In November 1992, the strict regime penitentiary colony for women IK-8 Septantria, located in a glacial region of the north, resembled a veritable hell under the command of Commandant François Pierre Girot. At 46, a former officer in the criminal brigade, he was a man with massive shoulders, heavy eyes, and a voice so harsh that the prisoners lowered their eyes as soon as he spoke.
For the past five years, he had run this prison as if it were his personal territory. The complaints disappeared, and those who dared to write ended up spending 15 days in solitary confinement. Standing beside him was a small team—three men whom the prisoners nicknamed among themselves “the wolves.” The first was Captain Olivier Nicolas Baron, a 39-year-old political officer.
A corpulent man, always sweating, with red eyes, he enjoyed seeing his victims cry and beg. He would force women to look him in the eyes and whisper, “Cry prettier, I like that.” The second was Lieutenant Chief Damien Serge Caron, assistant to the internal regime, 41 years old, silent and thin, with fingers as cold as metal.
He preferred to strike with precision, especially in the kidneys, without leaving visible marks. The third was Lieutenant Colonel Tamara Kovalef, the medical officer in charge. Thin, with thin lips, she recorded everything on an old camera and then fixed the problems so that no consequences would reach the administration.
In November 1992, a new convoy arrived. Among the three new prisoners were two sisters, the Volkov sisters, whose names were later Gallicized in the internal registers into the forms of Anne Volkov and Catherine Volkov. The youngest, Anne, called Annie, was 25 years old. Trained as a surgeon and a graduate of a medical institute, she had previously worked in traumatology.
She had been tricked. Her former partner had slipped drugs among her belongings before reporting her for theft. She was calm, educated, with slender fingers and a steady gaze. But behind that fragile appearance lay steel. The eldest, Catherine, known as Cathy, was 28 years old. She was tougher, athletic, with broad shoulders and short hair.
She was serving a sentence for killing her stepfather in a fit of rage after he had gotten once too close to her little sister. Their father, a former paratrooper, had taught them from childhood how to fight hand-to-hand, how to handle a weapon, and how to strike with precision. When Girot first saw them during the lineup, he immediately noticed them and whispered a few words to Baron and Caron.
Five days later, three naked male bodies were found lying on the cold tiles amidst thick pools of blood. Damien Caron was lying closest to the door. His neck had been opened with a single, precise blow, delivered just below the throat. Olivier Baron was lying on his back in the center of the room, his mouth open, his chest pierced by a clean knife blow passed under the ribs, straight towards the heart.
François Pierre Girot was lying face down on the ground, near a table, his throat cut from ear to ear. Next to him lay his own Makarov pistol with a spent cartridge case found in the wall. The official version released two days later by the hierarchy was simple: an alcoholic brawl among colleagues.
But the truth was quite different. The heavy metal doors had slammed shut at 4:30 in the morning. An escort sergeant shouted into a megaphone, “Out! Form up in groups of five! Hands out of pockets, eyes ahead!” The 23 women exited the transfer cage and entered the grey courtyard. Some wore old prison uniforms, others had only a light summer sweater. One of them was even barefoot.
Meanwhile, the November cold was already biting at the skin. The supervisors counted heads, hitting with sticks on the backs of those who bent over. Girot stood on the steps of the administrative building, his hands in his jacket pockets. Beside him, Baron was out of breath after a simple walk from the car.
A little further away, Caron was smoking while watching the new arrivals with squinted eyes. “Which one is worth the detour?” Girot asked in a low voice. A young, thin, 20-year-old inmate, whom everyone called “the mouse,” immediately lowered her eyes. “The two sisters,” she murmured, “The younger one, a doctor, 159, and everyone says she was framed. The older one, 28, sturdy, Article 105, homicide in a state of shock. No tattoos, but she stands tall.”
Girot turned his head slightly. “The doctor? Yes, Anne Volkov. And the other one?” “Catherine, Cathy.” Baron gave a short, slurred laugh, rubbing his hands together. “Both of them at once, convenient.”
