Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  Sucking a breath through her teeth, she dropped the last remnant into the sink and shook her smarting fingers, watched until that final, pale corner turned to ash. The flame sputtered and died. The last glow of the embers went out.

  There. She’d done it. She didn’t need to feel the excruciating pain of yet another loss. She could go on pretending he still lived somewhere in the world, desperate to get back to her.

  Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, he would come.

  YVETTE

  Yvette was so shaken by the encounter with Vidar, she needed a drink or two to settle her nerves. The brandy at the Ritz was, of course, excellent.

  The liquor brought a warm, slow calm that seeped through her body like butter through a hot baguette. She was exhausted, wrung out, but despite the physical relaxation brought on by the drink, arguments and worries still zinged through her mind.

  She replayed her conversation with Vidar in her head, trying to judge who had won that round. Reluctantly, she conceded the loss. She didn’t doubt she would have an opportunity to turn the tables, however. Damn the misplaced sense of loyalty that prevented her from reporting him! After all that had happened, was she still hoping he was not the man she took him to be?

  If only she could confide in someone. In Gabby. The thought made her insides twist. Seeing her sister again would be even more wrenching than a visit from Vidar.

  Well, maybe she would write to Gabby first. Her sister had written every two weeks after Liliane Dietlin had told her Yvette’s New York address. She should have sworn Liliane to secrecy. Yvette had been so ashamed of her own behavior that summer, so riddled with guilt over Catherine, she could not bring herself to write to Gabby or to read her letters. She’d burned every one. Now she wished she’d kept them.

  She took some stationery and a pen from the handsome desk by the window and climbed into bed with her drink. She only managed a few lines before she fell asleep.

  Yvette woke to someone banging on the door and abusing her loudly for being a lazy slugabed. She opened one bleary eye and cursed when she realized she had managed to drool on her letter to Gabby, smearing the ink on what was undoubtedly a masterpiece of diplomacy.

  She frowned. Who could it be out there? Few people knew where she was staying. And why would anyone be yelling at her?

  A glance at the clock told her she had slept ten hours straight. It was well past noon.

  She crept over to the door to listen, her ear pressed to the panel. Then she realized that there was an ingenious invention, a little spy hole in the door, through which she might see who was there. She put an eye to it and squinted. Her face distorted by the spy hole, Madame de Turckheim glared back.

  Yvette blinked. What was La Baronne doing here? Please, don’t tell me I damaged one of Monsieur Dior’s gowns yesterday!

  Cautiously, she opened the door.

  Madame barreled past her. “Honestly, Yvette, what do you think you are doing?”

  “Good morning, madame.” Yvette’s head had begun to pound. “I’ll ring for coffee.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” La Baronne demanded. “I’ve been trying to find you all morning. Even your sister did not know where you were.”

  “My sister?” Yvette closed her eyes, unable to imagine Gabby’s reaction to madame’s demands. She must see Gabby immediately and make it right.

  “You are to report to La Maison Dior by three o’clock,” said madame, bustling over to open the curtains, letting in sunshine that was winter pale and yet for Yvette, far too bright.

  “Oh, but why?” No one had told her they needed her today. She’d intended to ask for more work once the trial was over.

  “Because le patron wills it, of course. Good God, Yvette, what happened to you last night?”

  She caught sight of her reflection and frightened herself. “Oh, dear. You are right. Pardon me, madame, for receiving you like this, but I do need that coffee.”

  By the time Yvette had tidied herself a little, the coffee had arrived. While Yvette poured each of them a cup, madame explained, “Monsieur Dior wants you to continue to work for him. Only Tania sold more of the models to the buyers yesterday. You were a hit.”

  The ache in Yvette’s head seemed to vanish. “Really?”

  Just at that moment, the telephone rang. It was reception. A Monsieur LeBrun was waiting for her downstairs. “Oh, dear!” She’d forgotten their appointment. “Give me five minutes, please. Then send him up.”

  “Your first appointment is at three, Yvette,” madame called after her as she hurried to the closet to rummage for something appropriate to wear.

