“Mademoiselle!” Bridgette heard the perpetually anxious voice of Nicoline Arquette, a fellow captive and the Richters’ cook and housemaid, whisper through the thin door of her room. Then came the sound of the key turning in the lock. At night she and Nicoline were locked into their rooms, set free by Madame Richter’s hand only when the mistress of the house and keeper of the keys required their services. The lock sprang open and Nicoline, without Madame Richter, hurried in and quickly shut the door behind her. Her eyes looked ready to pop out of her head.

“What is it?” Bridgette asked, fearing to hear. “How did you get Madame Richter’s keys?”

“She forgot to take them with her after she locked you in last night,” Nicoline said in rapid French. “I was cleaning up the dishes last night when her husband stomped into the house all excited, and they shut themselves in the parlor where I couldn’t hear them. Then he rushed out, back to his office, I guess, and she went off to her room and closed the door. When I finished cleaning the kitchen, she still hadn’t come out. I went to my room and waited, but she never came to lock me in. All night I heard people coming and going from her room and madame hollering orders. About midnight, I peeked out. Madame’s door was open, and I saw prisoners frantically packing and carrying out boxes and cases and luggage. Madame looked harried and scared, and she was still wearing the clothes she’d worn the day before. I popped my head back in before she caught me, and after a few hours it was quiet. I looked out again a half hour ago, but no one was about. I don’t think the commandant came home last night. His door was open and his bed hadn’t been slept in. That’s when I sneaked out to the parlor, where I found madame’s keys.”

“What do you think is going on?” Bridgette managed to interject when Nicoline paused for breath.

“I think she’s left!” Nicoline cried. “When I was in the parlor, I saw a van pull away from the house, and I’m sure madame was in it! She didn’t answer her door when I knocked.”

“Let’s go see,” Bridgette said.

Nicoline, sizably taller and larger than Bridgette but cowed by years of confinement and abuse, followed her dependable shield to Madame Richter’s room. Bridgette knocked once, waited a few minutes, then pushed open the door. The room had been completely vacated. They stared with open mouths at the doors of closets and wardrobes and bureau drawers gaping emptily of their once overflowing contents.

“All those clothes you made for her…” Nicoline said in an awestruck voice. “They’re gone. That’s what she had the prisoners packing.”