Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
About the Author
ALSO BY KIMBERLY BRUBAKER BRADLEY
Copyright Page
This book is written as fiction
but tells a true story.
Suzanne David Hall,
former opera singer and spy for France,
graciously shared her stories with me.
I dedicate this book to Suzanne
and her husband, Larson,
and to their family,
with thanks.
CHAPTER ONE
For me the war began on May 29, 1940. I was thirteen years old.
It was a Wednesday, the day we studied catechism and had choir practice and then had the afternoon free. Of course, I had to remain after choir to rehearse my solo, but when that was finished I found my friend Yvette. Together we went to Soeur Margritte.
“S’il vous plaît, please, Soeur Margritte, may we go down to the beach?” we asked.
Our convent school was high among the hills of Cherbourg; school was farther from the beach than my own home. But while we were not permitted home except on weekends, we were sometimes permitted to go about town. Yvette and I were good students, well behaved. Always follow the rules, my papa told me, and you will be all right. I always did, and I always was.
“We will take our homework,” Yvette said.
“It’s such a beautiful day,” I said.
“We will be back before supper,” we chorused.
France had been at war with Germany for nearly six months, yet there had been so little fighting that it seemed to mean nothing. The German army had spread across Europe, almost unopposed; neither the French nor the British had done much to stop them. There were English soldiers stationed in Cherbourg—I saw them when Maman and I went to the market on Saturdays—but they were quiet and polite and never bothered anyone. I couldn’t imagine them actually fighting. Some days it was hard to believe we were in a real war.
Which is not to say we weren’t paying attention. We listened to the radio and read the newspaper reports with increasing dread. We knew Hitler was coming; we feared that nothing could stop him. Papa and Maman talked in low voices at the dinner table, and sometimes Papa pounded his fist on the table and swore. “That Hitler!” he would say. “That cursed son of Satan!”
But I was only thirteen. My brothers, Pierre and Etienne, were fourteen and sixteen, too young to be soldiers; Etienne was lame as well. And I was studying to be a famous opera singer. I loved singing like nothing else. At Christmas I had sung a solo in the church choir, Gounod’s “Ave Maria,” and our director had said I was talented and should pursue a career. So now I had a music tutor, Madame Marcelle; I took special voice lessons twice a week and practiced hard every day.
So it was not that I was not paying attention to the war, but that I never thought the war could hurt me.
“Yes,” Soeur Margritte decided. She was the nicest of the sisters. “It’s a beautiful day, and who knows how many carefree days we have left. You may go. Have a nice time—but do your homework!”
We skipped down the cobblestone streets. The wind blowing in from the Channel tousled our skirts, pulled at our hair. I sang an aria from Carmen as we drew closer. Carmen was my favorite opera. I knew most of the part of Carmen, but I still could not reach some of the high notes.
“Oh, tais-toi,” said Yvette, rolling her eyes at me. “Be quiet. Singing, always singing. I bet you sing in your sleep.”
I probably did sing in my sleep. Someday I would sing in Paris. I dreamed of it all the time. “I’ll ask Odette,” I said. Odette was one of my roommates. I hummed a few notes, then began again. “ Ah! je t’aime, Escamillo, je t’aime, et que je meure si j’ai jamais aimé quelqu’un autant que toi! Ah, I love you, Escamillo, I love you, and may I die if I have ever loved anyone as much as you!”
Yvette grinned. “What a horrible song!” She tossed her hair over her shoulder, flung her arm out dramatically, and began to sing, “ Savez-vous planter les choux? Do you know how to plant cabbages?” A simple nursery song. Her voice wobbled, up, down, down, up.
Singing is a talent. You have it or you don’t.
“Come on!” I said, running toward the sea.
We went to the Place Napoléon, the big square near the Gare Maritime, the station where trains could pull right up to the harbor to load and unload the ships. The Church of La Trinité formed part of the square, and from the benches around the edge we could watch the ships in the harbor, the waves curling, and the birds wheeling overhead. People strolled back and forth across the square.
We settled onto a bench in the sun. I opened my history book. History was my favorite subject. Yvette sniffed the air as though it were a flower. “It’s so nice to be outside,” she said, “after being stuck in that stuffy school all day. You’re not going to start with the books already, are you? Let’s talk.”
“Okay.” I closed my book and looked around. “The harbor’s empty. That’s odd.” Cherbourg had an important harbor; before the war big ships had come often. I had been on the Queen Elizabeth once, when she was docked at Cherbourg.
Yvette looked too. “Not really,” she said. “It’s such a pretty day. If I had a boat, I’d take it out today too.”
“Bonjour, Yvette,” came a woman’s pleasant voice. “Bonjour, Suzanne.”
“Bonjour, madame,” we said. Our friend Madame Montagne waved to us as she came nearer. Her little son, Simon, skipped down to the water’s edge and threw rocks into the waves. The Montagnes lived near Yvette’s family, and Madame Montagne was Yvette’s mother’s friend. Since I was Yvette’s best friend, I had known Madame Montagne for years.
“Where’s Marie?” I asked. Marie was her daughter, two years old, a beautiful child with wide blue eyes.
