The Paris Apartment, page 14
“I am telling the truth. You can look at my papers. You’ll find them all in order.”
Sophie gasped as something hit her in the face. It took her a moment to realize that someone had thrown a pail of icy water at her.
“You are a spy,” the voice continued. “You are travelling across France and spying.”
“I am n-not a spy. M-my family owns a s-small company in Marseille. My husband took over from my father when he died. We make lipsticks and powders.” The shock of the water was starting to wear off, though Sophie was shivering. “We wish to sell them here, in Paris.”
“And who the fuck buys lipstick and powder?”
“We sell to German officers’ wives. Sometimes Frenchwomen.” She slipped one hand free of the rope, catching it with her fingers. “It is simple economics, Monsieur. We have something to sell that is very much in demand. And in Paris, we can get a better price.”
A man stepped into the pool of light, the runes on his collar displaying his SS rank of major. The hard soles of his boots struck the stone floor as he dragged a small table beside Sophie. He was heavy featured, his dark eyes flat and hard and his expression cruel above the lifeless grey of his uniform. Despite her best efforts, a shudder of revulsion rolled through her.
“Do you know what we do to spies, Madame Beaufort?” the major asked.
Sophie averted her eyes and forced herself to continue to stare straight ahead. “I’m not a spy. I work with my husband.”
“I don’t believe you. What could you possibly do to help him?”
“I take photos of our clients for our adverts and to promote our products. The photos are with my papers. You can see for yourself.”
“Oh, I saw the photos. The Führer abhors cosmetics on his women, and I can see why. A passel of painted jezebels pretending to be someone they’re not. And half those photos you speak of were of you.”
“Sometimes I model our cosmetics too.”
“You model cosmetics?” he sneered. He reached for a leather tool belt that was laid out on top of the small table and withdrew a pair of pliers. “Not for much longer, I’m afraid. I can’t imagine there is much demand for a model with no teeth. You’ll tell me who you’re working for, what information you are passing on, and where I can find these people. Because after we finish with your pretty teeth, we still have your nails to attend to.”
Sophie slipped the rope from her other wrist and wrapped the end around her palm so that the rope was caught between them, effectively creating a crude garrote. She turned her hands and gripped the outside spindles of the chairback with her fingers. “I have nothing to tell you, Monsieur. I am who I say I am. I have no reason to lie to you.”
The man considered his pliers, turning them over so that they glinted dully in the meagre light. “You’re still lying.”
He lifted his eyes to Sophie, and this time she met his gaze.
“I am telling the truth.” Fear rose, and she didn’t fight it, only examined it the way one might examine an unwelcome insect that had crawled into the light.
It wasn’t the threat of physical pain she feared, she discovered. No, what made her afraid was the possibility that the rage and hate triggered by the grey uniform and the arrogance of the bastard who wore it would distract her from what she needed to do. It was the possibility of failure that made her afraid.
She lifted her chin and ruthlessly quashed her emotions. There could be no distractions. Not here. Not now.
The Gestapo officer took a menacing step toward her, and then another. “This doesn’t have to happen,” he said. “You can avoid so much pain.” He put his palm on her forehead and wrenched her head back, his other hand still gripping the pliers.
That was all Sophie needed. She lunged to her feet and swung around, the chair she still gripped behind her back colliding mercilessly with the ill-prepared major. The chair broke into a dozen pieces, the wood clattering loudly on the stone floor. The officer released her with a grunt of surprised pain and staggered back, but Sophie was already moving, cutting behind him. As he tried to straighten, she brought her hands down, slipping the rope over his head and across his throat.
The major gurgled, his hard-soled boots slipping on the wet floor, his fingers scrabbling at the rope that was choking him. He wasn’t a tall man, and Sophie had the advantage of height and leverage. She tightened the garrote, the rope cutting into the edges of her palms.
“Jesus Christ, stop afore you kill him!” The room was suddenly flooded with light.
A man was standing behind a long table against one of the walls, three of Sophie’s instructors sitting beside him.
Sophie relaxed her grip, and the man in the German uniform stumbled away, coughing and gagging.
“What the hell was that?” The man on his feet behind the table leaned toward Sophie, his face red.
