time, when Mireille handed her the note with a rough map sketched on the back and instructed her to deliver it to Christiane, the passeuse who lived out to the south-west of the city at Billancourt.
‘Are you sure you’re up for this?’ Mireille asked her, anxiously. ‘It’s a long way to go and you’ll need to keep the note concealed. Take the attaché case again and the sheets of music, and use the same excuse of a singing lesson if you’re stopped. I’d take the note myself, but I have to be at the station this evening . . .’
Claire smiled. ‘I’ll be fine, Mireille. I can unpick the facing underneath my coat collar and hide the note there. A few stitches will hold it in place and no one will be any the wiser. And I’ve memorised the directions for where to meet Christiane. Don’t worry, I’ll see you back here in time for the curfew.’
Dusk was falling as the two girls crossed the river. Army trucks filled with soldiers, whose uniforms were emblazoned with stark black and red insignia, rumbled past them, and on the northern horizon the beams of distant searchlights created a false sunrise, sweeping the skies for allied planes. On the right bank, Claire and Mireille embraced quickly and then went their separate ways.
On her return to the Rue Cardinale, as Mireille opened the door of the apartment she was met by Vivi.
‘Oh, Mireille! I’m so glad you’re back. I wasn’t sure where you’d gone . . .’ She looked past her into the stairwell. ‘But where is Claire? I thought she’d be with you?’
Mireille shook her head. ‘No. She remembered she had an errand to run. She’ll be back very soon, I expect.’
‘Where did she go?’ Vivi’s face was pale in the light of the hallway. Mireille was taken aback by the urgency of her tone. Vivi never usually asked any questions about the comings and goings of her two flatmates and, until now, she had shown no interest in where they went and what they did in their free time.
‘I . . . I can’t say. I mean, I’m not sure . . .’ Mireille faltered.
Vivienne grasped her by the arms then, more insistent now. ‘Mireille, you have to tell me. This is crucial. I know about your missions. But tonight . . .’ She took a deep breath, stopping herself, choosing her words a little more carefully. ‘Okay, you don’t have to say exactly where she is, but just tell me which direction she’s gone in.’
Mireille’s mind churned, trying to take in what Vivi had just revealed, realising – as the penny dropped – that this must be truly urgent for Vivi to have disclosed the fact that she was in the know about the network.
‘She . . . she went south-west.’
Vivi’s eyes widened and seemed to darken in the whiteness of her face. ‘Where south-west?’
Again, Mireille hesitated, and was shocked when Vivi shook her with a strength that belied her apparent fragility. ‘You have to tell me, Mireille,’ she insisted.
Mireille shook her head. She couldn’t give away that information, it had been drummed into her not to. Even sharing details with those on her own side put everyone at even greater risk. And then, out of the blue, she remembered Monsieur Leroux and the look in his eyes when she and Claire had been taking leave of him in the Tuileries that day – Claire had told him that they’d give the third bar of chocolate to their friend Vivi and his eyes had betrayed a glint of amusement. He knew Vivi. She was something to do with him. Mireille remembered, too, how he had questioned her at the Café de Flore, about her work in the atelier, about the seamstresses that lived above the shop, and it dawned on her that he had placed Vivi there in the apartment, with them.
Vivi shook her again, more urgently. ‘Trust me, Mireille. You have to trust me.’
Mireille looked deep into her friend’s eyes and saw a light of pleading in their clear hazel depths. And then she said, ‘Billancourt.’
Vivi released her grip on Mireille’s arms and her hands flew to her own face in horror. ‘No! Not there! They’re bombing there tonight. I’ve only just heard . . . The Renault factory . . . we have to go, now, and get her back.’
Terror gripped Mireille as Vivi’s words sunk in. ‘But it’s late – the curfew . . . Oh, Vivi!’