chair, tipping me over, the back of it pressing my head against the floor. He leaned onto the chair, crushing me.
‘This is your fault,’ he said, pointing to Marguerite as my skull cracked.
Barbie stood up with a jolt and straightened his uniform jacket, which had gotten ruffled while trying to kill me. A dull moan came from my mouth, words, but not really.
‘You did good. Lasted a very long time under such… pressure.’ Barbie tipped me back over. He padded his brow with a hanky from his pocket and looked at me as I sat upright. The room spun, and my ears rung. Then I felt something wet dribble off my earlobe, moments later blood dripped onto my shoulder.
‘And you…’ he said, looking Marguerite over. ‘What is that?’ He pointed to the bright, pink rash puffing over Marguerite’s chest and up her neck, a confusing look creasing in his face.
‘Ahh, yes,’ he said, smiling. ‘I remember you now, the allergic one. Colmar, about two years ago.’ Marguerite never said a word. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to work on you tomorrow.’
‘Humph!’ Claudette turned in her chair, crossing her legs at the ankles. ‘Why finish up tomorrow when we have today?’
‘Patience, honigbär,’ he said. ‘These things must be handled—’ he caressed my cheek with a delicate hand ‘—with finesse.’
Barbie knocked on the door, and a guard walked in. ‘Put them in the same room,’ Barbie said. ‘Let’s have them remember each other.’
The guard untied the both of us and then brought us to a jerking stand.
‘My cigarettes are gone,’ Claudette huffed. ‘Can we get Gitanes in Germany?’
‘Of course.’ Barbie took Claudette by the hand and kissed her passionately on the lips, tipping her back, letting her hair dangle with her jewellery, before moving his lips to her supple white neck. ‘Tomorrow, ladies,’ he said as she nibbled his ear. ‘Be ready.’
The guard hauled us out into the corridor and then threw us into my room together, closing the door and locking it behind him. Marguerite lay on the ground where he had thrown her, too weak to move. She moaned, and I held her hand.
‘Adèle?’ she rasped.
‘Shh,’ I said. ‘Don’t speak.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, swallowing. ‘For the burns.’
‘No,’ I said, knowing all too well it was because of me we had gotten caught in the first place. ‘It’s my fault. All of it.’
‘We’re in this together.’ She took a long pause in between her words, closing her eyes. ‘Not your fault.’
‘Shh,’ I said again. ‘Save your energy.’
We sat in the warm room, our thoughts as thick and stifling as the air. Every now and then we’d hear the clink of doors locking, but we’d had our day’s interrogation and had no reason to fear the noises, not now anyway, not until morning.
‘Tell me a story, Adèle. Something that will take my mind off the aches in my stomach and in my bones.’
I rested her head in my lap and petted her. ‘I could tell you about the time I used another woman’s seat on the train as a footrest, made her stand in the aisle, but you already know that one.’
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘That one I know.’
I thought for a moment, unsure what she wanted to hear.
‘Tell me about your father’s vineyard. Tell me how beautiful it was before the war.’
I ran my hand over her head, wondering if I could do it—the memory of what was—with the sting of the burns on my chest and the iron-like smell of death lurking in our room.
‘Give it a try,’ she said. ‘For me.’
I closed my eyes and grasped at the far reaches of my memories. ‘The vineyard.’ I sighed. ‘I remember the grapes hanging off the greenest of vines in rows that went on for kilometres, and the smell, earthy yet sweet as jam. The good years, Papa said, were when the grapes hung the lowest to the ground. And when I was young they always hung low to the ground. The Creuzier-le-Vieux was as beautiful as it smelled, with rolling hills and breezes that carried with it the scent of herbs and citrus fruit.’
The more I talked the faster the memories flowed, and I saw myself as a young girl standing barefoot in the dirt, rows of vines on each side, playing a game of chase with Charlotte. ‘Mama would yell from the chateau when it was time for supper, but we knew when it was getting late by looking at the grape skins, which turned pink from the setting sun.