Waiting for the Violins (20 page)

Antonia listened to the long historical narrative, concealing her surprise at hearing about a husband. She surveyed the enormous white edifice. “It must be a handful to maintain.”

“It’s a monster, impossible to really heat and requires a large staff to keep it going. I struggle along with Gaston and Mathilde and the occasional groundskeeper.” She tilted her head toward the wall of split logs that rose along the side of the entryway. “You’ll see. We just rattle around in the place.” She glanced up as the portal opened. “Ah, here comes help.”

A man of about sixty appeared, short and muscular, with a ring of close-cut white hair.

“Can you give us a hand, Gaston?” Sandrine called as she opened the rear car door. “There’s some luggage under the seat. The rucksack goes to Laurent’s room and the valise up to the attic.”

“Yes, ma’am. But the attic’s quite dusty. I’m sure Mathilde will want to do a little cleaning.” He flipped up the seat with the same expertise Sandrine had shown. Clearly the compartment was used often. He pulled out both items and hurried up the stone steps to the wide oak door. Setting one of them down, he held the door open for them.

In keeping with the château’s proportions, the entryway was immense. A tall oak wardrobe stood on one side, a narrow table and two potted palms on the other. Over the table, a niche in the wall held an enormous marble vase, though it contained no flowers. There was no other furniture, and the eye was drawn immediately to the finely carved double door leading into the main living space. Two huge wolfhounds ambled toward them when the doors opened. One of them sniffed Antonia’s hand.

Sandrine patted the other one on the head as he looked up adoringly at her. “This is Vercie. Short for Vercingetorix, and the one who’s fallen in love with you is Baudouin.” She scratched the throat of Vercie and he panted happily. “We’ve taught them not to bark at guests, since that would make hiding soldiers difficult. Unfortunately, they don’t bark at anyone. So actually, they’re quite useless.”

“They’re beautiful, though.” Antonia stroked both of them on the head, endeavoring to be fair.

“Let me show you first to the main hall, which also functions as the library. It’s got a nice fireplace and is the best place to stay warm during the day.”

The main hall, too, was majestic rather than inviting. Directly across from the vast fireplace, a sofa and low table stood in front of a wall of books. Farther away, near the tall windows, a few stuffed chairs were arranged around a small table far away from the fireplace. The chill in the room suggested they were used only in summer.

“The only other room on this floor is the banquet hall on the south side, which hasn’t seen a banquet for twenty years. This spot right here, in front of the fire, is the only space on the ground floor we use. Essentially, it’s a big, empty house.”

Antonia hovered close to the fireplace, though no fire burned in it. The rather spare mantelpiece held only a violin and three framed photos. One of them, grainy and in sepia, was a wedding picture of a couple posing stiffly in an artist’s studio, she on a brocade chair in a lacy dress and he in a dark suit. His full handlebar moustache concealed his age, though his wife appeared in her twenties.

“Your parents?”

“Yes. They were less stuffy than the photo suggests, though my father was rather authoritarian. Typical of his generation.”

“And this man? He’s a bit younger than your father, but too old to be your husband.”

Sandrine chuckled. “You think so? So did I, actually. But he
was
my husband, Guy. He had a cocoa plantation in the Congo, where he caught yellow fever.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Antonia said vaguely, meaning it to cover both the yellow fever and the faux pas of saying her husband was too old for her. She set the photo back on the mantel and took up the third, a portrait of a strikingly handsome young man in military uniform. Blond hair was cut short over his ears but lay in a rakish wave over his forehead, and though the picture was in black and white, the pale glow of his irises suggested his eyes were bright blue. A real heartbreaker, he appeared in his mid thirties and bore an extraordinary resemblance to Sandrine.

“Your brother?”

“Yes. Laurent. He was killed at the beginning of the war.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. This one was more sincere, though she knew it sounded trite.

Sandrine led her back through the wide door to the stairwell next to one of the potted palms. “Let me show you your room before it gets too late.”

Antonia followed, slightly intimidated by the palatial scope of the house. Even the stairwell led past windows that extended up three stories.

