Page 40 of The Resistance Book Club

And as soon as she read those fatal words and realised how Esther had died, Lucy was overcome with remorseless grief. She shook with tears as she thought of Esther’s broken body lying on the flagstone floor, her blood pooling around her. Her mind was swamped with cascading images: a baby in a basket, a bridal bouquet, her mother’s tiara, Mémé reading stories in her bookshop, and Esther. Poor Esther.

Thinking of tiny Isabelle, losing her mother when she was so young, picked at Lucy’s own scar. She, too, had lost a mother who she could barely remember. She cried even more.

She could have rung her friends, or her dad and her stepmum, but she knew she needed to let the feelings go.

As the afternoon wore on, she began to recover. She wondered where Esther had been laid to rest; she’d ask Beatrice when she came back. She wanted to pay her respects. She went down to the shop. It was cooler down there than in the flat, and she was drawn to the wrapped book under the counter. She brought it out, cradling it in her arms as she wept again.

Once she had no tears left to shed, Lucy put the book back under the counter. As she got to her feet, her attention was drawn to the shelves of books on the Second World War. She wanted some sort of context, to understand Esther’s death. What happened here, to the Jewish people of Normandy?

She put aside the photograph-filled books about D-Day, and instead found a book written in French about the occupation. She took it to the book-nook and sat down among the cushions, then turned to the index. Despite the closeness and heat of the day, as she ran her finger down the names she went cold.

She’d found the name:Lauterborn, Felix.

She turned to the page and began to read.

A key figure in Himmler’s entourage, Obergruppenführer Felix Lauterborn was entrusted with the administration of theEinsatzgruppendeath squads.

A virulent anti-Semite since his youth, bank clerk Lauterborn leveraged his friendships with Himmler and Hitler to rise through the Nazi ranks. He became a trusted associate of Reinhard Heydrich, once described by Hitler as ‘the man with the iron heart.’

Lauterborn’s penchant for administration made him a vital figure in the architecture of the state terror machine; Heydrich credited his organisational skills with bringing Kristallnacht to fruition. His murderous regime while commandant of the internment camp at Bergères-sur-Seine earned him the soubriquet ‘the Beast of Bergères-sur-Seine’.

She glanced round as a small motorbike puttered up the narrow road, and she thought of Fernand, waving from the window of the bar to Margot, and Esther walking past the shop with her baby in a pram. Lucy’s hands tensed against the book.

She went on reading, although the cloudy day had made the light gloomy, and found a quotation from a letter that Lauterborn had written to Heydrich:

I need not tell you that I am at your disposal in all matters relating to the final solution of the Jewish problem.I remain wholly and totally dedicated to this important initiative and am keen to begin our vital work in this regard.

The letter chilled her. It was so blandly businesslike. He may as well have been writing about someone cashing a cheque rather than the hate-fuelled slaughter of innocent human beings.

Then, on the opposite page, she saw Lauterborn’s photo; the long face, the scar carved down one cheek, the cold, hard eyes. The SS thunderbolt insignia stood out on his collar. His uniform was pinned with medals and badges, a man who’d been celebrated in his time for the evil he’d perpetrated.

Lucy snapped the book closed to cut off his cruel stare. As she returned it to the shelf, she heard an enormous crash from outside.

She’d been so immersed in the world of the occupation that her first thought – and she felt ridiculous for thinking it – was that a bomb had been dropped. But then she turned and saw huge, fat raindrops splashing against the pavement outside, and realised it was a storm.

She hurried upstairs to close the windows as a strong breeze blew in, bringing the rain with it. The thick clouds blended with the darkening evening and Lucy switched on the lights. The thunder crashed and rolled, coming nearer and nearer as flashes of lightning made her squint.

The rain hammered against the windows and Lucy wondered about the local fishermen, who would’ve been out in their boats. But maybe they were sensible enough to have known what the stacking clouds were heralding and had come back to the harbour. She jumped with each crash and growl of thunder. Then, suddenly, the lights went out.

Lucy shivered. The violence of the storm had unnerved her, and she didn’t know what to do in a power cut. She sat in the near-dark, which vanished for a second as another bolt of lightningflashed and lit up the whole room, before leaving her in the gloom again.

And then there was a knock at the door. Lucy started at the sound, her whole body growing tense.

‘Lucy!’ It was Sébastien’s voice. ‘Are you okay? There’s a flood coming in!’

TWENTY-SIX

MARGOT

1941

The next morning, Beatrice arrived, offering to look after Isabelle so that Margot could go to the shops. She wished she could’ve wheeled the baby around Cordeval in her pram to get some fresh air, but it was far too much of a risk.

Isabelle had slept well, but Margot had only slept lightly, tormented by the shock of witnessing Esther’s murder. Each time she was awoken by another nightmare, she listened for any sign that the baby was going to cry. And she’d been listening out for her new neighbour, too. She didn’t know how long she could keep Isabelle’s presence a secret from him. She’d heard footsteps from above as the Professor moved around his flat, and each time she’d tensed.

She’d found Esther’s copyofThe Three Musketeersinside Isabelle’s basket, and when she’d opened the book she’d found an inscription inside the front cover, in her friend’s handwriting:To our darling Isabelle, All for one and one for all, love from Mummy and Daddy.

‘She’s a very good baby,’ Margot told Beatrice. She was stillthinking of the book’s inscription, and it broke her heart to think that little Isabelle had lost her mother, and might never meet her father. ‘But if she cries, and you hear the Professor coming to my door, don’t let him in. Wait for me to come back.’