Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
MARGOT
The next morning, Beatrice arrived, offering to look after Isabelle so that Margot could go to the shops. She wished she could’ve wheeled the baby around Cordeval in her pram to get some fresh air, but it was far too much of a risk.
Isabelle had slept well, but Margot had only slept lightly, tormented by the shock of witnessing Esther’s murder.
Each time she was awoken by another nightmare, she listened for any sign that the baby was going to cry.
And she’d been listening out for her new neighbour, too.
She didn’t know how long she could keep Isabelle’s presence a secret from him.
She’d heard footsteps from above as the Professor moved around his flat, and each time she’d tensed.
She’d found Esther’s copy of The Three Musketeers inside Isabelle’s basket, and when she’d opened the book she’d found an inscription inside the front cover, in her friend’s handwriting: To our darling Isabelle, All for one and one for all, love from Mummy and Daddy.
‘She’s a very good baby,’ Margot told Beatrice.
She was still thinking of the book’s inscription, and it broke her heart to think that little Isabelle had lost her mother, and might never meet her father.
‘But if she cries, and you hear the Professor coming to my door, don’t let him in. Wait for me to come back.’
Beatrice nodded. ‘I can put the wireless on,’ she suggested. ‘So he won’t hear?’
‘Good idea,’ Margot said, as she wrapped her scarf round her neck. ‘It’ll keep Isabelle happy.’
‘Mum’s sorting out my baby things for you,’ Beatrice said. ‘She’s going to go to Esther as well. You know, so she isn’t…’ Her bottom lip wobbled. ‘She should be properly laid to rest.’
‘Yes, she should be,’ Margot said. She was relieved that Joséphine had the contacts who could arrange for Esther’s burial.
She repressed a shiver as she thought of her lying there, all alone, through the night.
‘If it’s safe, we might be able to go back there and get some more of her belongings, for Isabelle.
And say thanks to your mum for me, won’t you? ’
First of all, Margot went up to the Professor’s flat again, trying to deliver Esther’s message. She knocked and waited for a reply. But once again, there was no sign that he was there, almost as if she’d imagined ever letting the flat to him.
She sighed and headed into the street to do her shopping. She was very aware that she was leaving a young girl with a secret baby, in the same house as a man who might be a German spy, or else somehow connected with the resistance.
She joined the queue in the cold wind outside the bakery that blew autumn leaves around their ankles. No Nazi soldiers were pushing in today, which made a nice change. Margot squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to push away the image of Esther, lying broken on the floor.
‘You know they took the queer boy from the bar,’ Madame Losier was telling old Madame Simon, who Margot had never seen dressed in any colour other than black.
‘Jules was in there and he says the Germans came marching in and yanked him right out. The tart was kicking up a storm and you know what her Nazi boyfriend did?’ She pursed her lips as Madame Simon shook her head, her eyes wide.
‘Punched her. Knocked her clean out, Jules said.’
Madame Losier shrugged one shoulder. ‘It’s about time someone did,’ she said, and sniffed. ‘That painted-up slut’s always parading around like Marie Antoinette. There aren’t many Germans I’d shake by the hand, but anybody who gives her a lesson isn’t all bad in my book.’
Margot clenched her hands in her woollen gloves. It felt wrong not to say something, but if she did she’d put herself in the firing line, and, now she had Isabelle to care for, she couldn’t risk it.
‘I wonder who else they’ve taken,’ Mademoiselle Barrere chipped in. She was younger than Margot, but already settling in nicely with the older village gossips. ‘We haven’t got many Jews, other than Esther—’
‘Oh, she’s gone,’ said Madame Losier authoritatively. ‘Well, not gone. She’s—’ And she grimaced, then put her fingers to her temple and mimed a gunshot. ‘The Germans,’ she whispered.
Margot’s legs seemed to turn into putty. She pressed her hand against the wall, trying to hold herself up. She hoped none of them would question where Esther’s baby had gone; perhaps they’d just assume she’d met the same awful fate as her mother.
Someone gently put their hand on Margot’s shoulder. She glanced round to see Madame Guerin behind her, wrapped up, with a brightly coloured scarf round her neck.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Madame Guerin whispered.
Margot returned her consoling look with a sad smile that she knew couldn’t have reached her eyes.
There was nothing more they could say, not while they were surrounded by gossips.
But standing with a member of the Resistance Book Club made Margot feel less alone with her grief.
‘They took Monsieur Bernard as well, drove him away in a big van,’ said Madame Morel, joining in with the gossip.
Margot wondered what on earth her gentle old schoolteacher could’ve done to deserve being dragged away.
Madame Morel shook her round head as she went on, ‘He did insist on joining the Communist Party. He said to me he threw out all his leaflets and posters when the Germans first turned up, but they still knew what he was about!’
