The Girl from Vichy

by Andie Newton

  She threw a cigarette butt on my blanket. ‘You left this outside my window.’ After a brief pause, she smoothed her veil to her head, taking a breath. Her eyes fluttered vigorously, as if she had prayed for patience but it hadn’t arrived. Seconds passed. Only a few seesawed squeaks could be heard from other girls’ cots as they woke from the commotion. Marguerite exhaled, and her nose tooted like a smashed trumpet, swelling faster than her cheek. Her face turned redder.

  ‘Mother Superior wants you.’ She yanked the wool blanket from my bed and threw it on the ground before walking out of the basement.

  I fell backward onto my cot, bed linens twisted around my body, and thought about the severity of Marguerite’s face. Some girls lay still under their covers, hiding. Others sat on the edge of their cots and bounced questions at me faster than I could answer them.

  Claire put her hands to her forehead, mumbling to herself. Then she winced and massaged the bony part of her shoulder. ‘My shoulder… it’s aching.’ There was a slight tremble in her voice.

  ‘Again, with the shoulder?’

  ‘It’s a sign, mademoiselle.’

  ‘A sign of what?’

  ‘Expulsion,’ she whispered.

  Mavis sat up in her bed, a hand to her mouth, the sound of the word ‘expulsion’ filtering through the gaps of her fingers. She scrambled to her feet and took off for the sanctuary with her Bible, still dressed in her sleeping gown.

  Claire stopped rubbing her shoulder to wrap both arms around her waist. ‘What were we thinking?’ She groaned as if she was getting sick, looking directly into my eyes. ‘Her face, from the smoke. Don’t you feel terrible?’

  The room turned stone-cold quiet. Girls sat up, slouched, and then pulled their bed covers up to their necks. Others waited for me to say something, anything, with their mouths drawn open. I thought about Marguerite’s tryst with the deliveryman—sinner that she was—and the note I found under her bed—my name circled over and over again, a list of women she no doubt had it in for.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Marguerite deserved what she got.’

  Claire bit at her fingernails, chewing them like a dog. The convent was her only option, which I should have remembered before I asked her to get involved.

  ‘Don’t worry, Claire. I’m not going to mention your name.’

  She looked relieved. I had manipulated Claire into helping me spy on Marguerite, and if I felt bad about anything, it was that I involved her in something she couldn’t understand at her age.

  ‘This is between me and Marguerite.’

  *

  Mother Superior’s office was at the top of Chancery Tower, up a wide spiral staircase in the keep of the oldest part of the castle. The murmur of whispering voices rolled downward; lies, no doubt, Marguerite was spilling into Mother’s ear. I collected myself on the landing, smoothing my hair into a messy bun, before setting my eyes upon Mother’s office through the cracked doorway. A large mahogany desk covered in loose papers sat in the middle of the room, and full bookcases of various sizes lined every wall; which seemed incredibly cramped, not what I had expected in such a large castle with so many rooms to choose from.

  Mother Superior gazed out an open window, her hands bracing the stones on each side. ‘Take a seat, Adèle.’ She spoke without turning around.

  I walked inside, taking the chair next to Marguerite, smiling, expecting her to snarl, but her eyes were glued to a letter she had gripped in her hands. I thought up how I was going to tell Mother about Marguerite, how I saw her kissing the deliveryman, passionately, making love with her lips, when Mother turned away from the window.

  ‘I know your secret.’

  ‘Secret?’ My hands flew to my chest. ‘My secret?’

  She moved toward me, put her hand under my chin and looked into my eyes. ‘I know about the man you had in the Vichy police. I know about Gérard.’

  She let go of my chin, and my mouth dropped.

  ‘There’s a reason for everything,’ she said, unpinning her black veil, ‘and there’s a reason God sent you here to us.’ She’d placed her veil on the desk and pulled her white wimple over the top of her head, sending waves of blonde hair falling over her shoulders and down the back of her neck. ‘It was me you were spying on in the crypt, and an associate of mine from the Résistance.’

  ‘No—Mother!’ I glanced at Marguerite, worried she had said and shown too much already in front of the imposter, jumping from my seat. ‘There’s something you must know.’ I pointed a shaking finger at Marguerite. ‘She’s not who you think!’

