Satori by Don Winslow

of prisoners, five in all, who had been sentenced to death.
    Louis was the last taken out.
    There was nothing romantic about it, nothing heroic. Louis looked badly beaten, limp and in shock, his hands tied behind him as they dragged him up to the gallows. Standing there in just a bloodstained white shirt and dirty brown trousers, he peered out at the crowd uncomprehendingly, and Solange wondered if he was looking for her.
    I should have given myself to him, she thought. I should have loved him completely. I should have taken him inside me, wrapped myself around him, and never let him loose.
    A soldier went down the line. He finally came to Louis, jerked his head back roughly, put the noose around his neck, then bent down and tied his ankles together. At the colonel’s orders, they put no hoods over the condemned heads.
    Louis looked terrified.
    Other soldiers formed a line between the crowd and the gallows, lest anyone try to interfere or run up and pull on the legs of the hanged to break their necks and abbreviate their agony.
    Solange forced herself to watch.
    An officer shouted an order.
    There was a crack of metal and wood and Louis dropped.
    His neck jerked and he bounced. Then he hung there twisting — his legs kicking, his eyes bulging, his tongue obscenely thrust out of his mouth — as his face turned red and then blue.
    Finally — it seemed like forever — he was still.
    Solange walked away through the crowd.
    She heard a man’s voice say, “He was a hero.”
    “What?”
    It was Patrice Reynaud, a railway conductor who had been a friend of Louis. Patrice kept walking, but repeated, “He was a hero, your Louis.”
    “Your Louis,” Solange thought. If only I had let him be my Louis.
    That night she walked over to La Maison de Madame Sette and went into the woman’s little office.
    “I am ready to begin work,” she said.
    Madame looked at her skeptically. “Why now, chérie?”
    “Why not now, madame?” Solange answered. “Why delay the reality of life?”
    “Your mother will not like it.”
    Marie didn’t. She yelled, she lectured, she wept. “I didn’t want this kind of life for you. I wanted something better for you.”
    So did I, Solange thought.
    Life decided otherwise.
    Madame Sette, of course, was delighted and decided to make an event of it. She spent an entire week promoting the auctioning off of Solange’s virginity. The girl would fetch a very high price.
    “I will give you half,” Madame told her. “That is more than I usually give.”
    “Half is fine,” Solange answered.
    Put it away, don’t squander it, Madame advised her. Put your savings in the bank, work hard, and someday you can open up a little shop of your own. A woman should have her own money in this world, her own business.
    “Yes, madame.”
    The big night arrived, and the parlor was packed with German officers. Most of the local Frenchmen would have nothing to do with this, and those that would had been intimidated by word from the Resistance that it would not treat gently any man who bid for the virtue of a martyr’s girl.
    Solange let Madame dress her for the occasion.
    A crude mockery of wedding garb, the white diaphanous gown concealed little, her white lace headpiece was set gently on her hair that fell freely and shining down her back, adding to the image of virginity. Her makeup was slight and subtle, a little pencil to widen her already beautiful eyes, and just a shade of blush appropriate to a young bride.
    Solange felt disgust.
    Disgust when Madame insisted on examining her to verify her purity, disgust when she was being dressed up for the ceremonial travesty, disgust as she sat in the “bridal suite” and prepared herself for the event, disgust when she was led into the room, which fell instantly silent as men swallowed their lust. Disgust when Madame started the bidding high and it quickly went higher as the men were willing to spend small fortunes to have what they saw beneath the wedding