Sophie unwrapped the rope from her hands and let it fall to the floor. “You would have preferred I use the chair?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She picked up a broken spindle and examined the ragged, pointed end. “You did not tie me securely and gave me three weapons,” she said, frowning. “The rope, the chair, and whatever treasures lay on that table beside the pliers. I chose the rope. Most efficient and cleanest, I thought.”
Sophie saw two of her instructors exchange glances.
“That wasn’t the point of the exercise,” the red-faced man sputtered. “The exercise was merely to measure your resistance to interrogation.” He turned to the instructors sitting beside him and glared at them accusingly.
“We warned you,” the instructor in the middle said with a shrug.
Sophie’s interrogator in the Gestapo costume had straightened and was rubbing his throat and his shoulder, his breaths coming in hoarse, heaving gasps. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he rasped. “Bloody, unnatural bitch.”
Sophie stared at the interrogator. For a moment, she was eight years old again, her stomach churning in a library.
You are an unnatural creature.
Maybe Mrs. Postlewaithe had had it right all along.
“Yes” was all Sophie said.
The interrogator coughed and gagged again.
“You may go, Celine,” the instructor said, addressing her by her code name. “Return upstairs and change. This exercise concludes your training. We will compile our report and final evaluation shortly.” He closed the folder in front of him. “It will be added to your file for consideration.”
Chapter
11
Estelle
Paris, France
16 July 1943
Estelle slipped the pink ribbon off the small wooden box.
She had kept it hidden in the bottom drawer of her writing desk for the last year, unable even to look at it without feeling like her heart was being torn from her chest. With fingers that weren’t quite steady, she opened the top of the box, the two pendants that still nestled against their bed of velvet gleaming in the low light.
She’d not been able to get to Serge and Rachel. They’d been imprisoned in the Vélodrome before they’d been shipped out of the city. None of the German officers she’d discreetly queried in the days that followed their arrest and deportation from Paris had been able to tell her exactly where they’d been taken. After all, they weren’t the ones who had perpetrated the roundup—that operation had been conducted by French police. But—they had all agreed with a sickening degree of smug satisfaction—the Jews were not coming back. Ever.
A shadow fell in front of Estelle, and she looked up.
Aviva was standing before her in the circle of light, rubbing her eyes.
“I thought you were sleeping.” Estelle stood and slipped the ribbon back on the box before sliding it into the pocket of her robe.
The little girl shook her head, her eyes overly large in her pale, drawn face.
“Would you like me to tuck you back in?” she asked.
Aviva shook her head again.
Estelle held out her hand, and the little girl took it without hesitating. She tried not to notice how fragile the child’s bones felt beneath her touch. Or how silence and sadness had replaced the laughter and vitality as the months had crept by. Or how long it had been since Aviva had last asked about her family. Or spoken about anything at all.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said, leading Aviva through the living room, past the rumpled blankets and storybooks on the sofa where the girl had been napping. Evenings and early mornings were the only time Aviva came out into the apartment. Estelle was too terrified to let her roam the apartment during the day in the event that she would be discovered.
The new tenants in Estelle’s building who had appropriated the desirable apartments left empty by the Jewish roundup last year, including the Wylers’, were predominantly German or the families of French industrialists, all becoming wealthy with their Nazi partnerships. She was now surrounded by sympathizers and collaborators, all of whom would be only too happy to denounce Estelle if they knew what secrets she hid in her apartment. Only her social reputation and continued visibility as one of them kept her safe. Kept Aviva safe.
Estelle no longer hid Allied airmen—the little girl hiding in her wall made that too dangerous—but she did continue to frequent the bars and restaurants at the Ritz, though not as often as she once had. She still listened to the men in grey who gorged themselves as Paris continued to starve and reported what she heard. She still had no idea if anything she had ever shared had made any difference. Even once. But she would not dwell on that.
Estelle brought the little girl into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. The hidden door was already open. “Look,” Estelle said, stepping inside. “Look what I found for you.”
Aviva let go of Estelle’s hand and crawled up onto the bed, staring up at the three paintings Estelle had hung on the wall of the hidden room. They were the Degas paintings, the ones that had once graced the Wylers’ apartment. It had taken her an hour to extract them from behind her dressing room wall but, looking at Aviva’s rapt expression now, it had been worth it.
“What do you think?” Estelle asked.
