Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

As one of the soldiers scrutinized her new identity papers, she held her breath through her smile. Would there be some telltale sign that they were forged? The soldier walked over to the other guard and showed him the identity card. They both stared at her hard for a few moments.

  It’s not you, she told herself. They stare at everyone this way. Though her heart banged in her chest, the thought of Catherine and all that she must be suffering now made Yvette keep her nerve. “Please let me pass,” she said, attempting a flirtatious simper that felt more like a grimace. “Mademoiselle Dulac doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  There was no answering smile from either of the men. Finally, with a curt nod, the guard returned her papers and waved her through. Light-headed with relief, Yvette hurried up to Louise Dulac’s suite.

  Yes, it was a risk, for all kinds of reasons. She and Louise had parted on bad terms. However, Yvette banked on the fact that Louise would not want Yvette captured in case she pointed the finger at her. Whatever Louise had been doing with coded messages and the like, clearly it was not in Werner’s best interests.

  That Gruber himself might be in the suite made Yvette hesitate outside. She’d have to make some excuse about being sent from Lelong. If only she’d thought to bring a package with her . . . How long ago it seemed that she was a delivery girl for the famous designer. Couture, its artistry and delicious frivolity, belonged to another lifetime.

  She knocked and the door opened. The German maid narrowed her eyes at Yvette but gave no sign that she knew her rival was now wanted by the authorities. No reason why she should know, of course. Men like Gruber had little to do with the dirty work of rounding up and torturing spies.

  Yvette stared stonily back. “Mademoiselle Dulac, if you please. I have an important message for her from Monsieur Dior.”

  “Who is it?” called Louise. She appeared in the doorway of her boudoir looking every inch the screen goddess in high-waisted wide-legged camel trousers and a cream blouse, gold jewelry at her wrists and throat. It reminded Yvette of the outfit she’d taken from Louise’s wardrobe, the one she’d ruined with a resistance worker’s blood.

  The memory lent steel to her tone. “I have a message from Monsieur Dior, mademoiselle.”

  Dulac inclined her head, and Yvette followed her to her boudoir. She shut the door but they both knew the German maid would be listening.

  “How have you been, Yvette?” she said, taking a glass-framed picture from the wall and placing it on her desk. “It is so long since we spoke. I must thank you for the return of my pearls.”

  Yvette had forgotten all about the pearls. “I haven’t come here to talk about old times.”

  Louise took a sheet of letter paper, then laid it flat on the glass surface of the picture, so as not to leave any impressions of their writing that could later be read. Handing Yvette a thin gold pencil, she gestured for her to write her message down.

  “Work has been busier than ever,” Yvette said in a clear, loud voice. “It is as if the women of Paris seek refuge from the war in beauty.” At the same time, she wrote: “Catherine Dior arrested. Please help.”

  Louise used a gold lighter to set a flame to the end of a cigarette, drew on it heavily, then blew smoke into the air. A quick shake of the head was her only response. “It is the same with film, I believe. Anything to escape.”

  “But why not?” Yvette wrote. Then, when Louise simply blinked and stared at her, unresponsive, she added, “You owe me.”

  The movie star’s beautiful face hardened when she read that. She bent and plucked the pencil from Yvette’s grasp, knocking her hand clear of the page. “G suspects me. I can’t.”

  As they talked about social gatherings and the parties Dulac had been to, the furious written exchange carried on.

  “But it’s Dior. Christian’s sister. You could say the appeal came from him.”

  “My credit is not high. Nor is Gruber’s. Not worth the risk.”

  “You could do it if you wanted.”

  A shrug. “I don’t want.” Then she added, “Does Vidar know?”

  “He might, but I didn’t tell him.”

  They came to the end of the page. Dulac whipped it from beneath Yvette’s hand, flicked her gold lighter, and set the paper on fire. They both watched as the flame rose higher, then Louise dropped it into an ashtray before it singed her fingertips. She grabbed Yvette’s arm and hustled her into her en suite, turned on the tap so the rush of water covered her speech.