“With her grandmother,” Madame Montagne said. She patted her bulging belly happily. She was going to have a baby very soon; we often talked to her about it. Yvette was knitting her a pair of tiny booties. “I have grown too fat and I can’t carry her this far. But Simon wanted to walk down to the beach. It’s such a pretty day.” She looked up. “Is that a plane?”
There was a far-off buzzing noise. It did sound like a plane.
“Salut, Simon!” Yvette yelled. Simon waved to her.
I hummed a scale to myself, D minor, as I found my place in my history book again.
The buzzing noise grew louder.
“Simon!” called Madame Montagne. “Do not get your shoes wet! Stay out of the water!” She started to walk toward him.
Suddenly the noise turned into a roar. Planes swarmed overhead, many of them, their engines fast and loud.
I jumped to my feet. My books slid to the ground. Yvette turned toward me, her eyes wide. She said something I didn’t hear.
The beach, the square, exploded.
A bomb landed directly in front of us, throwing up a huge spray
of fire and rock, making a noise louder than anything I had ever heard. I threw myself to the ground. Yvette dropped beside me, and we cowered beneath the bench, our arms over our heads. Bomb after bomb fell around us. I think I screamed, but I couldn’t hear myself in the noise.
Then the planes flew on. There was a moment of near-silence, broken immediately by screams. On the hills of the city I could see smoke where fires burned. A siren began to wail.
Giant holes pockmarked the Place Napoléon. Not too far from us lay a body, a spreading pool of blood darkening the ground around it. “Madame!” screamed Yvette. We ran.
She was dead, torn apart. Her stomach had been ripped open. Beside her lay her little baby, never born but dead now too. A little girl, all covered in blood.
Yvette was screaming something, and now I caught the words: “She has no head! She has no head!”
I had been looking at the baby. I looked where Madame Montagne’s head should have been, and then I took my sweater off and dropped it over that spot. Yvette shook like a sapling in a storm, screaming and crying and trembling all at the same time. I took her sweater and used it to cover the tiny baby.
Yvette backed up, still shaking, and turned on her heel as if to run. I whipped around and caught her hard by the arm. “We stay,” I said, holding her tightly. “We stay here with Madame Montagne.”
I didn’t see little Simon anywhere, though I searched and searched with my eyes. There were craters, rubble; he could be anywhere. Please, God, let him have run home, I prayed. Please, God, let him live.
Our sweaters were deep blue, so they only darkened a little as Madame Montagne’s blood soaked them. The cold wind whipped through our thin dresses. Blood ran down my arms and legs from narrow deep cuts that covered me. When it began to dry, my skin grew sticky. The flags flying near the church snapped on their poles. All around us, sirens screamed. Seabirds cried until I could hardly distinguish one noise from another.
Yvette had a gash on her cheek. Her white kneesocks were splattered red and brown. I could feel how mine stuck to me.
Yvette shook and sobbed. I shook, but not as much. She vomited. I did not, though I could feel my insides twisting and had to clench my teeth hard.
Eventually an ambulance came for Madame Montagne. I started to walk toward the ocean, to look for Simon, but Yvette collapsed the moment I let go of her arm. I went back to her and hauled her to her feet. “There was a little boy,” I told the ambulance driver. “A boy, here. Simon Montagne.” The driver nodded and said something to me, but I couldn’t understand him for the ringing in my ears. Yvette moaned and her legs gave way. I hauled her up again. “Come,” I said. “Come. Walk.”
In a daze we staggered back to school. Yvette stumbled, and I held her up. Once I could not hold her and we both fell. I skinned my knees against the cobblestones.
“Walk,” I said. “Walk.” The convent would be safe. The sisters would know what to do.
As we approached the gate, Soeur Margritte ran to meet us. “Oh, mon Dieu,” she cried. Her voice sounded like a seagull’s cry, thin and wailing. “Oh, God in heaven. What happened? What should we do?”
Soeur Margritte was supposed to tell me what to do. “There were planes,” I said. “Bombs. Madame Montagne—” Yvette cried out and crumpled to the ground, her hands over her face. Soeur Margritte huddled over her.
A flock of people, sisters and students, rushed out the doors and surrounded us. Soeur Marie-Auguste, the principal, took me gently by the arm. “Suzanne? Are you much hurt?”
I shook my head.
“Come,” she said very gently, as though speaking to a tiny child. “Come with me. I will take you home.” She led me away. I looked over my shoulder, wondering what was happening to Yvette.
Maman cried out in horror when she saw me, and rushed to put her arms around me.
“I’m not really hurt,” I said.
Maman pulled back to look at me. “You are bleeding. You’re covered in blood.”
“We went to the square. Madame Montagne—and Yvette—it was so loud. Simon’s lost, I couldn’t find him, there were bombs—” I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering, couldn’t find enough words to tell the story.
“Shhh,” Maman said. “Don’t talk. Try not to think about it.” She sat me down on a kitchen chair, and she telephoned Dr. Leclerc and then my father. Dr. Leclerc lived just down the street from us, but Papa arrived first. He hugged me hard. It hurt; I had little sharp pieces of something embedded in my arms. I flinched, and he stepped back. He looked furious. I couldn’t tell whether he was angry at me or at the school.