  ‘Sit now, Adèle,’ Mother said. ‘I know all about Marguerite, and she’s well aware of what’s happening in the crypt.’

  Marguerite folded the letter up and put it on Mother’s desk, and I slowly withdrew my pointed finger. ‘You know about the deliveryman?’ I asked Mother, and after she nodded, I sat down as asked. ‘Is that why I’m here?’ I swallowed. ‘You think I was spying?’

  ‘I know you weren’t now,’ Mother said. ‘I realized that when I saw your cloisonné lighter yesterday.’

  ‘My lighter?’ They stared at me curiously while I felt blindly around for it in my pocket. ‘It was Mama’s.’

  Mother smiled. ‘I know.’ She pulled a tiny box from her pocket and unwrapped it carefully, unfolding the layers of tissue paper until I saw what was inside. ‘You see. I have one too.’ A cloisonné lighter that looked just like mine only shiny; definitely never used.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The inscription,’ she said, ‘on the back.’

  Mother squared her lighter with mine. The silver on Mama’s lighter had dulled along with the enamel, but the engraving was a dead match: Women of the 1914 War. An inscription I had never seen before, now so visible. ‘I was a nurse with your mother in Ypres during the war. The lighters were given to a select few by a special friend, now dead. After the war I joined the church and we lost touch. But we have a bond, which is why she wrote back so quickly.’

  ‘You wrote to Mama? When?’

  Mother rewrapped her lighter before tucking it back into her pocket. ‘Last night. We passed messages through a courier.’ She pointed to the letter Marguerite had been reading. ‘Sister Mary-Gertrude left for Vichy just after vespers.’

  I reached for the letter. ‘She did?’ I remembered Sister Gertrude sitting in her chair outside the nuns’ private entrance. But I had to wonder how she made it to Vichy, much less out of that chair as old as she was.

  Mother laughed. ‘I know what you must think, but all the more reason to send her. Nobody suspects a woman of that age doing anything of importance, now do they?’

  I read the letter feverishly. Mama addressed Mother Superior by her given name, Elizabeth, and there was an underlining familiarity in her tone. She told Mother Superior about Gérard and of our politics. We are Gaullists, she wrote, the words written in ink with a steady hand.

  It was the first time Mama referred to us outright as supporters of Charles de Gaulle, Pétain’s rival and leader of the Free French.

  ‘I’m glad she gave you the lighter, Adèle. It means a great deal and says quite a lot about your character. Your mother wouldn’t have given it to you if she thought you weren’t worthy. The inscription, its meaning, far outweighs the lighter’s function.’

  Mama didn’t talk much about her time as a nurse or the 1914 war. Papa even less, but it wasn’t uncommon for veterans to keep their memories to themselves. She certainly never mentioned the lighter’s significance when she gave it to me. ‘She handed it to me as I rushed out the door. An afterthought.’

  Mother shook her head. ‘Even after all these years, I know nothing with Pauline is ever an afterthought. And if you’re honest with yourself you’d realize it too. What you did was very brave, Adèle. Leaving a man like Gérard. Leaving Vichy. She wrote about your father and sister—you were in a very difficult position.’

  Marguerite had stood from her chair and rested her backside against Mother’s desk. Her eyes
skirted over me while Mother talked, which made my back straighten. The white had returned to her skin, and her cheek seemed less puffy, one hand patting it down like a pillow.

  ‘I’ve been at this convent for over ten years,’ Mother said. ‘I’m devoted to Christ first and foremost. Secondly, I’m devoted to France and the sanctity of life. This government knows nothing about these things. With the decrees against the Jews, the laws in Germany becoming part of French policy, dictated by our very own Marshal—it’s revolting.’ Mother clasped her hands together and looked up at the ceiling, talking directly to God, before crossing her chest with the sign of the divinity. ‘You know about the statutes on the Jews, don’t you, Adèle? In Vichy, Lyon… arresting foreign-born Jews inside our borders, the ones who escaped here to receive France’s protection are now being sent back and straight to a camp—some never to return.’

  ‘I know about the laws. Gérard—he has arrested many. That’s one of the reasons I wouldn’t marry him.’

