Vianne had to admit that life at Le Jardin was easier without Isabelle. No more outbursts, no more veiled comments made just within Captain Beck’s earshot, no more pushing Vianne to wage useless battles in a war already lost. Still, sometimes without Isabelle, the house was too quiet, and in the silence, Vianne found herself thinking too loudly.
Like now. She’d been awake for hours, just staring at her own bedroom ceiling, waiting for the dawn.
Finally, she got out of bed and went downstairs. She poured herself a cup of bitter made-from-acorns coffee and took it out into the backyard, where she sat on the chair that had been Antoine’s favorite, beneath the sprawling branches of the yew tree, listening to the chickens scratching lethargically through the dirt.
Her money was all but gone. They would now have to live on her meager teaching salary.
How was she to do it? And alone …
She finished her coffee, as terrible as it was. Carrying the empty cup back into the shadowy, already warming house, she saw the door to Captain Beck’s bedroom was open. He had left for the day while she was out back. Good.
She woke Sophie, listened to the story of her latest dream, and made her a breakfast of dry toast and peach jam. Then the two of them headed for town.
Vianne rushed Sophie as much as possible, but Sophie was in a foul mood and complained and dragged her feet. Thus, it was late afternoon by the time they reached the butcher’s shop. There was a queue that snaked out the door
and down the street. Vianne took her place at the end and glanced nervously at the Germans in the square.
The queue shuffled forward. At the display window, Vianne noticed a new propaganda poster that showed a smiling German soldier offering bread to a group of French children. Beside it was a new sign that read: NO JEWS ALLOWED.
“What does that mean, Maman?” Sophie said, pointing to the sign.
“Hush, Sophie,” Vianne said sharply. “We have talked about this. Some things are no longer spoken of.”
“But Father Joseph says—”
“Hush,” Vianne said impatiently, giving Sophie’s hand a tug for emphasis.
The queue moved forward. Vianne stepped to the front and found herself staring at a gray-haired woman with skin the color and texture of oatmeal.
Vianne frowned. “Where is Madame Fournier?” she asked, offering her ration ticket for today’s meat. She hoped there was still some to be had.
“No Jews allowed,” the woman said. “We have a little smoked pigeon left.”
“But this is the Fourniers’ shop.”
“Not anymore. It’s mine now. You want the pigeon or not?”
Vianne took the small tin of smoked pigeon and dropped it in her willow basket. Saying nothing, she led Sophie outside. On the opposite corner, a German sentry stood guard in front of the bank, reminding the French people that the bank had been seized by the Germans.
“Maman,” Sophie whined. “It’s wrong to—”
“Hush.” Vianne grabbed Sophie’s hand. As they walked out of town and along the dirt road home, Sophie made her displeasure known. She huffed and sighed and grumbled.
Vianne ignored her.
When they reached the broken gate to Le Jardin, Sophie yanked free and spun to face Vianne. “How can they just take the butcher’s shop? Tante Isabelle would do something. You’re just afraid!”
“And what should I do? Storm into the square and demand that Madame Fournier get her shop back? And what would they do to me for that? You’ve seen the posters in town.” She lowered her voice. “They’re executing French
people, Sophie. Executing them.” “But—”
“No buts. These are dangerous times, Sophie. You need to understand that.”
Sophie’s eyes glazed with tears. “I wish Papa were here…”
Vianne pulled her daughter into her arms and held her tightly. “Me, too.”
They held each other for a long time, and then slowly separated. “We are going to make pickles today, how about that?”
“Oh. Fun.”
Vianne couldn’t disagree. “Why don’t you go pick cucumbers? I’ll get the vinegar started.”
Vianne watched her daughter run ahead, dodging through the heavily laden apple trees toward the garden. The moment she disappeared, Vianne’s worry returned. What would she do without money? The garden was producing well, so there would be fruit and vegetables, but what about the coming winter? How could Sophie stay healthy without meat or milk or cheese? How would they get new shoes? She was shaking as she made her way into the hot, blacked-out house. In the kitchen, she clutched the counter’s edge and bowed her head.
“Madame?”
She turned so fast she almost tripped over her own feet.
He was in the living room, sitting on the divan, with an oil lamp lit beside him, reading a book.
“Captain Beck.” She said his name quietly. She moved toward him, her shaking hands clasped together. “Your motorcycle is not out front.”
“It was such a beautiful day. I decided to walk from town.” He rose. She saw that he had recently had a haircut, and that he’d nicked himself shaving this morning. A tiny red cut marred his pale cheek. “You look upset. Perhaps it is because you have not been sleeping well since your sister left.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“I hear you walking around in the dark.” “You’re awake, too,” she said stupidly.
“I often cannot sleep, either. I think of my wife and children. My son is so young. I wonder if he will know me at all.”
