The next night’s broadcast also ends without the words.
And the next night.
And the next.
By May 30, Lavi is in a state. They all are, stuck in limbo, waiting for invasion. The weather has been awful—rain and wind every day. Estelle has been holding off on her trip to Chambon. Sophie hasn’t worked on a contact at Fresnes. They’re getting short-tempered with one another. They look at Virginia with side-glances. After another silent breakfast over stale bread and the last of Virginia’s English tea, Lavi pushes back from the table, and throws his napkin on his plate.
“I can’t stand this any longer.”
“Darling, please,” says Mimi.
“I’m leaving.”
“Don’t go,” says Mimi.
“This is torture,” he says, staring at Virginia like a bull in a pen. “Sipping British tea in luxury, while my men live like animals.”
I’m as disappointed as you are, Virginia wants to say, but deep down she knows that can’t be true. Her position as an American is different from theirs. Her sorrows can’t compare. She shouldn’t have shared HQ’s message. Her own dashed hope is pressure enough. The added weight of theirs is crushing.
“At least come back at night,” Mimi says. “We all have to listen together.”
“I won’t make any promises.”
“Your men don’t need you until the invasion.”
“If there is one!” he shouts.
Sensing the roof about to blow, Sophie takes the boy out to the goat stalls.
“I at least need to be there to talk the men out of what they want to do,” Lavi continues. “They want to start with sabotage now. I’ve been holding them off, but I might not any longer.”
“That would be suicide,” says Virginia.
She stands and crosses the room to the window, staring out at the rain.
“Really?” he says.
He strides over to her. She turns to him, meeting his stare.
“You know what’s suicide?” he says. “Suicide is sitting in the woods rotting, while visions of Nazis sleeping in your beds, and eating your food in your kitchens, and raping your daughters, and killing your brothers assault you.”
“Stop!” says Mimi, crossing the room and grasping Lavi’s arm.
“We sit there with cold weapons in pits,” he continues. “Every day three trains travel on the line to the north, and do you know what’s on them? Our friends. Our neighbors. Our brothers being shipped to who knows where, while we sit here on a pile of explosives that could stop them. Think about it. If you knew Louis was traveling tomorrow, wouldn’t you want to blow up the line that would stop them?”
“Don’t put it that way, Lavi,” says Virginia. “Don’t dare act like I wouldn’t strap a bundle of dynamite to myself to stop them from taking Louis. Until the Allies land, there’s no distraction from reprisals. You sabotage now, the boches will have time to hunt and kill you. And your family. If you want to change the momentum of this war, you have to wait until you have the support you need, until you can join the light of your torch with the flames of armies.”
“What armies? Where are they? They aren’t coming!”
“You’re wrong,” says Virginia. “And if you die before that day, you won’t be here to enjoy blowing the Nazis back to hell with us.”
Lavi breathes heavily. After a moment, he leaves them, slamming the door on his way out.
“I’m sorry for his outburst,” says Mimi.
“Don’t be. I have to give myself that speech a dozen times a day.”
“Do you think he’ll come back tonight?” says Estelle.
“It’s hard to say,” says Mimi. “I don’t have to tell you how stubborn he is.”
Exasperated, Mimi leaves them to find her son and Sophie.
“Will you be all right if I go for the night?” says Estelle. “I need to get my ghosts on their way.”
“Of course,” says Virginia. “I’ll look after your father.”
“Thank you.”
“I should never have shared what HQ said. I’ve made this worse.”
“No,” says Estelle. “We’d be in this place either way.”
“You’re kind to say so.”
“When I come back, I’ll have a contact for you.”
“Good.”
Her friend pulls on her coat and wraps her head in a black covering, giving her the appearance of a nun. The image of Virginia’s friend, the sister from Lyon, comes to mind. Estelle suddenly looks very small and defeated. Vulnerable. A terrible feeling rises in Virginia.
“Be careful,” she says.
“Always.”
Virginia stays to clean up after breakfast. From the kitchen window, a movement catches her eye. It’s Estelle, leaving the house with her suitcase, crossing the field to the barn. Her form grows smaller and smaller until the rain and fog erase her.
Lavi doesn’t return that night.
The broadcast has no violins.
Sophie leaves the next day.
In between sitting with Estelle’s father and her farm chores, Virginia watches the lane, desperate for Estelle’s return.
Morning becomes afternoon. Afternoon rushes terribly toward evening. The rain continues.
“She will come back today, oui?” says Estelle’s father. Virginia plumps his pillows and helps him resettle in the large bed.
“I think so. She said one night,” says Virginia, working to keep her voice light.
“Good. So, anytime now. I’m so afraid for her when she travels.”
“Estelle is strong and capable. I have confidence in her.”
A lie. War consumes the strong and capable every day.
