by Hore, Rachel
‘There was a postcard of the ship,’ Fay remembered, ‘in the frame with the photograph.’
‘Was there? I’d forgotten. Major York gave that to me in Lisbon. At the time it felt my only link to you.’
The sadness in her mother’s face was almost too much for Fay to bear. She’d come here frustrated and angry, but all the accusations, all the anger had faded away. It was as though she realized for the first time the weight of the burden that her mother had had to bear. After all, Kitty had always remembered everything. She had endured it alone. There had only been Miss Dunne to speak to who would understand, but she had died a few years after the move to Little Barton.
‘Did we see much of Miss Dunne?’ Fay asked. ‘I do remember her a bit. Didn’t she come to tea occasionally?’
‘Yes,’ her mother said. ‘But when she did, we were careful not to touch on the past. I think she was aware that I was trying to protect you. But I also sensed that she didn’t wish to dwell on the bad things that had happened. She was like that, always very positive, full of what she was doing in her village, her work with the church, and she drew and painted a great deal. In fact, we have one of her pictures – that snowy landscape hanging above the sofa in the sitting room.’
‘I didn’t realize that was by her.’ Fay had always been fond of the wintry scene with rosy-faced children throwing snowballs.
‘The vicar at her funeral was very surprised when I told him how brave she’d been during the war. Nobody seemed to know about the refugees she’d helped, or how she was involved in saving Jews at the camp. She wasn’t popular at Vittel because some people thought that by working at the Kommandant’s office she was collaborating, but she actually used the opportunity to access internees’ records. She would warn people who were about to be transferred, or put them in touch with local résistants who could help them to escape. And I do know that she hid a Jewish man in her room once. There was another woman from Vittel who came to the funeral, and she told me that. I dread to think what punishment Adele would have suffered if he had been discovered. And she never told anyone.’
Fay was moved beyond measure. Mme Ramond had certainly made Miss Dunne sound strong and high-principled, but she hadn’t realized that the woman had put herself in quite such danger to help others.
‘She was a modest person and would have been embarrassed if anybody had spoken about it or praised her,’ Kitty explained. ‘She was ill for some months before she died, but she hated anyone to fuss. “Worse things happen at sea,” she’d say, even when she knew she was dying. She was a good friend to us, Fay, and helped us so much.’
‘I wish I could remember her better.’
‘She was very fond of you. It was so wonderful, that time in Paris when she arrived through the snow with milk for you. Did you say that you visited our apartment? You are resourceful. I wonder if it’s changed much?’
‘I think some of the furniture must be the same, though there’s no piano. Oh Mum, I can’t think how I forgot.’ Fay reached for her bag and withdrew the letter that the boy Bertrand had given to her. With it came the photograph from Mme Ramond’s album. The wooden zebra was in her case, left in the reception hall of the hospital. She’d show her mother another time.
Her mother almost wept over the photograph, then her eyes widened as Fay passed the letter to her. ‘The woman who lives in our apartment now kept this for you. She said it arrived soon after they moved in, after the war ended, but she didn’t know what to do with it.’
‘I don’t recognize the writing,’ Kitty said, frowning. She turned it over and broke open the flap easily. The letter she slid out was written on two leaves of onion paper that rustled as she unfolded them.
Fay left her mother in peace to read the letter. She had noticed that a tea trolley had arrived in the garden room and went to collect tea for them both. When she returned, she was concerned to see that her mother was crying, the letter still open in her hand.
‘Mum, what is it?’ she asked, laying the tray down on the grass and going to her. Who could the letter be from?
Kitty was not able to speak for a moment. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘I’d always thought it was her fault.’
‘What do you mean?’ Fay asked, misunderstanding. Surely the letter was nothing to do with Mme Ramond?
‘It’s from my old friend Lili Lambert,’ Kitty said. ‘Here.’ She held it out to her daughter. Fay frowned as she studied it. It was written in French and the handwriting was still fresh and legible. The date at the top was 25 September 1944 – a month after Paris had been liberated, then. The first couple of sentences were easy to translate: My dearest Kitty, I am leaving this with the concierge in case you return. You will be surprised . . . but Fay could not quite get the sense of what followed.
‘It’s something about her husband, isn’t it?’ she asked her mother, passing the letter back. ‘My French isn’t good enough. Tell me what it says.’
‘I’ll translate.’ Kitty’s finger traced the lines as she read.
I don’t know where you are all living now, but perhaps you will come back, and I wanted you to know . . .
After the last time I saw you, I did not like to come again. I felt that I had in some way betrayed you already and feared that I might bring you further trouble. Still, now that the war is over in Paris I would like to explain. You will remember how we spoke in the park about Jean-Pierre, my husband? Well, as I made my way home a man stopped me and said he knew I was worried about Jean-Pierre and wanted to help. He was French, and said that he was a policeman, but I do not know why he wore no uniform. He said that he would be able to help Jean-Pierre, but that I must do something for him. He said that you were under suspicion of activities that would damage the interests of Free France and that he’d like me to visit you to see if you were harbouring anyone illegal in your apartment.
