by Andie Newton
‘All of them… Tonight?’ I said, and she looked over her shoulder at me.
‘Tonight.’ Marguerite handed me the key, the other piece of paper in her hand.
I sighed heavily. ‘Give me the pencil,’ I said, and I got to work memorizing the codes, writing them down, only to erase what I’d wrote and start over, flipping the paper front to back, over and over. After an hour or two she thought I was ready, and we practised writing messages to each other.
She pushed the metal instruments aside and slid a piece of paper to me on the table, message side down. ‘No cheating,’ she said.
I flipped the paper over and read the message. By now, I knew these codes. At least I thought I did. My heart raced the longer Marguerite stared at me, waiting for me to figure out her message. ‘You’re taking too long,’ she said, and I groaned.
‘Give me a second.’ The candles flickered very low to the melted wax and my eyes felt strained, and tired. Oh, so tired. ‘Meet at noon,’ I said, and she snatched the paper from my hand.
‘Wrong,’ she said, and I threw my head to the table. ‘Dammit, Adèle, you have to learn these. We’ve been down here for hours.’
‘I do know them,’ I said. ‘I do. I’m tired. All right? That’s all. When it counts, I’ll get it right.’ My eyes closed and then my body jerked from having a nod.
‘Get up!’ she said, and she lifted me by the armpits.
‘Stop it,’ I said, swatting at her. ‘I can stand by myself.’
‘Well then do it,’ she said, and she walked me through some sensory techniques to stay awake, which I had to admit worked. ‘Your ears,’ she said. ‘Feel that?’
I rubbed my ears, and was surprised to feel a little more awake. ‘Strange,’ I said. ‘I never knew. Are you going to tell me what those instruments are for now?’ I said, pointing with my eyes.
‘They’re to scare you,’ she said.
‘What?’ I said, and she laughed.
‘Like I said, I’m not going to do anything permanent.’
I picked through them myself, three pointy ones, sharp enough to be knives, or at least take the place of one. Marguerite moved the chairs together and we sat in them side-by-side. ‘If you’re ever interrogated, they might sit you next to someone, someone moaning or crying, someone who will get you to talk. Either out of pity or fright. Never look at them. Whatever you do, don’t look. It’s what they want. And your mind can’t erase what you’ve seen. It will make you weaker.’
‘All right,’ I said, looking at her, and she yelled at me.
‘Adèle!’
I looked away, wincing. ‘Sorry.’
She got up in a huff. ‘It was a simple request. Don’t look.’
‘Have you been interrogated before?’ I said, and Marguerite stared at the wall, looking very distant, and my stomach sank thinking she’d been questioned by the police or a German. My hands twisted in my lap, watching her. ‘Have you?’
She turned around sharply. ‘Some résistants will never get interrogated,’ she said. ‘It’s best to prepare. My work is different than what we’re asking you to do.’
I felt better. Best to prepare. ‘What’s that wood barrel for?’ I said, but she only glanced fleetingly at the floor. ‘Can you at least tell me what time it is?’
Marguerite picked up one of the metal instruments, waving it in the air, pointy side up. ‘Are you afraid of this?’
‘Well, no, you’ve already told me—’
She lunged at me, pointing it at my eyes.
‘Ack!’ I threw my hands up and she stopped a mere breath away from my face. ‘Christ, Marguerite. What the hell are you doing?’ My heart thrummed, pulse thumping in my ears. I clutched my chest.
‘Were you afraid that time?’ she said, and I nodded. ‘Heart beating rapidly? Talk backward from ten to one and think of the sun and lying in long grass,’ she said, but I was too busy clutching my chest and breathing like a dog.
‘Do it!’ she snapped, and I closed my eyes, counting backward and thinking about the grass. ‘Is it working?’
I shook my head.
‘Think about where you’re from. The long grasses in the field, in the vineyard when the sun’s out. Maybe you’ve run through them when the sun rises or lain in them when it sets…’
I thought about Charlotte and me running down the hill behind the chateau, me chasing her with the sun on our calves and her dress kicking up behind her legs. Both of us giggling.
‘Did it work?’ she said, and I opened my eyes, feeling my bare skin under my sleeping gown.