Madame Losier nodded. ‘It’s the children I worry for,’ she said. ‘That little Beatrice has no chance, does she? She’ll grow up a whore like her mother.’
One day, Margot thought, they might know about Joséphine’s sacrifice, and maybe they’d feel ashamed of themselves.
Margot did her shopping as quickly as she could, and in each shop she heard the same stories.
As she’d waited to buy milk, she’d overheard that the Nazis had rounded people up in Clarenville as well.
For miles around, innocent French people had been terrorised by the occupiers.
She made her way home, all the time listening out for the heavy footsteps of the Nazis.
She went up to her flat and found Beatrice entertaining Isabelle with her knitted goose.
Joséphine was there too; she’d concealed her badly bruised face as well as she could with make-up.
On the back of the sofa, on top of the dining table, were tiny baby clothes, a stack of nappies and a collection of well-loved baby toys.
‘Did she cry while I was out?’ Margot asked anxiously. She stroked Isabelle’s cheek, before glancing up at the ceiling. Joséphine shook her head.
‘He’s over at the bar,’ she replied. ‘Tuning the piano. He’s been back and forth all day, carting stuff from his cottage. I wonder if he’s brought his Nazi radio over so he can keep reporting on us all.’
Beatrice beamed up at Margot. ‘But look at all the stuff Mum’s brought for Isabelle,’ she said tenderly. ‘My old baby clothes and books and some toys to keep her smiling. We’ve been telling her all about her mum and dad too.’
‘Esther gave me her wedding ring for Isabelle.’ Joséphine took the gold band from her pocket and held it out to Margot. ‘You should have it for her.’
Margot took the ring and closed her fingers round it.
She had a gold chain that she could thread it onto to keep it safe for Isabelle.
‘Thanks, Joséphine. I’ll look after it for her.
And thanks so much for all these clothes and toys as well.
’ She thought of Joséphine’s contacts, and asked, ‘I don’t suppose you know where her father is, do you?
He needs to know about Esther, and he should know that Isabelle’s here.
Maybe there’s somewhere else he’d want her to be – somewhere safer. ’
Joséphine shook her head sadly. ‘I went through Esther,’ she explained.
‘But I can get the word round. Somebody out there will be in contact with him. Now Esther’s…
’ The words seemed to fail her for a moment.
‘There’ll be someone else whose job it is to step up and make contact with us all now we’ve lost Esther.
As soon as they do, we can get word to Daniel. ’
‘I want him to meet Isabelle,’ Margot said, although she knew how hopeless that wish was.
It was far too dangerous for Chevalier to break cover with Lauterborn in Cordeval.
But it was dangerous to have Isabelle living here, in the flat, with the Professor above their heads.
Then an idea came to her. ‘We can trust the book club. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind taking it in turns to look after Isabelle.
They can come and go through the tunnels.
I can’t leave her again today – I just need to get the message to them. ’
‘We’ll do it,’ said Joséphine. ‘Bea and I. Between us, we’ll let all the members know before nightfall.’
Margot felt suddenly lighter. She gave Joséphine a hug in thanks, and thought of the cruel words she’d heard from the gossips. None of them knew the real Joséphine.
Margot didn’t open the shop that day. She couldn’t bring herself to wear a cheerful mask for her customers, and she didn’t want to leave Isabelle alone in the flat. Instead, she spent the day learning how to be a mother.
She comforted Isabelle when she cried, gazed down at her with love as she held the baby in her arms to feed her, and crept quietly around the flat as she dozed.
It was while Isabelle slept that Margot allowed herself to cry quietly for Esther, pressing her face into a cushion.
As she danced Beatrice’s old toy dog with droopy ears on the edge of the basket, Margot told Isabelle all about her mum and dad.
How they’d met, what their Jewish wedding was like, and how happy they’d been when Esther had found out she was pregnant.
She showed Isabelle her parents’ wedding photo, and watched as the baby’s huge eyes focused on the couple in the picture.
If she held on to those memories, those happy stories which she wanted Isabelle to remember, maybe she could push aside the dreadful image of Esther lying dead.
That had only been one moment in a whole life; she didn’t want Esther to be defined entirely by her death.
That evening, Margot was by the window at the front of her flat, going through the pile of baby clothes and listening to the orchestral music that was drifting from Petit’s on the breeze.
Bombastic brass filled the tranquil air, with seething violins calling out a piercing reply that was a world away from the cheerful melodies the Professor played when he was at the bar’s piano.
Margot didn’t recognise it, but such music had become commonplace since the SS had taken up residence in the village.
As she watched from the window the door of Petit’s opened and a uniformed figure emerged, the evening sun gleaming on the death’s-head cap badge.
Fear clutched her as she saw the cold, hard features of Felix Lauterborn. And he was heading straight for the bookshop.