Resistance

by Christopher Nicole

  Then she had thought of nothing at all, had gone through the motions as if she had been a zombie, but an ice-cold zombie, who had known exactly what needed doing and had done it. She had even hummed a little tune as she had sat in her bath and watched the water turning red. Then the future had been unfathomable, but nonetheless exhilarating.

  The exhilaration had steadily worn off in the exhaustion, mental and physical, of being a fugitive. She had found herself thinking the most absurd thoughts, as of having James Barron beside her. Why him? Because he had been the last man to hold her in his arms with real longing, a real anxiety to please... who had no doubt already forgotten all about her. At least, according to what Pierre had told Amalie, James had been evacuated from Dunkirk, and was safely back in England.

  She had frowned when she heard that. It did not tie in with the other things Amalie had said Pierre had told his family, none of which had apparently been questioned by any of them. If Pierre had known that James had been evacuated, he must have been in Dunkirk himself. And if he had been in Dunkirk, and had not been himself evacuated, he would have been taken prisoner by the Germans: according to what she had heard during her weeks in hospital, everyone left in and around the seaport had been killed or captured. And then, his story of working his way back to Paulliac... for two months? It had taken her less than a month to get there with every Gestapo officer in the country looking for her. Dunkirk could only possibly add another week to that. Therefore, if Pierre had been in Dunkirk with James, he must have been evacuated too. And remained in England for two months before mysteriously reappearing, telling lies about where he had been and what he had done, but yet persuading Papa to give him the managership of the Paris office. That had raised possibilities that she found difficult to envisage, but which had slowly been crystallizing in her mind over the past few days. But which now had to be put out of her mind in order to face this immediate crisis.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Amalie asked. ‘If they were to attack us...’

  ‘We will defend ourselves.’

  ‘But how? Two women...’

  Liane felt in her knapsack and took out the Luger.

  Amalie gasped. ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘It belonged to the German officer I killed.’

  ‘Do you know how to use it?’

  ‘I do not think it will be difficult. But these are Frenchmen. We do not want to shoot them unless we have to. Just keep walking.’

  Amalie hunched her shoulders, but obeyed, while Liane cast a surreptitious glance to left and right. The darkness and the trees made all images indistinct, but she reckoned that there could be about eight men, some on either side, and for all her brave words to Amalie, she had never actually fired the gun, while for all her hatred, the memory of Biedermann’s body giving a little jerk as the knife cut into his flesh, the blood suddenly gushing as she cut through his carotid artery, haunted her. But she also knew that she was not going to submit to rape; she did not actually want to have sex again, with any man, for as long as she lived — and she suspected that Amalie felt the same way.

  And it was going to come to that: a man suddenly appeared on the track in front of them. Liane took a deep breath, and drew the pistol. There were nine bullets in the magazine, and a further nine in the spare. More than enough to take care of these people, if she aimed carefully and kept them at a distance, which meant a pre-emptive strike. In the gloom the man had not seen the gun. ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘Where are you going, women?’ Liane left the pistol hanging at the end of her fingers, but she stopped walking, as did Amalie. ‘Up the hill.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To get to the other side.’

  ‘What do you think is on the other side?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Movement, behind her now. Liane presented the pistol at the man’s chest. ‘Move aside, or I will kill you.’ The movement behind her stopped.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ the man asked.

  Liane made a quick decision. These men were not in uniform to suggest that they might be policemen. ‘I took it from a German officer,’ she said.

  ‘Did he not object?’

  ‘Not after I had killed him. I am Liane de Gruchy. Have you not heard of me?’

  ‘Liane de Gruchy! There is a reward offered for your head.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Ten thousand francs.’

  Amalie gasped.

  ‘And do you wish to collect it?’ Liane asked.

  ‘You are a fugitive.’

  ‘And are you not fugitives?’

  The man laughed. ‘Will you walk with us, mademoiselle? And your friend.’

  ‘Why should we do that?’

