Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  The foyer was light and airy, with high ceilings supported by marble columns and the most breathtaking chandeliers Yvette had ever seen. Here and there, the floor was strewn with rugs that looked plush and priceless, and the furnishings made her think of a palace, rather than a hotel. But then her only experience with hotels had been at a very shabby bed-and-breakfast in London, when the family had visited cousins there before her father died.

  Were it not for the concierge desk by the staircase, she might well have imagined herself in the midst of a fairy tale. A lady dripping in diamonds arrived with a small dog tucked under her arm and the most preposterous hat Yvette had ever seen. As she brushed past Yvette, the little dog snapped and Yvette jumped back with a gasp, nearly dropping her parcel.

  Feeling foolish and exposed, she followed the woman with her dog. The distance to the grand staircase and up to the second floor seemed endless. She was certain every eye must be upon her, cataloging each shabby detail of her appearance: her windblown hair, the many darns she had made to her blouse, the seat of her skirt, which was shinier than the rest due to the rub of the bicycle on her behind.

  She ran that gauntlet, only to be leered at by the elevator boy as he took her up to mademoiselle’s floor. Yvette shifted as far away from him as she could in the small space.

  The elevator hit the correct floor, and the boy opened the door with one hand and pinched her backside with the other as she walked past him. Ugh. She wanted to lift up her parcel and beat him over the head with it. She would have done it, too, if she hadn’t felt an obligation not to disgrace the House of Lelong. More dignified to ignore it and be on her way.

  A gaunt, sour-looking maid with her blond hair braided around her ears opened the door to Dulac’s suite. She spat out something in German and made as if to snatch the parcel. But now that she was there, Yvette did not mean to give up her delivery before she set eyes on the movie star.

  “Excuse me, but I am to make sure everything is to mademoiselle’s satisfaction before I leave.”

  The maid eyed her suspiciously and seemed about to refuse her entry, when a voice behind her said, “Let her come in.”

  Chapter Six

  Paris, June 1944

  YVETTE

  The voice that instructed the maid to admit Yvette was cool, husky, and bored. She repeated the command in German.

  With a sniff, the maid stepped aside. Suppressing her excitement, Yvette walked into the sumptuous suite. She had an impression of opulence such as one might find in the home of a prince: paintings and gilded mirrors and richly upholstered Louis XVI furnishings. But there was a light and airy ambience, perhaps lent by the color scheme of lemon and cream and pale blue, and by the breeze that flirted with the muslin curtains at the long window—as if even the weather catered to the comfort of patrons of the Ritz.

  But all of it faded to a mere stage set in the presence of the woman standing before her. Dulac was tall, slender, and full breasted, with the palest white skin and waving platinum hair. Her lips and fingernails were painted scarlet. Her eyes were silvery grey and heavily lashed. She was dressed in a column of pure white, a color no ordinary woman chose in these hard times because it showed every bit of wear. The movie star’s ensemble was, of course, immaculate. Dior’s white cape, embroidered all over with seed pearls and crystals, would set the seal on her magnificence.

  Dulac’s gaze flickered over Yvette, reminding her of every frayed seam and scuff. She hardly looked like a true representative of a famous couturier. Not that any of his employees could afford to wear Lelong’s creations, but still . . .

  Well, at least I came by my clothes honestly. Yvette returned the other woman’s stare. Had she sought favors from the occupiers, perhaps she might dress in Lelong and live at the Ritz, too.

  “You are extremely pretty,” Mademoiselle Dulac said finally.

  That was the last thing Yvette had expected. She made a strangled sound in the back of her throat. Not knowing how to respond, she muttered, “Thank you, mademoiselle.”

  The movie star gestured to the Lelong box. “Is that for me?”

  “Oh! Yes. I beg your pardon.” Yvette placed the box on the sideboard, lifted the lid, and peeled back the tissue that wrapped the garment. She stepped back to let the other woman see.

  Dulac’s eyes widened and a smile of genuine, blinding delight broke over her face. “Ah, it is superb. Help me, will you?”

