Sophie trembled as she cycled past soldiers in the village square. She thought the handlebars had become transparent, showing their cargo of curled messages. But the young men were watching the fluid dress pressed against soft limbs, reminding them of girls back home. She fixed her eyes on the middle distance and flew out of the village on the northbound road—a brown-skinned teenager, smelling of summer and innocence. She didn’t see the figure in the hedgerow, trained in combat. She was plucked from her youth in a field. With difficulty and courage she ceased struggling. It was courage that killed her father and brother. She bit her lip until that bled too.
         “I wish he’d killed me,” she said.
         “Non, ma petite … Ssh. You’re a survivor. Vive la Résistance! We are the silent women of France.”
         “Have another drink,” she said.

She survived, keeping her silence. Memories were bottled and stored in the darkest part of the cellar. The children never asked what she did in the war. She talked to them of life and love. She drank to that, often.
         “‘Ave a Dubonet. Eet won’t ‘urt you,’” she said to me at breakfast.
         They found her on the bedroom floor this morning. No need for a post mortem—they thought they knew the cause.
         “Dead from alcohol,” they said.

WENDY DARTNALL is an English language teacher. She has published in Writing Queensland magazine and the Fellowship of Australian Writers' magazine, Scope. She likes writing, singing and hiking. She lives in Brisbane, Australia, with her husband and son.