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There was a picture of a blond officer smiling as he shook hands with the owner of a bakery, a stocky man with haunted black eyes. The caption said, ‘“Bread is a cornerstone of French culture and so our bakeries need to be kept open. We must restore Paris as the centre of French culture, and we will do that by keeping businesses like these flourishing,” says Otto Busch, the new cultural liaison officer for Paris.’
She forgot to breathe.
It was him.
He was here in France.
And he was smiling.
She sat in the dark, consumed with rage. She shed hot, angry tears but they brought no release.
Otto Busch was thriving. He dared to speak of French culture. French culture was rooted in liberty, equality and fraternity, not bread.
It was like he was mocking them. It was too much.
The man who had snuffed out her husband’s life like a candle had suffered no consequences for his actions. She stared at the paper and re-read the article once more. It said he had been promoted. Somehow, after all he’d done, he had been rewarded. She didn’t know how, but she vowed with every fibre of her being that she would find a way to change that.
Marianne gave Melodie Bonnier the keys to her restaurant. ‘I’ll be leaving for a while. If you can, keep it going.’
‘But I can’t cook, not like you,’ protested Melodie.
‘You can make soups and stews, that’s all anyone needs,’ she said, and then she showed her the secret place beneath the floorboards where she kept the pamphlets. ‘Tomorrow two young girls will come for these.’
‘Marianne?’ breathed Melodie, staring at them in shock.
‘Can I trust you to give them to them?’
Melodie sucked air into her cheeks, clutched her chest and nodded. ‘Of course. I owe you everything, madame.’
‘Keep safe,’ said Marianne giving the young mother a hug before she left.
She took Marguerite to Sister Augustine next, having packed a large suitcase for her.
‘I need you to look after her for me, until I can come fetch her.’
‘That’s fine – when do you think you’ll be back?’ asked the sister.
‘I don’t know. It might be a few months.’
Sister Augustine gasped, ‘Months?’
‘Yes.’
‘But then why won’t you take Marguerite?’
‘Because it might not be safe. Things are getting worse by the day for Jewish children. I don’t know how far they plan to go but I need to know she is in good hands, hidden if necessary.’
Sister Augustine wasn’t blind to what was happening. She too had heard the stories. There were lots of Jewish people who were trying to leave the country to escape. ‘I will. I promise. But where are you going – is it safe for you?’
‘Paris.’
Sister Augustine’s eyes widened. ‘What?’
For a moment Marianne hesitated, unsure if she should show her. But then she took out the newspaper that Sebastien Bastille had given her. ‘I found him, Sister. I found Otto Busch.’