  ‘Because you have no alternative. Do you not know that you are climbing into the mountains? Winter is coming. You cannot survive in the mountains. We can give you food and shelter.’

  ‘In return for what?’

  ‘That is for our leader to say. It is not far.’

  ‘Who is this leader?’

  ‘He will tell you himself, if he wishes you to know.’

  ‘Are these men really going to help us?’ Amalie asked as they continued to climb.

  ‘We must believe so,’ Liane said.

  ‘But are they not brigands?’

  ‘What are we?’

  Amalie hunched her shoulders.

  ‘We camp here,’ the man decided.

  ‘It is too early. There are several hours of darkness left.’

  ‘We cannot go on in the dark. The way is too difficult. We will camp, and rest, and go on at daybreak.’

  ‘Won’t the police see us in daylight?’

  He gave one of his brief laughs. ‘There are no police up here.’

  Liane and Amalie were so exhausted they fell down. The men sat around them and gave them bread and sausage, and some rough wine. Nothing had ever tasted so good. ‘Do you know how to fire that gun?’ the man asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And do you not realize that we also have guns? If you had shot me, my men would have killed you.’

  ‘But you would have been dead first.’

  He stared at her, and she stared back. He was not much older than herself, she estimated, for all his growth of beard. His face was purposeful rather than handsome, and if his accent was that of a peasant, his voice was clear and resonant. ‘You have blankets?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must have a blanket, or you will freeze. It gets very cold up here at night.’ It was already very cold. ‘Use this.’ He gave her his own.

  ‘What will you use?’

  ‘I will share. You must share also, with your friend.’

  ‘She is my sister.’

  ‘And your name is de Gruchy. Your father is the wine merchant. Does he know you are here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And two pretty women like you have no husbands?’

  ‘No,’ Liane said before Amalie could speak. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘My name is Etienne. Drink, and then sleep.’ Liane and Amalie each drank, from the neck, and he took the bottle away.

  Huddled against each other, and tired as they were, they both slept heavily, arms round each other, cheeks pressed together. The blanket was quite large, and when it grew very cold in the hours before dawn, they pulled it over their heads as well. ‘Are we going to live?’ Amalie asked.

  ‘Until we die,’ Liane promised her.

  Etienne was already up, as were his men. Breakfast was the same as dinner, but the wine was even more palatable. The men were absolutely courteous, looking the other way when the two women went behind some bushes. ‘Now we go,’ Etienne said when they returned.

  ‘How much farther?’ Liane asked.

  ‘We will get there today. But it will be hard.’

  She soon determined that was an understatement. The way was all up, save for the occasional, and brief, little plateau. Often enough they were following a path on the hillside, with sheer drops of more than
a hundred feet beside them. Liane understood that they could not indeed have done this in the dark. Nor did she suppose they could have survived, had they not encountered these men. ‘Are you fugitives from the law, or the Germans?’ she asked.

  ‘As the Germans are making the laws, you could say we are both.’

  ‘Are you going to fight them?’

  Etienne snorted. ‘The whole army could not fight them. How can we?’

  ‘Then what do you hope for?’

  ‘Survival. We hope for survival.’

  ‘Until when?’

  He shrugged. ‘Until something happens. Something must happen, eventually.’

  It was the middle of the afternoon when they were challenged. ‘Who comes?’

  ‘Etienne’s patrol. With prisoners.’

  ‘We are not your prisoners,’ Liane snapped.

  ‘You are, until the commandant says otherwise.’

  ‘Prisoners?’ A man emerged from the trees, and Liane saw several more to either side. ‘You are not supposed to take prisoners. And to bring them here...’ He peered at them. Liane did not like the look of him at all. He was big, bearded, with heavy shoulders and a lumbering walk. ‘Women! You know the rules.’

  ‘They are not just women, Jules,’ Etienne said. ‘This one is Mademoiselle de Gruchy, for whom the Gestapo have offered a reward. The other one is her sister. I think the commandant will be pleased to speak with them.’

