Le Heart de Marseille

The city was bustling, but she only saw empty streets. Whispers of war-torn years — times of pain, suffering, and fears — floated heavily on the wind. Adelle’s memories came rushing in, flooding her consciousness. It felt strange to be back in her hometown — strange and dangerous, even now. She wondered if she should have come.

For years, she’d kept her distance, locking the past deep within the recesses of her heart, telling herself that silence was loyalty. Maybe she should turn around, head back to the airport, and leave Marseille behind — this time, forever. But something deeper, buried within her, propelled her forward against her will.

She couldn’t tell which direction she truly wanted — or needed — to go.

Her black boots clicked sharply on the cobblestone streets. With every step, memories rose. A sudden, cold chill tingled her spine. She burrowed her hands deeper into her coat pockets and nervously twisted her ring - the ring - around her finger. A simple silver band that she had kept with her all these years. Back then, it had felt like a promise — a promise that they would find a way through, that they would emerge safe and victorious, free and together. That was before things got complicated, before everything changed in unimaginable ways.

Adelle closed her eyes, reliving the sound of his voice, soft yet urgent. “Adelle, don’t tell anyone. Not a soul.”

It was a request that had lingered with her for years, heavy and constant. She had never told - not even when the war ended and the world moved on. So many times, she had come close to sharing the burden, but the words would never leave her, held back by an invisible thread and a lump in her throat. The ring was still there through everything — a constant reminder of her promise. Was it really a secret anymore? She didn’t know. But standing here in her hometown, the loud silence of Marseille surrounding her, it seemed like everything had changed once again.

Memories of the war — the bombings, the chaos, the destruction of the port. The French police, and the Resistance, and… him. Theo. So many choices that couldn’t be undone. Had they even had a choice, or was the ability to choose only an illusion?

Adelle paused in the middle of the street, looking around at the familiar buildings that had seen so much. The silence was broken by a haunting tune — quiet violin… and piano. Grand. Was that a C--sharp she heard? Then a G flat… She shuddered. It had been years since she’d played. She never could bring herself to play the piano anymore, not since she had left Marseille, left behind everything she knew and all of her hopes and dreams for the future. She used to imagine it — sun shining, running through tall blades of grass with Theo, swinging a child between their hands. Playing piano in the concert hall, love flowing through her fingers as Theo beamed at her from the side stage. She looked down at her hands. She still had piano fingers, long and slender. The ring glinted, and she stuffed her hands back into her pockets and continued walking, trying not to look around. She didn’t think she could handle the waves of returning memories, strong as ever now that she was back.

She turned the corner, boots clicking softly down the narrow alley. The cobblestone was uneven here, cracked and weathered. Her thoughts swirled again despite her efforts to focus on something else. The music, the ring, Theo’s voice — they all blurred together, pulling her so deep into her long-buried memories that she didn’t see the drop until it was too late. The ground rushed up to meet her as she tumbled into the hollow.

The impact knocked the wind out of her and raised a cloud of dust. She lay still for a minute, blinking up at the gray sky. She couldn’t hear the music anymore. Her breath caught in her throat suddenly as she looked around and saw the curve of the wall. The stones, all covered in moss except for one that was dark red, the rusted metal pipe jutting out from the side. Nothing had changed except for the amount of dust — it had multiplied over the years. This was the place. This was that same hollow where she and Theo had crouched together in the dark, whispering as their lives crumbled around them, as their city was destroyed from the bombs and the fire -- and the informers. This was where he had pressed the ring into the palm of her hand, his fingers trembling inside hers.

She closed her eyes, letting the weight of it all settle around her. The years she had spent running from this moment, the silence she had carried. And now — here she was. The past, present, and future collided harshly, and tears streamed from Adelle’s eyes as she choked on the dusty air. His voice seemed to echo around her, magnified by the vast emptiness enveloping her.

January 1943

“I’m sorry,” he said, grasping her shaking hands. “I wish there was another way. I had to. Please understand,” he begged. He wants to say they’d threatened his sister. That he hadn’t meant for it to go that far. But the words won’t come.

She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to see the fear and desperation creeping into his voice reflected on his face. Tears dripped from her downcast eyes as he squeezed harder.

“Please, look at me,” he urged. Slowly, carefully, she lifted her eyes and gazed into his. They were warm brown and intense, carrying a world of emotion.

They glinted with the tears he was obviously trying very hard to hold back.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said, and the film of tears over his eyes became a river.

She knew she couldn’t -- realized what would happen if she did. “I won’t,” she said hoarsely, hoping, wishing and praying that she would have the strength to keep her promise.

She didn’t bother wiping away her tears. She knew it wouldn’t stem the flow anyway. With shaking fingers, Theo placed the silver band in her palm and closed her hand into a fist, bringing it to his lips. His kiss was a whisper on her skin — feather-light — and for a moment, she wondered if he had the same ache overtaking his heart and numbing his senses.

