by Ariel Lawhon
“Good God,” I say, clamping a hand over my nose as soon as we cross the threshold.
Tardivat looks at me with pity, clearly knowing what we’re about to see. We step into the château and go past the broad staircase, toward the kitchen at the back of the large, square house. The smell grows stronger with each step and I can sense a heavy, gagging feeling claw its way up the back of my throat. Still, I am not prepared for the horrific sight that greets us.
The agent is stripped naked, spread-eagle, and tied by hands and feet to the long, heavy kitchen table where Gaspard and his officers eat their meals. His body is bruised and bloody. He has been whipped and beaten. His face—or what little I can see of it since he’s lying on his stomach—has been battered beyond recognition. Two broken teeth lie on the table beside his head in a bloody puddle of spit. But it is the lower half of his body that has me gaping and forcing the bile back down my throat. The unholy stench of burned human hangs so heavily in the air that I have to force my body into stillness. The option of breathing—through nose or mouth—means I must choose between smelling the air or tasting it. I take the smallest possible breaths through my nose that I can. Still, I stare at the table, trying to make sense of the carnage.
By the looks of it, Gaspard’s chief lieutenant, Judex, has repeatedly rammed a red-hot poker up the German agent’s arse. What remains of his buttocks and thighs is a blackened, bleeding pile of charred flesh. I cannot see his genitals and I dare not ask why. This is beyond the pale of what one human should do to another, regardless of circumstance. Of war. Of information gathering. As for Judex, he stands beside Gaspard at the far end of the kitchen, resting one hand on the poker—now cooled to its original black—as if it were a cane and he a debonair gentleman. Both men stare at us, assessing our reactions.
The sound that comes from the agent’s throat is not human. It is a dialect of suffering known only to those who linger between this life and the next. It is the kind of sound you would not wish upon your worst enemy. Though I suspect Gaspard feels rather differently about that than I do, because he’s grinning smugly on a stool fifteen feet away. He smokes a cigarette and nods his approval, as though this is the most fascinating thing he’s ever witnessed.
“What are you doing?” I gasp. I can taste the foul, acrid air the moment it enters my mouth and I have to grind my teeth to stop the vomit that now threatens to rise with every breath.
“Interrogating him for information,” Gaspard says.
“That,” I say, pointing one finger at the table, “goes far beyond interrogation. It is torture. Why didn’t you just execute him and get it over with?”
“He had our password. We had to find out where he got it and who he is. What he knows. What he’s done.”
“Have you?”
“Of course.” He taps his ash onto the floor, then takes another draw. “Several hours ago.”
“And?”
“His name is Roger le Neveu, a French collaborationist, otherwise known as Gestapo agent number forty-seven.”
It takes a monumental effort on my part not to gasp at the name, and I mask my surprise by walking around the table and squatting in front of the man tied there. I grip the table leg to steady myself while mentally berating Gaspard for his barbarism and stupidity. Quel con, celui-lá! Roger’s eyes are swollen shut and I am grateful because he would no doubt recognize me. And it would be disastrous if Gaspard or anyone in this room noticed. These men cannot know that I have been in France before. That I lived here and have a family. Everyone has at least one pressure point, and mine is named Henri.
“Just shoot the poor bastard and get it over with,” I say.
Roger’s entire body shudders on the table but I do not think it is fear. I think it is relief. He is a man desperate to die.
Gaspard rises from his stool and crosses the floor to where I stand. He moves like a boulder rolling downhill and his men instinctively get out of his way. I stand and face him.
“Why?” he demands once we’re almost nose to nose.
It irritates me that I have to look up. “This man can be of no further use to you. Do the right thing and let him die.”
“You pity him?”
“I would pity anyone in that condition.”
“They do worse to our people,” he says. “We got word this afternoon that the Brownshirts slaughtered a woman in Termes. A pregnant wo—”
“—I know what they did,” I snap. “I saw it with my own eyes. And this”—I point at Roger again—“isn’t justice. It’s you, becoming as evil as them.”
“Gabriel Soutine is my friend,” he says.
