Violins of Autumn by Amy McAuley Page A

hunger begs me to confess.“I’ve eaten, but only a few proper meals. I don’t have the correct ration booklets.”
    “There are ways to get around that.”
    “Yes, I know about the black market restaurants.”
    “Would you like to wash up?”
    I look down at my arms, smudged with dirt and train soot, wanting to shout, “My God, yes! Lead the way!” I take a calming breath. “I don’t want to impose on you.”
    “Nonsense. Come with me.”
    I tiptoe downstairs, combing my fingers through my damp hair.
    “Adele, I’m in my study,” Dr. Devereux calls. “Can you come here a moment?”
    I follow the sound of his voice to a small, dusk-lit room off the front foyer. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases line the walls, filled with exotic souvenirs and books. I’ve never seen so many books in a home. I study the framed bird-watching chart on the wall, wondering how many of those beautiful birds Dr. Devereux has seen with his own eyes.
    “Take a seat,” he says, nodding toward a chair on the opposite side of his desk.
    I sit and fold my hands on my lap.
    “Adele, if you don’t mind me asking”—Dr. Devereux leans forward, his kind eyes pinched with worry—“how old are you?”
    “I’m twenty-two,” I say as convincingly as I would to a German interrogator.
    “Do you have a safe place to stay the night?”
    I don’t know what to say. His wife will never let me stay in her lavish home.
    “I don’t have a place to stay.”
    “Tonight?” he asks, settling back in his chair. “Or no place to stay at all?”
    “I don’t have any place to stay.”
    “My wife is spending the night at her sister’s home. You are more than welcome to stay in our guest bedroom.”
    If I turn down a night of luxurious sleep in favor of the train, my aching body will never forgive me.
    “Thank you. I will stay, but only tonight. You’ve been too kind to me already.”
    “There is no such thing as too kind,” he says. He removes a tablet of paper and a pencil from the center desk drawer. “I can help you, Adele, if you’ll let me. My good friend, Estelle, takes people in. You will be safe there. She is an extremely conscientious woman.” He slides a sheet of paper across the desktop. “That is Estelle’s address. I will telephone her in the morning to make the arrangements. She has many contacts. She may be able to point you in the direction of someone who can help you more than I can.”
    “Thank you,” I say, shocked by how drastically my luck has turned. If only I had reached out to Dr. Devereux days ago.
    “The guest bedroom is upstairs, the second door on the left. I laid out some clothes for you. Feel free to take some or all of them. My wife won’t notice their absence.”
    I remember what Pierre said: clean clothes boost his men’s morale. The prospect of trading my filthy skirts and blouses for a fresh nightgown thrills me.
    “Thank you again, Dr. Devereux,” I say, standing. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
    “Good night, Adele, I hope you have pleasant dreams. I’m sure it must be a great relief to no longer be stranded all alone.”
    “Yes,” I say. “It really is.”
    Dr. Devereux was referring only to the week I spent stranded and alone in France, of course. He barely knows me as Adele, and he knows nothing of who I really am deep down. He didn’t choose his words knowing they would have an effect on me.
    I climb the staircase, remembering a time years before, when I arrived in London.
    After Britain declared war on Germany in September 1939, both sides stood at a standstill. It was a phony war, people said. Believing the phony war wouldn’t last, my father arranged for me to leave school and travel as far as Britain to stay with my mother’s sister, Aunt Libby, a woman I had never met.
    One night my uncle Edward called me into the darkened sitting room. The glow of his pipe and a weak lamp lent soft auras of light to the room.
    I sat in the high-backed chair opposite him, at the far reaches of