Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  There were more questions to test Yvette’s evidence but she stuck by the facts, as Monsieur LeBrun had told her to do, and thus she gave no indication of the doubts she had entertained about Louise, nor of the resentment she felt toward her. The bald facts were not quite enough to prove Louise was working for the resistance—after all, what had that message actually contained?—but Yvette hoped it was enough to tip the balance against a conviction.

  Then, suddenly, one question took her by surprise. “The accused claims a man recruited her. A fellow who used an alias, the name of Étienne Planche. Did you ever hear of him or come across this man?”

  The breath caught in her throat. It was Vidar. It had to be. But wait. Louise had given them an alias, not Vidar’s real name, which she well knew. She had not betrayed Vidar’s true identity, despite her threats. “I do not know anyone by this name.” Wide-eyed stare. In a literal sense, that was true. Yvette had never heard him use that particular cover.

  She prayed they wouldn’t probe further. If they did, she would have to tell the truth and expose Vidar. Her heart was beating hard, her hands shaking. Thank goodness for Monsieur Dior’s long skirts, for no one could see how her knees trembled.

  Mercifully, the questioning ceased. Yvette tried not to rush as she escaped the witness stand, but her stomach was heaving. On her way out, she caught Monsieur LeBrun’s eye. He gave her a brief nod, then sagged back into his chair and mopped his brow.

  Yvette returned to the atelier and finished the workday, receiving only a mild scolding from Madame Raymonde for her outrageous behavior—far less punishment than she deserved. However, since the gown had been returned without incident or damage, there was no real harm done.

  It would be too much to expect that no one would tell le patron what had gone on, however. Even if they hadn’t, Yvette’s picture was plastered all over the evening newspapers, and the morning ones as well. She saw them all spread out on Monsieur Dior’s desk when he called her to see him the next day.

  “Dior Girl Leaps to Movie Star’s Defense” ran one headline. Yvette smiled a little sourly. It was better than the cartoon that showed her vomiting all over Hitler.

  Monsieur Dior waited for her to speak. She hung her head. “I am sorry, monsieur.”

  He made a funny little purse of his lips and shook his head. “The gown . . . It is not that, Yvette.” He shrugged. “Already I am besieged with orders for the Chérie, so I suppose your little stunt has only done me good. Not that I want you ever to repeat it,” he added with a severity belied by the amusement in his eyes.

  “No, monsieur. But never.”

  “It is this,” he said, indicating the most detailed report of the court proceedings. “They say you went to Louise Dulac to plead with her to try to get a friend released. Was it . . . ?”

  Her insides twisted as if he had wrung them out like a sponge. “Yes, monsieur. But it didn’t work.”

  “Even so, I wanted to thank you, Yvette.” His light voice wavered on the words. “You and your sister have been true friends to Catherine and me. We will never forget.”

  She couldn’t speak. She just closed her eyes tightly and took a deep breath. After a long struggle with her guilt, she managed, “May I go now, monsieur? La Baronne has given me time off to see the final day of the trial.”

  However, by the time she reached the Palais de Justice, it was all over, and she had to fight her way through the crowds spilling down the courthouse steps and out into the square. The atmosphere was uncertain, volatile. Louise Dulac had been cast as the villain for so long, inspiring such hatred in the French people, and then overnight, the tide had turned. Before, there had been placards vilifying the movie star. Now the strength of that fervor seemed to have swung in the opposite direction. People yelled that Dulac was a heroine of France.

  Suddenly, Louise appeared at the top of the steps, triumphantly free. Despite her ordeal, she glowed with that same confidence and feminine power Yvette had felt when she’d first met her at the Ritz.

  The movie star raised her hand to acknowledge her adoring fans, camera bulbs strobed all over, then the gendarmes cleared the way for her, linking arms to hold back the surging crowd as she moved down the steps.

  Yvette would never get through all those people. She looked around behind her in the direction Louise was headed and saw Monsieur LeBrun waiting in a car. Yvette would intercept her there.

