“Just a few normal hours,” Madeleine said. “A meal, perhaps in a bistro where there are linen cloths on the tables.”
“White cloths,” he agreed. “And we’ll share a bottle of wine.”
“Vin blanc,” she insisted, smiling, although they knew that the Germans had plundered every wine cellar in Toulouse leaving only vin ordinaire that tasted of vinegar. But of course they would settle for that and consider themselves fortunate.
They went to a quiet bistro on the rue de Peche and, as was their habit, sat at a table near the door, so that they might exit swiftly if they sensed any danger. A guitarist strolled through the small room, singing very softly. They swayed to the rhythm of the gentle melody and tried to remember the words to his song.
“Je ne regrette rien. I regret nothing.”
Madeleine sang along, having at last retrieved a single verse, grateful that her hearing loss had not impeded her memory.
Suddenly, without warning, all serenity was shattered by the blaring horn of a Citroën Traction Avant, the official Gestapo vehicle. It had been parked just outside the bistro, and two Milice officers stood guard beside it. A Gestapo commander, the wintry sun glinting on the death’s head emblem affixed to his epaulettes, emerged, bullhorn in hand, and shouted an edict in harshly accented French. His oppressive voice was loud enough for Madeleine to hear him without difficulty.
“All Frenchmen between the ages of eighteen and twenty are to report at once to precinct authorities. Under the new order, Service de Travail Obligatoire, you have been granted the privilege of working in Germany for a period of two years. This is mandatory. No exemptions. This is the order of Márechal Pétain himself. Failure to report for service to the Führer will be severely punished by the Márechal!”
Pedestrians stood frozen in silence. Shopkeepers shuttered their windows. A woman hung the tricolored flag over her doorway.
“Vive la France! Vive de Gaulle!” she shouted.
“Vive la France! Vive de Gaulle!” Isolated voices on the street echoed her words.
A Milice officer moved toward her, his truncheon raised threateningly, but the German commandant shook his head.
“We don’t want a riot. Ignore the Bolshevik anarchist bitch.”
Events on the rue de Peche were clearly visible through the large glass windows of the bistro. The diners stared at each other, shocked into silence, their wineglasses lowered. Cutlery clattered to the floor. The proprietor lowered the window shades and the guitarist played “La Marseillaise.” Madeleine, Claude, and the other patrons stood and sang as though their hearts would break.
“Allons enfants de la République—le jour de gloire est arrivé…”
The Citroën rolled on, its horn bleating, the red-and-black swastika banner and the French tricolor fluttering from its antenna in an obscene twinning.
Madeleine turned to Claude.
“Two years. They will conscript our boys for two years. Two years as slave laborers. They will take my brothers. Jean Louis. And perhaps Etienne.”
Tears flooded her eyes, bile rose in her throat. She feared that she would vomit out her despair and hatred.
“Madeleine, my Madeleine.”
His gentle voice calmed her. Determination replaced anguish. She would not allow her brothers to be sent to Germany. She had resources. She knew about hiding places. She had confederates. She and Claude, Simone and Serge would keep Jean Louis and Etienne safe.
“We must save my brothers,” she said.
“Of course we will save them. They will not go to Germany. We will protect them. We will protect as many of our boys as we can.” He spoke directly into her ear, his breath soft, each word clearly heard.
Claude left Toulouse that same evening. A delay of even a few hours would be dangerous. Etienne and Jean Louis Levy sat beside him in a battered auto that carried a Vichy license plate. They all wore jackets stolen from Milice officers who had made the mistake of getting drunk in a bar owned by the mother of a Maquis fighter. They each carried identity cards and Ausweises, passes issued by the Gestapo, which Simone had hurriedly forged and thrust into the oven to hasten the drying of the ink used for her elegant calligraphy.
Madeleine kissed her brothers and pressed packets of sandwiches wrapped in greased paper into their rucksacks. She tried not to weep, but stray tears escaped her eyes.
