Gabby held up a hand. “Yes, that is de Gaulle’s story, but there’s more to it than that. The Nazis were going to do to Paris what they did to Warsaw. Obliterate it, leave only rubble behind. It was the Swedish consul who persuaded the general to delay following Hitler’s orders. Not only that, he gave the general a way to honorably surrender to the Allies without burning Paris to the ground. And do you know who arranged it all? The introductions, the diplomatic negotiations? Vidar, of course!”
Something was clamoring in Yvette’s head like a church bell. She couldn’t take it all in. “Why ‘of course’? There is no ‘of course’ about it.”
“No, but listen!” Gabby was a different person from the lachrymose woman who had poured her heart out to Yvette at the beginning of the night. She was bright-eyed and passionate, ready to beat her sister over the head with this knowledge. “It was all very thrilling and utterly mad,” she continued. “I only heard this from Monsieur Dior, who heard it from the consul himself, if you can believe it. Vidar came to see me after the liberation and never said a word.”
“I can believe that,” Yvette said dryly. His stubborn reticence exacerbated all their disagreements.
Gabby held up a finger to silence her. “Anyway, the general couldn’t simply order his troops to stand down because Hitler was holding his family hostage in Berlin. But he agreed not to blow up Paris if the Allies marched on the capital within the next forty-eight hours. There was no way to get this message to General Patton except to drive to the battlefront, so that is what Vidar did.”
“This is crazy,” said Yvette. She could almost laugh to think Vidar had once told her his job involved mostly paperwork!
Gabby nodded. “Vidar and some other men piled into the embassy car and set off, first for Versailles, to persuade the Germans at the checkpoint that they were authorized to cross enemy lines. After that, they had to drive through no-man’s-land with mines all around them. They only avoided getting blown up because a German soldier threw himself onto the hood of the car to warn them and then guided them through.”
Here, Yvette interrupted. “Wait. Before you continue, I think I need something stronger.” She set down her empty wineglass and went to the drinks cabinet to pour herself a cognac from a crystal decanter. Cool, debonair Vidar Lind—or Rick, or whoever he was—behaving like some hero from the movies? When she thought of the accusations she’d flung at him, it made her sick. She sat on the sofa beside Gabby and curled her legs under her, then drank deeply, let the fiery warmth spread through her body. “Go on.”
“Well, eventually, they got through to General Patton with the message that Paris would be saved only if the Allies changed their plans and marched on the city before General Choltitz had to give the order to blow it to smithereens.”
So, Gabby had not exaggerated. Vidar really had helped to save Paris. “Oh, God,” Yvette whispered. Her chest felt hollow. How could she have misjudged him so badly?
“And when the Allies marched into Paris, Vidar marched with them, in British uniform,” Gabby ended triumphantly, seemingly oblivious to Yvette’s distress. “But that’s not all, Yvette. He did everything he could to help us try to save Catherine. No man could have done more.”
Tears of remorse were pouring down Yvette’s face by this time. She wanted to curl up and die. Not only because she had wronged this man so greatly, but because now she had to face the facts: It was she who had failed Catherine Dior, and she alone. Had Catherine not gone to that meeting at the Place du Trocadéro instead of Yvette, Berger’s gang would not have arrested her.
“But that is not at all true,” Gabby protested when Yvette managed to explain the source of her grief. “Is that what you have been thinking all this time? Oh, poor, poor Yvette.”
Gabby hugged her tightly, then drew back to wipe away her tears, but Yvette couldn’t allow herself to be comforted. She didn’t deserve it.
“Your circuit was betrayed, Yvette,” Gabby said. “The leader, Jean Desbordes, was taken, and many others were rounded up, too, all falling like dominoes one day after the next.” She gripped Yvette’s shoulders as if she would shake the truth into her. “My dear, if Catherine had not been taken at the Place du Trocadéro, she would have been arrested the next day, or the one after that. Someone within the network named names. It was nothing to do with you.”
