Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  “No, monsieur.” She lowered her voice. “An encounter with a high-ranking Nazi. The German ambassador.”

  “Really?” He seemed unimpressed. “Sounds like you could use a drink.” Rather than call over a waiter, he rose in his leisurely way and went to the bar, slipped the white-jacketed bartender something, and ordered. Monsieur Lind seemed to be at home at the Ritz, as if he was accustomed to this kind of life. She noted his tall, elegant frame encased in a perfectly fitted suit, his collar and cuffs showing crisply white. While he waited for the bartender to pour a drink from a sweating cocktail shaker, he seemed to survey the rest of the patrons. Looking for someone, perhaps? Had she preempted a rendezvous?

  He returned with two martini glasses filled with clear liquid, an olive on a cocktail stick bobbing in each. The table was so small and his legs were so long, his knee brushed Yvette’s when he sat down again. He seemed not to notice. She noticed it very much.

  Setting the glasses down, he turned to her. “Tell me all about it.”

  Yvette sipped her cocktail and wrinkled her nose, fighting the urge to cough. It was very strong. “Well, it is Mademoiselle Dulac, you see. She is a client of Lelong, where I work, and today, she called me to her suite. But when I got there, she wasn’t in. Just Gruber, the ambassador, and another man.”

  He nodded. “And Herr Abetz seemed pleased with you?”

  Why did he put the question that way? She hesitated. “He—he made me uncomfortable.”

  “Ah. He was pleased with you, then. I gather the feeling was not mutual.”

  “Of course not.” She lowered her voice. “I am no collaborator, monsieur.” She watched him closely, and when the statement of defiance only produced a slight crease between his eyebrows, she added, “You needn’t be worried for me, though. I am good at pretending.”

  He smiled. “I am sure you are infinitely discreet. What is your name, by the way?”

  “Yvette Foucher.”

  “A delivery girl with important connections. Tell me what happened upstairs just now to make you all . . .” He waved a hand. “Bright eyed.”

  Was she that obvious? She felt heat rising to her cheeks and quickly sipped her drink. Her voice a little husky from the strong martini, she replied, “There were three men. Gruber, the ambassador, and another man. French. A round face and bushy moustache. Dark hair. I’d say midfifties, middle height.” She shrugged. “I didn’t get his name.”

  “He was French? How do you know?”

  “The accent, monsieur. It was definitely Parisian.”

  There was a faraway expression in Vidar’s eyes. Did he recognize the description? Perhaps this encounter meant something to him.

  She stirred her drink with the spiked olive, waiting for him to respond or prompt her for more. When he didn’t, she reluctantly pushed her glass away. “I must continue my search for Mademoiselle Dulac. But it was very pleasant to see you again, monsieur. And thank you once more for the bicycle. I . . . It is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  “Must you go?” He rose as she did. “We have barely become acquainted.” He hesitated. “Mademoiselle Foucher, might I take you to dinner one evening?”

  Dinner? He wanted to take her to dinner! She cleared her throat. “I’d like that very much, monsieur.” She gave him her address and telephone number for the arrangements, then a glance at her watch told her the half hour the German ambassador had given Louise was up. “I had better be going. If I am not needed here after all, I must get back to Lelong.”

  Vidar took her hand and bowed over it in a way that was charmingly casual rather than courtly. She had never met a man like him, so elegant yet so unaffected.

  “As for Louise Dulac,” he said, releasing her hand, “try the lounge. If you really do want to find her, that is.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Paris, June 1944

  YVETTE

  Yvette could not locate the actress anywhere in the hotel, so she decided to return to the suite to ask Gruber to dismiss her, only to catch Louise entering the Ritz from the Place Vendôme. “What a lucky chance, running into you down here,” Louise said, quite as if she had not demanded Yvette’s attendance. “Do come up.”

  “I have been here some time, mademoiselle. I went to your suite, but when I found the ambassador with some other gentlemen there, they sent me to find you in the bar.”

  “I see,” said mademoiselle. Her face was inscrutable, but Yvette had the impression she wasn’t pleased.

