IN THE LONG DAYS FOLLOWING our impromptu arrival in Bordeaux, an invisible curtain of tension descended upon the house.

Everyone rushed through their daily tasks as they eagerly awaited the nightly newsreels we listened to around the mahogany table in the large dining room, with Nicolas and I translating English into French. Each night, the dry voice of the British presenter announced another German victory, to which a collective groan erupted from the five of us.

Monsieur Le Sueur would imitate the English voices in his nasal country accent, mispronouncing almost every word. I knew he meant to amuse us, but Juliette and I were the only ones who laughed while Nicolas brooded sulkily in the corner. Like Father, Nicolas did not believe in laughter during times of national hardship.

Often, Mirielle would prepare a small platter of fruit and pastries to relieve our melancholy, urging Nicolas to play the piano to lighten our spirits, often to no avail. His slender fingers—so alike Maman's—would slam against the keys so forcefully I feared the whole thing would break. I accompanied him in song once, but we were at odds with each other: my cheerful singing clashing with his firm fingers crashing against the keys.

After listening to the radio some more, we retired to our beds with the humid summer breeze wafting through the ajar windows—staring out into the lifeless sky as we braced ourselves for an attack.

My bedroom was an enclave of the past. A large oak bed with heavy floral curtains and accompanying chairs transported me to the endless days I had spent rehearsing my songs and reading my adventure novels. Even a dollhouse and a pair of neglected china dolls graced the oak chest containing my old gowns, stirring something within me I could only describe as a longing to return to my carefree girlhood days.

During those long July nights, the garden was my refuge.

When the heat became unbearable and sweat drenched the sleeves of my cotton nightdress, I would retreat to the garden to walk amongst the lilies, rosemary bushes, sunflowers and roses Maman had planted years ago—when she herself was still a child. The fragrance was enough to transport me far above the turmoil of war.

Whenever she gardened, Maman had exchanged her evening gown for an apron and wide-brimmed straw hat, not caring to protect her dainty hands with gloves as she used her long fingers to shovel away dirt. She had named her favourite flower after me—a rose with plump blush petals and sharp thorns.

"This rose will be called Vivienne after ma douce fille. For she is both sweet and strong." Maman had pressed an ungloved hand to my cheek, drawing a smattering of soil to my face—to which I squealed in shocked delight.

As we waited for the Germans, I doubted the truth of her words.

I did not feel strong.

I had fled Paris and the career I had always wanted out of fear. Though I masked myself in confidence, fear plagued my sleepless nights as the screams of enemy planes split the horizon like hungry jackals.

I wondered about my family and what would become of them. I wondered whether the life I had once led—the evenings of dinner on the balcony and morning strolls through the Jardin des Tuileries—would return. I wondered whether my relatives in Germany would survive the perils of war.

When Hitler first rose to power, Uncle Gerhard and Aunt Elenora related news through sprawling letters and extensive notes. Uncle Gerhard was a leading psychologist at the Humboldt University in Berlin, and Aunt Elenora was a schoolteacher. As Jews, both had been removed from their positions. Aunt Eleonora wrote that my cousin, Elsa, had left for England with her husband and newborn son.

As the horrors escalated, the letters became shorter until they completely stopped. I did not know if they were still alive.

In those dark hours in my bedroom, I even thought of Simon's family and whether they were still in Paris.

