“Toward the end of nineteen seventeen. According to the notation—see this, here?—Legrand was evacuated to a military hospital near Nantes. He suffered a head injury and lost his left hand. Due to his severe injuries, he was unable to communicate.”
“When was the scratch out made?” Rosalyn asked. “When did they realize the mistake?”
He shook his head. “This I cannot tell you. However, it was likely after the war had ended, when he had recovered sufficiently to tell them who he was.”
Chapter Forty-five
Lucie
I wonder if the history books will record that twentypetits enfants, and many more adults, gave their lives for the grape harvests. Is it worth it? That is a question I ask myself every day, every hour, every minute.
Another year, another harvest.
Our baby, Narcissa, is left with a neighbor, as my mother is fading fast. I spoon honeyed tea into her mouth, but she has stopped eating altogether. I’m sure I don’t know what I’ll do without her.
Émile gone, andMaman, too?
Father hardly reacts to anything anymore; I fear he will not long be with us, either. And sweet Henri tries his best, but he spends more and more time with the animals, which is where his talents lie.
At least I have Topette, who has become like my little sister. Mother has taught her how to knit, and she is quite the protégée, knitting sweaters and balaclavas for the soldiers, and for those of us who tend the fields. It is said the war cannot last much longer. Wheneveryone has finally put down their swords, I will go with Topette and Narcissa to find my beloved Émile’s grave site, and then we shall visit the ocean. Perhaps one day we will travel to Australia to visit Émile’smarraine, Madame Whittaker. She writes to me now instead of Émile, and has promised me that our dear Narcissa will be taken care of, always.
She writes that she wants to come visit, after the war.
Topette and Narcissa and I—and Madame Whittaker, too. We will find a way to carry on.
We have no other choice.
Chapter Forty-six
How did it go?” André asked when Emma, Blondine, and Rosalyn returned to the car, still reeling from the revelation that Émile Legrand might have survived the war.
“The plot, as they say, thickens,” Emma said.
“While you were gone,” André said, “Madame Bolze called.”
“Why did she call you instead of me?” Emma asked.
“I met with her after you offered my services as chauffeur, remember? She likes me.”
“Everyone likes you. What did Madame Bolze have to say?”
“She remembered the name of a woman she knew from school whose mother lived in the caves as a child,” said André, referring to a small notebook. “Her name is Madame Jeanne Bisset, and she lives outside of Ay. She might know something about the woman you’re looking for. Madame Bolze gave me her phone number.”
“That sounds promising,” Rosalyn said.
“Ay is en route to Cochet, if you would like to stop,” André mentioned.
“Well, then, no time like the present,” said Emma, then pulledout her phone, dialed the woman’s number, and asked if they could drop by for a visit.
Madame Bisset lived in a well-appointed but humble home on a very busy road. Inside, photographs of grandchildren and great-grandchildren graced the walls, and hand-crocheted blankets covered the backs of the couch and several chairs.
A warm and welcoming woman in her eighties, Madame Bisset reminded Rosalyn of an elderly chihuahua: She was petite and thin, with a well-coiffed head of pure white hair and an abundance of nervous energy. She introduced them to her husband, Gustave, and, when he turned away, whispered that he “has the Alzheimer’s.”
“You go play the Beethoven now, Gustave,” she said in a loud voice, and with a nod he complied. “Come, young ladies—please have a seat. Madame Bolze told me you are looking for information about the orphanage, and life in the caves during the war. And about Lucie Maréchal, in particular.”
“We are,” said Emma, as Beethoven’s “Für Elise” began to play in the other room. “Do you think your mother knew her? I know it was long before your time, madame, but what can you tell us about it?”
“Oh, please call me Jeanne. Otherwise you’ll make me feel old,” she said, springing up from the sofa to grab a photo, which she handed to Blondine, who passed it around. The photo showed a smiling young woman in a simple tea-length wedding gown. “This is my mother, Topette; she lived with Lucie Maréchal in the caves, as a child.”
