The biscuit tin Louis brought contained a treasure: a new thirty-hour battery Virginia desperately needed for her B2. HQ is pleased with the number of Maquis in the region, and promises more supplies on the next drop, which—weather permitting—will be best if it’s done in a week and a half, during the next full moon. If Virginia lasts until then, she’ll have survived more than six weeks in France. She hardly dares to imagine it and the morale boost that will follow.
Now that two regions have supplies, and Lavi’s Maquis are partially armed, each night she listens to the BBC, hoping for the words—the violins of autumn. She holds her breath over and over, but still, she’s unsatisfied. When will D-Day come?
The high from the first drop is short-lived, and the men are again growing restless. They’re less enthusiastic now when Virginia visits. They argue and fight among themselves. They miss their loved ones. Hiding is a prison unlike any other. It’s preferable to forced labor in German camps, but it’s its own kind of hell, especially when many don’t have contact with their families. It’s safer if their women and children don’t know where they are.
We need more weapons, they say. When can we wire the railways? When can we kill Nazis?
Wait, she tells them. If you do it now, you’ll only bring hell on innocent people. If the Nazis aren’t occupied fighting the Allies, they’ll occupy themselves with revenge.
Virginia passes on a few of the more egregious reprisal stories—including the fates of the three musketeers—to deter the men from acting on their anger, but that will hold them back for only so long. Lavi tries to defuse the tension, but the chorus of their voices is louder than his. It’s at her ear when she leaves them. It plagues her through the nights. It stabs deeper every time the poem isn’t said over the broadcast.
Tension also boils with Sophie. Virginia wasn’t able to unload on Sophie when she’d reprimanded Louis, so she’s constantly doing so in her mind. She’s aggravated to see Sophie is once again adorned with her red lipstick and styled hair, but refuses to remind her of such dangers any longer. If they had more time, she’d find another courier, but they don’t. Deep down Virginia knows what really bothers her about the young woman is how much she reminds Virginia of herself before the war losses. In fact, Virginia is disgusted to realize she could be her own mother chastising her young self for falling so hard and so quickly for Emil.
One rainy morning, when the boy is at school and Mimi is at the market, Sophie brings news. Virginia lets her in and returns to her place at the dining table, where she works out coordinates on maps of the surrounding areas for the next drop.
“We were in Paris on Tuesday,” says Sophie, “so I was able to connect with Aramis.”
“‘We?’” Virginia says, looking up at Sophie.
So, she and Louis do continue to see each other. At least they’re not meeting in Cosne, but it still stokes the fire of Virginia’s anger.
Sophie blanches from the slip, and quickly sidesteps the question.
“Aside from a near miss with the Milice, Aramis is well established. He has three new safe houses, two of which are occupied by Allied airmen on escape.”
“Let me guess. You wrote them down?”
“No,” says Sophie. “I would never do anything so foolish.”
Her voice trails off, and the word and its implication sit between them. Sophie looks away, and a tense, heavy silence falls. After a few minutes, Sophie clears her throat.
“When you’re ready, I’ll tell you,” Sophie says.
Virginia sighs with impatience and grabs a piece of paper. She has developed a shorthand and will hide the note in the fireplace until her next transmission. Sophie recites the addresses and code phrases while Virginia scribbles.
“Aramis wanted me to apologize to you on his behalf,” Sophie says quietly. “He realizes coming in place of a courier put you and your hosts in unnecessary danger.”
“Anything else?” Virginia says.
Sophie continues to stand before her, eyes wide. She knows Sophie is trying to build a bridge, but frankly Virginia’s in no mood, especially because she has no doubt Sophie will continue to see Louis against her advice.
“Is that all?” Virginia says.
Sophie’s shoulders fall. She pulls on her kerchief to prepare to leave, but when her hand is on the doorknob, she turns back to Virginia. It seems to take her great courage to muster her words.
“You know, Diane. All of us—we aren’t the enemy. Does it help you to be so angry all the time? So cold?”
Virginia feels her temperature rising. This girl needs to leave.
“Even Louis says you’re different,” Sophie continues. “He says you aren’t the same woman he used to know.”
Virginia flinches. That hurts, especially because—in spite of his nightmares—Louis’s personality hasn’t changed. He’s the same bright young man with the same joie de vivre, yet she’s as old and hollow as the identity she has taken. Regardless, Sophie needs to respect Virginia’s authority.
“What do you want from me?” Virginia asks.
“Kindness,” Sophie says. “And maybe a bit of gratitude or praise.”
“Why do you seek my approval?”
“It isn’t about approval. It’s about simple human courtesy.”
“Really? Well, you know what I value? Discretion. A lack of excitability. Extreme care for the lives and safety of those who harbor agents like us.”
“I care about all those things.”
Unable to contain herself any longer, Virginia slams her fist on the dining table.