  “I’ll be there.” Guiltily, she acknowledged it would mean putting off her visit to Gabby and Maman, but this was the chance of a lifetime. This was Dior.

  When Madame de Turckheim had gone, Yvette turned into a minor whirlwind, making herself presentable before the clerk arrived at her door. She was just jabbing the last pin into her chignon when the doorbell chimed.

  The clerk declined coffee but perched on the couch opposite Yvette and placed his attaché case on his knees. He snapped it open, extracted an official-looking document, and handed it to her. “I have taken the liberty of preparing a draft statement, based on my interviews with Mademoiselle Dulac. Please read through it. If you disagree with anything or if you remember any details that you would like to add, tell me and I will make a note.”

  Yvette’s head started to throb again and her heart to pound. She took the statement and tried to read, but the neat black type swam before her eyes. Breathe, she told herself. You need to breathe. She closed her eyes and exhaled, letting the statement fall from her hand.

  As her pulse slowed and her mind cleared, the answer came. She knew what she must do. In a quiet, firm tone, Yvette said, “I need to see her.”

  LeBrun furrowed his brow, dark eyes wary behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. “Well, I don’t know if that’s wise . . .”

  The more Yvette thought about it, the more convinced she became. Their interactions during the war had been so charged with emotion that it was impossible to judge the situation fairly. If Yvette could see Louise, talk to her again with a cool head, she could decide once and for all.

  Was Louise Dulac a traitor? Or was she a heroine of France?

  Chapter Nine

  Paris, February 1947

  YVETTE

  Having extracted a promise from Monsieur LeBrun that he would arrange a prison visit to Louise Dulac before the trial began, Yvette made it back to the House of Dior in plenty of time for her three o’clock appointment. Afterward, she saw Monsieur Dior on the landing outside the workrooms, muttering to himself, his brow furrowed. No doubt, he was thinking of a hundred things at once.

  When he saw Yvette, his expression lightened. “How are you getting on, little one? Are you liking the work as you always hoped?”

  “Oh, yes, monsieur! It is a privilege to wear your creations.”

  “Good. That is very good.” He was a modest man and swiftly changed the subject. “You have seen your sister.”

  It was more a statement than a question. Yvette bit her lip. “It has been such a whirlwind since the moment I arrived in Paris. I have not had the chance . . .”

  That made le patron frown. Family was of the utmost importance to him. “Then you must go to her immediately.”

  “But I have a fitting—”

  His soft tchut-tchut told her he would brook no argument. “I will make all right with madame. Off you go.”

  Thanking him, Yvette did as she was told, walking briskly to keep off the chill, fear deepening with every step. Her failure to correspond with Gabby since she’d left Paris had not sprung from petulance or anger. Each time a letter arrived for her from France, she relived that awful night. The shots, the blood, her own betrayal of Catherine, her pleading with Louise came back to her in vivid detail.

  She paused at the big street door, then pressed the bell with shaking fingers and made herself stand her ground.
It felt strange, waiting to be admitted to what used to be her home. She expected to glimpse the sharp, pale little face of Maman at the window, but the door simply buzzed open. Had Monsieur Dior telephoned ahead? Were they expecting her?

  When she entered the vestibule, she gave a cry of surprise. Her bicycle—the one Vidar had given her when hers had disappeared from the Ritz that day—was propped against the wall of the loge. “Hello, my friend.” She ran her palm over the handlebar, touched the ragged scraps of silk and velvet she’d threaded through the basket weave in an attempt to make this bicycle her own. The memories of Lelong and the workrooms where she’d scrounged these bright favors swirled through her mind, only to be drowned in apprehension.

  Gabby. Maman. What on earth was she going to say to them? The urge to hop onto her bike and pedal away as fast as she could nearly overpowered her.

  No. She had to do this. Putting it off was the work of a coward. And deep down, she longed to see her sister and mother again. But her entire body was trembling and her throat felt swollen and sore.

