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says.
    “They do miss their families. But every one of these men would rather be living among his buddies in the woods than toiling in some German factory or work camp. They became
maquisards
by choice for a cause they believe in.” Pierre hauls a bag of laundry from the cart. “I’m sure you noticed already that my mother is a generous woman. She does so much to make this hard life easier for them. When they change into clean clothes today, it will boost morale more than you might imagine is possible.”
    Pierre observes the camp with obvious pride. How does he not see what I see?
    Denise lands feet together on the dirt. “Will the men mind if we look around?”
    “They won’t mind. Although, steer clear of that guy by the tents, the one whittling what he likes to call a ‘gouger.’ He’ll steal anything that’s not tied down.”
    I gasp. “He’s a criminal?”
    “Sometimes he is. Are you frightened?”
    “No.”
    Pierre smirks at me. “You should be.”
    Denise fetches her suitcase. She lugs it the length of the cart, gripping the handle with both hands.
    “Set up your radio at the desk. André will advise you of our requirements.” Pierre gestures to a long wooden board laid across the tops of two oil drums, where a man sits listening intently to a small radio through a pair of headphones. “There should be plenty of space for your aerial. You will need to use battery power, though. I know power for the radios is hard to come by, but we’ve been unable to hook into the main supply.”
    “I’ll transmit quickly,” Denise says with a frown as she walks to the desk, the suitcase swinging like a heavy pendulum at her side.
    I have only seconds to worry about being left alone with Pierre before he marches away with a sack of laundry thrown over his shoulder.
    Everyone seems to have a job to do. I’m the odd person out and I’m not sure what to do about it. I watch my legs sway in slow circles. How is it possible to feel so alone surrounded by so many people?
    As I sit within the Maquis camp it hardly seems real that only a few months ago I was working as a barmaid. Two British officers,Charles and John, were among the pub’s regular customers, and one day John called me to their table. I could never have imagined that our conversation would fling open the door to a brand-new life.
    “We were mulling over your age. Charles says twenty. I say twenty-two. Let me be right to win the pint, Betty. I’m a thirsty man.”
    “I’m nineteen.”
    Once the lie escaped my mouth there was nothing to do but stand behind it and hope I didn’t get caught. Switching my answer would have made me look awfully stupid.
    “Nineteen?” John said. He looked to Charles, who nodded.
    “That’s an odd American accent you have,” Charles said.
    “Well, I’ve lived here a few years now. And I went to boarding school near Geneva.”
    “You speak French?”
    French was the main language spoken throughout the day at school. I was fluent.
    “
Je parle français très bien
.” And then I offered my slightly rusty Swiss German. “
Ich spreche auch Deutsches
.”
    John looked to Charles, who nodded more vigorously this time.
    “Do you like adventure?” John asked.
    He might as well have asked if I enjoyed breathing. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”
    Charles swooped in close. He smelled waxy and fresh, and a tad spicy. “Go to 64 Baker Street. A captain will be waiting. They’re in need of girls just like you.” Noting my skepticism, he smiled and added, “Trust us, Betty. Give it a go.”
    Well, I gave it a go, all right.
    A man I recognize from last night’s reception team rides into the clearing on a bicycle.
    “Pierre, I’ve come from my brother’s,” he calls, leaning the bike against a tree. When he reaches Pierre outside the doorway of a thatched hut, I listen in as he says, “The factory is producing military equipment for the Germans, but my brother doesn’t know what is being made there. Propellers for the