August 1939

It was a lovely day that day; lovely but hot. The sky was bright blue, and the sun was strong on my shoulders. I hurried down a narrow dirt road, clutching my school books to my chest, sweat gathering in the crooks of my elbows. I hurried past countless rows of grapevines, past old farm houses, and even older fences.

I passed a field of sunflowers, and I barely noticed them at all. I barely noticed their rich, full blossoms, or their towering height, or their subtle scent. I barely noticed how clear the air was; so clear that if you had the wherewithal to look for it, you could make out any ridge of the Vosges Mountains in the distance.

I did not notice the mountains, nor did I notice the grapevines or the sunflowers. I didn't notice any of it, though I admit that it was a lovely country scene. To me it was just that; country. That afternoon, I had the city on my mind; and one city in particular, Strasbourg.

I had made a promise to my brother, Laurent, the night before; me sitting at my desk, him sitting on the edge of the bed behind me, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Bonsoir, Delphine," he had said.

"What do you want?" I had said, leaning over my books.

"The pleasure of your company, of course," he said.

"Company to where?" I said, smiling to myself because I already knew the answer.

"To a certain gentleman's club in Strasbourg, tomorrow evening," he said.

"Go by yourself," I said.

"Oh, come on," he said. "It's more fun when you come along."

"Why?" I said. "Every time I go with you to one of those places, you abandon me for some handsome guy, and I'm left alone at the table, sipping a glass of wine and wishing I was right here, at my desk, with a good book."

"But I need you," he said.

"Why?" I said.

"Because you're the prettiest girl in all of Alsace, and the smartest, too," he said. "All the boys love you."

"Oh, shut up," I said. "The boys you want aren't interested in me... you just need me to translate for your border-jumping Germans."

"So, you'll do it?" he said.

I turned around in my chair and looked into his blue eyes. They were sparkling; radiating a seductive mixture of mischief, curiosity and confidence. It was never easy for me to say no to him, not completely.

"Fine," I said. "But I'm sick of wine. I want a proper cocktail, like a proper lady."

"No problem," he said.

"A martini," I said.

"Sure" he said.

"One of those fancy ones," I said, "with the little cherry at the bottom."

"No sweat!" he said. "I always take care of you, don't I?"

"Fine," I said, and we agreed over a handshake to leave the house the next night at six o'clock on the dot.

On the dot, I thought as I hurried up the dirt road. On the dot! It's already four!

Yes, I had the city on my mind as I hurried up the road; a road that wound through the vineyards, past the field of sunflowers and up to my family's old house; a house so old that the entire west side was crumbling from water damage.

I hope Laurent has a good cover story, I thought.

I hadn't had time to think of one, but he was usually reliable about that sort of thing, so I put it out of my mind. Mostly, I wondered what I should wear. Those boys at the bars he went to were always so dandy, I always felt underdressed.

I'll have to wear my Sunday dress, I thought.

But then I second guessed myself, A church dress? Really?

But just as the sweat dripped from my temple and into the corner of my eye, I heard a loud bang from overhead. I flinched and looked up.

"What in the world?" I muttered to myself, standing motionless with my hand over my eyes.

It was a plane.

It passed right overhead, the cheerful hum of its propellor interrupted every few seconds by a great sputtering of gray smoke.

"You don't see that everyday," I said to myself.

The plane moved several hundred meters off, then banked to the right, its wings tipping at a severe angle and the whole vehicle shaking violently as it pulled around. It straightened out and I realized then, it was headed straight for the sunflower field, straight for me, and it was approaching fast.

I stumbled backwards, trying to get out of the plane's path, but my feet got caught up and I fell, dropping my books in the dirt, then landing hard on my tailbone. I cried out just as the wheels touched down.

I watched, in horror, as the plane landed roughly in the field, carving out great tracks among the sunflowers, dragging hundreds of them along in its landing gear and propellor as it went, and I was sure, this was the end of my short life. Then it came to a complete stop, only a few meters from where I lay, and after one final bang-bang-crack, the propellor died down.

I took a deep breath.

Oh, thank god, I thought. I'm too young to die.

The pilot jumped up then, waving his hands over his head and shouting something that I couldn't quite understand. He wore a leather cap and enormous goggles that seemed to swallow his face, save for a tiny nose and petite mouth. In fact, as he scurried out of the cabin, stepping one foot on the wing, then leaping down to the ground, I realized that almost everything about him was petite; his chest barely rising higher than the bottom wing.

"I'm so sorry!" he said, running toward me with his gloved hands outstretched. "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there!"

I sat on my butt in the middle of the road, leaning back on my hands, and staring up at this bizarre stranger, with his bizarre cap and goggles. I watched as he stumbled through the sunflowers toward me, nearly falling flat on his face. I watched, but I said nothing. There was nothing I could say.

"I'm sorry," he said again, fidgeting with the clasp of his helmet.

"It's okay," I said. "I'm fine, really."

"Are you… eh… are you hurt?" he said, giving up on the helmet and reaching a hand toward me instead.

"Yes," I said, "I mean, no. I'm mean, I'm fine. I'm fine."

