Legends of the Lost Lilies

by Jackie French

  Sophie would have liked to rage at him. Even news that there was no news would be better than endless waiting, and if he visited, even for a day, he could tell them of how things were in Australia, England, the world. Dolphie’s complete absence at least told them three things: no plot had yet succeeded; another plot was planned; and that Dolphie had still not been arrested.

  Twice that year a box arrived, accompanied each time by sacks of flour, but no note at all. Both times the boxes held more coffee, crumbly brown beet sugar, a vast hard yellow cheese, and long-keeping sausage. The second box, miraculously, was delivered with a giant haunch of what Hannelore calmly said was horse meat, which Sophie had never eaten, even in France. But Grünberg marinated it with vinegar and spices to make Sauerbraten, and the household feasted on it for a week, before returning to Hasenpfeffer, a rabbit stew marinated in wine and vinegar braised with onions and wine from the Lodge’s cellar, thickened with the rabbit’s blood and served with potatoes and cabbage, and more potatoes and cabbage, and cabbage and potatoes, or potatoes with some precious eggs.

  She and Hannelore lugged sacks of potatoes down to the cellar; more sacks of giant steel-hard German cabbage. They stored apples in tubs of bran, and eggs too, and dried grapes and plums and cherries in the hot attic, and plaited strings of onions to hang on the kitchen walls.

  The hard work was good. Physical exhaustion meant she slept. The need to grow food, preserve food, cook food or the four of them would starve kept each day occupied so fully that she was startled to see weeks go by, then months.

  She imagined Rose and Danny at school, tried not to think of the day they turned seventeen, and she was not there to celebrate it, nor to calculate the probable date of Danny’s last examination next year, for that was when he and his friends would volunteer together late that afternoon, with thousands of other schoolboys suddenly turned soldier.

  She pictured Daniel at the Bald Hill Clinic, and at Sunday lunch with Midge and Harry, roast mutton with mint sauce, gravy and baked pumpkin. Bob would be mucking out the Shillings pigs again, and James and Ethel and even Violette going about their jobs. She forced herself to imagine them all going on as before because the alternatives were unthinkable, and she was helpless to do anything except dig up more potatoes, or pick slugs from the cabbages to feed to the hens.

  She tried to visualise Lily, too. Sometimes, confused with weariness and pain, for her back still pained her deeply and possibly always would, she imagined that Lily truly was just missing in occupied France, and so would come to free them both, in a car to drive them to where a guide would take them across the mountains into Switzerland. She had only to glance up from the potato bed and Lily would be strolling gracefully from the dapples, autumn leaves fluttering red and gold about her feet.

  They all ate together in the kitchen now, and even sewed there in the evenings, for without Franz the only firewood was what Hannelore and Sophie could gather, which must be kept to cook with. The trees of Germany were grudging with their supply of firewood, compared to gum trees that obligingly dropped limbs every summer. They mostly burned prunings from the garden, pear, cherry, plum or apple wood, a scent that sent Sophie back to Shillings and tears onto her sewing — as she and Simons and Grünberg made themselves new undergarments from the silken petticoats of Hannelore’s mother’s aunt.

  Christmas — only known because Hannelore marked each day on the calendar. Sophie would have spent it with the quilt over her head, crying for helplessness, for homesickness and guilt, for she had left all she loved and achieved nothing, except a cellar full of vegetables and an attic that smelled of lavender and fruit.

  Hannelore, however, had insisted that gifts be exchanged, clothes foraged from the attic and secretly chosen for each other. Sophie had sensibly found dresses that could be altered for Grünberg and Simons, and discovered an embroidered warm cap for Hannelore.

  Hannelore had other plans. When the four of them sat down for Christmas dinner in a kitchen warmed by cooking, Sophie wore a ball gown complete with crinoline, her hair crimped with old curling irons Hannelore had found in the attics. Simons shone in a 1920s silver cocktail sheath and Grünberg was suddenly slimly glamorous in a Chanel silk walking dress, which unlike Sophie’s crinoline allowed her to reach the stove. Hannelore twisted her hair into a froth of curls above a pre-war Violette, a slim dark blue silk skirt whose pleats erupted into panels of turquoise, mauve and purple when she walked, a dagger thrust as Sophie realised Hannelore knew nothing of Violette’s betrayal.

