Page 20 of Across Eternity

“I’ve got no choice,” she replies. “My husband died in the war and I’ve got four wee ones who’ll starve without this pay.”

It’s exactly what I hoped she might say. “I might be able to help. For a price.”

She laughs. “You? The girl who serves food and does the wash? You’ll be in that hole in the ground long before they need to get rid of me.”

I don’t appreciate her ambivalence about my death, but it hardly matters.

“It’s possible I have more resources than you’re aware of,” I reply.

Her eyes narrow. “I can barely get out of here myself, and even then but once a week. I can’t help you.”

“I don’t want you to help me,” I reply. “I want you to help the babies. I want you to sneak them out.”

She gasps. “They’d be on to me in five seconds.”

I take a deep breath. This is the risky part of the plan. I’m giving her information she can turn on me. It wouldn’t serve her, but I’m not sure she realizes that.

“What if you brought in two dead infants to replace them?” I ask. “Even skeletons would work. Everyone is starving after the war. You must see a child die every day.”

Her eyes are wide, and then she laughs. “You’ve gone mad, girl. You’ll get caught and then it will be my head on a platter. I won’t help you.”

“You might, though, for fifty thousand francs.”

Her head jerks upward and she stands, slack-jawed, staring at me. Hemingway once described living quite well in Paris with his family on five hundred francs a year. If that’s the case, what might ten times that buy? Her loyalty, perhaps.

“Fifty thousand,” she breathes. “You can’t possibly have that much.”

“You’re right,” I agree, “but I know someone who does.”

“But they’ll know they’re the wrong infants. Mademoiselle Iris would know.”

“Not if I set the whole room on fire, she won’t.”

She stares at me. “If you start a fire, you’ll die with them.”

“I’m dying anyway, according to you,” I reply. “Maybe I just want to leave the world a hero.”

* * *

The following weekend, Mathilde leaves with her empty bags and a letter, addressed to Henri’s mother.

And then I wait, with my stomach in knots, wondering if this is going to backfire. Madame Durand, at this moment, is recently widowed and has a newborn and toddler of her own to contend with. If she refuses to help, Mathilde will take my letter straight to the guards and tell them my plans, I’m certain of it.

I’m not even entirely convinced Mathilde will take her the letter at all. When I told her Madame Durand lives on a farm, she was suspicious.

“Then how does she have so much money?” she asked.

I met her eye. “She lives modestly but she is not to be trifled with, I assure you.”

I’m responsible for cooking dinner on my own that night. I’m just finishing the supper dishes when she returns. Her expression is wary, and there’s extra weight in the bag she carries.

She did what I asked.

* * *

For the rest of the week, we continue on. I take care of the babies, a job I actually enjoy, to my surprise. And it’s a relief to steer clear of Mathilde and Iris and the guards, all of whom are snapping with anxiety. Given that Coron arrives next Saturday, I can’t blame them, but Iris is anxious too, which puzzles me. I wonder if she’s finally starting to suspect she’s not as safe as she’d hoped.

On Saturday afternoon, Iris unlocks the door, telling me she’s off to take a nap before her big night and reminding me I’ll need to make dinner in Mathilde’s stead. She locks me in, but a short time later, Mathilde unlocks it again and hands me two bags—one with the dead infants, one for the live ones.