by Lily Graham
As she’d hoped, he bristled. ‘Yes, of course I do. I am key to this whole Occupation. He is very interested in what I have to say of its success.’
‘But surely he is too busy, and won’t take much notice of what is happening here when he is distracted by the fighting elsewhere…’
He scoffed, raising a hand in dismissal. ‘The war is over – we have won. His efforts are now about keeping his people happy. Especially the people who are now under his command. Paris is the jewel in his empire, and he takes a keen interest in it, of course. It’s why he is coming next week…’
‘He is?’
‘Yes. A victory march through the streets of Paris, starting with the Arc de Triomphe, of course, like Napoleon.’
‘Of course,’ said Mireille.
When Thérèse came two days later, Mireille placed the note in a novel by Alexandre Dumas, and handed it to her. ‘Here is the novel you ordered.’
Inside it she had written: Next week, Arc de Triomphe.
The message of warning came the following day, from the man who ran the bakery around the corner: Don’t trust the old network.
Mireille’s throat turned dry. She thought about the drop. The woman with the red scarf. What had she done?
They came for Mireille on Valerie’s first birthday. They had spent it at the park, at her favourite place, near the ducks. It was a small affair. Mireille had made a cake, saving the sugar from their tea for the week, and there was even a bit of pink icing. It was just the four of them on a picnic blanket, and for a while there in the early spring sunshine, Mireille could convince herself that she had nothing to fear – until they heard the sound of booted feet marching towards them. She looked up to find several brown-shirted officers coming at them, and her heart stuttered in sudden cold fear. They were led by Valter Kroeling, who fairly flew towards her, his watery blue eyes lit up as if there were a cool fire glowing inside him. Next to him was the woman in the red scarf, the one Mireille had passed the note about where and when Hitler would be arriving. She felt herself go pale. She understood at once. She was holding on to Valerie tighter than was necessary, and the child began to cry.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ asked Mattaus, standing up.
Kroeling turned to him, his brow quirked. ‘I should be asking you that question, Herr Fredericks.’
He looked at the woman to his left, who was finding it hard to meet Mireille’s eyes. ‘This is the woman, you are sure?’ he said to her. The woman didn’t say anything and Kroeling barked, ‘Thérèse Castelle, may I remind you what is at stake should you not answer.’
The woman raised her chin, tears leaking down her face, as she pointed at Mireille. ‘Yes. It was her.’
Valter Kroeling nodded, pursing his lips. His fingers reached inside his pocket, and took out a folded-up piece of paper. He handed the note to Henrik Winkler, who looked at it for a moment, then nodded. ‘Arc de Triomphe, oui. Exactly as was planted…’
Valter Kroeling then gave Mireille a reluctant smile, though she could see the glee that was hidden behind it. ‘Mireille Dupont, I am afraid our time had come to an end. You are accused of treason, against the Führer himself. Passing on messages about where he will be – a fabrication, of course,’ he said, allowing himself a small smile. ‘The Führer has no such plans to come back to Paris. He did his victory lap once – no need to keep coming back, when he has other territories to conquer. In that you were quite correct. But still, you fell for the bait, and for that I am afraid the sentence is death.’
‘This is outrageous,’ said Mattaus. ‘What are you talking about? Treason against Hitler himself? This is some mad scheme of yours… you have been after her for ages, and now you’ve gone completely mad. I will not let you get away with this.’
Valter Kroeling gave a soft laugh. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time, Mireille realised, and he was enjoying it, now that it had finally arrived. ‘I am a patient man, Herr Fredericks, and we have given your wife as much leeway as possible, but when information came our way that she was in fact sending messages to a scatty group of people who call themselves the resistance’ – his hand fluttered towards Thérèse Castelle as he gave a small, derisive snort – ‘we had to pay closer attention. It seems this has been going on for some time, beneath your nose.’
He brandished the note, which had Mireille’s handwriting on it.
‘This is her handwriting, is it not?’
