by Valpy, Fiona
Mireille was cycling back from Neuilly one Sunday evening when she reached the Pont Neuf. She dismounted and propped her bike against the wall, then slipped down the steps on to the island in the middle of the Seine. The willow tree was still there, on the point at the end of the Île de la Cité, a survivor of the battle to liberate Paris. She crept in beneath its branches to sit for a while, and think of home and watch the river flow past. She heard the sound of footsteps hastening along the cobbles of the quayside behind her, but thought nothing of it, assuming it would be one of the boatmen going about his business, returning to his vessel in the golden light of the summer’s evening.
The footsteps stopped. Then she heard a voice, softly calling her name.
She scrambled to her feet, steadying herself against the solid trunk of the tree. And there, parting the languid greenery and ducking his head beneath the willow’s branches was a man in a French army uniform. He set down his heavy kit bag and as he reached her side he put out a hand, tentatively, to touch her face, as if making sure she was real, not some vision from a long-lost dream, standing there beside the river as it turned to gold in the evening light.
‘I was coming to find you in the Rue Cardinale. I saw you from the bridge. At least, I thought it was you, with those curls, so I had to come and check,’ he said. ‘Mireille Martin. How I have missed you.’
And she lifted her hand to cover his and spoke the name that she’d kept a secret for so long, the name of the man she’d fallen in love with.
‘Philippe Thibault. How I have missed you, too.’
When they’d made the journey from Dachau to the hospital in Paris, it had felt like a dream to Claire. How could it have taken so long for the train that she and Vivi had travelled on to reach the camps when the Red Cross ambulance taking her back was just one long day’s drive? She had been that close, all along, and yet she had been worlds away from her home in the city.
It had taken a few days to arrange the transport and during that time Monsieur Leroux had scarcely left her bedside. Although now she knew he wasn’t ‘Monsieur Leroux’ at all.
The first thing he’d asked, as he sat holding her hand, was whether she knew where Vivi was. She’d looked at him in numbed silence at first, still seeing shadows of her friend’s eyes in his. Her head felt heavy and sore in the aftermath of the fever, and she was confused by the sight of him here at Dachau, struggling to understand what she was seeing and hearing. The sound of Vivi’s name, spoken aloud by him, was a shock.
Her lips were dry and cracked and he had to lean close to make out her reply. ‘I couldn’t save her,’ she whispered. ‘I tried. She saved me, but I couldn’t save her.’ Then the tears began to fall, soaking the parched, drawn skin of her face like rain falling after a drought, and he gathered her frail body into his arms and held her as she cried.
In the days that followed, while they waited for her to be strong enough to make the journey back to Paris and he made the arrangements with the American Hospital, he was a constant presence at her bedside. He fed her the nutritious soup, which was all her starved body could digest at first, a few spoonfuls at a time, filling her shrunken stomach. He made sure she drank the bitter-tasting tonic and he gently massaged ointment into her hands and feet, soothing and mending the broken, scarred skin. He refused to leave, even when night fell, and she would awaken from her nightmares to find him there, holding her hand, soothing her as Vivi had done before. ‘Hush now. I’m here. You’re alright.’
She couldn’t talk, yet, about what had happened at the Gestapo headquarters in the Avenue Foch, nor on the train journey to Dachau, nor at the camp. Instead, he talked and she listened in amazement – sometimes wondering whether she’d dreamed what he’d told her about himself and about Vivi.
The first thing was his name. Laurence Redman. (‘Everyone calls me Larry, though,’ he’d told her). Not Monsieur Leroux, after all, although the French was a direct translation from the English.
And the second thing was that Vivi was his sister.
They had grown up in the north of England, not in Lille, although their mother was French and Lille had been her home town. Their English father owned a textile factory and that was how Vivi had known so much about the machinery in the factory in Dachau. ‘She used to follow Dad around, asking endless questions, wanting to know how everything worked. She always loved sewing,’ he told Claire. ‘When she was little, she used to make dresses for her dolls. Then she progressed to making her own clothes. She worked at the local theatre, too, making costumes – she loved all those rich fabrics and trimmings. And it turned out she was a talented actress as well.
‘When war broke out, I was selected to train with the Special Operations Executive,’ he continued. ‘So when she came to me and told me that she wanted to join too, to do something to help the French, I knew she would be the perfect fit. We’re both fluent in French because our mother always spoke it at home, and our knowledge of textiles and fashion were exactly what the SOE were looking for to set up a network based in Paris, where the couture industry provided the perfect cover.’
He stopped then, unable to continue for a minute as he remembered his beautiful, lively sister. ‘I tried to dissuade her,’ he said at last. ‘But you know how she was – so stubborn, so determined. And those, too, were characteristics that made her perfect for her role. She was just what they were looking for. She did the training and passed with flying colours. And so they gave her one of the most dangerous roles going. Wireless operator for the network, camouflaged by her role as a seamstress in the heart of Paris. I didn’t know whether to be proud of her or frightened for her, my little sister.’
