by Sharon Maas
And she wasn’t. Under the surface, the goad had been working. It had prompted her, a few days ago, to try the code for the safe’s lock. It hadn’t worked; but she had tried, and she would try again, and this time, this time, oh it was brilliant, her idea! And Jacques needed to know. He would not only approve; perhaps, just perhaps, there was the tiniest chance that his approval would grow into something bigger. Erase all the previous disappointment, raise her in his eyes; she would be his co-conspirator, and surely, as such, he would see her as something more than a sister?
One could only hope. She had to talk to him.
Over the last few weeks her relationship with Margaux had once again mellowed. It had always been that way. Maman would explode in an outburst of fury, throw Marie-Claire’s faults and misdemeanours in her face, exaggerating them beyond reason, say the sort of thing a mother should never, ever, under any circumstances, say to a child, not even in a temper… Marie-Claire would stomp off in a cloud of hurt feelings, vowing never, ever, under any circumstances to forgive her mother. And then, a few days later, it would all be back to normal, normality being a sullen tolerance on both sides.
So it was now. Marie-Claire found living with Tatie stultifying, and needed a regular escape back home, to the chateau, with its solid core, Maman. Maman accepted her back home every weekend with no mention of the work she was doing or who she was working for. Though disapproval hung heavy in the atmosphere, it was never brought up in speech, Marie-Claire was never again accused of treachery and life continued as ever, as if nothing had changed, every Friday evening through to Sunday.
But now, something had changed, and that Saturday, after a hearty lunch of the sort she could never expect at Tatie’s, Marie-Claire casually said, ‘Maman, how is Jacques? Do you know where he is?’
Margaux’s reply was gruff and dismissive. ‘How should I know? Am I his keeper?’
But afterwards, once Margaux had gone off on one of her wine-delivery errands, leaving the two girls to clear the table and the kitchen, Victoire said, ‘Why did you ask about Jacques, Marie-Claire? Do you need to speak to him?’
Victoire had an antenna for the unseen, unspoken things; Marie-Claire had always envied her this capacity, but now she was grateful for it.
‘Yes – I really need to see him. Do you know where he is?’
Victoire hesitated, and Marie-Claire noticed it.
‘Look, I know you all disapprove of what I’m doing, where I’m working, and I know Jacques hates me for it…’
‘Marie-Claire! Jacques doesn’t—’
‘Shhh, I know he does. Hate might be a strong word but that’s what it is. You all hate me. But – but you have to give me a chance and I really, really need to speak to Jacques. It’s important!’
‘We don’t hate you, Marie-Claire, we really don’t. You mustn’t think that. You’re—’
‘Victoire, I don’t bloody care if you hate me or not! That’s beside the point! The point is, I need to speak to Jacques! It’s urgent! Is there some way you can let him know?’
‘Well… I suppose…’ She hesitated.
‘What do you suppose?’
‘He left a telephone number, a Strasbourg number. But he said we should only use it in emergencies. We can leave a message and he’d call us back, he said.’
‘Give me that number.’
‘I can’t, Marie-Claire. Not without telling Maman. I can’t do it behind her back.’
‘Oh, Victoire! Still the good little mama’s girl, I see!’
Victoire’s eyes flashed with ire.
‘No, Marie-Claire. It’s a matter of trust. We’re living in a time of war and we can’t just do as we want, break the agreed rules. Maman needs to know if we contact Jacques. It’s a pact. I’m not at liberty to break that pact. Jacques is doing important work, and—’
‘Oh, shove it. Very well, I’ll be a good girl and ask Maman’s permission but I warn you, if she won’t allow it because she doesn’t think it’s emergency enough, it’s on your head. And Jacques won’t thank you either.’
‘If you’d just tell me what it’s about! I know you and Jacques…’
‘What do you know about me and Jacques?’
‘Well – I do know you had a crush on him for a long time, and…’
‘How do you know that? Did he say something?’