The child reached up to touch the corner of the closest one. Across the canvas, a collection of girls in a pastel palette of gauzy costumes rose up on their toes across a stage, all under the watchful eye of their teacher. Aviva smiled—the first time in months she’d seen Aviva smile. Estelle looked away, her eyes burning. Aviva deserved to be surrounded by family and friends and laughter, not silence and fear and darkness. Estelle wasn’t sure how long the little girl would last living like this.
The bed creaked, and Estelle looked back to find that Aviva had lain down on the bed, curled into a ball, and was simply gazing up at the three paintings.
“There’s something else,” she said before she could reconsider.
Aviva sat up.
“I have another surprise for you.” She sat down on the bed beside the little girl and withdrew the box from her pocket. “Open it,” she said, handing it to Aviva.
The child took it, turning it over carefully in her tiny hands. She tugged on the pink bow, letting the satin fall to the side, and opened the box. Aviva touched one of the enameled pendants gently, a peculiar expression on her drawn face.
“I got these for you and your aunt for your birthdays,” Estelle said, taking the box from Aviva’s hands. “But I didn’t get a chance to give them to you before your aunt Rachel had to go.” Estelle steeled herself against the emotion that was making it hard to speak. “I’d like you to have it now.” Estelle drew a pendant and chain from the velvet. “Would you like that?”
Aviva looked up at her and nodded.
Estelle bent and fastened the chain around the little girl’s neck. Aviva wrapped her fingers around the pendant at her throat.
“And you can keep this one safe for your aunt for when she gets back.” Estelle closed the box and held it out to Aviva.
Aviva shook her head and pushed herself up to her knees. She opened the box, pulled out the second chain, and held it out to Estelle.
“You want me to wear it?” Estelle asked.
Aviva nodded. Estelle took the chain from the child’s hand and fastened it around her own neck with the realization that Aviva had given her the pendant because she already knew Rachel was never coming back. Estelle tried to stop her tears from escaping but failed.
The death of hope was a truly awful thing.
Aviva crawled into her lap and wrapped her arms around Estelle’s waist. She stroked the little girl’s hair until Aviva’s breathing became steady and her body became heavy with the weight of sleep. With care, Estelle slipped out from beneath the slumbering child and tucked the blanket around her.
She returned to the living room and gathered the books, putting them back in their place in the hidden room. She closed the wardrobe and double-checked the apartment, but there was no evidence that a child had ever been here. She went into the kitchen and made sure that the dishes from dinner had also been put away. Though a visitor at this late hour was highly unlikely, one could not afford to be questioned about the need to wash two sets of dishes and cutlery after a meal when one presumably lived alone—
A familiar pattern of taps at the door of her apartment froze her in her tracks, a glass nearly slipping from her fingers. She set it aside and bolted to the front of her apartment, unlocking the door as quickly as she could.
Trepidation and relief coursed through her in equal measures as the man on the other side slipped in. She glanced across the dim landing and down the stairs, but everything remained silent and still. A dozen questions sprang to her mind but she uttered none of them, instead closing the door as silently as possible after him. It had been months since she’d seen Jerome. Months since she’d even heard from him, though rumours had been flying fast and furious of men and women arrested and carted off to prisons or worse for assisting the enemy.
She put up a hand to silence Jerome when it looked as though he was going to speak. Instead, she bade him follow her deeper into the apartment. She retraced her steps back into the living room and set a record on the gramophone. Only when the music started playing quietly did she speak. She couldn’t be too careful.
“Why are you here?” Even hushed, the question came out more reproachful than she had intended.
Jerome pulled his cap off his head, his hair disheveled and badly in need of a cut. “I was in town. Thought I’d drop by for a drink. Maybe a game of cards. It’s been awhile.”
“That’s not funny.”
He dropped his eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He looked utterly exhausted, Estelle thought, as she studied him. Dark circles under his eyes, a week’s worth of stubble darkening his cheeks, and a stoop to his shoulders that betrayed his fatigue.
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry. What do you need?”
He looked up at her. “A safe place to stay tonight.”
“And you came here?”
“You have a very nice sofa. Two of them, in fact.”
“Are you being serious?”
“I didn’t know where else to go. We’ve lost three of our houses in the last week, and Diedre’s brother was arrested. This was the safest place I could think of—” He stopped. “You’ve been crying.”
“I have not.” The denial was absurd because she’d never been a pretty crier. Just the threat of tears made her eyes puffy, her nose red, and her face splotchy.