Caron exhaled the smoke through his nose. “Start with the younger one—delicate, intelligent, the kind who cries beautifully.” Girot nodded once. “Okay. Let the doctor work first; the older one can wait.” Then he turned to the mouse. “Aunt Lucy is in the kitchen today?” “Yes, Commander.” “Tell her to go home; her children are sick.”
The mouse swallowed hard. “She said yesterday that she had to feed her children.” Girot stared at her. It was so cold that she immediately lowered her head even further. “Tell her this. If she wants to keep her job and prevent her children from ending up elsewhere, she leaves right now. Otherwise, she can talk, but she can’t come back for two days. Understood?” “Understood.”
The mouse turned and ran toward the kitchen block. Ten minutes later, Lucy crossed the threshold, clutching her bag to her chest. No one accompanied her. Only the guard, Zina, called out sharply, “Don’t be late, Lucy, your place won’t wait for you.” Lucy didn’t reply. She simply quickened her pace.
Girot then stepped down from the landing, approached the row of new inmates, and stopped right in front of Anne. She stood straight. She didn’t look down, but she wasn’t provocative either. “Volkov, Anne?” “Yes, doctor, yes, clean hands.” Anne barely raised her eyebrows. For the moment, Girot allowed himself a faint smile.
“Okay, you’re going to the kitchens. The dishwasher is out today. You’ll help out until lights out. Wash, chop, serve, whatever they tell you.” Anne was silent for a second, then she asked, “And if I refuse?” Baron took a step toward her. His voice became graceful, almost gentle. “If you refuse, you’re going to solitary confinement.”
“Fifteen days, and then we’ll find you another job. Much worse.” Anne turned her head toward her sister. Catherine was standing three rows back. Her gaze was firm, calm. Their eyes met for a second. Catherine gave a slight nod with her chin, as if to say, “Go ahead.” Anne turned back to Girot. She stepped out of line. The supervisor, Zina, then gave her a sharp blow to the shoulder with her baton.
It was not hard enough to make her fall, but hard enough for her to feel it. “Faster, Doctor. The dishes won’t wash themselves.” Girot watched her, then turned to Baron. “Tonight, we’ll go and check how well she’s really cleaned herself.” Baron gave a broad smile. “I’m already salivating.” Caron finished his cigarette, tossed the stub under his boots, and asked flatly, “And the older one? Shouldn’t she watch her little sister work first?”
Girot replied, “Tomorrow, it’ll be her turn. And the day after, both of them together. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a family evening.” They laughed quietly, almost like brothers sharing an old habit. Catherine stayed in line. She heard every word. Her face didn’t move. Only the fingers of her right hand twitched slightly, like an old reflex ingrained in her flesh.
Her father had taught her long ago: “Thumb along the blade, index finger firm on the handle.” Even without a knife, her muscles still remembered the gesture. She was led to building 7, to a lower bunk in a corner. No sooner had she sat down than an old inmate came and sat down next to her. It was the unofficial dormitory supervisor, a woman in her 30s marked by three convictions.
“New?” “Yes.” “Is your sister with you?” “Yes.” The old woman sighed. “They’ve already taken the youngest to the kitchens.” Catherine nodded. The old woman lowered her voice even further. “So tonight, all three of them will come. Don’t resist right away, it will be worse. They can add time, send you to the hole.” She ran the edge of her hand across her throat. “Here, anything is possible.”
Catherine fixed her eyes on hers. “And if we resist?” The old woman shuddered. “So, he breaks you some other way or he kills you, and then they write that you did it to yourself.” Catherine remained silent for a long moment, then she murmured, “I have my sister.” “I know,” replied the old woman, “That’s precisely why I’m telling you to hold on for now.”
Catherine looked away towards the wall. Meanwhile, Anne entered the kitchen block in the early evening. The prisoner on duty, Claudine, stuffed an apron and a pair of rubber gloves into her hands. “You wash everything in the sink, then the pots, then you mop the floor. At 11 p.m., you’re out. Understood?” “Understood.” She put on the apron. The water was freezing. The soap smelled strongly of chlorine.