And then he pulled away, hoisted himself out of the ditch, and jumped up onto the broken ground.

She allowed herself one last glance as he darted away through the smoke, half stumbling on the rubble. She wished it could have gone differently, wished they could be together -- free, safe, and happy. She so desperately wanted to run after him, beg him to never leave, to make him stay. But she couldn’t. She unclenched her fist and found there was a small piece of paper next to the ring. The writing was shaky, hurried. “Moulin knew all along.”

The vision melted away as reality came back into focus, and Theo was gone. She slowly pulled herself back up onto the street, pebbles digging roughly into her palms. She forced herself to keep walking and finally reached her street in the Vieux Port neighborhood — the Vieux Port de Marseille, where she had lived until adolescence, until the war. The French Resistance had begun in 1940, and living in the Vieux Port, she had been swept up in the efforts against the Nazis two years later. Though she was only seventeen, she had proven to be a valuable member of the Resistance, thanks to her small size and dexterity. Adelle was often chosen to venture into dangerous territory, easily swathed in shadows and easy to be seen without being remembered. She had learned quickly how to move without being heard, how to hide secrets behind her smile, how to lie without being detected. Her thoughts flashed back to this same street, two decades ago, when she had first met Moulin -- and Theo.

September 1940

Adelle jostled her way through the crowd on the main street of the Vieux Port neighborhood, the La Canebière. It was always quite busy, being the center of town, but today it was more frenetic than usual. There seemed to be a commotion further down. Her curiosity was piqued, and she edged her way closer.

Her eyes widened in uneasy fascination as she neared. A well-dressed man was on his knees beside a boy around her age, who lay on the ground with his eyes closed. A large group of people encircled them. Some looked concerned, others indifferent. The boy’s dark honey-colored hair was tousled and tangled, and his face was streaked with dusty coal. His complexion looked unnaturally pale in comparison.

She rushed forward, her legs moving of their own volition. She didn’t know either the man or the boy, but she felt an urge to help. The man looked at her calculatingly, sizing her up, before bowing his head slightly.

“Monsieur Jean Pierre Moulin.”

She nodded. “Adelle.”

He gestured toward the boy, and together they carried his limp form out of the crowd and leaned him against a nearby building. Adelle poured some of her water into his mouth as Moulin held it open. With a jolt, his eyes flew open, and he gasped.

“Theo!” Monsieur Moulin exclaimed. Theo’s eyes cracked open, unfocused. They settled on Adelle, and his forehead creased in hazy confusion.

“He’s not stable enough to walk,” Adelle whispered.

Together they half-carried him down the street, turned into an alley, and eventually arrived at an apartment. Monsieur Moulin pushed open the door, and they carefully laid the boy on the bed. The man gently pushed Theo’s hair away from his forehead, and his eyes flitted open again.

“Thank you for your help,” he said, and Adelle understood the unspoken invitation to leave. She grasped the door handle, then turned back.

“Can I come back tomorrow?” she asked.

Moulin sighed, then nodded.

The next afternoon, Adelle made her way back to the apartment. She paused before knocking. Should she just leave and forget him? She didn’t want to get involved in—whatever this was. She knew this wasn’t an ordinary situation, that these weren’t ordinary people.

She felt an inextricable pang at the thought of turning back. In spite of her rational thoughts, she lifted her fist and knocked lightly.

Adelle stepped into the apartment and saw Theo sitting up in a chair near a small table, his face still pale and taut but looking visibly improved from the day before. Monsieur Moulin stood by the window, gazing out at the still waters of the Mediterranean.

“I didn’t think you would come,” he said without turning.

“I said I would,” Adelle replied.

A long, awkward silence stretched. Then Theo spoke, voice rough but steady. “You’re probably wondering what that was. Yesterday. Why I was lying in the street like that.”

Adelle nodded slowly, but she wasn’t sure she truly wanted to know.

“I was delivering something,” he said. “Something I wasn’t supposed to be caught with.”

“She doesn’t need the details,” Moulin interrupted gently.

“No,” she said. “I want to know.”

He turned to face her now, trust building in his eyes. “We’re part of something larger. A network. Hidden. Dangerous. It’s a kind of… resistance.”

Adelle’s heart pounded as she understood, not only his words but the risk she was taking being here.

She sank into the chair across from Theo, and the words spilled out of her against her will. “I want to help.” It was a whisper. Theo and Moulin’s eyes met and they seemed to be having a silent conversation. Moulin nodded.

Later, she would barely remember the rest of the conversation—just fragments. There was a list of safe houses. A warning about trust. Moulin only told her what was necessary for her to play her part. “If anything were to happen…” he sighed heavily. “It’s best not to know more than you absolutely must.”