‘Calm down, Marie-Claire. No, he said nothing. I have no idea what passed between the two of you but it was pretty obvious that you were mad for him, and he, well, he didn’t reciprocate. We all knew that.’
Marie-Claire felt the red spreading to her cheeks.
‘I didn’t know…’
‘It doesn’t matter, Marie-Claire. I mean, I’m much younger than you but even I could tell, but it doesn’t matter, but you see, that’s why I can’t just use the emergency contact line for something that might be…’ She paused, searching for the right word. ‘Frivolous.’
Marie-Claire struggled to hold back her irritation and took her time replying.
‘Victoire. I assure you, I promise, it’s not frivolous. It’s vitally important, and Jacques would want to know as soon as possible. It’s vital. You see, Jacques came to see me a few weeks ago, and asked for help, and… well, I want to help.’
Victoire’s eyes lit up. ‘You do? You want to help? Really? Oh, Marie-Claire, that would be the best news ever!’
‘So you’ll help? You’ll contact Jacques for me? Without asking Maman?’
Victoire hesitated. They looked at each other, eyes locked in an exchange that was of an intimacy the two of them had never shared as sisters. An exchange of trust, of confidence, one in the other, a linking of something nebulous, unsubstantial, and yet strong, so strong – the forming of a bond that had never before existed between the two. And in that linking, Victoire knew.
‘I’ll do it, Marie-Claire. I’ll get a message to Jacques.’
Seventeen
Victoire
Jacques. She wondered if Marie-Claire had made the phone call yet. She wondered what it was all about. Marie-Claire had seemed so serious yesterday; she, Victoire, hoped she’d been right to trust her and give her the number and the code: The Citroën broke down last Saturday. That would be the sign for Jacques to call back as soon as possible; it indicated an emergency, but Victoire had no inkling how serious Marie-Claire’s purpose was in seeking out Jacques. She hoped it was, indeed, nothing romantic – Marie-Claire had promised it wasn’t, but her judgement sometimes had to be called into question. Yesterday Victoire had decided to trust her, yet a few doubts lingered.
In any case, it was done. Sooner or later Jacques would call back. Perhaps then she could mention the escape route for Leah and Estelle. Now that was what she called a developing emergency.
It might be silly, but she wished for an emergency of some kind. Everyone else seemed to be engaged in actual war or Resistance work of some kind, or had the potential to: Jacques, and Maman, and now Marie-Claire; and, she was sure by now, Juliette, who had disappeared off the face of the earth after running off to see Jacques in Strasbourg last November. They were all in the thick of the action, even if that action was working in a Nazi office as Marie-Claire did. They all had responsibilities. And she – she was just a youth, not yet fit for anything serious, delegated to do the background work of looking after animals, plants and refugees. Not that those tasks weren’t important, she was quick to correct herself, and she was happy to do them; but she longed for something with a bit more – bite. Something that would truly challenge her, something exciting, something adult. She hated being fifteen.
There were exactly two eggs in the ceramic egg-basket back in the kitchen. She’d boil them, and with a slice of old bread and last year’s strawberry jam, that would be breakfast. She knew they were lucky to have even that. Many, if not most, people in Colmar and the surrounding villages had to make do with much less; she knew it, because, of course, much of the produce had come from the chateau. All of the surrounding farm, farms much bigger than
this one and actually dependent on their animals and produce, had been decimated, ruined. The Nazis invariably left only enough for personal use. Two hens. One goat. One rabbit. They’d manage. Other farms wouldn’t.
The egg water was boiling. She watched it for a few minutes and then fished out the eggs, doused them in cold water to make the shelling easier. One she wrapped in a cloth for Maman. The other one she placed on a plate for herself, still musing about her own predicament.
She walked over to the crockery cupboard, moved aside a big bowl, revealing the wireless Maman kept hidden, switched it on. It was permanently tuned to the BBC, and the crackling it emitted gave her a pleasant sense of connection to the outside world. She sat at the table and cracked open the egg.