“Do not worry, Madeleine,” Jean Louis said. “We will see you soon. Very soon. The Americans are in the war, and they will soon bring it to an end. The Défense reported that Churchill and Roosevelt sent a telegram to Stalin assuring him that they will bring Germany to her knees in 1943. And this is 1943.”
His angular young face radiated optimism. She would not tell him that the Défense, a newspaper published by the Free French, was often overly optimistic for propaganda purposes. She would not extinguish his hope with her fears. She wanted to believe him. She willed herself to believe him.
“Yes. This is 1943. This is the year it will end,” she agreed.
She and Claude stood together, their faces turned to each other, his hand on her shoulder.
“Take care of my brothers,” she said.
“I will. And you, chérie¸ take care of yourself. Be careful. Very careful.”
“Do not worry, Claude.”
Her voice was strong, reassuring, his parting embrace tender, but they dared not meet each other’s eyes.
Madeleine remained alone until his car turned the corner. Only then, as she walked to the nearest safe house, did she allow herself to weep. She wondered if her tears would morph into slivers of ice as they coursed relentlessly down her cheeks.
Twenty-Six
Weeping winds haunted the early days of February. Snow fell, blanketing the roads with glittering and treacherous frost. Unable to ride her bicycle, Madeleine trudged on foot or, reluctantly, drove one of the Secours National cars. Frigid air permeated every home in Toulouse because all available coal heated German barracks and offices. Any surplus fuel was shipped to Berlin.
I do not think I will ever be warm again, she wrote to Claude. It was a letter she would not send. She had no address for him. Still, she filled page after page, easing the heaviness of her heart with the words that she yearned to share with him.
France remained under siege but the Résistance was heartened by news of distant events. The Allies had consolidated their hold on North Africa, and before February ended, the German endured a defeat in the battle for Stalingrad. The war was turning, Simone and Madeleine assured each other.
“We must celebrate,” Simone insisted.
Madeleine offered a farmer ration coupons from Simone’s stock of excellent forgeries in return for a very scrawny chicken. Simone transformed it into a tasty stew, Serge produced a bottle of vin ordinaire, and they held a celebratory dinner at which they toasted the Allied victory and dared to become slightly drunk.
“The road to peace is open. Russia has rid herself of the Nazis. France will soon be rid of les Boches, à la victoire,” Serge shouted. “To victory!”
“À la Victoire! To Victory!”
The voices of the small group of Résistance fighters resonated with hope. Serge played his balalaika, and the tiny room was suffused with the laughter of slightly drunk dancers happily bumping into each other, newly certain that victory and peace would soon be theirs.
Madeleine sipped her wine and wondered where Claude was. There had been no word from him for weeks. Her brothers, she knew, were safe. A Gentile friend of her father’s had hidden them in the attic of his home, but Claude once again was mysteriously and disturbingly silent. She conditioned herself against pessimism and stared hopefully at the door. She imagined him entering the crowded room, imagined him sweeping her into his arms, imagined the warmth of his body pressed against her own as they danced. She stared at the dregs of wine in her glass and sat back, sadly aware that her ten
der imaginings were unlikely to ever morph into reality, but still, they comforted her, however briefly.
It was sad, she thought, that she had never danced with Claude. Was a dance too much to ask for? It was even sadder, she reflected, that they had never spent a single night together, that they had never wakened in each other’s arms. She shrugged off the regret and replaced it with gratitude. It was enough that their caring friendship had blossomed into a sustaining love, surviving distance and danger. Her dreams would have to suffice.
She smiled at the thought, and rising from her seat, she danced alone, moving with solitary grace to the gentle rhythm of Serge’s balalaika.
* * *
The euphoria over the Allied victories in Russia and North Africa was short-lived. Germany, clearly fearing the opening of a second front, tightened its hold on France and imposed draconian measures against the Résistance. There were summary executions of the families of Résistance fighters. Rafles occurred with increasing frequency. Brutal deportations of Jews to the death camps in Poland accelerated, and arbitrary curfews were imposed.
