Nor had she any idea how devastating love could be until she tried to feed her daughter. The baby nuzzled her head in frustration, a pitiful cry coming from her mouth as Skye’s breasts refused to produce more than a drop or two of milk.
“I’m sorry, chérie,” Skye whispered, understanding now she was so depleted that, even if she could give her all ten times over to her daughter, it still wouldn’t be enough. Her weeping turned into body-wracking sobs, which then turned into a paroxysm of coughing that made the baby pull back in fright and begin to howl.
Skye looked up at Caro and Margaux. Their cheeks were wet too. Skye had tried not to abandon hope but it had abandoned all of them.
Margaux erased her tears with the back of her hand. She tried to draw herself up tall as she spoke but the dysentery had, over the past month, made her concave inward. Still, her voice was unwavering. “Some of the women make teats from the surgical gloves in the Revier,” she said. “I’ll steal some. Then we can at least give her water.”
“I’ll take some powdered milk from the kitchen,” Caro added in her quieter but equally determined voice.
Skye wanted to shake her head, to say No, you can’t put yourselves at risk like that, but she knew it was useless. She would do the same if Caro or Margaux were in her position.
That night, with the sliver of baby tucked soundlessly beside her—it hadn’t cried again; it didn’t have the strength—Skye, in the embrace of sleep, fell heedlessly into the past.
Nicholas was there. My watch, he said to her, as he had on their last morning in Cornwall, it’s not here. I must have dropped it in the gazebo. Kiss me again for luck and I won’t need it.
She kissed him, smiling, and said, Perhaps Liberty saw it and picked it up.
Then the dream tipped and she was screaming and something was crying.
She woke with Margaux’s hand over her mouth. Caro was shushing a bundle that Skye knew was her baby. She tried to lift her arms to take her daughter, to hold her beside her heart so she would hear in that still-beating thud that Skye loved her no matter how her useless body let them both down, but her arms didn’t work. The sheets were wet. There was too much blood for it to mean anything good.
Then there was only blackness, and the thought that Liberty couldn’t have found the watch because she’d had no luck; she was missing too.
In the dream, Nicholas smiled sadly at Skye, turned his back and walked away.
Thirty-Four
The next month was one long and appalling hallucination. Skye didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t, just that every morning in the dark she was, somehow, dragged to the Appellplatz for roll call where she leaned against Margaux and Caro, the blood still running down her legs. The guards paid no heed. Blood on prisoners’ legs was nothing to remark upon; the very few women who still had their monthly cycles, despite the starvation, had no rags to use.
Caro, shivering, wrapped Skye in her cape and Margaux, shivering too, gave Skye her blanket to obscure the bundle strapped against Skye’s chest. The bundle that had hardly grown at all, the bundle that would, Skye knew, die before she did.
The guards had given up enforcing labor, but still used the stick freely during Appell, and both Caro and Margaux stepped in front of Skye and took blows meant for her in order to protect the baby—ma petite chérie, as they called her. Skye felt each whack of the stick on her friends’ bodies but it was too cold to cry; instead her tears froze on her cheeks, burning her skin.
“If the guards are agitated, the Allies must be near,” was all Caro whispered after one particularly hard blow to the shoulder that had her coughing blood, not blaming Skye, still trying to find the splinter of sunshine to warm the bitter winter.
Besides that, all Skye remembered was the constant need to hide as general Appells were called more and more often, and the women were made to walk naked past the guards. Those with sores on their legs, or legs too thin to have any strength left, were herded to one side and taken to the death-buses parked in the woods outside the camp gates, buses from which the rumor of gas escaped. Buses from which nobody returned.
Skye couldn’t walk naked past the guards because then they would see her baby, would see the blood still running down her legs and the fact that she was almost too weak to stand. So, during the selections, Margaux and Caro handed her over to the French doctor, Loulou Le Porz, who hid her in Block 10—the infectious diseases block—because no guards ever went in there. It was the biggest risk—that the baby would catch something and die—but she would certainly die if the guards saw her so it was the only risk that held within it a grain of hope.
