Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  The shop front had been smashed up, every single pane of glass missing, as if a bomb had gone off inside. The interior had been looted. With a hollow, burning horror, she set her foot down on the ground and asked a boy nearby, “What happened?”

  In an undertone, he said, “It’s the Bonny-Lafont gang, mademoiselle. There was a raid last night. The jeweler was arrested, then they looted his wares.”

  Yvette thanked him and cycled away. What on earth was she supposed to do now?

  All she knew was that she needed to get home, to regroup. She was trembling all over, from muscle fatigue as well as fear. She barely made it back to the apartments before her legs gave out. In the vestibule, she got off the bicycle and collapsed to the ground.

  “What is it?” Gabby rushed out of the loge and bent over her. “Oh, Yvette, what has happened? What have you done?”

  “Is Mademoiselle Dior here?” she gasped out. “I need her.”

  “She is not back yet,” said Gabby. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “What about Miss Dietlin?” Yvette let Gabby help her up. Her inner thighs were chafed raw and her muscles burned.

  “She is gone also. I don’t know where.” Gabby brought her inside and sat her down. “Don’t tell me you rode all the way from Chantilly?”

  Yvette nodded. “Water. Please, Gabby.”

  Stomach lurching with anxiety, Yvette groped for her satchel, which she had slung across her body. She relaxed. It was still there, with the velvet box, the pearls, and the message inside. She lay back against the cushions and took the water Gabby handed her, gulped it down.

  “Slowly, now,” said Gabby. “What happened, Yvette?”

  She knew Gabby would not leave her be without an explanation, so she gave her the cover story about the pearls.

  “And I suppose her highness couldn’t wait a few days for her necklace to be mended? She had to send you on such a journey alone? Unbelievable.” But it appeared Gabby did believe it, because she didn’t say any more. Untying her apron and bundling it up, she added, “A call came for you an hour ago. Vidar Lind. He said to contact him as soon as you got back.” She tucked a tendril of hair behind Yvette’s ear. “I have to go, but will you be all right now?”

  “Yes, of course.” Vidar. She could trust him. He knew her secret and he hadn’t betrayed her. He’d know what to do with Dulac’s message.

  The card with Vidar’s name on it was still in the purse she’d brought to Maxim’s that night. She took it out and dialed the number. “I have a message for Vidar Lind.”

  There was a murmured conversation and then Vidar’s voice came over the line. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll meet you in the suite you know at the Ritz in half an hour. Mind you go straight up and don’t talk to anyone. Got it?”

  A flood of relief nearly knocked her over. He knew all about everything. He was going to take care of it. It was going to be all right. “Yes.”

  Yvette nearly cried as she got back on the bicycle, but she clenched her teeth and pushed through the pain. Vidar wanted her to meet him at Louise’s suite. That made sense. Louise wouldn’t be there. How would they get in, though? It wasn’t as if Louise had entrusted Yvette with a key.

  That question was resolved when Yvette arrived at the door and it instantly opened. She slipped inside, saying, “How did you . . . ?”

  “Never mind that.” He took one good look at her, then stretched out a hand to touch her cheek. She flinched away.

  “What happened?” He searched her face. “You look weary to the bone. Come. Sit with me.”

  He led her to the sofa, and they sat side by side, not touching. The cushions were so soft, Yvette wanted very much to curl up and go to sleep, but she had a mission to complete. She summoned the energy to tell Vidar what had happened. “I cycled all the way back to Paris. I had to deliver this.” She reached into her satchel and handed him the jewel box. “I was to give the message to a jeweler on the rue . . . well, never mind where. But he has been taken by the gestapistes and now I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Vidar opened the jewel case, decanted the loose pearls into an empty ashtray, and lifted out the velvet bed. Then he took from his pocket a small penknife and began to unpick Louise’s neat stitches.

  Yvette said to him, “What are you, Vidar Lind?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll see the message gets to the right person.” He slid his fingers between the lining and the base of the box and retrieved the coded message, held it up between forefinger and middle finger, then slid it into his breast pocket.