We should have known that word of what happened in Termes would get out. In many ways the Maquis communication network is more effective than the BBC. The “bush wireless” ensures that what happens in one commune is known in the next within hours.
Gaspard snorts. “You do not think this man should pay for what his friends did to Gabriel’s wife?”
“I think he should die for his own crimes.”
“Well, there are plenty of those. Take your pick.”
Gaspard drops his cigarette to the slate floor and stubs it out with the toe of his boot. Then he pulls a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. He smooths out the creases and begins to read. “Thanks to a bit of…ah…creative questioning by Judex, we know that this man, Roger, is responsible for a series of barbaric tortures and assaults on captured members of the Resistance. They are numerous and transcribed here. I will let you read them at your leisure.” Gaspard taps the paper with one clean finger. It is so clean, in contrast to everything and everyone around me, that I realize Gaspard has washed his hands. Scrubbed them of the filth leaking from Roger’s body.
He continues. “But there are a few things on this list I think you will be particularly interested in. Seeing as how they concern your precious London. This Roger was directly responsible for the arrest of a man named Patrick O’Leary in Toulouse one year ago.”
I shift my weight against the table. I do everything I can to make the movement look relaxed. Not like my knees are about to go out from under me. I force my voice to sound only mildly curious. I know the answer to my next question already, but asking is the only way I can confirm the identity of the man on the table. “And what happened to this O’Leary?”
Gaspard looks at the paper. “He was sent to Dachau.”
I can feel my peripheral vision begin to blur. Roger. O’Leary. Toulouse. That particular betrayal has probably cost the life of my friend. I look at the man on the table and fight the anger that snakes through my blood.
“Go on,” I say.
“Last night Roger was responsible for the death of Patrice. I believe you are familiar with him?”
“I am.”
“Then that leaves just you and Victor to arm my maquisards, doesn’t it?”
I ignore the question. I will not talk shop with Gaspard before a tortured, dying man. “Is that all?”
“There is more. If you think the crimes I’ve stated already don’t justify my actions.” He taps the paper again, then hands it to me. I read the final line on the sheet. It contains a nickname I am all too familiar with. Gaspard saved this most personal bit of information for last. “In addition to myself, this Roger had a second target. A female British operative who obtains weapons and supplies from England. A woman known to the Germans as la Souris Blanche and to the French as Madame Andrée. His mission, once he had killed me, was to locate and then assassinate her.” The glint in his eyes is ruthless. “You.”
The White Mouse. Roger was after me as well. The Germans have connected the dots.
“Keep his confession,” Gaspard says when I try to return the paper. “I’m sure your friends in London will want a copy for their records.”
I hand the paper to Hubert, but I say nothing to Gaspard.
“You should thank us, Madame Andrée. You were next.”
“I can take care of myself.” It’s true; I’ve been doing so since I was sixteen. I am not beholden to Gaspard and I will not pretend that I am. “And you are a fool. Do you understand what you have done? This man was sent by the Gestapo to find you. When he does not return they will know that he has been either captured or killed. His presence here means they know where you are. They will retaliate in force.”
Gaspard does not miss a beat. “Then you will arm my men so we will be better prepared.”
Ah. I think this is the reason he sent for me. To Gaspard, this entire war is a game of chess. Moves and countermoves. People fall into strategic categories to be used as he sees fit. Clearly, he thinks of me as little more than a pawn.
I look him squarely in the eyes and ask, “Are you willing to agree to my terms?”
He sneers. “You have…terms?”
“Two of them, in fact.”
Gaspard ponders this. I can see him resist the urge to tell me where I can shove my terms. He takes a long breath through his nose, steadying his temper, and his great, broad chest inflates. “I will provide the men. You will provide the weapons. Those are the only terms that need discussing.”
I see what’s happening. His men. He is not willing to lose face in front of them. And I am not willing to give him an inch. What Gaspard has not yet realized is that he cannot give orders to London. He will receive orders, or he will get nothing. There is no give-and-take. No negotiation.
“Good luck with the Germans,” I tell him. He opens his mouth to protest but I have already turned to Hubert. “I have no questions for Roger. Please do what Gaspard did not have the courage to do and give him a quick death.”
