Years from now some historians will call it the Battle of Marseille. Right now, here in January of ’43, it is very near hell. No house is safe; no person free. SS Oberg has arrived; the police are cooperating with the squads.Thousands are swarming through Old Port. It’s not just the Jews they’re after; I believe they’ll kill us all, most especially a defector.

My pistol provides no comfort. It feels cold beneath my trembling fingers; pulling the trigger will require God's touch. I would pray to Saint Joan, but I doubt she’d hear my coward’s cries from this dark place underneath the stairs. And despite the maid’s exceptional deeds, I must confess I’ve little faith in a young saint. It’s only been 23 years. Surely He has other saints to hear, no?

Sirens approach – a sound not my breathing.

Saint Joan of Arc, chosen by God at Domremy, pray for me.

Brakes. Boots.

“Allez! Allez!”

Saint Joan of Arc, compliant to the call of God, pray for me.

“Ouvrez la porte!”

Saint Joan of Arc, virgin and soldier, pray for me!

“Ouvrez la porte!”

A sharp crack. The front door splinters.

Saint Joan of Arc, the pride of Orleans, pray for me!

Grand-mère’s vase falls, its shards twinkling under the roar of commands and footsteps.

Saint Joan of Arc, liberator of the country, pray for me!

“Personne n'est ici!”

Boots. Sirens.

Relief escapes in my sigh, breaking a miracle’s sweet silence.