  “You gave Vidar my message. The one I meant for the jeweler. That was clever of you. But how did you know about the two of us? I can’t believe he’s a man who would kiss and tell.”

  Something inside Yvette shattered. Until that moment, she had not even guessed. Though she should have. She should have known. She tried to keep her face blank, but the pain and anger must have shown.

  Louise gave a soft gasp. “You did not know. Oh, dear, and now I have been indiscreet. But Gruber was becoming suspicious. It’s why he set the maid on me as a watchdog.”

  This was all spoken in a breathy undertone. Then she turned off the tap and added more loudly, “There. I’ve burned his letter. Tell him to stop pestering me, will you? He was only ever a flirtation and now he has become a bore.”

  It took Yvette a few seconds to realize she had talked about burning a letter to explain the slightly chemical smell of burnt paper that now pervaded the boudoir. The woman thought of everything, didn’t she? And Yvette was always a step behind.

  Again, Dulac’s voice came low and hard, a whisper in her ear. “Would you like to know Vidar’s real name, Yvette? It is Heinrich Jäger-Hoffmann, Baron von Leitfeld. An Austrian. And an officer of the Third Reich.”

  “No!” The denial came automatically. “You are making that up.”

  Louise put her finger to her lips. She was enjoying this, her eyes sparking with malice.

  Yvette’s brain was starting to piece it together. Heinrich. Rick. He’d told her Rick was his real name, though not about the rest.

  But then . . . whose side had Yvette been working for when she had taken that message to him? Who was he working for now? There was the raid, the bicycle, his association with the Berger gang . . .

  She reached across to snatch up another piece of paper to continue their silent argument, but Louise caught her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. The film star’s eyes were cold and hard. “Goodbye, Yvette. I doubt we’ll meet again.”

  * * *

  YVETTE COULDN’T GO back to the apartment. She didn’t want to see Vidar’s lying, traitorous face. Under a black cloud of betrayal and lost hope, she wandered the city, hardly knowing where she went.

  Perhaps no one had betrayed her. Perhaps no one would. Only Jean-Luc, Catherine, and Liliane knew her name. But it was a very slim chance. She had to admit it. Catherine had been right. There was no choice but to leave Paris, scurry away like a whipped cur while Jean-Luc and Catherine and countless others suffered unendurable pain.

  She had thought that nothing could be worse than knowing Catherine’s capture was all her fault. But Louise Dulac’s revelations about Vidar had ground her spirit into dust. She could only wander the streets like a homeless waif until it was time to leave Paris. The dreams she’d had of making a difference in this fight faded to nothing. She had helped in some small way for a short period of time. That ought to count for something, but right now, it didn’t seem anything like enough. Not compared with the sacrifice Catherine Dior was making at this very moment. All because of Yvette and her impulsive, stupid wish to save a friend who was even more stupid and impulsive than she was.

  She walked until thunderclouds rolled overhead and rain came down in fat, punitive drops. The downpour intensified and lightning blitzed the sky. She stood on the Pont Neuf and watched the rain pummel the Seine like an enemy. At least there would be no bombings tonight.

  People all around her scattered to find shelter, but she kept walking, her hair plastered to her head, trying to make herself believe wha
t Louise Dulac had said was true. Vidar Lind was in fact a Nazi officer. Why, then, did he never wear a uniform?

  First, he had told her he was a Swedish diplomat. Then, he’d claimed he worked for the resistance . . .

  A horrible suspicion dawned on her. Maybe he was working undercover among the French to dig out resistance cells? If so, why on earth would he help Yvette escape?

  As if some homing instinct had led her there, she found herself in the avenue Matignon, near the House of Lelong. She couldn’t approach her old workplace in case the Gestapo had been there looking for her, so she walked on, finding the deeply recessed doorway of an abandoned atelier, where she and Jean-Luc used to spend their break sometimes when it rained. They would sit on the old stone stoop that was worn with age, and Jean-Luc would smoke, and they would gossip and make each other laugh. Poor Jean-Luc! And Catherine . . . Yvette squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the pain.