“That Hitler,” he said at last. “That son of Satan.”
So he was not angry at me or the school.
My brothers were at their school, the monastery school for boys. I prayed they were safe. Surely we would have heard by now if their school had been hit. I wondered where they had been when the bombs fell, whether they had heard them, what they had done. I wondered how they would react when they learned about Madame Montagne. Did they know this was possible in Cherbourg? Was I the only one surprised?
Dr. Leclerc came and examined my wounds. I had splinters of sharp rock and metal all through my lower arms, and some in my legs as well. Shrapnel, it was called. Dr. Leclerc carefully picked out as much of it as he could. He washed the cuts and bandaged my arms loosely. My arms had felt numb after the bombing, but now they hurt as if they were on fire. “Some of the shrapnel is still deeply embedded,” he said. “It will work its way to the surface of your skin in time. Or not. Perhaps you will always carry it with you.”
“I want to carry nothing from this day with me.” My words came out stiff and angry.
“So? You are not one who cries, eh?” Dr. Leclerc patted my cheek with approval. He lived three doors down from us. His office was the lower part of his house. I had known him and his wife and his two little children forever. “Tough girl.”
What good would crying do?
“Madame Montagne is dead,” I said. “We could not find her son, Simon.”
Dr. Leclerc nodded. “I will pray for her,” he said, “and I’ll try to find out about Simon. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know.”
Maman made me tea and warmed some soup for my supper. She sat beside me while I sipped half a bowl. My teeth chattered against the spoon. My stomach closed against the soup.
“Never mind,” Maman said. She led me upstairs and helped me into my nightgown. “Shall I sit with you until you’re asleep?”
“Yes, please,” I whispered.
I had not said much about what had happened. I tried not to think about it, but in honesty I could think of nothing else; Maman and I waited together in the dark for a long time before sleep came. When I did sleep, I dreamed of the screech of the bombs. Madame Montagne was screaming, and Yvette spun away from me as bombs exploded between us. I jerked awake. Maman was gone. The pain in my arms made it difficult to sleep again.
CHAPTER TWO
The next morning I returned to school. Maman wanted me to stay home. I knew the sisters would have understood if I had, but I felt compelled to go despite the blood seeping through the bandages on my arms. I didn’t want to let the war affect me. I didn’t want to give up so much as one day of school. “I must go,” I said. “Yvette will need me. I must.”
Maman looked at Papa, and Papa shrugged. “Let her go,” he said. “The doctor didn’t say to keep her home. Let her be with her friends.”
So Maman walked me back to school. She stayed with me for morning Mass. “I don’t see Yvette,” I whispered when we were kneeling after Communion. “Where do you think she is?”
Maman shook her head. I decided Yvette must be somewhere behind me, where it was hardest to look without angering the sisters. Then when Mass was over and I still couldn’t find her, I decided she must have slept late. Surely when she woke she would come.
One class passed, then another. I barely heard the words the sisters spoke. Yvette didn’t come. All day lo
ng I looked for her.
What if she was hurt? I didn’t think her wounds had been worse than mine, but what if I was wrong? Why hadn’t I checked on her the night before? Yvette was the one person who completely understood me; she was funny and gentle, and ever since we were small she had been my best friend. I had never been homesick at boarding school, because Yvette was there. I depended on her.
“Soeur Elisabeth,” I said to my etiquette teacher at the end of the day, “where’s Yvette?”
Soeur Elisabeth was not a smiling sort of person. She looked especially harsh now. “Yvette’s mother sent a note,” she said. “She will come back when she is able.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked. “Was she hurt?” I shouldn’t have made her walk so far, I thought. I should have taken her home or made her get into the ambulance.
Soeur Elisabeth hesitated. “I think she isn’t hurt in her body,” she said finally, “but it must have been dreadful yesterday, the things you saw.”
I had been able to get through school only by blocking the previous day completely from my mind. I didn’t reply to Soeur Elisabeth. I could think of nothing to say.
“Pray for Yvette,” said Soeur Elisabeth. “And hurry now to your music lesson. You are late.”
Here is an odd thing: I couldn’t read music. The notes on a page meant nothing to me. I knew that many people could look at a piece of sheet music and understand exactly how the song should sound, but I couldn’t. What I could do was sing perfectly on key once I heard a song. I never forgot music I had learned.
When Madame Marcelle became my tutor, she discovered that I couldn’t sight-read. She tried to teach me for a while but soon gave up. “You learn things only in your own way,” she said, not disapprovingly. Madame Marcelle was very tall and rather stiff, with gray hair she wore pulled back in a coil. I wasn’t sure why everyone called her madame, since she wasn’t married. I would never have dared to ask. “We’ll teach you your own way, then.” Madame Marcelle and I got on very well together.
I walked into the music room numb with grief for Madame Montagne and Yvette. My hands were cold. My stomach ached. Madame Marcelle hardly looked at me. “Here is a new song for you,” she said. “Bach. J. S. Bach.” She stuck the music on a stand in front of me— she always insisted on putting the music in front of me, as though by osmosis it would somehow begin to make sense—and she sang: