Chapter Fifteen
FIFTEEN
Asking yourself a question, that’s how resistance begins.
And then ask that very question to someone else.
—REMCO CAMPERT
May 1941
France
On the Monday Isabelle left for Paris, Vianne kept busy.
She washed clothes and hung them out to dry; she weeded her garden and gathered a few early-ripening vegetables.
At the end of a long day, she treated herself to a bath and washed her hair.
She was drying it with a towel when she heard a knock at the door.
Startled by an unexpected guest, she buttoned her bodice as she went to the door. Water dripped onto her shoulders.
When she opened the door, she found Captain Beck standing there, dressed in his field uniform, dust peppering his face. “Herr Captain,” she said, pushing the wet hair away from her face.
“Madame,” he said. “A colleague and I went fishing today. I have brought you what we caught.”
“Fresh fish? How lovely. I will fry it up for you.”
“For us, Madame. You and me and Sophie.”
Vianne couldn’t look away from either Beck or the fish in his hands. She knew without a doubt that Isabelle wouldn’t accept this gift. Just as she knew that her friends and neighbors would claim to turn it down. Food. From the enemy. It was a matter of pride to turn it down. Everyone knew that.
“I have neither stolen nor demanded it. No Frenchman has more of a right to it than I. There can be no dishonor in your taking it.”
He was right. This was a fish from local waters. He had not confiscated it. Even as she reached for the fish, she felt the weight of rationalization settle heavily upon her.
“You rarely do us the honor of eating with us.”
“It is different now,” he said. “With your sister away.”
Vianne backed into the house to allow him entry.
As always, he removed his hat as soon as he stepped inside, and clomped across the wooden floor to his room.
Vianne didn’t notice until she heard the click-shut of his door that she was still standing there, holding a dead fish wrapped in a recent edition of the Pariser Zeitung, the German newspaper printed in Paris.
She returned to the kitchen. When she laid the paper-wrapped fish out on the butcher block, she saw that he’d already cleaned the fish, even going so far as to shave off the scales.
She lit the gas stove and put a cast-iron pan over the heat, adding a precious spoonful of oil to the pan.
While cubes of potato browned and onion caramelized, she seasoned the fish with salt and pepper and set it aside.
In no time, tantalizing aromas filled the house, and Sophie came running into the kitchen, skidding to a stop in the empty space where the breakfast table used to be.
“Fish,” she said with reverence.
Vianne used her spoon to create a well within the vegetables and put the fish in the middle to fry. Tiny bits of grease popped up; the skin sizzled and turned crisp. At the very end, she placed a few preserved lemons in the pan, watching them melt over everything.
“Go tell Captain Beck that supper is ready.”
“He is eating with us? Tante Isabelle would have something to say about that. Before she left, she told me to never look him in the eye and to try not to be in the same room with him.”
Vianne sighed. The ghost of her sister lingered. “He brought us the fish, Sophie, and he lives here.”
“Oui, Maman. I know that. Still, she said—”
“Go call the captain for supper. Isabelle is gone, and with her, her extreme worries. Now, go.”
Vianne returned to the stove. Moments later, she carried out a heavy ceramic tray bearing the fried fish surrounded by the pan-roasted vegetables and preserved lemons, all of it enhanced with fresh parsley.
The tangy, lemony sauce in the bottom of the pan, swimming with crusty brown bits, could have benefited from butter, but still it smelled heavenly.
She carried it into the dining room and found Sophie already seated, with Captain Beck beside her.
In Antoine’s chair.
Vianne missed a step.
Beck rose politely and moved quickly to pull out her chair. She paused only slightly as he took the platter from her.
“This looks most becoming,” he said in a hearty voice. Once again, his French was not quite right.
Vianne sat down and scooted in to her place at the table. Before she could think of what to say, Beck was pouring her wine.
“A lovely ’37 Montrachet,” he said.
Vianne knew what Isabelle would say to that.
Beck sat across from her. Sophie sat to her left. She was talking about something that had happened at school today. When she paused, Beck said something about fishing and Sophie laughed, and Vianne felt Isabelle’s absence as keenly as she’d previously felt her presence.
Stay away from Beck.
