Madame Roche turned out to be something entirely different from what Elise expected. An older woman living alone in a large, isolated farmhouse in need of repair, she had at first tried brusquely to turn Elise away, but after Elise had explained that a priest named Père Clément had sent her, the woman’s attitude changed. “Is that right?” she asked, peering at Elise over the top rim of thick glasses. “Well then, you can make yourself comfortable here on the step while I go speak with him. My farmhand, Bernard, is around. He says little, but he will notice if you’re snooping, so don’t get any ideas. He sees everything.”
The woman, who had to be at least seventy, pedaled off on a rusty bicycle, heading for town, before Elise could say another word. Elise watched her go, a million questions running through her head. Surely Madame Roche was too old to have children in need of care. Still, she had nowhere else to go, so she settled onto the front step and waited.
The house was silent, but after a time, there was a noise from the direction of the barn, and a man emerged and stopped, staring at her. He was huge, easily two heads taller than Olivier, and solid as a wardrobe. He was about her age, his hair a deep chestnut brown, his skin tanned as leather. She stood and gave him a polite wave, but he didn’t acknowledge her. He merely stood there, looking at her, before turning back toward the barn, his shoulders squared like he was preparing for battle.
Bernard, she thought. He hadn’t seemed dangerous, exactly, but his very presence felt like an ominous warning, and she shivered, suddenly feeling cold.
Nearly an hour later, just as the sun was setting, Madame Roche pedaled back up the lane and dismounted with surprising agility. She walked her bike up toward the house and beckoned to Elise. “Père Clément said I could trust you,” she said. “But I have a few questions of my own.”
She brushed past Elise and unlocked the front door. She gestured for Elise to go inside, but Elise hesitated on the doorstep. “I hardly know Père Clément,” she said honestly. “I—I don’t want to mislead you. I’m not certain why he vouched for me.”
“Because Père Clément has a better sense of people than anyone I know,” the old woman snapped. “If he says you are trustworthy, you are trustworthy. Now are you going to take the opportunity or discard it? The clock is ticking.”
Indeed, a grandfather clock inside the front hall tracked the seconds loudly, its rhythmic clicks echoing in the silence. The woman closed the door and brushed past Elise, gesturing that she should follow her. The long hallway opened onto a dining room where a table sat surrounded by eight chairs. Madame Roche pointed to one of them, and Elise obediently sat while the old woman began to pace.
“Père Clément says you have just arrived in Aurignon,” she said, the words sounding like an accusation.
“Yes, madame.”
“And that you have no place to stay.”
“Yes, madame.”
“And that you have a daughter.”
Elise bowed her head. “I do.”
“So you left her.”
Elise didn’t look up. She should never have mentioned to the priest that she was a mother, nor should the old woman be aware of it now. She had only been gone from Paris for a day, and already she was failing. But the mistake had already been made, and so she saw no point in lying now. “Leaving her was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. But it was the only way to ensure that she survived.”
Madame Roche stopped pacing and studied her. “You are telling the truth.” She seemed to be considering something. “Père Clément thought you might be able to assist me with something. But I would be remiss not to tell you that there is a possibility there may be danger in it.”
The words sent a shiver up Elise’s spine. She needed only to survive until the war ended, and then she would return to Mathilde. Deliberately imperiling herself ran contrary to that goal, didn’t it? It was just what Olivier had done. “Madame, I’m not sure—” she began, but Madame Roche held up a hand to stop her.
“You are a mother,” she said. “And you are relying on another person to care for your child, yes?”
“Well… yes.”
“You see, we are those people for other mothers.”
Elise blinked at her. “Pardon?”
“We keep the children of others safe. You can do for other parents what someone, right now, is doing for you. This is life and death, madame. And I believe firmly that it is our duty, to our fellow man and to our God, in this time of darkness.”
“You’re—you’re saying that you shelter children here?”
The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she stared long and hard at Elise. “What is your name?”
“Leona Denaes.” It was the name on the identity documents Constant had given her, and though she’d practiced saying it under her breath, it still felt strange.
“Not your real name, I imagine,” Madame Roche said brusquely. “Very well, Madame Denaes. I will make this simple. There are no Germans here, not yet. When they do invade the Unoccupied Zone—and make no mistake, they will—they’ll pay little attention to this town. You are safe here, for now. And so are the children who need to hide. But I am an old woman. I cannot do this alone. I take a tremendous risk by telling you this, and I’m certain you understand that if your answer is no, Bernard will deal with you, and you will be in no position to report us. Children’s lives are at stake, and frankly, madame, so is yours. Are you with us or against us?”
The words had all poured out in a hurried tumble, and now the silence felt pregnant with danger. The sound of the ticking clock wafted in from the hall.
“I am not against you,” Elise said at last. “But I must return to my daughter. If something happens to me, she has no one.”
“And if we do not play a role in fighting back, you will not be able to return to her anyhow,” Madame Roche answered immediately.
Elise considered her words. “My husband is the one who put us in this position, by joining an underground movement. Wouldn’t I be making the same choice? To put myself in danger in a way that could change the course of my daughter’s life?”
“No.” Madame Roche’s expression softened a little. “Had your husband not made his decision, you would not be here now. You would be with your little girl. Her life has already changed forever. But now that you are here, this is a way to do something—and to find a place to stay in the meantime, with people who will protect you. It seems to me, Madame Denaes, that the best way of finding your way back to your daughter is to help see an end to this war.”
Elise understood what the woman was saying, and a part of her agreed. The other part of her, however, wanted only to vanish, to curl up in a ball somewhere, to pause time until she could return to Mathilde.
But she had felt something in the church, a sense that stirred something within her. Maybe she was meant to save other people’s children, as a penance for the danger to which she’d exposed her own child. Maybe, just maybe, if she did this, God would lead her back to Mathilde.
“Madame?” Madame Roche nudged her, after Elise had been silent for what felt like too long.
Elise focused her gaze on the older woman, an unfamiliar peace settling over her. “Yes,” she said. “I will help you.”
Madame Roche’s smile was small, but Elise could feel the relief in it. “Good,” she said. She turned and walked away without another word, but Elise sat frozen in place. “Well?” Madame Roche asked, turning as she reached the stairway. “Are you coming? Or are you planning to sit there until the Germans arrive?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, and after a few seconds, Elise found herself scrambling after the woman up the stairs.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Time for a drill!” Juliette clapped her hands together as the children finished their breakfast on an icy morning in March 1943. “Grab your masks, everyone! Off to the cellar!”
“I don’t like drills, Maman!” Lucie said, standing from the table and stomping her foot. “Mathilde and I want to play!”
Mathilde glanced at Juliette, seeking approval before she hopped up and stood beside Lucie. “We want to play,” she echoed uncertainly, and Juliette had to hide a smile. The girls, who were three now, had become more than just sisters; they were near clones of one another. Wherever Lucie led, Mathilde followed. Juliette was glad they had each other, for she could see the sadness sometimes in Mathilde’s eyes. She missed her parents, and no matter how hard Juliette tried to make her feel at home here in Boulogne, she couldn’t quite mend the broken pieces.