  Mother nodded, looking at us both. ‘Now, let’s address what’s going on between you two.’ Mother glanced at Marguerite and then back to me. ‘First impressions can be fooling. Can’t they, ladies?’

  Marguerite pinched the bodice of her postulant dress. ‘I’m not a postulant. I’m a résistant, a member of many groups, most recently with the Francs-Tireurs,’ she said, and air blew from my mouth.

  The Francs-Tireurs.

  She waited for a reaction, and rightfully so—the Francs-Tireurs were known to be as brutal as the Nazis when protecting France, sharpshooters who not only knew how to find guns—steal guns—but also how to use them. All I could do was nod, watching her blot the corner of her watering eye. I suddenly felt very lucky she had only got me with a switch. ‘Sorry about your face.’

  Marguerite raised her eyebrows, nodding slightly. ‘Yes well, that is over. Now—’ she looked at Mother and then to me ‘—we must know, will you help us? Join the French Résistance?’

  My heart skipped. ‘Me—the Résistance?’ They watched me as I got up from my chair and stood for a second. ‘I didn’t expect this.’ I put my hands on the window stones; much like Mother had done earlier, and looked out through the trees.

  ‘Help us get France back,’ Mother said. ‘The life you had before.’ She moved closer, about to touch my shoulder, but then thought better of it.

  ‘Give her a moment,’ Marguerite said, and Mother withdrew her hand.

  ‘Before,’ I breathed, and I was thrown into a forgotten memory, remembering Mama walking through the garden with Papa, pointing to the herbs she’d grown near her laundry lines, and Charlotte and me pan-frying leeks in vanilla oil.

  Field hands rotated barrels in the barrel cellar with the nutty air of summer breezing in the air. Mama held on to Papa’s arm, calling to us from outside. ‘Is lunch ready?’ They went back to talking, pointing to the herbs.

  ‘Just a moment, Mama,’ Charlotte answered, but then whispered to me. ‘Have some more wine first.’ She topped off my glass with a forgotten bottle of Papa’s pinot.

  I giggled. ‘Stop there,’ I said, but gladly drank what she’d poured me, stirring the leeks, browning them just so, popping in the pan.

  Charlotte cut that day’s bread into tiny rounds and arranged them on a painted plate with crudités and sliced lemons. ‘And the tomatoes,’ she said, looking over the counter, and I pointed to the ones I’d picked that morning with the vines still attached. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, and we clinked glasses, downing what was left.

  I scooped the leeks out of the frying pan and set them in a dish, drizzling them with oil. ‘Anything we’re missing?’ I said, wiping my hands on my apron ‘Oh, wait,’ I said, and I drank what was left in the bottle. One last sip, and laughed when I caught Charlotte watching me with a strange face.

  ‘Stop giggling, Adèle, I swear you’re going to be the death of us,’ Charlotte said. ‘They’ll know we’ve been drinking.’

  ‘They’ll know,’ I said, and I motioned to the window as Papa smelled the rosemary in Mama’s hand. ‘Look at our parents, Charlotte.’ I sighed.

  We watched them kiss. ‘Girls?’ Mama said, and we ducked.

  ‘Coming!’ we both answered back, followed by more giggling.

  We walked outside, to the long oak table where Mama and Papa had already sat down, and ate lunch together in a pleasant shade.

  ‘Adèle?’

  I turned around, only to see them both staring at me, the last memory of my family together, fading.

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  Mother smiled, looking relieved and happy at the same time. ‘You’ll be Marguerite’s partner for now. Here at the convent.’ A commotion outside in the courtyard stole Mother’s attention: people talking, some shouting, coupled with the purr of a car. She quickly smoothed her hair behind her ears and then slipped her wimple back over her head.

  ‘Mother,’ I said, and she glanced up. ‘Who was the other woman… the one I saw in the crypt with you?’

  ‘She’s the leader—goes by the name Hedgehog.’

  ‘Hedgehog?’

  She smiled. ‘In the beginning we used numbers, but the Germans started to figure those out so we changed our call signs to the names of animals.’

  Sister Mary-Francis burst through the door just as she pinned her veil into place. ‘They’re here, Mother,’ she said, panicky. ‘They just pulled up!’

