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PROVENCE, 1941
Every night that winter, before she put Marguerite to sleep, she read her daughter the stories of the strong Jewish women in the bible. Her favourite and the one that came to mean the most to Marianne was that of Miriam, who had seen such tragedy from Egyptian slavery and the death of so many children from the Pharaoh’s decree. Her father, Amram, despairing at the idea of rebuilding a nation after this and wanting to end the suffering of his people, leaves his wife, urging other men to do the same. Miriam tells him that his decision was worse than Pharaoh’s as it affects not just this life but the next and she convinces him to look past the here and now and to the future.
‘We will be like Miriam, my child, looking to the future, to a world beyond this one. A future that is bright,’ she promised, as the seed of bitterness at what the Nazis were trying to accomplish grew, along with her determination to do whatever she could to prevent it.
If the government were going to distribute pamphlets then so was she. Only hers were not going to be filled with hateful lies.
She had heard of a resistance operation, in Gourdes, one of the bigger towns not far from her, and she set out to join.
The only person she told was Sister Augustine, who tried at first to prevent her. They spoke in hushed voices in the abbey’s greenhouse, their regular springtime haunt. Their mugs of Earl Grey were left to grow cold.
The nun looked worried. ‘Think of your child, Marianne. This was meant to be a new start for her and you.’
‘I am, Sister – and this is how I will make sure she has a real start. I can’t just sit back and let this happen.’
‘You think that’s what everyone is doing?’
‘No, not everyone. But then perhaps I know more than some about what is at stake if we truly give in. I believe what they’re saying in these resistance cells to be true.’
‘Which is what?’
‘This war will be won from within, just as much as from the allies fighting across the borders. We all need to do our part. Jacques was forced in the end to live his life in secret. That decision to falsify his papers meant that even in death he was forced to carry on with a lie. I won’t have that for my daughter. Not if I can help it.’
Sister Augustine nodded. ‘There is a time for all things,’ she agreed, quoting the book of Ecclesiastes. ‘There is a time to be silent and a time to speak. A time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.’
Marianne nodded, adding, ‘A time to kill and a time to heal.’
Sister Marguerite sighed. ‘That too.’
In Gourdes, in the cellar of an abandoned restaurant that was filled with sofas and long tables full of pamphlets, Marianne was introduced to a visiting member who was part of a Paris resistance organisation; a handsome, wiry man with tanned skin, black eyes and hair, whose name was Sebastien Bastille. He walked with a slight limp, which later revealed itself to be caused by a prosthetic leg. He lifted up his trouser leg to show her: ‘They thought they could keep me out of the war, because of this, but no one can stop me now,’ he said with a grin, holding out a hand and shaking hers.
She smiled in return.
‘My uncle Fabrice lives in Gourdes, so I’m here for a few weeks,’ he explained. Fabrice was the leader of their particular chapter.
‘What’s it like in Paris?’ asked Marianne.
They took a seat on one of the sofas while he smoked a cigarette.
He sighed, ‘Worse than you can imagine. Crawling with Nazis, everywhere. They think they are there on bloody holiday, attending theatres and restaurants with great big smiles on their faces—’
Marianne gasped. ‘The restaurants all serve them?’
He looked at her. ‘Who else could afford to go? The owner still has to make a living.’ She frowned, and he continued. ‘It’s easier for the French to keep up the pretence. But it’s hard, people are practically starving, it’s a city of women, children and the old – they were left to fend for themselves – the rations are even worse there than down here.’
Marianne clenched her jaw. ‘While the Germans have the time of their lives.’
He stared at the hatred in her eyes, and nodded.
‘Here,’ he said, reaching into a leather bag at his side. ‘Take a look at this – we get a local paper, it comes out daily in German. Then there’s a weekly one translated in French for the rest of us chumps.’
Marianne took the copy of Pariser Zeitung from him, and began to read the stories in some fascination. Sebastien was called to discuss something with Fabrice, and she turned to give him back the paper. ‘Keep it,’ he told her.
‘Thanks,’ she said, folding it and placing it in her own satchel, as she was called by another member to collect that week’s supply of resistance material. She filled her satchel with the stack of pamphlets and then made her way out of the building, collected her bicycle and rode home. Later, two girls from the village would circulate the pamphlets, fetching them from Marianne at the restaurant, which had become a key distribution centre for the area.
That night while baby Marguerite was asleep, she took out the newspaper Sebastien had given her, and began to read the articles, frowning as she discovered how saccharine it was, full of praise for the French for their wonderful collaboration efforts. Each piece was designed to highlight this. Then, on the second page, she came across an article that made her blood turn cold.
At first it was a seemingly innocuous story about the appointment of a new cultural liaison officer in Paris, whose job it was to ensure that cultural centres and Parisian businesses were kept operational.
