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“I didn’t even do that,” he added. “You and the others saved me.”

She started to speak, then tightened her lips and turned her head.

“There are no heroes,” she said after a moment. “We both got caught. You were shot down, I was deported.”

She stood, smoothed her lap, and moved the few steps to him. The moon was high now.

“We were both caught.” He repeated her words.

“Now, we begin again,” she said.

Her fingers were so slender, her hand warm in his, her cheek warm on his.

59.

“ARE YOU AWAKE?” ANNETTE ASKED, REACHING FOR HIM ACROSS the narrow crevice between their beds.

“Sometimes I don’t know the answer to that even when I am awake,” he said.

“Can’t you sleep?”

“No.”

“I can’t either. I want to tell you something more,” she whispered. She scrunched across to his bed, bunching back the covers, and snuggled in with him.

“What is it?”

“It’s Robert. You see, the war brought us closer,” she said.

“I see. But that is normal, n’est-ce pas?”

“Maman trusted Robert. She wanted me to be safe, and Robert kept me safe when I went with him to Chauny or to Noyon on the train. At first we played the lovers, a common stratagème, so no one would suspect our mission. But then we found retreats, places to be alone.”

Even in the dark Marshall could tell that she was glad that he could not see her face.

“It’s all right,” he said, pulling her closer to him. “I don’t have to know.”

“It is such a small thing. It is not important. But I want you to know.”

Her voice was low, the whisper of a secret.

“On one Friday afternoon, Robert and I went to meet aviateurs at Noyon, but they were not there. There was some slippage in the network. We had made our contact, and then we were told to stay the night in a barn in order to convoy the men the next day. Oh, la la la la, the barn was cold! But we kept each other warm. We did manage to fulfill our duty and guide the aviateurs to Paris the next day. We did our job well, but …”

“C’est la guerre,” he reminded her softly.

She was silent for a long moment, her hands pulling at the covers.

She said, “We would have had a baby—but it wouldn’t grow in me.”

She nestled her head against his neck, and he encircled her shoulders—clumsily, with the two sets of rumpled covers intruding.

“I loved Robert, but our hope was destroyed.”

“But you weren’t destroyed,” he said, feeling her tears. He stroked her hair, trying to soothe her.

“I was always an optimist, as you know. And I was happy, relieved, that I lost the baby. I could not have had it taken from me and murdered. To lose it naturally, this was more acceptable. But still the ache of loss has never dissolved.” She laughed softly, sarcastically, through sobs. “There was a law encouraging family expansion! But there was no food! And then the deportation. The babies born in France had the rachitisme. I don’t know the English word. It was so cruel. I’m sorry if I trouble you.”

“It’s O.K. Go on.”

“Before the war, girls didn’t wander about unchaperoned, but in the war, anything could happen. To misuse my liberty distressed me—the betrayal of my parents. Maman understood, though.”

“Did you ever tell Robert?”

“No, I never told him. I didn’t tell Maurice. I was so content to have a husband who didn’t probe or pry, who loved me, who worked for me. I was so glad to have a son and a daughter. I was so privileged.”

“Did Robert love you?”

“Bien sûr. I know he did. He promised me … he gave me such gifts. He was artiste, you know. He made the pastel portrait of me that you saw in my salon. It survived the war.”

She spoke in whispers, into his ear. He stroked her hair, her cheek.

“When Maman and I arrived at Fresnes prison I was with child, but I did not know it yet. Although I did not have a healthy glow or signs of swelling and bloom that would be natural, Maman soon knew. We lived so closely, and she saw that I did not bleed after we arrived at the prison. On the train out of Paris to Ravensbrück, some weeks later, it pushed from me quickly, with pain no worse than the pain of blisters on the