APRIL 9, 1944
LA ROCHE-GUYON
GIVERNY, FRANCE
Heavy oak doors crashed in at the center, splintering wood across the basement floor.
Heavy bolts had locked the secretaries in the lowest level at Château de La Roche-Guyon, but the doors were shocked on their hinges as a horde of SS guards flooded into the warehouse-style room like a plague of wasps infecting the air.
“Aufstehen!”
Calls rang out, telling them to Get up! Get up!
Where there had only been the click-clack of typewriter keys, the room was flooded with heavy boot falls, shouts from guards with guns drawn, and frightened shrieks at the sudden intrusion. Women obeyed at once, front to back in the room, standing with their hands raised.
Vi had been sequestered in the wide basement room with the legion of other secretaries conscripted into the Nazi ranks. They were fed water and bread, and watery stews on occasion, and forced to work day and night, toiling over transmissions. They hadn’t a clue where the messages came from, nor where they were going. They simply changed French for German, or the other way around, and submitted bizarre missives that meant nothing to them at all.
And so she, too, had been absorbed in the yoke of terror since she’d been brought here months prior—most French women, but some German and probably another Brit or two hiding in the lot just like she was. To the SOE in London, she must have simply dropped off the face of the earth. For months, she’d not been able to send word of her whereabouts. But to the other forced laborers in the room, she was as alive as they—locked in an underground prison of work, with the prospects of survival darkening by the dreary second.
The sight of so many SS, tromping through the rows of desks and typewriters, grabbing women out of line with seemingly indiscriminate fervor, sent fresh waves of terror pinging through her body. With guns drawn and eyes cold as death, they chose their targets. Mercy would have no place among them, not when the wasps were ready to level stinging punishments for something. What had triggered the attack, they might never know—save for the outcome of it.
“Karine!” Clémence’s whisper was rough, immediate.
Vi turned around at the use of her false name to see she was being summoned by the friend behind her.
Clémence was a secretary too—older than Vi by some twenty years and downgraded from her former life as a mathematician at a Paris university to work in the doldrums of a château prison in northern France. She was wicked-clever, of course, or she wouldn’t have been counted among the women in the room. But instead of standing as the rest did, she’d ducked down at her desk, watching the activity over the top edge of her typewriter, all the while untying the string-thin laces on her heeled oxfords.
“Change shoes with me.”
Flitting her gaze between the woman furiously freeing her shoelaces and the advancing swarm of SS guards, Vi shook her head. How could she think of something so odd at a time like this?
The guards had done the same before. Women had been pulled from line weeks back, for no apparent reason then too, and never returned. Though they hadn’t seen the outside for months, the women all knew a walled courtyard couldn’t be far off. They’d heard the deafening pierce of gunshots fill the air outside, even from their basement hollow. It served as a warning that with their Nazi captors, there were not to be second chances.
“Clémence, what are you doing?” Vi whispered, keeping her head level to the activity in front of them. “They told us to—”
“We haven’t time to waste. Do it now, Karine. Give me your shoes before they reach our row.”
Clémence pulled the heels from her feet, passing them to Vi under the desk. She waited a second, watching the guards with an eagle eye. When Vi didn’t respond right away, she snapped her fingers. “Quickly, Karine!”
Vi responded, though flustered, and eased down to pull her T-strap heels free. She scrunched down under the desk to exchange them for Clémence’s—sturdy oxfords with a thick heel and rows of laces that locked the shoes up to the ankle. She’d have precious seconds to tug them on, but with fear manifesting itself in sweaty, shaky palms, doubted she’d be able to lace them.
“Listen to everything I say.” Clémence spoke through gritted teeth, keeping her eyes trained on the black boots that were but three rows in front of them. “Do not let those shoes out of your sight. No matter what happens, keep them on your feet. I pass this responsibility to you.”
“What? Why?” The SS drew near, scattering papers and files from desks, shouting at the women in their row to stand. “What’s happening?”
The swarm advanced, and Vi gave up on the laces or else be picked from line for remaining behind her desk. She stood behind the rest of the women and eased back from her desk with hands in the air.
