The Girl from Vichy - Andie Newton Page 0,127

back?’ I felt as if I were in a dream, hearing what I wanted to hear and seeing Luc again. ‘Is this real? Are you real?’

His eyes shined. ‘The Résistance has taken control of the city. We stormed the prison as soon as we could.’ We hugged again, my legs buckling, surrendering to his embrace, before going back for Marguerite.

I staggered into the cell. With all the noise, the sweet racket of victory rattling the walls, our barred little cell seemed as quiet as a closed box, stifling, reeking of exhaustion and sadness but also glory. Everything we had fought for, everything we wanted had come. I bent down to where her body lay, and her eyes fluttered, the slightest bit of life fading along with her breath.

‘Don’t wait for me.’ Marguerite swallowed, her lips dry and cracking white. ‘I can’t come.’

I looked at her questionably, but then fell breathlessly next to her when I realized what she meant. She sounded so sure of herself, unafraid, and matter-of-fact, but I wasn’t ready for her to go. I wasn’t ready. I caressed her face, not knowing what to do to stop her from dying, looking over her body as if I could, and then muttering a tearful request I knew she couldn’t honour, ‘Don’t leave me.’ She got still, more still than she had ever been, and then limp. Undeniably limp, her body sinking heavily onto the floor.

‘No—’ My hands shook, her name coming from my mouth in unrecognizable guttural groans when I realized she was gone—truly gone—taking her hand and pressing it to my cheek. The day we met on the train, the look on her face when I hit my own hand with the brass hanger, the light in her eyes when she pulled me from the rocky tomb—all I had left of her now. In many ways I felt as though half of me lay on the ground dead with her—a part of my life that didn’t exist anymore. My only comfort was knowing she had heard the chants of victory before she died.

‘Be with your patriot,’ I said, closing her eyelids, ‘be with your Philip.’

*

We buried Marguerite next to her lover. She would have wanted it that way. Then we made the slow journey to Vichy in a borrowed car. Advancing armies, tanks and military trucks moving east through France were a welcome sight, leaving in their wake a sense of hope and renewed spirit among us all as we crept through the congested roads.

For a moment I thought I smelled chamomile in the air, then as we approached what was left of the vineyards in Creuzier-le-Vieux, I realized it was the rotten tinge of shrunken grapes still clinging to crumbling vines. But when we stopped at the top of the hill behind Mama’s chateau, all I could smell was the catchfly, which was in full bloom rolling down the hill next to Papa’s estate. We stood at a distance as Mama and Papa walked out onto the patio to see who we were, Papa holding on to Mama as if she might fall. He talked to her, pointing toward Luc and me, and she put a hand to her chest.

Luc reached for my hand just as Charlotte walked out of the kitchen and onto the patio. She had an apron on as if she had been cooking, and her hair was pulled back with a loose ribbon, that dingy poodle I had saved so long ago now fluffy and white and right on her heels.

Charlotte put a hand to her forehead. ‘Adèle!’ She ran toward me only to stop at the base of the hill, nothing but the pink flowing petals of the catchfly between us.

A warm breeze swept through Papa’s vines, carrying with it the memories of what our lives were like before the war; the sound of our voices laughing in the vineyard, our feet bare and cool from the black soil. ‘War changes people,’ I heard. ‘Don’t give up on her.’

Tears spilled over my cheeks, her name but a breath on my lips. ‘Charlotte.’

And she ran through the French catchfly, up the hill and into my open arms.

Author’s Note

This story and its characters were inspired by two women who fought their country’s enemies with courage, creativity and relentless perseverance. The first was Élise Rivet, Mother Superior of Notre Dame de la Compassion in Lyon, who hid weapons and ammunition in her convent’s crypt for the French Résistance. The other was Marie-Madeleine Fourcade, who had amassed 3,000 agents across France and created the Alliance, one of the largest and most effective organized spy networks in all of history. Élise Rivet was arrested for her crimes and died at Ravensbrück just weeks before the war ended. Marie-Madeleine Fourcade, after evading capture multiple times, survived the war.

I decided to write this book after finding Marie-Madeleine Fourcade’s out-of-print memoir in a used bookstore in 2013. I was amazed by her story, the Alliance, and the role of women in the French Resistance. As far as setting, I have always been intrigued by the political divisiveness inside the Free Zone, where politics not only divided the people as much as the country, but also entire families. Marshal Philippe Pétain, the leader of the Vichy regime, was France’s WWI hero and many people looked up to him, if not trusted him completely. Knowing this, while drafting the outline for this story, there were a few questions I had that drove the narrative: Once the collaborationist policies of the Vichy regime became clear, how hard was it for those who supported Philippe Pétain to admit they were wrong? More so, what would it take to bring a family back together? Would the wronged be willing to forgive?

The Girl from Vichy was my way of exploring the complexities of Vichy, with the Milice and with the French police, and giving readers a story that highlighted a different aspect of the war.

At the end of the book, Marguerite says, ‘I wanted to fight the war with all my bones. Now my bones are all I have left.’ This statement is a testament to the incredible courage and relentless spirit that burned inside every member of the French Résistance, and inside so many women. Incredible to think about—to literally fight to the bone for what you believe in. And so many of them did.

Thank you for reading my book! I hope you enjoyed it.

Acknowledgements

I’m incredibly thankful to my talented editor, Hannah Smith. She’s a manuscript doctor, and one of the nicest people I’ve ever worked with. Thank you to the incredibly talented team at Aria Fiction for the behind-the-scenes work they did to bring my novel out into the world. Thank you to my agent, Kate Nash, and her fabulous team at the Kate Nash Literary Agency for their constant support and guidance. I owe a lot to my critique partner, Paula Butterfield, who read various drafts of this novel many years ago and provided the best feedback. During my debut year, I discovered the most amazing writers’ group called the Renegades; I would be lost without your writing advice, support, and laughs! Thank you to my parents and sister who raved about this book long before it was acquired. Thank you to my husband, Matt, for being the most supportive human being alive, and to my two awesome kids, Zane and Drew, for listening to me talk about this book for more than half their lives.

About the Author

ANDIE NEWTON is the author of The Girl I Left Behind. Andie holds a Bachelor degree in History and a Master in Teaching. She would love to say she spends her free time gardening and cooking, but she’s killed everything she’s ever planted and set off more fire alarms than she cares to admit. Andie does, however, love spending time with her family, trail running, and drinking copious amounts of coffee.

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