When he broke down, burying his head in his hands, Claire reached out and stroked his hair. Gathering her strength, she spoke then. ‘You and I, we both carry the weight of our guilt. We both played a part in her fate. But, listening to you, I now understand that nothing we could have done would have stopped her. She was determined to fight for France, for what was right. It’s who she was. She would always have put herself in the way of danger, stood up against what she knew to be wrong. She had real courage. She was a soldier.’
They wept together, their tears mingling, comforting one another, and while the grief cracked open her heart, hurting almost as much as Claire’s physical scars, she knew that the tears and the pain would allow something new to grow from it. With him – Larry – at her side, together they could find a way to live again.
He told her one other thing too. Vivi’s real name. She wasn’t called Vivienne.
She was called Harriet.
Harriet
So now, at last, I know who I am.
I am Harriet. Named for my great-aunt who died in Dachau on the day it was liberated. Harriet, who chose the name Vivienne because she loved life. Harriet, who was warm and friendly and oh so brave. Brave enough to turn towards danger when freedom was threatened; brave enough to volunteer to put herself right in the heart of the war, in one of the most dangerous roles there was. When the average life expectancy of a wireless operator in the Resistance was six weeks, she survived for four years.
I am Harriet – and although she died before I was born, I know that I am loved by my grandmother Claire, who grew to find a courage within herself that she hadn’t known was there. Claire lost her own mother, and history repeated itself – as it has a horrible tendency to do – when I lost mine. I’ve read that the currents of trauma run deep in families. They can be inherited, passed down the generations from one to the next, ruining lives as they go. Perhaps that’s what happened to my mother. But I won’t let it happen to me. Now that I understand where that trauma came from, I can see it for what it is. And by finding the courage to turn and face it, I have the opportunity to stop it in its tracks.
What gives me even more hope is that during my sessions with the counsellor she has told me that new research has found that the effects of inherited trauma can be reversed. Our brains and our bodies have the capacity to heal, to bu
ild resilience that will help us to counteract the vulnerabilities that inherited trauma predisposes us to. She’s given me some books to read which say that to be able to do this, the mind has to reframe and release the trauma so that the brain can reset itself.
I realise that the story of Claire and Vivi (who was really Harriet) has allowed this to happen for me. I know now that I can heal the past damage that I’ve carried with me all my life so far. More than that, I realise that I can decide to set down the weight of it at the side of the path that is my life and to walk on without it.
Now that I know the whole story of my grandmother, I sit in stunned silence, thoughts whirling in my head. I touch the charms on the bracelet passed down to me by my grandmother and my mother: the thimble, the tiny pair of scissors, the Eiffel Tower. I understand the significance of each one now.
I came to Paris feeling rootless, without a family of my own. I was looking for something, although I didn’t know what it would be. A photograph brought me here. I reach over and pick it up, in its frame, and I imagine I can hear the echoes of the girls’ laughter as they stand on the corner of the street, outside Delavigne Couture, dressed in their Sunday finery as they set off, one May morning in Paris, to visit the Louvre.
Because of them, Simone and I are here now. Not just here working for Agence Guillemet and living in the apartment under the eaves of the building in the Rue Cardinale; they are the reason that we are here at all. What if Mireille hadn’t gone to save Claire on the night that Billancourt was bombed? What if Vivi – my great-aunt Harriet – hadn’t protected and helped Claire to survive the terrible ordeals of torture at the hands of the Gestapo, solitary confinement in Fresnes prison, and almost two years in the hell of Dachau concentration camp?
I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for them. I owe them my life, too.
When that photograph was taken, those three young women – full of hopes and dreams – had their lives ahead of them. It seems to me that they epitomise a love for life. They weren’t to know, on that May morning, just how far that love was going to be tested.
And then I think of my mother. How deep do depression and despair have to drag a person until, at last, they reach a place where they can’t bear to go on? Claire and Vivi showed how much the human spirit can endure: brutality, cruelty, inhumanity – all of these can be borne. It is the loss of those you love that is unbearable.
All of a sudden, I realise that through hearing the stories of my grandmother Claire and my great-aunt Harriet, I have finally come to understand what it was that killed my mother. It was grief. No matter what it might say on the death certificate, I understand, now, that she died of a broken heart.
My history has set me free. The past has given me a future. Perhaps it is a future that involves staying on in my dream job at the Palais Galliera, because Sophie Rousseau has passed my CV on to the director of the museum and I’ve been invited to attend an interview. It’s a daunting prospect. I want this job so much it hurts. But I will give the interview my all and accept the outcome, whatever it may be, because I’m not scared to live my life any more, whatever it may bring.
I understand, too, that I have been scared to love, because the stakes seemed just too high. I’ve seen what the price of love can be and I decided that it was too high to risk having to pay. So I’ve always protected myself from it. I haven’t dared to risk loving my father, my step-family, my friends. And Thierry. I have kept my heart locked away to protect it. But now I have been shown the truth. Claire and Vivi are not just faces in a photograph any more, they are a part of me. I owe it to them to tap into the legacy of courage that runs through my veins. They have given me the gift of life. Until now, I have allowed the legacy of trauma to imprison my spirit. But through hearing their story, I know that I am strong enough to turn away from it. I won’t let the darkness win. I will turn my face towards the light. And, just maybe, I’ll be able to love as open-heartedly as they did.
