Gilbert and I held each other upright, blinking against the sunlight, which had never seemed so bright. Scattered groups of curious onlookers lined the roads, silently watching us go. At the frontier, noisier crowds awaited. Fayettists cheering our carriage, calling out, “Vive Lafayette!”
What a glorious sound.
We stopped briefly at an inn. I had to be carried inside for food and water, but our entire party was giddy. My daughters claimed to have forgotten how to use knives and forks after having so long been forced to eat with their hands. Next we went to the American consulate, which was so crowded with well-wishers, they had to be held back. My husband’s speech faltered, both because he was overcome and because after five years in captivity, his English was a little forgotten.
Everyone wanted to shake his hand, to bring him news, curry favor. Various political factions urged him to champion them. In the group of men who encircled us, I saw Mr. Morris, my savior and sometime nemesis. With customary dryness, he explained that Monroe had been recalled by the president and that tensions between France and the United States were quite high. Before I could think what this might mean for us, I was approached by a young man who dropped to his knees in worshipful ecstasy.
“Thou art the goddess of liberty,” he said, trying to kiss the hem of my skirt.
I snatched it away, admonishing, “I am no goddess.”
Then I saw that I had wounded this admirer, who was sincere. So I invited him to sit beside me in the hopes of smoothing his feelings, and Gilbert bent to whisper, “Savor your victory, my love.”
It did feel like victory, never more than when we were reunited with our son, who now, at nearly eighteen years old, had his father’s auburn hair and big brown eyes like mine. What happy thanksgiving to have Georges safe in my arms again. How right I had been to send him to America! He had returned at the first news of our release, gone straight to Chavaniac, and now presented the swords he’d dug up from the earth where I’d buried them in safekeeping. The blade on the American sword had rusted away, but Gilbert thought to combine them into one sword, using the blade made of iron taken from the Bastille with the golden hilt of the American masterpiece.
Lafayette recovered his strength quickly; for him, freedom itself was nourishment. As for me, my legs were a mass of open sores. He and Georges had to carry me from bed to couch. They had to feed me soft bites of food because my teeth ached, and I could barely keep down what I ate. And the doctors said the marks of my captivity would last the rest of my life.
I counted it a fair price for what I’d gained.
I had freed my family by force of will. Not only my family, but those who had been arrested for our sake. I had done it without sacrificing any principle or doing violence. It was not the sort of victory for which people built stone monuments, but I hoped it might still, someday, be remembered.
SIXTY-ONE
MARTHE
Chavaniac-Lafayette
May 15, 1944
“Marthe,” Anna says, agog at my disheveled appearance. “What’s happened to you?”
I’ve lied to her so many times before, but I can’t do it now. “The Gestapo is coming.”
On the stairway, where I’ve caught her, she grips the rail and pales. “What?”
I already think I hear the screech of tires at the gate. I don’t want her to be terrified that they’ve come for her, so I quickly explain, “I overheard Madame Xavier reporting Jewish children at the preventorium.”
Anna blinks. “That’s absurd.”
I shake my head. “It’s not.”
“Are you telling me—” Anna grasps the situation quickly. “How do you know we have Jewish children here?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. In this moment I can’t disguise a single thing.
“My God, Marthe. How could you do this?”
“Someone had to!”
“You kept it secret—even from me?”
“I was trying to protect you.” That’s not the whole of it, though, and I see from the pain in her eyes that she understands the ugliest and most painful truth. That I didn’t trust her. That I couldn’t trust her.
“What did you think, Marthe—that I’d turn over children?”
The question cracks my heart. “Honestly, I don’t know what you’ll do.”
But I’m about to find out, because the Gestapo are hammering at the door. We peek out the curtains to see them below with shepherd dogs at the end of taut leashes. Anna and I go down together as Obersturmführer Wolff bursts into the entryway with three of his agents, guns at the ready. “Hands up! Hands up!”