Clémence leaned in behind Vi’s head, whispering in her ear. “There is a door at the end of the hall, marked Achtung—a sign warning danger of electrocution. Nod if you know which door I speak of.”
Vi knew it. All the women did. It was kept under guard by at least one SS guard at all times. They were marched by both morning and night, past the door and a hall that led somewhere deeper into the depths of their château prison. They never questioned it, just passed by on their way to see to their duties.
But now, the mystery portal took on an entirely new meaning.
Vi nodded in as slight a manner as she could.
“There is a five-minute window when the guard shift changes. Five minutes only, at the midnight hour. Maybe less, but never more than that amount of time.”
“How do you know this?”
“Shh!” Clémence grasped Vi’s shoulder from behind, a gentle tug drawing her back against the wall. “Listen only. There is a muslin pouch in the floorboard under my bed. In it is a small, leather-bound journal and a package of soap shavings. You will fall ill tonight. Foam at the mouth and make it convincing enough that they will take you to the hospital wing. The doctor will not see you until morning, but by then, you must be gone. Tie the journal to your thigh so it’s not discovered, and memorize the halls from our room to the hospital—how many guards, which doors have wires running to them, and which do not. You must make it back to that door without tripping their notice in the dark.”
Vi shuddered as a woman was grabbed from the row in front, guards pressing the cold metal of a barrel against the back of her skull as they shouted accusations and marched her toward the doors.
“You will contact the Baker Street Irregulars and give them the contents of your left heel.”
The cold reality of their situation washed over her, and Vi lifted her left foot, instinct feeling whatever was hidden there had grown like a stone out of thin air.
“There is a secret undertaking. A massive ruse operation to fool the Nazis into thinking an invasion is certain. The Allies are coming. Soon. But not when or where these heartless beasts expect. Your chaps in London have done their job with falsified chatter over the wires, and managed to hide what’s really coming.”
“How do you know this?”
“Hush—we haven’t time. A coded message will go out over the underground wire. When you hear Beethoven’s Fifth, you’ll know it’s time. Get to the Resistance. Stay there until you know the Allies have landed. Then, as soon as you can, find the boys from Baker Street and give them the contents of your heel.”
Never had Vi guessed Clémence was aware of 64 Baker Street.
Suddenly, she wished they had but a few precious moments to exchange stories, to look in each other’s eyes and know that what was happening could not be final. Was she an operative from the SOE, working in the same row as Vi for months and never saying anything? Sifting through the work of translating French to German and back took on new significance. It was more likely that Clémence had been battling to send secret transmissions from inside enemy lines, and Vi hadn’t known a thing about it.
But somehow, the SS did.
“What is it?” She swallowed hard. “What’s in my heel?”
“Proof—” Clémence stopped short, both of them jumping slightly when a guard shoved a typewriter on the ground with a great crack. She leaned in closer to Vi’s ear. “Rommel is plotting to assassinate the Führer.”
Vi’s breathing hollowed out. She lowered one of her arms and grasped the wall for support, digging her fingernails into cold stone behind her. “Then this is for you?”
“There are a few of us here, yes.”
“What have you done, Clémence?”
“Only what was required of me by God—for king and country. And now, the cup is passed to you.” Vi could hear the smile in the woman’s voice, defiance tingeing her every word. “Just promise me. You’ll get to that door tonight. You’ll go through it and no matter what happens, you’ll keep running after you do.” Clémence pulled Vi’s arm away from the wall, then squeezed her wrist and hand in solidarity. “Promise me this.”
Vi’s breaths swept in and out in a flurry. She trembled, turning for a last look at her friend, and nodded—once.
What audacity it was to think that at one time, Vi could judge courage. And character. And even faith, and that she could claim all three. That bravery owned a pedigree of fighting men in uniform, or survivors like her, who’d endured the worst of the Blitz and turned to run back into the fray. But that moment was one she knew she’d never forget, as the dauntless nature of courage took shape before her eyes, molding into the form of a woman she’d known for mere weeks, and now, the world was poised to lose altogether.
