Free Violins of Autumn by Amy McAuley

of goat droppings.
    “
Mmmeeehhhhh!
”
    In the hay-strewn stall next to my bike is a large brown-and-white goat with a flowing beard. Standing on his back, as if that’s the most natural place for him to be, is a baby goat. His back end is black, his front is white, and his face is a mix of the two. Just looking at him, I know he’s trouble.
    Denise gently scratches him under the chin. “Oh, aren’t you darling.”
    “
Mmmeeeehhhh!
”
    Even goat kids sound like they’re complaining.
    When our bikes are set at the side of the barn, Rat scurries around to take Denise’s suitcase. The pilot takes mine.
    “Thank you—” Up to that point, I’ve been content to call him only Pilot.
    He takes his time sparing me from further embarrassment. Finally he says, “Robbie.”
    “Robbie. Thank you for taking my suitcase.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    The rickety wooden ladder creaks under his weight. “You should feel right at home here, Denise,” Robbie says. Near the top, he sets my suitcase on the floor of the loft and continues to climb. As his foot clears the last step, he adds, “Judging from your manners, I’d guess you were raised in a barn.”
    The interior of Louis’s home looks nothing like the depressing pigsty outside. If not exactly clean, it’s tidy enough. By outward appearances, I would guess the house contains nothing of value. How wrong I’d be. When I bring that up at dinner and point to the gorgeous piano in the sitting room, Louis says, “Hopefullythe Germans will think like you, eh? Nothing to loot here, they will say.”
    I think that’s pretty ingenious, but next to me Denise groans and continues to roll peas around her plate with her fork.
    After dinner, she mumbles something about goats and then conveniently slips away while the rest of us clean up.
    Louis puts water on the woodstove to heat, so I offer to wash the dishes.
    “
Merci
, Adele,” he says. “I read people well. I can see you’re a good girl. The one out there, she’s a strange one.
Oui
?”
    I smile. “Being strange comes in handy in our line of work. I think it’s a requirement.”
    Excusing himself to finish chores for the day, Louis ambles to the front door. Once alone, Robbie and I stare around the kitchen, everywhere but at each other. I press my lips together, glaring at the kettle.
    Robbie has a pleasant laugh. “What do you know, my mother was right. A watched pot never boils.” As he leaves the table, he asks, “Do you play the piano, Adele?”
    “Yes, but poorly.”
    He sits on the wooden piano bench. “Any requests?”
    With a shrug, I say, “I don’t know. Play what you like.”
    His interlaced fingers crack all at once. “Here’s something pretty.”
    The notes fade into the background. I stare out the window. Laundry, dried crisp in the hot sun, sways on the line outside. Wood will have to be brought in. The kitchen needs a good sweeping. It’s the least we can do to repay Louis for his generosity.
    On my way outside to find Denise, the piano melody strikes a chord in me.
    I run to the parlor, saying, “I know that song. It’s ‘Someone to Care for Me,’ from the movie
Three Smart Girls
.”
    Robbie’s fingers pause over the last keys he played. “You’re right, it is. Do you like that movie?”
    In
Three Smart Girls
, three sisters living with their mother in Switzerland decide to run away to New York on an exciting and worldly adventure, to stop their father from marrying a scheming gold digger and get their parents back together.
    “I love it,” I say. “Deanna Durbin, the girl who plays the youngest sister, she’s Winston Churchill’s favorite movie star. Did you know that?”
    With a boyish grin, Robbie says, “You don’t say. She’s my sister Sarah’s favorite.”
    Stashed away in a bottom dresser drawer at my aunt’s house is my collection of film memorabilia. Since my aunt knows Deanna Durbin is my favorite actress, topping even Judy Garland, she clipped her profile from a