Page 50 of A Resistance of Witches

Henry nodded. “I know he would. But I wouldn’t.”

Lydia looked into his eyes and saw that there was no sense in trying to change his mind. “Right.” She peered out anxiously at the miles of road ahead of them. “Back roads, then.”

“Back roads,” he replied.

•••

Lydia watched outher window as hills rose and fell alongside them like slowly cresting waves. Clouds rolled in, turning the sky avelvety gray. All around them the remaining leaves shone in shades of copper and gold, looking otherworldly in the November fog. Next to her, Rebecca sagged against the car window, fast asleep.

Henry was, in fact, an exceptionally careful driver. Normally Lydia would have appreciated his prudence, but today it took every ounce of her self-control not to scream at him to drive faster. She imagined arriving at the farmhouse only to find the floorboards torn up, the book already long gone. She felt herself spiraling in the silence of the car, imagining all the horror that would come to pass if she failed; in that moment, it seemed inevitable.

“You all right?” She looked up to see Henry’s eyes on her in the mirror. She wondered what she’d done to call his attention.

She cleared her throat. “May I ask you something personal?” The panicked howl inside her skull lowered to a moan. Next to her, Rebecca snored softly.

Henry shifted in his seat. “Sure.”

“Why did you decide to stay in France? Going back to America would surely have been safer.”

He shrugged. “Not necessarily. Sure, I might get killed by the Nazis because I stayed. But if I’d gone home, I probably would have been drafted. And then I would have ended up in some trench. Getting killed by Nazis.”

“But that’s not why you stayed.”

His eyes flicked to hers in the mirror. “No. It’s not.”

“Then why?”

Henry was quiet for a moment. “Hitler covets art. It isn’t the same as loving it. He takes the things he wants and destroys the rest. Anything that doesn’t align with his worldview, anything that isn’tAryanenough for them, they have a name for it, they call itEntartete Kunst. Degenerate art.” He was quiet for several seconds. “How can art be degenerate?”

Lydia couldn’t think of anything to say, and so she said nothing.

“I had a responsibility. I couldn’t just let them take whatever they wanted and pick and choose what to keep, what to destroy. And I couldn’t leave, not when the people I’d worked alongside were risking everything. It would have been…cowardly.”

“I understand.” Lydia was beginning to think Henry was a bit like herself—principled to the point of self-destruction. They drove in silence for a few minutes, watching the fog blanketing the hillside. “Do you think you’ll go back home someday? After the war?”

“No.” Henry’s hands flexed on the wheel. “Maybe.I don’t know.”

“You don’t care for New Orleans?”

“I love New Orleans. Greatest city on earth. The food, the music…”

“You miss it.”

A beat. “Yes.”

“Then why?”

Henry frowned. “It’s…complicated.”

“I see.” Lydia thought again about what she’d seen in Henry’s mind—the doors, the pearl-white eyes, the terror. “But you wouldn’t have to go back to New Orleans. America is a big country. You could go anywhere.”

“I could.” Lydia could hear from Henry’s tone that she had missed something vital.

“But you won’t,” she said. “Why?”

Henry glanced at his mirror, then away again. “In America, when you’re a Black man, you’re aboy.It doesn’t matter how old, or how educated. You’re a boy until the day you die. ‘Watch your mouth, boy. Don’t get smart, boy.’ ” He shrugged. “In France I’m a man.”

“The Nazis don’t see you as a man.”

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