The officer’s hand moved in a blur, and instantly he had the barrel of his German luger pressed against our son’s forehead. “What was that you said?” he asked pleasantly, leaning in closer.
“I do not know.”
“He doesn’t,” Pierre cried out. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I would involve my wife and children in this? They know nothing.” His head dropped. “Nothing.”
“So,” Kessler said, holstering his pistol, “does this mean you are ready to cooperate?”
“Fully.” Pierre looked at me, weeping. “I am so sorry, ma chérie. I am so sorry.”
It is night now as I write in my diary. There have been many tears shed this day, and much anguish experienced because of the desperate nature of our situation. Yet, in the midst of our sorrow, there have been blessings as well and for that we are grateful.
Blessing number one. Though my beloved husband is now in the hands of monstrous and evil men, my son and I are not. I fully expected that Colonel Kessler would arrest me for questioning and perhaps take Jean-Henri into custody and send him off to a camp where he would become part of the Hitler Youth movement. When the colonel did not return right away, I feared he might change his mind, so we set out immediately for Moselle, where my parents live. We told no one, and we slipped away through the woods without passing through the village. If they come for us, they shall find no one there.
Second blessing. A woman in our village serves as a housekeeper and cook at the German garrison. When she arrived there this morning, the whole garrison was in an uproar. The local cell of the Resistance had been totally broken up and arrested. (More evidence that we were betrayed from within.) From what she heard, Colonel Kessler planned to conduct the interrogations himself and then summarily execute all the prisoners. But when he wired to Paris to inform the Gestapo of these developments, they ordered him to escort all the prisoners to the capital. As things grow increasingly worse for them, the German High Command is anxious to break the back of the Resistance if at all possible. So Pierre is still alive, thanks be to God. And thanks be to God for a woman who risked her life to call my parents and let them know what she had learned. If she had not done so, Pierre would have been shipped off without me knowing, and I might never have heard from him again.
Moselle is a small town a few kilometers east of Metz. We found all there to be well. Moselle has been largely bypassed by the war. My parents were overjoyed to have their only child and grandchild with them again. And he is overjoyed to be with them. If something happens to me, I take comfort in knowing he shall be well cared for.
When the call from our friend came, I immediately determined that I must go to Paris to try to intervene in Pierre’s behalf. Both Father and Mother are trying very hard to dissuade me from such a dangerous mission, but I am resolute. I cannot stand idle if there is any hope—even the tiniest hope—that I can do something to save Pierre from execution. Tomorrow, I shall try to obtain rail tickets, or some other form of transportation, to Paris. It is 350 kilometers to the west. With the war, I am not sure if it is even possible to make such a journey. But I must try. I am fully aware of the danger, but my heart is set upon it, and my mind will not be changed.
I weep even as I write those words, but I must not—I cannot—sit back and do nothing.
Chapter 44
Paris, France
Wednesday, August 23, 1944
My entry tonight must be brief. It has taken much longer than I thought (more than a week) to make my way here. With the Allies drawing closer to the capital every day, there are roadblocks and checkpoints everywhere. The closer I got to Paris, the more chaotic things became. Vast numbers of refugees clogged the roads. The German High Command has preempted all rail traffic, and it is dangerous to even try to purchase a ticket. I had brought what little money we had saved, but few people were interested in money. All they cared about was escape. So I rode in cars, trucks, carts, and wagons; mostly I walked.
Paris is a nightmare. The Germans are frantic. The French Resistance, emboldened by the approaching Allies, has risen up, and there is fierce fighting in some districts. Rumors fly that the Free French and an American division will reach the city any day now.
I am one of only three guests in a small hotel; one of the hotel wings is gone. The owner looked at me as if I were mad when I asked for a room. I pray that the Germans have not taken Pierre away with them. Or that they have not taken action against him because of the urgency of the situation. Tomorrow, I will go to Gestapo headquarters to find my husband. I have little confidence that I will succeed, or, if I do, that I can save him. I find it difficult tonight to maintain even a sliver of hope. But I will never give up. Not until—
No! I will not give up. I will not.
“O Dieu, ne m’abandonne pas maintenant.” O God, do not abandon me now.
Chapter 45
Soldier Summit, Utah
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
I sat back, laying the papers on my lap. “That’s the last from her journal. The next part looks like it’s her history that Grandpère wrote for her.”
“Go on,” Cody exclaimed. “I want to know what happened.”
I didn’t answer him. I was thinking of the black-and-white photograph of his mother and father on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary that Grandpère kept on his nightstand. Even though she had been in her fifties by that point, she was still beautiful, with long dark hair and dark brown eyes. But even in the grainy photo, there was a scar on Monique’s right cheek—a jagged white streak against her olive flesh. It always made me shiver a little to look at it. I had asked Grandpère about it more than once, but he would always put me off with, “Maybe some other time, but not now, dear.” Well, that other time had come.
I told Rick and Cody about the picture. Cody said he remembered the picture, but hadn’t noticed the scar. Rick’s response was more thoughtful. “If she left immediately to escape the colonel, she wouldn’t have had time to get the cut treated.” Then, very softly, he added, “That’s a noble name you carry. I would like to have known her.”