When Mattaus didn’t respond, Kroeling sighed. ‘It makes no difference, I’m afraid. It’s a very clear case.’
The air left Mireille’s lungs.
He clicked his fingers, and one of the men came forward to seize her, ripping the baby out of her arms. Valerie began to howl, as if somehow she sensed that this was the last time she would ever see her mother, ever feel the touch of her embrace.
The baby was given over to Dupont, who rushed forward to take her.
‘You can’t do this,’ he said.
Kroeling looked at him, enjoying hurting the man who had once dared to strike him. ‘It has already been done.’
Then he looked at Mattaus and said, ‘Alas, I do not like to see two people so in love separated, so you will be arrested as well, Herr Fredericks, as you are responsible for your wife’s actions, and have been seen to be complicit. We have this here,’ he said, reaching inside his jacket pocket and brandishing another folded-up piece of paper. ‘This is a confession from the priest who married you. It seems you kept this information from your superiors. It has since been decided that if you could keep your very marriage a secret, there is no telling what else you are hiding. The sentence for you is, of course… death by firing squad. If you’re lucky we can arrange that the two of you go together.’
Mattaus’s eyes flashed with fury and fear. ‘You will not be taking me or my wife anywhere.’
‘Accept it, Fredericks. It’s over.’
Another man came forward to seize Mattaus. There was a struggle, and the soldier went down as Mattaus struck him with an elbow to the nose. Valter Kroeling drew his pistol, but Mattaus had already seized the gun of the downed soldier, and the blast went off like an explosion. Kroeling doubled over, screaming, his hands cupping a seeping wound in his side, his face turning ashen. In the next moment two shots were fired, and seemingly, as if in slow motion, Dupont watched as Mireille slumped over, sliding ever so slowly to the ground. She landed on her knees, then fell, her arms still reaching for her child. Mattaus blinked as he stared at his wife. He screamed her name, but no sound seemed to come out. His hand came up to touch his heart, which had begun to explode in pain, and as he touched his chest, he felt the warm flow of blood. When he looked up he saw the pistol still smoking in Kroeling’s dead hand.
He staggered to Mireille, touched her face, and lay down next to her. The last thing he saw before he died was her face.
Chapter Thirty-One
1963
‘She was betrayed,’ said Valerie at last. They had been sitting on a bench where they’d come to a stop just along the Rue des Oiseaux. She’d sunk down onto it as Dupont began to tell her about the day her parents had died. There was a moment when she hadn’t wanted to hear any more, when she wanted him to stop, but a part of her needed to know, needed to understand what had happened.
‘She died for nothing,’ she said, staring at the ground. ‘She risked everything… and it was all just a set-up.’
She wanted to rage, to scream. To find Valter Kroeling’s remains and tear them apart.
Dupont grabbed her hand and squeezed it. ‘No, not for nothing. She was fooled, yes, but had it been true, she could have changed the fate of the war. We don’t know, when we take a chance, when we decide to do the right thing, if it will work or not – we just have to take the leap, do what is asked of us. She was brave, and that can never be taken away from her. That’s how we won the war, in the end. By taking those chances. As your father did when he saved Clotilde. He could have been killed if they had found out.’
She nodded, and dashed the tears from her eyes. She supposed he had thought about this for a long time. She knew, as well, that her mother would have been gratified to hear that so many years after her husband’s death, her father did think that Mattaus was brave and good… she had got that wish at least, in the end.
They walked on together, back to the bookshop, back home.
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘You’re pregnant?’
Valerie nodded. She was sitting across from Freddy at the Cafe De Bonne Chance. Jazz music was playing, and in the corner, a beautiful woman with long brown hair was laughing.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I think so… I’m very late.’
Freddy stared at her, his brown eyes wide. His fingers went to play with the back of his hair. ‘Shit.’
She made a small noise. This was not how she had pictured it. She closed her eyes. She had been a smart girl, once. Before she ran away to Paris pretending to be Isabelle Henry.
