Fleur De Lies(125)
He held up his hand. “I saw her picture many years ago. Her husband hid it beneath the insole of his shoe to secret it away from our jailers, because, as you might imagine, the Germans were rather stingy about allowing their prisoners to indulge in creature comforts. And I ask you, what greater comfort would there be for an imprisoned man than a photo of his wife?”
I sat statue-still, the unexpectedness of his admission taking my breath away. “You were a prisoner with Solange’s husband? In Amiens Prison?”
“Ah. You know of Amiens. You’ve heard the story then?”
“Madeleine told me.”
“Then you know of the bombing raid. Many prisoners escaped, but many were tracked down and dragged back. Henri Spenard and I were fortunate. We eluded capture, but we lived in constant fear.”
“You escaped together?”
“We survived together. In the cold. In the snow. In the rain. We fled into Belgium, and from there, realized we must part company. Henri vowed to return home to Solange and his family. I had no home to return to. The Nazis had burned my village. Executed my family. So I started walking south, and ended up in Genoa.” His eyes grew wistful. “I regret that after all these years, I still don’t know if Henri ever made it home.”
“He did,” I said happily. “He and Solange were together for over fifty years and raised seven children.”
He smiled. “Henri was a good man. I’m glad he was able to return to the life he loved so much.” He thumped his fist on his sternum and coughed. “I’m afraid mine has been rather hampered by health issues, none of which were helped by a prolonged stay in a German prison cell, or a five hundred-mile trek to the sea.”
“How did you hike five hundred miles through occupied Europe without getting caught?”
Victor shrugged. “I chose my path carefully. Through forests. Along streams. Over mountain passes. I had to choose my path carefully. I carried no identity papers, so if I’d been asked to present them, my brilliant escape and journey would have been for naught.”
“You weren’t stopped in Genoa?”
“In Genoa, I found a sympathetic priest who falsified identity papers for me, and a sympathetic member of the Red Cross who provided me with a valid passport. I officially became Victor Martin at that moment, and I’ve been Victor Martin ever since.”
Which explained a great deal about why the police had run into a stone wall while looking into Victor’s past. “So you became Victor Martin. Where did you go?”
“Argentina. The priest paid for my passage, which I have repaid many times over with an annual contribution to his church. From Argentina, I eventually made my way north, to the United States, where my skills as an apothecary were, thankfully, in great demand.”
“You were a pharmacist in France?”
“I was, but I no longer wanted to formulate medications. I wanted to formulate a product that would help people recover from their war wounds and scars. I wanted to create something that would help people, especially women, to feel good about themselves in the post-war world. So I developed Mona Michelle, the cosmetic line that would allow every woman an opportunity to look as beautiful as the photo of Henri’s wife. I’ve never forgotten her face, you see. It’s haunted me for years.”
I stared at him, awestruck. “Is this your first trip back to France since the war?”
He nodded. “I never wanted to come back. Too many painful memories. But Virginia insisted so … here we are.”
His tone made me suspicious. “Is Virginia aware of anything you’ve just told me?”