‘I don’t know…’
‘Use the counting technique when you feel your heart rate jump,’ she said. ‘When you’re scared and you need to be in control. Germans are notorious for knowing when a person’s nervous. The more you practise relaxing the better you’ll get at it. You won’t be able to close your eyes all the time. And don’t forget to breathe. I taught myself that trick. I wish I’d known it when it counted.’
‘Did something happen?’ I said, but Marguerite turned away to pull a barrel out from behind the table. I was surprised to see it was full of water. She flicked some on my face.
‘It’s cold!’ I said, cowering.
She laughed. ‘Step in.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘In there?’
She motioned with her eyes for me to get in, and I took off my socks. ‘Damn you, Marguerite,’ I mumbled. ‘This isn’t training. You’re just being mean,’ I said, and she shook her head.
I got in one foot at a time. And it wasn’t just cold. It was damn cold. Ice cold. ‘How long,’ I said, shivering, ‘do I have to stay in here?’
‘Ten minutes.’ She looked at her watch, and I stared at the wall.
‘Did you have to do this?’ I said, and she shook her head, looking at her watch.
‘I told you I never received any training,’ she said.
‘Then why do I—’ I groaned.
‘Almost done.’ She smiled like she was enjoying my suffering. ‘Look at the wall. Focus on it,’ she said, and my lips pinched up, staring at the wall, but still talking to her.
‘Is it time for that drink?’ I said.
‘Time’s up!’ she said, and I jumped from the barrel only to fall on the floor with numb feet.
She laughed, grabbing the bottle. ‘Come on.’
She gave me a blanket for my feet, and we sat down on the stone floor with our backs against the wall because the last thing I wanted to do was sit in that chair one more second. The liquor was warm and strong and burned my throat. ‘Scotch,’ I said, feeling the bite of it on my tongue. ‘Where’d you get scotch?’
‘You ask a lot of questions,’ she said. ‘Just enjoy it.’
‘Did someone give it to you?’ I said.
‘Mother Superior,’ she said, and my mouth gaped open for the second time that night.
‘No,’ I breathed, but she nodded, and we shared it, taking swigs straight from the bottle.
‘You know what this needs?’ I said, as she took a drink. ‘Something sweet. Crumbling cinnamon bread or I know—’
‘Candied almonds,’ we both said, and then laughed.
‘Yes,’ I said, and she handed me the bottle. ‘Sugary and sweet, a touch of cinnamon. The market in Vichy has the best ones. Up from the south, in Marseille.’
‘I haven’t eaten those in so long,’ Marguerite said. ‘And the soup here is absolutely revolting,’ she said, and I burst out laughing. ‘I told them it was fine, but it’s one step above terrible. The almonds though. I do miss those. They’re my fiancé’s favourite too.’
A quiet moment passed between us after she mentioned a fiancé. I could only imagine he was the man I saw her kissing near the laundry.
‘He’s handsome,’ I said, and she looked at me. ‘The man you were kissing…’
She blushed, and I never thought I’d ever see Marguerite blush. ‘His name’s Philip.’ She reached down the front of her postulant smock and pulled out a silver locket. ‘He’s a p
atriot,’ she said, opening it so I could see the photos stuck inside the two halves. One of her and one of him. ‘It’s by luck I get to see him so often.’
‘Lucky to see him, yes,’ I said, ‘but also because you found love.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Love in the Résistance.’ She gazed at the photos, smiling. ‘He is handsome, isn’t he?’
I was the one who blushed this time, thinking about them kissing, and she slid the locket back under her collar, passing me the bottle. I took another swig, pointing at the wall as the candlelight flickered. ‘Are you going to tell me what those are?’
‘The tally marks?’ she said, and I nodded. ‘I have no idea.’ She patted my leg. ‘Now, time to get back to work. It’s near morning, and we have another day to live.’
She held out her hand to help me up, and I took it.
*
I stumbled back into delinquent corridor and fell face first onto my cot in the dark. I woke to Mavis poking me in the back of the head. And when I looked up, a handful of girls circled around, watching me struggle to open my eyes. ‘What?’