The logic was irrefutable, but it did not lessen Yvette’s guilt. Perhaps Gabby could not understand this. Yvette didn’t understand it herself. Catherine, so loyal and brave, had not given up Yvette or Liliane or any of her contacts to those monsters at the rue de la Pompe, not even under torture. That only made Yvette feel worse.
“Please, Yvette,” said Gabby. “No one blames you. You cannot blame yourself.”
Yvette took Gabby’s face between her hands and kissed her on each cheek. “You are such a good sister to say that. But I think I cannot talk anymore. I must . . . I must lie down and not think.”
She felt old and tattered, worn out with regret. But one thing she didn’t regret: refusing Vidar’s proposal. Clearly, he was far and away too good a man for her. And besides, he had never said he loved her. But oh, she burned to beg his forgiveness for the mistakes she’d made, the things she’d said. And he’d tried to help Catherine . . . She couldn’t bear it.
“You are kind to me,” she murmured as Gabby’s strong, gentle hands pulled the covers up to her chin. “And I have been so selfish, ignoring your letters, and—”
“Sleep now,” Gabby said. After a few minutes, Yvette felt the mattress tip as Gabby curled up in bed beside her.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Yvette refused to let Gabby draw the curtains until noon. Occasionally, she squinted open an eye to see that her sister was dozing beside her. How nice to be together again, for once not arguing. Supporting each other in the bad times, together against the world.
There was not an awful lot Yvette could do about her own problems, but perhaps there was a way she might help Gabby. While she was still sleeping, Yvette searched through Gabby’s things and found Audrey’s card with her address and telephone number printed on it. She noted down the details and returned the card to Gabby’s purse. She was going to try to fix things for her with Jack. She wasn’t sure how, but she’d try.
Eventually, she rang for breakfast and got ready for her three o’clock fittings at Dior. Work would get her through. “What will you do today?” she asked Gabby.
“I want to take a long, long bath, then walk down to the river.” Gabby’s expression was grim.
“You are not going to throw yourself in, are you? That would rather defeat the purpose of the bath.”
“Of course not. I am a good Catholic, I’ll have you know.” But Gabby’s somber expression had lightened a little at the awful joke.
Before she left, Yvette checked her makeup in the mirror above the mantelpiece and caught Gabby rubbing her cheek on the softness of her hotel robe in a rare gesture of sensual pleasure.
“Don’t go back,” Yvette said. “Stay here with me until the trial is over.”
“No, I can’t do that.” Gabby raised an eyebrow. “You are going to testify, then?”
“Yes.” Of course she would testify, and not only that, she would support Louise’s story as far as she could. If Vidar was on the side of the Allies, it meant that Louise Dulac had been working for them, too. It was a relief, knowing her instincts had not failed her when it came to these two complicated people. Now she could defend Louise, certain that she was innocent. Not only innocent, but a daring and coolheaded agent for the Allies, however badly she might have treated Yvette.
She picked up her gloves and purse. “I need to get back to work.” Then she bent to Gabby and kissed her cheek warmly. “I hope you change your mind. It has been good to have you here.”
Paris, August 1944
GABBY
Gabby had been afraid and on edge for so many days at a time, so many weeks, in fact, that this heightened state of anxiety had begun to
seem almost normal.
Even at the peak of her preoccupation with looking after Jack, Gabby had never neglected her duties as much as she did that July. The news of Jean-Luc’s death reached her some days after her sister’s departure, and no one came knocking on the door demanding Yvette. What did that mean? That Catherine hadn’t been tortured at the hands of the Berger gang? That she was dead already?
Gabby could do no more for her own sister, but all through those weeks of worry and strain, she worked closely with Christian Dior, helping him try every avenue they could think of to rescue Catherine.
She longed to go to Berger’s lair, to confront him and demand Catherine’s return, but it was too dangerous. She would only invite more raids on rue Royale, perhaps get herself arrested as well. And now that she had three men squirrelled away in empty apartments, she couldn’t afford to draw that kind of attention. Besides, a man like Berger would hardly listen to her. She didn’t even dare waylay Rafael and demand to know how Catherine was being treated. It was all so hopeless . . .
