all that is left, Claire. Ordinary people like you and me.’
After a pause, Claire replied. ‘But aren’t you afraid, Mireille? To get involved in such a dangerous way . . . and right under the nose of the German army? Paris is theirs now. They are everywhere.’
‘I was afraid, once. But I have seen what they did to Esther, and to so many others who were on the road that day. More “ordinary people”. And now I am angry. And anger is stronger than fear.’
Claire shrugged, causing Mireille to relinquish her grip on her shoulders. ‘It’s too late, Mireille. We have to accept that things have changed. France is not the only country to have fallen to the Germans. Let the Allies do the fighting. It’s enough of a battle to stay alive these days without going looking for trouble elsewhere.’
Stepping backwards into the narrow hallway, Mireille reached for the handle of the door to Esther’s room and pulled it firmly shut.
Claire tugged nervously at the hem of her shirt, uncertain what to say next. ‘There’s a bit of supper . . .’ she began.
‘That’s alright,’ Mireille replied, with a smile that couldn’t erase the sadness in her eyes. ‘I’m not hungry tonight. I think I’ll just unpack my things and get some sleep.’
She turned towards her own bedroom, but then paused, without looking back. Her voice was calm and low as she said, ‘But you’re wrong, Claire. It is never too late.’
Harriet
As I lie in the unfamiliar darkness of my new bedroom, listening to the sounds of Paris by night wafting up from the streets down below, I mull over what Simone has told me of my grandmother’s story so far. It seems important to capture her words, so I’ve begun to write them down in the journal that I’ve brought with me. I’d intended to use it to record my year working in Paris, but Claire and Mireille’s story seems so connected to me, such a vital part of who I am, that I want to remember every detail.
As I read back over the first few pages, I have to admit to feeling a little disappointed that it was Mireille who wanted to join the Resistance and not Claire, who quite frankly seems to have been a bit of a wimp in comparison. But she was young, I remind myself, and hadn’t experienced the horrors of the war in the way that Mireille had.
The background sounds of the traffic a couple of streets away on the Boulevard Saint-Germain are interrupted by the urgent wail of police sirens. Their sudden noise makes my heartbeat race. As I listen to them fade, the city lights cast a dull orange glow through my attic window and I reach out a hand to steady myself, touching the bars of the bedstead behind my head. The metal feels cool, despite the mugginess of the city night. The mattress on my bed is clearly a recent addition and is comfortable enough, but could this be one of the original bed frames that was in the apartment all those years ago? Did Claire sleep here? Or Esther and her baby, Blanche?
I roll on to my side, willing sleep to come. In the dim light, the photograph on the chest of drawers gleams faintly in its frame. I can just make out the three figures, although I can’t see their faces in the darkness.
I recall Simone’s words of warning from earlier, that I should only ask questions if I am absolutely certain that I want to know the answers. Which is worse, I wonder: knowing the horrors of war like Mireille, or choosing to remain as unaware as possible like Claire?
Simone must have realised I’d feel a bit let down by my grandmother’s passivity and her reluctance to join the struggle against the Occupation. Maybe that was why she didn’t want to tell me the story. But how could any of us nowadays know what it feels like to have your country invaded? What it feels like to live with deprivation and fear, in the grip of foreign control, with the ever-present threat of casual acts of brutality? How could any of us know how we’d respond?
I fall asleep at last. And I dream of rows of girls in white coats, their heads bowed over their work as they stitch together an endless river of blood-red silk.
1940
Mireille shivered as she waited outside the tobacconist on the Rue Buffon, pretending to wait for a bus. It was