Page 102

“Andrée, my name is Andrée Levallois. I came in two days ago. Can anyone hear me?”

“I can hear you, Andrée. You are probably directly below me, or next to me. Our voices can only travel a short distance. You tell me about yourself; I’ll tell whoever hears me and word will get around of your arrival. Do you understand?” a voice says.

“Yes! Oh yes! I think my parents were brought here at the same time. Can you help me find them? What is your name?”

“I’m Giselle. What’s your mother’s name? Your father will be in the men’s prison across the courtyard, and we can’t communicate with them, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you, Giselle. My mother is Tina—Augustine Levallois.”

“I heard you,” another voice says. “We’ll spread the word. How are you?”

“Thank you. I’m alive. I just need to know my Maman is too. What is your name?”

“Marie.”

“Thank you, Marie and Giselle. Is there anything you can tell me about what happens here? So far I’ve been left alone.”

“That won’t last. Stay strong—we get information every now and then from outside and we share it. If you hear anything, can you let us know? We communicate at nighttime, when there aren’t many guards around,” Giselle says.

“Hold on, Andrée. The Allies are coming and Paris will be free very soon,” Marie adds.

“Music to my ears,” Andrée tells them.

“I like that phrase, music to my ears,” Marie says.

“I am a piano teacher.”

“What I wouldn’t give to hear you play. Tell me your favorite piece, so I can think about it as I fall asleep,” Giselle says.

“‘Clair de Lune.’ It’s a favorite of mine for many reasons,” Andrée says, seeing Josie, her fingers striking each key, fluid, perfectly in tune, her eyes closed.

“Thank you, Andrée. I’ll send the melody down the line. Everyone will be humming it to sleep tonight,” Marie says.

The days pass and Andrée marks them by the light coming through the high window. Morning. Afternoon. Evening. Night. One day. Two days. Three. Each day she, Giselle, and Marie speak. Each day she is told no one has news of Tina. Andrée tells herself it is probably because her mother’s hearing has been deteriorating, and she can’t hear the conversations through the pipes or can’t reach up high enough.

Food comes twice a day. Watery soup. Stale bread. She forces herself to eat, knowing full well that survival requires calories. Even here. Especially here.

There have been no interrogations yet. Perhaps they’re letting her wait. Letting fear do their work for them. Or perhaps they’ve moved on to her parents.

The thought makes her stomach clench. Papa. Maman. What are they doing to you?

From a deep sleep, Andrée wakes to the sound of singing coming through the pipes and also coming from outside her cell. The women are singing “La Marseillaise,” the French national anthem, at the tops of their voices. Andrée hurries to the cell door, to the small gap where food is handed through, and joins in. The guards shout at the women to be quiet, threaten them with beatings, but they sing even louder.

As quickly as it started, the singing stops. Andrée hurries to her lifeline, the heating pipes above her head. “What’s happening? Why the singing?”

“We’re saying goodbye to Sara. She’s being executed this morning. We sing every prisoner to their death. Sorry, Andrée, we should have warned you,” Marie says.

“Courage, Andrée. Courage,” Giselle adds.

Louis lies on his mattress, staring at the ceiling. His ribs ache where they kicked him. His jaw throbs where they struck him. But he’s alive and he’s breathing. He can endure this.

He thinks about Tina. Is she in pain? Are they hurting her? The thought is unbearable. They have been together for forty years. Forty years of love between them. And now they are separated by stone walls, and he is unable to protect her, unable to hold her hand, unable to tell her it will be all right.

He thinks about Andrée, his brilliant, brave daughter. She didn’t break. He knows she didn’t. She’s too strong, too stubborn. She gets that from Tina.

And Josie. Sweet Josie. Is she safe? Did she make it to Monique’s? Is she eating? Sleeping? Does she know they love her?

He closes his eyes. Tries to sleep. But sleep doesn’t come easily in Fresnes. The sounds of the prison doors clanging, footsteps echoing up and down the corridors, voices crying out, make rest impossible. There has been no communication between the men in his block. He is utterly alone.