The Summer Home

Chapter 2

IN THE LONG DAYS FOLLOWING our impromptu arrival in Bordeaux, an invisible curtain of tension descended upon the house.

Everyone rushed through their daily tasks as they eagerly awaited the nightly newsreels we listened to around the mahogany table in the large dining room, with Nicolas and I translating English into French. Each night, the dry voice of the British presenter announced another German victory, to which a collective groan erupted from the five of us.

Monsieur Le Sueur would imitate the English voices in his nasal country accent, mispronouncing almost every word. I knew he meant to amuse us, but Juliette and I were the only ones who laughed while Nicolas brooded sulkily in the corner. Like Father, Nicolas did not believe in laughter during times of national hardship.

Often, Mirielle would prepare a small platter of fruit and pastries to relieve our melancholy, urging Nicolas to play the piano to lighten our spirits, often to no avail. His slender fingers—so alike Maman's—would slam against the keys so forcefully I feared the whole thing would break. I accompanied him in song once, but we were at odds with each other: my cheerful singing clashing with his firm fingers crashing against the keys.

After listening to the radio some more, we retired to our beds with the humid summer breeze wafting through the ajar windows—staring out into the lifeless sky as we braced ourselves for an attack.

My bedroom was an enclave of the past. A large oak bed with heavy floral curtains and accompanying chairs transported me to the endless days I had spent rehearsing my songs and reading my adventure novels. Even a dollhouse and a pair of neglected china dolls graced the oak chest containing my old gowns, stirring something within me I could only describe as a longing to return to my carefree girlhood days.

During those long July nights, the garden was my refuge.

When the heat became unbearable and sweat drenched the sleeves of my cotton nightdress, I would retreat to the garden to walk amongst the lilies, rosemary bushes, sunflowers and roses Maman had planted years ago—when she herself was still a child. The fragrance was enough to transport me far above the turmoil of war.

Whenever she gardened, Maman had exchanged her evening gown for an apron and wide-brimmed straw hat, not caring to protect her dainty hands with gloves as she used her long fingers to shovel away dirt. She had named her favourite flower after me—a rose with plump blush petals and sharp thorns.

"This rose will be called Vivienne after ma douce fille. For she is both sweet and strong." Maman had pressed an ungloved hand to my cheek, drawing a smattering of soil to my face—to which I squealed in shocked delight.

As we waited for the Germans, I doubted the truth of her words.

I did not feel strong.

I had fled Paris and the career I had always wanted out of fear. Though I masked myself in confidence, fear plagued my sleepless nights as the screams of enemy planes split the horizon like hungry jackals.

I wondered about my family and what would become of them. I wondered whether the life I had once led—the evenings of dinner on the balcony and morning strolls through the Jardin des Tuileries—would return. I wondered whether my relatives in Germany would survive the perils of war.

When Hitler first rose to power, Uncle Gerhard and Aunt Elenora related news through sprawling letters and extensive notes. Uncle Gerhard was a leading psychologist at the Humboldt University in Berlin, and Aunt Elenora was a schoolteacher. As Jews, both had been removed from their positions. Aunt Eleonora wrote that my cousin, Elsa, had left for England with her husband and newborn son.

As the horrors escalated, the letters became shorter until they completely stopped. I did not know if they were still alive.

In those dark hours in my bedroom, I even thought of Simon's family and whether they were still in Paris.