  Liane gave a sigh of relief: she had feared that this uncouth man was the commandant.

  ‘Well,’ Jules said. ‘Bring them along.’ They went through the trees, now surrounded by quite a few men, and came out on another brief plateau. In front of them the hill rose almost straight, and in the hillside there was a cave, outside of which were some more men. Seated in the cave doorway, but now rising to his feet, was Jean Moulin.

  If it could possibly be him. The handsome features were those of an old man, the hair lank and uncut, and he moved hesitantly. But he certainly recognized them. ‘Liane?’ he asked. ‘Amalie?’ Liane stared at him, because she did not recognize the voice. Jean had always spoken in soft, well-modulated tones; this was a hoarse croak. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I cut deep, but not deep enough. As I thought then.’ His throat was concealed by a neckerchief. ‘But you, my dear girl, and Amalie... we had supposed you dead.’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Liane said. ‘But not as long as yours, I would say.’

  ‘Then let us exchange stories. Jules, wine and food for our guests. Who brought you in?’

  ‘Etienne.’

  ‘Etienne! Come here and let me shake your hand.’

  ‘She is a dangerous woman, monsieur,’ Etienne said. ‘She carries a pistol, and threatened to shoot me.’

  Moulin looked at Liane. ‘Only if he attempted to molest us,’ Liane said. ‘I did not know he worked for you.’

  ‘He does not work for me. We are a gathering of like-minded men. And now women.’

  ‘There are no other women?’

  ‘We considered it wisest not to allow them. Women breed discord. But you... There is not one of us here who has yet killed a German.’

  ‘But you intend to?’

  Moulin sighed. ‘One day, perhaps. When it is possible. Come and sit down and drink, and tell me. Amalie, I was so distressed when I heard...’

  ‘I am all right,’ Amalie said. ‘Only I have not yet killed a German, either.’

  ‘We heard how you escaped the Gestapo,’ Liane said. ‘But how did you get here?’

  ‘Much as you did, I imagine. I walked. People helped me. And eventually some, these good fellows, came with me. Have some wine.’ Jules passed around the cups. ‘Not exactly Gruchy Grand Cru, eh?’ Moulin asked.

  ‘It is excellent wine,’ Liane said. ‘Tell me what we are going to do.’

  ‘We are going to try to survive.’

  ‘That is what Etienne said. Survive for what?’

  ‘Until things get better. They always do. That is the lesson of history.’

  ‘You are talking of centuries. We will not be alive to see these changes. Are we going to live the rest of our lives as fugitives? In that case, we might as well die now.’

  He held her hand. ‘Liane, there is nothing we can do. France has been conquered. That is an inescapable fact. Now we have no army — except what is permitted us by the Germans — no air force, and only a fraction of our fleet. We have no friends...’

  ‘What about the British?’

  ‘The British? They abandoned us in June. It is the British who destroyed the main part of our fleet.’

  ‘Because it would not join them. They are supporting de Gaulle.’

  ‘De Gaulle.’ His tone was contemptuous. That is pure propaganda. Who has ever heard of de Gaulle?’

  ‘We have. And we are fugitives. That means a great many people have.’

  ‘De Gaulle, like the British, ran away.’

  ‘You are starting to sound like a Nazi yourself. De Gaulle, like the British, ran away to fight another day. We have just run away to die on an empty mountainside.’

  He looked at her for several seconds. Then looked at Amalie, whose face was expressionless, but whose eyes were glowing. He refilled their cups. ‘You are very convincing, Liane. Believe me, I would like to fight them as much as you, but with what? A handful of pistols, a couple of shotguns, a couple of dozen men...’

  ‘Once you start fighting, the men will come. And the women, too.’

  ‘To take on the panzers with pitchforks?’

  ‘To strike them from behind in the dark. To make every German in France feel he is living on borrowed time.’

