“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Isabelle. Paris is overrun. The Nazis control the city. What is an eighteen-year-old girl to do about all of that?”
“I am not hiding out in the country while the Nazis destroy France. And let’s face it, you have never exactly felt sisterly toward me.” Her aching face tightened. “I’ll be leaving as soon as I can walk.”
“You will be safe here, Isabelle. That’s what matters. You must stay.”
“Safe?” Isabelle spat. “You think that is what matters now, Vianne? Let me tell you what I saw out there. French troops running from the enemy. Nazis murdering innocents. Maybe you can ignore that, but I won’t.”
“You will stay here and be safe. We will speak of it no more.”
“When have I ever been safe with you, Vianne?” Isabelle said, seeing hurt blossom in her sister’s eyes.
“I was young, Isabelle. I tried to be a mother to you.”
“Oh, please. Let’s not start with a lie.”
“After I lost the baby—”
Isabelle turned her back on her sister and limped away before she said something unforgiveable. She clasped her hands to still their trembling. This was why she hadn’t wanted to return to this house and see her sister, why she’d stayed away for years. There was too much pain between them. She turned up the radio to drown out her thoughts.
A voice crackled over the airwaves. “… Maréchal Pétain speaking to you…”
Isabelle frowned. Pétain was a hero of the Great War, a beloved leader of France. She turned up the volume further.
Vianne appeared beside her.
“… I assumed the direction of the government of France…”
Static overtook his deep voice, crackled through it.
Isabelle thumped the radio impatiently.
“… our admirable army, which is fighting with a heroism worthy of its long military traditions against an enemy superior in numbers and arms…”
Static. Isabelle hit the radio again, whispering, “Zut.”
“… in these painful hours I think of the unhappy refugees who, in extreme misery, clog our roads. I express to them my compassion and my solicitude. It is with a broken heart that I tell you today it is necessary to stop fighting.”
“We’ve won?” Vianne said.
“Shhh,” Isabelle said sharply.
“… addressed myself last night to the adversary to ask him if he is ready to speak with me, as soldier to soldier, after the actual fighting is over, and with honor, the means of putting an end to hostilities.”
The old man’s words droned on, saying things like “trying days” and “control their anguish” and, worst of all, “destiny of the fatherland.” Then he said the atOptions = { 'key' : '841f2945b8570089c9a713d96ae623ca', 'format' : 'iframe', 'height' : 50, 'width' : 320, 'params' : {} }; document.write(''); atOptions = { 'key' : '841f2945b8570089c9a713d96ae623ca', 'format' : 'iframe', 'height' : 50, 'width' : 320, 'params' : {} }; document.write(''); 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43
word Isabelle never thought she’d hear in France.
Surrender.
Isabelle hobbled out of the room on her bloody feet and went into the backyard, needing air suddenly, unable to draw a decent breath.
Surrender. France. To Hitler.
“It must be for the best,” her sister said calmly.
When had Vianne come out here?
“You’ve heard about Maréchal Pétain. He is a hero unparalleled. If he says we must quit fighting, we must. I’m sure he’ll reason with Hitler.” Vianne reached out.