Violins of Autumn (Lisette de Valmy)

by Amy McAuley

  I step through the open doorway. Golden strands of dawn stretch across the courtyard walls. The air smells and tastes like freedom.

  “Go to the wall,” one of the guards commands.

  “Please, no.” I force my feet backward, shackles scraping my bruised ankles. “Don’t do this. Please, I beg you.”

  A rifle butt to the kidneys sets me in motion. Another knocks me breathless to my knees.

  I kneel before the stone wall. A numbing sense of peace grows out of my fear.

  I wish my father happiness in his new life. I say good-bye to Denise. I pray for Robbie’s safety. I kiss Pierre and hug Madame LaRoche. I ask for one more day with my aunt. I plead for liberation to come.

  Behind me, in the middle of the courtyard, rifles are readied.

  Will I hear the gunshots before I die? Will I feel pain? Or will everything just end with silence?

  Snide laughter penetrates my last thoughts.

  “Rise!”

  I lurch forward onto my hands, heaving hot rancid bile into the dirt. I swing my shackled legs around and stand, dizzily watching yellow liquid trickle down my legs and pool at my feet.

  Without a word they march me back to my cell. I clutch at the wall, moaning away an intense urge to vomit.

  One of the guards sneers at my filthy legs. “You are a disgusting animal. This place is too good for you.”

  He shoves me to the floor, where I collapse in a heap. He locks the door behind me.

  I curl on my side, feeling broken and brittle as a dried corn-husk. Nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing at all.

  After two days without word from Lisa, the dots and dashes return.

  I limp to the wall. In my excitement, I forget to take shallow breaths. A jolt of pain spikes my ribcage.

  Lisa?

  Tina.

  In slapdash tapping, I ask, Where Lisa?

  Her answer confirms my fears. Cell empty. Your name?

  Adele.

  I’m crushed, Adele.

  We will get out.

  Lonely. Pain too much.

  Outside of prison, being alone meant something different to me. I wasn’t alone at all. There were ringing telephones, playing radios, children running past open windows. A dog barked or a neighbor’s car pulled up to the curb. Ordinary everyday connections I took for granted my whole life—I can’t put into words how much I crave them now.

  I bring my hand to my chest when she asks, Will we be all right?

  I can’t afford to hesitate with my answer.

  I quickly tap, Yes!

  Thank you.

  I untangle my hair with my fingers. Straighten my blouse.

  Tina. Like to play games?

  FORTY

  At the end of June, Krieger’s men finally give up on me. I’m put in a van and driven to Fresnes, the massive prison on the outskirts of the city.

  I’ve always assumed that the first time I bared my body completely would be with a man I love, in a romantic setting. Not with two frosty German women in a chilly room under the unflattering glare of fluorescent lighting. I leave the full-body search sore, humiliated, and on the verge of tears. But what matters is that they didn’t find the bracelet in the hem of my pants.

  A beefy prison matron in a pale-blue uniform wordlessly leads me from the search room to a long, high-ceilinged room. We pass several numberless doors until we come to an open one. The cell isn’t much more than a dark hole.

  “Go inside.”

  My reputation as an uncooperative prisoner sure hasn’t done much to improve my living quarters. I enter the cell and the matron bolts the door behind me.

  Three straw mattresses are stacked upon the one and only cot in the room. I heave the two extras to the floor and lie down. There isn’t much else to do but sleep.

  The door to my cell opens with a bang loud enough to jolt me awake and get my heart racing.

  “Bread and coffee,” the matron says, her flattened mouth never showing more emotion than disdain.

  I carry the bread and bowl of coffee to my mattress without spilling even a drop. I take a cautious first sip. Not only is the liquid not hot, it could only be called coffee by some wild stretch of the imagination. And the mushy bread tastes as if it has been soaking in that liquid. I gag down the bread, helping it along with great gulps of the coffee.

  I’ve barely finished eating when the door is opened again, this time by a different woman.

  This matron knows how to smile. She says, “Come with me, please.”