After she finishes helping him with his soup, Virginia pours him a small glass of port and leaves him to take her supper with Mimi and her son. They silently agree the dining room is too large—too much a reminder of all those not at the table—and choose to eat in the kitchen. All they can hear is the rain pelting the windows, and the clinks of their spoons on their bowls. Even the boy—normally an unflappable chatterbox—is quiet. They all strain their ears, praying to hear the door open and close, but it doesn’t. By the time they’ve finished eating and cleaning, night has fallen.
“The weather probably keeps them away,” says Mimi.
The boy smiles, accepting his mother’s words without question. Virginia wants to do the same, but the truth is, she’s already trying to process what will happen if Estelle never returns. She’s trying to imagine what that possibility means to this household, to her mission, and to herself. If she plans for the worst, she’ll be able to carry on. That’s what she tells herself.
Radio reception is poor that night. The broadcast, short. Do they imagine tension in the voice of the announcer? Do they miss notice of the violins of autumn?
When the program concludes, Mimi and her son leave Virginia in silence to stow the radio away and see to Estelle’s father. He sits at the window in his wheelchair, holding his gun, refusing to go to bed.
“I’ll watch for her,” he says.
“Monsieur,” says Virginia, “Estelle would want you warm in bed. She can take care of herself. She’ll be home tomorrow.”
“She said she’d be home today. She has never not come when she said she would.”
“The weather is bad.”
“Then she’ll be cold when she arrives. I’ll stay up for her and keep the fire going.”
It’s clear he won’t listen to her. She brings him a blanket, lays it across his lap, and walks to the door. Before heading for the garret, she turns back and looks at him. He’s so small and frail against the large window. She won’t be able to sleep while he stays up all night struggling to add logs to the fire. With a sigh, she returns to the room and closes the door. She pulls a chair to sit with him at the window, keeping watch.
The worst thing about staying up all night is the torment of old memories from which one cannot awaken. All the worries and regrets and guilt she’s able to suppress in the industrious hours of daylight grow from the night’s shadows, overwhelming her with their darkness.
It’s as if she’s back at the doctor’s office in Lyon, when she’d agreed to meet the betrayer to give him funding for the Paris circuit. In spite of HQ continuing to insist his checks were good, all her instincts were on alert.
“Louis said there were a slew of agent arrests in Paris,” she’d said. “I think this man is a traitor.”
“But HQ . . .” said the doctor.
“I know. But my gut tells me otherwise. And he keeps asking for me directly. I don’t think I should be here for the meeting. I wish you weren’t involved.”
“I’m fine. But he’ll be here any minute. You’ll have to hide. I’ll make up a lie.”
“All right. Be sure to ask him about the Paris circuit. If he doesn’t tell you about the arrests, we can be almost certain he’s the rat.”
They could hear the housekeeper open the door, and the tones of a male voice. Virginia ducked into the closet in the study just in time. Through the crack in the door, Virginia saw the betrayer’s blue eyes and white, pasty skin as he entered. He blotted his sweating face with a handkerchief and peered around the room. His eyes found the dark space she inhabited, so she slid back, careful not to make a sound.
“The doctor sent me,” he’d said, smooth and polite.
“It has been a long time,” the doctor replied. “Come, sit.”
“I thought Marie would be joining us?”
The man’s piercing gaze returned to the closet where she stood, making it difficult for her to breathe. She hadn’t had a reaction like that to someone in a long time.
“Not today,” the doctor said.
“I didn’t expect this,” the man said. “I came a long way, and I don’t know when I can return.”
“She was needed elsewhere. Urgently so.”
There was a quietly concealed fury in the man. Though he looked smooth and unruffled, his blazing eyes were lit with blue-white heat.
“How are the Paris circuits operating?” said the doctor.
Virginia held her breath, waiting for the man’s reply.
“Well, in spite of constant danger.”
Upon hearing the lie, Virginia began to tremble. She clenched her hands into fists, trying to contain her fury.
“But the money will help tremendously,” the man continued. “It’s hard to say how long they can hold up under such intense pressure.”
The doctor stood abruptly.
“Come back next week,” he said, with a strain in his voice. “I’ll see what can be done by then.”
“Thank you,” the man said, feigning humble acceptance. “And please, ask Marie to be here then. I have specific questions I need to ask her.”
The early-morning knock pulls Virginia out of her memory.
Disoriented, heart pounding, she stands to open the door. Mimi steps into the room.
“Is she back?” asks Mimi.
Virginia shakes her head no.
“Lavi?” Virginia asks.
It’s Mimi’s turn to shake her head.
June 1. It’s June, and the Allies haven’t come.
“I’m taking the boy to Lavi today,” says Mimi. “I’ll tell him what’s going on and try to persuade him to come back tonight.”
Virginia nods, and watches them go. In truth, she’s grateful. She needs the space and quiet to make plans.
