tell him how to live his life. She hadn’t when he was a boy, and she wasn’t about to do so now. What they both did was dangerous, but living was dangerous. Her father had been at his own farm, taking care of his bees, breathing in the blue air, when they’d come to murder him. All Marianne could do was live her life, and let Victor live his.
She took note that in her absence, the flowers in the wreath she had left on her father’s grave had dried into husks that had blown away in the wind. She decided she would spend the following day working on a new one. The fields were rife with clouds of Queen Anne’s lace, which would make a billowy wreath. Her father had always said there were people who saw Queen Anne’s lace as a weed, and those who considered it a flower, and he belonged to the latter group.
If you think it’s beautiful, it is, he had told her.
She smiled to think the same was true of her. She was both plain and beautiful, a simple woman with a complicated heart. Marianne went into the barn to leave her boots. They were caked with mud and she never wore them inside the house. Victor was already at the farm and he’d caught sight of her through the window. He came out to the barn, shouting her name, delighted to see her.
He had been to Lyon and gathered the material he needed, all in a rucksack kept in the storm cellar a few yards from the house, a safe place where Marianne stored preserves and canned goods. He’d been at the farm for two days, and had seen to all her chores. He was no longer the boy from Paris, but was instead a bearded man dressed in the rough clothing of a farmer who liked to get his hands dirty and forget about the war for a few days.
Once they were in the barn together, Victor pulled the old door shut. He took her in his arms and loved her fiercely. He was so young, and he wanted her so. They realized Bluebell was watching their lovemaking and they laughed as Victor chased the goat away. When they were through, and had pulled on the clothes they’d cast into the straw, Victor went off through the field to see to the beehives. He did so in honor of Monsieur Félix, who would not have wanted the bees to go uncared for. It was a perfect evening, and Marianne stood in the doorway of the barn, picking bits of straw from her hair. Go forward, she told herself. Let yourself love him completely no matter where it leads.
Victor was beside the beehive when he noticed the lupines blooming. Marianne’s favorite flower. He picked a handful, and yellow pollen dusted his hands. He turned to wave the bunch of flowers in the air. When he called to Marianne a bee flew into his mouth. A single sting inside a person’s throat could kill him in an instant. Victor seemed to be choking, his arms waving above his head. Marianne ran to him, terrified. She pounded him on the back, and thankfully the bee flew out. They watched it rise into the sky, relieved and somewhat mystified. Was this what fate was? An instant in which you could lose everything or walk away unscathed? Victor let out a joyful shout, as if he was indestructible, but Marianne ran to the house to cry. People were so breakable and so easy to lose, especially now.
Victor came to her and kissed her, asking if his kisses tasted sweeter now that he’d had a honeybee in his mouth. He made a joke of it, but death had been close, an instant away. She wished he weren’t so young, maybe then it could last. They rarely discussed what would happen after the war, although Victor had spoken about plans to live on a kibbutz in Eretz Israel with his friends. He was excited about a new country and a new homeland. Imagine me with a camel, he’d said in a fit of laughter. He had asked her to go with him, but she had told him no, she could never leave this place. Now, in bed, he told her he had changed his mind about Israel. Instead, he would live with her here when the war was over, and help her with the farm. It was a dream, she