“Is it Aviva? Where is she?” Concern shadowed his face.
“Safe. Sleeping.”
Jerome ran a hand through his messy hair. “Then what is it?”
“It’s just…it’s been a year. Since they…took Rachel. Today would have been her birthday.” She was aware she was speaking of Rachel in the past tense. “And every day since then, I’ve wondered what I could have done differently. What I could have done in those precious two minutes that might have saved Rachel and her family. Aviva would still have a family. And so would I.”
“What happened wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”
“I should have.”
“Look, Allard, you—”
“I didn’t do enough. I didn’t act quickly enough.” She didn’t want to hear the excuses that he would make for her. God knew she didn’t want to hear her own.
“You did everything you could.”
“They came the next day, you know,” she murmured. “Stripped the Wylers’ apartment of everything valuable. The furniture, the rugs, Serge’s books, Rachel’s jewelry, the fine plate and silver that had belonged to her mother. I think, on that day, deep down, I knew they weren’t coming back.”
“You have to forgive yourself, Allard.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
Jerome stepped closer to her. “How can I help?”
It was the gentle way he’d said it that broke her. She looked away, not even bothering to wipe away the new round of tears she could feel leaking down her cheeks.
Jerome reached out and gently wiped them away with the cuff of his sleeve, and somehow that made the tears come faster. This time, he simply put his arms around her and drew her into his embrace.
“I’m afraid,” she said when she was able, her words somewhat muffled by the front of his shirt.
“Of what?”
“Not of. For. I’m afraid for Aviva.” She sniffed gracelessly. “I’m afraid that that little girl is not going to survive this war. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to keep the promise I made to Rachel to keep her safe. I’m afraid that this damn war has no end.”
“I wish I could help. I wish I could take her out of France for you,” he said. “But we can’t take a child. She’d never survive the journey into Spain. The mountains or the rivers would—”
“I know,” Estelle said, nodding miserably. “I know you can’t. That’s why I’ve not asked you. I don’t even have papers for her.”
Jerome winced. “God, I’m sorry, I can’t even help you with that. I don’t know who the forgers are in Belgium but I could try and find out—”
“No. Those sorts of questions draw attention and could expose you. You are too important to the men whose lives depend on you.”
Sophie gasped as something hit her in the face. It took her a moment to realize that someone had thrown a pail of icy water at her.
“You are a spy,” the voice continued. “You are travelling across France and spying.”
“I am n-not a spy. M-my family owns a s-small company in Marseille. My husband took over from my father when he died. We make lipsticks and powders.” The shock of the water was starting to wear off, though Sophie was shivering. “We wish to sell them here, in Paris.”
“And who the fuck buys lipstick and powder?”
“We sell to German officers’ wives. Sometimes Frenchwomen.” She slipped one hand free of the rope, catching it with her fingers. “It is simple economics, Monsieur. We have something to sell that is very much in demand. And in Paris, we can get a better price.”
A man stepped into the pool of light, the runes on his collar displaying his SS rank of major. The hard soles of his boots struck the stone floor as he dragged a small table beside Sophie. He was heavy featured, his dark eyes flat and hard and his expression cruel above the lifeless grey of his uniform. Despite her best efforts, a shudder of revulsion rolled through her.
“Do you know what we do to spies, Madame Beaufort?” the major asked.
Sophie averted her eyes and forced herself to continue to stare straight ahead. “I’m not a spy. I work with my husband.”
“I don’t believe you. What could you possibly do to help him?”
“I take photos of our clients for our adverts and to promote our products. The photos are with my papers. You can see for yourself.”
“Oh, I saw the photos. The Führer abhors cosmetics on his women, and I can see why. A passel of painted jezebels pretending to be someone they’re not. And half those photos you speak of were of you.”
“Sometimes I model our cosmetics too.”
“You model cosmetics?” he sneered. He reached for a leather tool belt that was laid out on top of the small table and withdrew a pair of pliers. “Not for much longer, I’m afraid. I can’t imagine there is much demand for a model with no teeth. You’ll tell me who you’re working for, what information you are passing on, and where I can find these people. Because after we finish with your pretty teeth, we still have your nails to attend to.”
Sophie slipped the rope from her other wrist and wrapped the end around her palm so that the rope was caught between them, effectively creating a crude garrote. She turned her hands and gripped the outside spindles of the chairback with her fingers. “I have nothing to tell you, Monsieur. I am who I say I am. I have no reason to lie to you.”