“You don’t!”
Virginia feels outside herself, watching, like an angel on one shoulder losing to the devil on the other. She knows her anger indulges a darkness that shouldn’t be given release, but she’s so tired, so tightly wound, so frustrated that she has no more control over her own temper than she has over the woman in front of her, she can’t help it.
“You parade around war zones like a schoolgirl on her way to meet her sweetheart on holiday,” Virginia says. “You gossip about me with other agents. You meet with Louis, endangering all of us over and over again. You have no self-control. No discipline.”
“No discipline? How dare you—you’ve no idea what I go without to travel all hours of the day and night. The danger I put myself in. The sleep I lose to keep you connected.”
“You aren’t special. That’s all of us. But all of us aren’t indulging in wartime romances while men atrophy in the woods, alone, like caged animals.”
At that, Sophie at least has the decency to look guilty. She turns her gaze to her feet. Virginia steps toward her.
“A ten-year-old boy and his mother—the nephew and sister of your fiancé—live in this house,” says Virginia. “Do you know what the Gestapo do to those who harbor resistors?”
Sophie begins to cry.
“Do you know what the Gestapo do to women?” Virginia continues, unable to stop herself. “They torture and rape them for sport. My own contact, a prostitute, suffered in such a way. One of her girls had a bottle shoved in her mouth until her face split open around it. Do you know why?”
Virginia grabs Sophie by the arms. The girl sobs.
“Do you know why?” Virginia says. “Because she had been spying on her Nazi clients and feeding me information on them, and she wouldn’t tell them where I was.”
Sick, Virginia drops Sophie’s arms and walks away from her. Virginia presses her fists to her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” says Sophie, reaching for Virginia.
Virginia slaps Sophie’s arm away from her.
“Get out,” Virginia says. “Now.”
She hears Sophie’s ragged breathing. After a moment, the door opens, allowing in the aroma of rain and a rush of wind before quietly closing. Virginia staggers to the dining table. She leans on it, watching Sophie—shoulders slumped—pedal away in the rain. With a groan, Virginia sweeps the maps to the floor.
“Diane.”
She turns to see Mimi in the doorway. Overcome with shame and remorse, Virginia buries her face in her hands. Her friend walks to her and pulls her into her arms.
In the low light of the lantern, while they wait for the night’s broadcast, they share the wine Mimi pulled from her secret stash. The women take turns swigging from the bottle.
“Tell me about your friend,” Mimi says. “The prostitute from Lyon.”
When the bottle comes to Virginia, she looks at it and pauses. Simultaneously, a pain like a spike and the memory of the girl’s torn face go through her head. She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a long drink.
“I don’t know if I can,” she says.
“What comes to mind? Anything. How about this? Is she alive?”
“I don’t know. Word is she’s at a work camp for women in the Resistance. Ravensbrück.”
Mimi shivers.
Virginia recalls the day she met her friend, the head of a Lyon brothel. Édith Piaf was playing on the gramophone. Silks and paintings hung on the walls. Real coffee with cream and sugar was served. Virginia had thought the woman was a society wife. How surprised she’d been to learn the truth.
“Do you know who was one of our closest allies in Lyon?” Virginia continues, feeling something loosen inside her.
“Who?” says Mimi.
“A nun.”
Mimi laughs. “Now, that doesn’t surprise me. We’re all women, after all.”
Virginia feels good speaking about her people. It lightens the weight of carrying them with her.
“The prostitute told me, ‘In war we are the same,’” Virginia continues. “She thought I’d be offended, but I knew she spoke the truth. We both create illusion. We both aim to do a little good in bad situations.”
“Isn’t that the goal for all of us? Mothers and fathers. Nuns and prostitutes.”
“But is it for nothing? The bad seems so much stronger than the good these days.”
“Of course it’s worth it. If there were one innocent man or woman on earth, it would be worth it to protect that goodness. It’s all the Lord asks of each of us. Each day. Each hour. Each minute. Do the next good thing.”
Virginia ponders that while thinking of Sophie. She was so hard on her. She must remember that she can’t be as hard on others as she is on herself. She’s had years to build up her armor. Others might not have had to do so.
The broadcast runs on, but it ends without the poem.
Mimi takes the last swig of the bottle.
“I have a confession to make,” Mimi says.
“I thought I was the sinner here.”
“We’re all sinners,” Mimi says. “So here goes: While I’m eager to hear the poem, I also dread it.”
“Why dread D-Day? It’s the beginning of the end.”
“Because it will get worse before it gets better,” says Mimi. “If it gets better. And then, even if it ends, think of all the people emerging from the rubble. Think of the women and children. All the empty places at dinner tables. The resentments between those who collaborated and those who resisted. The remorse for the things we’ve done that we thought were justified by the ends. We will all be called to account.”