“Oui.” Madame Razat shuffled to another paper and pushed her reading glasses farther down the bridge of her nose. “They were processed into Camp des Milles on November 28, 1942, and remained here until December 23, when they were transported to Drancy internment camp.”

“And from there?” I asked.

“Transported to another camp, most likely Auschwitz, but unfortunately, this is where our paper trail ends. It is possible that there could be more records in Geneva or Poland.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket, snapped a shot of the list of names and the photograph of the farm, and tucked my phone back into my pocket.

“It is well past my lunch hour,” Madame Razat said, pushing up from the table. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Elliott switched off the camera. “Thank you, you’ve been more than generous with your time.”

“Yes, merci,” I echoed.

Hélène escorted us out of the dark basement and back into the light, back to the front gate where Gervais was waiting with the van.

“It was lovely spending the morning with you both,” she said.

“Thank you again. This was incredibly eye opening,” Elliott answered.

“Is that . . . ?” I asked and motioned into the distance.

Elliott and Hélène turned to look where I was pointing.

“Ah oui, it is one of the cattle cars that was used for transport, now a permanent fixture at our memorial,” Hélène confirmed.

My chest tightened as hot tears flooded my eyes. I wiped them with the back of my hand and cleared my throat. “Elliott, we should grab a few exterior and interior shots of the car before we go.” Before I’d even finished my sentence, he was already moving toward the train car with his camera mounted on his shoulder.

“Thank you again,” he called over to Hélène with a wave.

After shooting the footage and expressing one more round of gratitude to our lovely guide, we climbed back into the van, dripping with sweat and emotionally drained.

“Gervais, would you be able to turn up the air-conditioning? Plum gets motion sickness,” Elliott mentioned, without one hint of sarcasm or irony.

Gervais nodded into the rearview mirror and blasted cold air from all the vents. It was the coolest I’d felt in France since we arrived.

“Gervais, La Cigale Chantante, s’il vous plaît,” Elliott directed with an exhausted sigh.

I leaned forward, between the two front seats. “Actually, if neither of you are in a hurry, I have a small detour I’d like to make.”

Chapter Thirty-One

After a long trek up the cobblestone road, Elliott and I were finally once again standing at the grand entrance of Saint Orens. I wiped at my forehead with the back of my arm and brushed a few hairs from my eyes. It was close to two o’clock, the sun was still burning brightly upon the rolling hills of Provence, and its warmth felt wonderful on my skin. Elliott pushed open the church’s large front door, and a cool breeze greeted us from inside, the old marble building helping to retain some of the cooler morning air. We stepped into the chapel and navigated our way to the rectory, familiar with the route from the last time we’d come.

I peeked my head past the open door and saw an older, portly gentleman dressed in ordinary but formal clothes. He was peering over his readers at some handwritten notes and marking edits as he went.

“Bonjour, we are looking for Father François. Do you know if he is in today?” I asked.

“Oui, Mademoiselle.” He gestured at himself and said, “Moi, c’est Père François.” He rose to greet us and extended a hand. “Are you here for a certificat de mariage?” He shook a finger between me and Elliott. “Vous faites un couple adorable.”

“Un couple adorable? Certificat de mariage?” I repeated back slowly in my painfully American accent. I looked over at Elliott, who had turned an endearing shade of pink. “Oh no, Monsieur. We aren’t here for a marriage license. Um. I mean, he and I aren’t together. We’re just . . .” Are just what? I shook the question from my head and focused on the real purpose of the visit. “We were hoping you could allow us back into the church’s archives?”

“Back in?” he repeated, trying to work out the meaning of the expression. “Oh, are you Mademoiselle Everly?”

“Yes. I am Plum Everly.”

“Ah, my apologies that I was not here to meet you on your last visit. I have some time to take you there now before afternoon Mass, if you are available?”

We followed Father François past the altar and down a long hallway to the set of stairs leading up to the annex.

“Remind me,” Father François said, “what it is you are looking for?”

“Any information you have on Château Mirabelle or Maubec?”

“Or the Adélaïses?” Elliott added.

Father François pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, searched for just the right one, and used it to crack open the door. Then he went around the room unearthing files and placing them in neat stacks on the table.

“Every artifact on Château Mirabelle is here,” he said, pointing to the two largest mounds.

Elliott placed his camera on his shoulder and turned it on. “I brought the right one this time—no light. May I?”

Father François nodded and sat down at the table beside us.

I reached for one of the piles. “Somewhere in here there’s a photograph of the Adélaïses with two other couples I saw the last time.”

Father François held up a picture he managed to wedge out of his thick stack. “Is this the one?”

I snatched it from his fingertips. “Yes! Look at the back.” I turned the photo over to show Elliott what I was talking about.

He lowered his camera and shrugged. “DP? I don’t get it. Who are those other people in the photo?”

“Don’t you see? DP? Dutch-Paris network? Those other couples have to be Marthe and Grégoire Archambeau and Ginette and Alain Grenouille. They all must’ve been a part of the Dutch-Paris network.”

Father François’s head shot up. “Oui, the Dutch-Paris network had a small operation out of Château Mirabelle.” He reached across the table for one of the accordion folders. “You will find whatever information we have here.”

Over the next two hours, Father François, Elliott, and I sorted through mountains of documents that helped (along with Google) piece together the history of the Dutch-Paris network in Maubec and the role that the Adélaïses played in it. We learned that in 1942, Jean Weidner, a Dutchman living in France, began helping smuggle those targeted by the Nazis into the south of France, via Paris, and then eventually to Switzerland. He recruited help along the way, eventually growing his Resistance efforts to include over three hundred people.

Based on a letter we found among the files, in early 1942, Jean Weidner was introduced to the Adélaïses, and by that spring, Château Mirabelle was being used as a safe house along the route to Geneva, its winery serving as cover and its underground cellars excellent hiding space. It was unclear exactly when Marthe and Grégoire Archambeau and Ginette and Alain Grenouille joined forces with the Adélaïses, but their names began to appear on falsified winery invoices by late August.

Father François set the documents out on the table in a line. “Here, look at the names of the towns of the wine deliveries: Privas, Valence, Grenoble, Chambéry. It’s a straight shot to Annecy. This must have been the route they followed.” He stood up from the table and stretched. “I am so sorry to do this, but I must get downstairs to get ready for Mass. You are welcome to stay here a bit longer, if you would like.”

“I think we have everything we need. Plum, what do you think?” Elliott asked.

“Actually, would you mind if I snapped a picture of the photograph?” I asked, holding up the black-and-white shot of the group. “And Elliott, can you be sure to get a close-up of it also?”

“You may borrow the picture, if you would like,” Father François said.

“Are you sure?”