“Me too,” I murmured. I picked up the papers again. “This next entry is dated August twenty-fourth.” I flipped back through the pages. “So that’s . . . eleven days later. Eleven days after she was at her parent’s home.”
“Read it to us,” Cody said.
I had a sudden idea. “Rick, are you getting cell phone reception up here?”
We were nearing Soldier Summit, the high spot and the dividing point between Price Canyon and Spanish Fork Canyon.
“Dunno,” Rick said. “Hold on.” He pulled out his phone and swiped it. He peered at it closely. “Yeah, I’ve got two bars. What do you need?”
“So you can get Internet access?”
“I assume so.” Then his expression soured. “Oh, but not on these throwaway phones. Uh . . . do you want me to put my battery back in? It would only take a few minutes.”
“No!” I barked. The last thing I wanted right now was to have El Cobra knowing where we were. “Never mind. It’s not that important. It can wait.”
“There’s a service station at the top of the summit, just a mile or two from here. We could stop there, see if they would let us use their computer for a few minutes.”
“You think they would?”
Cody half stood and reached over the seat to where the pouch sat between me and Rick. He lifted the flap and fished inside for a moment. When he withdrew his hand, he waved a hundred dollar bill at me. “They might.”
In the end, the woman was willing to let us use the computer for free. She took us back into a tiny office and logged us on to her computer. “Just stop by and say hi again sometime,” she said with a smile. “Maybe fill up with gas here instead of down in Price.”
“Deal,” Rick said. Once she’d left, he turned to me. “So what am I looking for?”
“I want to know what day the Americans liberated Paris.”
Chapter 46
Pa
ris, France
Thursday, August 24, 1944
“Monsieur?”
“Oui, madame?”
“How much do I owe for the room?”
“Nothing, madame. I cannot in good conscience charge you for a room with no heat, no lights, and no running water.”
“But, monsieur—”
One hand came up, cutting her off. “Madame LaRoche. You are a brave woman, and my heart aches for your tragedy, but I beg of you. Wait for the Allies to come. They grow closer every day. They will help you find your husband.”
“Only after many days,” she said. “By then, it may be too late. But I thank you for your concern. Please, can you tell me how to find Gestapo headquarters?”
“This is madness, madame. Even I can hardly find my way through all the rubble. And there is still fighting in the streets. You cannot go.”
She nodded. She appreciated his concern for her safety, but realized he wasn’t going to help her. “Merci, monsieur. You have been very kind.” She turned and walked out the door.
“Madame!” His call was insistent, but she didn’t look back. All she had left was a few francs, a hard roll, some cheese, and half an apple, which she carried in the old pouch.
As she walked out into the street, she marveled again that she had felt compelled to bring the old pouch. It was not hers, but Pierre’s. It had been in his family for generations, and she knew the great reverence her husband had for it. She remembered that day when Jean-Henri had been protected from the Stuka dive-bomber. And just a few days ago, it had helped Jean-Henri and Louis in the forest. Perhaps . . .
But she didn’t finish the sentence. All she could do was hold the pouch a little closer to her body.
It was worse than the hotel owner had said, even worse than Monique had imagined. She had been to Paris only twice in her life—once as a little girl, once as a teenager—so she didn’t know the city at all. She sought for a map without success. Not that it would have helped anyway in the war-torn city. She had assumed she could just ask for directions, but that proved far more difficult than she had thought. The streets were mostly deserted. Except for the distant rumble of artillery, a pall of silence lay over the city. Occasionally, she would catch a glimpse of a face at the window, but it would quickly turn away. The few people she did meet either refused to stop, or shook their heads and said they didn’t know, or ran when they heard the word Gestapo.
By midafternoon, she was totally and completely lost. Exhausted and rapidly losing heart, she huddled in the doorway of a bombed-out building. She ate her remaining food, saving the apple for last. She ate it, seeds, core, and all.
Sick with worry, nearing physical collapse, and fearful that she might run into German soldiers, the last of the resolute courage which had driven her was rapidly ebbing away. Leaning back against the wall, she drew her legs up and laid her arms across her knees, using the pouch for a cushion. Her head dropped; she buried her face against the rough cloth as the tears began to flow.
“I can’t,” she cried. “I can’t do it.” A shudder shook her body as the floodgates of her emotions burst. “I’m sorry, Pierre. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She wasn’t sure how long she wept, but when her body finally spent itself, she was too weary to care anymore. A great numbness settled upon her. She laid her head back against the brick wall behind her, surrendering to the nothingness.
It was somewhere at that point that the voice came into her mind. It was softer than the whisper of a breeze across the grass, more soothing than a damp cloth on a fevered brow, sweeter than the choirs of Notre Dame.
Why do you weep, Monique? Have you forgotten that there is purpose to your life, even in the midst of your suffering? Do you think that because you have been stretched beyond your capacity to endure, that you have lost the right to choose who you are and what you will be?
Her head lifted as the tears began afresh, only now they washed away the despair, washed away the weariness, washed away the hopelessness.
“No,” she whispered. “I have not forgotten.”