  There is a numbness that comes from sheer emotional and physical exhaustion. Yvette had reached the limit of her capacity to resolve this mess. She could not think of one more thing she could do to help those she loved, except to remove herself from their vicinity. She was doing no good at all here in Paris.

  When it was finally time to catch her train, Yvette dashed through the rain to the station. Would Vidar be there, too, or would he have given up on her when she ran off?

  The platform was crowded, noisy and bustling and full of the stench of unwashed, damp human. But she saw him, head and shoulders above the stooped, undernourished Parisian crowd. Who was he, really? What was he? And it struck her that she would never know.

  Whatever side he might be on, he had genuinely tried to help her. In time, perhaps she would forget the rest and forgive him, but at that moment, the wound Louise Dulac had inflicted was too raw.

  Yvette saw Vidar looking for her, his gaze raking the crowded platform. But before he could turn her way, she bent her head to hide her face and quickly boarded the train.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Paris, February 1947

  GABBY

  Gabby had never felt so utterly hopeless. For the journey home, she had held her head high, even though her world was shattered beyond repair. But despite her enormous effort to appear normal, Yvette treated her as if she were one of Monsieur Dior’s most delicate creations, only to be handled with gloves.

  When they finally reached the Ritz and Yvette surrendered her suitcase to the porter, Gabby moved to kiss her sister goodbye. But with a mischievous lift of her eyebrows, Yvette said, “No you don’t! You are coming with me.”

  Before Gabby could reply, Yvette had asked the porter to take Gabby’s luggage also, grabbed her hand, and pulled her inside the hotel.

  “Oh, no, I can’t!” said Gabby, digging her heels in.

  “If you want me to drag you up the grand staircase of the Ritz, I will do it,” said Yvette. Gabby had no choice but to follow her up if she did not want to make a scene.

  When the porter had deposited their suitcases in the suite and Yvette had paid him a tip, she said, “You are home early. Maman does not expect you until the end of the week. Why not have a little holiday with me here before you go back?”

  Gabby drank in the sheer luxury around her; the very air tasted like champagne bubbles. “I couldn’t.” This was the kind of existence she would never, ever have. Like watching the show at Dior, it gave her both pleasure and pain.

  “Of course you could!” Yvette reached up to whip Gabby’s beret from her head. She tossed it onto one of the many occasional tables scattered around the suite. “A reward for being an honest Parisian while women like Louise Dulac lived like queens.”

  Yvette kicked off her shoes and padded over to the drinks tray. “Cocktail? Me, I plan to get very drunk tonight.”

  Too tired to argue, Gabby sank down onto the sofa and removed her shoes, one by one. She pointed her toe, eyed a large and ugly ladder in her precious wool stocking, and thought it was entirely typical.

  Yvette handed her a drink and curled up beside her, cradling her own. “I’ll ring for food in a moment. What would you like?”

  Gabby shuddered. She couldn’t eat. Not with this squirmy, black feeling in the pit of her stomach. She sipped her martini and nearly choked. “This is very strong.” But already, a pleasant warmth was spreading through her chest. She drained the glass and held it out for more.

  Yvette took the glass, but she didn’t move immediately. “What happened to you at that place?” And the understanding in Yvette’s eyes, perhaps an answering pain there, was like yanking on a bow. The tight bindings Gabby had wrapped around herself came undone all at once and she gave a great gasping sob.

  “Oh, Gabby.” Yvette put down their glasses and wrapped her arms around her. It felt so good to be held after the coldness of Jack’s reception. Gabby could not seem to weep, but she stayed in Yvette’s arms and let herself be miserable. She had always been the sensible older sister. It felt strange and rather lovely to be comforted by Yvette.

  “My poor Gabby,” said Yvette, rocking her like a child. “So strong for such a long time. I’m sorry he hurt you.”

  And then it all came out. About Burnley, and the dogs and the children, but most of all, about Jack’s coldness. Gabby had laid her heart on the line and he had rejected her, treated her worse than if she had been some beggar off the street.

  “I can’t understand it,” she said into Yvette’s shoulder. “He used to be courteous and kind. And yet it was as if he was so angry he couldn’t bear to look at me.”

