by Ariel Lawhon
I, for one, am delighted to see green feathers sprouting from every hat on the train station this morning. Sometimes we need to see that we are not alone.
“Why do I let you do this?” Henri mutters into my neck as we stand on the platform. I can feel the warmth of his breath against my clavicle as he curses, “Tu me fais chier!”
“You could tell me to stay.”
“Would you?”
“No.”
“Which is why I’ve made it a point to never tell you anything, ma chère.” He snorts, and I feel his whiskers scrape my skin. “You are determined to do this?”
“Yes.”
“Then I won’t try to stop you. Just come home. Or I’ll never forgive you,” he says, repeating what I told him not that long ago when he left for Alsace.
“Two days from now this will all be over, and I will be home again. I promise.”
Henri tucks my hair behind my ears. He kisses the tip of my nose and hands me my train ticket. “Here. I’ve reserved you a return seat on the Bordeaux train. Be on it. Please. I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t step off that train on Sunday.”
I set the return ticket in my purse and throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you. I love you. Kiss Picon for me. I know how lonely he is without Grenadine.”
“Not half as lonely as I am without you.”
This is what our farewells have become of late. Desperate attempts to say everything in case we never have the chance again. It’s like heaving my own heart into an open volcano. I am doing this to myself. To him. I am choosing a life that has me teetering on the edge of disaster.
The whistle blows, and I step back. I blow Henri a kiss and leave him standing at the ticket booth, looking at me as though he has opened a vein right there on the platform and his very lifeblood is draining away. I try not to feel guilty. I cannot feel guilty. The life of my friend depends upon me. So I turn away. Shake my head. Clear my throat. And I step onto the train.
* * *
—
Patrick O’Leary boards the train several hours later at Toulouse. I offer him a glance and a polite nod when he sits down across from me, but we do not speak or give any indication that we know each other. He’s carrying a leather satchel, which he tucks beneath his seat. Then he leans his head against the window and pretends to go to sleep. There are a handful of German officers sprinkled throughout the carriage, and they keep a watchful eye on the passengers but harass no one.
O’Leary leaves the train first at Agen while I leisurely rearrange the contents of my purse. By the time I transfer trains and take my seat in the main carriage of the Périgueux train, O’Leary is sitting in the last row, back to the wall, his satchel on the floor beneath the seat next to him. I take that empty spot, but we don’t speak until we’ve determined that none of the people in this carriage were on the last.
“Thank you for coming,” I whisper in English.
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
“Have you arranged a vehicle?”
“Yes,” he says. “My radioman has borrowed one. He’ll pick me up at the station in Bergerac and we’ll be waiting half a mile from the camp tomorrow after the changing of the guard. If all goes well, Garrow will be in Spain this time next week.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think it’s going to work?”
“Frankly,” I say, “I hope he’s still alive. He was all ribs the last time I saw him. He won’t be able to make that trip over the mountains for weeks. He’ll need to recuperate. He needs food. And a lot of it. He’s lost three stone. At least.”
“I’ll get him to Françoise. She’ll fatten him up,” O’Leary says. “You have the money?”
“Of course.”
“Your husband…?”
It’s not exactly a question. More of a concern. And there are fifty different ways I could answer it, but none of them are O’Leary’s business. So I say, “He is waiting for me at home.”
“Well, thank God for that. I’d hate for him to come after me if this operation turns into a big Belgian backhander.”
I’ve never heard this expression before. I turn to him, mouth open, about to ask, when he interrupts.
“You don’t want to know—”
“—but—”
“—just trust me.”
“I’ll figure it out eventually.”
“I’m sure you will. But I’d rather not be around when you do.”
* * *
—
For the second time today, O’Leary exits the train first. But his satchel is still under my seat and I collect it before leaving the train and walking to the café where I am to meet Harelip. As I did a month ago, I visit the ladies’ room first. And, as O’Leary promised, a gently used guard’s uniform is folded at the bottom of the satchel, along with a pair of socks and worn, brown leather shoes. It occurs to me that I don’t remember whether Garrow was wearing shoes when I last saw him. I was too concerned about his face—the hollows and bruises—to notice his feet.
The reflection that greets me in the mirror betrays nothing of my inward state. Namely, fear and excitement and steely resolve. God have mercy on Harelip if he is trying to deceive or betray me. Because I certainly won’t.
I pull nine envelopes—the remaining four hundred and fifty thousand francs—from my purse and place them beneath the uniform. I splash a little cold water on my face to revive it from hours of travel. I brush my hair until it crackles and shines, then pull a brand-new tube of lipstick from my purse. I take my time coloring my lips, paying special attention to the Cupid’s bow and the curve of my lower lip. I treat these seconds as a benediction.
Once seated at a corner table farthest from the door, I pull Henri’s old, worn copy of Les Misérables from my purse and try to read. Speaking French and reading French are different skills to start with. Reading road signs is one thing and Victor Hugo something else. But I am making progress, and I am sympathizing with Jean Valjean and the discomfort caused by his yellow passport, when the chair across from me is pulled away from the table.
