Page 30 of The Resistance Book Club

‘Thank you,’ he said, looking around. Then he set down his suitcase and stooped to set the box carefully on the floor beside it. As he stood, he reached one hand into his tweed jacket and retrieved a handful of notes.

It was more money than Margot had seen in a long time and she wondered again at his life. Where had he been the night the plane hit? And where did he find money like this when his living came from giving piano lessons and playing a few nights a week at Petit’s? He held out the money. ‘Just a few months in advance. I’m indebted to you.’

‘Thank you,’ Margot said. She smiled as if he was just any other tenant. ‘If you need anything, I’m usually in my flat on the first floor, or in the bookshop. Just come and find me.’

Margot had lived in hope that her fortunes might change and the flat would be rented out. She always made sure the rooms were aired, and that there were fresh blankets and sheets in the bedroom, and a towel and soap in the little bathroom. And now she had a lodger with pockets full of money, but she had no idea if she could trust him.

Just as she turned to go, she heard the roar of engines outside. It sounded as if the street was suddenly full of vehicles, and then there was shouting – the hoarse bark in German and French that she knew could only be the enemy.

She froze on the spot.

Then she heard footsteps clattering up the stairs, the light steps of a child.

‘Margot!’ Beatrice called, ‘Margot! They’re rounding people up!’ She hurtled through the door and collided with the Professor, who instinctively reached out and put his hand lightly on Beatrice’s shoulder to steady her.

The little girl stared up at him through wide, frightened eyes. ‘You.It’syourlot!’ she said, a sob racking her voice. ‘They’re taking our friends away!’

NINETEEN

LUCY

2025

Under Beatrice’s gaze, Lucy lifted the lid off the box.

An extraordinary collection of yellowed paper, documents, envelopes, black-and-white photos, and scribbled notes lay before her, a historical treasure trove. But it was like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle without a picture on the box.

She didn’t know which piece went where or how to even start.

She took out a photograph of Margot and Emil, her great-grandparents. It’d been taken in a wintry back garden somewhere, with leafless trees behind them. They had their arms round each other’s waists, and Emil’s hand rested on the handle of a pram. A round-faced baby in a knitted bonnet was sitting up in the pram, merrily pointing at whoever had been behind the camera.

‘Well, I know who they are,’ Lucy said to Beatrice as she laid it down on the coffee table. ‘Margot and Emil, Mémé’s mum and dad. And that’s Mémé in her pram!’

Beatrice rested her hand on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘I’m going toleave you alone with your family,’ she said gently. ‘They’ll tell you their story.’

Lucy touched Beatrice’s hand in response. ‘Thank you, Beatrice.’

Somehow, as Beatrice headed off, Lucy didn’t feel alone in the flat; it was as if Mémé was here with her.

She gazed at the photograph, trying to tease out every detail. Margot’s winter coat had no buttons and was tied closed with a belt; rationing, Lucy thought. Emil had a knitted scarf round his neck. Lucy wondered if she could work out what the background was. Lots of trees, not too tall…it was likely to be an orchard, but that didn’t narrow things down in Normandy.

She stopped herself and thought back to her journalism training and how to put a story together. Before she could home in on the details, she needed to understand the bigger picture, but the box seemed to be nothing but details, all clamouring for her attention. Once she accepted the job atGlitz, she would be writing precious few articles, but that was what came with the role. She would enjoy piecing Mémé’s story together.

She carefully removed each item, trying to organise them into piles. But she soon got confused by her own system. A photo of her great-grandparents was one thing, but what about the photographs of people she didn’t know? Snapshots taken at the harbour. A wedding photo from the 1930s of a young couple with hopeful smiles. They weren’t her great-grandparents, but there was no name on the back, so she had no idea who they were.

She found another photo of the same couple, blinking in the sunlight of a garden. The edge of a cottage was just within the frame, and it must’ve been on the clifftops, as Lucy could see a view of the village below with the small lighthouse on the harbour. A young tree, its boughs studded with apples, stood to the one side. When Lucy turned this photo over, she saw two names neatly written on the back:Esther et Daniel.

The strong sunlight came and went through the window as puffs of white cloud raced across the sky. Lucy turned the photograph back over and looked again at Esther. It was her book that had been left under the counter, and Lucy felt a connection with the young woman staring back at her through the decades.

Lucy found older photos in the box, of people wearing clothes from the 1920s and even earlier – were these Margot and Emil’s family? She sipped her coffee as she looked at a postcard from Clarenville-sur-Mer, showing the palatial hotel and the wide, golden beach, but there was no message written on the back.

She found a slim diary with a dark red cardboard cover.1941was printed on the front, and Lucy flicked through the thin pages. It saidMargot Dufourinside the front cover, but Lucy struggled with Margot’s handwriting. The diary was so tiny that the words were cramped, and she used her own abbreviations and initials, which made no sense at all. Lucy would have to come back to that.

There were letters in the envelopes, but some contained more than one, as if the original envelope had disappeared. Was there any link between one letter and the next? The paper was so thin, almost like tracing paper, and Lucy had trouble reading the old-fashioned handwriting. One of them looked as if it was from someone called Serge, but she was unable to make out who it was to, or most of the contents in the letter. Who was Serge?

And what about the business card forSylvie – couturier de luxe? Lucy had no idea who Sylvie was, nor which pile to put her business card on. She carefully unfolded a sheet of paper that was crumbling around the edges and saw handwritten sheet music. The staves had been hand-drawn in ink and the notes had been pencilled in. She cursed herself for not being musical – she couldn’t work out what the tune was. A sheet ofthin paper covered in random, pencilled dots accompanied it, and Lucy couldn’t understand why.

Near the bottom of the box, she found a printed book with a cream-coloured cover. She almost dropped it when she read the title:Liste Otto: Ouvrages retirés de la vente– works withdrawn from sale. She flicked through it, shocked at some of the titles, which she recognised at once; evenOliver Twisthad been banned.