  “You are not going to read it?”

  “In a moment. I have to decode it. You can stop worrying about it now. All is well.”

  She sank back against the sofa cushions, closing her eyes with relief. She opened them again to find him regarding her intently.

  “Is it just fatigue, Yvette? There is nothing . . . nothing else?”

  It was as if he knew, she thought vaguely. She shook her head.

  His shoulders relaxed. “I was worried about you.”

  “Were you?” She felt herself drifting again. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. “I should get back to the loge.”

  “Sleep first. Then you must tell me everything.” Vidar smiled at her, and his smile was tender, completely transforming his face.

  After her experience with Werner, she welcomed his consideration. She did not wish to be touched just then. She did not want to leave him, either, so she curled up on the sofa while he sat down at the desk and set out his utensils.

  “Can you decipher it?” she asked on a yawn.

  He glanced at her. “I’ll try.”

  He took out a sheet of clean paper, then disappeared into Louise’s bedroom, returning with a large hand mirror. He put the paper on top of the glass—a piece of tradecraft she recognized—so that his writing would not make impressions on the surface beneath that could be found and deciphered later. Then he began.

  She did not like to disturb him, so she kept quiet after that. Eventually, boredom overtook her nervous excitement and she fell into a doze.

  When she woke, he was gone, and so were the papers. Disappointment flooded her, but then she realized there were sounds coming from the bathroom.

  She hesitated, then knocked. “Vidar? Are you in there?”

  The door opened and he came out, smiling. “I took the liberty of running you a bath. For your aching muscles,” he added tactfully.

  Yvette felt herself redden. She had cleaned up somewhat at the loge, but the sweat and dirt of the road needed her full attention. “Thank you. That is kind.”

  “You must be hungry. I’ll order us something,” he said, moving to the telephone. “Don’t be too long in there.”

  That this situation closely mirrored her experience with Werner made her shiver. And yet, she felt no threat from Vidar Lind. She was fairly sure she could trust him, at least where her personal safety was concerned.

  She turned the lock on the bathroom door, just in case.

  As she lowered herself, inch by inch, the hot water brutally stung the rawness on her thighs, but she held her breath and gritted her teeth until the pain became bearable. The bath was not as leisurely as it might have been under different circumstances, but it was like heaven after all she’d been through.

  She was gingerly toweling herself dry when she heard Vidar dealing with the waiter who had brought the room service. Stomach growling, Yvette went into the bedroom. Her own clothes were in sweat-stained tatters, so she donned one of Louise’s robes and peered into the movie star’s closet.

  So many beautiful costumes and gowns. She rummaged through the racks of expensive, well-cut clothes for something appropriate. Trousers! She had always wanted to wear trousers—so practical for cycling around Paris—but Gabby was old-fashioned and would not let her.

  She pulled on a pair of toffee-colored silk-lined culottes, paired them with a cream blouse, then a
dded a little scarf in fall tones to complement her hair.

  When she emerged from the bedroom, Vidar’s raised eyebrows told her he noticed the change. He said nothing, however, but invited her to eat. They dined on real beef with mange-touts and new potatoes, washed down with a heavy burgundy that went straight to her head.

  “Be sure to drink plenty of water,” said Vidar, pouring some into a crystal goblet for her. “You will be dehydrated after that long ride.”

  Yvette took the glass and dutifully sipped. She felt clean and sated, though sadly unable to do full justice to the meal. “I know it is not good manners, but I shall wrap some of this up to take to Maman and Gabby.” They would swoon at the mere sight of red meat.

  “If you’re finished, why don’t we sit awhile?” said Vidar.

  She left the table and joined him on the sofa. “I wish we could stay here forever.”

  His gaze became distant.

  She cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean I wanted to be with you forever, or anything . . .”

  He laughed. “Of course not. If I looked serious, it’s because I feel the same. Unfortunately, I have to get back.”