So abrasive, those grains of hope, Skye thought as she sat on the floor of the death block with her baby, waiting for the Appell to be over. They had scoured her away almost to nothing. She tucked her finger into her daughter’s fairy-sized fist and whispered over and over about houses on clifftops, a soft blizzard of petals, and a dark-haired man whom the baby would one day call Daddy.
Then the largest hallucination: Liberty. She appeared on the Lagerstrasse one day, smiling a vicious smile at Margaux.
Margaux stepped in front of Skye. “How long have you been here?” she asked Liberty.
“I’ve been in quarantine since June,” Liberty said.
Quarantine. One of the camp’s darkest places. Skye shivered.
“Why did they let you out?”
The suspicion in Margaux’s tone was apparent even to Skye in her disordered state. She tried to speak, to tell Margaux to look behind the smile and hear what Liberty was really saying. But the effort made her cough, a sound so familiar to the baby that she didn’t flinch at all now when she heard it.
The noise caught Liberty’s attention. When she saw her sister, her smile collapsed. She flung herself on Skye, embracing her in a way they’d never embraced before, squashing the baby, which yelped. Liberty’s eyes grew large.
Where is your baby? Skye tried to ask but it was hard enough to draw in breath let alone force out words.
After that, Liberty appeared on and off for days. Skye overheard snatches of strange conversation: Margaux telling Caro she’d discovered, in the administration block, that Liberty had been in quarantine because the Germans knew she was British; that she’d been let out because she was helping the guards, telling them who were the most powerful members of the Resistance, and which women in the camp had lied about who they really were.
She’s a spy, Skye wanted to say. She’s just pretending.
But when Margaux leveled her accusation at Liberty, Liberty admitted that she had given the guards two names.
“They were so sick they were to die soon anyway,” Liberty said, her voice cold. “And they’d been feeding information to the guards themselves. You should be glad I gave them up before they had a chance to tell the guards anything about the two of you.” She indicated Skye and Margaux.
Skye passed the baby to Caro before she threw up bile. How much longer could it go on: the bleeding, the coughing, the fever, the threat of Liberty?
That was the start of the worst time: hours of delirium during which she heard Margaux and Caro telling her her own story, about Skye and Nicholas on a Cornish beach with cowrie shells beneath their feet. Sometimes Liberty was there too, smiling too nicely at the guards and trying to feel Skye’s ferociously burning forehead, but Skye turned her head away.
Never, during all those delirious days, did she see Nicholas again.
* * *
Then came Good Friday: a day of more death, heralded in Ravensbrück by a whipping of sticks. A rumor tore through the camp that there were more vans parked in the woods, and the rounding up of the women began. Just the Frenchwomen though.
“Hide,” Margaux told Skye, and Caro as well this time because Skye could no longer move without help.
Then Liberty was there, pointing Skye out to the guards, her voice strident. “You should take her to the Revier. She’s sick. Feel her head. See the blood. She had a baby and you didn’t kno
w.”
The Revier. A place where people went to die.
Skye managed the only sound she’d been able to make in days. It was supposed to be a scream; it came out as a moan. Anger, violent and ferocious, roiled through her. Liberty wasn’t pretending. She was everything Margaux had feared.
And Skye remembered that she’d been waiting, ever since Liberty had turned up on her doorstep at Hamble, for her sister to strike. She had finally done it.
Skye looked at Liberty properly for the first time since Liberty had appeared at Ravensbrück and she thought she saw her sister flinch. She would never, ever, forgive Liberty if, by her words, Skye and her baby were taken to the infirmary, where the baby would certainly die.
“I’m staying with Caro and Margaux,” she whispered, and reached out for the hands of her true sisters.
