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Andrée hears these hollered commands. Or is she dreaming? She groans, tries to roll over on the metal cot that has been her bed for . . . how long now? She can’t be sure, the days and nights have blurred. The pain of repeated beatings lingers into her restless sleep. She feels the sting of the whips a second, third, fourth time every night.

“Out! Out!”

The voice is louder now, unmistakable.

She barely registers as the door to her cell is flung open, her eyes struggling to focus on the guard now advancing on her, swinging a rod. Curling into a ball, she tries to protect her head.

“Get up and get out! Now!” is screamed into her face as a hand roughly drags her from the bed onto the floor. Another blow to her back. Crawling, she makes her way to the door and into the stream of women staggering past.

Kind hands reach down, bring her to her feet. An arm wraps around her waist, helping her to move, to walk.

“What’s going on?” she stammers.

“We’re being moved. All of us. They’re emptying the prison,” her Good Samaritan whispers.

“Where are they taking us?”

“I don’t know. Just keep moving. I’ve got hold of you.”

Andrée looks up at the hundreds of women shuffling ahead of her, then glances behind to see just as many.

“Maman! Maman, where are you? It’s Andrée!” she calls out.

“Your mother is here?”

“Yes. I must find her.” Andrée struggles to free herself from the woman’s hold.

“Wait until we’re outside. There’ll be more room there and you’ll be able to find her. It’s too crowded here. And you don’t want to attract attention; you’ll only get beaten. Maybe your mother too.”

Herded outside, Andrée looks at the first sliver of sun introducing a new day.

Around her, the night slowly fades, the buildings on the other side of the quadrangle taking shape. Over there she can see the men’s prison, where the men are being marched out. They stagger too, trip and fall. But there too, they help each other.

“I must look for Maman. Thank you so much. I don’t think I would have made it outside without you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Andrée. Andrée Levallois.”

“Okay, Andrée. And your mother’s name?”

“Augustine. Tina Levallois.”

“Why don’t you go one way and I’ll go the other? I’ll ask if anyone knows your mother? One of us must find her.”

“You would do that for me?”

“I would do this for anyone. Every one of us has or had a mother. Go. And be quiet. Try to meet back here.”

The women part. Andrée moves as quickly as her injuries allow, staring into the faces beside her, in front of her, behind her. Eventually she starts asking everyone she sees, “Do you know Augustine Levallois? Have you seen her? Has she whispered her name down the pipes?”

No one risks speaking. Brief shakes of the head. Looks of sympathy. Nothing more.

The hundreds of men and women stand as the sun rises, bathing the courtyard in brilliant light. Their eyes wince in the light of day; it’s been so long. Andrée is grateful for the inaction of the guards who have gathered at one end and appear to be waiting for instructions.

When she’s certain she’s seen the faces of all the women around her, she hurries back to the arranged meeting point. Her new friend is there. The look on her face tells Andrée she hasn’t found Tina.

“I’m sorry, Andrée. I asked. No one knows anything about your mother. Maybe she’s not here. When did you last see her? Maybe she’s at home. Safe and sound.”