Tender Mercies
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 8
March came in like a wolf—hungry and mean.
The Germans were growing more desperate. Food requisitions increased. Patrols became more frequent, more thorough. The Lieutenant’s visits to check her quota always carried an edge now, his questions sharper, his eyes suspicious.
The Allies were closing in. Everyone knew it. The garrison knew it. And cornered animals were the most dangerous.
Clarice moved through her days with her nerves stretched wire-thin.
It was a Tuesday morning, the first week of March, when everything nearly fell apart.
She was in the barn, mucking out stalls. Routine work, mindless work. The kind that let her thoughts drift to the cellar, to Scotty, to the impossible conversation they’d had three nights ago about him staying.
She’d been avoiding the topic since. Afraid to hope. Afraid to believe.
The sound of boots on frozen ground made her freeze mid-shovel.
Not the Lieutenant. Multiple soldiers. More than usual.
She set down the shovel carefully, wiped her hands on her apron, and stepped out of the barn.
Six Germans. The Lieutenant and five soldiers, one of them an officer she didn’t recognize. Older, hard-faced, with the insignia of a major.
Her blood turned to ice.
“Madame Deveroux.” The Lieutenant’s voice was clipped. “Major Hoffmann wishes to inspect your property.”
The Major stepped forward. His French was better than the Lieutenant’s, almost unaccented. “We have reason to believe an enemy combatant may be hiding in this area. We are conducting thorough searches of all buildings and structures.”
All structures.
She forced herself to breathe normally. “Of course, Major. I have nothing to hide.”
“Then you will not object to us searching everywhere.” His eyes were cold. “Including your cheese cellar.”
The world tilted.
“The cheese cellar?” She kept her voice steady through sheer force of will. “Of course not. But it is very small, Major. Just for aging cheese. There is nothing—”
“We will determine that.” He turned to his men, gave orders in rapid German.
Four soldiers headed toward the house and barn. The Lieutenant and one other started across the back pasture.
Toward the cellar.
Clarice’s mind raced. Scotty was down there. It was morning—she hadn’t made her first visit yet. He would be awake, maybe moving around, maybe making noise.
And there was nowhere to hide. The space behind the shelves was too obvious if they were doing a thorough search. They would move the shelves. They would find him.
She had to warn him. Had to give him a chance to—to what? Run? He’d be seen immediately. Hide? Where?
Her feet moved before her brain caught up.
“The cellar, it is this way,” she said, walking quickly. “I will show you.”
The Lieutenant frowned. “We can find it, Madame.”
“The door, it sticks sometimes. Let me—”
She was nearly running now, her heart slamming against her ribs. If she could just get there first, just open the door and call down, give him some warning—
But the Lieutenant’s hand caught her arm.
“Madame, that is not necessary.” His grip was firm. “Please. Wait here.”
She watched, helpless, as the two soldiers reached the cellar door. Watched one of them pull it open.
Watched them descend into the darkness where Scotty was.
Every muscle in her body was screaming to run, to fight, to do something.
She stood frozen, the Major’s eyes on her, the Lieutenant’s hand still on her arm.
Seconds ticked by like hours.
Then—voices from below. German voices, calling out.
One soldier’s head appeared at the cellar entrance.
“Herr Leutnant!” he shouted. “Hier ist jemand!”
Someone’s here.
The world stopped.
The Lieutenant’s grip on her arm tightened. The Major was already moving toward the cellar, barking orders.
Clarice’s vision tunneled. This was it. They’d found him. They would shoot him. Would shoot her. It was over.
But then—
The soldier climbed fully out, pulling someone with him.
Not Scotty.
A boy. Maybe fourteen, dressed in rags, thin as a scarecrow. A refugee, probably, or a deserter. Someone who’d been hiding in her cellar and she hadn’t even known.
The boy was crying, pleading in French. “Please, please, I meant no harm, I was just hungry—”
The Major grabbed him by the collar, shook him. “How long have you been here?”
“Just—just last night, I swear, I just needed somewhere warm—”
“Search the rest of it,” the Major snapped at the soldiers.
They went back down.
Clarice couldn’t breathe. The boy—whoever he was—had been in her cellar, the cellar where Scotty was supposed to be, and somehow Scotty wasn’t there, and where was he, where—
The soldiers emerged again.
“Nichts, Herr Major.” Nothing.
“Just cheese?” the Major demanded.
“Ja. Nur Käse.”
The Major looked at the terrified boy, then at Clarice. “You knew nothing of this?”
“Non, Major. Nothing. I—I check the cellar every few days, but I was there last two days ago. He must have come after.”
It was a lie. She’d been there yesterday morning. But her voice didn’t shake.
The Major stared at her for a long, terrible moment.
Then he shoved the boy toward one of the soldiers. “Take him. We’ll question him at the fortress.”
The boy started screaming, begging. The soldier dragged him away.
“The rest of your property is clear,” the Lieutenant said, releasing her arm. “Our apologies for the disturbance, Madame.”
The Major said nothing, just turned and walked away.
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