The man considered his pliers, turning them over so that they glinted dully in the meagre light. “You’re still lying.”
He lifted his eyes to Sophie, and this time she met his gaze.
“I am telling the truth.” Fear rose, and she didn’t fight it, only examined it the way one might examine an unwelcome insect that had crawled into the light.
It wasn’t the threat of physical pain she feared, she discovered. No, what made her afraid was the possibility that the rage and hate triggered by the grey uniform and the arrogance of the bastard who wore it would distract her from what she needed to do. It was the possibility of failure that made her afraid.
She lifted her chin and ruthlessly quashed her emotions. There could be no distractions. Not here. Not now.
The Gestapo officer took a menacing step toward her, and then another. “This doesn’t have to happen,” he said. “You can avoid so much pain.” He put his palm on her forehead and wrenched her head back, his other hand still gripping the pliers.
That was all Sophie needed. She lunged to her feet and swung around, the chair she still gripped behind her back colliding mercilessly with the ill-prepared major. The chair broke into a dozen pieces, the wood clattering loudly on the stone floor. The officer released her with a grunt of surprised pain and staggered back, but Sophie was already moving, cutting behind him. As he tried to straighten, she brought her hands down, slipping the rope over his head and across his throat.
The major gurgled, his hard-soled boots slipping on the wet floor, his fingers scrabbling at the rope that was choking him. He wasn’t a tall man, and Sophie had the advantage of height and leverage. She tightened the garrote, the rope cutting into the edges of her palms.
“Jesus Christ, stop afore you kill him!” The room was suddenly flooded with light.
A man was standing behind a long table against one of the walls, three of Sophie’s instructors sitting beside him.
Sophie relaxed her grip, and the man in the German uniform stumbled away, coughing and gagging.
“What the hell was that?” The man on his feet behind the table leaned toward Sophie, his face red.
Sophie unwrapped the rope from her hands and let it fall to the floor. “You would have preferred I use the chair?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She picked up a broken spindle and examined the ragged, pointed end. “You did not tie me securely and gave me three weapons,” she said, frowning. “The rope, the chair, and whatever treasures lay on that table beside the pliers. I chose the rope. Most efficient and cleanest, I thought.”
Sophie saw two of her instructors exchange glances.
“That wasn’t the point of the exercise,” the red-faced man sputtered. “The exercise was merely to measure your resistance to interrogation.” He turned to the instructors sitting beside him and glared at them accusingly.
“We warned you,” the instructor in the middle said with a shrug.
Sophie’s interrogator in the Gestapo costume had straightened and was rubbing his throat and his shoulder, his breaths coming in hoarse, heaving gasps. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he rasped. “Bloody, unnatural bitch.”
Sophie stared at the interrogator. For a moment, she was eight years old again, her stomach churning in a library.
You are an unnatural creature.
Maybe Mrs. Postlewaithe had had it right all along.
“Yes” was all Sophie said.
The interrogator coughed and gagged again.
“You may go, Celine,” the instructor said, addressing her by her code name. “Return upstairs and change. This exercise concludes your training. We will compile our report and final evaluation shortly.” He closed the folder in front of him. “It will be added to your file for consideration.”
Chapter
11
Estelle
Paris, France
16 July 1943
Estelle slipped the pink ribbon off the small wooden box.
She had kept it hidden in the bottom drawer of her writing desk for the last year, unable even to look at it without feeling like her heart was being torn from her chest. With fingers that weren’t quite steady, she opened the top of the box, the two pendants that still nestled against their bed of velvet gleaming in the low light.
She’d not been able to get to Serge and Rachel. They’d been imprisoned in the Vélodrome before they’d been shipped out of the city. None of the German officers she’d discreetly queried in the days that followed their arrest and deportation from Paris had been able to tell her exactly where they’d been taken. After all, they weren’t the ones who had perpetrated the roundup—that operation had been conducted by French police. But—they had all agreed with a sickening degree of smug satisfaction—the Jews were not coming back. Ever.
A shadow fell in front of Estelle, and she looked up.
Aviva was standing before her in the circle of light, rubbing her eyes.
“I thought you were sleeping.” Estelle stood and slipped the ribbon back on the box before sliding it into the pocket of her robe.