  Louise swept along as if she were walking the red carpet at a movie premiere, not escaping a charge of treason. She didn’t even glance at Yvette as the car door opened and she stooped to climb inside.

  “Louise Dulac!” The words came out more sharply than Yvette had intended.

  Louise paused, then straightened and turned to look at Yvette. A slow smile curved her lips, but her eyes were watchful. “So you testified after all.” She raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “You should have known I wouldn’t betray him. You never understood me, did you?”

  “But no, mademoiselle,” Yvette replied. “You should have known there was no need to blackmail me into giving evidence. But then, you never even tried to understand me.”

  Louise stilled, and for the most fleeting instant, Yvette saw an odd expression cross her face, a slight spasm of those beautiful features. Then she got into Monsieur LeBrun’s car and was driven away.

  Yvette thought about that look, the brief air of vulnerability it had given the former agent before her shining veneer slid back into place. She considered the lonely and frightening life Louise had lived, working undercover for all that time, with no one to turn to except an inexperienced, idealistic young Parisienne who occasionally helped her dress.

  Dulac’s masters—whoever they had been—had expected her to risk everything in a way that they would never be called upon to do, only to leave her dangling out on a limb for the entire country to hate when she had served her purpose.

  Louise had used Yvette and lied to her, and Yvette had hated her for it. But for once, Yvette had not let her emotions overrule her judgment. She had done what was right and just.

  And now, she must honor her other obligation. She must face Catherine Dior.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Callian, May 1947

  GABBY

  Gabby was glad of Yvette’s company on the train journey south to stay with Catherine Dior. She glanced at her sister, who was reading a novel, her body swaying with the movement of the carriage. There had been something subdued about Yvette since she had testified at the trial of Louise Dulac. She’d made a sensation in the newspapers, turning up to the courthouse in a Dior gown. Gabby shook her head. Trust Yvette to do something outrageous.

  She had looked so exquisite in the photographs, Monsieur Dior had forgiven her and joked that it was good publicity, though not quite of the expected variety.

  For Gabby, things were looking up. Recently, Gabby had come into a little money. Having survived the deprivations and harsh conditions of the war without a hitch in her step, Madame Vasseur had died quietly in her bed. She left everything she owned to Gabby, provided that Gabby looked after Chou-Chou in the manner to which he was accustomed. Gabby was happy to do so. Even now, the poodle was curled up at their feet, better behaved than many of the humans on board.

  “What are you thinking about?” said Yvette, closing her book with a yawn. “You have a little smile on your face.”

  Gabby leaned down to bury her fingers in the poodle’s wool and felt the reassuring warmth of his body. “I was thinking of Madame Vasseur.”

  “Not much to smile about there,” said Yvette. “Or were you contemplating your inheritance?”

  “I was thinking that people can surprise you,” Gabby said. “How are you feeling about this trip?”

  Yvette pulled a face. “Truthfully, I am sick to my stomach. I was hoping Monsieur Dior would forbid me to go.”

  Gabby smiled. “He would never disoblige his favorite sister.”

  Yvette rested her head back against the seat. “I just . . . I do
n’t know how to face her. I don’t know how to make amends, what to say.”

  Gabby realized what she meant. “Oh, Yvette! You must not talk to her about the war.” After the horrors of rue de la Pompe and Fresnes and the harrowing train journey to Germany, Catherine spent eight long months in labor camps, being worked to the bone, moved from place to place. When she returned, she was like a skeleton with the skin still on. She could not manage solid food for months.

  Poor Monsieur Dior had been beside himself when he heard Catherine was coming home and had instructed his cook to scrape together all the rations she could to make his dear sister a soufflé. But when it came to it, Catherine couldn’t manage to eat even that. Monsieur was utterly distraught.

  “She does not want your apologies or your pity, Yvette.” Gabby tried to put it gently to take out the sting. “In her shoes, you would feel the same.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I understand.” Yvette turned her face to the window and didn’t speak again.

  They had nearly reached their destination when Gabby said, “You know it wasn’t your fault. I told you how it happened. If it had not been that day, they would have arrested her the next.”