“I think the same about Antoine,” she said, surprising herself with the admission. She knew she shouldn’t be so open with this man—the enemy— but just now she was too tired and scared to be strong.
Beck stared down at her, and in his eyes, she saw the loss they shared. Both of them were a long way from the people they loved, and lonelier for it.
“Well. I mean not to intrude on your day, of course, but I have some news for you. With much research, I have discovered that your husband is in an Oflag in Germany. A friend of mine is a guard there. Your husband is an officer. Did you know this? No doubt he was valiant on the battlefield.”
“You found Antoine? He’s alive?”
He held out a crumpled, stained envelope. “Here is a letter he has written to you. And now you may send him care packages, which I believe would cheer him most immeasurably.”
“Oh … my.” She felt her legs weaken.
He grasped her, steadied her, and led her over to the divan. As she slumped to the seat, she felt tears welling in her eyes. “Such a kind thing to do,” she whispered, taking the letter from him, pressing it to her chest.
“My friend delivered the letter to me. From now on, my apologies, you will correspond on the postcards only.”
He smiled at her and she had the strangest feeling that he knew about the lengthy letters she concocted in her head at night.
“Merci,” she said, wishing it weren’t such a small word.
“Au revoir, Madame,” he said, then turned on his heel and left her alone.
The crumpled, dirty letter shook in her grasp; the letters of her name blurred and danced as she opened it.
Vianne, my beloved,
First, do not worry about me. I am safe and fed well enough. I am unhurt. Truly. No bullet holes in me.
In the barracks, I have been lucky enough to claim an upper bunk, and it gives me some privacy in a place of too many men. Through a small window, I can see the moon at night and the spires of Nuremburg. But it is the moon that makes me think of you.
Our food is enough to sustain us. I have grown used to pellets of flour and small pieces of potato. When I get home, I look forward to your cooking. I dream of it—and you and Sophie—all the time.
Please, my beloved, don’t fret. Just stay strong and be there for me when the time comes for me to leave this cage. You are my sunlight in the dark and the ground beneath my feet.
Because of you, I can survive. I hope that you can find strength in me, too, V. That because of me, you will find a way to be strong.
Hold my daughter tightly tonight, and tell her that somewhere far away, her papa is thinking of her. And tell her I will return.
I love you, Vianne.
P.S. The Red Cross is delivering packages. If you could send me my hunting gloves, I would be very happy.
The winters here are cold.
Vianne finished the letter and immediately began reading it again.
* * *
Exactly a week after her arrival in Paris, Isabelle was to meet the others who shared her passion for a free France, and she was nervous as she walked among the sallow-faced Parisians and well-fed Germans toward an unknown destination. She had dressed carefully this morning in a fitted blue rayon dress with a black belt. She’d set her hair last night and combed it out into precise waves this morning, pinning it back from her face. She wore no makeup; an old convent school blue beret and white gloves completed the outfit.
I am an actress and this is a role, she thought as she walked down the street. I am a schoolgirl in love sneaking out to meet a boy …
That was the story she’d decided on and dressed for. She was sure that—if questioned—she could make a German believe her.
With all of the barricaded streets, it took her longer than expected to arrive
at her destination, but finally she ducked around a barricade and moved onto the boulevard Saint-Germain.
She stood beneath a streetlamp. Behind her, traffic moved slowly up the boulevard; horns honking, motors grumbling, horse hooves clomping, bicycle bells ringing. Even with all that noise, this once lively street felt stripped of its life and color.
A police wagon pulled up alongside of her, and a gendarme stepped out of the vehicle, his cloak folded over his shoulders. He was carrying a white stick.
“Do you think I’ll need an umbrella today?”
Isabelle jumped, made a little sound. She’d been so focused on the policeman—he was crossing the street now, heading toward a woman coming out of a café—that she’d forgotten her mission. “I-I expect it to remain sunny,” she said.
The man clutched her upper arm (there was no other word for it, really; he had a tight grip) and led her down the suddenly empty street. It was funny how one police wagon could make Parisians disappear. No one stuck around for an arrest—neither to witness it nor to help.
Isabelle tried to see the man beside her, but they were moving too fast. She glimpsed his boots—slashing quickly across the sidewalk beneath them
—old leather, torn laces, a hole emerging from scuff marks at the left toe. “Close your eyes,” he said as they crossed a street.
“Why?”
“Do it.”
She was not one to follow orders blindly (a quip she might have made under other circumstances), but she wanted so badly to be a part of this that she did as instructed. She closed her eyes and stumbled along beside him, almost tripping over her own feet more than once.
At last they came to a stop. She heard him knock four times on a door. Then there were footsteps and she heard the whoosh of a door opening and the acrid smell of cigarette smoke wafted across her face.