The little girl shook her head, her eyes overly large in her pale, drawn face.
“Would you like me to tuck you back in?” she asked.
Aviva shook her head again.
Estelle held out her hand, and the little girl took it without hesitating. She tried not to notice how fragile the child’s bones felt beneath her touch. Or how silence and sadness had replaced the laughter and vitality as the months had crept by. Or how long it had been since Aviva had last asked about her family. Or spoken about anything at all.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said, leading Aviva through the living room, past the rumpled blankets and storybooks on the sofa where the girl had been napping. Evenings and early mornings were the only time Aviva came out into the apartment. Estelle was too terrified to let her roam the apartment during the day in the event that she would be discovered.
The new tenants in Estelle’s building who had appropriated the desirable apartments left empty by the Jewish roundup last year, including the Wylers’, were predominantly German or the families of French industrialists, all becoming wealthy with their Nazi partnerships. She was now surrounded by sympathizers and collaborators, all of whom would be only too happy to denounce Estelle if they knew what secrets she hid in her apartment. Only her social reputation and continued visibility as one of them kept her safe. Kept Aviva safe.
Estelle no longer hid Allied airmen—the little girl hiding in her wall made that too dangerous—but she did continue to frequent the bars and restaurants at the Ritz, though not as often as she once had. She still listened to the men in grey who gorged themselves as Paris continued to starve and reported what she heard. She still had no idea if anything she had ever shared had made any difference. Even once. But she would not dwell on that.
Estelle brought the little girl into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. The hidden door was already open. “Look,” Estelle said, stepping inside. “Look what I found for you.”
Aviva let go of Estelle’s hand and crawled up onto the bed, staring up at the three paintings Estelle had hung on the wall of the hidden room. They were the Degas paintings, the ones that had once graced the Wylers’ apartment. It had taken her an hour to extract them from behind her dressing room wall but, looking at Aviva’s rapt expression now, it had been worth it.
“What do you think?” Estelle asked.
The child reached up to touch the corner of the closest one. Across the canvas, a collection of girls in a pastel palette of gauzy costumes rose up on their toes across a stage, all under the watchful eye of their teacher. Aviva smiled—the first time in months she’d seen Aviva smile. Estelle looked away, her eyes burning. Aviva deserved to be surrounded by family and friends and laughter, not silence and fear and darkness. Estelle wasn’t sure how long the little girl would last living like this.
The bed creaked, and Estelle looked back to find that Aviva had lain down on the bed, curled into a ball, and was simply gazing up at the three paintings.
“There’s something else,” she said before she could reconsider.
Aviva sat up.
“I have another surprise for you.” She sat down on the bed beside the little girl and withdrew the box from her pocket. “Open it,” she said, handing it to Aviva.
The child took it, turning it over carefully in her tiny hands. She tugged on the pink bow, letting the satin fall to the side, and opened the box. Aviva touched one of the enameled pendants gently, a peculiar expression on her drawn face.
“I got these for you and your aunt for your birthdays,” Estelle said, taking the box from Aviva’s hands. “But I didn’t get a chance to give them to you before your aunt Rachel had to go.” Estelle steeled herself against the emotion that was making it hard to speak. “I’d like you to have it now.” Estelle drew a pendant and chain from the velvet. “Would you like that?”
Aviva looked up at her and nodded.
Estelle bent and fastened the chain around the little girl’s neck. Aviva wrapped her fingers around the pendant at her throat.
“And you can keep this one safe for your aunt for when she gets back.” Estelle closed the box and held it out to Aviva.
Aviva shook her head and pushed herself up to her knees. She opened the box, pulled out the second chain, and held it out to Estelle.
“You want me to wear it?” Estelle asked.
Aviva nodded. Estelle took the chain from the child’s hand and fastened it around her own neck with the realization that Aviva had given her the pendant because she already knew Rachel was never coming back. Estelle tried to stop her tears from escaping but failed.
The death of hope was a truly awful thing.
Aviva crawled into her lap and wrapped her arms around Estelle’s waist. She stroked the little girl’s hair until Aviva’s breathing became steady and her body became heavy with the weight of sleep. With care, Estelle slipped out from beneath the slumbering child and tucked the blanket around her.