She washed the dishes mechanically, trying not to think about anything. Her hands only trembled for the first ten minutes. Then they became firm, almost rigid. At 9 p.m., the last cooks left. Claudine closed the serving area and went back to the dormitory. Anne remained alone.
The only light still on came from a small, yellowish bulb hanging above the sink without a lampshade. At 11:30 p.m., the dining hall door creaked. Three men entered. Girot came first, Baron behind him, and Caron last. They were still wearing their uniform jackets but without any sign of respect. Girot locked the door with two full turns.
Caron approached the light switch and flipped it. The room plunged almost into darkness. Only the yellow light above the sink remained. Anne stood in front of the basin, her hands still damp and covered in suds. Girot smiled slowly. “Doctor, you’ve done a good job. Now you go and rest.” Anne didn’t turn around. “I’m still finishing the pots.”
Baron let out a greasy sigh. “The pots can wait. Come here.” Anne turned off the water, took off her gloves, and placed them on the edge of the sink. Then she turned around. “What do you want?” Girot took a step forward. “We don’t have to tell you again. Take your clothes off.” Anne looked him straight in the eyes. “No.” Immediately, Caron came up behind her and grabbed her elbows, not violently, but with a force that left no escape.
Baron slowly undid the top button of her gown. “Don’t struggle, doctor, we don’t like it when there’s a fight.” Anne tried a sudden movement. Just once, Caron immediately twisted her arm behind her back. A sharp pain shot through her shoulder. Girot grabbed her chin. His voice dropped lower, colder. “Listen to me carefully. Your sister is in building 7. Catherine, is that it? Beautiful, strong. If you scream now or try to defend yourself again, tomorrow we’ll bring her here instead of you, and then we’ll extend her sentence. Ten more years if necessary. Is that what you want?”
Anne swallowed with difficulty. When she answered, her voice had become hoarse. “No.” “Then take off your clothes yourself.” She slowly raised her hands. Her clothes slid to the floor. She was left only in her tank top and underwear. Baron ran his palm over her shoulder as if inspecting an object. “Clean skin, not yet marked.” Anne remained motionless, her face blank but her eyes open. Girot nodded to Caron toward the metal cutting table. Caron pushed her forward.
Anne placed her palms on the cold edge of the table. The metal bit into her skin. Girot grabbed her hair and forced her to bend over. Her cheek touched the icy steel. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Don’t cry right away. I prefer it when the tears come later.” Anne gritted her teeth. Her breath caught, but no cry escaped her.
Time seemed heavy, dirty, endless. The yellow light flickered above them as if even the bulb hesitated to stay lit. When Girot finally stepped back, he simply adjusted his belt as if he had just finished a routine task. Next, Baron approached. He turned her roughly, forcing her face up. He wanted her to always look at him. “Cry, Doctor, you’re more beautiful when you cry.”
But Anne didn’t speak. Tears trickled silently down her temples. Her throat remained closed. Her voice seemed to have fled far away from her. The silence she maintained wasn’t submission; it was something else—something darker, something that still survived. And in that silence, somewhere deep inside her, something was already beginning to remember, to calculate, to wait.
“Bravo, you don’t bite.” Caron was the last. He didn’t say a word. He simply turned her body toward him, forced her to bend over the metal table, then firmly grasped her. His hands dug into her skin. His fingers traced her hips with calculated slowness, as if he wanted to make each second last longer than the others.
Anne gripped the edge of the table until her nails hurt. The metal creaked slightly under the strain of her body. When he was finished, he finally released her. Anne slid slowly to the floor and sat up, her knees drawn up to her chest. Girot crouched in front of her, his elbows resting on his thighs as if he were talking to a child.
“Remember this well, this is only the beginning. Tomorrow, it will be your sister.” Anne barely looked up. Her breath was short. Girot continued in an icy tone, “And if you tell her a single word, just one, we’ll know. And tomorrow, she’ll pay for both of you.” Anne nodded. “I understand.” Baron then threw a damp mop in her face.