Sandrine stopped at the top of the stairs. “We have six rooms up here, but the only one we heat is my bedroom. Over there at the far corner was my father’s bedroom, and the three rooms on the east side are empty. I’ve put you in my brother’s room.”

She led her into a wide room brightly lit by the late-afternoon sun that shone through a window nearly as tall as the room. The furniture was sparse and dwarfed by the height of the ceiling, a touch of modesty that Antonia rather liked. The double bed was oak, carved in a pattern similar to the table that stood along the opposite wall and the wardrobe next to it. A chair, bedside table, and lamp made up the rest of the furnishing. Her rucksack lay beside the bed.

Sandrine opened one wardrobe door, revealing a display of men’s shirts and trousers impeccably pressed. “I’ve left most of my brother’s clothes in the wardrobe. I just couldn’t bear to part with them yet, but you’ll find room for your few things.”

“Yes, I have only two outfits. I kept meaning to buy more things from Christine’s shop, but, well, the skirts all looked hideous.”

“I know what you mean. I have my skirts tailored. You know, for the ‘lady of the manor’ look, but I rather like trousers when I’m home. Here…” She pulled a pale-blue shirt out from the row that hung in the wardrobe. “This one is smaller than the others. A favorite of his that he outgrew. You can have it if you like. I’m afraid his trousers won’t fit, though.”

“Oh, thank you. I’d love to have a new shirt. It looks beautifully tailored.” She rubbed the material between her fingers. “Nice thick cotton, too.”

“We’ll make sure you have enough blankets, Sandrine said. “But with those windows, it’s quite cold in winter. We have a coal-burning central-heating system in place, but it warms the house just enough to keep the pipes from freezing, not you. You might want to dress in the bathroom down the hall. It has a hot-water heater that warms the room. A little.”

Antonia sat down on the bed. “I love it, and the lack of heat will be nothing new. I was cold all the time in the apartment. The only warmth was from the tiny electric burner I used to make soup.”

“Soup, yes. That reminds me. Mathilde makes us all dinner every evening, out of whatever she can buy legally and illegally. If there’s no sign of visitors, we all eat together in the kitchen—Gaston, Mathilde, myself, and the pilots. In fact, she should be preparing it now. Do you want to unpack or wash before you come down to eat?”

Antonia lifted her rucksack onto the bed. “I’d really like to look in on the wireless. Why did you decide on the attic? I wouldn’t have minded having it here in my room.”

“As I mentioned, we occasionally have visitors. In the unlikely chance anyone inspects the rooms on this floor, they will discover you, and I can invent an explanation for you but not for the wireless. No one’s going to look in the attic unless they know what they’re after.”

“Very reasonable. Do you have a power source up there?”

“Yes, one outlet at each end. We can go up if you’d like, though everything will be covered with dust and God knows what else. I’m sure there’s some wildlife up there too.”

“I’ll brace myself. Let’s go have a look.”

The attic at the top of a narrow staircase was all that Sandrine had warned about and more. Gaston had set the radio case on a small table against a pillar at one end of the attic. The single overhead light held an outlet where the power box could be connected, so that problem was solved. But the dust, grit, and other refuse that had filtered down from the roof were intolerable. Noises in the far recesses of the space attested to the presence of mice, and a brief flutter of wings suggested birds or bats. It was also freezing.

“Do you have any rags? I’ll clean this spot up myself. Mathilde shouldn’t have to help set up a radio room
and
cook for us.”

“If you insist. You’ll find any number of rags in here.” Sandrine opened a leather trunk that held a bundle of cloth items. Closer inspection revealed it to contain mostly single socks and shirts that had been worn to rags, and torn cotton underclothes. “Mathilde throws away nothing. She’s probably wise, but I think we can sacrifice a couple of my socks. I’ll bring up a bucket of water and help you do the wipe-down. Then you can make this your radio room. I’m curious to see how that thing works, anyhow.”

Antonia set the radio case on the floor and examined the electrical outlet. When Sandrine returned with a bucket of soapy water, they started work, swabbing down the table, a chair, and nearby walls. An hour’s labor was sufficient to clear away a tolerable workspace, and Antonia set about connecting the receiver and transmitter and stringing out the antenna along the rafters.