She returned to the living room and gathered the books, putting them back in their place in the hidden room. She closed the wardrobe and double-checked the apartment, but there was no evidence that a child had ever been here. She went into the kitchen and made sure that the dishes from dinner had also been put away. Though a visitor at this late hour was highly unlikely, one could not afford to be questioned about the need to wash two sets of dishes and cutlery after a meal when one presumably lived alone—
A familiar pattern of taps at the door of her apartment froze her in her tracks, a glass nearly slipping from her fingers. She set it aside and bolted to the front of her apartment, unlocking the door as quickly as she could.
Trepidation and relief coursed through her in equal measures as the man on the other side slipped in. She glanced across the dim landing and down the stairs, but everything remained silent and still. A dozen questions sprang to her mind but she uttered none of them, instead closing the door as silently as possible after him. It had been months since she’d seen Jerome. Months since she’d even heard from him, though rumours had been flying fast and furious of men and women arrested and carted off to prisons or worse for assisting the enemy.
She put up a hand to silence Jerome when it looked as though he was going to speak. Instead, she bade him follow her deeper into the apartment. She retraced her steps back into the living room and set a record on the gramophone. Only when the music started playing quietly did she speak. She couldn’t be too careful.
“Why are you here?” Even hushed, the question came out more reproachful than she had intended.
Jerome pulled his cap off his head, his hair disheveled and badly in need of a cut. “I was in town. Thought I’d drop by for a drink. Maybe a game of cards. It’s been awhile.”
“That’s not funny.”
He dropped his eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He looked utterly exhausted, Estelle thought, as she studied him. Dark circles under his eyes, a week’s worth of stubble darkening his cheeks, and a stoop to his shoulders that betrayed his fatigue.
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry. What do you need?”
He looked up at her. “A safe place to stay tonight.”
“And you came here?”
“You have a very nice sofa. Two of them, in fact.”
“Are you being serious?”
“I didn’t know where else to go. We’ve lost three of our houses in the last week, and Diedre’s brother was arrested. This was the safest place I could think of—” He stopped. “You’ve been crying.”
“I have not.” The denial was absurd because she’d never been a pretty crier. Just the threat of tears made her eyes puffy, her nose red, and her face splotchy.
“Is it Aviva? Where is she?” Concern shadowed his face.
“Safe. Sleeping.”
Jerome ran a hand through his messy hair. “Then what is it?”
“It’s just…it’s been a year. Since they…took Rachel. Today would have been her birthday.” She was aware she was speaking of Rachel in the past tense. “And every day since then, I’ve wondered what I could have done differently. What I could have done in those precious two minutes that might have saved Rachel and her family. Aviva would still have a family. And so would I.”
“What happened wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”
“I should have.”
“Look, Allard, you—”
“I didn’t do enough. I didn’t act quickly enough.” She didn’t want to hear the excuses that he would make for her. God knew she didn’t want to hear her own.
“You did everything you could.”
“They came the next day, you know,” she murmured. “Stripped the Wylers’ apartment of everything valuable. The furniture, the rugs, Serge’s books, Rachel’s jewelry, the fine plate and silver that had belonged to her mother. I think, on that day, deep down, I knew they weren’t coming back.”
“You have to forgive yourself, Allard.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
Jerome stepped closer to her. “How can I help?”
It was the gentle way he’d said it that broke her. She looked away, not even bothering to wipe away the new round of tears she could feel leaking down her cheeks.
Jerome reached out and gently wiped them away with the cuff of his sleeve, and somehow that made the tears come faster. This time, he simply put his arms around her and drew her into his embrace.
“I’m afraid,” she said when she was able, her words somewhat muffled by the front of his shirt.
“Of what?”
“Not of. For. I’m afraid for Aviva.” She sniffed gracelessly. “I’m afraid that that little girl is not going to survive this war. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to keep the promise I made to Rachel to keep her safe. I’m afraid that this damn war has no end.”
“I wish I could help. I wish I could take her out of France for you,” he said. “But we can’t take a child. She’d never survive the journey into Spain. The mountains or the rivers would—”
“I know,” Estelle said, nodding miserably. “I know you can’t. That’s why I’ve not asked you. I don’t even have papers for her.”
Jerome winced. “God, I’m sorry, I can’t even help you with that. I don’t know who the forgers are in Belgium but I could try and find out—”
“No. Those sorts of questions draw attention and could expose you. You are too important to the men whose lives depend on you.”