  The bell tower chimed, announcing morning prayer.

  ‘I’ll be right down.’ Mother put a hand on Marguerite’s shoulder. ‘Adèle isn’t the mole, but someone is. We’ve got to find out who she is before it’s too late.’

  ‘So, there is a spy?’ I asked.

  ‘Someone living among us. Our situation is dire.’ Mother looked at us both. ‘I suggest you get to know each other. You may need one another someday, when you least expect it.’ Mother reached for the Bible she normally carried with her during her walks. ‘Now, I must go. Remember, I have a convent to run too.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said, thinking we must have a name, just like all the famous Résistance groups. ‘You said group. Do we have a name?’

  Mother stopped in the doorframe, her heavy black habit covering every bit of her body, and looked over her shoulder. ‘The Reich has named us Noah’s Ark, but we call ourselves the Alliance.’

  *

  Marguerite burned the letter Mama wrote, dropping it into a golden urn and loosely closing the lid. The Marguerite I thought I knew was gone, and in her place was someone different. It felt odd, to say the least. ‘Perhaps we should start over.’ I held my hand out for a shake. ‘As if we just met.’

  She took my hand, but instead of shaking it she pulled me in close. ‘Wait for my word. Stay quiet. The less others know about you the better. Make up a lie about where you’re from if you must. If someone finds out you’re a résistant they will go to where you live and kill your family just to get to you.’ Marguerite took a long pause before continuing, listening to Mother’s voice lifting from the ground below as she greeted her guests outside. ‘Is that going to be a problem? There’s no place for weaklings in the Résistance, Adèle.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said, and she let go of my hand. ‘And I can make up some lies.’ Then I wondered with all the guns around, if she’d give me one. ‘Will I have to carry a gun?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m not giving you a gun.’ She paused. ‘Do you know how to shoot one?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and she shook her head.

  ‘I’m not giving you a gun unless you already know how to shoot,’ she said. ‘Besides, we need you for surveillance. Not to shoot people.’

  She fingered a mix of fresh and wilted flowers on Mother’s desk. ‘I will sift out this mole,’ she said as petals fell through her fingers. ‘If it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘Do you have an idea of who it is?’ I thought about the list I’d found under her bed. My name was the only one with a circle around it. ‘Now that you know it isn’t me.’

 
Marguerite stopped fiddling with the flowers. ‘It could be anyone. Even one of the girls.’

  ‘The girls?’ I shouted though I didn’t mean to.

  ‘Shh.’ Marguerite put a finger to her mouth and a hand over mine. ‘Be quiet!’

  ‘But they’re so young,’ I whispered.

  ‘Before I came here, I helped a twelve-year-old strap dynamite to her chest. This war knows no age.’ Marguerite walked over to the window. The party Mother had been talking to had gotten back into their cars and sped down the road that led away from the convent. Marguerite watched them until they disappeared.

  I paced in a circle, wondering who at the convent had the balls, as Mama would say, to spy on the sisters. Someone who didn’t want to stand out, perhaps. There were a pair of cousins who looked rather devious, and then there was…

  ‘Watch the girls carefully,’ Marguerite said. ‘We’ll meet in private and compare notes. I’ll make arrangements. As for now, they’ll have to believe our relationship is still contentious.’ Marguerite ran a finger along her jawline where she still had a few pink bumps. ‘There’s no escaping that fact.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘The girls think I came up here to get expelled from the convent.’

  ‘Do they know you broke into my chamber?’

  ‘Some do, but they think I was retaliating for the whipping you gave me. Truth was, I was afraid you’d cause trouble for me, get me kicked out. My goal was to find something in your room to use against you, when the time came. Something… to go along with what I saw near the laundry.’

  I blushed the moment I thought about her and that man’s kisses. I wasn’t going to ask her who he was outright, but I wanted to, and I could tell by the look on her face she knew I was curious. I had never seen so much passion before.

  ‘I see.’ She looked away. ‘Well, you can’t leave here without a proper punishment. If you do the girls will wonder why.’ Her eyes skirted over the things in Mother’s office, over the bookcases and along the walls as she picked some things up and then set them back down.