Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  “No.” Liliane picked up her hat and coat. “But they need you, all the same. Think about it.”

  When Liliane had gone, Gabby found that Jack seemed quieter. He was sleeping, his lashes damp spikes against his cheeks. A crop of whiskers shadowed his jaw, practically a beard now. Was it soft? She wanted to touch it.

  Tentatively, Gabby put out her hand, then snatched it back when he opened his eyes. “Oh, it’s you,” he muttered.

  “Can I get you anything?” Gabby leaned over him to feel his forehead. It was cool now, but she didn’t think the fever had broken. In fact, he was shivering. “You are cold. Let me fetch the extra blankets.”

  But even those did not seem to warm him. She had a crazy urge to climb under the covers and share her own body heat. She had heard of such things being effective. Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself. You just want to be close to him, that’s all.

  She couldn’t resist stroking the hair back from his forehead, murmuring a soothing stream of nonsense, like a mother to a fretful child.

  Without that sulfa medicine, he would die.

  She needed to get hold of those tablets. If there was such medicine to be had in Paris, she would find it. First, she would try Monsieur Arnaud.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, Gabby managed to snatch some time to hurry over to Monsieur Arnaud’s bookstore, but he shook his head when he heard her request. “Impossible,” he said. “I am sorry, Gabby. I wish I could help.”

  She licked her lips. “It is Madame LaRoq. A matter of life and death. I . . . I would make it worth your trouble, monsieur. Surely you know people.”

  He spread his hands. “If I could get them, don’t you think I would? But drugs like that are supplied to the military and impossible to come by without a contact there.”

  She believed him, and the knowledge that she had nowhere else to turn plummeted through her like a stone. Not again. She could not bear such a loss again.

  I wish I’d never met him, she thought fiercely. I wish he was someone else’s problem. And Liliane wanted her to take on more of them!

  As she was about to leave the bookstore, her attention snagged on a large white ceramic cat that had sat in the window ever since she could remember. She and Yvette had called it Maude, for a reason that was now lost in the mists of time. “Oh!” said Gabby softly, reaching out. Maude was missing her left ear. She stroked the roughness along the break, feeling tears well behind her eyes.

  “Oh, that.” Monsieur Arnaud cleared his throat. “No doubt you heard from Yvette about that ruffian who smashed up the place.”

  “Yes, I was sorry to—” She gasped, whirling around to face the bookseller. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of that? Why hadn’t Monsieur Arnaud? “Berger!” If anyone could obtain a rare commodity like sulfa pills, it was the king of the black marketeers. “You must take me to see him.”

  “Are you crazy?” Monsieur Arnaud stared at her. “Don’t you know what they did?”

  Ordinarily, Gabby would agree with his caution, but she was desperate. “You paid him what he demanded, didn’t you? You’re all square?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “And there is somewhere quite public we could meet, so no one gets hurt?” Gabby took Monsieur Arnaud’s hand and squeezed it. “Please, monsieur. Someone I . . . Someone I love is dying. Please, you must help me!”

  “Your mother will kill me,” said Monsieur Arnaud. “But I suppose nothing too terrible can happen in a public place.” His eyebrows lowered. “You’d best have the money to pay, though. Berger will be furious if he thinks we’ve wasted his time.”

  Gabby threw her arms around the bookseller and squeezed his rotund form tightly. “Oh, thank you, monsieur.”

  “Yes, well, that’s enough of that,” said the bookseller gruffly, extricating himself. “Meet me at the Café de la Mer on rue de la Pompe at eight.”

  Monsieur Arnaud was right to be afraid. So was Gabby, but the means of saving Jack was so close, she couldn’t dwell on the danger to herself. Besides, Berger might be a criminal, but he was first and foremost a businessman. Why would he hurt Gabby, as long as he was paid? Which made her pause. She didn’t know what the price of the medicine might be and she had no money to pay for it.

