Never thought to elaborate on this but if Lucille is speaking to a french person like her father or her friends, she is speaking in french. She only speaks English with English speaking characters like Tommy and Dawson.

Lucille

Lucille woke, rather abruptly, to harsh footsteps outside of her door. They grew louder and louder as she forced herself to liven up and shuffle up from where she lay. The fact that the steps were loud and rhythmic made her nervous, they weren't that of her father.

The steps stopped outside her door and Lucille held her breath. It was the German, she knew it was. From beneath the door, she could see a thick shadow of a person who was clearly beside her door. The outline flickered lightly as the person shuffled and Lucille could hear the man's deep breathing. She could also hear the slow turning of metal. Was that the doorknob?

Quickly, she shuffled out of bed, making her movements loud as she moved to the vanity beneath the window, sitting down with a thump and opening the adjacent drawer with a squeak. She watched as the shadow hastened away, footsteps reaching her ears again, this time quieter.

With the lurking soldier gone, Lucille let out a frustrated sigh, her hands reaching to rub over her tired face. The clock in her bedside table read half past six in the morning, an hour earlier than she had hoped to rise and get ready for the long day that was surely ahead. The sunlight, however, had already started to pour through her laced curtains, a tell time of spring that easily brought a smile to her face.

But as a brush was brought to comb lightly through her long hair, Lucille frowned again at the thought of the soldier. Had he intended to enter her room? Or perhaps, after all, it had been her father and she had been too oblivious these past days to have noticed the condition of his leg. But even so, her father himself had no business interrupting her, so she ruled it out as unlikely.

She finished pinning her hair back at the front and powdered her cheeks, before getting dressed, skipping downstairs.  Her father sat at the kitchen table. The German was no where in sight.

"Where are you off to this morning?" Her father asked, and Lucille almost chocked on the water that she had been drinking.

The tone of voice that Maron had used was lighter than usual, a kinder question rather than one of disapproval. He sat with his paper, a french one somehow, though after a few moments she realised that it was an old one, which had been kept for cleaning before the war had even been a possibility.

"I'm going to the village this morning before this weeks good picks are taken. I don't wish for another week of eggs and cheese." She said, as she manoeuvred around the table, picking the last bun from the bread bin on the counter.

Her father turned around, placing his paper on the table. He looked offended, as he said, "Our eggs are perfectly fine! We have cheese and butter fresh. It's better than some."

She sighed. "Then why don't we share it with those people?"

She had suggested early in the war, that the food from their farm should be shared. Especially since shortages had been becoming more and more frequent ever since the German occupation of their surrounding area. It allowed no food to be transported for more than ten miles.

"We'll have nothing left." He exclaimed and Lucille shook her head.

"Actually with what I'll buy this morning, we'll have plenty." She said, matter-of-factly. She paused her shuffling, leaning so her father would see her face. "It's not right."

Maron sighed. "Just like your mother."

"Fine, but if we run out I blame it on you." He said, and Lucille beamed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders with a squeeze. "The German won't be pleased."

"They're taking our homes and the rest of our belongings. Next will be the food, father." She said, though her tone didn't match her words. She was too happy to let the thought put a dampener on her mood. "We have to share while we can, make it look like we have less than we have."

"Go on, before it's gone." Maron said, and Lucille smiled as she scurried into the pantry, collecting a large picnic basket that had already been prepared the evening before.

She called a good bye before closing the door behind her and stepping around the chickens that roamed the courtyard freely. The road to town was long but straight and paved with tall trees. As Lucille walked along the dust path, she observed the scene around her, something she hadn't done since long before the occupation- when she felt safe to leave the house.

But now that she had a purpose, now that she could help, the world around her seemed a lot less dim, and the sun that beamed from the top of the path burned a little brighter, welcoming her forward. Even the birds that fluttered the French countryside chirped louder and sweeter. If it hadn't been for the German in her home and the foreign language on their papers, Lucille might have thought the town was normal: unfairly untouched by the war, spared of the bombs that ruin the landscape.

Lucille quickly reached the top of her route, ending at the turn for the village, which was a simple two minute walk to the bakers. As she passed through the small houses, she could smell the scent of bread, something they were lucky to still have, thanks to the farms that the village thrived from.

"What's left today, Pierre?"She asked as she entered the open down to the bakers shop.

"Not much I'm afraid, Madame. Ah you're lucky though, I've a loaf left in the back." He said in his usual bright tone. The man had never been one to let anything dull his day. Lucille wished she could be the same.

"Thank you." She said, as she placed the money down on the counter, ready for him to return.

"I have an egg box and some butter spare." She added, while bringing the wrapped up box and block from her basket, and placing it along side the coins. "Take it."

The baker flushed a deep read and took the box in his hands, peaking a look at the large size that he knew the eggs would be. "Thank you, Lucille."

"Tea?" He asked, nodded to the small break room that he had come from.

She shook her head sweetly, taking the load of bread from his hands carefully, before replying, "I have to be off, but thank you."

Lucille continued her walk down the small path, her basket swinging lightly on her arm. The wall was short, her strides taking there in the matter of minutes. She stopped by the front of a small shop, knocking on the smaller of two doors.