Gaspard closes the space between us and clamps one heavy hand on my left shoulder. “You are making a mistake.”
I glance at his hand, then his face. “Do not touch me.”
“You are a weak, soft woman. You have no place in this war.”
Gaspard expects me to shrink back in fear, so when I shift my weight he only grips me harder. What he doesn’t realize is that I’ve lifted my right boot, stuck my hand inside, and pulled out the knife that I keep strapped to my shin. It’s a smooth, clean movement. One I was required to practice for hours and hours on end in SOE training. The sharp, wicked blade is pressed into the skin of his wrist before he realizes what I have done. A thin line of blood seeps into his shirt cuff.
“You will remove your hand from me or I will remove it from your body.”
Neither Hubert nor Tardivat has drawn his weapon. They don’t need to. I am no damsel in distress. But they do keep a close eye on Gaspard’s men.
Gaspard lifts one finger at a time and then his palm. He drops the hand to his side.
“We’re done here,” I say. Then I nod at Hubert. “Do it.”
This is no longer a kitchen. It is no longer a home. To my mind it is, and will always be, a place of cowardice and torture. I walk from the room without another word, Tardivat on my heels. We’re almost at the staircase when I hear that single, merciful shot.
“Easy there,” Tardivat whispers in my ear as my knees buckle. He places one hand beneath my elbow to steady me.
It is a simple, kind gesture amidst so much horror and I am nearly overcome. I gag, once, and hot tears burn the corners of my eyes. I take one more wobbling step before I straighten and walk out the front doors of the château by his side. Hubert joins us seconds later.
“Gaspard is coming,” Hubert whispers in my ear. “Keep it together just a bit longer.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“He’s still dangerous, you know. Don’t push him too far.”
“Don’t worry,” I say quietly as I turn back to the château doors where Gaspard is barreling toward us. “I’ll stop just short of the cliff.”
Gaspard steps onto the gravel, filling his lungs, ready for a verbal assault. But he can’t inhale and speak at the same time, so I preempt him.
“You have plotted to murder me in my sleep. You have turned me out of your château when you thought I was useless. You have attempted to steal my weapons at my drop zone. And you have taken a routine interrogation to the most inhuman, barbaric extreme. Say one rash word and you will never receive so much as a pair of toenail clippers from me. I know you are not stupid. I know you understand me. Make your choice and be quick about it because I have work to do.”
He takes two deep breaths through his nose. Unclenches his fists. “What are your terms?”
“They are quite simple but nonnegotiable. First, you must divide your men into smaller groups, each with a leader of its own, and disperse them throughout the Auvergne instead of massing them here. And second, you must prepare an escape route for each group in the event of attack.” I can see he is itching to respond, his entire body is shuddering with the need to defend himself, but I am not finished. “At the moment you are grossly vulnerable to attack, even more so now, given what you have done to Roger. What you consider to be power in numbers is nothing more than a temptation to the thousands of Germans garrisoned around you. You are poorly armed and unorganized, and it will be a slaughter when—not if—they advance upon your château. When you have done these two things, and not a moment sooner, I will begin arming your men.”
His entire body goes still even as his face turns an alarming shade of purple. His muscles are frozen with rage. After some moments Gaspard unclenches his jaw long enough to say, “It is one thing to accept weaponry and assistance from a femme. But I will not take orders from one.”
I do not argue or try to change his mind. “Have it your way.”
Hubert, Tardivat, and I climb into the car and pull away from the château. From the backseat Hubert gives me that universal male grunt, the one that could mean “well done” or possibly “go bugger your cousin.” In this case I prefer to think he’s just congratulated me on my leadership skills.
I turn to Tardivat and say, “Take us into the forest, far enough where we won’t be seen by Gaspard’s men, and then stop.”
I close my eyes and take long, deep breaths through my nose. I am sweating. Shaking.
