personally authorized his own travel to Franceânot because of Pierre, but because he knew of Jakeâs lack of family and his distress over Sally.
The train that took them through the Alsace countryside was from a bygone era. Plumes of smoke and cinders flew by their closed window. Jake gave thanks for a chilly day. Ifit had been warmer and the windows open, they would both have arrived blackened by the chuffing locomotive.
âGibraltar,â Pierre murmured. âWhy would he choose to go there, of all places? Why not home?â
âIt seems to me that if your brother really had survived,â Jake cautioned, âhe would have gotten in touch with somebody long before now.â
âDo not rob me of hope, my friend,â Pierre said, his eyes still on the countryside. âAlready it hangs from the slenderest of threads. Do not swing the knife.â
âI justââ
âDonât,â Pierre repeated, turning away from the window. âLet me sit for now, this moment, this day, and believe that there might indeed be a chance that Patrique is still alive. My mind too is full of all the arguments, but my heart does not wish to hear them. Not now. Not yet.â
Jake nodded his understanding. âSo tell me more about your brother.â
Pierre was silent a long moment, then began. âMarseille is a funny place. For the first three years of the war, it was occupied by the Italians. Between the mentality of the Italians and that of the Marseille people, life there was what we callsoft.â People got on with the business of living. There was laughter. There was smuggling. That is what my brother did. He smuggled bodies.â
âWarm ones, I hope.â
Pierre smiled. âMy brother operated the Marseille end of an underground system that smuggled out people wanted by the Nazis. About half were Jews. The others were mostly German intelligentsia, people who publicly opposed Hitlerâs madnessâprofessionals, priests, teachers, writers. He was very successful, my brother. At least, as long as the Italians were there.â
âAfter that?â
âAfter that, well, after that came the Nazis. And life became very hard.â
âAnd your brother?â
âPatrique stayed for as long as he could. Then one night the Nazis came for him, and we all thought he had been taken. But somehow he had managed to escape at the very last moment. He went to Morocco and operated there for a while.â
Jake inspected his friendâs somber face. âHe was killed there?â
âSo we were told,â Pierre sighed. âWhere exactly I have not been able to determine. Everything after his departure from Marseille remains a mystery.â
Jake said quietly, âYou miss him.â
âThere is a bond between twins that only another twin can understand,â Pierre said. âIt is for me like an invisible connection from the womb. More than sympathy. We share in the emotions and the experiences of one another. Across distances, across time. We are different, yet the same.â
Jake listened and heard the way his friend spoke. We are these things, Pierre was saying. Not were. Not in the past. Still today. Jake heard, and understood, and dared hope for his friend as he had not been able to hope for his own family.
âI am the cautious one. Reserved. Deliberate. I am the one who made the good army officer,â Pierre continued. âPatrique is bold. More than that. He is reckless. I was the reins that held Patrique in place. I think he understood this better than I. Through Patrique I felt the emotions I never allowed myself, and through me Patrique knew a balance between caution and abandon.â
The emotions that etched themselves on Pierreâs features were too naked for Jake to feel comfortable watching. He turned his attention to the window, listening carefully, but granting his friend the only privacy he could offer.
âPatrique