dark. Then he turned, looked up at the house, and after a long moment, he walked to the front door, careful to step around mother and father, careful to not even look at them as he went."

"But he buried them? Later? In the morning?"

"Non."

"Non?"

"He left them there...all night. He left them there all the next day, too. And the next night. It was the third day that he finally came back out of the house. He pulled his cap on tightly, he tucked something under his arm — papers of some kind — and then he hurried down the drive as if he couldn't get out of here fast enough."

"He just left them there?"

"For two days."

"I see," I said.

I felt the hatred. I felt it welling up, overcoming any sort of pain I might have been feeling at the moment.

"So then… it was you?" I said. "You buried them?"

Laurent looked down at his hands.

"By the time I got to the them, their bodies were bloated up like balloons. Mother's tongue hung out like a dog's…"

"Please, stop!" I said. "I don't need to know."

"You said you wanted the whole story."

"I changed my mind."

"The ground was already hard, not frozen solid exactly, but not easy to break, either. A shovel wasn't going to do it. I had to go back to the barn and get the axe. And it took so long to dig one grave, that I decided to put them in it together. Besides, even if I had wanted to separate them, their arms were stiff and wouldn't budge. Even as I dragged and rolled them, they landed face up at the bottom of the pit, still wrapped in each other's arms."

"I think I'm going to be sick," I said.

"I know," he said. "I am sick, too. I think I will always be sick."

I grabbed his hand. I squeezed it.

"Non," I said. "Non. We are going to get out of here. We will not be sick forever."

He looked me in the eyes, but I could tell he didn't believe me.

"Perhaps..."

Just then we heard footsteps on the stairs. The doctor came down, his briefcase in hand, his forehead damp with perspiration. He reached for a handkerchief and wiped at his brow.

Laurent rose, pushing himself up against the wall. I stayed where I was. I didn't have the energy to rise. I didn't have the energy to hide the gun, either.

"Well?" Laurent said.

"Her condition is stable for now, but I'm sorry to say that there is nothing I can do for the arm."

"What do you mean, nothing?" I growled.

The doctor gazed intently at the pistol in my hand.

"Let's see," he started, "The arm is fractured in many places, three that I'm sure of, possibly more. There is no circulation in her fingers and hand. I'm afraid the best option would be surgery, or...if that fails...amputation."

"Amputation?"

I clutched at the pistol grip, my hands shaking, my knees shaking, too.

"That's right," the doctor went on. "But we can't do it here, not in Rosheim. She would need a surgeon, someone with expertise. Strasbourg would be best."

"Non," I said. "Non, we can't go to Strasbourg."

"I'm afraid it's her only option," the doctor said, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket. "I'm afraid any other city would be too far. She is...well, she is running out of time."

"Why can't you do it?"

"Me? I'm just a general practitioner. You need a surgeon... a specialist."

"Well, do you see any surgeons here?" I asked.

I heard another set of footsteps.

"I know of a surgeon," Cosima said from the stairs.

"Another one of your contacts?" I asked, my words swollen with a disdain that I could neither contain nor control.

"Yes, but in order to get to him we have to leave right away."

"Non," I said. "I told you, we can't go back to Strasbourg."

"I'm not talking about Strasbourg. I'm talking about Normandy."

"Normandy?" the doctor said.

"Normandy?" Lumiere echoed.

"Normandy is too far," the doctor said. "The journey would be too rough."

"Not for us," Cosima interjected. "We've got a plane — no — two planes."

Lumiere grunted his understanding. The doctor tilted his head in contemplation.

"In that case, yes, it might work. I have splinted the arm. But it would be best if she remains sedated for the flight. I can leave the morphine with you. But when do you plan to embark?"

"Soon," Cosima said. "As soon as the sun comes up."

"Then let me leave this here," the doctor said, reaching into his suitcase.

He pulled out a little glass bottle. He handed it to Cosima. He gave instructions on its use, but I only half heard him, because at that moment Laurent took two long strides toward me, swooped the pistol from my hand and reached for the basement door.

"What are you doing?" I said.

"We are out of time," he said. "We must deal with him now."

"What are you going to do?"

He looked at me for a long moment, his mouth hanging open. But then his expression became hard, his mouth closed and his jaw clenched.

"I'm going to make him finish the job."

"What?"

But Laurent was already gone, the basement door closed behind him. My heart pounded. I listened and listened for the gunshot I was sure would follow, but all I heard were the hushed voices of Cosima, Lumiere and the doctor.

I stared at the door. My body ached with pain, but my heart kept right on pounding, pounding. I was scared. Not scared of Ethan, but scared for Laurent.

I stood up, slowly, bracing myself against the wall and wincing as I went.

I reached for the basement door. I had to stop Laurent. This had all gone too far.

I touched the doorknob, and was about to turn it, but then I felt Cosima's hand on my forearm, gentle and cool.

"Delphine," she said. "We need to get ready."

And though her hand was cool, I flinched. I jerked my hand away as if I had been burned.

"What?" I said.

"We need to get ready. Can I help you up the stairs?"

"Cosima, I…"

"Don't worry, she is asleep."

"But…"

"Delphine," Cosima said, as gentle as she could muster, "We are running out of time. I need you to focus. Aishe is depending on you. Do you hear me?"

I heard her, but I still had one ear on the basement. I was still waiting for the violence to reveal itself.

"Delphine!"

The urgency in her voice was jarring. I looked at her, snapping my head away from the basement door. There was a hint of desperation in her eyes, and I knew that I was the one who was scaring her. I sighed.

"Delphine," she whispered.

She touched my face. She pulled me close to her until our foreheads were touching.

"We are not going to die here. Do you hear me?"

"Oui."

"We are going to go upstairs. We are going to pack your things. We are going to get Aishe down to the plane and we are going to get out of here."

"Yes, Cosima," I said.

"Forget about Laurent," she whispered.

Her words shocked me. I jumped back.

"What?" I said.

"Forget about Laurent and forget about Ethan."

"Wha—? How? How can I just forget about them?"

"You must," she said. "The most important thing is to make sure Aishe is safe."

"She will be safe," I said, my head suddenly clear. "We will all be safe."

I couldn't quite pin down her expression at that moment, but I think it was pity.

"Delphine, I am leaving at sunrise. And I'm taking Aishe with me. Please, don't make me leave you again."

I hated her words. I hated them in the true sense of the word hate, passionately, hotly, wildly. I felt a fire well up in my chest at the idea. I wanted to shout and cry and kick. I wanted to lash out, but I couldn't even do that. I was too weak to even do that. I turned away from her. I leaned heavily against the wall.

"Yes, Cosima," I said. "Yes. I understand."

Then her hand was on my shoulder. Then her arms were around my waist. Then her face was tucked against my neck.

I leaned back against her. I opened my mouth. My apologies sat on my tongue, heavy and unmovable. I squeezed her hand, and then she was gone.

She pulled away without another word. She pulled away and walked up the stairs.

I listened one more time at the basement door, but hearing nothing, I started my long, painful journey up the stairs.

—