It cemented Vi’s resolve that not only would she make it to the door, but whatever lay beyond had better be prepared for a fight. The one thing she refused to do was fail in the eyes of the most courageous person she’d ever know.
“What’s on the other side of the door?”
“Make it through, and the rest of your life will be waiting. Live it for us.”
Clémence straightened, infusing her stance with iron as the SS came to their row, then tendered a gentle squeeze to Vi’s shoulder and finally let go.
JUNE 5, 1944
LES TROIS-MOUTIERS
LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
“Lady, come quick.”
Camille knelt over a crate, her deep-chocolate hair falling down to shield her face as she dug through. Vi hurried over from organizing the paint supplies to the back corner of the castle ruins’ grand ballroom, meeting her with an anxious heart.
“Whatever’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter.” Camille grinned, lifting a span of soft mint fabric from the depths of the wooden box. “Except I found this.”
“A dress? How in the world . . . ?” Vi ran her fingers over the bottom edge of the fabric as if it were made of spun gold. It was a mite wrinkled and not the most couture of cuts, but a dress of any kind was a luxury set aside for the likes of queens. It was something they never should have found buried in wares dropped from their friends across the Channel.
“Mounds of coats and trousers, and old work shirts, and someone slips this in. It must be fate.” She winked and tossed it in Vi’s arms. “Why don’t you try it? Looks like your color.”
Vi rolled her eyes, even though she held tight to the fabric in her arms. “What would I do with a dress? We have preparations to make. We have to get ammunition up to the cottage, make ready for when Victoria lands . . . take extra weapons through to the bunker. How in the world would I go tromping through the grove in a dress like this? And look at my shoes. Ruddy oxfords don’t exactly match the sash.”
“So go barefoot for a while. It’s warm enough.”
Camille was softhearted. Lovely and, Vi forgot sometimes, as young as she was. War had an odd way of making adults out of barely grown girls and boys. It was normal for a young woman to desire some frivolities, even given what they might be facing in mere hours. Of course she’d see merit in donning a lovely dress and living in the moment.
“Look, you’ve been wearing trousers for weeks and even I forgot you probably once owned a tube of lipstick.” Camille braced a hand on her hip and, in the other, raised the curious find of a camera. “You don’t want to look shabby for our photo album, do you?”
“You found a camera?”
“Uh-huh. And a roll of film.” She winked. “Now get a move on. We don’t have much time to get you ready. I’d like to document the look on Julien’s face when he sees you in that.”
Vi bit her bottom lip over a smile, then whisked away into the back of the ruins.
The turret surrounded her on all sides, a rounded semicircle of stairs that cut up for some six stories, with window cutouts rising to the top. She stopped in the shadows, shedding the old clothes in an instant, and pulling the delicate fabric up over her hips and shoulders. Mother-of-pearl buttons lined the front, and she tied the sash, nipping tight around the waist.
A sound startled her from behind—a slight scratching that sent her whirling—and her eyes met with the most curious sight.
A fox.
As if written from a fairy-tale world, he’d managed to climb up to a second-story window ledge and stretch out in the sun. He snoozed, swishing his black-tipped tail over the sill, brushing against the ivy that clung to the outer walls as if he cared not to have been seen. Clever and careful he was not.
“Lazy creature,” she scolded on a smile, and gathered her things.
But the cheek died away as fast as it had arrived. Theirs was not a castle in a fairy tale, and war didn’t promise happy endings. Odd that he’d chosen that very moment to bring whimsy to the world around her.
“Lady!” Camille’s voice drew her back.
“Coming,” Vi called over her shoulder, stirring the fox from its slumber.
The animal darted out of sight in a heartbeat, scurrying off beyond ivy-tipped walls.
“You’ll want to find a place to hide, little friend.” Vi sighed, ducking back into the depths of the castle. “Before tomorrow, that is. Hide in your grove, and wait it out. Help is coming soon.”