  Where was Violette now? Was her ‘famille’ still safe?

  A third package had arrived the day before, delivered in an old cart by an even older driver, who seemed to be deaf, for he failed to hear any of their questions. But the package meant that Dolphie was still able to send them Christmas Weisswurst, which they gently simmered so its casing didn’t break and served with mustard, and gingerbread, and even a slab of chocolate meticulously divided into four, to be kept for some other time of celebration or desperation.

  Instead they ate wild mushroom soup made from chanterelles Hannelore had shown Sophie how to forage, and a red pudding of preserved raspberries thickened with cornflour, a recipe from Hannelore’s lost northern estates, and poppy-seed strudel.

  And Sophie tried to laugh and praise the food and not count the days that Dolphie had not come, nor any secret word from England.

  How long did it take a pigeon to fly to Holland?

  Chapter 38

  A War-time French Omelette with One Egg and No Butter or Cream

  3 mushrooms

  1 clove garlic, crushed

  1 onion, finely chopped

  1 tomato, peeled, seeds removed and chopped

  Thyme or tarragon, ½ teaspoon leaves only

  1 egg

  1 eggshell of water

  1 teaspoon parsley, chopped finely

  A little olive oil, lard or bacon fat if available

  This omelette, without butter and with a single egg only, must be made in a most different method from an ordinary omelette.

  Place the mushrooms, chopped, in a pan on low heat until the juices begin to flow. Add the garlic and onion, sauté on low heat till soft. Add a little water if it is too dry, but the mushroom liquid should be sufficient. Do not add the tomato till the onions are soft or they may harden. A blackened onion is bitter. Add the tomato and half the thyme or tarragon, again on a low heat, till the juices flow. Now quickly beat the egg well with the water. Make a hole in the centre of the vegetables and pour in the egg. Shake the pan thoroughly so the egg sets in ripples like the sea. You must not stop shaking the pan or the omelette will harden. When almost set (it will continue to cook out of the pan) slide the omelette from the pan, and then surround with the vegetables and scatter on the remaining herbs.

  A little grated cheese on the egg while it is cooking improves this dish. So does a large amount of butter at the beginning. But like so much of life, if done carefully and well it is delicious even without such luxuries.

  JANUARY 1944

  VIOLETTE

  At first she thought the noise was a rat scratching inside the wall. She rose softly from her breakfast table, leaving the chicory coffee — even the black market could not obtain true coffee these days — and the two small slices of not quite bread that were her breakfast, and placed her ear to the wall.

  A sobbing, almost like a pigeon, but not quite. She ran her fingers along the wall. There were no invisible joins, nor any panelling, nor even a mantelpiece that might hide a false door.

  The adjoining room was a salon for customers. It did have a fireplace, but on the opposite wall. Violette peered inside the room, found it empty, then sat back at her delicate breakfast table. The table might have been priceless, but it also had a series of small notches underneath, one for each successful operation. There were seven more since Aunt Sophie . . .

  . . . She did not want to finish that thought, she decided. She had done what she could, what she must. One day, per
haps, Aunt Sophie would understand, but not for many years, for if Sophie knew the truth about who had wished to betray her it might hurt her far more than what Aunt Sophie must believe now.

  And Aunt Sophie must be alive. Aunt Sophie, of all the people Violette knew, would not allow herself to be dead.

  The sob behind the wall came again. Violette pulled the bell decisively.

  ‘Mademoiselle?’

  ‘Fetch me Madame Thomas, s’il vous plaît, Gisette.’

  ‘Oui, mademoiselle.’

  Madame Thomas had been the concierge of this building when it had only been a storehouse. The marble façade, the stairs most grand, the plastering and wallpaper, the secret cellars made carefully moisture-proof to store the fabrics, were all a creation of Violette, with Thuringa money.