When the voice spoke in her mind again, it filled her with such joy that she felt as if her heart would burst. Then go forth. And remember, you are not alone.
When she stepped out into the rubble-strewn street again, she was at peace, but she still had no idea where to go or what to do. Placing the pouch over her shoulder, she stood for a moment, one hand resting lightly upon it, waiting, listening. This time it was not a voice, but only a feeling. She looked both ways, but chose to turn left.
She had not gone a block before a noise ahead of her startled her. She ducked into the shadows of a ruined building. Not ten feet ahead of her, a young man stepped out from the doorway of an apartment building. He had a French beret pulled low over his eyes and a World War I rifle in both hands. Glancing furtively in both directions, he turned and started away. She stepped out. At the noise of her footsteps, he spun around, rifle coming up as he dropped into a crouch.
She raised her arms slowly, holding his eyes with her own, letting him see that she was not a threat to him. She was sure he belonged to the French Resistance. The stubble on his face was thick and dark, his clothes were stained with mud and torn in a few places. She guessed he was maybe eighteen or nineteen.
He recovered quickly. Seeing she was alone and unarmed, he lowered his rifle. “Mademoiselle,” he said urgently, “you should not be here. It is too dangerous. Go back inside.”
She smiled. To have him mistake her for a young, unmarried woman instead of a weary, terrified wife and mother lit up her soul like a ray of light. “It is madame,” she said, “not mademoiselle. Please, can you help me?”
She had done better than she had thought. She had already reached the eighth arrondisement, or district, of Paris and was only ten minutes from rue de Saussaies.
The young man stopped as they rounded a corner. “There,” he said, pointing. “Number eleven is the white stone building with the green doors.” He touched her arm. “But you will find no one there. The Germans loaded their prisoners onto trucks and left about two hours ago.”
All she could do was stare at him. Only two hours ago? Had she come so close only to have failed? “Do you have any idea where they were taking them?”
He could not meet her gaze. He turned away, pretending to examine the building ahead of them. But Monique had seen what he could not bear to tell her, and she could not bear to ask.
“I am sorry, madame. I cannot help you,” he finally said.
Her head came up. “I understand. Merci beaucoup.”
His face was stricken. “I am sorry that I cannot go farther, but others are waiting for me. There are things yet I must do. I must go.”
“I shall never forget what you have done for me,” she whispered.
“And I shall never forget my angel in the rubble, madame. Your image in my heart will remind me of that for which we fight this day.”
To her surprise, he took her by the shoulders and kissed her quickly on both cheeks. “And may God grant you success in the search for your husband. Adieu, madame.”
As he strode away, she realized that he had said adieu rather than au revoir. Au revoir meant good-bye, but adieu literally meant “to God.” It was not used as a farewell often in everyday life, because it carried with it an implication that by commending the other person to God, one recognized they might never meet again.
Straightening her shoulders, filled with both fear and dread, she started down the street.
Chapter 47
No. 11, rue de Saussaies, 8th Arrondisement, Paris, France
Thursday, August 24, 1944
Monique approached the entrance to the Gestapo headquarters slowly. The doors were wide open. One hung crazily from one hinge. Stepping carefully, trying not to make a sound, she moved inside. What greeted her was a scene of chaos, destruction, and flight. Papers and rubbish were scattered everywhere. Chairs were overturned or smashed in pieces. Filing cabinets stood askew, draw
ers half-opened. In one corner there was a desk with a typewriter and phone on it. The phone was overturned. A sheet of paper was in the typewriter, abandoned by an unknown clerk.
She felt a growing chill as she moved through the large room. This was not just any office. This was where the everyday aspects of the work of horror began. It was over these phones that unthinkable orders were given, and on these desks that certificates of death and torture were signed and certified, and in these cabinets that a record of unthinkably ghastly deeds was meticulously filed in alphabetical order.
She wanted to scream—scream to the world so that all might see what man had done to their fellow man.
She forced herself to push the horror away. Her quest was all that mattered. She stopped, looking around, listening intently.
“Bonjour,” she called after a moment. “Is anyone here?” Her heart was hammering so loudly that she wasn’t sure she would hear an answer if one came. But there was nothing.
Bending down, she picked up a piece of paper half-filled with lines of German—a language she could neither read nor speak fluently. She discarded it, and tried another with the same results. This one had an official-looking stamp at the bottom with the Nazi swastika in a circle. She flung it away from her like it was acid on her flesh.
Feeling her despair rising, she moved toward a hallway. The likelihood of finding some clue to Pierre’s whereabouts was remote. But perhaps the boy was wrong. Perhaps, in their rush, the Germans had not been able to take all of the prisoners with them. The chilling silence in the room belied that hope, but she had to know. She began looking for stairs; perhaps there were prison cells in the basement.
She entered a long corridor with doors on both sides. Most were open. Here too, the evidence of flight was everywhere. As she passed one of the rooms, she stopped. Inside, two plain wooden chairs faced each other. A single light fixture hung down from the ceiling. She saw the barred windows and a thick metal ring attached to the far wall. Shock jolted her as she realized she was passing the interrogation rooms. She saw dark stains on the walls. She turned and fled in horror.