  But sometimes guilt has no relationship to logic. Yvette shook her head and continued to stare out of the window at the passing countryside. Forgiving herself would take time, thought Gabby. It would take everyone in France a long, long time to make peace with their regrets.

  Catherine sent a car to pick them up from the station, and as they drove further north, the mountains gave way to stunning fields of flowers, blankets of purple, white, and pink. The scent wafting through the open windows of the car was dizzying. “It’s the May rose,” said Gabby as they drove through seas of blowsy pink blossoms. “Look! You can see the workers out picking them.”

  As they pulled up outside the farmhouse, Catherine appeared at the doorway, opening her arms wide.

  “Welcome!” she said, embracing Gabby and kissing her cheeks. “Go in, my dear. How wonderful to see you both. And Chou-Chou, too!” She bent down to pat the poodle, who frisked about them briefly, then scampered off to hunt for interesting smells.

  Yvette was still hovering by the car. Gabby hesitated, then obeyed Catherine and headed into the house. Better to leave them to it.

  As she passed into the comparative dimness of the entry, she heard Catherine say, with a wealth of understanding and affection in her soft voice, “Yvette, my dear.”

  YVETTE

  By the time they pulled up outside Catherine’s house, Yvette’s stomach churned and her heart raced. Working as a courier for the resistance seemed child’s play compared with meeting Catherine Dior again. According to Gabby, Yvette must act as if everything was normal, as if the war had never happened. Of course, she was right about that.

  She got out of the car and hung back as Gabby moved forward to return Catherine’s delicate embrace.

  Catherine still looked far too thin, and Yvette mulled over what Gabby had said about the starvation rations the Germans had kept her on during that horrible time she’d spent in the camps. It was a miracle she’d survived, a testament to her mental toughness, to her ingenuity and grit.

  When she had completed her hellos with Gabby, Catherine turned to look at Yvette. Shading her eyes against the sun, Catherine called something to her. Though Catherine’s face was in shadow, somehow Yvette could tell she smiled, and also that the smile would not reach her eyes. She dreaded looking into Catherine’s eyes more than anything else, to see them haunted by suffering and loss.

  Yvette wanted to cry. She wanted to throw herself at Catherine’s feet and beg for absolution.

  She took one step, then another.

  “Ah, Yvette! Why so shy?” It was motherly and chiding, that tone. Yvette forced herself to take those final steps, to put her arms around Catherine gingerly as they kissed cheeks.

  “Ma belle,” Catherine said, looking Yvette up and down. “I am not surprised Christian is wild for you.”

  “Not at all, mademoiselle,” said Yvette, following Catherine into the house. “To your brother I am still that scrubby little delivery girl, I think.”

  “I know for a fact that is not so,” said Catherine. “You are clearly one of his favorites! Go on through to the terrace. I’ll fetch something for you to drink.”

  The weather was warm but a light, cool breeze blew as Catherine brought out lemonade to the terrace. “You will want to freshen up, of course,” she said, “but first, I wish to hear all about New York.”

  “There is not much to tell.” It had been hard at first in a new city, knowing no one at all. But how could Yvette complain of such a thing, considering all that Catherine had been suffering at the time? “I picked up some catalog work there,” Yvette added, “but I was not a very successful mannequin. Over there, the magazines all want the sporty look, you know, tanned and athletic. To them, I seemed . . .” She flushed. She had been about to say “undernourished,” but that would be grotesque. “. . . Not quite right.”

  Ah, this was so hard! She had expected to feel guilty, not that she would spend the entire time avoiding conversational land mines. By the time they’d finished the lemonade and retired to wash and change, she was exhausted and emotional.

  “It’s hard at first,” agreed Gabby. “But you don’t need to walk on eggshells with her. After all, she’s been through the worst experience any of us can imagine. A few tactless words are not going to bother her too much. It’s not as if she could possibly forget.”

  At dinner, Catherine’s friend the Baron des Charbonneries joined them, and his gentle good humor made them all relax. Yvette was buoyed to see the two of them so in love. It seemed that life was good down here in Callian. Catherine’s flower business was thriving.

