for the curfew, so the two girls were home alone. Yvette continued to cry out in agony as Vivi stumbled through the debris towards her frantic screams, finally finding her pinned under the immense table in the front room.
Pulling the table off her, and lifting Yvette into her arms – she was as light as a feather, Vivi carried her, both of them covered in brick dust and dirt, down into the cellar, where she tended to Yvette’s wounds.
The raid lasted for what felt like an eternity, and as the all-clear sounded, she knew she needed to go out and find someone to check over her young friend, who was in a great deal of pain. Venturing into the street, she was overwhelmed by the devastation that greeted her. The acrid smell of burning buildings rose above the city like a cloud, hanging heavy and choking its residents, with nothing to comfort them but the clanging bells of ambulances and fire engines as they scrambled to their destinations.
After more than an hour, Vivi gave up. It was impossible to get anyone; so many people were injured and in a far more critical state than Yvette. It was only when she started the long walk back to the house, that she remembered her wireless. Had she retrieved the antenna after she’d finished her broadcast? She had signed off, but was it still dangling there?
Vivi raced back through the city, stopping abruptly when she rounded the corner of the Renoirs’ road as her worst fears met her. Being marched out of the house by Nazis were Monsieur and Madame Renoir, who had evidently rushed home after the raid. These people who had taken such good care of her! Behind them, in a soldier’s arms, was her wireless.
She retreated into the shadows, turned around and ran. Should she turn herself in, tell the Germans it was her fault? That the family she lived with knew nothing of her activities? But her choking fear alongside the trauma of the attack muddled her thoughts. So instead she ran till she could no longer go on, hot breath racing through her lungs, her heart breaking. Eventually, she collapsed onto a chair at a table of a closed pavement café to gather herself.
She would have to go to the safe house.
She grappled to rake through her memories until, eventually, she remembered the name she needed. Boulogne. The house was in Boulogne Street.
Numb and overwhelmed, she forced her feet across town. Arriving at the right street, Vivi shuddered with the bitter cold and fear, but stopped abruptly when she sighted the number she had memorised. All the Resistance houses she’d encountered since she’d arrived so far had been inconspicuous, brown shabby doors down dark alleyways. However, this one was elaborate. It had a large oak door, painted vivid crimson with a light on over the top.
Exhausted, she knocked. Recalling the name, she muttered it to herself – ‘Madame Mazella’. That was the person she needed to identify.
Nothing could have prepared her for the character who flung open the door with force. Standing to meet her was a girl heavily made-up and wearing a low-cut dress with the majority of her cleavage visible.
Vivi stifled her reaction.
‘Yes?’ enquired the woman, frowning at Vivi as she looked her up and down.
‘Madame Mazella?’ Vivi enquired in a hushed tone.
‘She’s inside,’ the woman snapped.
As Vivi stepped in, it was as if she’d entered a different world. Outside was the war and madness; in here was sheer decadence. The hallway was lavishly decorated, a thick, colourful Turkish carpet, red and gold walls and heavy velvet curtains. The air was dense with the smell of stale tobacco and cheap perfume. From the hallway, a door was opened, revealing a parlour. A woman giggled, and a man passed by her, looking her up and down before he stepped outside beaming. Vivi felt thoroughly confused, this was not what she had expected. An older woman arrived, also in thick make-up with shiny red lips. Her hair was piled on top of her head, a crayoned beauty spot drawn on one cheek.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded.
‘Someone told me to come here.’ Vivi coughed, her throat dry from the smoke and dust in the streets.
‘Who?’ she growled.
Vivi leaned forward, fighting the scent of cheap perfume that threatened to overpower her as she confided, ‘The Terrier.’
The lips of Madame Mazella curled in the corners as she croaked out, ‘We have not seen him for a while. I’m presuming you