‘That’s great, thanks, Freddy.’
He laughed. ‘Val.’
She folded her arms. ‘Look, I’m not exactly thrilled either, but…’ He was still grinning at her, so she snapped, ‘What?’
‘Well, I…’ He shifted in his seat. ‘I saw this at the pawn shop around the corner today. I mean, it’s not flashy or anything, and I bought it because, I don’t know, it just seemed right… I had hoped to wait a bit, till I had an apartment… and definitely before you said that.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Valerie, who hadn’t really been paying attention past him saying ‘shit’ at the news that she was pregnant. Even if, admittedly, it was rather shit in terms of timing, but… a baby, well, it could be…
‘Val?’
She looked up and blinked. There was a ring. A flash of something that sparkled.
‘I mean, I’ll get you a better one when I actually make us some money… but… will you marry me?’
‘Oh, Jesus, Freddy,’ she said, and then she burst into tears. It was perhaps the worst proposal but one of the most romantic moments of her life, second only to the day he’d told her that he loved her.
When she got home later that evening, she found Madame Joubert sitting upstairs with Dupont. When she came inside, the conversation stopped. She took a seat next to Madame Joubert, and said, ‘Well, I suppose now everyone knows.’
‘Yes,’ Madame Joubert said, and she shook her head, her eyes wide. ‘Can I pour you some wine?’
Valerie blew out her cheeks, then shook her head. ‘I can’t drink… not for the next nine months, I’m afraid.’
Both of their mouths fell open.
Madame Joubert gasped. ‘You are…?’
Valerie nodded. ‘Pregnant. Yes. Also’ – she raised her hand – ‘engaged.’
Madame Joubert screeched in excitement, and then she pulled Valerie into a tight hug, and the two of them started speaking excitedly about weddings and flowers. Valerie told her how upset Freddy was that he hadn’t popped the question before, because now everyone would think that they were getting married only because she was pregnant. But her real concern was the garret. ‘At the moment we can’t really afford anything else. Rents in Paris aren’t cheap, and Freddy is only freelancing. But hopefully he can get a permanent placement soon.’
‘Here, do you think, or in England?’ asked Madame Joubert.
‘I’m not sure. Here, hopefully. Maybe England. I suppose that makes more sense, though… I don’t know. We haven’t yet decided.’
After some time Dupont stood up. His face looked downcast, though he said, ‘I wish you all the best, truly. It is happy news.’
She watched him shuffle off down the passage to his bedroom, a frown on his face, his shoulders even more stooped than usual.
She turned back to Madame Joubert and asked, ‘Is he all right?’
‘Yes, it’s just been a lot to take in, I’m sure.’
Valerie nodded. Yes, that made sense. She couldn’t understand why he looked sad though, all of a sudden – he’d seemed so happy before.
‘What happened when you came back from Spain? How did you end up living here again?’ asked Valerie that night. It was a question she’d been dying to know the answer to – Clotilde’s story, and how she had come back to Paris after the war.
Madame Joubert took a sip of her wine, and Valerie was swept back into the past.
Clotilde had been living in the Spanish mountains for three years, in a small village with other refugees. She was safe, she was free, and she was miserable too. She missed Paris. The streets, the gentle undulation of the Seine, the way the light turned from gold to rose as it reflected off the buildings in the afternoon. It was home. But what she longed for was a place that was no more.
News of Mireille’s death had reached her, at last, through an old friend, a homosexual clockmaker named Michel Biomme, who the year before had crossed the border over the Alps with only the clothes on his back. When they saw each other, she saw in his eyes straight away that the news from home was bad. Clotilde and Mireille had been friends since they were babes, and for a long time after Clotilde heard of Mireille’s death, she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. It felt almost too cruel to contemplate that the two people who had sacrificed so much to ensure her own safety were gone, while she was here.
As the days passed she thought over the other things Michel had told her.
