The ride wound past turn-of-the-century bungalows interspersed with “affordable” housing. Drab and uniform. A close commute to Paris was the only redeeming feature Aimée could see.
On the way she wondered why her mother had grown enamored of the radicals’ cause and joined them? Had she been on the run for all the years since? She shuddered, wondering if her mother had bombed and murdered innocent people.
Frésnes finally appeared. The grimy hundred-year-old brick structure was forbidding, and encased in multiple walls. As she stepped off the bus, birds twittered in the hedgerows. The leaves of tomato plants and pastel tulips waved in the breeze by the warden’s house.
She walked past the guarded gates in tandem with women lugging toddlers and pushing strollers laden with shopping bags. She felt sorry for those with children who were making this long journey. And she could imagine doing it in the rain.
Miniature vegetable gardens lined the walks of the guards’ accommodations. Prison food was notorious for starch and carbohydrates; most inmates puffed out due to the diet and lack of exercise.
Frésnes was an all-purpose prison that handled mostly inmates serving sentences of under five years as well as those awaiting sentencing. She’d heard it said that seventy to eighty percent of the prisoners were nonwhite.
The visitors shuffled into the central salle d’attente, a large room with gray floor tiles and light yellow walls, lined with lockers that could be rented for one franc each. She filled out her visiting application and sat on one of the hard benches.
Posted on the wall was the list of items forbidden to the prisoners: hardcover books, caps, scarves, ties, work outfits, and blue clothing, since the guards wore blue. No leather gloves. She imagined this was to discourage escape attempts over barbed-wire fences. No ski masks, military fatigues, bathrobes, towels, or peignoirs. She wondered about that. No djellabas, kumaros, or boubous, the colorful African dress. No parkas, ski clothes, or shoes since the prison factory made shoes.
Under the allowed list she read: bags with handles, clothing, and plastic bags.
And then her group lined up to receive their visiting permits. Since this was a weekday, only a forty-five—minute visit was permitted. Each visitor furnished a photo ID to the guard.
One by one they walked through a metal detector. After everyone passed they went through another yellow door and sat down to wait in a dirty banana-colored room, this time for about twenty minutes until guards summoned them to an underground tunnel. The air in it reminded her of her grandmother’s cellar, drafty and laced with mold.
The tunnel, partly painted with a mural by prisoners, was cold and peeling from the damp.
Aimée shivered and not just from the cold. She wondered how she would talk to number 3978, a woman who’d shared Jutta Hald’s cell before her release.
She’d been lucky that Morbier had acted quickly. The permit said number 3978 was still in Centre National d’Observation but due for transfer back to the Clairvaux facility that night. Aimée had no knowledge of her crime. All she knew was that Clairvaux held those serving long-term sentences and lifers.
She was directed toward the CNO section and entered a dim visiting booth. Behind her, the fluorescent strips in the hallway provided the only source of light. She sat on a stool at a small wooden table, the surface of which was gouged and carved by the feel of it. The door closed, leaving her in a space about three feet wide and ten feet long. Her breath caught as the key turned in the lock, a sound that was hard and ominous.
This, she’d been informed, was a “contact” visit, with no screen or barrier between visitor and prisoner, the usual thing since the rules changed in 1980.
A row of women in everyday clothes, escorted by blue-uniformed guards, passed by in single file, silhouetted in the doorway ahead of her. A large-boned woman with short cropped hair paused and looked inside.
Aimée took a deep breath. Her spine tingled.
The woman was an amazon.
“Non, West Coast, next door,” said a guard.
“Too bad,” the woman said, “A visit with her would be worth the mitard, the solitary hole.”
The guard moved the amazon on.
A wave of relief passed over Aimée. But not for long. The stool cut into her thighs and she hadn’t sat on it for more than two minutes.
More figures walked past. From a neighboring booth came muffled laughter, in the distance she heard weeping. What seemed like a dark eternity went by before a lithe figure in worn sweats entered.
The woman, shorter than Aimée, peered at her in the dim light then shoved a creased folder onto the table. “Tiens, if you keep insisting about my mother’s grave, I’ll show you proof I paid.”
Surprised, Aimée rose. Her foot caught the stool, which crashed to the concrete floor. “Pardon, my name is Aimée Leduc,” she said. She extended her hand. “What’s yours?”
“Liane Barolet,” the woman said. Aimée felt a curious grip. “Like I said, the money was paid. Here are the papers.”
What did this woman mean?
“You must think I’m someone else, Madame Barolet. I’m not sure …”
“Mademoiselle would be technically correct,” the woman said.
She remained standing as Aimée righted the stool. “Let me explain why I’ve come, Mademoiselle Barolet,” Aimée said. “It’s nothing to do with your mother. It’s to do with mine.”
“I don’t know you,” the prisoner said, withdrawing toward the locked door. “And my socialist group meeting starts soon.”
“Sorry, but we might as well talk,” Aimée said. “They won’t open the door until visiting time’s over.”
It was hard to tell if Liane Barolet shrugged; her clothes were too big for her.
“I don’t get many visitors,” she said, moving closer and sitting down.
Now Aimée could see more of Liane’s face. Once she’d been very pretty, Aimée imagined. The cheekbones were still prominent, the lips full, but deep lines webbed the cornflower blue eyes, etched the forehead. She had that look Jutta Hald had—wan, doughy skin on a bony frame.
Prison life.
“Jutta Hald told me …”
“That pseudo Marxist?” Liane snorted.
“Wasn’t she in the Haader-Rofmein gang?”
“You came here to ask me that?” Liane pounded her hand on the table.
“Jutta Hald was murdered.” Aimée looked down. She realized Liane Barolet’s hand consisted of a thumb, index finger, and pinkie. The middle and ring fingers were stubs.
“When?” Liane asked, as she leaned back in the shadows.
“The day she got out.”
Aimée couldn’t see her reaction. She decided to get to the point.
Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness. “Right before her death, Jutta showed up at my apartment. She said she’d shared a cell with my mother,” Aimée said. “She wanted money to tell me more, then she was shot.” She hoped the trembling of her lips didn’t show. “My mother’s name was Sydney Leduc. Did you know her?”
Liane Barolet’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Mon petit, guess what? Life is hard. Then you die.”
“Jutta said the same thing.”
“But it’s true.”
“I’m not asking for sympathy,” Aimée said.
“So what do you want?”
This wasn’t going well.
“Look, I’m sorry this is confusing,” Aimée said. She drummed her fingers under the wooden table. They came back sticky. “All I want to know is if Jutta talked about my mother in prison.”