  I follow her with no sense of where I’m being taken or for what purpose. There’s no point in studying my surroundings for clues. Everything about the place looks the same: windowless hallways, numberless doors, metal and concrete.

  The uniformity breaks when we reach a long, broad hallway. The din of many voices reverberates throughout a nearby vast space.

  At the end of the hallway, I slow behind the matron. This is prison as I’ve imagined it, as it’s portrayed in movies.

  A massive sunlit corridor towers four stories above me, each balconied level lined with jail cells. At both ends of the lengthy room, monstrous floor-to-ceiling windows allow a glimpse of the outside world. The cells themselves are completely segregated one from the next; concrete boxes with solid metal doors rather than bars.

  The commotion in the room is god-awful, with guards and matrons everywhere, shouting to be heard and calling names from clipboards. The abrupt switch from silence and solitude to the bustle and barrage of echoing noise batters my senses.

  The matron directs me past a line of female prisoners waiting to hear their names. I take a long look at the sun through the bars on the window as I climb the staircase to the third floor. At room #347, the matron inserts a key in the door, unlocks the bolt, and pushes the heavy door open.

  A blond woman sits cross-legged on the floor beneath a small barred window.

  “Bienvenue,” she says with a wave, as if welcoming me to a party. She motions for me to join her.

  I scan the small cell as I enter—metal chair and cots secured to the walls, an open toilet, and not much else. When the door locks behind me, I become secured to the room like everything else.

  When I sit next to the woman she says, “My name is Christina.”

  We shake hands. Despite her slightness, she has an assured grip.

  “Hi, I’m Adele.” I hold on to the handshake well beyond the point dictated by proper etiquette, shocked to have been given a cellmate. “It’s too bad we couldn’t be meeting under better circumstances.”

  Christina stands. She must catch me staring at the summery nightgown she wears in the middle of the day, because she says, “The cells are unbelievably hot and muggy. You’ll soon despise those heavy wool pants of yours.”

  My legs immediately begin to itch. “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry. I came here when personal parcels were still allowed. I have an extra nightgown you can borrow. And a toothbrush.”

  I run my tongue over my teeth. It’s been far too long since they’ve known the luxury of a toothbrush. “Thank you, Christina.”

  “I’ll give you the grand tour,” she says. “The best part is there’s no need to get up. You can watch it entirely from where you are sitting.”

  I laugh.

  “This is the chair. It’s not nearly as comfortable as iron typically is. These are the smelly blankets and mattresses we sleep on.” Gesturing to the door like a poised model in a magazine advertisement, she says, “Once in a while this door will open. Sometimes the reason for this will be good, such as the twenty-minute walks they permit us to take in the courtyards twice a week. More often than not, the reason will be bad, for instance when the soup cart rolls around. And occasionally, the reasons will be quite bad.”

  I don’t want or need her to elaborate on the “quite bad.”

  Moving on, she says, “Here is the dish of water I catch fleas in. And the toilet with its imaginary privacy screen.” At the window, she offers a hand to help me up. “I
saved the best part of the tour for last. The peephole.”

  A portion of the wood casing around the window has been cut away. If I peer through at just the right angle, I can see over the prison walls.

  “We can spy on the guards as they make their rounds,” Christina says. “And watch the wing where they keep the men.”

  “Fantastic. You made the peephole?”

  “Yes. I smuggled in my tiny nail file, in my hair.”

  Studying the window, I say, “Do you still have it?”

  “The matrons will find it eventually, but I have it for now.”

  “See this bolt that holds the window shut? If we use the file to the remove the screws here and here, we can prop the window open a few minutes a day to let fresh air in.”

  Christina shakes her fist with excitement. “Adele, that’s brilliant!”

  My curiosity draws me back to the peephole. I smirk when a guard strolls into view. Without his knowledge I stalk his every move.