I was terrified, Kitty. I did not know what was the right thing to do, but when I visited you and saw that letter on the table, the one beginning Mes chers parents, which you tried to hide from me, I knew this policeman’s suspicions must be true. But I want you to know, I did not betray you. When it came to it I simply could not, for you were my friend – so I went and told him that I’d found nothing and nobody. I don’t know whether he believed me, but after that he did not bother me again.
‘Oh, Fay,’ Kitty said, leaning back and closing her eyes briefly. ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to hear this. To know that Lili was my true friend, after all. It must have been an awful decision she had to make. She might have been putting Jean-Pierre in danger. How brave of her.’
‘But what happened about Jean-Pierre?’ Fay persisted. ‘Does she say?’
‘Yes.’ Kitty returned to the letter. ‘Here we are: You can imagine my joy when a week after that, a card arrived from the Red Cross to say that Jean-Pierre was alive and well. He had merely been transferred to another factory and the records had not been updated, which is why my letter had been returned. I have heard from him several times since then and now my hope grows every day that we shall soon be reunited.’
‘Oh, I hope that they were! But what do you think the whole thing meant? Who was the man with the gloves?’
‘I don’t know, Fay. Perhaps I never shall. Lili says here he was French, not German. Perhaps he had overheard our conversation in the park and used it to persuade Lili to do what he wanted. I wonder if he was connected to the Resistance? Or to Mrs van Haren? There is no doubt that Serge would have been in danger if he’d stayed in his lodgings – he had told me that the Jewish family he lived with had been taken away – but perhaps he was also in danger from someone else, someone who resented his visits to Mrs van Haren. So many odd things happened at that time, and some never made any sense.’ Here Kitty sighed.
She’s so much better, Fay thought suddenly. Her mother seemed like her old self again, lively and interested, though she still wore an air of sadness.
‘There’s more though – look, Fay,
you read it. I can’t, not without crying.’
Fay took the letter once again and slowly worked out the final paragraphs.
I hope one day, Kitty, that we will meet again as your friendship meant so much to me. I was so lonely in Paris without Jean-Pierre, and seeing you and little Fay used to be the highlight of my day. You were so kind to me and helped me be strong. We had such fun together, didn’t we? I pray all the time that you are safe and well, you and your husband and Fay. What a lovely mother you are to that little girl. Never have I seen a child and her mother so close. One day I hope to give Jean-Pierre children, but in the meantime I still look after my Joséphine. She is five now and blossoming like a flower.
Avec toutes mes amitiés,
Lili xx
‘That is a beautiful letter,’ Fay said, folding it and returning it to her mother.
‘I would like to see Lili again some day,’ Kitty sniffed.
‘Perhaps you should go to Paris and find her?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘But you could try. And you could visit Serge and Nathalie.’
Her mother was quiet for a long moment then said slowly, ‘I was wrong to tell you in my letter not to believe Nathalie Ramond. I . . . I did not know what she would say, whether she might come between us. But now . . . I think I might be ready to see her again.’ And Fay felt a quiet happiness flow through her.
It was so peaceful out here in the garden. Difficult to believe that it belonged to a hospital. They finished their tea and an orderly came across to collect the empty cups. It was a different girl from the surly woman who had spoken to Fay last time and not allowed her time to say goodbye properly to her mother. This one was smiling and kind. She said that Dr Russell would be coming along shortly to see them, and then she left them alone again.
‘If you did want to go to Paris,’ Fay told her mother, ‘I could go with you. I’ve a reason to return now, you see – not the music this time.’ And she explained about Adam, how they’d agreed he would come to London in two weekends’ time.
‘He’s someone special? Oh Fay, I am glad.’
‘I’ll take you to meet him when it feels right. I think you’ll like him, Mum.’
‘He is special, isn’t he? I can see it in your face. You look so happy.’
‘I always wanted someone I would love as much as you loved Dad.’
‘Oh, Fay. I did love your father so much. No one else could ever measure up to him. But then I had you. It was such a lovely thing that Lili wrote, don’t you think – that she had never seen a mother and child so close? I have looked after you, Fay, and loved you, haven’t I?’
‘You have,’ Fay said gravely. ‘Always.’
‘I don’t feel afraid any more, Fay. It’s as though I’ve let go of something terribly difficult and heavy.’
Fay was moved to see her mother like this – free, for the first time. ‘It sounds to me,’ she said smiling, ‘as if it won’t be long before you’ll come home.’
December 1944
One Sunday morning after church, Fay was sitting by herself in the refectory wearing her best dress that scratched and staring at a glass of milk. It wasn’t the kind of milk she was used to, having horrid lumps of cream floating in it, but she’d been told to stay there until she’d drunk it, so when the youngest and kindest of the nurses came and said, ‘Matron wishes to see you,’ it was with relief that she got up from the bench and took the young woman’s hand.