  Madame Thomas had been most efficient with the builders, so Violette had kept her on. She lived in a room off the entrance, not to greet clients, of course, for Madame Thomas had a girth most extraordinary, with ankles like a draught horse. Her bulk had not diminished despite the vicious austerity that starved French citizens but kept the German soldiers on leave drunk and fat — though even they, Violette admitted, lacked avoirdupois these days.

  Madame Thomas took deliveries and called the watchman or the police if there were noises at night. Or possibly, Violette thought, sometimes she did not.

  ‘Ah, Madame, good morning.’

  Madame’s hair was the colour of walnut casings, darker on the first Sunday of each month, but her eyebrows were so white they had almost vanished. ‘Good morning, Mademoiselle Violette.’

  ‘There is someone inside my wall, madame. Possibly a child.’

  Madame stilled and listened. ‘I hear nothing, Mademoiselle Violette.’

  ‘The noise has ceased. Will you bring the person to me, please?’

  Madame Thomas said nothing. She did not move, either. Violette sighed. ‘I am not a fool, madame. This building was renovated when all with sense knew war would come, and you were here to oversee it, including my more private preparations, and perhaps you shared preparations of your own with the builders. You, I think, are not a fool either.’

  ‘Perhaps not, mademoiselle,’ said Madame cautiously.

  ‘So, there is one question only I wish to know. Do the others of my staff know why, just possibly, there may be a child in my wall?’

  Madame considered. ‘Most of them, mademoiselle. Forgive me if I do not give the names.’

  ‘Because a colonel of the Gestapo calls on me sometimes?’

  ‘Because you made two phone calls, mademoiselle.’ Madame’s voice was matter of fact. ‘One to him, and one to the police.’

  This was Paris, of course, where nothing was secret, especially her own phone lines. But after Sophie left there had been too little time for Violette to find a public phone.

  ‘Have there been similar phone calls since those two, Madame?’

  ‘Non,’ said Madame.

  ‘Then, perhaps, you have two choices. You can believe I am a person who easily makes calls like that, to help the Boche. Or you can trust I had a reason, a most good reason, for those calls and let me help you now.’ Violette smiled. ‘Enfin, it is not a choice at all. If I am good friends with the Gestapo I just make another call this morning and you are all questioned, and the walls searched as well. And perhaps the cellars and other areas where large rooms might have been made slightly smaller seven years ago and secret places prepared. My mystery would be solved.’

  ‘You would lose Maison Violette,’ said Madame baldly. ‘As you say, you have the rooms of your own, and it is not people stored there. And, mademoiselle, what is your maison without the cutters, the embroiderers, the fitters —’

  ‘Nothing except my genius and reputation,’ said Violette. ‘Paris has little genius, but these days it has many fitters and cutters and models who are most eager for employment. But, in truth, madame, you may trust me. Those two phone calls apart, have I given any person here a reason not to?’

  Madame gazed at her shrewdly for a time. At last she said, ‘I will fetch the child. He was told to stay below, but it is dark there, and we have few candles, and there is a skylight above the wall here. You will be kind to him?’

  She, Violette, was not kind. Generous, sometimes, but not kind. But she had seen kindness, learned it with Aunt Sophie and Aunt Lily. She could manage an approximation now. ‘I will be kind. How did he get there?’

  No hesitation now. ‘A vegetable cart comes to the markets once a week. Under the cart there is a space, this wide and perhaps this big.’ Madame Thomas gestured. ‘Two men can hide there. This morning it was one man and a child.’

  ‘And why the child?’

  ‘His parents were killed,’ said Madame evenly. ‘The boy saw them killed. He also saw the men and women who shot some of the soldiers who killed his parents, before he ran and hid, just as his parents had told him to if soldiers came. The Boche know his name. They would like to question him. So now he must have another name and live in another place.’

  Violette considered. ‘Do men sometimes stay in my walls too?’

  ‘More often women, mademoiselle.’

  ‘For how long?’

  A shrug. ‘Till we can find a safer place to take them to.’