That there was a child, named Valerie. And that Monsieur Dupont had been left alone to care for her. He who had been the closest thing she’d ever had to a father. She needed to return to Paris for them.
‘I would never return, never, not after what has happened,’ said Jean, an older Jewish woman who had spent eight months in a labour camp before she escaped and ended up here in this small village called Hela, in the Spanish countryside. Jean and some of the others called it Hell for short due to the scant resources, and the government’s inability to help them when there were so many others who were in the same boat.
‘It wasn’t their fault, what happened to us,’ said Clotilde.
‘Don’t be naive,’ spat Jean. ‘It was my neighbour who told them where we were hiding in the attic. My neighbour, Clotilde. A man that I had known for twenty years. I had looked after his children when they were ill. Had cooked for them, sent over gifts at Christmas – for Christmas,’ she emphasised. The holiday they did not celebrate. ‘And still, in the end, he decided that he would rather earn a quick buck from the Germans than protect us. I wouldn’t go back there if you paid me.’
A lot of the others felt the same: betrayed by their own people. Some, like Clotilde, were more philosophical. There were others like her who had escaped due to the leniency and help of their enemy.
‘People show who they are in war,’ said Jean. This was true, thought Clotilde. Sometimes, like Mattaus, the good comes out; sometimes just the will to survive, to feed a family, never mind the cost to others.
Clotilde couldn’t think about that, not now.
It took two weeks for her to travel back. She waited just long enough to hear that the war was well and truly over before she packed the small bag she’d arrived with, and made her way across the border.
The streets of Paris were filled with people. Allied soldiers were everywhere, smiles lighting their faces. In the streets, Charles de Gaulle’s name was spoken often and with reverence. Everywhere there was a sense of triumph, of joy: it was finally over.
Clotilde paused before the bookshop. The glass was dirty, the gold lettering dull. It was closed, when it had never been closed on a Saturday for as long as she could remember.
She rang the bell, and it was some time before she heard footsteps, and found Dupont at the door.
His eyes widened when he saw her, then his head fell upon her broad shoulder, and he clasped her to him as a daughter. When they pulled apart, they took in the ravages that war had left behind. Dupont had aged dramatically: his hair had turned white, and his shoulders were beginning to stoop
. He looked like an old man, though he was barely fifty-five. His eyes were haunted, lost.
‘You didn’t need to come,’ he said.
‘Yes, I did.’
Clotilde didn’t want to hear about the rumours. About what was happening on the streets. It didn’t mean anything, she insisted, but Dupont was adamant. ‘They are calling it a purge, Clotilde. Lisette Minoutte was shot, just for helping a woman who’d slept with a German to give birth. She was a trained midwife, for goodness’ sake, and it was her neighbour. What will they do to the children?’
Already some of the children were being shunned by their families. Dupont had heard of one child who’d been so badly beaten that he had to be taken to the hospital. It was not what he wanted for Valerie.
Clotilde was too late. By just one day. Amélie had already come to fetch the child by the time Clotilde had arrived.
They’d had to do it in secret. Because the French were drawing up the names of all the collaborators, and no one was sure their children wouldn’t end up on those lists – to be sent somewhere else, somewhere far away.
Dupont had made Amélie promise not to tell him where she moved to – so that he couldn’t follow.
Madame Joubert looked at Valerie now. ‘I was devastated. If I had arrived sooner, maybe I could have raised you myself, pretended you were my own… but it was too late, and we didn’t know where to start. We convinced ourselves that you would have a good life with Amélie. It was all we had left to cling to. I hope you can forgive me.’
Valerie took her hand. She bit her lip, tears falling down her face as she realised, ‘You came back for me.’
She nodded.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The bookshop cat was curled up on her desk, and Valerie sat up to shift her weight. She was uncomfortable, no matter which way she sat. Her pregnancy had started to show, and her feet were like two ham sandwiches in her rather unflattering men’s sandals. But still, she wasn’t about to let Dupont get away with his last retort.
