Evette Touny crept up the staircase leading to the upper floor of her late father’s home. She walked along the edge of each step because the middle was more likely to creak and stepped with the outside of her foot first, slowly rolling inward in the hope that her half brother wouldn’t hear her as he read the newspaper downstairs.
All she needed was five minutes. Five minutes alone in the room she had shared with her mother since the day they’d heard her father was dead and Gaspard had taken the downstairs bedroom for himself. After she gathered her clothes and collected her letters, she could leave.
Her brother Emile’s words crossed her mind. Never accept money from strange men; they always expect something in return. But the soldier she’d met yesterday hadn’t demanded anything in exchange, had even ignored her lie about the bruises. No stranger had ever been so kind to her, and she hadn’t even said thank you. She should have become his marraine de guerre, joining other Frenchwomen in adopting a soldier and sending him letters, woolen socks, and extra food parcels. At the very least, she should have asked his name. Or did the man have a wife? Evette scowled. But why should the thought of him married to another woman make her feel so twisted up inside? She should be happy for him. Someone who possessed kindness in such abundance, to say nothing of his warm brown eyes and pleasant smile, surely deserved a blissful marriage.
Evette took her letters from a scratched wooden chest in the bedroom and paused. If she left, she would miss some of her brother’s letters. But Emile would understand. Even though Gaspard had never raised a hand against Emile—their half brother preferred to pick on people who couldn’t fight back—Emile had seen the bruises during his last leave and guessed where they had come from. With the money from Emile and the gift from the handsome stranger, Evette would have enough to leave. As long as she found a job within a week or two and managed her funds wisely when it came to lodging and food, she would make it. At least she hoped she would. Food might be more expensive in Paris.
She banished her doubts. The village was small enough that a train only stopped once a day, and she hadn’t been able to make yesterday’s departure with the kind poilu. Sufficient money or not, she was leaving today.
Evette gathered and folded her extra stockings, underthings, blouses, and skirts. Everything fit easily into a potato sack. She tucked her letters and her money into the bag and tiptoed from the room. Once downstairs, she went into the kitchen and added herbs to the soup, hoping the aroma would entice Gaspard to eat before he pursued her. Even if he wasn’t hungry, he wouldn’t begin his search at the train station. He’d probably assume she was working in the field as usual. If he did look for her, he would start at her sister Veronique’s house.
She was about to leave when she heard the familiar step-drag of his walk coming from the hallway. His left foot had been mangled in an accident several years before. The French Army was not yet desperate enough to call up crippled reserves, so he always exaggerated his limp while in public. His footsteps sounded different over the smooth wooden floor, not as dramatic as over paving stones, but they filled her with terror all the same. Gaspard had never been kind to his four younger half-siblings, but his resentment had festered after the accident, and Evette, the youngest by three years, seemed to receive the brunt of his frustrations.
Gaspard turned into the kitchen before Evette could escape out the door. He was a head and a half taller than her, and today his eyes brimmed with virile irritation. “What are you doing inside, you lazy girl? Stealing more food? You’re supposed to be weeding the south field.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do it now.”
He grabbed her arm and propelled her toward the door. She had to step quickly to keep from falling over, and the potato sack swung out in an arc. Gaspard focused on the bag. “What have you got in there?”
Evette felt her voice catch in her throat. If she told him the truth, he would beat her and take the money. She couldn’t escape without it, and she had no way of replacing it. “Some of my mother’s things. I was going to bring them to her. I’ll do the weeding first.”
“That old hag took enough with her when she left. You’ll not be pilfering anything else to her.” Gaspard jerked the bag from her grasp and shoved her away when she reached for it. He wasn’t interested in the clothing, but then his hands paused, and a frown etched itself onto his face. “You little thief!” He spat the words as he brought out her money. He flipped through it, counting the notes, then dropped the money and the bag to the floor. “You little thief! After all I’ve done for you, you’ve gone and stolen from me!”
“It’s from Emile, sir. He sent it to me. I promise I haven’t taken anything of yours.”
Gaspard struck her across the face, sending her to the ground. “You’re a thief and a liar. You’ll pay for this.” Next came a swift kick that landed in her ribs. A cry of pain escaped her lips. “I should throw you in prison for robbery, but the local gendarmerie is always a little soft when it comes to women. I’ll take care of this myself.” He swung his good leg at her again, and she scrambled across the floor to avoid it, only partially succeeding.