  ‘That is a rhetorical ambition. Because you managed to get away after killing a German does not mean that anyone else will be able to. Nine times out of ten they will be caught, and hanged or shot.’

  ‘Then they will have died for France.’

  Another long look. ‘You would be prepared to do that?’

  ‘Of course. Wouldn’t you? And your people?’

  ‘I do not know. I have not asked them to sacrifice themselves to so little purpose. You say we must kill Germans. What do you recommend? One German a week? There are over a million German soldiers in France. That is a lot of weeks.’

  ‘The propaganda value of a succession of murders of Germans will be immense.’

  ‘It will not exist. The Germans are not going to publicize anything like that, and if we seek to do so, as we will not be able to prove what we say, people will only laugh at us... where they do not betray us.’

  ‘Well, then, we must do something at which they cannot laugh, and which the Germans cannot keep secret. We must blow something up. Something very big and important.’

  ‘That is a brilliant idea. Supposing we had any explosives.’

  ‘Can we not steal some?’ Amalie asked.

  ‘From where? The Germans do not leave their arsenals unguarded. And an attempted raid on one of them would put them on the alert.’

  ‘Then we shall have to obtain them from somewhere else,’ Liane said.

  ‘So what did you discover?’ Kluck inquired.

  ‘The answers to all of our questions, Herr Colonel.’

  Kluck frowned. ‘You have not arrested the Gruchys?’

  ‘No, no. I was most respectful, and they were most cooperative. But I have sufficient evidence to arrest them, whenever we choose.’

  ‘Give me this evidence.’

  Roess laid his briefcase on the table, opened it, and took out a sheaf of papers. ‘I interviewed each of the servants separately, with Albert de Gruchy’s permission, and I discovered a succession of facts which, taken by themselves, apparently meant very little to the Bordeaux police, but which, when added together, give a clear picture of what happened the day that Amalie de Gruchy is supposed to have drowned herself.’ ‘Supposed?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Item number one: the day after her disappearance, a large cured ham and several other preserved items of food were found to have disappeared f
rom the larder.’

  ‘They could have been stolen by the staff.’

  ‘Of course. These things are always happening in large family houses. This, as I have said, taken by itself, it was not worth reporting. Item number two: the upstairs maid delivered clean laundry to every room the day before Amalie’s disappearance. Included in the clothes delivered to Fraulein Amalie’s room were two pairs of women’s trousers, known as slacks, two blouses, and two jumpers.’

  ‘Aren’t those the clothes found on the river bank?’

  ‘Indeed, Herr Colonel. One jumper, one blouse, and one pair of slacks were found. But the other complete set was also missing from the room.’ Kluck stroked his chin. ‘Item number three: two days after Fraulein Amalie’s disappearance, the housekeeper made a routine check of all the bedrooms, and in Fraulein Liane’s room, which contains many of her things even when she is not living there, she found several articles of clothing which had been removed from her wardrobe and drawers and laid on the bed. She could not say if any had been taken, but she did say that the only person to have entered that room over the past several months was herself; she makes these tours of inspection every week. This must mean that at some time over the preceding week someone else entered that room and went through Liane’s things. That several items were laid on the bed indicates that whoever it was was sorting through her clothes, choosing some of them to take, while the fact that the items not chosen were left lying on the bed would indicate that the person was both in a hurry and in a state of some agitation.’

  ‘And the French police did not investigate this?’

  ‘The French police found the clothes of a missing girl, known to have been suffering from depression, on the banks of the river, and drew the obvious conclusion. Besides, as I say, taken separately these three disclosures mean nothing. But taken together, they delineate a clear pattern. The night before she drowns herself, Amalie de Gruchy takes several substantial and long-lasting items of food from her parents’ pantry, takes two complete sets of clothing from her own room, obviously takes some items from her sister’s room, and disappears. Those are not the actions of someone determined to commit suicide. Those are the actions of a woman who has met up with her sister, and determined not only to help her but to accompany her, wherever she was going.’