“Clean everything—the floor, the table, everything. And make it shine.” Then they went out, and the door closed. The key turned from the outside with a sharp click. Anne sat on the tiled floor for almost two minutes, motionless, as if her body had forgotten how to get up. Then she forced herself to move. She took the mop, washed the table, then the floor, then her hands up to her elbows, again and again, until her skin turned red.
Then she put her clothes back on, buttoning every button up to the collar. The corridor was empty, with only lightbulbs spaced every ten meters, casting a dirty, almost sickly light. She walked to Building 7. The door was ajar. The mouse was standing at her post. She murmured, “Everything’s fine.”
But Anne walked past her without replying. Inside the dormitory, it was almost dark. The women were asleep or pretending to be. Anne approached Catherine’s bunk and sat on the edge. Catherine wasn’t asleep. Her eyes were open in the shadows. “What did they do to you?” she asked in a low voice. Anne swallowed hard, then spoke. Her voice was almost inaudible.
“Three of them came. They closed the door. They forced me onto the table one by one. Girot first, then the fat one, the one who wanted to see me cry, then the quiet one behind.” She paused for a second, then added, “They said it would be you tomorrow. Then the two of us together.” Catherine then placed her hand on her sister’s knee.
Her face didn’t move. “Did they hit you?” Anne shook her head slightly. “Just enough so it wasn’t noticeable.” Catherine slowly shook her head. “They threatened you. With me?” “Yes, they said if I spoke, they’d add time or worse.” A heavy silence fell. Then Catherine whispered, “He thinks we’re going to break.” Anne looked up at her.
“I didn’t break. I just kept quiet.” For the first time, something tiny flickered in Catherine’s eyes. “That’s good.” Anne lowered her head. “Caty, I’m scared.” Catherine squeezed her hand tighter. “Don’t be scared. Tomorrow, they’ll come for me.” Anne looked up abruptly. “Ready for what?” Catherine answered with an almost terrifying calm.
“Finish this?” Then she lay back. Anne lay down next to her on the same bunk. There was just enough room. In the dark, Anne whispered, “What?” Catherine closed her eyes. Her voice became even lower. “Just like Dad taught me. Precise, hitting the throat or under the ribs, not giving them time to scream.”
Anne nodded gently in the darkness. “I’ll help you.” Catherine turned her face slightly toward her. “I know.” She shut up. In the dormitory, someone was snoring. Further away, another woman sighed, all asleep. Anne wasn’t crying anymore. She lay there, her eyes fixed on the invisible ceiling. Catherine, meanwhile, was already counting down the seconds until morning.
The next day began like all the others. Lining up, gray courtyard, biting cold. Girot stepped out onto the front steps of the administration building, lit a cigarette, and scanned the courtyard. Baron stood beside him, rubbing the back of his thick neck. The cognac from the night before still clung to his face.
Girot exhaled the smoke slowly. “It’s time for the older girl to understand that her little sister isn’t alone.” Baron nodded with a repugnant smile. Girot then turned to the inmate on duty. “Aunt Valerie is cleaning the administration wing today?” “Yes, Commander.” He gestured to Zina. “Tell her that there are urgent family matters, that she should go home for two days and not try to argue.” Zina gave a little laugh.
“Just yesterday, she was complaining that she couldn’t lose this job. Her pension was too small.” Girot’s expression immediately turned cold. “Then give her this. If she wants to avoid her husband being evicted from the apartment by a simple piece of paper, she should stop complaining and leave.” At once, Zina turned on her heel and disappeared toward the maintenance room.
Five minutes later, Aunt Valerie was already coming out of the gate, her bag slung over her shoulder, her eyes red. No one asked her where she was going. Only the mouse whispered as she passed, “Hang in there, Valerie.” But she didn’t reply. She just quickened her pace. Girot then turned to Caron. “Go get the eldest, Volkov, and put Catherine in the kitchens until lights out.”
Caron headed toward building 7. When he came in, Catherine was standing by the window. She saw him right away. “Volkov?” “Yes.” “In the kitchen. We’re short-handed washing up. You’ll help your sister.” Catherine looked him straight in the eye. “What if I refuse?” Caron took a step closer. His voice dropped.