Now, Adelle had reached the pier of the port. It was bustling -- ships, people, and cargo moving in and out. The water was clear blue, glistening as the sun’s rays hit the waves, contrasting starkly with her memories of dangerous, murky waters. Her hand fell to her side, once again twisting the metal band of the ring. Then the past pulled her under, as easily as the tide.

January 1943

It had been a dark night. A storm was brewing on the horizon, making the sky overcast with a slight green tinge. Gusts of wind, perfect for masking footsteps and covering sound. The Resistance had recently learned of a meeting spot used by collaborators—men who knew many secrets. But they didn’t keep them well. For a bit of money, names and locations changed hands faster than they could be memorized. She and Theo had slipped out. Adelle had to get in and out quickly, taking in any information she could gather, and slip out unbeknownst to anyone. Theo was the lookout, just out of sight as he kept a careful watch to ensure her safety and warn her in case of disaster.

Looking back, it was the silence as they stole back through the shadows that she should have noticed. They were always as quiet as possible, but today the silence felt different. Charged with a confusing energy she couldn’t figure out. Theo’s eyes stayed on the ground, a strange look on his face. She thought it might be exhaustion and didn’t push him. She regretted not discussing it with him though, more than anything she had ever regretted in her life.

Within the week, the Rafle de Marseille had begun. The Roundup came on fast and was dangerous. On January 22, 1943, the Nazis, along with assistance from the French police, arrested thousands of people – mainly Jews, along with suspected members of the Resistance. Adelle remembered seeing a member of the Resistance being arrested. His name was Julien, and she could picture the haunted look in his blue eyes as they met her own horrified ones across the street. He closed them and looked towards the sky. Then he joined the masses of frightened men, women, and children being herded away. Sections of the city were sealed off, one by one, and people were forced to evacuate their homes in preparation for something. They didn’t know what until the city and port had been demolished into rubble.

Tears filled Adelle’s eyes as she walked quickly back to the old concert house. It had changed a lot over the years and seemed to be used regularly. It smelled faintly of dust and aged wood, but there was a piano, just where hers had stood on the stage. Her breath caught as she hesitantly stepped closer. It was the exact same one. She lowered herself gingerly onto the bench and sat for a few moments, breathing deeply. Then she slowly lifted one hand and ran it up and down the keys. She didn’t dare press one, scared to make a sound. All she could think about were nights spent here with Theo and the way his smile had lit up every corner of the room.

She glanced heavily out the open window, toward the harbor, as the sun dipped lower in the sky and her mind wandered back to that day. June 21st, 1943. There had been a meeting between leaders of different Resistance groups, in the home of Dr. Dugoujon in Caluire-sur-Cuire, a suburb of Lyon. Monsieur Jean Pierre Moulin had called the meeting, hoping to join the resistance groups into one organized effort. His goals were eventually achieved - without him. The Sicherheitsdienst -- a branch of Nazi secret police -had been told of the meeting and its orchestrator. They had burst in, brandishing pistols, and more than one leader, including Monsieur Moulin, had been arrested and later tortured and killed. Adelle’s heart felt heavy. She remembered all the moments she’d had with Moulin. When they had first met, carrying Theo back to the safe house. That one night, when she and Theo had returned. The night he had been acting strangely, when they visited the meeting place of the collaborators. They had been in this concert hall, and she and Theo had played a song for Monsieur Moulin. They’d composed it together. He had beamed at them, gazing as if they were his own children, a look of love and hope. “Never lose this,” he had said. “Even when I’m not around to hear and see it.” His eyes rested intensely on Theo’s for a long moment. She watched Theo, saw the way he swallowed hard, eyes fixed on nothing. Moulin closed his eyes and swayed along to the melody, at peace. After his death, Adelle realized – that knowing look had been a farewell, not only of love but of understanding.

Back then, it had been all over the news. No one knew who had informed on him, the leader of the Resistance. No one but her. She knew Theo had told the collaborators that night, knew that Moulin had known all along. But he hadn’t stopped Theo.

Her hands trembled as she lightly pressed a single note, the first one in their composition. It resonated in the still air. Adelle’s eyes closed, tears leaking from behind her closed lids. She saw Theo again, sitting beside her, his fingers brushing lightly against hers as they played together. A warmth filled her heart, accompanied by a slight burn of pain and grief. She pressed her arm to her eyes, wiping away her tears. Then she steadied herself and rested her fingers in the C position. Then they began dancing across the keys, golden light from the setting sun hitting Theo’s ring and mingling with the music that poured forth from her slender fingers. Adelle played the last note – a C-sharp – and could almost see Theo, his light brown eyes crinkling in a smile, beaming at her from the side stage.

Theo and Adelle are fictional, but the events are real. Jean Moulin’s informant is still unknown today.