  Yvette took out the white cotton gloves she kept in her pocket and put them on. She often helped with fittings, so she knew what to do. The cape should be straightforward, at any rate.

  Carefully, she lifted the garment from its wrappings and turned, to find that mademoiselle had opened the door to her bedroom and gone in.

  Yvette supposed she was to follow. She carried the cape, heavy with beading, glittering like ice crystals in her hands. The actress stood in front of a full-length mirror while Yvette settled the cape around her. “Mmm.” She raised her shoulders and closed her eyes. “It’s like being wrapped in a cool cloud.”

  “The lining is silk.” Tentatively, Yvette indicated the wide satin and velvet ribbons that dangled loosely past Dulac’s bosom. “If you will permit?”

  Dulac nodded.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Yvette came around to stand between the actress and the mirror and tied the ribbons in a lopsided, artless, yet perfect bow, just the way Monsieur Dior did it—or at least, she hoped so. As she worked, she smelled something sweet and alcoholic, spiked with peppermint, on Dulac’s breath. Was mademoiselle drinking and trying to mask the evidence? Did her conscience torment her? No. Her imagination was running away with her.

  Yvette looked up and Dulac’s gaze seemed to pin her in place. It was a disconcerting feeling. There was something there. Some message in those silvery eyes. Or again, did she imagine it? Jean-Luc always said she was an idealist, wanting to believe people had hidden depths when they were all as shallow and venal as anyone else. He’d be disgusted to see her falling under Dulac’s spell.

  Yvette stepped out of the way so that the film star could see herself in the mirror.

  Louise touched the bow lightly with a flash of painted red nails. “But this is charming.” She turned side-on to survey her profile and Yvette gasped as she caught a glimpse of another figure in the reflection. A large, stocky man stood framed in the doorway behind them. He wore civilian clothing, but Yvette knew who he was. Oberst Gruber. A colonel in the German air force.

  He was of above-average height, fit looking, with thin lips and a high forehead and cheekbones. He was not the typical Aryan in coloring, being dark haired and almost swarthy in complexion. Perhaps that was why he’d chosen a blond goddess for a mistress.

  At the Ritz, it was the rule that German officers did not wear their uniforms in the public areas. Had she not known this man to be cruel, sadistic, and callous—after all, he would not have risen so high in rank if he were not—would she have sensed the evil behind those dark eyes all the same?

  Dulac turned, her smile as brilliant as a diamond, and in some way, hard like a diamond as well. In a low, breathy voice unlike the one she’d used with Yvette, she murmured something in German.

  She moved to Gruber and held out her hand. He clasped her fingers, turned her palm upward, and kissed her wrist. Bile rose to Yvette’s throat. How could she?

  Louise’s gaze met Yvette’s, then flicked to the door. That was her cue. Yvette sidled out of the room and left them to it.

  In the elevator, the same smarmy youth who had pinched her bottom smirked as she got in.

  “If you touch me again, I will hurt you,” she said, calmly and clearly, before stepping in.

  “Hold the door.” A tall man entered the elevator, his broad shoulders seeming to occupy most of the available space. He looked between Yvette and the youth she had just threatened but said nothing.

  Yvette stole a sidelong glance at the newcomer. He was young and dark and very good-looking. She didn’t dare turn to peer directly up i
nto his face. When they alighted, she made herself stare straight ahead but sensed his large masculine presence keeping pace with her.

  As they approached the front entrance, the man said to her, “Was that lad in the elevator bothering you, mademoiselle? I could have a word with management.” He spoke impeccable French with a Parisian accent.

  Now that he addressed her, she had an excuse to pause and look directly into his face. He was a handsome devil, she’d been right about that, no more than midtwenties, at a guess. But what was a young, able-bodied Frenchman doing at the Ritz? A collaborator, perhaps? What a pity that would be.

  “Thank you, but it is nothing, monsieur.”

  “If you say so,” he replied, indicating that she should precede him out of the hotel.

  In the arcade outside, Yvette stopped short. Where was her bicycle? It was not by the wrought iron gates where she’d left it. “No, no, no,” she muttered. She looked up and down the arcade, then out to the square, but the bicycle was not there.