It occurred to her now—just this instant—that she could be in danger.
The man pulled her inside and the door slammed shut behind them. Isabelle opened her eyes, even though she had not been told to do so. Best
that she show her mettle now.
The room didn’t come into focus instantly. It was dark, the air thick with cigarette smoke. All of the windows were blacked out. The only light came from two oil lamps, sputtering valiantly against the shadows and smoke.
Three men sat at a wooden table that bore an overflowing ashtray. Two were young, wearing patched coats and ragged pants. Between them sat a pencil-thin old man with a waxed gray moustache, whom she recognized. Standing at the back wall was the woman who had been Isabelle’s contact. She was dressed all in black, like a widow, and was smoking a cigarette.
“M’sieur Lévy?” Isabelle asked the older man. “Is that you?”
He pulled the tattered beret from his shiny, bald head and held it in clasped hands. “Isabelle Rossignol.”
“You know this woman?” one of the men asked.
“I was a regular patron of her father’s bookshop,” Lévy said. “Last I heard she was impulsive, undisciplined, and charming. How many schools expelled you, Isabelle?”
“One too many, my father would say. But what good is knowing where to seat an ambassador’s second son at a dinner party these days?” Isabelle said. “I am still charming.”
“And still outspoken. A rash head and thoughtless words could get everyone in this room killed,” he said carefully.
Isabelle understood her mistake instantly. She nodded.
“You are very young,” the woman in the back said, exhaling smoke.
“Not anymore,” Isabelle said. “I dressed to look younger today. I think it is an asset. Who would suspect a nineteen-year-old girl of anything illegal? And you, of all people, should know that a woman can do anything a man can do.”
Monsieur Lévy sat back in his chair and studied her. “A friend recommends you highly.”
Henri.
“He tells us you have been distributing our tracts for months. And Anouk says you were quite steady yesterday.”
Isabelle glanced at the woman—Anouk—who nodded in response. “I will do anything to help our cause,” Isabelle said. Her chest felt tight with
anticipation. It had never occurred to her that she could come all this way and be denied entrance to this network of people whose cause was her own.
At last, Monsieur Lévy said, “You will need false papers. A new identity.
We will get that for you, but it will take some time.”
Isabelle drew in a sharp breath. She had been accepted! A sense of destiny seemed to fill the room. She would do something that mattered now. She knew it.
“For now, the Nazis are so arrogant, they do not believe that any kind of resistance can succeed against them,” Lévy said, “but they will see … they will see, and then the danger to all of us will increase. You must tell no one of your association with us. No one. And that includes your family. It is for their safety and your own.”
It would be easy for Isabelle to hide her activities. No one cared particularly where she went or what she did. “Oui,” she said. “So … what do I do?”
Anouk pulled away from the wall and crossed the room, stepping over the stack of terrorist papers that were on the floor. Isabelle couldn’t see the headline clearly—it was something about the RAF bombing of Hamburg and Berlin. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small package, about the size of a deck of cards, wrapped in crinkled tan-colored paper and tied up with twine. “You will deliver this to the tabac in the old quarter in Amboise; the one directly below the chateau. It must arrive no later than tomorrow, four P.M.” She handed Isabelle the package and one half of a torn five-franc note. “Offer him the note. If he shows you another half, give him the package. Leave then. Do not look back. Do not speak to him.”
As she took the package and the note, she heard a sharp, short knock on the door behind her. An instant tension tightened the air in the room. Glances were exchanged. Isabelle was reminded keenly that this was dangerous work. It could be a policeman on the other side of the door, or a Nazi.
Three knocks followed. Monsieur Lévy nodded evenly.
The door opened and in walked a fat man with an egg-shaped head and an age-spotted face. “I found him wandering around,” the old man said as he stepped aside to reveal an RAF pilot still in his flight suit.
“Mon Dieu,” Isabelle whispered. Anouk nodded glumly.
“They are everywhere,” Anouk said under her breath. “Falling from the skies.” She smiled tightly at the joke. “Evaders, escapees from German prisons, downed airmen.”
Isabelle stared at the airman. Everyone knew the penalty for helping British airmen. It was announced on billboards all over town: imprisonment or death.
“Get him some clothes,” Lévy said.
The old man turned to the airman and began speaking. Clearly the airman didn’t speak French.
“They are going to get you some clothes,” Isabelle said. The room fell silent. She felt everyone looking at her. “You speak English?” Anouk said quietly.
“Passably. Two years in a Swiss finishing school.”
Another silence fell. Then Lévy said, “Tell the pilot we will put him in hiding until we can find a way out of France for him.”
“You can do that?” Isabelle said.
