“She is bossy, but she has a good heart,” he told them. “She works very hard and she takes good care of me. This will be hers one day. She is the only one of our family left.”
He gestured across the room to the long table that sat against the wall beside the woodstove.
“There are pictures, before the war; Micheleine, her mother and father, brothers and sister, and my Angeline.”
Kris picked up the framed black-and-white photograph of the young family that had obviously been taken before the war. Both parents were seated, with a boy standing at either side—Micheleine's brothers who had died in the war—a toddler on her mother's lap, obviously Angeline, and a young girl seated on the floor in front, the hem of her dress tucked under her knees. There was no mistaking the young Micheleine.
The dark hair was the same, the eyes, her features, strength in the stubborn set of her chin—strength enough to protect her family when her father and brothers had gone off to join the Resistance, strength when they were killed and she took their place fighting the Germans, possibly hiding a priceless work of art from them.
The coffee was dark and strong as Albert told them about the young woman who became known as Jehanne, and the last time he had seen her when she returned to the farm in those last days of the war.
“She had been wounded. I tried to convince her to stay, there was hope that the war was almost over. But she could be very stubborn.” He paused, passed a hand over his mouth at the memory, then went on.
“She was afraid her presence would endanger others. The Germans were still everywhere, moving ahead of the Allies. Dangerous, no one was safe.” He paused again, remembering, old anger in the expression on his face.
“No one,” he repeated, his mouth working with other words that wouldn't come. He cleared his throat.
“She said there was still work to be done.” He was thoughtful at the memory. “We all had work to do.” He frowned, a slight tremor on the hand that wiped his eyes.
“I did not see her again. There were rumors of things that happened,” he said in that sad voice, as Valentine brought more coffee.
“Her mother cried and cried afterward. First her sons, then her husband. All gone.” He looked over at James.
“You know what it is to lose those you love, family, friends,” he said.
“I know,” James replied.
Albert nodded, in that unspoken way she had seen more than once with her brother Mark, that silent communication between those who have been in dark places where no words are necessary.
“Did Micheleine ever mention anything to you about the tapestry in this photograph? It was called the Raveneau Tapestry.”
He stared at the printout. He shrugged and shook his head. “I would remember if she said anything about it.”
Then she handed him the copy Sophie Martin had made of the letter Micheleine wrote and hid in that cellar.
“This letter was found after the war. It was written to her mother.”
He studied the copy of the letter, the perfect neat letters and those unusual marks that had been made at the edge of the paper. The lettering and those marks had faded over time. The copy was barely legible.
“It was found in a cellar at a house outside Amiens after the war,” Kris explained. “It mentions a hospital, but we were told there was no hospital here during the war.”
Albert stared down at the printed copy of that last letter Micheleine had written. Over seventy years ago.
What did he see? What did he remember?
His hand trembled slightly as he rubbed it across his forehead as if he could physically pull the memories out of his thoughts. He slowly shook his head.
Kris tried to hide her disappointment.
“I am sorry,” Valentine apologized. “I know this was important to you...because of your friend.”
“Souviens...” Albert said in French, something he hadn't thought about in a very long time, since he was a boy, before the war.
“Je me souviens.”
“Qu'est-ce que c'est?” Valentine asked him.
“Le carrierre,” Albert replied.