  “To the embassy?”

  He took her hands and shook his head, still smiling. “I am not a Swedish diplomat, Yvette. My name is Rick and I work for the resistance.”

  Silently, she digested this. All this time, he had let her call him the wrong name, and that felt . . . as if she hadn’t really come to know him at all. She looked down at his hands, which still gripped hers, and wanted to pull away. But she didn’t.

  “Be careful, ma petite,” he said softly. “Do not run headlong into danger when the end is so near.”

  Yvette stared into his eyes and saw something there, something deep and warm. “I won’t if you won’t,” she whispered.

  “Don’t worry about me. I am like a cockroach. I always survive. But you, Yvette . . . Will you stop working for them now?”

  She opened her mouth to deny involvement, but his seriousness stopped her. “I know you are a courier,” he said. “And I know who you work for. The war is almost won and the Germans, they are desperate. They’ve brought in troops from Algeria; they are letting gestapiste scum like the Berger gang run riot in Paris. Girls like you are being rounded up and tortured for days on end. You cannot imagine the horror.”

  From his face, she suspected he knew of such horror firsthand. “Keep your head down now,” he urged. “You have done enough.”

  “I could just as easily die from a bomb blast while keeping my head down,” she said flatly. If everyone had the same attitude, how would they ever win? How would they keep their friends and family safe?

  His mouth had a bitter twist. “At least then it would be quick.”

  He would have turned away then, but she held on to him. “Would you do something for me? In case we don’t meet again?”

  “What?”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled it in a rush. “Kiss me? Just this once.” She thought of Werner’s brutal assault and gave her head a small shake to dislodge the memory. “Please . . .” She had been about to call him “Vidar.” “Please, Rick.”

  His gaze searched hers, as if he needed to make sure she meant what she said. Then something darkened in his eyes. He released her hands to cradle her face, his long fingers plunging through the thick, damp mass of her hair.

  When he bent his head to touch his lips to hers, a great hunger sparked inside her. She slid her hands to his shoulders and he wrapped his arms around her, angling his head and taking the kiss deeper, until she was consumed by it, by him. Finally she felt wanted, desired. For a fleeting instant, she felt loved.

  All too soon, he ended the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers. “When this hellish war is over . . .” He sighed, his breath whispering over her lips, making her shiver.

  “No promises.” Lightly, tentatively, she touched his cheek. Had he held out some vague assurance of the future to make her feel better about his leaving? He didn’t have to. She was accustomed to living in the moment. A few weeks, or a month, could feel like years in wartime. Everything might change tomorrow.

  “This is all we have,” Yvette whispered. “And it is enough.”

  But her heart ached for him the second he walked out the door.

  Chapter Twenty

  Paris, July 1944

  GABBY

  Gabby hesitated outside Madame LaRoq’s apartment and looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was around. Almost a week had passed without incident since Yvette’s abrupt return from Chantilly, seemingly shaken but unharmed. Jack was getting stronger every day. Despite the increasing brutality of the Nazis in Paris, the Allied bombings, and the bloody battle that waged even now in the north, Gabby’s heart was as light as a dove’s wing. Anticipation filled her chest as she turned the key and slipped inside.

  A large hand grabbed her arm, pulled her deeper into the room. She gasped. “Jack! You should be in bed.”

  “My Gabby.” He pulled her to him and she felt the strength of his arms, the breadth of his chest with a pang of bittersweet pleasure and regret. Part of her could not be glad to see him so strong, for then surely, he must leave.

  When she could speak again, she said, “You are much better now, I see.”

  “Thanks to a brilliant nurse, I am well again.” His chuckle turned into a dry cough.

  “Don’t overdo it just yet, soldier.” She pushed him to the sofa and bustled to get him water.

  Her cheeks burned and her blood simmered from that kiss. When she set the water on the table beside him, he pulled her down to him again. “I am fit as a fiddle. I just need to get out and about a bit. Fresh air and exercise, that’s the ticket.”