He pulled me up, and for one long moment, we were standing face to face. Then he began patting at my dress - at my legs and arms - dusting my clothes off in a series of quick, too-familiar gestures. I pushed his hands away.

"Please, stop," I said. "I'm fine."

Then he pulled his hands away abruptly, his back straight like a soldier's, and if it weren't for the ridiculous goggles hiding half his face, I could have sworn he was blushing.

"I have to go," I said, gathering up my books as quickly as possible.

"Wait!" he said, leaning down to help me. "Wait! Where am I? Where is this? Do you speak English?"

The last question caught my attention, and I looked up.

"Yes," I said, unsure why I hadn't just lied and moved on.

We both stood up.

And then the strangest thing happened.

He reached up with both hands, struggling with clasp at his chin, a frustrated smile on his mouth, and then he pulled the helmet off.

I gasped.

A puff of brown curls bounced out into the sunlight, first springing up and then settling around the pilot's face; around her face, I should say, because she was not a he at all.

She pulled the goggles off and smiled. There were two red rings around her eyes where the goggles had been. She squinted at me.

"Wait!" she said, speaking English with an unmistakable American accent. "Can you tell me what village that is over there?"

She turned and pointed down the hill.

"It's called Rosheim," I said.

"Rosheim?" she said. She reached into the front pocket of her dusty leather jacket. "Not Colmar?"

"No," I said. "Colmar is south of here."

"How far south?" she said, pulling a flimsy, well-used map out of her pocket.

"Very south," I said.

She unfolded the map and stared at it, holding it real close to her face and squinting. She bit at her lip in concentration.

"Dang it!" she said, finally. "I must have flown right over it! It's so easy to get lost with all these vineyards."

She turned around a few times, looking first up the road, and then down the road.

"Everything here looks exactly the same!" she said.

"Yes, I suppose so," I said, looking around, as if I, too, were a stranger in my own home town.

When I turned back, she was looking right at me, her hair a tangled mess, and her eyes catching the afternoon sunlight and throwing it back at me; a lovely hazel-brown that matched the sunflowers behind her.

A red handkerchief was tied around her neck. She pulled at it nervously.

"Well," she said as the handkerchief came loose in her hand. "Is there a post office somewhere in that village? A place I can send a telegram, or make a phone call?"

"Uh," I stuttered, distracted by the way she wiped her face, starting at her temple and then sweeping the red cloth down to her ears and behind her neck.

Did she really just land a plane in Monsieur Lumiere's sunflowers? I thought, glancing at the plane. Did that really just happen?

"Uh," I stammered again.

She must have misunderstood, or rather, she thought that I had misunderstood, because she began stammering herself, trying to think of a word.

"Ehm...poste?" she said. "Où est... le bureau... de poste?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "Yes, there is a post office."

"Great!" she said, tucking the red scarf into her breast pocket, leaving only the corner tip hanging out; a dot of red against the brown leather.

"But wait," I said. "It's already past four. The post office will be closed, I think."

"Hmm," she said, looking around again, one hand holding the map, and one hand on her hip.

"You could try the Inn," I said. "They might have a telegraph or phone."

"Yeah," she said, biting at her lip. "Yeah, I could try that."

I glanced again at the bit of handkerchief, its red color catching my eye, and at the same moment a welcome breeze kicked up, jostling her wild curls about her face. My eyes trailed over her dirty cheeks, over her jacket, and then, quite naturally, down her entire person. Her trousers were most likely hand tailored. I say so because they were cut in the men's style, but they were cut to fit her petite frame. And her boots looked brand new, the leather glistening in the sun. Her leather helmet and her goggles dangled from her elbow as she regarded the map one more time.

She brushed her hair aside and turned back to me.

"How far is Strasbourg?" she asked.

"Strasbourg?" I said. "Why Strasbourg?"

"Why not?" she said. "It's closer than Colmar, isn't it?"

She can't go to Strasbourg, I thought, because I'm going to Strasbourg.

"Yes," I said.

"And it probably has a few decent hotels?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm sure it does, but the Inn in town is very nice, as well."

"I'm sure it is," she said. "But I need to get to a place where I can be easily reached, if you know what I mean."

"Right, of course," I said, but actually, I didn't really know what she meant at all.

"Well," I said, somehow reluctant to point her in the direction of the city, "there is a bus that comes by, usually on the hour."

Just don't get on the six o'clock one, I thought.

"On the hour?" she said.

"Yes, if you go into town and wait in front of the bakery."

She bit her lip.

"Yes," she said, "maybe I'll do that, then."

"What about the plane?" I asked.

She turned to look at the plane, shielding her eyes from the sun.

"Well," she said. "I guess I'll have to leave a note."

"A note?" I said.

"Yes," she said. "To whoever's field this is... Wait... Is this your field?"

"Oh, no," I said. "This is Monsieur Lumiere's field. Thank god it's just the sunflowers and not one of the vineyards."

"Yes," she said. "I guess we should be thankful for that, otherwise, I might not have had such a smooth landing."

You call that a smooth landing? I thought.

"But I mean, what's wrong with it?" I said.

"The plane?" she said. "What's wrong with it?"

"Oui," I said.

