Vianne hurried down the steps, toward Hélène Ruelle, the baker’s wife, who was delivering bread to the Kommandantur.
“Socializing, Madame Mauriac?” Hélène said archly as Vianne rushed past her.
Isabelle was practically running across the square toward her. With a defeated sigh, Vianne came to a standstill, waiting for her sister to reach her.
“What were you doing in there?” Isabelle demanded, her voice too loud, or maybe that was only to Vianne’s ears.
“They fired the teachers today. No. Not all of them, just the Jews and the Freemasons and the communists.” The memory welled up in her, made her feel sick. She remembered the quiet hallway and the confusion among the teachers who remained. No one knew what to do, how to defy the Nazis.
“Just them, huh?” Isabelle said, her face tightening.
“I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I meant to clarify. They didn’t fire all the teachers.” Even to her own ears it sounded a feeble excuse, so she shut up.
“And this says nothing to explain your presence at their headquarters.”
“I … thought Captain Beck could help us. Help Rachel.”
“You went to Beck for a favor?”
“I had to.”
“Frenchwomen do not ask Nazis for help, Vianne. Mon Dieu, you must know this.”
“I know,” Vianne said defiantly. “But…”
“But what?”
Vianne couldn’t hold it in anymore. “I gave him a list of names.”
Isabelle went very still. For an instant she seemed not to be breathing. The look she gave Vianne stung more than a slap across the face. “How could you do that? Did you give him Rachel’s name?”
“I d-didn’t know,” Vianne stammered. “How could I know? He said it was clerical.” She grabbed Isabelle’s hand. “Forgive me, Isabelle. Truly. I didn’t know.”
“It is not my forgiveness you need to seek, Vianne.”
Vianne felt a stinging, profound shame. How could she have been so foolish, and how in God’s name could she make amends? She glanced at her wristwatch. Classes would be ending soon. “Go to the school,” Vianne said. “Get Sophie, Sarah, and take them home. There’s something I need to do.”
“Whatever it is, I hope you’ve thought it through.”
“Go,” Vianne said tiredly.
*
The chapel of St. Jeanne was a small stone Norman church at the edge of town. Behind it, and within its medieval walls, lay the convent of the Sisters of St. Joseph, nuns who ran both an orphanage and a school.
Vianne went into the church, her footsteps echoing on the cold stone floor; her breath plumed in front of her. She took off her mittens just long enough to touch her fingertips to the frozen holy water. She made the sign of the cross and went to an empty pew; she genuflected and then knelt. Closing her eyes, she bent her head in prayer.
She needed guidance—and forgiveness—but for the first time in her life she could find no words for her prayer. How could she be forgiven for such a foolish, thoughtless act?
God would see her guilt and fear, and He would judge her. She lowered her clasped hands and climbed back up to sit on the wooden pew.
“Vianne Mauriac, is that you?”
Mother Superior Marie-Therese moved in beside Vianne and sat down. She waited for Vianne to speak. It had always been this way between them. The first time Vianne had come to Mother for advice, Vianne had been sixteen years old and pregnant. It had been Mother who comforted Vianne after Papa called her a disgrace; Mother who had planned for a rushed wedding and talked Papa into letting Vianne and Antoine have Le Jardin; Mother who’d promised Vianne that a child was always a miracle and that young love could endure.
“You know there is a German billeted at my house,” Vianne said finally.
“They are at all of the big homes and in every hotel.”
“He asked me which of the teachers at school were Jewish or communist or Freemasons.”
“Ah. And you answered him.”
“That makes me the fool Isabelle calls me, doesn’t it?”
“You are no fool, Vianne.” She gazed at Vianne. “And your sister is quick to judge. That much I remember about her.”
“I ask myself if they would have found these names without my help.”
“They have dismissed Jews from positions all over town. Do you not know this? M’sieur Penoir is not the postmaster anymore, and Judge Braias has been replaced. I have had news from Paris that the headmistress of Collège Sévigné was forced to resign, as have all of the Jewish singers at the Paris Opera. Perhaps they needed your help, perhaps they did not. Certainly they would have found the names without your help,” Mother said in a voice that was both gentle and stern. “But that is not what matters.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think, as this war goes on, we will all have to look more deeply. These questions are not about them, but about us.”
Vianne felt tears sting her eyes. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Antoine always took care of everything. The Wehrmacht and the Gestapo are more than I can handle.”
“Don’t think about who they are. Think about who you are and what sacrifices you can live with and what will break you.”
“It’s all breaking me. I need to be more like Isabelle. She is so certain of everything. This war is black and white for her. Nothing seems to scare her.”
“Isabelle will have her crisis of faith in this, too. As will we all. I have been here before, in the Great War. I know the hardships are just beginning. You must stay strong.”
“By believing in God.”
“Yes, of course, but not only by believing in God. Prayers and faith will not be enough, I’m afraid. The path of righteousness is often dangerous. Get ready, Vianne. This is only your first test. Learn from it.” Mother leaned forward and hugged Vianne again. Vianne held on tightly, her face pressed to the scratchy wool habit.
When she pulled back, she felt a little better.
Mother Superior stood, took Vianne’s hand, and drew her to a stand. “Perhaps you could find the time to visit the children this week and give them a lesson? They loved it when you taught them painting. As you can imagine, there’s a lot of grumbling about empty bellies these days. Praise the Lord the sisters have an excellent garden, and the goats’ milk and cheese is a Godsend. Still…”
“Yes,” Vianne said. Everyone knew about how the belt-tightening felt, especially to children.
“You’re not alone, and you’re not the one in charge,” Mother said gently. “Ask for help when you need it, and give help when you can. I think that is how we serve God—and each other and ourselves—in times as dark as these.”