She finished the egg and had started on the bread-and-jam when the pips denoting the top of the hour and the news made her stop chewing, stop ruminating and listen.
The news was devastating. Yet again, London had been targeted for carpet-bombing. Whole districts had been obliterated. Thousands were dead and dying. The emergency services and hospitals could hardly cope.
Victoire’s eyes brimmed with tears. The tears spilled over, ran down her cheeks; she choked on her bread, rushed to the sink for a glass of water.
Here she was, feeling terrible because her life was so mundane, wishing for more excitement, when people were losing their lives, their families, their children, their homes, bleeding to death in the streets and under rubble! How callous, how selfish, to envy those caught up in war! To wish for a more thrilling life! She was lucky, fortunate, that she was safe and protected, that no bombs were likely to fall on Alsace as they were on London, that she wasn’t being herded onto cattle trains to be sent to a darkness in the East, as in Germany. She was lucky, so lucky, and should count her blessings… but no. That wasn’t right either. Counting her blessings was smug and just as selfish.
She needed to do something. She had to. It was a necessity.
The BBC announcer was describing now the situation at Guy’s Hospital, which had been evacuated to the south of England. It was then that it hit her. She knew what she had to do. It was the perfect solution, and even Maman could not object.
She would become a nurse.
The moment she had that thought it was as if she rose up on a wave of elation. Of course! That was it! Nursing was a vital profession in a war; it would not only give her the skills needed to actually engage herself in something important, it would also give her the confidence of knowing she was making an important contribution. She’d go off to Colmar as soon as she could and train. There must be a demand for nurses at this time.
There was a small problem, though: Maman needed her here on the farm. Someone had to feed the animals, look after the greenhouse plants and tend to Leah and Estelle. But she quickly countered that argument – which Maman was sure to raise – in her mind. There were so many young women like herself, stagnating at home. In the villages, in Colmar. Maman had so many trusted friends. She was sure to find one, someone, with a daughter, like herself, who could take over. The work was easy. She could be replaced. She was not needed here. Not really.
A shrill screech torpedoed the measured voice of the BBC announcer. Victoire jumped out of her ruminations. The telephone. She hastened into the hallway to answer it. Grabbed the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘’Hello. Victoire?’
‘Jacques! Yes, yes.’
‘I got a message. What’s the emergency?’
‘I don’t know, Jacques. It’s Marie-Claire. She says she needs to see you.’
A slight pause followed. And then:
‘Bien. I will come down as soon as I can.’
‘While you’re here, Jacques, there’s something else…’
‘An emergency?’
‘Well, not exactly, but…’
‘Then it can wait. I’ll see you in a day or two.’
‘Jacques! I—’
But he was gone. The receiver buzzed rudely in her hand. She sighed and replaced it on its cradle. It was always that way. Nobody took her seriously. Oh, to be an adult!
Eighteen
Marie-Claire
‘I’ve decided to help, Jacques.’
An untrimmed beard covered his chin. A curved moustache almost entirely concealed his lips. His hair was almost shoulder-length, while a greasy fringe hung in dank tendrils over his forehead, past his eyebrows. As for his clothes, they stank of old male sweat and looked like weeks of wear, hanging on his skinny frame as on a scarecrow. The soles of his boots laughed at her through a wide toothless gap.
Had she met this man as a stranger in the streets she’d have given him a wide berth.
But beneath it all was Jacques, and there was nothing she could do to quiet the pounding of her heart, the shortness of breath when she spoke, to stop the yearning from permeating her gaze. Her recoil had been instinctive but brief; after all, there was nothing about his physical appearance that a good bath and a haircut and shave couldn’t fix. Jacques was Jacques, the being behind the form, and it was this being that held her in its sway, it was this being that seemed impervious to every effort she’d made to charm it, bring it under her sway. It worked with almost every other eligible male she came into contact with. All her male colleagues before the Nazi takeover, and now all the officers who occupied the Rathaus. The unspoken admiration leaping into the coldest blue eyes, the slight nod of the head, the tiny adjustment of voice. It was something she was proud of. A secret power, you could say.
