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A voice crackled over the airwaves. “… Maréchal Pétain speaking to you…”
Isabelle frowned. Pétain was a hero of the Great War, a beloved leader of France. She turned up the volume further.
Via
“… I assumed the direction of the government of France…”
Static overtook his deep voice, crackled through it.
Isabelle thumped the radio impatiently.
“… our admirable army, which is fighting with a heroism worthy of its long military traditions against an enemy superior in numbers and arms…”
Static. Isabelle hit the radio again, whispering, “Zut.”
“… in these painful hours I think of the unhappy refugees who, in extreme misery, clog our roads. I express to them my compassion and my solicitude. It is with a broken heart that I tell you today it is necessary to stop fighting.”
“We’ve won?” Via
“Shhh,” Isabelle said sharply.
“… addressed myself last night to the adversary to ask him if he is ready to speak with me, as soldier to soldier, after the actual fighting is over, and with honor, the means of putting an end to hostilities.”
The old man’s words droned on, saying things like “trying days” and “control their anguish” and, worst of all, “destiny of the fatherland.” Then he said the word Isabelle never thought she’d hear in France.
Surrender.
Isabelle hobbled out of the room on her bloody feet and went into the backyard, needing air suddenly, unable to draw a decent breath.
Surrender. France. To Hitler.
“It must be for the best,” her sister said calmly.
When had Via
“You’ve heard about Maréchal Pétain. He is a hero unparalleled. If he says we must quit fighting, we must. I’m sure he’ll reason with Hitler.” Via
Isabelle yanked away. The thought of Via
“So you know more than our heroes now?”
“I know we shouldn’t give up.”
Via
“You are a fool.”
Via
Isabelle tented a hand over her eyes and stared up into the bright and cloudless sky. How long would it be before all this blue was filled with German aeroplanes?
She didn’t know how long she stood there, imagining the worst—remembering how the Nazis had opened fire on i
“Tante Isabelle?”
Isabelle heard the small, tentative voice as if from far away. She turned slowly.
A beautiful girl stood at Le Jardin’s back door. She had skin like her mother’s, as pale as fine porcelain, and expressive eyes that appeared coal black from this distance, as dark as her father’s. She could have stepped from the pages of a fairy tale—Snow White or Sleeping Beauty.
“You can’t be Sophie,” Isabelle said. “The last time I saw you … you were sucking your thumb.”
“I still do sometimes,” Sophie said with a conspiratorial smile. “You won’t tell?”
“Me? I am the best of secret keepers.” Isabelle moved toward her, thinking, my niece. Family. “Shall I tell you a secret about me, just so that we are fair?”
Sophie nodded earnestly, her eyes widening.
“I can make myself invisible.”
“No, you can’t.”
Isabelle saw Via
“Isabelle,” Via
Sophie stared up at Isabelle, enraptured. “Really?”
Isabelle glanced at Via
“I am looking at you,” Sophie said. “Will you make yourself invisible now?”
Isabelle laughed. “Of course not. Magic, to be its best, must be unexpected. Don’t you agree? And now, shall we play a game of checkers?”
EIGHT
The surrender was a bitter pill to swallow, but Maréchal Pétain was an honorable man. A hero of the last war with Germany. Yes, he was old, but Via
Via
Immediately upon France’s surrender, food became scarce. Laundry soap: unobtainable. Ration cards could not be counted upon. Phone service became unreliable, as did the mail. The Nazis effectively cut off communication between cities and towns. The only mail allowed was on official German postcards. But for Via
Isabelle became impossible to live with. Several times since the surrender, while Via
All Isabelle could talk about was the monstrosity of the Nazis and their determination to kill the French. She had no ability—of course—to hold her tongue, and since Via
They had been standing in a food queue at the butcher’s shop for two hours already. Isabelle had been complaining nearly that whole time. Apparently it made no sense to her that she should have to shop for food.
“Via
More dramatics.
“Via
She turned—just to silence her sister—and saw them.
Germans.
Up and down the street, windows and doors slammed shut. People disappeared so quickly Via
Isabelle stepped defiantly into the street.
“Isabelle,” Via
The green lorry in the lead came to a halt in front of Isabelle. In the back, soldiers sat on benches, facing one another, rifles laid casually across their laps. They looked young and clean shaven and eager in brand-new helmets, with medals glinting on their gray-green uniforms. Young most of all. Not monsters; just boys, really. They craned their necks to see what had stopped traffic. At the sight of Isabelle standing there, the soldiers started to smile and wave.
Via
The military entourage rumbled past them, a string of vehicles and motorcycles and lorries covered in camouflaged netting. Armored tanks rolled thunderously on the cobblestoned street. And then came the soldiers.