  She scanned her memory of the trinkets and valuables in Madame LaRoq’s suite. The sapphire rings. They were valuable. Perhaps too valuable to trade, but then Madame LaRoq had risked her life to hide Jack. Surely she would not begrudge Gabby using her jewels to save him.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME she met Monsieur Arnaud at the appointed rendezvous, Gabby was wound so tightly with nervous anticipation that the utter normality of the Café de la Mer came as something of an anticlimax. Tables and chairs spilled out onto the pavement beneath red awnings; people drank whatever they could afford—or persuade the Germans to buy for them—and fanned themselves against the lingering heat with whatever came to hand.

  “Will Berger himself be here?” Gabby asked Monsieur Arnaud as they found a table and sat down.

  “Probably not,” said monsieur. “It is still early. But someone will be. His men.”

  All the cafés in Paris teemed with German soldiers and this one was no exception. The way they behaved, full of drink and song, with pretty girls hanging off their arms, they didn’t look terribly threatening. But then, it was the Gestapo you had to watch out for, not the rank-and-file soldiers.

  “Look,” said monsieur with a jerk of his chin toward the back of the room. “He is here after all.”

  Trying not to stare, Gabby took a wide sweep of the café and thought she spotted Berger. Dressed like an American gangster in a sharp pin-striped brown suit and a wide, loud necktie, a man sat at the back of the café like a king surrounded by his subjects: buxom, pretty women and men with brilliantined hair and cigarettes behind their ears. In stark contrast to the shabby French patrons, everything these people wore was flashy and new.

  Gabby tensed. “What should we do?” Now that she saw him, her bravado evaporated. She didn’t have the courage to approach the leader of a criminal gang.

  “We flag down one of his men and ask for some time with him,” said Monsieur Arnaud.

  Like courtiers requesting an audience with the king. Or rather, not courtiers, but peasants. The notion made Gabby’s blood simmer. Honest Parisians like her struggled to feed their families, while villains like these quaffed champagne and smoked cigars.

  “Let’s get a drink.” Monsieur Arnaud ordered two glasses of red wine and they settled in to wait.

  The minutes ticked by. Gabby eyed Monsieur Arnaud, sitting there dressed in his Sunday best. A bead of sweat had formed on his brow—whether from the heat or from anxiety, she couldn’t tell. He took out a worn handkerchief and mopped at his forehead, folded it carefully, and returned it to his pocket. “I am sorry about Madame LaRoq,” he said eventually. “I know you’re fond of her.”

  Gabby’s stomach gave a hard twist. She nodded, pressing her lips together. “Monsieur, thank you for—”

  “Tchut!” He made a quick cutting gesture with his hand. “Here he comes.”

  With a surge of nervousness Gabby glanced sideways. Not Berger himself, thank goodness. One of the men who had been gathered in the booth at the back of the café was sauntering over.

  He smiled with a flash of gold teeth. “You are a brave man, showing your face here, Arnaud.”

  Monsieur stuck out his chin. “I have a request to make of your boss.”

  As if to draw attention to his dental work, the man produced a toothpick, stuck it between his clenched teeth, and wiggled it up and down as he considered this. He gave Gabby a pointed look that turned speculative. “Who is this?”

  “Never mind,” snapped Arnaud. But when the gangster’s mild expression turned menacing, in a trembling voice, Gabby interposed, “I am Gabrielle Foucher, monsieur. And it is I who have the request.”

  “Enchanted, mademoiselle,” said Gold Teeth. She thought he might bend t
o kiss her hand, his manner was so courtly. To her relief, he did not. “I am Rafael.”

  She’d suspected as much from her sister’s description of the man who had beaten up Monsieur Arnaud and threatened Yvette. Thank goodness monsieur was doing the talking, because Gabby’s mouth had gone dry.

  “Will you tell Berger we wish to speak with him?” said the bookseller.

  Rafael laughed. “He is busy. He is always too busy for the likes of you. What do you want?”

  Gabby was torn between relief that she didn’t have to confront Berger and doubt that dealing with one of his henchmen would be as effective. However, at a nod from monsieur, she stumbled into speech. “I need medicine. Sulfa pills.”

  “Sulfa pills?” Rafael stroked his chin. “It’s going to cost. They are not easy to come by.”

