Page 42 of The Resistance Book Club

She comforted Isabelle when she cried, gazed down at her with love as she held the baby in her arms to feed her, and crept quietly around the flat as she dozed.

It was while Isabelle slept that Margot allowed herself to cry quietly for Esther, pressing her face into a cushion.

As she danced Beatrice’s old toy dog with droopy ears on the edge of the basket, Margot told Isabelle all about her mum and dad. How they’d met, what their Jewish wedding was like, and how happy they’d been when Esther had found out she was pregnant. She showed Isabelle her parents’ wedding photo, and watched as the baby’s huge eyes focused on the couple in the picture. If she held on to those memories, those happy stories which she wanted Isabelle to remember, maybe she could push aside the dreadful image of Esther lying dead. That had only been one moment in a whole life; she didn’t want Esther to be defined entirely by her death.

That evening, Margot was by the window at the front of her flat, going through the pile of baby clothes and listening to the orchestral music that was drifting from Petit’s on the breeze. Bombastic brass filled the tranquil air, with seething violins calling out a piercing reply that was a world away from the cheerful melodies the Professor played when he was at the bar’s piano. Margot didn’t recognise it, but such music had become commonplace since the SS had taken up residence in the village.

As she watched from the window the door of Petit’s opened and a uniformed figure emerged, the evening sun gleaming on the death’s-head cap badge.

Fear clutched her as she saw the cold, hard features of Felix Lauterborn. And he was heading straight for the bookshop.

TWENTY-SEVEN

LUCY

2025

Lucy ran downstairs, using the light on her phone as a torch. Another clap of thunder crashed overhead. She hurried along the unlit corridor to the street door and pulled it open.

A blast of lightning illuminated Sébastien on her doorstep in a waterproof that was slick with rain. His hood had blown back so that his dark hair was drenched. A gale was howling through the street, trying to blow him sideways, pulling at his waterproof and whipping his wet hair.

‘Sébastien!’ she said, breathless with urgency. ‘A flood coming in? Where?’

‘Through the tunnels,’ he shouted over the wind. ‘Under the houses!’

She stood back to let him come in out of the storm. ‘Tunnels? I didn’t know there were any. But surely they’re all blocked off now? The cellar door’s rusted shut!’

‘Even more reason to check,’ Sébastien replied. He flicked a switch on the torch he was carryingand its beam illuminated the hallway. For a moment he looked at her through the shadows. Then he asked again, ‘Are you okay?’

Lucy knew he could see she’d been crying. But she didn’t want to mention the wedding. ‘It’s…it’s one of those days. And I’ve been reading something that Mémé left for me, and it made me cry.’

‘From the memory box?’ Sébastien asked. The question took Lucy by surprise. ‘You should probably have the lullaby for it, if you like?’

Lucy nodded. ‘Yes, from the memory box. And I’d love to have the lullaby! I’d just reached the bit where…’ She wondered how much of the story Sébastien knew. In her mind, she saw Beatrice as a girl, stroking Isabelle’s cheek. Then she pictured her great-grandmother, trying to wipe away Esther’s blood. The image was so real to her that she barely noticed another thunderclap overhead; she could almost have reached out to help her. ‘Esther…’

Sébastien frowned. ‘Esther?’ he asked. Then he seemed to recall who Lucy meant and said, ‘The lady whose parcel they keep in the bookshop? She was a friend of my great-grandmother, Joséphine, back in the Forties. She was Jewish.’ That spoke volumes, and Lucy tensed, thinking of all the bleak, tragic photographs and newsreel footage of what had happened to millions of Jewish people in Europe back then. ‘I think…well, you can guess.’

‘Yes…I’ve just read about how Esther died,’ Lucy replied, her voice catching.

At the mention of Joséphine, Lucy wondered if Sébastien knew about her work for the resistance, sleeping with the very man who murdered Esther. But now wasn’t the time to mention that. It’d be a huge shock if no one had ever told him.

She led the way down the corridor to the back of the house. ‘I don’t remember Mémé ever mentioning the tunnels to me. I don’t even know if she was still using the cellar.’

‘We used to play in them but we never went too far; we were too scared of getting lost down there. There aren’t any maps, as far as I know,’ Sébastien said. ‘But we did like to pop up in random houses and scare people witless now and then.’

Despite the sadness that still lingered around her, Lucy couldn’t help but laugh. She liked the fact that the tunnels had found a new life after the war. ‘That’s hilarious! I bet Mémé never minded though – well, if you’d ever been able to get this ancient door open.’

The strong beam of Sébastien’s torch lit up the door. He took hold of the door handle and rattled it, as though that alone might release it, then held his torch out to Lucy and deadpanned, ‘If I shoulder this door in and there’s a tidal wave behind it, I’m going to blame you.’

Lucy took the torch and tried to hold it steady as she chuckled again. It was a relief to laugh. Sébastien rattled the door again, pushing hard against it. Lucy heard a grating, metallic sound as the rusted hinges complained. But it didn’t move.

‘I don’t often get to be manly, making croissants for a living,’ Sébastien told her with a wink. Then he drew back a little and took a deep breath before he raised his leg and kicked hard, striking the door just below the lock with the sole of his foot. The hinges gave a loud squeak of complaint as the door swung inwards.

Lucy was overwhelmed by the scent that rose up from the dark, long-closed cellar. She could smell the salty tang of the sea and something else, something old. She could hear the sea now, too, the echo of the storm-whipped waves hurling themselves noisily against the harbour and the beach.

‘It’s amazing to think the book club used to meet down here,’ she whispered. She felt a flicker of excitement, now that the door had opened onto their secret place. But if it flooded, their meetingplace would be lost.

She aimed Sébastien’s torch down the stone steps. She tried to make sense of what the beam picked out from the darkness: worn steps, dust motes, a plastered wall with pieces coming loose. She passed Sébastien his torch. If it was flooding down there, he’d know what to do.