the more rural areas, where at least there was a chance to grow a little food.
The temptation to go home was strong, but Mireille knew she couldn’t leave Paris, even if she had been able to get a pass to travel. Applying for one would draw attention to herself. In any case, she had to stay, for the sake of the fugitives that she sheltered in the attic rooms in the Rue Cardinale and for the sake of her friends, Claire and Vivi. She had no idea whether or not they were still alive, but she knew she had to keep going, keep hoping that one day they would return.
She left the apartment as seldom as possible, and curled up in her blankets when the air raid sirens sounded and she heard the distant roar of the bombers overhead. She often wondered whether ‘Fréd’ was in one of the planes and tried to give herself courage by imagining that he was, that he knew she was there and that he was guiding his bombs away from Saint-Germain, keeping her safe.
Monsieur Leroux brought her news, occasionally, of the war beyond her country’s borders. The German forces were stretched thinner than ever now, and the privations that they’d inflicted on the countries they’d occupied were biting them too. The Allies were stronger than ever, making advances. Surely, he said, if the tide continued to turn like this, the war couldn’t go on much longer . . .
She tried hard to hold on to his words, even though when she studied his face it was gaunt and twisted with anguish, belying his underlying sense of desperation.
She had often mulled over what he’d said that day when he’d come to tell her that Vivi and Claire had left the prison and been taken to a camp in the east. ‘I love them both, Mireille.’ What had he meant by that? What was his relationship with Vivi, and what were his feelings for Claire? Could he love them both, equally?
One evening, after she’d settled the family of refugees that she was sheltering for the night in their bedrooms, she joined him where he sat at the table in the sitting room.
For a moment they were both silent. And then she said, ‘I wonder what they are doing now.’ There was no need for her to say their names; they both knew who she was referring to.
‘I tell myself every day that they are doing what we are doing. Staying alive, keeping going, waiting for the day we can be together again. I think we have to tell ourselves that. It’s what gives us a reason to carry on.’
She tried to read the expression in his eyes, but the depth of his pain obscured everything else. ‘Vivi . . .’ she began, but stopped, unable to find the right words to ask him what she wanted to know.
He studied her face for a moment. And then he said, his voice breaking with emotion, ‘Vivi is my sister.’
All at once it made sense. Their closeness. The way they smiled at each other. But also the way she’d seen him looking at Claire, sometimes. He really did love them both. But in very different ways. The pain in his eyes made sense now, too.
He’d lost his sister as well as the woman he was falling in love with. And he blamed himself.
The cold would have killed the women in the hut, its icy fingers freezing the blood in their veins, had there not been so many of them crammed on to each bunk. In winter, the fleas and lice bit less, which meant there were fewer deaths from typhus, but influenza and pneumonia stepped into the breach to continue the brutal, remorseless harvest of lives through the camp. Weakened by near-starvation and despair, few of the camp’s inmates had the resources to put up much of a fight.
One evening, when they arrived back from the factory, the hut senior drew Vivi and Claire aside. ‘They are asking for more women who can sew, to work in the reception centre. There are so many more people to process these days, they’ve brought in extra sewing machines. I’ve put your names on the list.’
‘Thank you,’ said Vivi. Over the months they’d spent in the camp, she’d told Claire to bring back any odds and ends from the factory whenever she could, to give to the senior, as Vivi herself did too, cementing them into her good books. Everything had value