He does as I ask and when we are in the dim, cool shade of the pine forest, parked at the side of the road, I open my car door and vomit onto a bed of dried brown needles. Of all the physiological responses the human body can call upon under duress, this is the one I like the least. Typically, I will go to any lengths not to throw up. I can count the number of times, in my adult life, that I have done so. Yet here I am, chucking for the second time today. But I can still smell the stench of Roger’s burned carcass. It has seeped into my clothes. I can taste it. So I vomit again. And again. Until the only thing left in my stomach is yellow, stringy bile. And then I spit, forcing the acidic taste from my mouth. I want to bleach my mouth. I want to replace all my teeth.
Hubert and Tardivat wait patiently as I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, push my damp hair back away from my face, and arrange myself in the seat.
“A word of this to anyone and I’ll shoot the both of you,” I say.
Nancy Fiocca
MARSEILLE
November 30, 1939
Our wedding is small and uneventful. Given that I am not Roman Catholic—nor do I have any intention of converting—I exchange vows, and rings, with Henri Edmond Fiocca at three o’clock in the afternoon, at Town Hall in Marseille. Witnesses are plucked from the hallway and bribed with bottles of Veuve Clicquot champagne. We do engage in one small bit of petty revenge, however, and insist that the useless official who tried to deny us a marriage license perform the ceremony. He stares at me, pop-eyed, as I meet Henri at the altar wearing a low-cut dress of pure black silk. I have painted my lips a scandalous shade of red for the occasion.
Our reception makes up for the simplicity of our wedding ceremony. I am overwhelmed, less than an ho
ur later, when Henri leads me into the ballroom at the Hôtel du Louvre et Paix. It is draped in chiffon and bathed in candlelight. There is a string quartet and four champagne fountains—one in each corner of the room. But even more important, Frank Gilmore and Stephanie Marsic are seated at the head table. The sight of my friends brings tears to my eyes and Henri delivers me to them while he goes to greet his father.
“You came,” I say, voice cracking.
Stephanie throws her arms around me. “I would not miss it for the world, ma petite.”
Frank says nothing, but he does place a big, sloppy kiss right on my mouth—a benign gesture now that I am a married woman—and blinks back tears of his own.
“I’m happy for you, Nance,” he says.
I give him a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Then Henri is at my side again, and we eat. Oh, do we eat. Breads and salads and soups. Sole stuffed with mousseline and sea urchins, then fried until it puffs up like a soufflé. Roasted cutlets of lamb that were bred to graze on fields near the ocean, so the flavor is of both earth and sea, with meat so tender and rich we cut it with spoons and let it melt in our mouths. Whole beef filets with braised vegetables and a spiced wine reduction. Mushrooms stuffed with crab. Grilled artichokes so tender they open like blossoms, and vats of butter to dip them in. Chocolate cake. Chocolate soufflé. Berries and cream. Coffee. Brandy. Endless bottles of brandy. My favorite thing, however, and I am only slightly ashamed to admit this, is that we instruct Antoine to spike Old Man Fiocca’s drinks with Napoleon brandy and Grand Marnier. We mean him no harm. Truly. But payback is payback. Henri and I laugh as his mood improves throughout the evening and he remarks upon the vintage of the champagne and the sweetness of the orange juice. He is fast asleep in the corner by nine o’clock and we enjoy the rest of our celebration without the slightest provocation.
To feast in the midst of war is no small thing. And to throw such a feast even as we start to feel the effects of rationing is nothing short of a miracle. But this is the only comfort we can give our friends. So we are lavish. And for one night we forget the dangers that are coming for us. And when we can no longer eat or drink another thing, we dance. Frank Gilmore spins Stephanie around the floor in a cumbersome but enthusiastic imitation of the waltz. Ficetole dances with his wife, then each of his daughters, in turn. Henri keeps me all to himself, never allowing me to dance with any of our friends, denying everyone who asks to cut in. I am his and he will not share. His hand stays on the small of my back, long fingers stroking the base of my spine. His face is bent into my neck, warm breath drifting between my breasts. When he speaks it is only to whisper the various ways in which he is about to render me speechless. I am quivering with anticipation, my skin hot and my breath short when the string quartet ends their final song with a flourish.