After leaving Estelle’s father—still at the window—with a tray of toast and a cup of café nationale, she pulls on her coat and boots, and heads outside for her chores. When she arrives at the goat stalls, the new babies suckle their mother. They’ve grown so much in the short time since their birth. How does the world keep spinning? She cleans out the pens, refills their food and water, and milks the goats that need it. After storing the milk in the larder, she heads to the barn. Estelle doesn’t like her going, but Estelle might not be coming back. She needs to know if anyone is there.
The beauty of the June morning is balm to her weary soul. Mist rises and burns off in the welcome sun. The vines and flowers are rich in color—jewels glittering in the dew—their sweet fragrance perfuming the air.
The sacrament of the present moment.
The phrase comes to her mind. The nun from Lyon had told Virginia about a work by that name, written hundreds of years ago by a priest. When Virginia was becoming overwhelmed by her tasks and fears, the nun consoled her with this idea of how sacred each moment of a life truly is if we view it with purpose, with love, with gratitude and mindfulness. Children understand the idea intuitively. Adults forget. The past and future are the devil’s playground—the place he can torture us with regret and anxiety. The present is rarely a place of suffering.
Until it is.
Then we rise up to meet it or we fall.
When Virginia arrives at the barn, she knocks four times, peeks in her head, and says, “Where did I leave my milking stool?”
After mourning doves flutter and resettle in the rafters, only silence remains. She pushes open the creaky door the rest of the way and peers up to the loft. She walks in, gazing around her, noting the stove, the swept floor, the water pitcher, a milking stool. She finds a ladder, lays it against the loft, and climbs.
There’s no one there.
She returns the ladder to its place, and sets out on a long walk, seeking a new drop field. Carrying on. Finding the sacrament of the present moment. By the time she returns to the house, it’s midday.
Estelle’s father is still in the window. His toast is stale. His coffee is cold. She takes the tray away, forcing down what the old man didn’t touch so it isn’t wasted. She brings him cheese, grapes, and water. He doesn’t eat that, either.
“Monsieur, let me help you to the bathroom,” she says.
He shakes his head.
“Let me help you to bed. You need rest.”
He doesn’t reply.
Virginia watches the sun make its progress through the blue all day. Evening brings quiet birdsong and lavender skies, and rising fear. Estelle still hasn’t returned.
Lavi’s arrival brings a wave of joy. When he comes in the room, they don’t speak—words would break them—but Lavi wraps Virginia in a warm hug of apology and consolation that threatens to undo her.
Sophie arrives next. After hugs and greetings, she holds up her hand, now bare of the small silver engagement ring Louis put on it.
“I’ve found a contact at Fresnes,” she says, her voice wavering. “Louis is alive. Weak, but still going. I gave the guard the ring and told him to tell Louis he can put it back on my hand when we’re reunited.”
Sophie is no longer able to hold back her crying. Mimi takes her in her arms, while Virginia rubs her back. She needs to find a way to persuade this girl to go back to London.
When the eight o’clock hour arrives, the sad, incomplete group makes the slow climb to Estelle’s father’s bedroom, where he still sits at the window. While Virginia and Lavi set up the radio, Estelle’s father makes a wheezing sound. Virginia rushes to him. He gasps and clutches at his heart.
“What is it?” Virginia says, grasping his shoulders. “Are you all right?”
His eyes are glassy with tears. A sudden cry erupts from him. He points out the window. She turns to look.
“Estelle!”
They all cheer while Virginia hurries out of the room and down the stairs as quickly as she’s able to meet her friend. When she bursts through the door, they rush to each other, embracing, laughing, talking over one another. They hurry up the stairs, and Estelle crosses the room to her father, knocking into him with her embrace.
The boy has to hush them for the broadcast. Lavi makes a waving motion at the radio as if it doesn’t matter while Estelle tells them what happened.
“There was a convoy that held up the train. I was stuck in Chambon for the extra night with no way to get word to you. I’m so sorry for the worry I’ve caused.”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Virginia.
“All that matters is that you’re here,” says her father.
“But the delay was good,” says Estelle. “I have a contact for you, Diane. More than one. There are hundreds of Maquis, in formation, ready for orders. But they have nothing.”
“Hush!” says the boy. “Personal messages are starting!”
They all grow quiet and huddle around the radio.
“Are you listening?” the announcer says. “Please, listen for personal messages.”
The silence around them is rich and dark, like a fertile, well-composted soil. It’s in this seasoned garden that the words drop like seeds one at a time and bring forth such sweetness, such a harvest of joy and hope, the likes of which each of them has never before experienced.
Finally—now—the night of June 1, 1944, they hear the words for which they’ve been longing. From London to France. Over the airwaves. The beginning of the end.
Les sanglots longs des violons de l’automne.
The long sobs of the violins of autumn.