She spoke over her shoulder. “While I was waiting for you today, I scribbled out a coded note to let London know what’s happening. I’ll transmit that right now, if that’s all right.”

“Of course it is. Could you also ask them to check if an Arthur Talbot has gone missing from the 52nd Squadron?”

“Certainly. I’ll add that to the message.”

She set on earphones and tuned to the correct frequency. When the antenna resonance light finally lit, she exhaled in relief. She was connected.

Sandrine patted her shoulder, sharing her small victory. “I’m quite in awe of your ability to do this. Talking to London, here in the dark. It’s a bit of magic, isn’t it?” The hand lingered, and in an impetuous moment, perhaps out of the overall excitement of the day, Antonia tilted her head and brushed her cheek against it.

Was that a mistake? Had she overstepped?

But Sandrine’s only reaction was to say, “Please go ahead and send the message. I’d like to watch.”

Antonia took a breath to still the trembling in her fingers and began. Short taps, long taps, the rhythm came utterly naturally to her. The part of her brain that “thought” in dots and dashes came into operation, and as she sent, the long and short clicks turned back into words in her mind.

Last delivery in good hands stp have relocated to more secure spot stp nick and david verified stp waiting for new ids stp expect to start south in next days stp will contact upon arrival stp please confirm arthur talbot 52 squadron end.

Then she signed off with her code name and flicked off the power switch.

“That’s it? That’s all? I somehow expected it to last longer.”

Antonia chuckled. “It’s not an oration, just an update. And I don’t want to expose us to detection.”

“Ah yes. There’s always that, isn’t there? Well, let’s celebrate our first transmission and go downstairs for lunch.”

Our
transmission. Antonia liked that.

*

The pile of burning logs gave off more light than heat, but that didn’t detract from its comfort. The dogs lay like eyebrows in front of it, warming their bellies. Curled up at one end of the sofa, with Sandrine at the other end, Antonia couldn’t remember being so tranquil. All around them was fear, misery, and injustice, and she was pledged to oppose it. But for the moment, the struggle was suspended.

A twinge of guilt struck. “A pity Gaston and Mathilde can’t enjoy the warmth too.”

“Don’t worry. They have a stove in the kitchen that warms them much better than our picturesque fire. There’s a reason Mathilde’s always cooking something. The fireplace, like the house in general, is mostly display.”

“Well, I love it. I don’t think I’ve felt so cozy since…oh, since I was a child in Brussels.”

“You were raised in Brussels? That explains why your French is so good.”

“No, not raised. Just lived there from eight to fourteen. My father was a physicist who took part in the first Solvay conference here. It was such a happy time. He was a big success, he and my mother were in love, and I was their pampered daughter. When I think of all the chocolate I stuffed in my face, I’m amazed I never got pudgy.”

“Why did they leave?” Sandrine drew up her knees and looked suddenly like a schoolgirl on holiday with a chum.

“The war, of course, and the German occupation. We returned to England, where my mother died in the influenza epidemic in 1918. My father wanted me to be a physicist, but I didn’t have his affection for cold calculations, so I studied nursing.”

“What got you into the spying business?” Sandrine’s green eyes seemed to reflect the fire.

“Dunkirk. I was injured when the hospital ship I was on was sunk. While I was recovering, the War Office invited me to serve in a way that was even more dangerous.” She snickered. “Couldn’t stay away, I guess.”

“No husband or beau waiting for you at home?”

Antonia’s heartbeat quickened. “No, not much time for romance. Not with all the schooling in telegraphy and parachuting and killing people. Leaves a girl tired out at the end of the day.”

Sandrine smiled, warming her more than the fire.

“What about you?” she ventured.

Sandrine shrugged and stared into the flames as if composing an answer.

“I’m a widow, as you know.” She glanced up at the photo on the mantelpiece.

“When was that?” The question might have been impertinent; Antonia wasn’t sure.

“September, 1933.”

“Eight years. You’re still in mourning?” That was definitely impertinent.

“No, but romance seems irresponsible in wartime. Oh, one always meets interested men, though I suspect half the time it’s the money and the house that attract them. But that fire has gone out in me.”

“So there’s also no ‘gentleman’ in your life.”