  Someone must have stolen it. She cried out in dismay.

  “What is it?” Again, the man from the elevator. “What’s wrong?” When she didn’t answer, he prompted, “Mademoiselle?”

  There was a note of command in his voice that made her give the stranger her attention. “Someone has taken my bicycle.” Her voice shook. She was trying very hard not to give way to panic.

  The man frowned. “Are you certain this is where you left it?”

  “Of course.” She hurried back to the doorman. “Excuse me, sir. Did you perhaps move my bicycle?”

  “No, mademoiselle.”

  “Did you see anyone move it or take it?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been busy.”

  Yvette put a hand up to her temple. “I can’t believe it. It’s been stolen right outside the Ritz!”

  She went out onto the square, scanning the Place Vendôme, but it was hopeless. Her bicycle with its distinctive basket, all threaded through with scraps from the workroom floors, was nowhere to be seen.

  Despair yawned inside her. That bicycle was her work, her independence, her freedom. All gone! A secondhand one would cost more than a month’s salary. She could never afford that. She would be dismissed from Lelong. She would have to stay at the apartments and fetch and carry for Gabby and Maman.

  A sleek black automobile of a make she did not recognize pulled up at the curb and a driver got out. The stranger glanced at the car and said, “If you’ll permit, I’d like to help.” He paused. “I know where you can get a bicycle.”

  Hope lifted her chest, just for a moment, then deflated like a fallen soufflé. “Thank you, monsieur. That is kind, but I cannot afford it.”

  “Never mind about that.” He waved a hand, a gold cuff link flashing. “The owner of the bicycle owes me a favor.”

  As simple as that? It must be nice to be rich and have men owe you such large favors. Yvette eyed the stranger, her native wariness nagging at her. “But why should you help me?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Boredom, perhaps.”

  Boredom? In this war? She studied him intently. He had a slight golden tan to his skin, the kind rich people acquired on Swiss ski slopes. Beneath a pair of high cheekbones, laughter lines bracketed his lips. One might have written him off as exactly the kind of European playboy his fine suit and manner suggested, except for one thing. His dark eyes were perceptive and kind, and shadowed by something . . . Suffering? Loss? Something that made Yvette want almost desperately to delve into his thoughts, into his past, attempt to erase the pain she saw there.

  His height and his broad shoulders might, in other circumstances, have been intimidating. And yet he was offering to give her something vital to her well-being. She sensed that whatever else he might do in this war, in this moment, she could trust him.

  She tilted her head. “I don’t even know your name.”

  He grinned. “I’m a diplomat. Swedish legation. Vidar Lind, at your service.”

  He didn’t look Swedish. Weren’t all Swedes blond? “Staying at the Ritz?” she said doubtfully. Half the hotel was occupied by Nazis, the rest by displaced foreign royalty, collaborators, and spies. She had heard that most diplomats were spies, so that seemed to fit.

  “Just visiting, I’m afraid.” He indicated his motorcar. “Will you trust me? I promise you won’t come to any harm.”

  Yvette bit her lip. She wanted to see this place where it was possible to get bicycles at a moment’s notice. And it seemed churlish to refuse when he was doing her such an enormous favor. Undoubtedly, she would be reckless to go anywhere in a motorcar with a strange man. But then she saw that his driver was not a man in chauffeur’s livery, after all, but a competent-looking woman dressed in a neat grey suit. Women were capable of evil, it was true, but Yvette really needed that bicycle, and the presence of a female was sufficient reassurance to take the risk.

  “Why don’t you wait here, then,” said Vidar Lind. “I’ll bring the bicycle back to you.”

  “No. Thank you, monsieur. I’ll come.”

  He held the door open for her to slide into the backseat, got in next to her, and gave instructions to the driver. Then they were off, cruising through the streets of Paris.

  Yvette tried to appear relaxed. “I have not ridden in a motorcar for a long time.” She was still alert for any indication that Lind had plans for her that he had not yet disclosed, but although he smiled at her attempt at small talk, he made no answer. Instead, he lifted an attaché case from the footwell and laid it on his lap. Flicking it open, he sifted through the papers inside it, then began to read one, his concentration absolute.