“Then your little sister might not leave the infirmary tonight. Do you understand?” Catherine was silent for a second, then nodded. “I’ll go.” She followed him out. In the corridor, she passed Anne, who was carrying a stack of clean dishes from the dining hall. Their eyes met. Anne shook her head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if to say, “Don’t.”
But Catherine only answered her with her eyes, “I have to.” In the kitchen block, Anne was already washing the pots when she saw her sister come in. She froze for a fraction of a second. Catherine approached, picked up a cloth, and started working as if nothing were wrong. “Don’t say anything, just work,” they warned each other in silence.
The sound of the water almost drowned everything out. It was only after the last cooks had left around 6:30 p.m. that Catherine finally murmured, “They will come at 11:30 p.m. It will be the same.” Catherine nodded her head. “I know, I’m ready.” Anne stared at her. “Don’t resist right away. Strike when they move.” Catherine slowly wiped her hands.
Then she replied, “I’m not going to move. I’m going to watch.” Anne swallowed hard. “Remember everything.” Catherine replied in a calm voice, “I already remember that.” At 11:30 p.m., the door creaked again. The same three men entered. Girot locked the door. Caron turned off the ceiling light. Once again, only the small yellow light bulb above the sink remained.
Girot then fixed his eyes on Catherine, and this time something in his smile was even worse. “So, sporty girl, has your little sister already told you everything?” Catherine stood by the sink, her arms at her sides. “Yes, she told me.” Baron gave a small snicker. “So, were you scared?” Catherine replied in a perfectly steady voice, “No.”
Girot gave a slow, testing smile. “Perfect. That will be more interesting. Take off your clothes.” Catherine slowly removed her outfit. All that remained were her tank top and underwear. Caron grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards the metal table. On the table, face down, Catherine lay down of her own accord without resisting.
Girot approached first and unbuckled his belt. “Take a good look at your sister,” he said to Anne, “Let her see what expects her the day after tomorrow.” Anne stood against the wall, motionless, her back pressed against the cold surface. Girot approached Catherine and forced her to bend over further.
Catherine simply exhaled through her nose without a cry. Girot moved roughly, holding her by the hair. “You’re not saying anything!” he murmured, “Do you like it?” Catherine answered through gritted teeth, “No.” He slapped her with his palm. “You’ll like it.” He finished quickly and stepped back. “Your turn, big guy.”
Baron approached, turned her onto her back, and forced her legs apart. “Sporty crying. I like it when strong women cry.” But Catherine simply stared at the ceiling. No tears came. Baron continued slowly, taking his time, savoring every moment. Catherine clenched her fists behind her, registering everything: the breathing, the scent of the cologne, the pressure of his fingers on her hips—every detail.
When he was finished, he pushed her away slightly. “Not bad, she didn’t bite.” Caron was last, still silent. He pulled her upright and then forced her to bend over again. His hands pressed down on the small of her back with his full weight. Catherine gripped the edge of the table. The metal creaked. She counted in her head.
One, two. She was memorizing everything: the angle, the force, the rhythm. When Caron finished, he withdrew without a word. Girot crouched in front of her. “Tomorrow, it’ll just be the two of you, and if you say a word to your sister, we’ll know, and she’ll scream even louder. Understand?” Catherine raised her head. “Understood.”
Baron threw a mop on the floor. “Clean it up and make it shine.” They left. The door closed. Catherine stood up, changed her clothes, took the mop, cleaned the table, then the floor, then her hands. Anne stood beside her, motionless. “Caty!” Catherine turned to her. “Let’s go.” They left the kitchens around 2:30 in the morning.
The dormitory was silent. Anne sat down on the bunk first. Catherine sat down next to her. “The same thing,” Anne murmured. Catherine nodded. “Yes, Girot first, then the fat one, then the quiet one. They threatened you and me.” “Also?” Anne squeezed her hand. “You stayed silent?” “Yes, I was memorizing.” Anne looked her straight in the eyes.