“Hitler cannot decide whether he wants victory for Germany or the extermination of every Jew in Europe,” Serge said bitterly.
“He wants both,” Madeleine said wearily. “But we will give him neither.”
The Résistance fighters persisted, weathering infiltrations, flinching at defeats but never flagging in their efforts or their commitment.
We are like ants, Madeleine wrote to her uncle Pierre. If you step on an anthill, the survivors of the colony rush to rebuild. And that is what we do. If one cell is betrayed, we organize another.
Because it was known that all correspondence was read by the Germans, she gave her letter to a courier who would see that it was mailed from Italian-occupied Marseille.
“The time will come when we will not be afraid to mail a letter,” she told Anna Hofberg, who had accompanied her to her meeting with the couriers.
“And will there come a time when we can share an ice cream?” the child asked teasingly.
“The time is now,” Madeleine said.
Ice cream was, of course, a casualty of the war, but she purchased two oversize waffles, which they munched as they walked back to the Levy home on the rue de la Dalbade. She hugged Anna and, relieved to see that the roadway was clear of ice, she mounted her bicycle and raced through Toulouse to yet another secret meeting.
“I too am an ant,” she told herself smiling.
Her responsibilities in the Résistance now included a leadership role in the newly organized BRCA, the awkwardly named Central Bureau of Information and Action, which supplied Allied intelligence units with military information on German positions throughout France. In return, the Allied agents were smuggled into the country by plane, boat, and even submarine to train Résistance members in sabotage techniques and rescue efforts.
Madeleine was one of a small elite cadre charged with coordinating secret operations. Night after night, exhausted as she was after long days of masquerading as a loyal Vichy employee and then snatching a few hours with her troop of children, she crouched in open fields and along the banks of the Garonne to lead newly landed agents to safety. Because of her excellent cover as a Vichy employee, she was assigned to the most dangerous operations.
She was, she boasted to her amused sister, an accomplished actress, donning a variety of costumes for a variety of roles. She spoke in throaty tones to the Milice officers who now and again stopped her. Always cognizant of danger, her jacket open to reveal her tight-fitting bodice, she smiled seductively as she supplied monosyllabic answers to questions that she could barely hear, conscious that her interrogators were more interested in the steady rise and fall of her breasts than the words she spoke. Still, she trembled uncontrollably when she was waved on, relieved to have evaded arrest and imprisonment.
She served as a courier, cycling from one Résistance unit to another, caches of forged documents concealed beneath the hillocks of produce in her paniers.
“Sabotage is our most important weapon,” Robert Boulloche, the head of the Toulouse Résistance, told her as he handed her a package deceptively wrapped in gaily patterned paper.
“You must give this to Serge as soon as possible,” he said. “It contains important information, including all our plans to deactivate Gestapo phone lines and strike railroads and bridges.”
She was both surprised and flattered that he trusted her enough to reveal such closely guarded secrets.
“A strange gift for my brother-in-law,” she said hesitantly. “You must know that he and Simone are expecting a child. Such operations are extremely dangerous.”
Her words were a warning that she knew he would not heed, but she could not resist the impulse to protect her sister. Of course, Boulloche knew that danger might lead to death. What if Serge were apprehended? What if Simone, now in the late stage of her pregnancy, were widowed for a second time? How would Madeleine herself cope with the death of Serge, whom she had come to treasure as a brother and a protector? All that was irrelevant, she knew, even as she spoke. Loyalty to the Résistance was their paramount obligation.
“Yes. Such operations are indeed dangerous, but Serge is well prepared, well trained. He is our best operative. We depend on him. As we depend on you, Madeleine. You know what you must do if the Milice or the Gestapo stop you,” Robert Boulloche replied.
