‘Me too,’ said Marcel. ‘Me too.’ He gave me a smile. ‘See you again soon.’
Gaston walked with us to the edge of the camp. ‘You seem to have made an impression on Marcel,’ he commented.
‘I’m not sure about that,’ I replied, although secretly I was pleased if it was the case. ‘He was just being polite.’
‘Maybe more than polite,’ teased Rachelle.
‘Friendly,’ I retorted. ‘He was just being friendly.’
‘Which is very unlike him, so I refer you to my first statement,’ said Gaston. ‘You made an impression on him.’
We had reached the edge of the camp now and I was glad when one of the men appeared, offering to escort us back to the farm.
‘Just keep a safe distance,’ ordered Gaston. ‘If they’re spotted, it’s best they are on their own.’ He turned to us. ‘Take care, you two.’
‘And you,’ replied Rachelle.
I didn’t miss the knowing look pass between brother and sister and guessed Gaston had revealed more to Rachelle than I was privy to.
We hurried back through the forest and as we reached the edge of the farm, we both looked back to wave to our escort. Through the trees, I saw him raise his hand before disappearing back into the shadows.
‘So, we have a small treat today,’ said Clarice the following day when we sat down for lunch. ‘The chickens have laid a few extra eggs.’
I looked at the plate of mashed Jerusalem artichokes, which had become a staple diet over the past week. On its own, it wasn’t appealing but add an egg and it turned the meal into a feast.
Before we could tuck into the meal, there was a knock at the door. Rachelle jumped up and looked out of the window. ‘It’s Monsieur Pellon.’
If it were not for the grave tone of her voice, I wouldn’t have paid attention, but I could tell something was wrong. I saw Rachelle and her mother exchange a concerned look.
Clarice hurried out to the front door.
‘Who’s Monsieur Pellon?’
Rachelle didn’t answer me. Her face was as white as the enamel kitchen sink.
‘Monsieur Pellon runs the post office,’ said Odile, putting down her cutlery. Her voice was flat, with no trace of emotion. ‘He brings telegrams when there’s bad news.’
The kitchen door opened, and Clarice stepped into the room. Her gaze settled on me, and I could see tears in her eyes. Her hand shook a little. ‘A telegram,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, Nathalie.’
My legs felt heavy as I moved across the kitchen. It was like wading through deep water. I took the piece of paper and tried to focus on the words. It was several lines long. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. The words swam on the page in front of me. I tried to concentrate, to understand what I was reading, but it felt alien, as if it was happening to someone else.
‘No,’ I whispered to no one other than myself. ‘Please, no.’
I clutched the telegram to my chest, as my heart broke in two. My legs gave way, and I collapsed on the floor. I have no recollection of what happened after that. The next thing I was conscious of was being carried from the kitchen into the living room by Philippe and being placed on the sofa.
Clarice was at my side with a glass of water and my cousins looked on from the doorway.
I grabbed Clarice’s hand, almost spilling the drink. ‘Please tell me it’s not true,’ I begged. ‘Please tell me Edgar is alive.’ I looked around, searching for the telegram. I needed to see the words again. Surely, I’d read it wrong. I must have made a mistake.
Rachelle stepped forward and handed the crumpled piece of paper to me.
Terrible news. Edgar arrested by Gestapo yesterday. Questioned. Executed today. Our hearts are broken. Please tell Nathalie. Will telephone when possible. Your brother-in-law, Théodule
I allowed myself to be taken upstairs, and the grief of my loss overwhelmed me. All I could think about was my darling brother and what he must have gone through at the hands of the Gestapo, how frightened he must have been when he was executed. I wanted to be home with Maman and Papa. I wanted my mother to hold me and to comfort me. I wanted to be there for her. Instead, I allowed Clarice to hold me in her arms, stroke my hair, kiss my head, and tell me how brave Edgar was and how she understood because she had lost a brother in the Great War.
Eventually, I cried all the tears possible and, after Clarice had pulled the blanket up over my shoulders, I allowed sleep to take me. It was a welcome escape.
When I awoke two hours later, it took me a moment to remember what I was doing in bed during the day and when the memory hit me, it didn’t make me cry this time, but made me angry. I don’t think I had ever been so angry. So frustrated that I couldn’t change what had happened. I felt powerless. And I didn’t care for that feeling. If my younger brother was brave enough to take a stand against the invasion, then I should be brave too. I despised myself for being passive and compliant. This was not what being a Frenchwoman was about. I sat up in bed with a sense of purpose that had been missing until that point. I was going to make a difference.
