Page 25 of Love in the Shadows

Nancy gazed up at her. “But I want to be friends with Astrid if she has no friends. It’s not fair on her.”

Fabienne’s heart ached. Astrid was just a kid and no different from her cousin but for the birth rights she had been afforded being the daughter of a kommandant during a world war in which the Germans were in ascendency. How could Nancy fully understand the complexities and the constraints that had been forced upon them. Astrid was a good kid too, and Fabienne would love for them to be able to play together, but that was forbidden. “Your friends are at school.”

Nancy finished eating the bread and drank the water in silence, her mood evident by the heavy thud of her glass on the table and sharp scrape of the chair legs on the tiled floor as she stood up.

Fabienne grabbed Nancy’s coat and held it out so she could slip her arms into the sleeves. “Pick up your bag and let’s get you to school or we will be late.”

Nancy grumbled to herself as she slung the bag over her shoulder and started towards the door.

Fabienne turned to Mamie. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” She held her gaze, reinforcing the message to be careful around Müller, then followed Nancy to the van.

“Want to sing a song?” she asked as she started the engine, hoping it would distract her cousin from the strop she was wallowing in.

“I don’t feel like it,” Nancy said, her eyes remaining glued to the house across the yard as Fabienne drove towards the main road.

Fabienne drove the rest of the way in silence.

Nancy climbed out of the van and walked up the path towards the school. She dropped her bag in the playground and started skipping with a group of girls. Hopefully she would quickly forget about being friends with Astrid.

Fabienne was sick of being the one to say no to her for things that should be normal and fun.

She drove into town and parked on the street just a short walk from the church, her breath visible in the cold air. She tucked the collar of her jacket up around her neck and lit a cigarette. She turned off the street and walked through the graveyard. Three new graves had been dug since the previous week: two more men and another child from the village who had lost their lives for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She crossed herself as she passed them, stumped out her cigarette just short of the door, and entered the church. The place was adorned with candles that flickered in the constant draught, and the pews were empty but for an elderly couple at the front of the church and Madame Guillaume, the butcher’s wife. They acknowledged each other briefly. There were marks on her face that didn’t belong there. She held her swollen belly, which was not given to her by her husband since he had been serving on the Eastern front for over two years, and she winced as she moved her right arm to light a candle.

A chill passed across Fabienne’s skin and the pungent smell of musty, damp cloth lingered ominously. A sense of untimely death haunted the place. She blew into her hands, took a spot at the pew closest to the confessional, and kneeled to pray for the three newly lost souls, her parents, her uncle and aunt, and Madame Guillaume.

She rose and sat with her back against the hard wood and glanced around. She should put her faith in God, and she wanted to, but it was hard to trust the living, let alone the abstract. The only thing that would change the war was the actions of those who would get retribution for victims like Madame Guillaume and defend the people of France.

She wondered about Frau Neumann. She was sure she felt the same way as Fabienne about the futility of war, the complete and utter wrongness of one country imposing itself onto another. Since that first evening when her husband had returned home late, the time Müller had left Fabienne with visible bruises, she had seen compassion in Frau Neumann’s eyes and felt the tenderness in her touch. She had seen how flustered Frau Neumann had become in Müller’s presence. And she’d witnessed enough times since, how upset or angry she got whenever she spent any time with her husband. Fabienne was sure she had witnessed in the kommandant’s wife the all-to-familiar sense of powerlessness that she too felt.

In the months since Christmas, Frau Neumann had changed. She’d become a little more guarded and harder to read. Fabienne understood why. Müller was a tyrant, and he wouldn’t think twice of informing the kommandant of an irregularity involving his wife. He was also smart enough to navigate Frau Neumann’s instructions to meet his own ends. He watched Fabienne from a distance and only struck her on her body where the bruises would remain hidden.

She hoped Frau Neumann was sharp enough to know what went on when she wasn’t there and strong enough to stand up and fight against her homeland, to save herself and Astrid when the time came. The latter was a big ask, and would be a massive risk, but Fabienne’s instinct told her it wouldn’t take a lot for Frau Neumann to do the right thing, providing she could do so without detriment to her daughter. And if she trusted Fabienne.

The confessional door opened, and a man came out. He put on his beret and shuffled out of the church with his head down.

She entered the booth and closed the door. The air inside smelled of sweat and fear. She sat and put her hands on her thighs. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a month since my last confession.”

“Good morning, my child.”

Fabienne turned towards the grille in surprise at the strange accent. Her heart thundered and her hands became clammy. “Who are you? Where is Father Michel?”

“Father Michel has been called to give the last rites to a senior German officer. Le pauvre.” His tone stripped the sincerity from his statement. “I have come from Stuttgart to support Father Michel for the foreseeable future. The number of sick and dying is increasing daily and he cannot serve the community alone.”

From what she had seen, the sick and dying hadn’t had the luxury of being read their last rites since the start of the war. Who the hell was this man? Judging by the accent, whoever it was on the other side of the screen wasn’t from this region and possibly not even from France. She had to keep calm, as she did when dealing with the guards at the dairy. “What is your name?”

“Father Paul.” He leaned towards the grille and whispered, “You should know that the swallows are returning early this spring.”

Fabienne’s stomach turned at the use of the code. This man with the unfamiliar accent was a member of the Resistance and was delivering a message to Fabienne. “Why are you telling me this?”

There was a noise outside the confessional and Fabienne remained silent.

“Tell me, child, how have you sinned?” he said, continuing as if he was conducting a standard confession.

“I have taken milk,” Fabienne said.

“And was this to feed God’s people?”

Fabienne inhaled deeply and leaned back in the seat. “Yes, it was to feed those who are suffering the most this winter, Father.”

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