A smaller woman appeared by the door, barely opening it wide enough for Lucille to see her whole face. But the half that she did see, was familiar, their eyes tired but still somehow youthful. Amélie was older than Lucille at 28, but the woman had always acted maternally, seeming far more mature than her years. Under her eyes, there was an early show of wrinkles that creased her otherwise smooth skin and blended in with the tired bags.

"You came!" Amélie finally opened the door wider to allow Lucille to skirt her way around and into the dim hallway. She pulled her into a hug, holding her tightly.

"Of course I did. How are you?" Lucille asked as she was lead through the hall way and up the stairs that lead to the flat above the small shop.

"I'm good. The children are loving not having to go to school." She said, trailing at the end. Lucille could tell she was worn down.

"And Louis?" Lucille asked.

Amélie's husband had been injured in the beginning of the war, leaving him at home. He was a bold man, ready to fight at every possible instance- she wasn't surprised that he was troubled by his lack of presence on the battlefield.

"He's coping, but it's killing him really. It doesn't help that we're having a German shoved in with us."

"You too?"

"I know. I'm surprised too, have you seen our house lately? It's like a pig sty." She said, though there were bitter undertones.

"Did you bring me some of that lavender oil?" Amélie asked.

"Of course, only our very best." Lucille replied, as the placed a small vial into her calloused hand. "Though we are running low. Many of our produce is being sent to the front lines- for the injured."

"Thank you." Amélie said, as they reached the closed doors to the small sitting room, of which they would meet in.

They paused, before reaching to push the doors open, emerging into the room. The women that crowded around the centre table turned to look at them.

"Lucille?" One women asked, her voice shocked.

"Hello." She replied, somewhat timidly as they eyes fell upon her.

"I didn't expect you to be here." The same woman said, venom on her tongue.

Lucille raised her brow, moving so the woman in sight. She was not shocked to see Cecilé at the receiving end of her gaze. The fair haired woman glared back at her with pointed eyes.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"We all thought you were too, clean, to ever come into the runt of the village." Cecilé spat at her.

"What made you think that?" Lucille could feel the eyes of the room staring into her skin.

"Well you live in the largest house around here and that cripple father of yours surely likes to keep it that way."

"Come on. Leave it be, Cecilé." Amélie pleaded, but Lucille continued her pushing.

"What do you mean?" She asked. Cecilé laughed.

"What do I mean? The prices of eggs and milk have almost tripled in the past month!"

Cecilé's exclamation hit her hard. Though her father's farm was built to supply lavender, they were the closest farm for miles of the small village. They sold eggs and milk from the small number of animals they had. Their prices were fair, Lucille made sure of it- before the war.

She paused, looking around at the expectant glances, before marching forward, placing the large, open basket onto the table. "Then I suppose you won't want this?"

Cecilé glanced down at the contents of the basket and rolled her eyes. The other women, reached forward, taking in the large mountain of food and supplies that were forced into the bag.

"I suppose this is you asking for forgiveness." She asked, but Lucille shook her head forcefully.

"No. I ask for you to allow me to explain." She stepped forward, leaning across passionately to express her words. She began, "We have a German in our house."

"That's the price you pay for being in the best house. None of us have one."

"Just listen!" Amélie shouted, her face flushed in frustration. She had been given a German, despite being in some of the poorest conditions. She knew more were coming- for all of them.

"The war has already forced them to raid our homes and take away our husbands, our fathers and our brothers. Next it will be our food. Their own supplies have been cut off, so where else will they get them from but us?"

"That's why we must distribute it like this!" She said, digging her hands into the basket and pulling the food out to pass around the group. Her cheeks were red.

Lucille's voice urged them to understand her as she continued, "If they think we have less than we do, that means they will exhaust us of what they think we have. But there will be some stored to be shared."

"Me and my father have already started the process." She breathed out. "All I ask is for you to help me."

Cecilé looked around at the happy faces that thanked Lucille and back down at the leftovers in the basket. She lifted her chin, pausing momentarily, before nodding.

"You're right." She said. "This will work."

Lucille sighed in relief. "Thank you."

"What do you need?" Cecilé asked.

"A way out." Lucille said. There was no way she was telling them about the soldiers. What if they would snitch?

Cecilé laughed, but her face flattened as she noticed her serious face. "Really?"

Lucille nodded. Cecilé puffed out a large breath, her eyes wide in surprise and said, "We can find a way."

"Can we keep it between us three? Please." Lucille asked and Cecilé nodded.

"Thank you." Lucille said again, but Amélie followed straight after.

"Thank you Lucille. With your idea, we will be better fed than ever." Amélie exclaimed. "Things are going to get better. For all of us."

They all knew they would have to work together. They would have to work together to return the sweet smell of the countryside that they called their home. The homely smell of lavender and grass and bread baking down the street. The welcoming aroma of the dusty road and the petrol of the cars that hobbled over it, and the perfumed dresses of the women that travelled within them. There would be no more suffering and silence. No more sickly scents of boot wax and gunpowder.

The women could not stop a war. But they could prevent a battle, much closer to home.