But it didn’t work with Jacques. His words continued to sting.
‘You’re like my sister.’
‘As shallow as a crêpe-pan.’
‘Everyone does silly things when they drink too much.’
He didn’t want her, and it hurt.
But now, tonight, it would be different. She had something more to offer, more than just the animal appeal she’d always been able to bask in when it came to the opposite sex. She had something he did want. She could see it, now, in the way his eyes lit up.
‘You’ve decided to help? Marie-Claire, that’s wonderful!’
He opened his arms and stepped towards her for an embrace. They’d often embraced in the past: exchanged kisses on the cheek, hugged each other; and always she’d known it meant more to her than to him, but anything was good enough. Now, though, she instinctively stepped back – no matter how much she longed for his arms around her, she was still too fastidious to hug a gutter-bug.
‘Jacques, no! You’re filthy! And you stink!’ She laughed. ‘And I bet you’ve got lice!’
He stopped in his tracks, scratched his head and laughed too.
‘You know, I think you’re right! Sorry, Marie-Claire. I’ll try to keep a distance from now on.’
He pulled out a chair and sat on it. ‘So, you want to help. That’s wonderful. Is there a specific way you can help? Tell me what you can do.’
She told him. About the typewriter on the little desk in the corner, the one that he alone used. The one he used for his most confidential letters and reports, the ones hidden away in his safe or taken off to important Nazi meetings. The one he hunched over for hours, his fingers like missiles hammering secrets onto paper through the medium of keys and ribbons. The machine she alone serviced with new ribbons.
‘He can’t even change his own ribbons! He can’t do anything on his own, not empty his ashtray, not put a log on the fire. I do it all. And so…’
She told Jacques of her proposal.
‘I need to change the ribbon after it’s been used once, just once, top and bottom. Before it’s gone back and forth a hundred times and all the letters are obliterated. But after one use, the letters are clear – imprinted on the ribbon.’
‘So – if we get hold of those, whatever is written could be deciphered.’
‘Exactly. But the thing is…’
She told him about the storeroom, about Tobias who managed it, about having to sign for everything she took out.
<
br /> ‘I’d need a steady supply of unused spools. I’m not sure how long it would take to cover a ribbon once, top and bottom, with writing, but it won’t take long at the rate he writes. So I’ll need you to keep me supplied.’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’
‘I’d give the used spools to Madame Guyon.’
‘And she’ll give you new ones. But you need to tell me the make of the typewriter so we can get you the correct spools.’
‘Here. This is an old one, obviously unusable as it’s been typed over a million times. But this is the spool I need.’
She handed him the fully used spool, the one the Kreisleiter had told her to throw away.
‘You smuggled this out?’
‘Of course!’
‘They don’t search you when you leave the building?’
‘Oh, they look in my handbag. But those security guards – they’re just boys. It’s easy to distract them. Women know how it’s done.’
‘Marie-Claire, you’re a goddamned vixen!’
She laughed, and her heart soared. It was the greatest compliment Jacques had ever paid her. And now, when he stepped forward to wrap his arms round her – that was not the embrace of a brother, surely?
Nineteen
Marie-Claire
Marie-Claire removed her shoes, picked them up and tiptoed across the office. The Kreisleiter – he had been in the office yesterday; he had hammered away at the typewriter for thirty minutes (she had witnessed this; he had called her up to bring him a cup of coffee), sat at his desk entering data into the ledger he always kept in his briefcase, called up the Dienstleiter, the Landesinspekteur and the newly appointed Ortsgruppenleiter, his subordinates by order of rank, for a discussion, made several telephone calls, then announced that he would be in Strasbourg for the rest of the week. Marie-Claire had been in and out of the smoke-filled office all day, attending to his demands. As for the mayor, he was at a meeting downstairs along with several military officers; it was likely to go on for at least an hour. This meant the office would be free for the foreseeable future.
