Marie rose stiffly. She had been one of the last arrivals to the cell, and there were no more thin, straw mattresses left for her to sleep on. She had instead spent more than three weeks sleeping on the floor. She had consoled herself by thinking she might avoid nits by not lying on one of the filthy pallets. But it was inevitable with too many people in such a small space. Her scalp itched now with the tiny bugs, and she scratched her head, disgusted.
She watched the women scurry about, making the only preparations for deportation that they could, as though it would change anything at all. About a dozen in all, they had been here longer than she, and their bodies were skeletal, covered with sores from the bedbugs and bruises from where they had been beaten. Marie had come to learn that they were all French, resistance members and spouses of partisans, and ordinary women who had been caught helping to defy the Germans. Very few were Jews; those poor souls had already been sent east, but their presence lingered in the makeshift mezuzah one had scratched into the wall near the door.
The women moved swiftly now. They squeezed slips of paper through the thin slit prison windows, sending them cascading to the ground like confetti. They were notes, scribbles on whatever could be found, written in charcoal or sometimes blood, asking about relatives or trying to send word. Or simply “Je suis là” (“I am here”), followed by a name, because soon they would not be and someone needed to remember.
But Marie stood motionless, letting the activity swirl around her as she prepared to be taken, once again, against her will to points unknown. She considered refusing to go. The Germans would surely shoot her on the spot, as they had Julian. Her heart screamed as she remembered his last moments, life pouring from him. He had looked so peaceful. Without him, all hope was gone. Perhaps it would be for the best.
No, not all hope. If the Allies were closing in on Paris, surely the Germans would want the prisoners moved ahead of that. Liberation could not be far behind. If there was a chance of someday getting back to her daughter, Marie had to try.
The door to the cell, which had been locked since her arrival weeks earlier, now burst open with a clang. “Raus!” The women around her surged forward. No one wanted to face the consequences of being last. In the dank central corridor, women poured from the other cells, merging with them until the stream became a river of bodies, thick and warm.
As the crowd pushed her forward, Marie stumbled over something and nearly fell. It was a woman on the corridor floor, curled up in a ball, too sick or hurt to go on. Marie hesitated. She did not want to lag behind. But the woman would surely be killed if she remained on the ground. Marie knelt hurriedly and tried to help the woman. Then she let out a yelp of recognition.
It was Josie.
Marie froze, wondering if it was an illusion, or another dream. Then she dropped to her knees, embracing her friend. “You’re alive!” Josie was a skeleton, though, hardly recognizable, not moving. “It’s me, Marie,” she added, when Josie did not respond or seem to know her.
Josie opened her mouth but no words came out. Despite the awful conditions, joy surged through Marie. Josie was alive. But how? She had been reported missing a month earlier, presumed dead. There were so many questions Marie wanted to ask, too, but Josie seemed to lack the strength to speak, much less describe the horrors she had been through. Marie wanted to tell her about everything that had happened, including Julian’s death.
There was no time now. They were emptying the entire prison, ordering people forward, outside onto the trucks. It was either obey or be trampled or shot. “Come,” she urged Josie to her feet. “We have to move.”
“I can’t,” Josie rasped. Marie tried to lift her, but nearly buckled under the weight. Behind her, a shot rang out, reminding her what would happen if they refused to go.
“You can do this.” Marie braced her knees and tried again to raise Josie. She recalled the day Josie had carried her down the Scottish hillside in that run that seemed a lifetime ago. Now it was Marie’s turn to be strong.
“Come,” she said to Josie. She could almost feel the crisp wind of the Highlands urging them forward. Together, they inched ahead toward the fate that awaited them.
* * *
Through the slatted boxcar window, Marie could make out the faintest light. Whether it was sunrise or sunset, she no longer knew. They had been brought from Fresnes to the Gare de Pantin in trucks, loaded into the railcar forty deep. The train stood idle in the station for hours, baking under the summer sun. When it finally left, it moved east at a glacial pace, at times stopping for hours on end, then starting again just as inexplicably. At some point, Marie assumed, they had crossed from France into Germany. The doors had opened once to pass in a bucket of water and some stale bread, not nearly enough for all of them. Marie’s mouth was dry and cracked with thirst.
Some of the women moaned; others were silent, condemned to their fate. The air reeked of toilet smells and worse. Someone had died in the car, maybe more than one person, judging by the stench. Marie found it most bearable to stand high and press her nose close to the tiny window. But Josie slumped on the floor beside her.
Marie winced as her stomach cramped violently. There was a bucket on the far side of the railcar, which they were meant to use to relieve themselves. But even if she could make it in time, she did not dare leave Josie alone. For a moment, she feared she would soil herself. Then she felt the blood, rushing down her leg in a hot, humiliating stream. Her period. She bunched her dress closer between her legs, feeling the wetness seep through. There was simply nothing to be done about it.
She bent close to Josie and placed her hand in front of her friend’s mouth to make sure she was still breathing. Josie was burning with fever now, heat seeming to radiate off her. Marie took the wet rag, which she had managed to soak when the bucket passed through the railcar earlier, and placed it on Josie’s burning head. She didn’t know what was wrong with her friend; there was no visible wound. Typhus maybe, or dysentery. She leaned closer, heedless of catching whatever Josie had herself. “Josie, you’re alive. I’m so glad I found you. All of this time we thought...”
Josie smiled weakly. “I went to make contact with the Maquis...” She paused to lick her lips and draw a strained breath. “But it was a trap. The Germans knew I was coming there for a meeting and they were waiting. They knew who I was, my real identity and even the fact that I was half-Jewish. Whoever turned us in is still out there. We have to find a way to send word to Julian.”
Josie did not know. For a second, Marie wanted to hide the truth from her, fearing that it would be too much. But she could not. “Julian’s dead.”
Josie winced. “You’re certain?”
“I saw it myself.” A tear burned Marie’s cheeks. “I held him until he was gone. It was my fault,” she confessed. “The SD had one of our radios and they wanted me to broadcast to London for them, so London wouldn’t grow suspicious and would keep sending information. I tried to transmit without my security check so they would know it was a fake. But the Germans discovered what I did and killed Julian.”