“And now?” Catherine replied calmly, “Now they’ll come for both of us, and this time we’ll wait for them.” Anne nodded. “He thinks we’re going to break.” A faint, cold, almost invisible smile crossed Catherine’s lips. “He’s wrong.” She lay down. Anne lay down beside her. They remained silent. Catherine counted in her head.
The movements, the breaths, the smells, the words—all lined up in her memory like bullets in a magazine. As morning approached, the morning of the third day, Girot began with a phone call to Building 7. The mouse picked up. “The two Volkovs in the kitchens. Night cleaning after lights out. No delays.” The mouse hung up, her hand trembling, and approached them.
Catherine was already sitting. Anne was still lying down, staring at the ceiling. “They’re calling both of you. Night cleaning in the kitchens.” Catherine looked at her sister. “So, it’s for today.” Anne straightened up. Her voice was low. “I’m ready.” Catherine nodded. “Remember. When he relaxes, we act. The knives will be on the table. Yesterday, I hid two under the rags.” Anne pressed her lips together. “I’ll take the second one. Under the ribs, slightly to the left, the heart.” Catherine briefly placed her hand on the back of her head. “Short, precise, strong, good, don’t rush. Let them start first. Let them feel in control of this place again.”
The day passed at its usual pace: meal distribution, washing up, the silent stares of the other prisoners. No one asked questions. Everyone already knew that the two sisters had been summoned together. In the dormitory, the whispers only began after lights out. At 11 p.m., the lights went out.
The sisters went out into the corridor. The mouse stood in front of the kitchen block door, the key already in her hand. “They’re already inside. They’re waiting for you.” Catherine took the key. “Go back to the dormitory. You didn’t see anything.” The mouse nodded and disappeared immediately. Catherine opened the door. They went in.
Girot was sitting on the edge of the table, a cigarette between his fingers. Baron was standing by the sink, slowly opening his jacket. Caron was smoking by the window. Girot smiled. “Come in, ladies. The family gathering is starting.” Catherine closed the door behind her. The key turned twice. The click echoed throughout the empty room.
Baron gave a hearty laugh. “They locked themselves in. Very well.” Girot stood up and approached Anne. “Undress slowly. We want to watch.” Catherine took off her clothes first. Anne did the same right after. They stood in the middle of the room under the yellow light of the bulb hanging above the sink.
Girot grabbed Anne by the shoulders, turned her to face him, and pressed her against the table. “Look closely at your sister, doctor.” At the same moment, Baron approached Catherine from behind, holding her firmly by the waist. “And you, take a good look at yours.” Caron remained slightly behind, his belt already undone, waiting his turn with that icy calm that made him even more unsettling.
Anne was breathing faster but remained silent. Girot forced her face to stay turned toward Catherine. “You see, it’ll be the same for both of you.” Baron forced Catherine to lean forward. “Watch closely, sporty girl, watch what we’re doing to your sister.” But Catherine didn’t look down. She watched without blinking, without trembling.
She was registering everything: Girot’s breathing, the way Baron’s fingers dug into her skin, the sound of Caron’s belt buckle. Every detail entered her memory with almost cold precision. Girot burst into a small laugh. “What a lovely family evening,” Baron added with his dirty smile, “You two make quite a picture.”
Anne breathed in gasps, the tears sliding down her cheeks, but she still wasn’t giving these men what they wanted to hear. Girot leaned close to her ear. “Cry louder, I like it.” But this time, it was Catherine who answered for her. Her voice came out sharply, cold. “She won’t cry.” Girot turned his head toward her. “Oh yes? And you?” Catherine looked deep into his eyes. “Me neither.”
The slap came quickly—not hard enough to make her fall, but sharp enough to resound throughout the room. “You’ll cry when we lay you both on this table.” Then Caron finally approached. The three men took turns, changing places, forcing the two sisters to look at each other, laughing amongst themselves as if it were all just a sordid game.
“Look at them. The little sisters are making an effort. A family must stay united.” But behind her frozen face, Catherine was no longer thinking about fear. She was counting: 1, 2, 3. She was memorizing the exact position of the knives: the first under the cloth to the left of the sink, the second under the second cloth to the right.
