“Ah, I insist. We are gentlemen, you know.”
His long, well-manicured fingers closed around the willow handle. As he turned toward the house, she remained at his side. “I saw a large group gathering at the town hall this afternoon. What are the Vichy police doing here?”
“Ah. Nothing to concern you.” He waited at the front door for her to open it. She fumbled nervously with the center-mounted knob, turned it, and opened the door. Although he had every right to go in at will, he waited to be invited in, as if he were a guest.
“Isabelle, is that you? Where have you been?” Vianne rose from the divan.
“The queues were awful today.”
Sophie popped up from the floor by the fireplace, where she’d been playing with Bébé. “What did you get today?”
“Ham hocks,” Isabelle said, glancing worriedly at the basket in Beck’s hand.
“That’s all?” Vianne said. “What about the cooking oil?”
Sophie sank back to the rug on the floor, clearly disappointed.
“I will put the hocks in the pantry,” Isabelle said, reaching for the basket.
“Please, allow me,” Beck said. He was staring at Isabelle, watching her closely. Or maybe it only felt like that.
Vianne lit a candle and handed it to Isabelle. “Don’t waste it. Hurry.”
Beck was very gallant as he walked through the shadowy kitchen and opened the door to the cellar.
Isabelle went down first, lighting the way. The wooden steps creaked beneath her feet until she stepped down onto the hard-packed dirt floor and into the subterranean chill. The wooden shelves seemed to close in around them as Beck came up beside her. The candle flame sent light gamboling in front of them.
She tried to still the trembling in her hand as she reached for the paper-wrapped ham hocks. She placed them on the shelf beside their dwindling supplies.
“Bring up three potatoes and a turnip,” Vianne called down. Isabelle jumped a little at the sound.
“You seem nervous,” Beck said. “Is that the right word, M’mselle?”
The candle sputtered between them. “There were a lot of dogs in town today.”
“The Gestapo. They love their shepherds. There is no reason for this to concern you.”
“I am afraid … of big dogs. I was bitten once. As a child.”
Beck gave her a smile that was stretched out of shape by the light.
Don’t look at the basket. But it was too late. She saw a little more of the hidden papers sticking out.
She forced a smile. “You know us girls. Scared of everything.”
“That is not how I would describe you, M’mselle.”
She reached carefully for the basket and tugged it from his grasp. Without breaking eye contact, she set the basket on the shelf, beyond the candle’s light. When it was there, in the dark, she finally released her breath.
They stared at each other in uncomfortable silence.
Beck nodded. “And now I must away. I have only come here to pick up some papers for a meeting tonight.” He turned back for the steps and began climbing them.
Isabelle followed the captain up the narrow stairs. When she emerged into the kitchen, Vianne was standing there with her arms crossed, frowning.
“Where are the potatoes and a turnip?” Vianne asked.
“I forgot.”
Vianne sighed. “Go,” she said. “Get them.”
Isabelle turned and went back into the cellar. After she’d gathered up the potatoes and turnip, she went to the basket, lifted the candle to expose the basket to light. There it was: the tiny white triangle of paper, peeking out. She quickly withdrew the papers from the basket and shoved them into her panty girdle. Feeling the papers against her skin, she went upstairs, smiling.
*
At supper, Isabelle sat with her sister and niece, eating watery soup and day-old bread, trying to think of something to say, but nothing came to her. Sophie, who seemed not to notice, rambled on, telling one story after another. Isabelle tapped her foot nervously, listening for the sound of a motorcycle approaching the house, for the clatter of German jackboots on the walkway out front, for a sharp, impersonal knock on the door. Her gaze kept cutting to the kitchen and the cellar door.
“You are acting strangely tonight,” Vianne said.
Isabelle ignored her sister’s observation. When the meal was finally over, Isabelle popped out of her seat and said, “I’ll do the dishes, V. Why don’t you and Sophie finish your game of checkers?”
“You’ll do dishes?” Vianne said, giving Isabelle a suspicious look.
“Come on, I’ve offered before,” Isabelle said.
“Not in my memory.”
Isabelle gathered the empty soup bowls and utensils. She had offered only to keep busy, to do something with her hands.
Afterward, Isabelle could find nothing to do. The night dragged on. Vianne and Sophie and Isabelle played Belote, but Isabelle couldn’t concentrate, she was so nervous and excited. She made some lame excuse and quit the game early, pretending to be tired. In her upstairs bedroom, she lay atop the blankets, fully dressed. Waiting.
It was past midnight when she heard Beck return. She heard him enter the yard; then she smelled the smoke from his cigarette drift up. Later, he came into the house—clomping around in his boots—but by one o’clock everything was quiet again. Still she waited. At four A.M., she got out of bed and dressed in a heavy worsted knit black sweater and plaid tweed skirt. She ripped a seam open in her summer-weight coat and slid the papers inside, then she put the coat on, tying the belt at her waist. She slipped the ration cards in her front pocket.
On the way downstairs, she winced at every creak of sound. It seemed to take forever to get to the front door, more than forever, but finally she was there, opening it quietly, closing it behind her.
The early morning was cold and black. Somewhere a bird called out, his slumber probably disturbed by the opening of the door. She breathed in the scent of roses and was overcome by how ordinary it seemed in this moment.
From here there would be no turning back.
She walked to the still-broken gate, glancing back often at the blacked-out house, expecting Beck to be there, arms crossed, booted feet in a warrior’s stance, watching her.
But she was alone.
Her first stop was Rachel’s house. There were almost no mail deliveries these days, but women like Rachel, whose men were gone, checked their letter boxes each day, hoping against hope that the mail would bring them news.
Isabelle reached inside her coat, felt for the slit in the silk lining, and pulled out a single piece of paper. In one movement, she opened the letterbox and slid the paper inside and quietly shut the lid.
Out on the road again, she looked around and saw no one.
She had done it!
Her second stop was old man Rivet’s farm. He was a communist through and through, a man of the revolution, and he’d lost a son at the front.
By the time she gave away her last tract, she felt invincible. It was just past dawn; pale sunlight gilded the limestone buildings in town.
She was the first woman to queue up outside the shop this morning, and because of that, she got her full ration of butter. One hundred fifty grams for the month. Two-thirds of a cup.
A treasure.