They held on to her and Skye knew they would thwart Liberty. The guards, weak themselves from lack of food and from apathy and fear, would hardly bother with a woman who was going to fight when there were so many who could not. Liberty would have to choose someone else to send to the infirmary.
Liberty’s eyes flashed with an emotion Skye did not recognize; an emotion that made her squeeze her own eyes shut so she might never see it again.
She heard Liberty hiss, “Nicholas has married a Frenchwoman. He has a child with her. Even if you and his bastard child get out of here alive, you can’t have him. He has someone else now.”
You thief of love! What, have you come by night / And stolen my love’s heart from him? The lines Skye had once declaimed on a wall thrashed like the guards’ sticks against her heart.
The nightmares, the hallucinations, whatever those things were that plagued her every waking and sleeping moment, vanished. Blackness, infinite, descended. She felt her body lifted from the ground and carried away and knew she was being taken to the infirmary but she no longer cared.
Beside her, she heard a loud scream. A gunshot.
Was the baby still with her? She scrabbled desperately for her daughter but knew nothing for certain except that, behind her, Liberty would still be smiling that awful smile.
PART THIRTEEN
Nicholas
I always thought “missing presumed dead” to be such a terrible verdict.
—Vera Atkins
Thirty-Five
FRANCE, MAY 1944
Nicholas flew Liberty into France one night in May, soon after he’d said goodbye to Skye and watched her fly away with O’Farrell.
As soon as they landed, Liberty scrambled up from her seat and to the ladder of the plane before Nicholas had made eye contact with the operatives on the ground.
“Wait,” he barked at her.
Being Liberty, she didn’t.
She’d been a bundle of jittery energy for the whole flight. Nicholas had tried to talk to her, to calm her, recognizing too well the signs of an agent pushed too far. He’d nearly circled around and returned to England, but there was no reason to do so beside his misgivings, and his superiors would scoff at those and accuse him of partiality. And perhaps they would have been right.
He caught sight of one of the men from the reception committee in the light of the flare path and his insides contracted. It was no one he knew.
The Germans must have found out which field they were coming to, and which was the right Morse code letter to flash. They’d suspected for weeks that there was a traitor among them, one of the field operatives, perhaps.
“Liberty!” he shouted, breaking all the rules by using her name so she would know there was trouble.
Liberty turned and he saw, sweeping across her careless face, the realization of danger.
Jesus, he was supposed to fly off and leave her there. But how could he leave Skye’s sister with the Germans?
He took his gun and climbed out of the plane.
They were lucky because the Maquis were hiding in the trees on the perimeter. Gunfire sounded from those trees, aimed at the Germans.
They were lucky again because, somehow, everyone except the Germans shot true, and soon he and Liberty were being taken to a safe house.
“It’s not the best place to spend a night,” one of the men warned. “The mother is nervy and would most likely crack if questioned too closely by the Boche. But the daughter is charming. And it’s the closest place we know of.”
Nicholas wasn’t worried. “There’s a pickup operation tomorrow night not far from here,” he said. “We only need to stay until then. If we can get a car to the field—it’s near Orléans—late tomorrow, we can be out of everyone’s way within twenty-four hours.”
But it wasn’t to be. The car never came. Nicholas guessed, after the previous evening’s events, that the Resistance circuit had been captured and dismantled.
He tried desperately to make other arrangements with the woman, Madame Beaufort, and her daughter, Adèle, but they didn’t have a car. And with the circuit gone, they didn’t have access to a radio to send any messages to SOE to tell them that he and Liberty were alive and needed a Lysander to come and get them.
Madame Beaufort, desperately frightened by the fact that they were going to be in her cellar for longer than expected, barely spoke to them. It was Adèle who brought them food. She told them she was trying to find another Resistance circuit who could move them on to safety. Nicholas’s guess, she told him, had been correct: the only one in the area had been decimated. She could only make discreet inquiries of people she hoped she could trust; inquiries that had, so far, come to nothing.