When at last the three men stepped back and buttoned up their open jackets, the room seemed to become even quieter. Girot absently wiped his hands on a dishcloth. “Tomorrow again, and then every night, just the two of us, until we get tired of it.” Baron added immediately, “And if you say a word to anyone, we’ll know. We’ll lengthen your sentence. Or worse.” Caron simply gave a muted nod. Then they left, and the door closed behind them. The two sisters stood in the middle of the room under the dirty light, with blood-pearled lips from their split ailments. Bruises were already darkening Catherine’s hips. The metal of the table was still cold beneath their palms.
Catherine approached her sister and embraced her briefly, firmly. “It’s over.” Anne nodded. “Yes, it’s over.” Catherine stepped back lightly and looked her straight in the eyes. And in her own eyes, there were no longer any tears or fear. There was something else—something clear, cold, sharp as a blade. “Tonight, we kill them.”
Anne jerked her head up. When Catherine replied in a low, almost calm voice, “The next time they come. But this time, we won’t go to them, they’ll come to us.” She bent down, lifted the cloth, underneath lay a long, finely sharpened kitchen knife, “One here.” Then she raised the other end, “And the second one over there.” Anne took the second knife.
Her surgeon’s fingers closed around the handle with a natural, almost ancient precision. “I’m ready.” Catherine nodded. “So, we clean and wait.” They began to wash the floor, the table, then themselves. Precise, calm, almost methodical movements, as if it were just an ordinary night.
But in Catherine’s eyes, there was no longer any room for fear, only calculation. They went out at 2:40 a.m. Back in the dormitory, they lay down on the same bunk. In the dark, Anne whispered, “Are you really going to do it?” Catherine answered without hesitation, “Yes, and so are you.” Then they slept. They simply waited for the following night, the night of the fourth day.
At 10:00 p.m., the dormitory light went out. Ten minutes later, the sisters went out again. The mouse was already waiting for them at the entrance to the kitchen block, key in hand. “They’re in there. They’re drinking. They’re waiting for you.” Catherine took the key. “Go away, you didn’t hear anything.”
The mouse disappeared immediately down the corridor. Catherine opened the door. They went in. Girot was sitting on the edge of the table, a bottle of cognac in his hands. Baron was standing by the sink, his jacket open, a flask in his hand. Caron was smoking by the window, his pistol still in its holster on his belt. Girot looked up at them.
“Ah, there you are. Undress. No foreplay tonight.” Catherine closed the door and turned the bolt twice. The click sounded louder than usual. Baron gave a dirty laugh. “She locks herself in again. What a good girl!” Catherine took off her clothes first. Anne followed immediately. The knives were still there, under the rags on the table, one to the left, one to the right, brought within hand’s reach.
Girot then stood up and approached Anne. His shadow cut the yellow light. Face down on the table, Anne lay down of her own accord. Girot grabbed her hair and forced her to bend over further. “Look closely at your sister.” At the same moment, Baron approached Catherine from behind. Baron put his arms around Catherine’s waist.
“And you, look at her.” Caron crushed his cigarette in the sink, and he slowly approached, unbuckling his belt. Girot brutally forced Anne against the table. She exhaled through her nose without crying out. “Are you staying quiet?” he murmured, “Do you like it?” Anne replied weakly, “No.” The answer earned her a sharp rebuke.
“You’ll end up liking it.” Behind her, Baron forced Catherine forward, holding her firmly. “Watch, athlete, watch your sister.” But Catherine didn’t blink. Her gaze remained fixed. Her right hand slid slowly under the cloth to the left of the sink. A few steps away, Caron still waited, his hand near his weapon, the holster open.
Girot finally stepped back and absently wiped his hands. “Your turn!” Baron released his grip and turned toward Anne, forcing her to turn around. “Cry, Doctor, it’s more beautiful.” But Anne didn’t speak. The tears flowed silently. At that moment, Catherine sat up slightly. Her hand had closed around the cold grip of the hidden knife.
Caron took a step toward her. “Your turn.” Catherine turned to