As I reach for my phone, the charms on my bracelet clink against each other, making a sound like a faint, triumphant round of applause. There’s a message I need to send and I don’t want to waste another moment before I do so.
I scroll through my contacts and I select Thierry’s number.
Thierry’s apartment is a tiny studio in the Marais. It’s only one room, but the magical thing about it is that it opens on to a narrow balcony where there’s just enough space for two chairs, side by side. We’ve sat here for hours, and I’ve talked more than I think I’ve ever done before. We’ve agreed to take it slowly – neither of us wants to get hurt and I know that my pulling away from him before has left him cautious. But he’s prepared to give it another go, and I sense that this time the connection is stronger than ever, on both sides of the relationship.
As Thierry goes inside to fetch glasses and a bottle of wine, my phone rings. Loath to spoil the peace of the moment, I’m about to switch it off when I see that the caller is Sophie Rousseau, from the Palais Galliera.
‘Hello?’ I say, tentatively.
Her voice is warm as she tells me that she wanted to be the first to congratulate me: I’ve got the job.
When Thierry returns, I am on my feet, looking out across the city. Darkness is falling and the lights of the city begin to twinkle, sequins on a black velvet robe. They call it the City of Light. And now I can also call it my home.
We go out that weekend to celebrate, meeting Simone and the rest of the crowd in the same basement bar where Thierry and I first met. There’s music and friendship and many, many drinks to toast my new career. And Thierry and I hold hands under the table, not wanting to let go for a moment now that we’ve found each other.
At the end of the evening, we decide to walk back to the apartment in the Rue Cardinale with Simone. We say goodnight to the others and the three of us begin to wander slowly homewards. Simone hangs back a little, giving me and Thierry space to walk on ahead. I love the feeling of being close to him, his arm wrapped around my waist. I turn to glance back and see Simone is rooting in her handbag for something. She pulls out a pair of earphones and waves them at me triumphantly, then begins to walk again, still a few yards back, listening to her music.
I hear the faint wail of sirens behind us and turn to see the flicker of blue lights in the distance. They are approaching fast, speeding along the street as they chase a white van, herding it towards us. Simone, still wired to her music, is oblivious and she smiles at me enquiringly. Thinking I am waiting for her to catch up, she good-naturedly waves her hands, shooing me on ahead. But the van is speeding towards her, the driver losing control. The lights of the police car are gaining on it, engulfing the white sides of the van in their blue flames as it draws alongside, trying to force the driver to pull over. Time seems to stand still as the van swerves and mounts the pavement behind Simone.
Without thinking, I run.
I run towards the blue lights, towards Simone, who has stopped, frozen, as the lights envelop her too, silhouetting her against the white metalwork which will throw her high into the air when it hits her, crumpling her body into a broken, huddled mass.
I reach her a split second before the van does, my momentum carrying me on as, with all my strength, I push her out of the way.
I hear a scream and a noise like a whip cracking.
And then all the lights go out at once and there is darkness.
My father is reading me a bedtime story. It’s Little Women, I realise, one of my all-time favourite books. I listen to the rise and fall of his voice, chapter after chapter, telling the story of Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy. I’m dreaming, of course, but it’s such a comforting dream that I don’t want to open my eyes and make it come to an end. And so I keep them closed, so that I can stay just like this, resting in a time of innocence from years gone by.
Something keeps trying to pull me out of the dream, though. A nagging thought that I can’t quite grasp, just out of reach. It’s telling me to open my eyes, saying that, while that part of my past was f
illed with kindness and love, I have a present and a future that are filled with even more love. Another voice – not my father’s – tells me that it’s time to wake up and live.
When I open my eyes at last, the soft light of an autumn afternoon turns tumbling brown leaves into spun gold outside the windows of an unfamiliar room. My head feels strangely heavy and constricted, as if my scalp is too tight. Very carefully, I turn it a fraction, first one way and then the other. To the left, my father sits in a chair at my bedside, intent on the book he holds in his hands as he continues to recite the March family’s story. To my right is Thierry. His head is bowed, as if he’s praying as he listens to the words my father is reading. He is holding my hand, carefully avoiding the tube which runs from my arm to a drip stand beside the bed.
Experimentally – because everything seems very far away and disconnected and I’m not sure I can feel my fingers – I give Thierry’s hand a gentle squeeze. He doesn’t respond. So I try again.
This time he lifts his head. And when his eyes meet mine, a smile like a sunrise spreads slowly across his face, as if all his prayers just came true.
My hospital room is filled with flowers. A vase of bright sunflowers from Simone sits on the windowsill, alongside roses from Florence and my colleagues at the Agence Guillemet and a bunch of sweet-smelling white freesias from Sophie Rousseau at the Palais Galliera.
The biggest bouquet of all is from my stepmother and sisters and it was delivered with a card sending their love and urging me to come home. ‘They’re longing to see you,’ Dad says. ‘As soon as half term arrives, they’re coming over. We’re all so proud of you, Harriet. And the girls never stop talking about how cool it is having a big sister who’s made a career for herself in French fashion.’