  “I’m afraid I will be fully occupied tomorrow morning with the picking,” murmured Catherine as they said good night, “but I want you to wear something special for an alfresco party in the afternoon. We are going to a small gathering at a villa near Cannes. Liliane Dietlin will be there.”

  Finally, Yvette fell into bed, exhausted, next to Gabby. Then she laughed. “Look at us, sharing a bed again. I suppose it will be for the last time.”

  She envied Gabby the solid future ahead of her. Although Yvette had only been reliving her wartime experiences in her mind, talking with Catherine today had made her feel even more unsettled. Since that night she’d spent with Vidar in London, she couldn’t stop thinking about the proposal he’d made. If he repeated the offer, now that she knew all about his heroism during the war, would she take him up on it? Oh, not the marriage part, of course, but the rest?

  Maybe she would. Maybe she just might, at that.

  But her testimony at the Palais de Justice had freed him to pursue whatever it was that he was pursuing these days. Capturing war criminals. Spying for the British, perhaps. Having rejected him with such finality, she was unlikely ever to find out.

  GABBY

  The party was already under way by the time they arrived at the villa in Cannes the next afternoon. Gabby felt she looked her best in a pale blue dress, cut on the bias with a frill at the bosom, and Yvette dazzled in a lemon sundress. Gabby’s heart lifted as Liliane came out to greet them.

  “Aha! There you are, my lovely ones!” Liliane kissed each of them warmly and shepherded them through the house and out to the terrace to meet their hosts. “I can’t quite see . . .” She stood on tiptoe, scanning the crowd. “Well, never mind. They are here somewhere. No doubt you’ll bump into them soon enough.”

  The terrace was perched dizzyingly high on the side of a sheer cliff. The sea below was a stunning, sparkling blue and the terra cotta–tiled roofs of the houses clinging to the hillside had faded to the color of a ripe peach. A marina stretched out to the sea, flanked by the yachts of the rich Americans and Europeans who were now swarming to the Riviera. The air seemed faintly misted, as if someone had pulled a veil over the prospect before them, making it seem even more magical.

>   “Paradise,” Gabby breathed. Yes, she could definitely make a home down here. Oh, not in a magnificent villa like this one, but still . . .

  Glasses were filled, happy toasts drunk, and they enjoyed a sprightly conversation during which Liliane seemed to have wiped the war from her mind completely. “But where has Jean-Paul gone? You must meet my husband.” She flitted off to find her spouse.

  “Liliane is married now?” said Yvette. “I have missed a lot.”

  Catherine raised her eyebrows and looked amused. “I should have known this ‘intimate gathering’ would not be so intimate if Liliane had anything to do with it. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.” Gabby felt young and full of esprit with these cheerful people around her, jazz playing in the background, and the sweet waft of sea air ruffling her hair.

  Catherine knew many of the guests and introduced them around. They were talking with a retired professor of archaeology when Catherine broke off midsentence. “Will you excuse us?” She smiled at the professor and took Gabby’s hand. “My dear, there is someone I absolutely must have you meet.”

  Gabby nodded to the professor and turned to follow Catherine. A tall, slim man with dark blond hair was standing in the doorway, scanning the crowd. Jack. Gabby nearly dropped her glass. What was he doing here?

  “Yvette made sure to keep in touch,” murmured Catherine.

  “Yvette? How . . . ?” Fear gripped her. There was time to get away. Jack hadn’t seen her yet. Gabby dug her heels in, tugging her hand free of Catherine’s grip. “No. You don’t understand. I can’t.”

  “But, my dear, you must,” said Catherine, smiling. “He is our host. It would be rude not to greet him.”

  Host? Gabby’s glass slipped from her fingers and smashed on the tiled floor, making several guests jump out of the way. The crash attracted Jack’s attention, along with everyone else’s, and as he stood head and shoulders above the other guests, he saw Gabby instantly. His expression lightening, he started toward her.