Page 46 of The Dressmaker's Gift
And the second thing was that Vivi was his sister.
They had grown up in the north of England, not in Lille, although their mother was French and Lille had been her home town. Their English father owned a textile factory and that was how Vivi had known so much about the machinery in the factory in Dachau. ‘She used to follow Dad around, asking endless questions, wanting to know how everything worked. She always loved sewing,’ he told Claire. ‘When she was little, she used to make dresses for her dolls. Then she progressed to making her own clothes. She worked at the local theatre, too, making costumes – she loved all those rich fabrics and trimmings. And it turned out she was a talented actress as well.
‘When war broke out, I was selected to train with the Special Operations Executive,’ he continued. ‘So when she came to me and told me that she wanted to join too, to do something to help the French, I knew she would be the perfect fit. We’re both fluent in French because our mother always spoke it at home, and our knowledge of textiles and fashion were exactly what the SOE were looking for to set up a network based in Paris, where the couture industry provided the perfect cover.’
He stopped then, unable to continue for a minute as he remembered his beautiful, lively sister. ‘I tried to dissuade her,’ he said at last. ‘But you know how she was – so stubborn, so determined. And those, too, were characteristics that made her perfect for her role. She was just what they were looking for. She did the training and passed with flying colours. And so they gave her one of the most dangerous roles going. Wireless operator for the network, camouflaged by her role as a seamstress in the heart of Paris. I didn’t know whether to be proud of her or frightened for her, my little sister.’
When he broke down, burying his head in his hands, Claire reached out and stroked his hair. Gathering her strength, she spoke then. ‘You and I, we both carry the weight of our guilt. We both played a part in her fate. But, listening to you, I now understand that nothing we could have done would have stopped her. She was determined to fight for France, for what was right. It’s who she was. She would always have put herself in the way of danger, stood up against what she knew to be wrong. She had real courage. She was a soldier.’
They wept together, their tears mingling, comforting one another, and while the grief cracked open her heart, hurting almost as much as Claire’s physical scars, she knew that the tears and the pain would allow something new to grow from it. With him – Larry – at her side, together they could find a way to live again.
He told her one other thing too. Vivi’s real name. She wasn’t called Vivienne.
She was called Harriet.
Harriet
So now, at last, I know who I am.
I am Harriet. Named for my great-aunt who died in Dachau on the day it was liberated. Harriet, who chose the name Vivienne because she loved life. Harriet, who was warm and friendly and oh so brave. Brave enough to turn towards danger when freedom was threatened; brave enough to volunteer to put herself right in the heart of the war, in one of the most dangerous roles there was. When the average life expectancy of a wireless operator in the Resistance was six weeks, she survived for four years.
I am Harriet – and although she died before I was born, I know that I am loved by my grandmother Claire, who grew to find a courage within herself that she hadn’t known was there. Claire lost her own mother, and history repeated itself – as it has a horrible tendency to do – when I lost mine. I’ve read that the currents of trauma run deep in families. They can be inherited, passed down the generations from one to the next, ruining lives as they go. Perhaps that’s what happened to my mother. But I won’t let it happen to me. Now that I understand where that trauma came from, I can see it for what it is. And by finding the courage to turn and face it, I have the opportunity to stop it in its tracks.
What gives me even more hope is that during my sessions with the counsellor she has told me that new research has found that the effects of inherited trauma can be reversed. Our brains and our bodies have the capacity to heal, to build resilience that will help us to counteract the vulnerabilities that inherited trauma predisposes us to. She’s given me some books to read which say that to be able to do this, the mind has to reframe and release the trauma so that the brain can reset itself.
I realise that the story of Claire and Vivi (who was really Harriet) has allowed this to happen for me. I know now that I can heal the past damage that I’ve carried with me all my life so far. More than that, I realise that I can decide to set down the weight of it at the side of the path that is my life and to walk on without it.
Now that I know the whole story of my grandmother, I sit in stunned silence, thoughts whirling in my head. I touch the charms on the bracelet passed down to me by my grandmother and my mother: the thimble, the tiny pair of scissors, the Eiffel Tower. I understand the significance of each one now.