  Really, it was odd that someone hadn’t come out by now. The Foucher women were such busybodies, they had to know about all the comings and goings at number 10. Maybe someone else was filling in as concierge today? Yvette rapped on the door to the loge with one crooked finger.

  She waited, half-hoping no one was home, but also knowing that she would have to return once again if they were not, and that would be worse.

  She knocked again, before finally the door to the loge opened and Gabby stood there, wiping her hands on her apron, an old habit that gave Yvette a stab of regret. Gabby was thin. Thinner even than during the war, her eyes too large for her face.

  Those eyes widened and lit up with surprise. “Yvette!” she cried, starting forward. Before Yvette could stop her, Gabby wrapped her in a tight, desperate hug. Yvette closed her eyes and felt the pain and loss of their last time together flood her entire being. She couldn’t—simply could not—hug her sister back.

  GABBY

  Just as someone rang the street doorbell, the telephone in the loge began to shrill.

  Gabby shot up from the bureau where she’d stolen a few minutes to complete her drawings, pressed the button to release the street door, then dived for the telephone. A phone call was still a rare occurrence at the loge and every time the instrument rang, it seemed like a life-or-death imperative to answer it before the caller disconnected.

  “Hello?”

  The line was bad but she could just make out the words the man on the other end spoke. “Hello? Am I speaking with Mademoiselle Foucher?”

  Gabby gasped and dropped the receiver. English. The man had spoken in English.

  She stood frozen, poised to flee, staring at the phone. Then she scrabbled for the receiver, got a firm grip on it, and hung up, leaping back from the telephone as if it might rise up to bite her.

  She only dimly heard the knocking at first, but eventually, it registered. Heart still drumming against her ribs, she went to open the door.

  And there stood Yvette, her brandy-colored eyes fierce against the pale milk of her skin. She was the last person Gabby had expected to see, and yet so very welcome for so many reasons. Gabby practically fell upon her sister, hugging her so hard, Yvette yelped. The years dropped away and it was just the two of them once more.

  Moments passed before she realized Yvette did not return her embrace quite so eagerly. She was rigid, unyielding. Almost three years, Yvette had been gone, and no word from her. Was she still angry after all this time?

  Grief crushed Gabby’s heart. She had to set her jaw and summon all her strength not to crumple. “It is good to see you looking so well, Yvette,” she managed, dropping her arms and stepping back. “Would you like some tea?”

  Yvette walked inside. “Where is Maman?”

  “She is visiting Madame Everard,” said Gabby. “She will be sorry she missed you.”

  Yvette merely blinked at that, then peered about her as if she had never seen the apartment before. Gabby looked around as well, at the scant, shabby furniture, the faded curtains, the clutter of knickknacks her mother had received as gifts from various tenants over the years. There was still a shortage of almost everything in Paris. But perhaps Yvette had forgotten all that while living the high life in New York. America had grown more prosperous while Europe starved.

  She gestured to the settee. “Will you not sit down, at least? Tell me what you have been doing, why you are here.”

  Yvette stayed where she was. “I’m here to testify for Louise Dulac.” She was speaking slowly and carefully, as if she had half-forgotten her native tongue. “There is not much else to tell.”

  Gabby stared. A journey down through France, across the Pyrenees to Spain, and then all the way to the United States of America was so far out of her range of experience that Yvette might as well have been to Jupiter. And that wasn’t taking into account her stint as a mannequin in the Dior show.

  Gabby wanted to tell her she’d been there, seen for herself, that she’d been proud of her, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she said, “I should have realized you were here for the Dulac trial. It’s all over the papers. The most hated woman in France, they say.” She hesitated. “I thought you hated her most of all.”

  “I do.”

  “Then why come all this way? Why testify?”

  Yvette’s face remained impassive but her eyes burned with emotion. Not anger. Was it pain? Slowly, she said, “I am not at all sure that I should.”

  Gabby resisted the urge to question her further. That cryptic answer was all Yvette seemed prepared to give.

