Thus, I stood—on shaky knees, but still, I stood—to face my father. “There is nothing you can say or do that will make me write this letter, sir. You have taught me the value of a name—and I will not put mine to a lie.”
NINE
MARTHE
Chavaniac-Lafayette
February 1941
Just sign it, I tell myself, staring at the slip of paper on my school desk next to the pencil sharpener and the globe of the world. It’s another oath for teachers—this time, one of personal loyalty to Marshal Pétain. We’ll be dismissed if we don’t sign it. It’s just a matter of expedience. So why hesitate?
Maybe because rough sketches of Adrienne Lafayette litter my desk, and her big eyes seem to be judging me from more than a century ago . . .
I turn my chair so I don’t have to look at her. Now, after all, isn’t the time to develop a set of principles that’ll land me in the snow without a roof over my head. And for what—the satisfaction of sticking it in the old Marshal’s eye?
Our Latin master is talking about quitting, saying he has too much pride to sign. But pride is for suckers, so I slap my inky signature on the line and go up to the records office, where Anna is typing on an old machine that keeps sticking and Madame Simon is peering at a newspaper over the tortoiseshell rims of her cat-eye glasses. “What a disgrace,” the secretary-general of the Lafayette Memorial Foundation says, flinging the newspaper into the wastebin, then brushing at her tweed skirt as if the ugly headlines had spattered it with mud. I stoop to fish the pages out for the fireplace, but she stops me. “Leave it, Marthe. I know we can’t afford to waste paper, but Au Pilori is too poisonous for kindling.”
Au Pilori is an anti-Semitic newspaper in which prominent Jews are regularly denounced. We don’t often get copies here, but Madame Simon has Jewish blood, and I worry someone sent it to her for reasons other than general interest. I feel ashamed that I’ve come to turn in my oath of loyalty to the Marshal, who allows these denunciations to continue. I want to tell Madame Simon that I intend to be only as loyal to Marshal Pétain as he is to us, but I find I can’t justify myself. And Anna—who is now standing on the toes of her green spectator pumps to file something in a cabinet—shoots me a sympathetic look.
As for Madame Simon, she takes my oath without a word.
After my morning class, I retreat to my studio to blend charcoal lines and lose myself in thoughts about how to bring newer, modern Adrienne sketches to life as a sculpture. Clay is easier, faster, and requires a less expert touch. I can make mistakes in clay. But Adrienne and her saintly perfection seem to call out for stone. I’d love to try some rosy pink marble, with feather-fine chisel work . . .
I’m so consumed by these ideas that when Anna knocks at my door, I react much like I’ve been caught en flagrant délit. I hurriedly dust charcoal from my hands onto my overalls, and I’m disheveled when I fling open the door. “You didn’t come down to dinner,” Anna points out, a little worriedly. “And you let your fire die out!”
“I—I was distracted,” I say, blowing on my fingers, which I realize now are ice-cold. “I can’t wait for springtime. At the first thaw, Henri and I used to sneak into the woods at recess to find our favorite wild fruit tree and eat all the cherries even before they were ripe.”
“Cherries.” Anna moans, biting her lower lip in imagined pleasure. “I love them soaked in brandy and baked in a cherry clafoutis. When Henri returns, you’ll have to make him one.”
Afraid to think too much about Henri—or food—I cross my arms. “I don’t bake.”
“Luckily, you’ve got other talents,” she says, admiring my sketches. I hold my breath, wondering if she’ll notice the similarities. In portraying Adrienne, I’ve captured Anna’s eyes, the gentle slope of her shoulder, the almond shape of her mouth. If she notices the resemblance, she doesn’t say. “This is wonderful, Marthe! Actually . . . beautiful. What are you going to call it?”
“I don’t know.” I fiddle with my pencils. “Something laughably wholesome.”
Anna chuckles. “There’s nothing wrong with wholesome, ma chère.”
Ma chère. My mind turns the phrase over like a tumbler, smoothing out any rough edge, wondering if I really am dear to her, realizing how much I want to be. “You’re right. I guess we can’t be cynics about everything or we’d slit our wrists.”