Page 59 of The Resistance Book Club

Lucy left the shop and went down to the square, looking up at the plaque again as if it would yield the answer. But as she stood there, she was distracted by a couple coming out of thetown hall with a newborn in a pram. It made her think of Isabelle. They must’ve been registering the birth, and Lucy smiled to see the couple look so happy.

Then she went into the town hall, across the marble floor and up to the reception desk, where an older man with a beard and glasses sat. No one could be born or die in Cordeval without it being recorded in the registers here by the clerk.

‘Bonjour. I’m Lucy – Arielle Pascal’s granddaughter. I’m doing some research she left behind,’ Lucy began. ‘I know this might seem like a strange question, and you might not be able to answer it, but I found this list of names, and I just wondered…could they be connected with the executions in the square?’

Her stomach flipped with anticipation as she slid the list of names over the counter to him.

He peered down his nose at the list and his eyes widened.

‘Ah, our brave heroes!’ he said, his sombre expression suddenly brightening. He tapped his fingertip to the page. ‘You’ve seen our plaque, of course?’

‘Yes.’ Lucy nodded. She pictured Margot smiling proudly at the clerk’s words. ‘Beatrice showed it to me. I don’t suppose I could get a copy of Madame Guerin’s death certificate? It’d be really helpful for my research.’

The clerk nodded. ‘Give me five minutes,’ he said, picking up the piece of paper. Then he stood and opened a closed door behind the desk. Humming a tune, he disappeared into the building.

Lucy tapped her fingertips on the desk as she waited. A warm sea breeze came in through the propped-open door and ruffled the tricolour that hung beside the old bust of Marianne near the entrance.

Eventually, the clerk returned. Not just with a certificate, but with a large, leatherbound book. He laid it on the desk with great care and opened it to a page full of names, and Lucyrealised this was where he copied the certificates from. She ran her gaze down the page and recognised the names from the list she’d found in the basement. And they all had died on the same day: 14November1941.

An icy shiver ran down her spine. ‘This is them, isn’t it? All the heroes on the list.’

The man nodded. ‘They were fearless,’ he said. ‘They knew what they were risking, but they resisted all the same.’

‘What’s that…mort accidentelle?’ Lucy pointed to the cause of death beside Madame Guerin’s name. ‘Why does it say that when it wasn’t an accident?’

‘Because it looked better in the records,’ he explained. ‘The town’s mayor at the time was an enthusiastic collaborator. It wouldn’t do for him to be letting the Nazis execute his own citizens, so the records were fudged accordingly. The Germans didn’t complain either; it preserved the illusion of a peaceful occupation.’

No wonder Mémé had wanted her to write down the town’s story. The truth needed to be told, even when the official record veered away from it.

Lucy thanked the clerk, and left the town hall with Madame Guerin’s certificate. She bought a bunch of peach and white roses from the florist’s on the square, then walked towards the plaque, her steps unsteady with the force of her emotion. She laid the bouquet on the ground beneath the plaque and through eyes blurred with tears, looked up at it. All those names, all those lives so brutally ended. But people remembered them, and she would do what she could too to ensure they weren’t forgotten.

Lucy went back to the bookshop. She had other things to resolve beyond her research. First of all, she rang Polly. It was odd thinking about her boss in the shiny office in London, while Lucy was surrounded by old wooden shelves full of books.

‘Lucy, hi,’ Polly said. ‘I have got literally less than five minutes before I have to run for a New York flight. What’s up?’

‘I’ve made my decision,’ Lucy told her. She pictured Polly’s designer luggage, ready to go to Heathrow, and she was surprised when she didn’t feel a pang of envy for her hectic, jet-set lifestyle. ‘I’m turning down your very kind offer. And in fact…I’m resigning. I’m going to move to France.’

The words were out of her mouth now, and she couldn’t unsay them. But she wasn’t scared. Instead, she was fizzing with excitement for her new life.

‘I knew this would bloody happen, the second I told you to find a hot Frenchman.’ Polly sighed. ‘Lucy, you are a frankly massive loss to the world of fashion journalism, God help us. I’m gutted!’

‘Oh, Polly! You’ve been the best boss I could’ve asked for, but there’s someone waiting out there who deserves a chance and will be a brilliant editor in chief. And any time you want to get away from it all in France, you just let me know!’

‘Oh, you can bet on it!’ Polly laughed. ‘And put your decision in writing when you can tear yourself away from Monsieur Gorgeous, so we can make it all official. Be well, you little stinker!’

Lucy laughed too. She’d miss Polly and her whirlwind energy, and her determined ambition, but she knew she was making the right choice.

Lucy ended the call, dreading the next call she had to make. She moved to stand in front of a set of shelves bursting with books and ornaments chosen by Mémé, before taking a steadying breath and pressing the button to call her dad. The video call’s ringtone sang out jauntily in the otherwise empty shop as she waited for him to answer. She’d been rehearsing this conversation in her head, but now all those words evaporated.

‘Lucy-Lu!’ her father exclaimed brightly as the screen blinked into life. ‘How’s life in the French boondocks, darling?’

The French boondocks?Lucy could already sense that this conversation wasn’t going to go well.

‘Oh, it’s just great, Dad!’ she replied with a bright smile. ‘I’ve been finding out so much about Cordeval – honestly, Great-Grandma Margot was an astonishing woman. I had no idea! You know she ran a book club during the occupation, reading all the books the Nazis tried to ban? And then they were circulating maps, and hiding a baby…it’s just amazing.’ Realising that her words had all come out in an excitable rush, she stopped and said, ‘How are you? How’s London?’

‘London’s as London as London ever is,’ he replied. ‘Loobs, I’ve had to do some serious schmoozing on your behalf. Your chief exec got me in a corner at Covent Garden this weekend and demanded a status report on his AWOL editor. I’ve got to have him in my box forTurandotnext month, just to keep him sweet. Are you coming home soon?’

Lucy bit her lip. ‘Dad, that’s really kind of you, but don’t worry, I’ll get on the phone to him right away,’ she told him. Her father always stepped in and tried to help her, because, she knew, to him she’d always be the little girl he needed to protect.