  Her gaze made another circuit of the room, then snagged on Gabby’s folio. “What’s this?” Ignoring Gabby’s half-hearted protest, she crossed to the table and picked up page after page, examining the sketches of Dior dresses with close attention. She looked up. “You were there.”

  Gabby wanted to snatch the drawings back, but she made herself stay where she was. “Yes. I saw you.”

  Yvette stared at her intently. Then she lowered her gaze to the page. “These are . . . superb, Gabby. You always did hide your light.”

  “Take that one,” Gabby blurted out. “It’s of you.” It was the corolle dress that Yvette had shown off so well, her waist impossibly tiny, her bosom and neck rising, swanlike, from the low-cut bodice.

  For the first time, Yvette’s face relaxed, just a little. “Thank you. That is kind.” The words were quietly spoken, through pale lips. Yvette seemed engaged in some momentous inner struggle. She placed the rest of the sketches on the table with great care, as if they were precious and delicate. Gabby noticed that her hand shook. “I—I must be going.”

  The telephone rang out like an alarm and Gabby jumped. The tremble in her limbs became a weakness. She groped for the back of a chair to steady herself. Seconds went by before she realized Yvette was saying her name.

  “Gabby? Aren’t you going to answer it?” Eyeing her askance, Yvette reached out and lifted the receiver.

  “No, don’t!” Gabby started forward to stop her. But it was too late.

  Blood drummed in her ears so loudly that she couldn’t hear her sister’s murmured responses. Yvette turned to grab one of Gabby’s sketching pencils and a scrap of paper to write something down.

  Heat and cold washed over Gabby in alternating waves. This was it. The news she’d been dreading. There was only one reason an English person would want to contact her.

  Jack was dead.

  As she watched Yvette calmly take down the details, she knew it with a certainty that left her strangely numb. She had feared this day for so long, a constant looming presence, like an impending avalanche. Yet, now that disaster engulfed her, she felt nothing at all.

  Yvette put down her pencil and set the receiver back in its cradle. Then she turned to Gabby with a somber expression.

  “Don’t say it. Don’t. I don’t want to know.” Gabby was amazed at how calmly the words came out of her mouth
.

  “But, Gabby, you must—”

  “No, no, no,” she whispered, hardly hearing what Yvette said. This should be a joyous, wonderful occasion, their reunion. And now she would have to accept a truth so awful, she couldn’t face it. Gabby sank onto the couch, staring straight ahead. Then she put her head in her hands, kneading at her temples in an effort to massage her brain back into order.

  A hand squeezed her shoulder. Yvette’s voice, soft now, said her name. Said it several times. The sound was muffled, as if they were separated by a wall of glass.

  “Gabby!” This time, Yvette’s tone was as sharp as a slap. “Listen to me. It is not bad news, do you hear?”

  It took a full minute for Gabby to digest what Yvette had said. She froze, scarcely able to believe she’d understood correctly.

  Yvette shook her gently. “It is good news. Understand?”

  Gabby took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted her head. “What is it? Please don’t lie to me, Yvette. Please.”

  Yvette stroked a lock of Gabby’s hair back from her forehead. With the smallest quirk of a smile, she said, “Gabrielle Foucher, the British government wants to give you a medal. How about that?”

  Chapter Ten

  Paris, June 1944

  YVETTE

  Yvette made several deliveries before turning toward Monsieur Arnaud’s bookshop. First of all, she cycled straight past the store without stopping, glancing at the window as she went by. There was no geranium displayed there, so she rode on.

  She did not have any deliveries for the Ritz, but she went there anyway, cruising along the edge of the Place Vendôme, eyes sharp, in the unlikely event that she might spot Vidar Lind.

  It was not that he was so attractive—well, not only that he was attractive; he was an enigma. With Maman and Gabby, even with Jean-Luc, everything was concrete, black-and-white. But Vidar Lind was different. Sophisticated, yet damaged in some way. She could not be sure where the loyalties of such a man might lie, nor where she stood with him. He fascinated and intrigued her.