  The Fresnes guards wasted no time getting to interrogations, questioning me about fellow agents—some I know, but most I don’t—and SOE headquarters, and weapon drops, and whatever else they have their cold hearts set on knowing. They seem almost desperate for information about Denise, grilling me relentlessly about her whereabouts, her radio, and her codes. Part of me is glad for this. It means she’s still alive.

  Sometimes I wonder if they’re pulling questions out of thin air whenever it suits them, as an excuse to torture me more. To draw them away from the parts of my body that hurt the most, I cry out when they beat me where the pain is manageable. Still, no matter how bad it gets, no matter how close I get to cracking—and I’ve seen the final seconds before my breaking point—I tell them nothing more than they already know.

  I don’t want to give up hope that liberation will come, but too much time has passed. I have so many unanswered questions. Why are the guards still interrogating me for information? Where are the Allies? Did the D-day invasion fail? Are we losing the war? And then there’s the one question I almost can’t bear to consider. Have we already lost?

  In the three weeks at the prison, the movie I’ve been creating from my memories has become a real spectacle worthy of Hollywood, with the help of some substitutions. The role of Louis is now played by Clark Gable, and Madame LaRoche bears a striking resemble to Marlene Dietrich. Even Rat hasn’t escaped scrutiny. I replaced him with Roddy McDowall.

  I lounge on the mattress, compiling a list of places to visit before I die. None of my lists are set in stone, they change with my moods. Surprisingly, “Top Ten Films of All Time” gave me the most grief. “Twenty Foods to Eat When Freed from Prison” was easy as riding a bike.

  I hear movement outside the door. I pick up the mug of soapy water a female guard brought me. When Christina enters our cell after interrogation, I’ll be there to wash whatever wounds they inflicted on her, just as she does for me.

  There’s a knock on the door. “Adele.”

  I recognize the voice of Greta, the kind guard. I run to the door, saying, “What is it?”

  Key. Bolt. Open door.

  A paper-wrapped bundle appears through the opening. “This has come to you. I wouldn’t ordinarily accept a bribe to smuggle gifts to prisoners. I will for you, but only this once. I cannot afford to lose my job.”

  I grab the parcel from her hand. “Who is it from?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know. A guard in the men’s wing received it from an acquaintance. He passed it on to me.”

  The door and bolt close with their familiar metallic rhythm.

  I carry the parcel to the mattress and rip into the paper. Two of my fingernails were extracted the day before. I let the package tumble from my hands, lightheaded with pain. Sparks of white light dart before my eyes.

  I open the package the rest of the way with my good hand. Inside, I find two biscuits, two squares of chocolate, cheese, and salted meat. I clutch my throat, overcome with joy, savage hunger I can no longer ignore, and the fear that if I look away even for a second the food on my lap will vanish.

  Someone put himself in danger to smuggle food to me. That reconnection to the outside world boosts me as much as the food.

  I hide the package beneath the mattress, to share it with Christina.

  A short while later she weaves through the door when it opens.

  I guide her to the mattress, careful not to put pressure on her back, chest, or upper arms.

  “Oh, Christina, what have they done to you?”

  She makes several clumsy attempts to lie down. Even with my help, the slightest movements send spasms shooting through her.

  “Adele, I think someone gave me up. Until now they’ve never questioned me about anything I had legitimate ties to. Today they knew about my fiancé. They did what they could to make me talk, but I will go to my grave before I breathe a word to them about Thomas.” Shaking her head, she says, “They burned me. What’s next? I won’t talk. Not ever. It will only get worse.” A tear rolls down her cheek. I wipe it away before it reaches the open cut on her lip.

  “We will get through this,” I say, showing her the food. “I have something for you.”

  “I don’t think I can eat. I’ve lost a tooth.”

  I break her portions into bite-sized pieces and feed them to her, as if she’s a helpless baby bird.

  I wake after a fitful, nightmare-filled sleep.