Vianne heard the warning as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud beside her.
She knew that in this one thing her sister was right.
Vianne couldn’t forget the list, after all, and the firings, or the sight of Beck seated at his desk with crates of food at his feet and a painting of the Führer behind him.
“… my wife quite despaired of my skill with a net after that…” he was saying, smiling.
Sophie laughed. “My papa fell into the river one time when we were fishing, remember, Maman? He said the fish was so big it pulled him in, right, Maman?”
Vianne blinked slowly. It took her a moment to notice that the conversation had circled back to include her.
It felt … odd to say the least. In all their past meals with Beck at the table, conversation had been rare. Who could speak surrounded by Isabelle’s obvious anger?
It is different now, with your sister away.
Vianne understood what he meant. The tension in the house—at this table—was gone now.
What other changes would her absence bring?
Stay away from Beck.
How was Vianne to do that? And when was the last time she’d eaten a meal this good … or heard Sophie laugh?
* * *
The Gare de Lyon was full of German soldiers when Isabelle disembarked from the train carriage. She wrestled her bicycle out with her; it wasn’t easy with her valise banging into her thighs the whole time and impatient Parisians shoving at her. She had dreamed of coming back here for months.
In her dreams, Paris was Paris, untouched by the war.
But on this Monday afternoon, after a long day’s travel, she saw the truth.
The occupation might have left the buildings in place, and there was no evidence outside the Gare de Lyon of bombings, but there was a darkness here, even in the full light of day, a hush of loss and despair as she rode her bicycle down the boulevard.
Her beloved city was like a once-beautiful courtesan grown old and thin, weary, abandoned by her lovers. In less than a year, this magnificent city had been stripped of its essence by the endless clatter of German jackboots on the streets and disfigured by swastikas that flew from every monument.
The only cars she saw were black Mercedes-Benzes with miniature swastika flags flapping from prongs on the fenders, and Wehrmacht lorries, and now and then a gray panzer tank.
All up and down the boulevard, windows were blacked out and shutters were drawn.
At every other corner, it seemed, her way was barricaded.
Signs in bold, black lettering offered directions in German, and the clocks had been changed to run two hours ahead—on German time.
She kept her head down as she pedaled past pods of German soldiers and sidewalk cafés hosting uniformed men.
As she rounded onto the boulevard de la Bastille, she saw an old woman on a bicycle trying to bypass a barricade.
A Nazi stood in her way, berating her in German—a language she obviously didn’t understand.
The woman turned her bicycle and pedaled away.
It took Isabelle longer to reach the bookshop than it should have, and by the time she coasted to a stop out front, her nerves were taut.
She leaned her bicycle against a tree and locked it in place.
Clutching her valise in sweaty, gloved hands, she approached the bookshop.
In a bistro window, she caught sight of herself: blond hair hacked unevenly along the bottom; face pale with bright red lips (the only cosmetic she still had); she had worn her best ensemble for traveling—a navy and cream plaid jacket with a matching hat and a navy skirt.
Her gloves were a bit the worse for wear, but in these times no one noticed a thing like that.
She wanted to look her best to impress her father. Grown-up.
How many times in her life had she agonized over her hair and clothing before coming home to the Paris apartment only to discover that Papa was gone and Vianne was “too busy” to return from the country and that some female friend of her father’s would care for Isabelle while she was on holiday?
Enough so that by the time she was fourteen she’d stopped coming home on holidays at all; it was better to sit alone in her empty dormitory room than be shuffled among people who didn’t know what to do with her.
This was different, though. Henri and Didier—and their mysterious friends in the Free French—needed Isabelle to live in Paris. She would not let them down.
The bookshop’s display windows were blacked out and the grates that protected the glass during the day were drawn down and locked in place. She tried the door and found it locked.
On a Monday afternoon at four o’clock? She went to the crevice in the store facade that had always been her father’s hiding place and found the rusted skeleton key and let herself in.
The narrow store seemed to hold its breath in the darkness.
Not a sound came at her. Not her father turning the pages of a beloved novel or the sound of his pen scratching on paper as he struggled with the poetry that had been his passion when Maman was alive.
She closed the door behind her and flicked on the light switch by the door.
Nothing.