“Then a mentor.”
“You are not listening. You do not understand him or the work we did. Many, perhaps most, who worked for the Resistance lived in the town they had grown up in, where their family had lived for generations. They formed networks of old friends and connections and literally resisted by stirring up minor annoyances, destroying the rail lines, helping downed airmen find aid. He operated at a different level. He made the connection between towns, between regions, and even back to England and the Allies. This man, who we called Citoyen, knew people across the country and how they could help. This is why he was prepared to shoot himself when I found him. He would never be taken prisoner because he knew too much. I was not local and had no connections or network of my own, yet he kept me with him, using my skills to teach others and to do specific jobs. He said it was because he didn’t know how or where to integrate me into society. He had a way of speaking that wavered between teasing and seriousness, and said that if I were German or English or even American he might have trusted me to assimilate, but a Russian—he would roll his eyes when he said it—could never imitate a Frenchman in everyday life. I liked to think that he enjoyed my company, and that he was pleased to have someone with him.” Arsov motioned for another cigarette. He closed his eyes. “I was proud that he had selected me. Meeting him changed my life.”
A cart rattled into the room. The butler pushed it near, followed by the nurse and Petit. He pulled small plates from a drawer and arranged them on the low table. Agnes was hungry now. The twist in her gut had unclenched and she regretted skipping the evening meal.
“Tournedos stuffed with truffle, breast of ducking with pear flavored with honey, lobster bisque, and mousse with winter berries,” the butler said, pointing at the dishes before picking up utensils to serve. Petit sat close to the nurse and in a low voice peppered her with questions about the care of a newborn infant. Arsov took one small bite of each dish, closing his eyes to savor the flavors. Agnes lifted a forkful of duck. Exquisite.
Arsov stirred. “Citoyen taught me skills to live, but she taught me how to survive.”
“She?” Agnes asked.
Arsov ignored her. “Citoyen’s home was not like the Vallottons’ or anything in Switzerland. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, of carved stone. A Renaissance palace rising from the river, all towers and gables and fairy tale. And she was there. It all started there.”
Agnes could picture the setting from vacations in the Loire Valley. She sampled the tournedos.
“It was Citoyen’s home but it was also perfect for our needs. The chateau’s foundations were built across the broad shallow river and the water flowed under it; under the high stone arches. Along the riverbank we could enter through a hidden door into a room where we could conceal those we were bringing to safety: refugees, Jews, downed Allied fliers, they all passed through. It was well situated, the road was not much used, and there were places to turn off into the woods. Plus the river was shallow and, if necessary, we could walk in its bed.”
Petit and the nurse set their napkins aside and walked toward the row of doors, their low voices engaged in animated discussion. Agnes felt Petit’s happiness roll off his shoulders like a wave. She was pleased that he could feel such joy.
“It was a night like any other when my life changed again,” Arsov continued. “You cannot anticipate this. You understand? Good or bad you do not predict. For me it will always be the best day of my life. It was the day that would keep me alive for all of the rest until this very moment.” He smiled to himself. “You do not believe me? But it is truth. The first time I saw Anne-Marie was the middle of the night. We had run out of supplies and I risked going into the chateau to talk to Madame, Citoyen’s wife, and there she was. I was so entranced, I was rude. I barely spoke to her. She waited silently in the kitchen while I spoke with Madame and I almost left without a word to her, but at the last moment I remembered that I might die that night and would have never touched her hand.”
“But you did?” Agnes remembered the start of love, when all things are possible. The rush of blood to the face, the trembling hands, the lightness of an unsettled stomach.