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I slide my fingers through the narrow gap and pull the bookshelf toward me. It reluctantly budges a fraction of an inch at first but then gives way to my insistent tugging. The healing injury on my back protests. I ignore it. The journalistic curiosity that served me well in school wants to play after being locked away for so long.
Once the gap is wide enough for me to slip through, I duck my head inside, but the space is too dark to see anything. I already know the closet light doesn’t work, either because the bulb has burned out or because there’s an electrical issue.
I rush downstairs, grab my phone from the kitchen table, and race upstairs. I turn the phone flashlight on and crawl into the space behind the bookshelf. The hardwood floor is dusty, and there are cobwebs in the corners. But other than that and a cardboard box, the space is empty. There’s not even a single magazine in here.
I shine the light around the area. The ceiling appears to be the same height as in the closet and the bedroom. A single mattress could fit in here, but not much else. And the door can be shut from the inside with the handle that’s attached to the back of it.
I open the flaps on the box and shine the light inside. The bright beam glints off a bronze cross. Some sort of medal? It’s sitting on top of what looks like a pile of journals.
I take the medal out and inspect it. A female head is engraved in the round center, but I can’t quite make out the words. The second word isFrançaise. Two swords intersect behind the cross, which is attached to a red-and-green-striped ribbon. It’s an old medal but nothing I recognize.
I put it back in the box and push the box through the opening between the wall and the bookshelf. I stand, hoisting the heavy box up. The healing injury protests again, but it’s outvoted. Journalistic curiosity for the win. It hums through my body like electrical currents during a storm.
I carry the box to the bed and lower it onto the mattress. I remove the medal and put it on the bed. Next, I take out a delicate chain, the clasp broken. A small gold heart dangles from the chain, intricate leaf patterns etched in the tarnished metal. An heirloom?
I set it down next to the medal. Once Anne and Dan return from their European vacation, I’ll call her and tell her what I found.
I wipe the first journal clean with my sweater and open the cover to the first page. The only things on it are the faded handwritten words:
Angelique D’Aboville
Book One
I turn the page to find the elegant if not shaky penmanship of whoever wrote in the journals. I read the first lines. Surprise and intrigue widen my eyes.
The curiosity humming in me has me practically running downstairs carrying the journal. I make myself comfy on the couch and begin reading…
14
ANGELIQUE
April 1943
France
The Parisian sidewalk is busy,but it’s not as busy as I would prefer.
Before the Nazis invaded France, these streets were vibrant with life. Now, I’m wearing a drab dress and drab coat, and my dark-blond hair is tied back under a beige fedora. To the individuals who do not know otherwise, I’m just another Parisian trying to be inconspicuous, trying to survive under the stench of oppression.
The chilly April breeze nips at my bare legs, reminding me of one of the inconveniences brought on by the war. But the lack of available stockings is minor compared to the constant fear and hunger that plagues France. Plagues this country unless you are one ofthem.
I keep the speed of my footsteps slow enough not to gain attention, yet I’m light on my feet, ready to run if need be. My gaze is trained ahead of me, but I’m still aware of my surroundings. The cough behind my back, smothered with a hand. The rumbling of an engine, belonging to one of them, no doubt. The murmur of quiet conversation, paranoia buried in the words. The two German soldiers on the corner of the street, watching, waiting.
Their presence sends my heart thumping faster and louder than a round of ammo from an MG 42.
I push past the never-ending fear and glance to the fourth floor of the building ahead of me. The fourth floor and the second-to-last window on the left.
A white vase sits on the right side of the windowsill. The lace curtains are closed, but I catch their slight movement as though a light breeze has ruffled them.
I enter the building. My heartbeat seems to echo off the dingy walls and stone stairs. The foyer is dim and empty and silent. A few light bulbs have burned out since the last time I was here.
I listen for footsteps or voices on the spiral staircase. There’s nothing, nothing but quiet. No fearsome pounding on a door, no dreaded shouts from the French Milice or German Gestapo.
I climb the stairs, heedful of the sounds and smells around me. My soles are almost soundless on the polished steps.
On the top floor, I walk along the hallway and knock on the last door on the left. The rapping is quiet so not to draw the attention of anyone in the building other than my “cousin” and his wife. You never know who might be a collaborator. You never know who might be willing to sell their soul to gain a reward, to gain favour with the Gestapo.
The door opens, and I’m met by a pair of cautious blue eyes set in a pretty face.