“She’s alive!” Christian Dior found Gabby in the courtyard to the apartments one August morning and gripped her hands tightly, his eyes moist. “I just had word she has been moved from rue de la Pompe to Fresnes.”
“Oh, monsieur!” said Gabby, almost faint with relief. The absolute certainty and horror of Catherine’s suffering, the fear that she would die at the hands of those monsters at rue de la Pompe, lifted for the first time. Fresnes was a fortress, and a grim, awful place to be, but at least it was a proper prison, not a torture chamber run by criminals. If Catherine was in Fresnes, perhaps they could use official channels to get her out.
Gabby tried every possible contact she possessed, even going so far as to ask Madame Vasseur if she knew anyone who might intercede on Catherine’s behalf. For once, madame was not her usual waspish self. She looked grave and shook her head.
Gabby had even thought of Vidar Lind, the Swedish diplomat, and tried in vain to contact him. The secretary who answered his phone told her he was away on business and she did not know when he’d return. It seemed an odd time to leave Paris, but no other information was forthcoming, despite Gabby’s throwing all pretense of politeness aside and interrogating the girl.
She had even asked to be put through to someone “higher up,” though she had no clear notion who that might be, nor why they would possibly wish to deal with her. The secretary was not intimidated, however, and politely expressed her regret that she could not comply with Gabby’s demand.
“Please, please, give him my message as soon as you can,” said Gabby. “We need his help.”
* * *
HAD ANY AUGUST ever been as hot as this? Gabby couldn’t remember, and as she sat with Monsieur Dior in the waiting room outside the Swedish consul’s office, she felt as if her buttoned-up collar might strangle her. The blades of an electric fan simply shifted hot air from one place to the next.
Poor Monsieur Dior, so precise and perfect in his light, summer-weight suit, looked as if he might expire.
Gabby offered him a weak smile. “It is better hope than we have had yet.”
He nodded and blinked. He looked very tired. It had been more than a month since Catherine was taken, and in that time Christian had worn himself to the bone, begging everyone he knew who might possibly have influence to try to free his beloved sister. But there was nothing anyone could do.
One day, Vidar Lind had stopped by the loge with news of Yvette’s safe arrival in Spain. Gabby threw her arms around him with gratitude. Laughing a little, he set his hands on her shoulders and said, “But did you doubt the little termagant would get through? She is tough, that one.”
Gabby shook her head, smiling through her tears. Despite not hearing a word from Yvette, she had known in her bones that her sister lived. She could still feel Yvette’s fury reaching out across mountains to her. “She did not write?”
“No, but you must not take that to heart,” said Vidar. “All is chaos at the moment. And it is more than anyone’s life is worth to be found smuggling papers across the border.”
They talked a little more about the unrest in Paris. As Catherine had warned, certain elements of the resistance had not waited for the Allied invasion. Fighting had broken out in the Paris streets. No one felt safe.
“God willing, it will be over soon,” she murmured.
Vidar rose to his feet. “Well, it has been a pleasure, mademoiselle, but I must be getting back.” Throughout their brief conversation, Vidar had been his usual charming self, but there was a weary expression in his eyes, as if he had not slept for weeks. She wondered what he had been doing all this time. Secret work? She hardly liked to add to his burden, but for Catherine, she’d discovered she had no compunction.
Gabby smoothed her skirt. “Monsieur, I wonder if you could help me with another matter . . .”
It turned out that Vidar could. In fact, he was precisely the man to help her, because he was going to see the Swedish consul that very day. Monsieur Nordling had been negotiating with the Nazis for the release of certain prisoners. He would be the man to get Catherine back if anyone could. “I will set up a meeting,” Vidar promised.
He refused to listen to her heartfelt expressions of thanks but disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.
The relief of hearing that help would come at last made Gabby burst into tears.