  “But you can get them?” Gabby leaned forward eagerly. “I am prepared to pay well.”

  She ignored Monsieur Arnaud’s sharp glance. She knew she was going about bargaining the wrong way, but she had to get those pills.

  Rafael tilted his head and scanned Gabby in a thorough and insolent manner that made her think he was not at all considering possible sources of medical supplies. “I’ll see what I can do. But the price might be more than you can afford.”

  Gabby licked her lips. “I know I don’t look like a wealthy woman, but I’m the concierge at number ten rue Royale. My tenant, the lady who needs the medicine, she can pay.”

  “Number ten rue Royale,” mused Rafael, stroking his chin. He narrowed his eyes at her. “You have many rich tenants, no?”

  Gabby saw where he was going with this. “The Germans took everything they had. No one has anything anymore.”

  Rafael laughed. “Somehow, I don’t think that is true,” he said. “Get me something interesting and I will consider your request. If you can bring me good artwork or jewels, I might be able to source some medicine.” He removed the toothpick from between his teeth and jabbed it in her direction. “I assume that time is of the essence, so why don’t you meet me back here tomorrow night?” He glanced at Arnaud, then added, “Alone.”

  The sulfa pills must not be so very difficult for him to obtain if he would have them tomorrow night, but she judged it wisest not to point this out. “I’ll do that.” She would use madame’s sapphires. They were more portable than paintings, and unlike gold, sapphires tended to hold their value. It was not truly stealing, even if it felt like it.

  “Until tomorrow,” said Rafael with a flourishing bow.

  Inwardly, Gabby shuddered. “Until then.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Monsieur Arnaud as they left the café.

  Gabby sincerely hoped so, too.

  When she reached the apartments, Gabby went straight up to madame’s suite to look in on Jack. He was still. So still that she rushed to his bedside to make sure he was alive.

  Relieved to feel the warm brush of his breath on her palm, Gabby went to hunt for madame’s jewelry box, which she’d kept hidden beneath a loose floorboard in her bedroom. There was a lovely string of pearls, Gabby knew, but it was a family heirloom and must go to madame’s niece. Other pieces were sentimental, but madame had always said that if the worst came, there were a couple of sapphire rings she might sell.

  Gabby found the jewelry box and opened it. In a little drawer, she found the two rings. She took the smaller of them, wrapped it in her handkerchief, and put it in her pocket. No doubt it was worth far more than a few sulfa pills, but she was hardly in a position to bargain.

  Before she left the apartment, she looked in on her patient again. A surge of hope rose in her chest. He was going to get better now. She would make sure of it. On impulse, she crossed the room, took his hand, and told him the good news. He couldn’t hear her, but it made her feel better.

  Everything was going to be all right.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Paris, February 1947

  GABBY

  A medal, Gabby! You are getting . . .” Yvette snatched up the scrap of paper with her notes on it and read: “‘The King’s Medal for Courage in the Cause of Freedom.’ Awarded to foreign civilians who have given great assistance to British forces during the war.” Her eyes glowed as she raised them to Gabby’s, more like her old self than she had been since her arrival. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “But . . . how?” The explanation that leaped to mind only confused Gabby more.

  “I would have thought that was obvious,” said Yvette. “Clearly, it was an Englishman who recommended you. One of the men you saved.”

  “That can’t be. Oh, no, that could not be.” If Jack was alive, he’d be here. He wouldn’t have arranged for them to give her this medal as some sort of consolation prize. One of the others, then? Yes, perhaps . . . This news on top of Yvette’s arrival had made her dizzy. She struggled to think it through.

  The tiny inkling of hope that perhaps Jack had put up her name for recommendation quickly died. If he was alive, he would have returned to Paris—to Gabby—as soon as he could. Or if . . . if he didn’t feel the same . . . He would have written to her in friendship, at least, to let her know he had survived.

  The insidious thought that he had simply forgotten her, that his affection had never been sincere, snaked through her brain.