  “The ticket?” Gabby eyed him warily. Did he mean to travel?

  His eyes warmed with laughter. “When you are worried, you have a little crease, just . . . here.” He brushed the place between her eyebrows with his fingertip. “Let me see if I can smooth it away.”

  “I worry about you more now that you are well than when you were sick,” she said, a little breathlessly, because his fingers and hands had begun exploring other parts of her. I ought to stop this, she thought vaguely, but there was so little joy to be found in this war, and he was very, very good at what he was doing.

  It seemed as if no time at all had passed when they became aware of a commotion downstairs. Jack heard it first and leaped off her as if she were on fire. Still dazed with kisses, she sat up. “What? What’s going on?” Then she heard shouts and shot to her feet.

  Jack was already moving. “Quick, we need to get rid of all this.” He was packing up books and cigarettes, the dirty plate from the meal she’d brought earlier. Heart racing, Gabby helped, emptying the ashtrays, putting cushions back in place, taking his blanket and pillow back to the spare bedroom.

  Wordlessly, they worked together until the apartment looked uninhabited. They stared at the massive cabinet that stood in front of the maid’s room. “Help me shift it,” said Gabby.

  “No, allow me.” Clearly relishing his returned strength, Jack heaved the cabinet aside, then grabbed some supplies to take in with him. Cigarettes, lighter, an old water canteen she’d brought him, a couple of novels. A pistol, which Gabby prayed he wouldn’t need to use.

  There were more shouts on the floor below, then a sharp, angry tirade from Madame Vasseur, who must have come out from her room down the hall to see what was going on.

  Gabby turned to Jack and met his gaze. Everything that must be said passed between them in that look. She was loved. Despite the danger and the fear, a warm feeling filled her heart. He gave her one final, urgent kiss, then ducked into the maid’s room and closed the door.

  Gabby eased the armoire back in place, tidied her hair and clothing, then slipped out of the apartment. She grabbed Madame Vasseur by the elbow and hustled her back into her suite. “Safer for you to stay inside. I will tell you all about it later.” Backing out, she shut the door on the old woman’s pr
otests, then made for the stairs.

  Please, God, she prayed silently, I know I have not been to mass much lately but I am a good person. At least, I try. Please spare him. Please. It’s the only thing I ask.

  After that, there was no more time for praying. A man in a trench coat and fedora appeared in the stairwell and looked up at her. Even at this distance, in the dim light, she caught the glint of gold in his teeth. Rafael. The gangster who had sold her the sulfa pills.

  She stopped short, confused. “What are you doing here?”

  “Official business.” He climbed the stairs until he stood eye to eye with her and held out a card.

  “I don’t know what that is,” Gabby said, frowning down at it.

  “Gestapistes, Gabby.” Her mother’s voice, sharp and clipped, called up from behind Rafael. “It’s a raid.”

  All the air left Gabby’s lungs. Keep calm. Never show them fear. She had to breathe deeply in through her nose before she could form the words. “And what is your business here?”

  “Routine inspection,” said Rafael. “Stand aside, mademoiselle.”

  Gabby let them pass, then turned to follow them up the stairs. Think! How could she distract them, divert them from Madame LaRoq’s apartment?

  Uncharacteristically, her mother made a terrible fuss the whole way up to the second floor. They were all respectable bourgeois at number 10, not wealthy, not political. They minded their own business here. Rafael and his men had better have good reason for storming in at this time of night.

  The men ignored her, trading insults and jokes with each other in loud, coarse voices as they clattered up the stairs.

  Rafael stopped outside Madame LaRoq’s apartment. “This one.” He gestured to Gabby. “Open it.”

  Moving as slowly as she dared, Gabby fumbled with her ring of keys.

  “Hurry up or we’ll break it down,” Rafael said.

  “I trust you have a warrant, messieurs?” Catherine Dior was standing in the hallway. Her voice was quiet but commanding. Her dignity and calm lent Gabby a dash of badly needed courage.