  ‘Bon.’ Violette decided. ‘From now on I want the cart to deliver to us onions every week, at least a sackful, and chicken or rabbit, as many as can be obtained, or other meat. Do not worry — I will pay enough to make it possible for them to find the meat and also to pay the bribe to any flic who interferes for, of course, the cart does something illegal. A simple illegality to hide the other. But the people who stay here must be fed properly, Madame. Their appearance, perhaps, must be changed. I am most good at that, you must agree.’

  ‘You are, mademoiselle.’

  ‘But first, the boy. And please bring whatever you think he would like. Hot chocolate, perhaps.’ She had a small supply, kept strictly for herself, but she was not sobbing inside a wall. Though she had sobbed, as a child, and hidden herself too, and been so very hungry for food and for much more.

  Madame made what might have been a curtsey had her body possessed any bendability whatsoever.

  The boy arrived holding Madame’s hand. He was six perhaps, Violette estimated, but small for his age. Perhaps living with his parents’ constant fear and tension had stopped him growing. Violette had wiped the noses of many six-year-olds in her time at the orphanage. His pants and jersey were both far too large for him. So his clothes had been identifiable, Violette deduced. His hair had also recently been cut close to his head, so the skin of his scalp was pale. The boy wiped his nose thoroughly on his arm.

  ‘Non,’ said Violette firmly. ‘A handkerchief, s’il vous plaît.’

  ‘I do not have one.’ The absence of expression from voice and face showed that he was trying not to think of all the other things he no longer had: a home, a family.

  Violette held out her own. ‘Now you have a handkerchief.’

  He looked at the violet linen and lace with revulsion, but at least it was an expression: something had dragged him back from the nothingness into which so many children in these times retreated. ‘That is a girl’s handkerchief.’

  ‘Here.’ Madame Thomas fished out a square of unadorned linen, cleaned but with an accumulation of possibly two generations of stains.

  The boy took it and wiped his nose again. ‘I am not crying,’ he stated. Violette was glad to see he raised his chin a little at that statement. This boy had courage.

  ‘I did not say you were. Please sit down. You too, Madame.’

  The chair of the king called Louis creaked under Madame, but held. The boy wriggled back on his seat, his legs dangling. Gisette arrived. Her tray held two cups of chicory coffee, a cup of hot chocolate, whipped most properly as the sisters had taught Violette to do and she had taught the cook, a plate of thinly sliced bread and a bowl of potato soup. The boy reached for the soup.

  ‘First we say gra
ce,’ said Violette. It had been years since she had said grace, but Grandmère and the sisters had never omitted it. Probably the boy’s parents said it too.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To thank God.’

  ‘Why?’

  Why indeed, when the boy has seen his parents killed, and who knew what else, and his future was so uncertain?

  ‘Because God does not do the bad things. Humans do.’ The reply was automatic, but once she examined it, Violette found that strangely, she believed it. Violette had not, in fact, thought of God since she had left the orphanage. Nor was this the time to examine how she felt about Him now, though a small seed of curiosity bloomed within her.

  She muttered grace quickly, Madame Thomas joining her. The boy muttered with them, so he knew the words. That familiarity at least might comfort him.

  ‘Now you may eat. Try the hot chocolate first,’ she tempted.

  He sipped it, wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘But it is chocolate!’

  He shrugged and reached for the soup, dipping the bread into it.

  Violette took the chocolate herself, then caught Madame’s eye. She handed the cup to her. Madame smiled and began to sip. Violet took her ‘coffee’.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘She said,’ the boy pointed to Madame Thomas, ‘to say my name is Tomas.’

  ‘It is a good name. Tomas, I am sorry you are sad. But I promise you, sad times pass and there can be happy ones. I was sad too, when I was young.’

  ‘Did your . . . did people die?’

  ‘Yes, people died.’

  ‘My maman told me that soldiers of the resistance must die sometimes so that other people can live.’

  Violette found it impossible to swallow. She put her cup down. ‘That is most true. We call those people brave, and martyrs, and we do not forget them, even if for a while we must not say their names.’