"Well," she said, turning away from me and pushing her hair behind her ear. "Well, eh, I'm not exactly sure."

"It seems like a mechanical problem," I said.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, it would seem that way. But it's not my plane, you see."

"Then whose is it?" I said.

"It's my cousin's," she said.

"Your cousin?" I said.

"Yep," she said, staring out at the plane.

I didn't know what else to say, and she seemed to be thinking so hard about her predicament, that I decided it was best to leave her to it.

"Well, if I were you," I said. "I'd write your note quickly and leave, before Mr. Lumiere comes by."

She looked at me with her head tilted to the side.

"You think he'll be upset?" she said.

"He's not exactly a...welcome wagon," I said, proud of myself for remembering the phrase.

"Right," she said, folding up the map and taking a step away from me. "I'd better get to it, then."

"Yes," I said. "I'd better go, too."

"Oh, by the way," she said. "I'm Cosima."

She reached out her gloved hand, and somehow that made me laugh. Somehow the random nature of the entire scene came crashing down on me at once. I laughed hard, from my belly, and instead of taking her hand, I brought both of my hands to my mouth, embarrassed at my sudden outburst.

She laughed because I laughed.

"I know, I know," she said. "This probably isn't what you expected to see on your walk home today."

"Non," I said. "Non, not at all."

We were both laughing then, until we heard a man shouting just down the road. I took Cosima's hand. I pulled her toward the plane.

"It's Mr. Lumiere!" I said. "You'd better go!"

She laughed even more.

"It's fine," she said. "I've got to face the music eventually, right?"

"Are you sure?" I said, watching Mr. Lumiere approach, a straw hat on his head. His face was red with heat or, more likely, anger. He waved his hands in the air and cursed loudly.

"Yes," she said. "I'm sure. Shouting men don't scare me. Neither do men in hats."

"Alright," I said. "But if you don't mind, I really have to go."

"By all means," she said.

And I was already sidestepping up the road.

"Good luck!" I said as I hurried away.

"Thanks!" she called after me. "Merci beaucoup!"

I walked quickly up the hill, keeping my head down and my face forward. But I couldn't stop myself from smiling.

Men in hats? I thought. Her cousin's plane? She needs to be easily reachable?

None of it made sense; all of it was confounding, so confounding, in fact, that I had completely forgotten about Strasbourg and Laurent and my Sunday dress. That is, until I opened the front door of my house. My mother and Laurent were in the middle of a conversation.

"I don't know why you can't go to a closer theatre," my mother said.

"Oh, mother," Laurent said. "It's the biggest film of the year, maybe of the decade. We can't wait two weeks for it to come to town. We have to see it in the city! It's more epic this way, don't you see?"

"Epic?" my mother muttered. "Why do you need epic? Quiet is better - quiet and cheap. Why do you have to pay for the bus, two ways? And then pay a higher ticket price for the same film? Why can't you be patient? Two weeks is nothing in a lifetime."

"It's alright, mother," I said, stepping into the kitchen. "It was my idea. I've read so much about this new film, it's supposed to be Renoir's masterpiece. You know how I love Renoir films."

"Masterpiece, huh?" she said, looking at me sideways. "What's it called?"

"The Rules of the Game," I said. "Doesn't that sound intriguing?"

"I suppose so," she said, her face relaxing.

"And don't worry about money," I said. "I've got some extra saved up from the bakery. I knew you wouldn't let me go alone, so I asked Laurent to escort me into the city."

My mother sighed.

"Alright, alright," she said. "But I don't want my children out at all hours of the night. Make sure he is on that bus home tonight."

"I will," I said, kissing my mother's cheek. "You can trust me."

"I can't believe this," Laurent said, feigning indignance. "You two act like I'm some sort of delinquent. You do remember who is the eldest here, right?"

But when my mother's back was turned he shot me a quick wink.

"You may not be a delinquent," I said, heading for the stairs, "but you're not far from it."

"Just remember!" he shouted after me. "I'm doing you a favor! I might have better things to do than escort you to Strasbourg!"

"Like what?" I shouted back.

"Like...other things!" he shouted, really exaggerating his snotty attitude. "You owe me!"

But when I got upstairs, I closed my bedroom door without answering him. I walked to the window and looked out over the vineyards to Mr. Lumiere's field. There was the plane, almost golden in the afternoon sun, and there was the long trail of demolished sunflowers behind it. But Mr. Lumiere was no where to be seen. And more importantly, neither was that mysterious pilot.

"Cosima," I whispered.

What kind of name is that? I wondered.

I walked to my wardrobe, pulled open the doors, and flipped through my very small selection of dresses. I pulled out my Sunday dress. I held it up to my chest and walked to the mirror.

I sighed, and even though I was looking at my own reflection, I kept seeing that strange woman in my mind's eye, with her men's trousers, her leather jacket, her shiny black boots, and that little red handkerchief. I kept seeing her smile, and I could not shake the moment from my mind; the moment when she pulled that dusty leather helmet from her head and her curls bounced about her small face; the moment when she squinted at me, red raccoon rings around her eyes.

Cosima, I thought. That's the kind of name I won't easily forget.