  Perhaps mademoiselle did not wish it to be known she had left the hotel. “I will say that I found you in the bar if you like.”

  The actress said slowly, “It is wisest not to offer to lie so easily when you don’t know why you’re doing it. After all, you don’t owe me anything.”

  “And yet, mademoiselle, I have the feeling you are going to ask of me a great deal,” Yvette murmured, watching for a reaction.

  The actress stared at her for a moment. Then she set her shoulders back, as if to shake off the comment. “We will return to the suite and hope that the men have finished their important business by now.” She smiled. “They’d better have, because I need to get ready for tonight’s soirée.”

  “And soirées are of far more importance than politics or war,” Yvette agreed, with only a hint of irony.

  “You speak the truth without knowing it, child,” replied mademoiselle, giving her a sidelong glance.

  Yvette wished people would stop calling her a child. Vidar Lind had as good as told her she was too young for him when they’d first met, although the dinner invitation seemed to indicate he had changed his mind. Well, at least when people underestimated you, you could sometimes catch them off guard.

  “I must look spectacular tonight, Yvette,” murmured Dulac as they entered the elevator. “You will see to it, won’t you?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle.” Yvette made herself smile. “It should not be at all difficult.”

  The de Noailles party would indeed be the event of the season as far as she could tell from the gossip at Lelong. Monsieur Dior and Monsieur Balmain were dressing many of the ladies present.

  To work in haute couture during the war was to split into two selves. There was the self that delighted to see such exquisite creations shine, who understood that in France, fashion was not trivial but a key contributor to the nation’s economy. However, her deeper self, the one that gave her so much trouble now, was the young woman who loathed Nazi oppression, who risked her life as a courier for the resistance, the girl who had seen her compatriots starve while people like Gruber and Göring and their cronies gorged themselves at Maxim’s and the Ritz. How could she be both of those people at once?

  By telling herself she was getting close to Dulac in order to help the resistance. How, she didn’t know yet, but she would try.

  They arrived at the suite to find Gruber and his guests about to depart. The German ambassador smiled broadly. Yvette hovered a pace behind the actress, trying to melt into the background, as Dulac gave her hand to the ambassador to kiss. He bent to press his lips to the back of her knuckles and did that click of the heels that always sounded like a threat.

  Having spoken smooth platitudes to Dulac, he cocked an eyebrow and glanced at Yvette. “Bring the girl with you to Chantilly, won’t you? She is an original.”

  “Refreshing, is she not?” mademoiselle responded. “But sadly, I do not think it will be possible. She is not my maid, you understand, Otto. She is employed by the House of Lelong.”

  The ambassador waved his hand in an airy gesture, as if the obligations of lesser mortals hardly ranked with one of his whims. “Bring her anyway. I am sure Herr Lelong will be happy to accommodate us.”

  When he had gone and Yvette was alone with mademoiselle in her boudoir, Yvette asked, “When is your visit to Chantilly, mademoiselle? Do you really think Monsieur Lelong would let me go?” She tried to sound like a vapid young girl excited at the prospect of a treat. In fact, she was thinking about her resistan
ce work and wondering if Catherine would prefer her to be here in Paris delivering messages or there in Chantilly with access to high-ranking German officials. Catherine would urge caution, Yvette felt sure. But what would Liliane say?

  The actress inhaled deeply, smoothing the fabric of her dress as if to make more room for air in her lungs, then blew it out. “The house party at the Château de Saint Firmin is not for another week. Who knows? Herr Abetz might well have forgotten you by the time he leaves the hotel. If he insists, however, Monsieur Lelong will hardly have a choice but to let you go.”

  Mademoiselle Dulac went to the window and gazed out, contemplating the Place Vendôme, with its towering monument and its traffic and its luxury shops. Did she also notice the military vehicles parked in the square, the barbed wire beyond it, tethered by wooden hurdles that looked like fallen crucifixes in an ugly patch of dirt? “This is all moving very fast. I don’t know whether it is wise to bring you with me.”