“What’s the matter?” Maman came in with her mop and bucket. Since the night of the raid, she had begun to take back more of her old duties as concierge. Gabby could only be grateful. Her time was fully occupied with tending to her fugitives and helping Monsieur Dior in his quest to free Catherine.
“Oh, it is good news!” Gabby had managed, when she could speak at all. “Two pieces of very good news, Maman.”
And now, just as Vidar had promised, she waited with Monsieur Dior to see the Swedish consul.
Finally, the door to Monsieur Nordling’s sanctum opened and the two of them shot to their feet. Gabby could feel Monsieur Dior’s tension as he exchanged polite greetings with the consul’s assistant. They were brought to an office quite grand in its appointment, though its furniture was unexpectedly utilitarian. The consul’s desk was no mere ornament, and the large battered filing cabinet that stood against the wall behind him suggested frequent use. The man himself was portly and distinguished looking, with hooded blue eyes and a pencil mustache. It seemed to Gabby that Monsieur Nordling carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. How kind of him to make time to see them.
“Please sit down,” said the consul as he finished writing something and capped his pen. “I sent for you because it seems we are in luck. I’ve managed to get the Germans to agree to release political prisoners who are still on French soil into Swedish hands.”
Gabby and Monsieur Dior looked at each other and simultaneously let out breaths of relief and elation.
The consul added, “However, I am sorry to say that after a lot of to and fro this morning I discovered that Mademoiselle Dior is already on a train to Germany.”
“Ah, no!” exclaimed Gabby.
Monsieur Dior turned so pale, Gabby thought he might faint. “Can we not get to her?”
The consul held up a hand. “Right now, they are at Bar-le-Duc. I’ve been assured that if I call the station master before two forty-five P.M., we can get her off the train. I have someone else phoning through the authority to them. The timing will be tight and we all know how rigid the Germans are about schedules. We must pray we are not too late.”
He raised his head and called to his secretary through the doorway, “Olsson! Did you get through yet?”
“Not yet, sir,” Olsson replied. “I can’t get a line. The resistance might have cut the wires. It’s pandemonium out there.”
“Try again!” said Monsieur Nordling. “And again and again until you get through.”
The distant crack of gunfire punctuated the tense silence. Gabby could not stay still. She jumped up and paced, hardly car
ing that she might be going against protocol. The men stared at the shiny black telephone on the consul’s desk.
With a muted, metallic clang, the clock, which like every other clock in France was set on German time, chimed the quarter hour: two forty-five P.M.
“Olsson!” snapped the consul. “Have we a line?”
“No, sir. I’m trying!”
There was no single moment when Gabby felt the breaking of her heart. Hope simply waned, wasting away until there was none left. The clock’s hands moved slowly, inexorably toward the hour and still, they could not get through to stop the train. She wanted to scream at this Olsson fellow to do his job properly. Silently, she begged God to turn back the hands of time, to give them a second chance . . .
“Sir! We’re through.”
The consul snatched up his telephone receiver and spoke German into it. Gabby’s attention was so focused on him that she caught every expression, every movement, and tried to interpret what each might mean for Catherine. But at last, Nordling hung up, met her gaze, and gave a curt shake of his head.
Catherine was lost. The train had left France, crossing the border into Germany. There would be no retrieving any prisoners after that. Monsieur Dior sat very still.
They’d been so close. And now, for the sake of a few minutes, they might never see Catherine again. Fury exploded inside her. “Damn them!” Damn the Nazis and their ruthless efficiency, their inflexible adherence to rules.
Gunfire, closer now, broke the heavy silence that followed her outburst.
Monsieur Nordling’s telephone began to ring once more. Gabby touched Monsieur Dior’s arm. “Shall we go, monsieur? The consul is a very busy man.”
She had to repeat the request. Monsieur Dior sat there unmoving, stunned at their failure, at his loss. Catherine was gone. The Allies would march into Paris any day now, but they would not be in time to save her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Paris, February 1947
Sisters of the Resistance Page 30