Harelip is alone, and this is a small mercy because Henri made me bring a knife and I don’t know how to use it. I spent most of the train ride aware of its presence at the bottom of my handbag, worried that I’d just end up with it turned back on me. My imagination wreaks havoc when let loose. What does a stabbing feel like? Could I defend myself? How quickly would it take for me to die? These are the thoughts that consumed me during many of the long hours between Marseille and Bergerac.
“You came,” Harelip says, and I see that he is genuinely surprised. This makes me wonder how many takers he’s had on this extortion ploy.
“Of course. The man you’re holding in Mauzac is important to me.”
“Your husband?”
“My cousin.”
“Not likely.”
I don’t bother trying to convince Harelip of anything. But I do stare at him so long he grows uncomfortable and turns away to look out the window. From this angle the scar on his lip is even more exaggerated, as though someone took a box cutter to his upper lip and stitched it back together with a safety pin. I am alarmed at the sudden wave of pity that I feel. What is it like to go through life as a disfigured man? As the sort of person others turn away from? Does he know friendship or love or intimacy or the safe embrace of a woman’s arms?
Merde. This is not what you are here for. Get a grip, Nancy, I scold myself. This man holds Ian Garrow’s life in his hands. You cannot pity him.
I’d like to shake my head, to center myself, but I don’t. Control. That’s what I must maintain. I sit still and I wait. Everything that happens going forward will be on his terms.
“Did you bring the items we agreed on?” he asks.
As an answer I slide the satchel under the table until it rests bet
ween his feet.
“If I find anything out of order—to a single franc—our deal is off.”
“I always keep my word, monsieur. You’d best do the same.” It occurs to me that I have never asked his real name.
“I will find your cousin tomorrow and tell him that the uniform will be left in the bathroom of barracks number one, in the first stall, behind the toilet, one hour before the changing of the guard. One. One. One. I hope he is smart enough to remember that, because everything else is up to him.”
Harelip does not look in the satchel to make sure our terms have been met. He grabs the bag and walks out the door without another word. I remain in my seat, staring at a chip in the tabletop, unwilling to drink my tea. I’m not sure what exactly the café brewed but it tastes of old leaves and disappointment. I shove it aside and open my book once more.
Patrick O’Leary pulls out the seat opposite me, an hour later.
“Did you follow him?” I ask.
“Across the bridge to an old neighborhood. I lost him once he reached the statue of Cyrano de Bergerac at the Place de la Myrpe. He met no one. Talked to no one. It looked as though he was headed home.”
“Are we buggered?” I ask. “Do you think he’s going to take the money and run?”
“One way to find out. Where are you staying?”
I give him the name of the cliff-side inn where I stayed last time.
“Did you give him the address?”
“No. He didn’t ask, and I didn’t volunteer the information.”
“Then all we can do is wait and see. Go back to your inn and I’ll call you there tomorrow, one way or another.” O’Leary shrugs. “If you don’t hear from me by five o’clock, run.”
BERGERAC
December 8, 1942
I sit in the drawing room on the first floor of the inn and wait. Changing of the guard at Mauzac happens at four o’clock in the afternoon. I pick my nails. I cross my legs and swing my foot. I read Les Misérables, turning the pages for over an hour, absorbing not a single word. I know the words before me are epic, part of the canon of great literature. And yet, nothing. Jean Valjean. Candlesticks. Fantine. Diseases. Cosette. Paris. Gangs. Murders. Robbers. Revolts. I see the lines that Henri thought particularly beautiful, underlined in pencil. But none of it means anything. I may as well be reading about the history of mushrooms. Or cumulonimbus clouds. Les Misérables. I am miserable with all this waiting. What is taking so long? What is happening with Garrow? Did he get caught? Get shot? Is he even alive right now while I sit in this inn with a book in my lap? Are they coming for me? Will they send me to Mauzac right along with Garrow? Does it even hold women? Or will I be sent to Ravensbrück, where no friend will be able to rescue me? Oh, the morbid places my mind can travel when fed a steady diet of fear for an afternoon.
4:00
4:13
4:47
5:05
5:15
5:18
I’m not stupid. It’s time to go. I’ve left my rented bicycle leaning against the garden fence behind the inn. I won’t return to Bergerac. That’s where they will be looking for me. I’ll go east, toward Lalinde, and catch the train there. I think about ways to disguise my appearance. I did not give Harelip my name, but we’ve met twice, and he can pass on a good description. It’s the hair and the eyes that give me away. I didn’t bring a change of clothes, so I’ll do what I can. I should probably purchase a wig if I’m able to make it back to Marseille alive.
I stand, collect my purse, and take three steps toward the door of the inn, when the phone at the front desk rings. The innkeeper’s daughter is pretty and silly and fifteen years old. She answers the phone.
“Allô.” A pause and then her eyes lift to mine. “Mademoiselle Carlier? Oui.”
It’s odd, the way you can hear your own heart beating in a moment like this. I count four loud thumps, the blood pumping through my ears, before she holds the receiver toward me.
“For you,” she says.