Vi told herself it was foolish to have pinned her hair in rolls at her temples, when it was only long enough to tip her chin. A girlish folly. Oh, but what she wouldn’t have given for a tube of lipstick, like Camille had mentioned. Or dainty heels and a flashy new hat to tip down over her brow in a coy show of confidence. But it didn’t matter now.
The team had gathered along the stone wall behind the castle, all except the still-elusive Elder, who was readying the men deep in the heart of the woods. And though Brig was making final preparations on her explosives under the bridge, even she’d emerged to share a ration meal with the others.
Vi took a deep breath and stepped out, oxfords in hand, the feel of the stones cold against her bare feet as she walked down the castle’s front steps. Julien must have found the gramophone; music lilted up to touch the canopy of trees overhead. Light laughter drew her to a path through the old gardens, to the ancient stone wall and arched gate overlooking the vineyard rows.
The long walk was humbling in a way, reminding her that time was short, but hadn’t it always been? The castle was a witness to the speed of life, and the generations that had passed around its walls. And so it was again that in a matter of hours, or days, all that surrounded them could fall away too. Bombed flat. Burned to dust. The castle’s world changed once more.
She forced the thought away, instead smiling when she saw the boot of Julien’s left foot hanging out from inside the gate. Vi kicked it in her path, gaining his attention.
“Lady.” Julien shot to his feet—fast for him—and, to her delight, stood with jaw dropped for the seconds it took to recover at the sight of her in the creamy mint dress. He grasped his wits enough to offer her a seat and helped her ease down on the large pile of stones at his side.
Camille’s muffled giggle followed the click of the camera. Brig’s aghast visage and Pascal’s approval, too, as they made room for her at the makeshift table on the forest floor. Marie eyed her, keeping her cool nature affixed no matter the build of the clock ticking toward tomorrow. Criquet smiled and stuffed a peach in her mouth, then tipped a tin can up to drink what remained of the sweet in its bottom.
It was in those moments Vi thought of the memories of the last weeks, and months, and then before that, the London years of her life. Sifting through moments in her mind. The good and the bad that made her the woman she’d become. The beautiful, the lost. And as the dwindling light threatened the reminder that dusk was drawing near, she looked to the sky, the sun waving farewell, wondering when would be the last time they’d see it together.
Julien seemed to notice too and, without fanfare, reached over and laced his fingers with hers. He ran his thumb over the long scar that curled over her hand and wrist.
“What’s this? Pear bite you?”
It had been years since the bombing in London had branded her with the scar. Vi rewarded him with a smile, grateful that the time spent at the castle had helped her forget.
“No pear stealing. Just a bit of leftover courage, that’s all.”
The makeshift family broke bread over a table of stones. Julien poured wine in tin cans—the L’Aveline label, their best vintage. The one that had become the lifeblood of the Vivay land. And they feasted like royalty, just as he’d said. Dessert was canned fruit, if Criquet had left any for the rest, and after, they became artists, climbing ladders and donning brushes with red paint, covering the side of the castle in a grand V.
This was life. Living right where they were, stepping out into the unknown together, without an ounce of regret because they knew what they were doing was right. Camille snapped photos. Pascal supervised Julien’s every move. Brig took chances with her painting, hanging out windowsills and scaring the lot of them half to death. And for her ability to bristle, it was a consolation to see Marie smiling, making a game of it all, telling Criquet they were “painting the roses red” just like Alice did when she’d fallen into a Wonderland world.
Vi knew she’d never find a grander meal or a lovelier memory in all her life.
The evening wore on and Camille convinced them to pose for final photos before the light left. It was Julien’s idea to level Vi’s height with his, and he lifted her to sit on the stone wall at his side, whispering, “Belle . . . Belle, Lady . . . ,” in her ear.
“Look to the camera,” he said, and slipped the subtle luxury of his arm around the small of her waist. “And smile, Lady.”
She did smile, but the camera wouldn’t know it in full.
Vi looked up, memorizing the strength of Julien’s profile in that snapshot of time, finding that she only had eyes for him.