Though we were not meant for one another, Simon's mother had always been kind to me—inviting me to have orangeade and walk along the Seine, even after our engagement. Monsieur Blum was always inviting me to their apartment for dinner parties with their large circle of interesting friends. If there was one thing I had loved about Simon, it had been his family.

~~~

I was savouring a piece of chocolate—the last of the supply Nicolas had brought from Paris—when someone began pounding their fist against the door. A mumbled French accent assuaged my fear that the Germans had arrived.

The brass lamp in the parlour was only bright enough to illuminate the radio, the novel unfurled across my lap and portraits of Maman's dignified ancestors lining the enamelled walls—their chins tilted upwards in familial pride. I was sprawled upon a sofa, my eyelids heavy with sleep. The soft crooning of the radio hummed through the silence.

"Who is it?" I asked Nicolas, who was sitting across from me with his head hanging over his knees, his dark hair tousled.

"Jean Rytewski. He wrote about being tired of the Krauts doing their military drills in front of his apartment, so I said he could stay here." Nicolas massaged the sleep from his eyes and paced to the door. It was surprising how nonchalant he was considering his uptightness about almost everything else.

I followed my brother through the shadowy corridor.

The name of Nicolas's friend evoked a torrent of bitter memories. Jean Rytewski had been a merciless tease, collaborating with my brother as they played childhood pranks on me. Jean's sisters, Yvonne and Charlotte, were older than him, so I became the target of his relentless teasing. After he and Nicolas went to university, I fervently avoided his company.

Before I could protest, my brother had opened the door. A column of moonlight filtered into the parlour, illuminating the ivy and lilac bushes guarding the entranceway, accompanied by a waft of jasmine.

The man who stood before us looked nothing like the scrawny boy who had pestered me during my youth.

He had forsaken his boyhood play clothes for a two-piece tweed suit with brass buttons, his dark hair combed through with castor oil like the American actors in motion pictures and magazines. 

He was taller than I remembered, but still not as tall as Nicolas, his muscular frame designating him as one of the healthy young Frenchmen expected to fight the Germans behind enemy lines. From what I had heard, Jean was prevented from participating in military service due to his weak lungs: an affliction that had been caused by bouts of illness during his childhood.

His appearance was far from flawless, however. His shirt and collar were askew, and rings of exhaustion shadowed his dark eyes, showing a long journey from Paris. He had met churlish German soldiers along the way, no doubt.

Regardless of our previous disputes, I knew a childhood grudge could not prevent me from sheltering the forlorn soul perched awkwardly upon our doorstep.

"Mon ami, I cannot tell you how thankful I am..."

Jean was interrupted by my brother, who shook his head vigorously. "As my father always said, we must always assist our comrades during times of peril. Besides, now that you are here, we can begin planning to defend the city. I have some ideas I was hoping to share with you."

When Jean's gaze fell upon me, his eyes slanted with a grin. "Mademoiselle Dumont, I hope my stay will not be an inconvenience to you."

"Non, Monsieur Rytewski, it is no trouble at all." I blushed at how formal our interaction was. Not very long ago, we had been quarrelling children. Besides, I had always struggled with pronouncing Jean's Polish surname correctly.

After exchanging a few short words, the three of us waded through the darkness into the salon. Once Mirielle, dressed in her frilly nightgown and slippers, brought Nicolas some bread and coffee, we begged him to inform us of the state of our beloved city.

"Only the poor have stayed behind. Others left as soon as they could. And the Krauts... they are far worse than anyone expected. They treat the city like their own summer villa," hatred for the Germans coloured Jean's voice. His knuckles clenched as he grasped the arms of his armchair. "The government has deserted us. Our coward of prime minister will surrender and the British can do nothing to stop them."

"Surely the Americans will come to our aid," I persisted, leaning forward in my seat on the sofa. "They cannot stand by and watch as the free world crumbles before them."

The refined Monsieur Rytewski surrendered to the patronizing playmate of my youth when he chuckled sardonically, shooting an arrow of resentment through my stomach. He had always acted superior when I was a child and I had detested him for it. "I doubt the Americans will do anything unless they feel threatened. Their president does not care what happens beyond their borders."

My senses faded as I closed my eyes. I did not want to hear anymore.

I excused myself before retreating into my childhood bedroom and locking the door behind me. I had only begun bolting the door during the war, when horror stories of German soldiers invading private homes terrified the country.

I sank to my knees. Bowing to my tears, silent wails convulsed through my frame.

The colourful rosary beads my mother used on the rare occasion she heard mass caught my eye and I reached for them, uttering the Latin words for the prayers I had once learned in school.

Though I did not remember what they meant or knew if my mother's God would listen to a woman like me, I prayed loudly and fervently—asking for the Americans to aid us and for a swift defeat of the Nazis. 

Most of all, I prayed for Maman, for wherever she was, I knew she would be terrified.