  “He is a man and therefore very stupid when it comes to his emotions,” said Yvette.

  Gabby caught the bitter note in her tone but let it pass. “Could I have another drink?”

  “Indeed you may,” said Yvette, swiping both glasses from the table and crossing to the liquor cabinet. “If we don’t eat something, we will soon be drunk. And very sick in the morning.”

  “I don’t suppose that matters,” said Gabby, feeling reckless. “They don’t need you at Dulac’s trial until later in the week. You don’t even have to be at Dior until the afternoon. And I don’t have to be anywhere.” She hesitated. “I am sorry I did not tell you about Madame LaRoq.”

  Yvette gave a long sigh and rubbed her face. “You were trying to protect me.” She stared into the past, memories playing over her face like firelight dancing. “I think it’s how she would have wanted to go, don’t you? Doing her bit for France.”

  They drank a toast to Madame LaRoq and then, after a small hesitation, Gabby broke the news gently about Jean-Luc. “He died at the café, Yvette. Caught in the cross fire.”

  Yvette tilted her head back, closed her eyes. “Thank God. Thank God it was quick.” Her hand trembled as she raised her glass to her lips and drank deeply. “And Monsieur Arnaud?”

  “He escaped through Spain, same as you, but Liliane lost touch with him after the war. He never came back.”

  They talked deep into the night. At some point, they ordered food and someone came in to lay a fire. The sisters ate, and drank wine, and kept talking, and being with her sister like this almost made up for everything that had happened in England. Had it taken the loss of Jack to bring Yvette back to her?

  Gabby was lying full-length on the sofa with her feet in Yvette’s lap when she broached the question that had been playing on her mind. “What did you do in London while I was gone?”

  Yvette was silent for such a long time, Gabby had to lift her head to make sure her sister hadn’t passed out or fallen asleep. There was an expression on Yvette’s face that was very hard to interpret. Gabby nudged her with her foot. “What?”

  Slowly, Yvette said, “I saw Vidar.”

  “Vidar Lind? What was he doing there?”

  “He had followed me.”

  “Really?” Yvette didn’t seem flattered or happy about it. “I always thought he liked you.”

  “Oh, it was not that,” said Yvette. “He is anxious for me to testify.”
r />   “Ah.” Gabby thought she understood. “Is he in love with Louise Dulac, then?”

  “I don’t think so.” Yvette started massaging Gabby’s foot with her thumbs. “It is more complicated than that.”

  Yvette told her the story, though Gabby sensed she omitted certain elements of it. “He is Austrian by birth, Gabby. A Nazi officer, according to Louise.” Yvette sighed. “I thought he might have been using me to get information, collaborating with the rue de la Pompe gang. But he says he was working for the Allies all along. I don’t know what to believe.” She stared, glassy-eyed, into the fire. “My head told me all these things about him simply didn’t add up, and yet . . . And yet whenever I was with him, I felt it could not be true! How could I have fallen in love with the enemy?”

  Gabby sat up, her foot slipping from Yvette’s grasp. “Is that what you have been thinking all this time?”

  Yvette turned her head. “What? Why? What do you know about it?”

  Gabby shook her head in wonder. How could Yvette have gone on believing this? But then, of course, she had left Paris before the fighting began. And clearly, she had not read one word of Gabby’s letters. That stung, but Gabby was too fired up to dwell on petty concerns now.

  “Oh, my dear Yvette, Vidar is a war hero! Did you not know that? He is one of the men who saved Paris.”

  YVETTE

  What?” Yvette rubbed her face, as if that would wipe away her confusion. Certainly, she’d had too much to drink, but she doubted this would make sense if she were sober. “Are you mad, Gabby? What do you mean?”

  “He did not tell you?” Gabby said. “That is taking modesty to extremes.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Gabby reached for her wine. “In August, after you’d gone, the Third Reich brought in General von Choltitz to take command in Paris. Hitler himself ordered the general to raze the city to the ground, blow up the bridges, the Eiffel Tower, all of our beautiful monuments.”

  “I read about it,” Yvette said slowly. “The resistance saved Paris—”