“Please, sir. Emile sent the money to me. I was going to leave. Then you won’t have to feed me anymore, and you can have the entire house to yourself.”
Gaspard’s pink face turned purple. He reached down and pulled her to her feet, then drove her shoulders into the wall. “You thought you would just leave, did you?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t want to be a burden anymore.”
He relaxed his grip on her for an instant before smashing her into the wall again. “You stupid idiot. You think I want to hire someone to cook for me? Hire someone to wash my clothes and tend my fields? You’re not going anywhere.” He punched her in the face, engulfing her head in pain. She probably would have fallen, but his other hand was clamped around her arm in a viselike grip, keeping her upright.
He pummeled her again with his fist, each blow building on the mounting pain. She’d long ago learned that Gaspard took satisfaction in making his victims whimper, so she didn’t attempt to stop her cries. “Please, Gaspard. Please stop. I’ve learned my lesson.” She could taste the pooling blood in her mouth.
Her half brother’s breathing came in deep gasps, and sweat tricked down his forehead. He paused long enough to stare at her.
“Please, Gaspard,” she whispered.
His grip on her arm relaxed, and she guessed he was finished. Then he saw the potato sack again and glared in anger. His hand moved to her hair, and he dragged her to the stove. “I’m just getting started, you ungrateful thief. You and your sisters have been nothing but trouble to me. Dishonorable, scandalous wenches, the lot of you.”
Evette didn’t argue, even though he was being unfair. Rosemonde had been dishonorable, had caused a scandal that had affected the entire family. But Veronique’s only crime was being born poor and marrying poor, and Evette had done nothing to sully Gaspard’s reputation.
But she wasn’t worried about his words, especially when he reached for the poker. He’d always used his hands and feet before. A metal stick took the ritual to an entirely new level of fear.
She glanced around the kitchen. She was smaller than Gaspard, but if she didn’t fight back, he would cause permanent damage. He’d once beaten her unconscious with far less provocation. The cauldron of soup hung over the fire. She swung the hook out, gripped the handle, and threw the simmering liquid onto him. It wasn’t until he yelped in pain that she felt the burning on her hands. She bashed the pot into his face. As he stumbled back, she scooped her money into her potato sack and ran.
She didn’t stop running until she could see the train station. She checked behind her, but either her half brother hadn’t chased her, or she’d outrun him. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped it across her face. The swollen spots were tender, but the cloth was still white when she examined it again, so she assumed her face wasn’t bleeding. An angry pink line marred the palms of her hands where the pot’s handle had burned them. They throbbed, and she knew it would cause her pain for several days, but it was a small price to pay for freedom—if she was really free.
After she’d caught her breath and smoothed her hair, she forced a normal pace to the station so as not to attract suspicion, but she was terrified. The station was crowded with military police and gendarmerie, and although they mainly scrutinized leave passes for the soldiers boarding the train, they could easily detain her. Gaspard might press charges. What would her punishment be for assaulting her legal guardian? She was sure he would have maimed her, possibly killed her, but if she told the authorities that, whom would they believe? An eighteen-year-old girl or a landowner who often shared drinks with the mayor? No one would believe a stranger had given her money, and Emile’s low rank couldn’t account for all her savings. Or would Gaspard come for her himself, wanting to keep his revenge private? That was perhaps the most frightening of the options.
Her hands trembled as she purchased her ticket, trembled as she clung to her potato sack and boarded the afternoon train, trembled as she found an empty seat. She sat near a window so she’d have warning if Gaspard or a gendarmerie came to chase her. It wasn’t until the train started moving that she felt the shaking begin to stop.
She was leaving her mother, sister, two nieces, and nephew. She could write them but wouldn’t be able to tell them where she lived lest Gaspard learn her new location from the postal workers. Her family would have to send news to her through Emile. She studied the burns on her hands again, thinking of Emile and the French soldier who had given her this bittersweet chance.
As her village disappeared from view, she wondered if she’d done the right thing. She had never stood up to Gaspard before, but right or wrong, she felt no regret for her actions, only uncertainty about whether they were justified. She finally concluded that sinful or not, she would do the same thing should similar circumstances arise. Never again would she meekly submit to a beating.