Prologue Prologue VLAGTWEDDE, NETHERLANDS | APRIL 1945 The soldiers are sitting outside playing cards when they notice the woman staggering down the street. The small Dutch border town they recently liberated from the Germans is quiet on this spring afternoon, and the soldiers have settled themselves in a circle using cargo boxes as makeshift chairs and tables in the absence of any real furniture. Canteens rest on the dusty ground at their feet whilst the sun shines on the tips of their ears and the backs of their necks, the same sun that warmed their skin back home. These five soldiers are part of the North Nova Scotia Highlanders, a proud contingent of the province's best and bravest young lads. Or at least, what's left of the contingent. They've lost many men along the way, the boys they grew up with, went to school with. Their mothers belong to the same quilting circles and church bazaar committees. Their fathers go fishing out on the flashing bays of the Atlantic where they smoke cigars and avoid discussions of the last war, burying the appalling realities that they didn't dare reveal to their own sons. They watched, tight-throated and helpless as their boys shipped out in crisp new uniforms, drunk on the dangerous youthful delusion of invincibility that they themselves once felt. The young soldiers think of their families now as they run their tongues over their teeth. Each man considers the hand he's been dealt. One craves his mother's fresh-squeezed lemonade. Another longs for the touch of his girl's warm hand on his arm, and hopes that she'll be waiting when he returns. And each man wants to win this card game so that he can line his threadbare pockets with cigarettes. They welcome the burning, dry heat in their lungs on cold evenings, a reminder that they are still alive and breathing where other, less fortunate men are rotting in a constellation of unmarked graves in France. When they hear a scratch in the dirt on the deserted road, the soldiers' heads snap up. Their eyes squint into the light for the source of the sound. They're always on high alert, even though they've taken Holland from the Nazis. A soldier can never be too careful. But it's only a woman on the road. No threat. As she shuffles closer, they see her dress is torn, her blond hair disheveled. She is missing a shoe. One of the soldiers drops his cards and jogs toward her, reaching her just as her knees give way. He catches the woman and lowers her to the ground, shouts to his comrades to fetch the medic. Her bare foot is bleeding and badly bruised. Her face is dirty, lips cracked and dry. Her blond hair reminds him of his little sister's, and in that moment, he just wants to go home. He calls for water and a canteen is thrust into his hand. "Drink," he tells the woman. "If you can." Her grey-blue eyes grow wide and she grips his hand. "English!" she whispers. The soldier nods. "Canadian." She tries to take the canteen, but her fingers tremble violently. The soldier rests it against her lips and tips some water into her parched mouth. She splutters at first, then gulps it down. When she finishes, a drop slips down her chin. The soldier wipes it away, revealing pale skin beneath the layer of grime. "What's your name, love?" he asks. The medic arrives and squats down. He shines a bright light into her eyes, and her chest tightens like a rubber band. She fights against the memory of the searchlights. The fire. The medic takes her wrist and presses his fingers down to locate her weak pulse. "What's your name, miss?" "Audrey," she says, her raspy voice a little louder this time. "Audrey James." Excerpted from The Secret History of Audrey James by Heather Marshall All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
