I’m worried for everyone at the castle now—for the girls, for Anna, the staff, and anyone else who might still be held to account for what I did. It’s already a miracle the Gestapo hasn’t tracked us down here, so I don’t dare go back . . .
It isn’t until August, when the Germans start abandoning their checkpoints under the pressure of a rapidly advancing Allied front, that it seems safe enough to go into Paulhaguet for foodstuffs. There, I have the good luck to run into Anna, who is dropping off a package for her husband, in the hope it’ll reach him in his prison camp.
We sit together in the back of a little bistro by the post office, where we have privacy. Over a lunch of salmon and tomato in a vinaigrette, I say, “I’m sorry.”
I can’t say more, but I don’t need to. “No one blames you.”
“Not even Madame Xavier?”
“You didn’t hear?” Anna makes the sign of the cross over herself. “A farmer found her in a field with her throat cut. No one knows what happened, but you can guess. These days, we’re finding bodies everywhere. In ditches, wells, and barns . . . resisters, collaborators, who knows?”
I still have enough humanity in me not to dance a jig that someone slit Faustine Xavier’s throat, but not so much I’m sorry she’s dead. One day, I might find it in myself to pray for her soul. Today I’m just glad there’s one less person the kids need to fear, and one less stain to be washed off the castle walls.
From what we hear on the BBC, Hitler can’t win—even his henchmen have to realize it. Travert says that at this point the Germans must be idiots not to negotiate for peace. They’ve lost Italy as an ally. The Russians are crushing German forces on the Eastern Front. And the Americans are driving them out of France. But, according to Anna, they’re doing as much damage as they can in retreat. Nearby villages have been burned and looted, men lined up and shot. I wince at the word shot, and she asks, “How is he?”
She’s smart enough not to say Travert’s name aloud. “Better, but still in pain. And I’m chewing again.”
She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “You were nuts to give yourself up like that. Positively certifiable.”
“I know,” I admit, and she doesn’t know the half of it. On the other hand, maybe she’s guessed.
She shakes her head, big brown eyes downcast. “I wish I was even half as nuts as you . . .”
“You’re crazy enough to stay,” I tell Anna. “You should go to your maman in Marseilles in case the Germans return to the castle and try to hold you responsible for what I did.”
“I’m not going anywhere until after the war,” she says, looking very much like her mother in that moment. “And it’s almost over.”
As it happens, she’s right.
On August 18, the Secret Army of Lafayette attacks Germans in the streets of Le Puy. The Germans surrender there and evacuate from Brioude the next day. At Chavaniac, we’re liberated even before Paris. Sam and his maquisards march through town singing the “Marseillaise,” and it’s got even me all choked up . . .
Travert is out of hiding and back in uniform, wearing an armband with the tricolor. He and his gendarmes aren’t precisely sure who is in charge of France now, but what else is new? Probably General de Gaulle.
Travert holds me against his waist, and together we watch the fearless parade of red, white, and blue. The castle gates are flung open for parents who want to tell their children the joyous news. I see Josephine wearing her tricolor pin, and Gabriella with old Scratch purring in her arms. And, reunited with the girls, I kiss them and hug them a thousand times.
“Careful,” says Travert, “or someone might mistake you for a woman who wants a few babies underfoot.”
I laugh because I’m feeling happy enough to pull him into an alleyway and risk it, but I don’t say that in front of the girls, who are keen to visit Madame Pinton. It’s against the rules of the preventorium—but who cares?
I promise to take them the next morning.
Meanwhile, I’m awash in bittersweet memories, allowing myself to think of Henri without feeling like a traitor for doing so. Guilty for being alive, but relieved that the war and suffering are over. Exhausted and happy and sad all at the same time. I can’t seem to get it together until later that night, when Travert turns on the radio and pulls me into his embrace.
“So where are you going to take me?” I ask.
He chuckles. “There isn’t a café in miles where every table won’t be occupied tonight.”