‘It’s morning, Adèle,’ Mavis squeaked, but I’d nodded off. ‘Adèle?’ she said, and my head lifted again.
‘What?’ I said, eyes still closed.
‘Morning,’ she whispered.
‘She can’t hear you,’ Claire said, moving closer. ‘It’s morning,’ she yelled very near my ear and I bolted up.
‘Christ!’ I said. ‘Why’d you do that?’
Several girls covered their mouths, while I shook my head awake, replaying the night in my mind. Marguerite. Codes. Scotch. I rubbed my ears, and my eyes widened just a hair.
‘She cursed,’ someone said, followed by many whispers. ‘She slept through the morning bells.’
‘Sorry girls,’ I said. ‘I’ll pay for that later at Confession.’ My eyes closed briefly, and I rubbed my ears a little more, which got me to stand.
‘You’ve already missed morning prayer,’ Mavis said. ‘You don’t want to miss crafts too. The sisters sold your last painting for five kilograms of winter coal.’
I yawned. ‘They did?’ I rubbed my ears. ‘That’s nice. Such an ugly painting too.’
The girls had gathered by the door, waiting to be led outside where we’d make our way to the conservatory. ‘Are you going to lead the girls?’ Mavis said.
I yawned again, this time closing my eyes. ‘I’ll be there. Go ahead without me.’ I waved for her to leave. ‘I’ll follow you in a second.’
I heard Mavis scoot off while my eyes were closed and then the door shutting, followed by a quiet room. My head hit my pillow, and I was off to sleep again. Painting, coal, scotch, ears, were my last thoughts and then I was out, only to wake moments later to Marguerite’s grabbing hands.
‘Get up!’ Marguerite huffed, and she yanked me up by the armpits to a standing position. She rubbed my ears, and I swatted at her.
‘I’m up! Chri—’
My eyes bugged open. Mother Superior was standing right next to her.
‘Crafts,’ was all Mother said before turning on her heel and leaving in a swoosh of black.
Marguerite folded her arms. ‘Crafts.’
I blew air from my mouth. Crafts.
*
I slipped on a clean dress and pulled my hair back the best I could without a brush and found my way out to the conservatory, in the incredibly bright sunlight. The sisters had set up a table of yarn, if we wanted to knit, or a pottery station for ashtrays.
I saw Mavis before I heard her, standing in the grass. ‘I have your canvas,’ she said, and I squinted, still trying to adjust to the sun and the morning. ‘Adèle?’ She held the canvas out for me to take.
I took it, but not before letting out a little groan. ‘It feels so early.’ I looked around, one eye still squinting, over the grassy field and to the few girls who were now setting up their easels. ‘Where is everyone?’ I asked, but then changed the subject. ‘What time is it?’
Mavis stepped closer, sniffing the air, and it was then I realized she probably smelled the alcohol on me from last night. I backed up. ‘Never mind,’ I said, and then pointed to the other painters. ‘I’ll go set up.’
‘Are you in charge again?’ Mavis asked. Her eyes flicked to mine before looking at the ground. ‘The girls don’t listen to me like they do you.’ Her words hung in the air, and what I really heard was her asking what was wrong with me, and why I was so tired.
I yawned, one eye open, but it was a yawn of convenience. ‘I was sick last night,’ I lied. ‘In the toilet,’ I whispered, and she looked confused as to why I’d tell her the particulars, but I wanted to wash away all her doubt. ‘I’m all right now. Not to worry.’
I patted her shoulder and she went into the conservatory even though we were all outside.
‘Yes, have a rest,’ I said as she walked away. ‘I’ll take care of everything this morning.’
I made my way over to the grassy hill, where so many of the girls had already started to paint. Sister Mary-Francis inspected the artwork, hands folded behind her back.
‘Mother wants you to paint more of the same today,’ she said. ‘We need more coal. And your painting fetched us a mint.’
I didn’t understand what the fuss was about, why someone would trade a fortune in coal for that glob of paint I slapped on the canvas the other day. Art was subjective, Charlotte had told me once. I suppose it isn’t up to me to understand. I smiled. ‘Yes, Sister.’
