the Jews, the laws in Germany becoming part of French policy, dictated by our very own Marshal—it’s revolting.’ Mother clasped her hands together and looked up at the ceiling, talking directly to God, before crossing her chest with the sign of the divinity. ‘You know about the statutes on the Jews, don’t you, Adèle? In Vichy, Lyon… arresting foreign-born Jews inside our borders, the ones who escaped here to receive France’s protection are now being sent back and straight to a camp—some never to return.’
‘I know about the laws. Gérard—he has arrested many. That’s one of the reasons I wouldn’t marry him.’
Mother nodded, looking at us both. ‘Now, let’s address what’s going on between you two.’ Mother glanced at Marguerite and then back to me. ‘First impressions can be fooling. Can’t they, ladies?’
Marguerite pinched the bodice of her postulant dress. ‘I’m not a postulant. I’m a résistant, a member of many groups, most recently with the Francs-Tireurs,’ she said, and air blew from my mouth.
The Francs-Tireurs.
She waited for a reaction, and rightfully so—the Francs-Tireurs were known to be as brutal as the Nazis when protecting France, sharpshooters who not only knew how to find guns—steal guns—but also how to use them. All I could do was nod, watching her blot the corner of her watering eye. I suddenly felt very lucky she had only got me with a switch. ‘Sorry about your face.’
Marguerite raised her eyebrows, nodding slightly. ‘Yes well, that is over. Now—’ she looked at Mother and then to me ‘—we must know, will you help us? Join the French Résistance?’
My heart skipped. ‘Me—the Résistance?’ They watched me as I got up from my chair and stood for a second. ‘I didn’t expect this.’ I put my hands on the window stones; much like Mother had done earlier, and looked out through the trees.
‘Help us get France back,’ Mother said. ‘The life you had before.’ She moved closer, about to touch my shoulder, but then thought better of it.
‘Give her a moment,’ Marguerite said, and Mother withdrew her hand.
‘Before,’ I breathed, and I was thrown into a forgotten memory, remembering Mama walking through the garden with Papa, pointing to the herbs she’d grown near her laundry lines, and Charlotte and me pan-frying leeks in vanilla oil.
Field hands rotated barrels in the barrel cellar with the nutty air of summer breezing in the air. Mama held on to Papa’s arm, calling to us from outside. ‘Is lunch ready?’ They went back to talking, pointing to the herbs.
‘Just a moment, Mama,’ Charlotte answered, but then whispered to me. ‘Have some more wine first.’ She topped off my glass with a forgotten bottle of Papa’s pinot.
I giggled. ‘Stop there,’ I said, but gladly drank what she’d poured me, stirring the leeks, browning them just so, popping in the pan.
Charlotte cut that day’s bread into tiny rounds and arranged them on a painted plate with crudités and sliced lemons. ‘And the tomatoes,’ she said, looking over the counter, and I pointed to the ones I’d picked that morning with the vines still attached. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, and we clinked glasses, downing what was left.
I scooped the leeks out of the frying pan and set them in a dish, drizzling them with oil. ‘Anything we’re missing?’ I said, wiping my hands on my apron ‘Oh, wait,’ I said, and I drank what was left in the bottle. One last sip, and laughed when I caught Charlotte watching me with a strange face.
‘Stop giggling, Adèle, I swear you’re going to be the death of us,’ Charlotte said. ‘They’ll know we’ve been drinking.’
‘They’ll know,’ I said, and I motioned to the window as Papa smelled the rosemary in Mama’s hand. ‘Look at our parents, Charlotte.’ I sighed.
We watched them kiss. ‘Girls?’ Mama said, and we ducked.
‘Coming!’ we both answered back, followed by more giggling.
We walked outside, to the long oak table where Mama and Papa had already sat down, and ate lunch together in a pleasant shade.
‘Adèle?’
I turned around, only to see them both staring at me, the last memory of my family together, fading.
‘What do I have to do?’
Mother smiled, looking relieved and happy at the same time. ‘You’ll be Marguerite’s partner for now. Here at the convent.’ A commotion outside in the courtyard stole Mother’s attention: people talking, some shouting, coupled with the purr of a car. She quickly smoothed her hair behind her ears and then slipped her wimple back over her head.
‘Mother,’ I said, and she glanced up. ‘Who was