  Yvette tensed, her senses on high alert. Surely mademoiselle was referring to something besides stealing away an employee from a fashion house. She had not scrupled to do it for an afternoon, after all.

  This more serious, contemplative side to the screen goddess was new and intriguing. Could it be that Louise Dulac was more loyal to France than anyone knew? That she had a strategy of some sort and was wondering how Yvette might fit into it? The better course might be to remain silent and wait for more.

  “He seemed very taken with you, didn’t he?” said mademoiselle at last.

  A feeling of unease crept over Yvette, but she didn’t respond, unwilling to break the line of reasoning in case the actress stopped ruminating aloud.

  Dulac’s gaze dropped to the ring on her finger as she turned it around and around, making the diamonds flash in the sunlight, and Yvette wondered if Gruber had given that ring to her. It was not on the engagement finger, of course. Men like Gruber did not marry women like Dulac. He was probably already married to some loyal German frau.

  “If I go,” Yvette said quietly, with a seriousness to match the movie star’s mood, “what would I have to do?”

  The actress shrugged, her somber air lifting. “Let’s worry about that when it happens. For now, I need you to help me dress.”

  GABBY

  Gabby was on edge, her temper frayed by lack of sleep, constant vigilance, and the abominable heat. The Allies had landed on the beaches of Normandy a week ago and were still fighting their way south. Paris was so close to salvation, and yet for their family, the dangers of the occupation had never loomed so large.

  Yvette erupted into the loge like a whirlwind, eyes burning with excitement. “You will never guess what happened today.”

  Gabby braced herself.

  It all tumbled out, one alarming event after the other. The gold-toothed gestapiste at Monsieur Arnaud’s shop, the encounter with the Swedish diplomat, and the invitation from the German ambassador to his château.

  Gabby’s attention snagged on the most immediate threat. “You should not have confronted that horrible villain, Yvette! He might have hurt you, too.” What if he made it his business to find out who Yvette was and came after her? Gabby’s blood turned cold at the thought.

  “You would not have stood by, either,” said Yvette. “Monsieur Arnaud is an old man, Gabby. And it turned out all right, so don’t nag at me now.” She twisted to peer down at the back of her skirt. “I knew it. I must have torn my hem in my haste to get away.” Unhooking her skirt, she stepped out of it to reveal a half slip full of darns, then went to the bureau to take out the sewing basket. “Come and sit down. I’ll fix this while we talk.”

  Gabby did not like the way Yvette seemed to have become both more mature and more reckless overnight. How did she always seem to be at the center of events? Witnessing violence from a gestapiste was one thing; an invitation from Otto Abetz was a threat on an entirely different level.

  “Poor Monsieur Arnaud,” said Maman. “He has always done his best to get along with the Germans. What has he ever done but keep his head down?”

  Yvette gave a little snort, but she was rummaging in the sewing box and Gabby couldn’t see her face. “What?” demanded Maman.

  “Well . . . selling things on the black market is a risk, you will admit.” Yvette found a needle and threaded it, then began to darn her hem.

  “Tell us more about this invitation from the ambassador,” said Maman. “Can he be serious? When would you have to go?”

  “Oh, not for another week,” Yvette said. “It will probably come to nothing. These things so often do.”

  Getting too close to the Germans might be as dangerous as spitting in their eyes. Besides which, to be seen as a collaborator by French patriots would be equally harmful to Yvette. “The place will be crawling with Boches,” said Gabby. “Can’t you get out of it?”

  “I could hardly refuse, could I?” said Yvette, her needle working in and out with speed and delicacy. She might pretend to be absorbed in her work, but Gabby knew better. The excitement came off her in waves.

  “For someone who hates the Germans so much, you seem awfully keen to go,” said Gabby.

  “I am looking forward to a change of air and a decent meal, that’s all.” Yvette tied off her work and broke the thread with a nip of her teeth. “I am following in your footsteps, Gabby, along the path of least resistance.” She put away her sewing box, slipped back into her skirt, and left the room.