Had she visited Matron’s office before? She didn’t think so. Matron had hardly ever spoken to her. Don’t look at the dead animals, the child told herself as they reached the hall. When the nurse knocked on Matron’s door and propelled Fay into the room, the low winter sun coming through the window was so dazzling she hardly saw Matron’s stout, corseted silhouette behind the desk. She was more interested in the other woman in the room, a slender, neatly dressed stranger with a gentle face, who rose from her chair with a soft cry.
‘Well, Fay,’ Matron pronounced. ‘You must go and pack. It seems you’ll be leaving us.’
She stood uncertain, peeping up at the stranger. Who crossed the floor and knelt before her with arms outstretched. ‘Don’t you remember me, darling?’ the woman whispered in a voice that trembled with emotion.
Fay was noticing things about her more clearly now. She was older than the lady in her dream and her face was tired and thin, her eyes purple-shadowed, but there was something about her Fay was trying to catch, like the words of a half-forgotten song. There, she could remember it now. She gave the tiniest sigh and the shard of ice in her heart began to melt.
She took an uncertain step forwards into the safety of her mother’s arms.
Author’s Note
The French invaded Algeria in 1830, but it took them many long and bloody years to subjugate the country and make it part of France. It subsequently became a destination for hundreds of thousands of French and other European immigrants who formed a colonial élite there, benefiting from the confiscation of land from local tribes. Dissatisfaction from the Muslim population, who were denied political and economic status, gave rise to demands for greater autonomy and finally independence from France. Tensions between the two populations led to violence and eventually the outbreak in 1954 of what became known as the Algerian War. This only came to an end in 1962 when the country was granted independence.
After a constitutional crisis in France over Algeria in 1958, President de Gaulle returned to power and instituted a sudden change of policy, deciding to work towards Algerian independence. Outraged, the OAS, an extreme pro-France group, used every means they could find to oppose this, and their clashes with the FLN, the main Algerian independence organization, brought the struggle to Paris. Repression by the French authorities was extremely harsh.
On 17 October 1961, six months after Adam rescued Saïd from the incident described in this novel, the French police attacked a demonstration of some 30,000 pro-FLN Algerians. The resulting massacre in which seventy to two hundred people were killed – the true number remains uncertain – appears to have been ordered by the head of the Parisian police, Maurice Papon. Many demonstrators died when they were forcibly herded into the River Seine. Others were killed at the Paris police headquarters after they were arrested and delivered there in police buses. The events of that day remained hushed up for nearly forty years. In 1998 the French government finally acknowledged forty deaths. Papon was convicted in the same year on charges of crimes against humanity for his role under the Vichy collaborationist regime during World War Two.
On 17 October 2001, the Mayor of Paris set a memorial plaque on the Pont St-Michel that reads: In memory of the many Algerians killed during the bloody repression of the peaceful demonstration of 17 October 1961.
Acknowledgements
Whilst all my characters (saving the obvious ones) are fictional, it is impossible to write about the American Hospital and not to mention its real-life Chief Surgeon, Dr Sumner Jackson, who spent the wars years quietly aiding Allied servicemen to escape to Britain, and who died after being rescued from imprisonment for it. His story may be read in Americans in Paris: Life and Death Under Nazi Occupation by Charles Glass, one of a number of texts I consulted while researching this novel.
I should also like to acknowledge use of the following: The Piano Shop on the Left Bank by T.E. Carhart, Murder in Memoriam by Didier Daeninckx, Curfew in Paris by Ninette Jucker, Red Princess by Sofka Zinovieff and Rosie’s War by Noel Holland and Rosemary Say. Clara’s school trip in Jerusalem the Golden by Margaret Drabble inspired my imagining of Fay’s first meeting with Adam. Agnès Humbert’s Resistance: Memoirs of Occupied France with its vivid description of the Exodus from Paris in June 1940 was a starting point for this novel.
Another was a talk I attended at the Surrey Chapel in Norwich in January 2013 about Miss Elsie Tilney who, in Paris before the war, assisted Jews to escape abroad. Later she was confined in the Vittel internment camp where she worked in
the Kommandant’s office and hid a young Jewish man in her bathroom for a period to prevent his deportation to a death camp.
Many thanks to Christopher Jones at the University of East Anglia for advice on historical detail, to Victoria Hook for sharing her knowledge of music, to Dr Ann Stanley for medical information and to Louise Wormwell for suggesting the name Fay.
As ever, my grateful thanks are due to my agent Sheila Crowley and to all at Curtis Brown, to Suzanne Baboneau, Clare Hey, Sam Evans and all at Simon & Schuster, and to my copyeditor Joan Deitch. Lastly, love and thanks are due to my family, David, Felix, Benjy and Leo, who help in so many ways.