I set up my palette and chair, listening to the girls fight over the last tube of blue paint when I noticed the sister staring off toward the front of the convent. I got off my chair and walked over when I felt something wasn’t right. ‘Something wrong?’
She shook her head slowly from side to side, still looking at the front of the convent, and to a car that had just rolled up. Vichy police, and not one, two or three of them, but four gendarmes got out of the car and walked the courtyard, lingering, kicking up dirt and fingering their batons. Mother Superior walked out to talk to them. Voices were raised.
The bell tower chimed, clinging and clanging with so much force even the girls turned around. ‘What time is it?’ they asked. ‘Why are the bells ringing?’
Sister Mary-Francis walked off without so much as a word, disappearing into the laundry.
‘Where’s Marguerite?’ I said to anyone who’d answer, eyes still on the gendarmes, but only a few looked up from their canvases. ‘Girls!’ I said, and they all looked at me this time. ‘Where’s Marguerite?’
The bells had stopped ringing, but the hum still echoed in my ears and over the convent grounds. Vibrating. One of the gendarmes noticed me, but then his fleeting glance turned into a stare. He pointed for another gendarme to look, and then Mother. My stomach sank.
I ducked behind a canvas. He’d found me. I don’t know how, but he’d found me.
‘Girls,’ I said, trying to sound calm but my heart was racing. There was no time for counting and to think about lying in the grass. ‘I’ll be right back.’ I winced hard. ‘Don’t move.’
‘Where are you going?’ one asked.
The cloister wasn’t that far away, and the sanctuary would still have sisters kneeling in the pews, which would provide a little cover. Then I could make it to the south stairs, and down into the secret room where I had my training. They wouldn’t find me there.
I used my canvas as a cover. ‘I need a new canvas,’ I announced, and I made a dash for it, making haste to the bell tower, looking for a place to stash the canvas, but then decided to ditch it for the doors.
The sanctuary was empty. Not one sister. Prayer candles flickered.
The chapel doors flew open and Sister Mary-Francis walked in swiftly, down the aisle and past all the pews to the altar where she crossed her chest with the sign of the divinity.
‘Sister—’
‘Shh!’ She bolted toward me, her habit swishing around her feet, but then whispered as she passed. ‘Out the back, far meadow. Hu
rry!’
9
I ran through the far meadow and found cover under a big willow tree, hiding in its spindly branches, where I waited, but for what I didn’t know. I felt like a turkey in the wild waiting to be shot, breathing heavily, then standing nervously, biting at my fingernails.
A crackling behind me nearly scared me into the branches, but then my stomach hit the ground in relief when I saw it was Marguerite. ‘Christ, it’s you—’
She rushed up, hands out, clamping them over my loud mouth. Her lips felt dry in my ear. ‘Shh…’ She peeled her palm away from my face and we looked at each other. ‘The police got a tip about the guns.’
I covered my own mouth. ‘The mole?’
‘Who else?’ she said.
‘Did they arrest Mother?’ I said, and she shook her head.
‘They only asked questions, and how many sisters and delinquents we had. She gave them a tour of the grounds, of our chambers and the sanctuary. We knew what they were really there for.’
‘What now?’
‘We make a rendezvous.’ She checked her watch. ‘And hope our funds are secure, and pray the mole didn’t know about the big transfer today. We’ll have to walk.’
She pointed into the reedy birch forest off the convent grounds, a place I’d never been before, and we walked the bank of a curvy stream that ran through it into the country. ‘Wait.’ She stopped me with a stiff arm, and she searched the sky, listening. Her face went pale. ‘Hear that?’ she said, and as soon as she said it, I heard an engine sputtering.
We crept up the way just a bit more and found a road.
Marguerite gasped, sucking a mouthful of air through her teeth when she saw a truck with its driver’s side door flung open. She bolted a few steps, but stopped abruptly when we heard a woman’s voice telling the driver to be quiet and die over the scrape of his boots digging at the floorboards.
Marguerite pulled a revolver from her pocket. ‘Hands!’ She aimed the gun. ‘Let me see your hands!’ Her face instantly perspired.
The woman backed slowly away, two white legs behind the open door and the lavender hem of a delinquent’s peasant dress.
My heart stopped. ‘Claire?’