Three weeks passed by in a state of extreme tension. Neither he nor Liberty could leave the cellar. The space was cramped and they barely managed a civil word to one another. He tried his hardest to be patient, to bite his tongue, to tell himself that Liberty was probably scared too.
Occasionally Adèle joined them in the cellar and Nicholas told her about Skye. Even Liberty was silent then, her face as peaceful as it had once been in childhood when she’d stared at the stone maid lying on the ground in the lost gardens.
By early June, the lack of Skye was excruciating, as was the seemingly never-ending wait for help. He and Liberty actually agreed on something: they ought to take their chances and leave that night under cover of darkness.
They both knew that, before they’d left England, the Allied invasion of France was imminent. Which meant they might find another Resistance circuit themselves, or discover that the invasion had taken place and they could meet up, somewhere, with the Allies.
When Adèle next brought food down to them, they told her of their plan. She nodded and said she would organize supplies.
Ten minutes later, two sets of footsteps sounded on the stairs. Madame Beaufort appeared with Adèle.
“We have looked after you both for some time,” Madame Beaufort said, strain evident on her face, hands clasped tightly together in front of her. “By having you here, we have . . .” Now she sought for her daughter’s hand. “We have exposed ourselves to danger.”
Nicholas put down the plate of food Adèle had given him and stood up from his place on the floor. The things that French people like Madame Beaufort and Adèle had done for people like him made him feel small and very humble. To risk imprisonment or death in order to shelter two strangers—a British pilot and a spy at that—took courage beyond anything. And more so if you were as terrified as Madame Beaufort obviously was. Yet she had done it in spite of her fear.
“Thank you,” he said. “I know you could have turned us in. You’ve had our lives in your hands. If I can do anything for you, I will.”
“There is something,” Madame Beaufort said, tears in her eyes, tears in Adèle’s eyes now too.
She told Nicholas, haltingly, that Adèle was pregnant with a Nazi child. That she hoped Nicholas would marry her daughter to give the child a name, to make sure nobody ever thought her daughter had collaborated with or formed an attachment to a German soldier. The timing would be about right. Adèle had only found out she was pregnant the day
before Nicholas and Liberty had arrived. The villagers knew Madame had a pilot hidden in her cellar; it was entirely believable that the pilot and her daughter might fall in love, and marry. Then Adèle and her child would be safe.
“I have a priest here,” she finished, gesturing to a man who now came down the stairs.
Nicholas knew it was a believable story—he’d heard about more than one Allied pilot marrying the Frenchwoman who’d sheltered and saved him. He wondered whether Adèle had been raped, or if she’d fallen for one of the Germans billeted nearby. Both scenarios were equally likely, and he understood the way villages worked. Neither story would be palatable, and even the possibility that Adèle’s child was of German blood would mean she and her mother would be ostracized, or perhaps even subject to a kind of tribal justice. He closed his eyes against the image of Adèle cast out of her village, with nowhere to live, and a baby to feed.
Liberty stood up beside Nicholas and was the first to speak. “Nicholas isn’t going to do that,” she said angrily. “You can’t make him feel guilty like that.”
Nicholas felt not anger, but a deep and desperate sadness. How could he resent Madame for wanting to protect her daughter? “Tell everyone it’s my child,” he said. “I don’t mind. But I can’t marry Adèle. I’m sorry.”
“Nobody will believe us without proof,” Madame said wretchedly. “It must be marriage.”
“I’m already married,” Nicholas said.
Liberty stared at him.
“I made a vow to Skye and she made one to me,” he told Adèle and Madame. “We mightn’t have paperwork but I married her bodily and utterly and with a strand of seaweed to prove it.”
The priest conferred with Madame. Adèle wept silently beside them.
“The man who fathered the child,” Nicholas asked Adèle, carefully, quietly, “did he . . .” He paused. How could he ask her if she’d been raped?
The Paris Secret Page 36