  Pierre and Robbie visited me while I slept. Overjoyed, I ran to hug them both. “Pierre, you’re alive!” I cried. But he held me at arm’s length, saying, “No, Adele.” Deep red bloodstains oozed across his chest like blooming roses. “We are dead.” I looked beyond Pierre to Robbie, who stood alone in a field, next to a fiery downed plane. He silently backed away, disappearing into ethereal white smoke. I tried to follow, desperate to tell him that we’re meant to be together, but I couldn’t move or speak. I could only watch in agony as he left me forever, with the words “I love you” locked behind my lips.

  I keep my eyes shut and turn on my side, craving more rest.

  Far below my bedroom window, my cousins run giggling through the yard with Biscuit happily barking after them. Off in the distance, I hear my aunt call, “Boys, time for school. Off you go now.” Once the boys are out of her hair, I’ll join her for tea.

  During the night I wedged my whole body against the wall. I roll over to avoid whacking my head on the sloped ceiling. My mattress feels unusually firm this morning. I try to settle into a comfortable position, but no matter which way I move, the mattress has no give. I’ll have to tell Aunt Libby there’s something the matter with my bed. She’ll know what to do. There’s no point in trying to fall back to sleep now anyway, with the rock-hard mattress doing its best to wake me up.

  My heart sinks with a sudden and crushing despair.

  I can’t bring myself to open my eyes. I’m not at my aunt’s house. I silently sob into the crook of my elbow.

  Key. Bolt. Open door.

  “Adele.”

  I raise my head, convinced I heard my mother calling me.

  Next to me, Christina sleeps, curled into the fetal position. I watch the gentle rise and fall of her ribcage.

  “Be quick, Adele. I have news.”

  I hobble to the door. My bruised and battered feet cry out with each step.

  On the other side of the door Greta says, “I heard the guards talking about you. They are transferring you to Ravensbrück. One of the camps. In Germany.”

  She whispers “camps,” as if it’s a secret word she is not permitted to speak aloud.

  I lean against the wall, feeling faint. “When?”

  “I don’t know. I will try to find out.”

  I nod, too downtrodden to do much else.

  “I thought you might like to know that many of the guards hold you in high regard, Adele. They respect your strength and honor.”

  What does it matter to me that they respect my strength when they’re about to ship me off to my death?

>   “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Greta.”

  Sometime within the last day, my legs took it upon themselves to support me for only two minutes at a time. I shuffle back to the mattress before time runs out and curl up beside Christina.

  I know precisely why they’re moving me like a chess piece. They will see to it that if, or when, the Allies roll into Paris, not a single prisoner will be found.

  “Seahorse. Seee-horse.”

  Christina awakens from her nap to give me a lethargic evil eye.

  “Is that a real word? Seahorse?” I stretch it out again. “Seeee-horse. That’s a strange word. A horse that lives in the sea?”

  I rub my finger along the dried flakes crusted over my lips. I pry one loose and it comes off in one satisfyingly intact piece. I draw my hand away from my mouth. It blurs in and out of focus.

  “How many of my hands do you see here?” I ask, but Christina has already drifted off again. “I’m holding up one, I’m sure of it. I see two.”

  The hands swim before my eyes, rippling like waterlogged rubber gloves. They flap at me, open, shut, open, shut.

  Two guards storm into the cell. I watch them come at me, slow to react. They seize me by the arms.

  “No!” My heart feels shrunken to the size of a pea. It trills furiously in my chest. A sudden burst of energy comes over me. I crack one of the guards across the face.

  They drag me from the only friend I’ve known in over a month.

  “You can’t take me! I won’t go!” My scream comes out a hoarse murmur, as if my vocal cords turned to dust in my throat.

  My head droops. Strength drains from my legs. I float down the hall between the guards, neither a ghost nor an angel.

  Intense white light fills my vision. I shut my eyes against it, blinded.

  Death snuck up on me. Snatched me when I wasn’t looking. It shouldn’t come as any surprise that Death is devious. He says, “Where is Ahren … supposed to … in the van.”

  I go forward, bathed in the warmth of the light.

  The support beneath my right side falls away. I hear a heavy thump. My eyes open to intolerable light. Another thump. I lurch forward into nothingness, shielding my eyes.