“Of course,” she replied. “I too am well trained, well prepared. I will do what I have done before. I will smile, reach into my pannier and offer the officer a fruit. I will tell him that this package is a birthday gift for my old grandmother. Perhaps I will ask him if he has an old grandmother. Perhaps I will bite into the fruit before I hand it to him, leaving a rim of lipstick.” Her voice rose and fell in a flirtatious lilt, her tongue moving slowly across her moistened lips.
She curtsied, her elegant recital ended. She marveled that Robert Boulloche did not hear the rapid beat of her heart, that he did not inhale the scent of her fear.
“What an excellent actress you have become. We have nothing to fear. Who would suspect a beautiful, confident young woman like yourself?”
The Résistance commander grimaced at the absurdity of his own question. They both knew that everyone was suspect, that neither youth nor beauty offered protection when every street and byway was haunted by collaborators.
“We are grateful for your efforts, Madeleine Levy,” he said with studied formality, all levity abandoned.
“May I ask if my friend Claude Lehmann is safe?”
She whispered the question and waited tensely for his answer.
“As of today, he is safe,” Robert Boulloche replied cautiously. “I wish I could tell you more, but you understand that I cannot.”
She nodded, grateful for that small nugget of reassurance. She would have to be content with that.
She rode swiftly to her sister’s flat and delivered the package to Serge. He unwrapped it, scanned the documents it contained, and concealed them beneath a kitchen floorboard. Madeleine watched as he hammered it back into place. His task accomplished, he stood, smiled at Simone, and placed his hand gently on the rise of her pregnancy.
Madeleine turned away, shamed by the envy that came upon her as she witnessed that simple gesture. She did not deceive herself. She acknowledged, she envied the sister whom she loved so dearly. She envied Simone because she slept each night in her husband’s arms, because she was already a mother and would soon have another child, while she herself lay sleepless and alone on narrow cots, pledged to patience and resigned to loneliness. Yes, she thought bitterly, I am stupidly envious.
That envy shamed her. It was wrong of her to begrudge her sister the comfort of her husband’s touch, her child’s laughter, the swell of the new life she sheltered. Of course she did not begrudge Simone her happiness. She simply yearned that such small joys might one day belong to her.
>
“Let me prepare dinner,” she told Simone, her offer an apology for thoughts she could not share.
They ate the sparse meal hurriedly, and Madeleine and Serge left to attend a meeting in the basement of a boulangerie. An exhausted English engineer, newly smuggled into Toulouse in a parachute drop, instructed a small group of Résistance saboteurs in techniques to be used in the demolition of bridges. His answers to their questions were terse and direct.
Serge, always aware of Madeleine’s hearing deficit, took careful notes which he handed to her. Lying awake that night, she committed each instructive phrase to memory, then shredded the flimsy sheet of paper and tossed the fragments from her window. They floated like ghostly snowflakes through the windswept darkness.
Twenty-Seven
The chill of winter lingered through the early days of spring. Tensions rocketed as new fears erupted. Sabotage operations by Résistance units proliferated. German trucks exploded, fires broke out in the billets of the Vichy police, Molotov cocktails were tossed at Milice patrol cars. The Gestapo responded with draconian measures, declaring that for every German soldier killed or wounded, ten Résistants or innocent citizens would be put to death. Their threats were ignored. The Résistance continued the programs of sabotage, and collaborators continued to play sycophant to their German masters.
Madeleine heard conflicting rumors repeated in whispers. It was said that a second front would soon be opened. It was said that British planes were flying nocturnal sorties over Brittany. A shopkeeper reported that plans for a second front had been abandoned. An editorial in Le Matin speculated that Roosevelt was focused on the war in the Pacific and uninterested in the European theater. Hope and despair did battle with each other, rising and falling with each conflicting newscast.
Children taunted schoolmates, spouting their parents’ conflicting ideologies. Neighbors were estranged, families divided. Distrust shadowed every household, poisoning friendships, creating unease between lovers.
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