Camille
Camille couldn’t make the journey down into the basement in the few hours she’d promised. Vivian, usually quick to leave the house, often at the same time as von Bauer, lingered over her coffee. Camille wanted to yell at her to go away. But there she sat. At the little round table by the window, her legs crossed. She took unhurried, dainty sips from her cup while Camille cleaned the breakfast dishes. She said nothing, simply drank and watched. Watched and drank. Until Camille was sick with frustration and worry for the women she’d left in the bunker.
It was possible, even probable, that Rachel and her mother thought she’d abandoned them. Camille set aside the plate she’d been drying, turned, and held Vivian’s stare. Some sixth sense made her pulse ripple beneath her skin. She went hot all over, and she knew, just knew, that Vivian was aware of their uninvited guests.
Slowly, Vivian placed her cup on the saucer. “We need to discuss what happened last night.”
Camille’s mind went instantly blank. She could not have responded had Vivian put a gun to her head.
“I’m afraid the news is not good.”
She knows. To come so close, only to fail Rachel and her mother. Always the same. Her efforts never enough. She felt a few self-pitying drops trail down her cheeks. But then she took a deep breath and scrubbed them away. Crying would gain nothing. “What do you know?”
“I was able to wheedle the actual dates for the roundups out of von Bauer.” She didn’t say how she’d come by the information, and quite frankly, Camille had no desire to ask. “The arrests will begin early tomorrow morning and continue into the next day, however long it takes the French police to gather up the remaining Jews living in Paris.”
Camille tried not to show her surprise or relief. Vivian didn’t know about Rachel and her mother. She thought she was supplying Camille with new information. “Tomorrow?” she croaked, reminded anew of the terrible crime the French police would commit. “So soon?”
“I’m sorry, Camille. Time has run out for your friends. I wish I had been quicker finding a proper forger. I wish I could have coordinated their escape sooner. I wish—” she lifted her gaze, and in her eyes Camille saw the look of a stricken woman “—many, many things.”
Camille could ease Vivian’s mind. She could tell her about the bunker. But the stakes were high. And two lives were solely in her hands. The possibility of Vivian betraying them was slim, but it was possible. “What if I told you that they have a place to hide temporarily? Would you continue arranging their escape?”
“What do you mean, hide?” Vivian’s gaze sharpened. “Where would they hide? Who would hide them?”
Two questions, with but one answer too dangerous to utter. “Perhaps there is at least one brave soul left in Paris.”
“Brave? No, not brave. Reckless. Foolhardy. An open invitation for the Gestapo to come knocking on their door.”
Camille’s heart ached with something like regret. She’d thought Vivian courageous. But her words spoke of self-preservation. “If I am able to guarantee they will not be arrested in the roundup, will you continue setting up their escape?”
“What have you done, Camille?” Vivian’s voice was sharp as the edge of a blade.
“It’s better you don’t know.”
“Tell me, where are they hiding?”
Camille ignored the question. “Will you continue working on their behalf?”
Not quite meeting her eyes, Vivian swiveled her head and stared out the window overlooking the backyard where the gazebo stood. Her agitation was palpable.
“Were they just words, Vivian? Or did you mean what you said? Do you wish to help my friend and her mother?”
Slowly, Vivian settled back in her seat. Slowly, she looked at Camille. Slowly, she said, “I will continue as if there are to be no roundups.”
“Thank you.”
There was no need for further discussion. That didn’t keep Vivian from having the last word. “Be careful who you trust, Camille. Enemies come in the most unlikely of packages.”
Hearing more than the obvious warning, a premonition even, Camille found herself unable to take a decent pull of air. The sensation was like a noose around her neck, not yet tight, but already making it hard to breathe.
“Did you hear me, Camille?”
“I heard you.”
“Good.” Saying nothing more, Vivian exited the kitchen and then, moments later, the house itself. Camille locked the door behind her and waited an additional half hour before making the journey down the basement stairs. The sound of her heels on the wooden steps dragged her back to that other time, to that other basement. She bit her lip, looked back over her shoulder, forced herself to continue.
At the bottom, she scanned the immediate area, saw that nothing was out of place, and only then allowed herself to breathe easy. Flexing her cold fingers, she gripped the metal rack and pushed it aside. The lock gave way with only a small battle, and Camille stepped into the dark tunnel. A miniscule pinprick of light escaped from the bunker on the other end of the corridor. Camille groped her way forward, the tiny beacon her guide.
There was the sound of breathing, hers, and then she heard the soft murmurs. She cleared her throat. “Rachel? Madame Berman? It’s me, Camille.”
She finally entered the bunker itself and found Rachel and her mother exactly as she’d left them. Sitting side by side on a single cot, their arms tightly linked.
Rachel’s gaze met Camille’s. Her lips were somehow a little twisted, as if there were thoughts in her head she struggled to keep from blurting out all at once. In stark contrast, her mother was completely closed off. Her gaze empty and unfocused, she hummed something beneath her breath, a song Camille had never heard. “I’m sorry I was gone so long. But I’m—Oh.” She glanced at the untouched plate of food. “You didn’t eat.”
“We had other things on our mind,” Rachel said, her face tightly disapproving, though her voice was a whisper of its usual self. “Food was low on the list.”
“Again, I’m sorry.” The words rang insincere and hollow in this moldy, dank bunker. “I never intended to be gone so long.”
More excuse-making. Why couldn’t Camille get this right?
Rachel readjusted herself on the cot, her gaze moving to the chatelaine hooked at Camille’s waist. “Did you have to bolt the door behind you?”
The question told Camille much. Rachel had explored the bunker and the tunnel beyond, where she’d then checked the door leading into the basement.
“I didn’t secure the lock to keep you in,” she said, simply and from the heart. “I did it to keep him out.”
The expression on Rachel’s face could not be described as transformed, but her frown wasn’t so deep. And her lips weren’t so tight. “I see. Yes, of course.”
The courage it took to come to that moment of acceptance humbled Camille. Shamed her, even. She’d been so blindly focused on getting Rachel and her mother safely hidden that she hadn’t thought what it must be like for them to face an uncertain future, indefinitely holed up in this soulless bunker, with no talk of escape.
Surely, they had questions. How could they not?
The solution came to Camille suddenly, like a swift nudge to her shoulder. Knowing it was the right course of action, she reached out one hand to Rachel, the other to her mother. “Come upstairs with me now. We’ll get you some breakfast, and after you’re feeling stronger, we’ll discuss plans for your escape and—”
“Upstairs? You want us to come upstairs with you? Now?”
“Yes, now. So I can explain.”
“We can’t go upstairs.” Rachel jumped to her feet and shoved herself back. Back, back, back until she was flush against the concrete wall. “It’s not safe. Von Bauer—”
“Won’t be home for hours. Nor will Vivian. Rachel.” Camille inched toward her friend, slowly, her hand still outstretched. “I promise you, it’s safe. I’ve locked all the doors from the inside, and I am in sole possession of the keys. No one can get in without me letting them in.”
Rachel’s eyes went wide and a little wild, and Camille could tell by the way she scrubbed at them with her sleeve that she was trying not to cry. “I don’t know what to do. I want to trust you, but I...I’m scared. I don’t want to be, but I am. All the time. I hate feeling like this.”
She closed her eyes, and Camille realized she’d rescued her friend from one life in a cage, only to throw her into another. “This bunker is only temporary. One day soon you will be free of this awful house, and safely on your way to Spain. It will happen. I ask only that you trust me a little while longer.”
Rachel drew a long breath. “Trés bien. I—” She glanced briefly at her mother, who gave a very small nod. “That is, we will trust you a little longer.”