The Winter Orphans by Kristin Beck

Author:Kristin Beck [Beck, Kristin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2022-09-13T00:00:00+00:00

NINETEEN

Rösli

Château de la Hille, southern France

Late April 1943

Rösli walked through the woods, the air brisk in her lungs, a towel and dress tucked under her arm. It was early, and the sky was pale and as fresh as the buds fattening on branches, poised to burst into spring. She brushed away a spray of twigs, ducking a bit as the stream appeared before her, and her heart smarted at the sight of its glittering, rippling water. Behind her, up the hill, she felt as if she could sense the château full of children still sleeping, the rhythm of their collective breath as familiar now as her own pulse.

How many more mornings would she step into this bracing stream, snaking through a cleft in the hills, as she had for nearly two years now? How many more times would she return to the château, cold skinned and clean and wide awake, to join her children at the noisy wooden tables for breakfast? How many more times would she see the gap-toothed smiles of les Petits eating porridge, or hear the unharnessed laughter of les Moyens, or talk with the newly serious Grands, who carried the weight of the world on their young shoulders? Her superiors would surely make her leave soon, yet she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

She sighed, letting her tattered, blue bathrobe drop from her shoulders, and the morning air hit her skin. She tottered barefoot toward the water, thinking of her latest talk with Maurice. The meetings in Bern hadn’t gone well, and it stung to imagine Colonel Remund, red-faced and furious, condemning Rösli, Germaine, and Renée. Maurice had omitted the details, but every day since, Rösli had walked to Montégut, her heart in her throat, expecting a letter of dismissal. So far, she’d been spared.

Shivering, she made her way out over the rocky stream bank, her long feet finding ground as the water started to flow over them, prodding gooseflesh to sprout on her pale body. Her stomach tightened in familiar anticipation as she found the place where the bank dropped off, the water eddying in a deep pool, and Rösli sank in. The freezing water embraced her, washing away any remnants of sleep, sweat, and dirt. Mademoiselle Näf! A voice squealed in her memory as the water rushed over her head. How can you stand it? I could never be so brave!

She surfaced, inhaling morning air. The voice was Dela’s, two summers ago, when the children had first arrived at La Hille and Rösli herself was new. She closed her eyes, let water run through her fingers, and saw Dela as she’d been that morning, hugging her slender arms on the stream bank, unable to muster the courage to plunge in and bathe.

Dive in headfirst, Rösli had called out. You’re braver than you think.

She scrambled for the bank, slipping on the rocks under her feet. Dela had been braver than she’d thought, indeed. They all had. And yet, now Dela was gone.

Rösli toweled off, pulled on

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