“Not at present,” Anouk said. “Don’t tell him that, of course. Just tell him we are on his side and he is safe—relatively—and he is to do as he is told.”
Isabelle went to the airman. As she neared him, she saw the scratches on his face and the way something had torn the sleeve of his flight suit. She was pretty sure dried blood darkened his hairline, and she thought: He dropped bombs on Germany.
“Not all of us are passive,” she said to the young man.
“You speak English,” he said. “Thank God. My aeroplane crashed four days ago. I’ve been crouching in dark corners ever since. I didn’t know where to go till this man grabbed me and dragged me here. You will help me?”
She nodded.
“How? Can you get me back home?”
“I don’t have the answers. Just do as they tell you, and Monsieur?” “Yes, ma’am?”
“They are risking their lives to help you. You understand that?” He nodded.
Isabelle turned to face her new colleagues. “He understands and will do as
you ask.”
“Merci, Isabelle,” Lévy said. “Where do we contact you after your return from Amboise?”
The moment she heard the question, Isabelle had an answer that surprised her. “The bookshop,” she said firmly. “I am going to reopen it.”
Lévy gave her a look. “What will your father say about that? I thought he closed it when the Nazis told him what to sell.”
“My father works for the Nazis,” she said bitterly. “His opinions don’t account for much. He asked me to get a job. This will be my job. I will be accessible to all of you at any time. It is the perfect solution.”
“It is,” Lévy said, although it sounded as if he didn’t agree. “Very well then. Anouk will bring you new papers as soon as we can get a carte d’identité made. We will need a photograph of you.” His gaze narrowed. “And Isabelle, allow me to be an old man for a moment and to remind a young girl who is used to being impulsive that there can be none of that anymore. You know I am friends with your father—or I was until he showed his true colors—and I have heard stories about you for years. It is time for you to grow up and do as you are told. Always. Without exception. It is for your safety as much as ours.”
It embarrassed Isabelle that he felt the need to say this to her, and in front of everyone. “Of course.”
“And if you get caught,” Anouk said, “it will be as a woman. You understand? They have special … unpleasantries for us.”
Isabelle swallowed hard. She had thought—briefly—of imprisonment and execution. This was something she had never even considered. Of course she should have.
“What we all demand of each other—or, hope for, at any rate—is two days.”
“Two days?”
“If you are captured and … questioned. Try to say nothing for two days.
That gives us time to disappear.”
“Two days,” Isabelle said. “That’s not so long.” “You are so young,” Anouk said, frowning.
* * *
In the past six days, Isabelle had left Paris four times. She’d delivered packages in Amboise, Blois, and Lyon. She’d spent more time in train stations than in her father’s apartment—an arrangement that suited them both. As long as she stood in food queues during the day and returned home before the curfew, her father didn’t care what she did. Now, though, she was back in Paris and ready to move forward with the next phase of her plan.
“You are not reopening the bookshop.”
Isabelle stared at her father. He stood near the blacked-out window. In the pale light, the apartment looked shabbily grand, decorated as it was with ornate antiques collected over the generations. Good paintings in heavy gilt frames graced the walls (some were missing, and black shadows hung on the wall in their place; probably Papa had sold them), and if the black-out shades could be lifted, a breathtaking view of the Eiffel Tower lay just beyond their balcony.
“You told me to get a job,” she said stubbornly. The paper-wrapped package in her handbag gave her a new strength with her father. Besides, he was already half drunk. In no time, he’d be sprawled in the bergère in the salon, whimpering in his sleep. When she was a girl, those sad sounds he made in his sleep had made her long to comfort him. No more.
“I meant a paid job,” he said dryly. He poured himself another snifter of brandy.
“Why don’t you just use a soup bowl?” she said.
He ignored that. “I won’t have it. That’s all. You will not open the bookshop.”
“I have already done it. Today. I was there cleaning all afternoon.”
He seemed to go still. His bushy gray eyebrows raised into his lined brow. “You cleaned?”
“I cleaned,” she said. “I know it surprises you, Papa, but I am not twelve years old.” She moved toward him. “I am doing this, Papa. I have decided. It will allow me time to queue up for food and a chance to make some small bit of money. The Germans will buy books from me. I promise you that.”
“You’ll flirt with them?” he said.
She felt the sting of his judgment. “Says the man who works for them.”
He stared at her. She stared at him.
“Fine,” he said at last. “You’ll do what you will. But the storeroom in back. That’s mine. Mine, Isabelle. I will lock it up and take the key and you will respect my wishes by staying out of that room.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter why.”
“Do you have assignations with women there? On the sofa?”
He shook his head. “You are a foolish girl. Thank God your maman did not live to see who you have become.”
Isabelle hated how deeply that hurt her. “Or you, Papa,” she said. “Or you.”
