I glue photographs of Monsieur Kohn and his children onto the cards and stamp them. Voilà. Monsieur Uriah Beaufort and his little Beauforts, French nationals, every one. Now I need to get their fingerprints. I get the opportunity on Thursday—the usual day Sam drives the camion to either Le Puy or Paulhaguet to get supplies. But there have been officials already sniffing around these parts lately to recruit young men for the Service du Travail Obligatoire—the labor draft for Hitler we’re now calling the STO—so the baron has advised Sam to go into hiding for a week or two with the village butcher and a few local farm boys. The baron, of all people! A year ago he was such a stickler for the rules when it came to Madame Simon, but now, after the Riom Trial, maybe he’s learned his lesson. In any case, somebody needs to go for supplies, and the baroness is fretting. “We need vitamins, flour rations . . .”
She has a long list, and asks Faustine Xavier to take on the errand, but I volunteer to go in her place.
“Isn’t it your day off?” Faustine asks, suspicious.
“Yes, but I’d like to make up for . . . well.”
It’s as much of an apology as she’s going to get from me, and as I hoped, Faustine nods, like it’s the least I can do. “Take one of the big boys to help,” the baroness says, even though this is technically against the rules of the preventorium. Fortunately, I know just the boy I want to take.
Oscar hasn’t been too keen on me since I caught him chalking a V for Victory, but his little band of followers in the boys’ dormitory makes less mischief without him. Besides, Oscar isn’t bad company. Especially when I promise the kid a few hours on his own. Parking the camion in front of the grain store, I give him money and some of my ration coupons. “I have to pay a visit to the Pinton farm; why don’t you treat yourself at one of the cafés?”
“Oui, Ma?tresse.” He grins, holding his hand out for an extra coupon. This is highway robbery, but I give it to him so he’ll keep his mouth shut.
At Madame Pinton’s farm, I notice the picture of the Marshal is gone from its place over the old stove. I also notice that Madame Pinton has cut down some of Henri’s old clothes to fit the Kohn children. If I didn’t know her to be such an unsentimental woman, I’d think she’d taken to these kids.
I help the Kohns press their fingerprints onto the cards, and wary Josephine asks, “As easy as that?”
Remembering my failed attempts, I say, “If only you knew!”
Since I saw them last, Josephine has developed a twitch. Daniel, who still hasn’t grown into his ears, is thin and somber. To cheer them, I say, “Once you’re out of isolation at the lazaret, you’ll get to see your little sister on the playground every day.”
Josephine asks, “Will anyone else know who we are?”
“It’s better no one knows.”
She nods thoughtfully, tugging at her braid like she wants to chop it off again. “We were happy in Paris before the war, you know. Our neighbors accepted us. No one ever made us feel like dirty Jews and criminals.”
“You aren’t dirty, and you haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Then why do we have to hide?”
I don’t have an answer, and the way she looks at me with haunted eyes is a punch to the gut. I want to blame the Nazis, but even before the war, French people complained about immigrants, and shouted, France is for the French! On the other hand, we elected a Jewish prime minister . . . though maybe that’s why the democratic republic we’ve been so proud of is no longer French enough for us.
When I return to the castle, I decide I should probably burn the forged stamp . . . but what if I need it again? On impulse, I go to stash it inside one of Madame Beatrice’s old hatboxes under the bed, in which she’s stored old letters and trinkets. And that’s when I find a photo of a middle-aged man wearing a baggy Edwardian suit and a boater.
And on the back of the photograph is written the name Furlaud . . .
THIRTY-FOUR
ADRIENNE
Paris
June 1791
I crumpled the pamphlet, which featured a drawing of my husband kneeling before the queen, stroking her exposed genitalia. In another pamphlet, he gave himself over to a ménage à trois. I crumpled this one too, but they were all over Paris—and I knew who was to blame.
With the new constitution on secure footing, in a high-minded flourish, Gilbert had allowed the duc d’Orléans to come home—and the moment that depraved schemer set foot on French soil, vile rumors erupted about my husband and Marie Antoinette, who would sooner spit in my husband’s face than kiss it.