  Such passivity seemed unlikely in someone who had chafed to do her bit for France since the occupation began. However, Gabby decided to approach the subject with caution. She passed an uneasy night before she mentioned it again.

  “It is a great honor, being asked to the Château de Saint Firmin,” she said as her sister was getting ready for work the next morning. “You will meet many interesting and wealthy people.”

  “I suppose so.” Yvette coaxed her thick, curly hair into a rough chignon and began securing it with pins.

  “And you said it was the ambassador himself who invited you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I hope your head is not turned by these visits to castles and such.” The words came out more sharply than Gabby intended, but Yvette seemed to be thinking of something else.

  Gabby tried again. “I am worried for you, going to that place.”

  Yvette stuck the last pin into her hair, then turned to put her hands on Gabby’s shoulders, those cat’s eyes of hers grave and steady. “I am worried for me, too, Gabby. But I must do what I can. We all must.”

  That alarmed Gabby even more, but before she could reply, Yvette kissed her cheek, grabbed her satchel, and left.

  Gabby needed to get moving, too. It was time to visit Madame LaRoq. She took out some black-market cheese from the larder and cut it in half. Spearing one piece with the point of her knife, she brought it to her nose and sniffed. It had the pungent smell of sweaty feet, the scent of good aged country Brie.

  Gabby had been tempted to surprise Madame LaRoq with a visit outside the hours she’d given Catherine Dior. But curious as she might be to discover what was going on in that apartment, it was safer not to find out. She wanted to know, but she did not want the responsibility of knowing, and it was impossible to separate the two.

  The show of good behavior the Germans had put on when they first arrived in Paris had not survived D-Day. As it began to look as if the Allies must win the war, the Nazis became more vicious, like cornered rats. Every day, resistance workers were being rounded up, tortured, and shot, their loved ones sent to work camps. Simply knowing of resistance activity and failing to report it was enough to get Gabby arrested, and possibly Yvette and Maman, too.

  There was no going back once Gabby became a party to the secret Madame LaRoq and Catherine kept. As matters stood, she could plead she had been their dupe.

  Madame would probably laugh if she heard how concerned Gabby was for her safety these days. “But already, I am dying, my dear,” she would say. “Best go out
with a boom, no?” During the occupation, a certain recklessness had overtaken some of the old as well as the young, it seemed.

  But the sudden distance between Gabby and the woman who had been like a grandmother to her all these years could not help but hurt her feelings. The hurt became harder and harder to hide.

  Gabby arranged the cheese and a slice of bread to go with it and poured a cup of weak dandelion tea.

  She left the loge and went through to the open courtyard. The sun smiled down today, warming the cobblestones beneath her feet. The wind had died and all was quiet. No leaves had whirled through the space to gather in drifts for her to sweep. No one had dug up vegetables in the night—there were no vegetables to dig anymore. She must beg Catherine to bring her more seeds to plant the next time she returned from Callian.

  The quiet felt almost eerie in the summer heat, like the high street in an American western when a shoot-out is about to start. This courtyard used to be a cheerful place for neighbors to meet and chat or even sit and enjoy an evening apéritif, but now it remained deserted. Residents kept to themselves in their apartments if they had not vacated them altogether and journeyed south as soon as the Germans marched on Paris. Many suites stood empty. Such a waste, but what could one do?

  Sliding the teacup onto the plate, she opened the door to madame’s wing. The bannisters needed dusting again, she noticed as she made her way up. It seemed as if she was destined always to be dusting. Was that all her life would ever be?

  Of course, a life of drudgery was preferable to the tense nights she’d spent waiting for telltale sounds of Catherine’s visitors or living with the fear of Yvette’s strange encounters with gestapistes and German ambassadors.

  Gabby reached Madame LaRoq’s apartment and opened it with her key. She was expected, after all, and it was nine o’clock on the dot.

  What she saw in madame’s bedroom made her drop her plate and cup and stumble forward, her arms outstretched. There, leaning over madame in a menacing fashion, was a large, fair-haired man.