I came to Paris feeling rootless, without a family of my own. I was looking for something, although I didn’t know what it would be. A photograph brought me here. I reach over and pick it up, in its frame, and I imagine I can hear the echoes of the girls’ laughter as they stand on the corner of the street, outside Delavigne Couture, dressed in their Sunday finery as they set off, one May morning in Paris, to visit the Louvre.
Because of them, Simone and I are here now. Not just here working for Agence Guillemet and living in the apartment under the eaves of the building in the Rue Cardinale; they are the reason that we are here at all. What if Mireille hadn’t gone to save Claire on the night that Billancourt was bombed? What if Vivi – my great-aunt Harriet – hadn’t protected and helped Claire to survive the terrible ordeals of torture at the hands of the Gestapo, solitary confinement in Fresnes prison, and almost two years in the hell of Dachau concentration camp?
I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for them. I owe them my life, too.
When that photograph was taken, those three young women – full of hopes and dreams – had their lives ahead of them. It seems to me that they epitomise a love for life. They weren’t to know, on that May morning, just how far that love was going to be tested.
And then I think of my mother. How deep do depression and despair have to drag a person until, at last, they reach a place where they can’t bear to go on? Claire and Vivi showed how much the human spirit can endure: brutality, cruelty, inhumanity – all of these can be borne. It is the loss of those you love that is unbearable.
All of a sudden, I realise that through hearing the stories of my grandmother Claire and my great-aunt Harriet, I have finally come to understand what it was that killed my mother. It was grief. No matter what it might say on the death certificate, I understand, now, that she died of a broken heart.
My history has set me free. The past has given me a future. Perhaps it is a future that involves staying on in my dream job at the Palais Galliera, because Sophie Rousseau has passed my CV on to the director of the museum and I’ve been invited to attend an interview. It’s a daunting prospect. I want this job so much it hurts. But I will give the interview my all and accept the outcome, whatever it may be, because I’m not scared to live my life any more, whatever it may bring.
I understand, too, that I have been scared to love, because the stakes seemed just too high. I’ve seen what the price of love can be and I decided that it was too high to risk having to pay. So I’ve always protected myself from it. I haven’t dared to risk loving my father, my step-family, my friends. And Thierry. I have kept my heart locked away to protect it. But now I have been shown the truth. Claire and Vivi are not just faces in a photograph any more, they are a part of me. I owe it to them to tap into the legacy of courage that runs through my veins. They have given me the gift of life. Until now, I have allowed the legacy of trauma to imprison my spirit. But through hearing their story, I know that I am strong enough to turn away from it. I won’t let the darkness win. I will turn my face towards the light. And, just maybe, I’ll be able to love as open-heartedly as they did.
As I reach for my phone, the charms on my bracelet clink against each other, making a sound like a faint, triumphant round of applause. There’s a message I need to send and I don’t want to waste another moment before I do so.
I scroll through my contacts and I select Thierry’s number.
Thierry’s apartment is a tiny studio in the Marais. It’s only one room, but the magical thing about it is that it opens on to a narrow balcony where there’s just enough space for two chairs, side by side. We’ve sat here for hours, and I’ve talked more than I think I’ve ever done before. We’ve agreed to take it slowly – neither of us wants to get hurt and I know that my pulling away from him before has left him cautious. But he’s prepared to give it another go, and I sense that this time the connection is stronger than ever, on both sides of the relationship.
As Thierry goes inside to fetch glasses and a bottle of wine, my phone rings. Loath to spoil the peace of the moment, I’m about to switch it off when I see that the caller is Sophie Rousseau, from the Palais Galliera.
‘Hello?’ I say, tentatively.
Her voice is warm as she tells me that she wanted to be the first to congratulate me: I’ve got the job.
When Thierry returns, I am on my feet, looking out across the city. Darkness is falling and the lights of the city begin to twinkle, sequins on a black velvet robe. They call it the City of Light. And now I can also call it my home.