I lean across the counter and set the receiver against my ear. There is only the slightest tremble in my voice as I say, “Lucienne Carlier.”
“Nancy.” It is Ian Garrow’s voice, choked with emotion, staticky, and from a distance. But unmistakably his. “Thank you.”
The innkeeper’s daughter is looking at me, curiosity blooming in her light brown eyes.
“Of course,” I say. “Get home safely.” I set the receiver down, adjust the shoulder strap on my purse, and bid the girl farewell.
* * *
—
I am sweaty and panicked by the time I reach the train station in Lalinde but I arrive just as the whistle blows. I produce my papers and my ticket and take the first empty seat I can find.
“Running late, mademoiselle?”
I look up to see a middle-aged German officer staring at the bare ring finger of my left hand. His right earlobe is missing, as though it has been chewed off by some small, toothy animal. I try not to smile at the sight. And I force myself not to hide my bare hand. I left my wedding ring with Henri because this is one of those trips where he cannot, under any circumstances, be implicated should I get caught.
I brush a damp lock of hair off my forehead and give the Brownshirt an embarrassed smile. “I am always running late.”
“Such a pretty girl,” he says with a tsk, “traveling alone. Where are you headed?”
“Cannes,” I lie.
His thin lips twist into a smile. “Pity. I’m only going so far as Marseille.”
“Why is that a pity?”
“I would have taken you to dinner.”
Anyone who knows me would say the laugh I offer him is fake, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Do I not have a say?”
“About?”
“Whether or not we have dinner?”
“Haven’t you heard?” the officer asks.
“What?”
“We have taken Vichy. All of France is occupied now. You have no say in anything whatsoever.”
MARSEILLE
December 12, 1942
I am tired of shopping. It’s a sport I’ve never much cared for in the first place but a necessary one since returning to Marseille four days ago. I have gotten word from O’Leary that Ian Garrow was delivered to our safe house roughly the same time as my train arrived in Marseille. And I was careful to ensure that no one saw me anywhere near the camp in Mauzac while in Bergerac. Yes, it can be argued that I was traveling on the same day that Garrow escaped, but I travel often, so that detail is not incriminating in and of itself. Still, I have made a deliberate effort to be seen out and about in Marseille a great deal the last few days. I have socialized. I have lunched. I have flitted about from one boutique to another, buying skirts and trousers and new underthings. Henri and I had dinner with friends once and we have eaten out twice. It’s all for show of course. Harmless socialite is just one of the many personas I maintain these days.
Knowing I have covered my tracks well does not stop me from jumping when someone pounds on the door of our flat. I look at Picon and his ears lie flat against his head. He growls. I go to the door and look through the peephole. Police Commissioner Paquet stands on the mat, glaring. He pounds again. He is alone, so I open the door.
“Monsieur Paquet!” I lean on the door frame and greet him with false enthusiasm.
“May I come in?”
“My husband is not at home.”
“I’ve actually got a bit of news for you, madame.”
“Good or bad?” I ask.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Where your loyalties lie.”
Intrigued, I step away from the door and motion for him to enter. I lead him to the living room. He sits in Henri’s favorite chair and I pour us each a brandy.
He takes his glass and sniffs
with appreciation. “Merci.”
“What is this news you speak of, Commissioner?”
“Your cousin, Captain Garrow, has escaped from prison,” he says, watching me over the rim of his glass as he sips his brandy.
“Has he?”
Paquet’s eyes narrow. “You seem to be quite pleased.”
“Of course I am!” I don’t even bother hiding my elation—it would only make me appear guilty. “Wouldn’t you be pleased if your cousin had been arrested for no reason, sent to prison, and then escaped?”
His mouth tightens. The effect is not complimentary toward his mustache. “I suppose I would.”
I take a large swallow of brandy, then lean forward and tap my glass against his. “Cheers to this bit of excellent news you’ve brought me, Commissioner.”
Paquet offers a rather unenthusiastic smile, finishes his brandy a bit more quickly than the vintage deserves, and excuses himself from my flat. The moment I hear his door close across the landing I try to ring Henri at work, but there is a strange clicking noise and then the line goes dead. I set the phone gently back in its cradle.
I turn to Picon and say, “Well, I’ll be buggered. They’ve tapped our home lines too.”
* * *
Henri
March 1, 1943
Henri steps onto the balcony as soon as Nancy leaves to run errands. She isn’t traveling today. She’s simply making her usual round of friends and shops. But two things happened yesterday that have him on edge.
He hadn’t meant to watch her leave the day before, but he noticed they’d left wineglasses on the balcony and he went out to collect them. Then he paused to watch her cross the street because—God help him—the sight of her swaying hips still makes his mouth go dry. He’d intended to admire his wife for only a few seconds. And he’s glad he did, or he wouldn’t have noticed that man begin to follow her. He was nondescript. Henri can’t remember a single thing about him. Not face or hair or clothing. But he does remember that the moment his wife passed him at the bistro, he looked up—Henri couldn’t blame him at first, not with that figure of hers—but then he finished his coffee in one gulp, stood, and followed her down the street. Then she turned a corner and they were both out of sight within moments.