  No. She refused to believe it. Jack was a good man and she would not let herself suspect otherwise. To tarnish the bright memory of the time they’d shared with doubts like that was the act of a coward. She gave a shuddering sigh. She had not wanted to know what had happened to him, fearing the worst. Now it was time to change that. One way or the other, she had to know.

  “Gabby?” Yvette had been speaking, and Gabby hadn’t heard a word.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  With a worried frown, Yvette repeated, “The ceremony is at the British embassy next Thursday. They said they sent the invitation twice and were calling to make sure they had the correct address. Why didn’t you reply? Of course you must go.”

  Gabby put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.” Stand up in front of all those people and accept an award for doing no more than any decent person would? They didn’t know what a reluctant heroine she had been.

  She didn’t want accolades. There were many people who deserved medals—Yvette, for example, and Catherine Dior—but Gabby was not one of them. She had never been brave, not for one solitary second of that war. She had been scared and begrudging yet eager to help Catherine, whom she so admired. Later, her motives had been personal, not noble in any way.

  “Don’t be silly,” Yvette said. “Of course you can! Besides, I have told them you will be there and I refuse to let you make me a liar.”

  Gabby gave a hollow laugh that ended on a hiccup. She grabbed Yvette’s hand and squeezed it. “Will you come with me? Help me be brave?”

  Yvette smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Gabby put her arms around her sister. “Thank you, Yvette.” And the feeling when Yvette hugged her back was more precious than any medal.

  YVETTE

  The prison at Fresnes was a vast citadel of punishment and correction, containing both men’s and women’s jails and a hospital as well. The subterranean corridor that led to the women’s prison was sporadically lit, with alternating pools of eerie bluish light and Stygian darkness, like a tunnel into hell. Yvette swallowed hard and threw her shoulders back. There was no need to be afraid, was there? She would only be here for a meeting, less than an hour. Then, unlike Louise Dulac, she could walk free.

  Nevertheless, when she and Monsieur LeBrun followed the guard up a flight of steps into the women’s prison, Yvette released a long breath of relief. At least here, watery daylight filtered through the clouded glass windows at the far end of the complex.

  She gazed up and up, counting five stories, gallery upon gallery of cells ranged around a central atrium. The whitewashed walls were punctuated with iron doors as grim as tombstones. The place reeked of misery. Y
vette couldn’t repress a shiver.

  What had been an abstract idea—Louise Dulac arrested and charged—suddenly became a stark reality. But Yvette set her jaw. Hadn’t Catherine Dior been incarcerated here during the war? Hadn’t she suffered unimaginable torture in between bouts of questioning at rue de la Pompe? And all of it might have been prevented had Louise lifted one perfectly manicured finger.

  That thought stiffened Yvette’s spine as she climbed one flight of stairs and followed the guard along the landing to a small meeting room. The room had a window with a narrow sill. There was no seating; the only furniture was a rectangular wooden table. The guard left, presumably to fetch the prisoner. LeBrun set his attaché case on the table and opened it with a click that bounced off the bare, hard surfaces around them.

  While LeBrun frowned over his documents, Yvette waited in silence, watching the door, her body humming with tension like a plucked string.

  Why should she be nervous? Monsieur LeBrun himself had said that she was Louise Dulac’s only hope. She ought to hold all the power in this situation. But that day, that horrible day when she had begged for Louise’s help and the actress had refused her, taunting her about Vidar, and then the pain and despair of losing Catherine . . . All of it came flooding back.

  When the heavy door opened and Louise Dulac stood on the threshold like a performer taking the stage, Yvette went first hot, then cold. The movie star did not wear Lelong or Schiaparelli or Chanel this time, but a shapeless wool sweater over some kind of tunic.

  Louise was thin, her high cheekbones even more prominent than before, and her hair had grown. But despite all of this, Louise Dulac’s presence shone like a beacon through a stormy night. She might have been dressed in a prison uniform and fed starvation rations for the past few months, but her star power remained undimmed. It was as if she did not belong here, in this miserable fortress; she was simply playing a part.

  Strangely, the sight of Dulac so poised despite her circumstances came as a relief. Had she seemed broken by her experience, it would have been much harder to hate her.