  She took the opportunity his distraction provided to peer covertly at what he was reading. One never knew; it might be important. But the document was in English, so she gained little from her snooping except a word here and there. She could speak English passably well. Reading what appeared to be quite a technical report was another thing altogether.

  She decided on the direct approach. “What are you reading, monsieur?”

  “Something terrifically dull, I assure you, but rather pressing, nonetheless. But never mind that,” he added, slipping the document back into his case, snapping it shut. “This won’t take long.”

  They had stopped at a brasserie on the rue de la Pompe, practically in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe, a monument the Nazis had gleefully spiked with the swastika as soon as they’d stormed into the capital. Yvette couldn’t look at those flags without a shiver of hatred and fear.

  As his driver opened the door for him, Vidar said to Yvette, “Wait here.” She would have argued, but he was gone on the words. The soft thump of the door closing punctuated his command.

  She wanted to know more about the transaction this Vidar Lind was making on her behalf. A restaurant full of German soldiers seemed an unlikely place to obtain a bicycle. Perhaps someone here was an agent for the black market, like the local bookseller, Monsieur Arnaud. But then, Monsieur Arnaud could never have laid hands on something as significant and valuable as a bicycle. A little cheese here, a little soap there, that was more monsieur’s level.

  “Do you know whom he is going to see?” she asked the driver, who had reached into the glove box to retrieve a packet of Gauloises.

  The driver held it out to Yvette. “Smoke?”

  Clearly, she wasn’t going to answer Yvette’s question. “No, thank you.”

  The woman shrugged, as if to say, Suit yourself, and got out of the car. Yvette bent her head to watch through the window as the driver leaned against the car door, facing away from the brasserie as she lit her cigarette.

  Now was Yvette’s chance. Quietly, she opened the opposite door and slipped out onto the pavement. With a quick glance at the oblivious driver, Yvette headed for the alley down which Vidar Lind had disappeared shortly before.

  The narrow space, enclosed by brick walls, was dingy and smelled of urine and rotting food. Yvette’s heart beat hard, even though it was broad dayligh
t.

  She didn’t enter the alley—she might as well admit to herself that she was too afraid—but she watched for some minutes before what appeared to be the door to a garage opened with a clatter and Vidar Lind emerged from it, wheeling a bicycle.

  He stopped short when he saw her, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. “I told you to stay in the car.” He jerked his head. “Come on. You can’t be seen here.”

  But her attention was fixed on the bicycle. It was a little large for her but it looked brand-new. Hardly able to believe he had so quickly and easily solved her problem, she trailed after Vidar Lind as he wheeled the bicycle out onto the pavement.

  No. These things did not simply happen. Particularly not in wartime. There must be a catch.

  As they approached the motorcar, Lind’s driver threw down her cigarette and stubbed it out, coming around to open the car door for him. It was odd, that reversal of roles, and Yvette stared at the woman curiously, but she seemed to think nothing of it.

  Lind was still frowning, as if Yvette’s attempt to follow had seriously disturbed him.

  She said, “I’m sorry for disobeying you, but it’s because I wanted to know . . .” She swallowed. “Did this bicycle come from the black market?”

  He gazed down at her and began to open his mouth, but she blurted out, “Please. I-I can live with not having a bicycle, but I could not bear it if it turned out that this one came from someone . . .” From a Jewish person, she wanted to say. Or a dissident, someone the Nazis had sent to the camps. She was plaiting her fingers together, trying to think of a way to phrase it without insulting her benefactor.

  Instead of being affronted, he smiled faintly. “You are concerned that this is confiscated property? Don’t be. I give you my word on that.”

  Perhaps she was wrong to trust the sincerity in those compelling dark eyes, but she believed him.

  He had done this incredible thing for her, and now they would part ways. The entire exercise had taken less than half an hour and yet she felt as if she’d known him longer. Reluctant to accept that they might never meet again, she said, “I don’t quite know how to thank you.”