by Ariel Lawhon
He might have written the entire thing off as paranoia if he hadn’t found someone going through their letter box five minutes later. Henri usually leaves for work before sunrise. But they’d made love after breakfast and he allowed himself the joy of holding her as the sun rose. He was late and she left before him, and by the time he made it to the lobby it was almost nine o’clock. The man at their letter box wore a hat and his face was turned away but there was something about him that seemed very German. Very square.
Henri is proud of the fact that he did not skip a step or call out to the man or show any signs of concern. He kept walking through the lobby and out the door. But the little hairs along the back of his neck stood up straight and remained that way until he was seated at his desk fifteen minutes later.
His wife is being followed.
He might be as well, for all he knows—he never turned around to look yesterday.
Their phones are tapped.
Their mail is being intercepted.
The Vichy commissioner of police is watching them.
He stands on the balcony now, just inside the shadow cast by the overhang, and watches Nancy cross the street again. There are no men lingering on the corners or sitting outside the café as she strolls by. And he almost breathes a sigh of relief. Almost. But this time it is a woman. He can see her reflection in the shop window, where she appears to be looking at a green, feathered hat. And he can see her chin tilt to the right as Nancy passes.
Henri counts to himself. “One…two…three…four…five.”
The woman turns and follows Nancy down the street.
“Fils de pute,” he hisses.
She is so far away that he can see nothing of her face. Only that her hair has been shorn close to her head and she does not wear a hat. A collaborationist. Salope. Henri grinds his teeth. The woman is thin, but he cannot tell her age or height or whether she is attractive. He knows nothing other than the fact that she—and the man who came before her—is hunting his wife.
They have run out of time.
Henri has spent his entire adult life coordinating the logistics of a complicated shipping empire. He knows how to piece details together quickly. How to make arrangements.
He calls Ficetole at home. Now that the tram service is broken, his old friend has little to do other than be home with his wife, daughters, and dogs. Henri does his best to provide him with small jobs. Anything, really, to give the man a source of income so he can feed his family.
“Henri!” he says, delighted. “How can I help you?”
The clicking in Henri’s ear reminds him to be careful with his words.
“I need a piece of furniture moved to my office. Can you bring your cart to my flat in an hour?”
“Oui! Oui! I’ll be there.”
Buried under twenty-seven sacks of flour in their spare room is the trunk that Henri and Nancy took on their honeymoon. He drags it into their bedroom and opens Nancy’s closet.
She has to leave. This is the thought that first began growing in his mind yesterday morning when his wife was followed. He tried to squash it at first, but it took root when he passed that man rifling through their mail. And it burst into full bloom the moment he saw that woman at the window turn after Nancy.
She has to leave.
Immediately.
He packs her trunk because she will not have time to do this herself. Henri is careful. He pulls her favorite items from their hangers, folding them neatly and setting them into the trunk. Skirts, blouses, and slacks. A handful of dresses. A blue wool day dress with black buttons down the front because he knows she likes it. A dressing gown. A winter coat. Hats. Gloves. Scarves. Underclothes—but not her prettiest lingerie. That he keeps here with him because he has to believe she will return and he will have the chance to see it on her again. Stockings. Shoes—high heels mostly, but also one pair of hiking boots. Socks. He does put two satin nightgowns—one blue and one pink—into the trunk because he knows that his wife believes in going to bed in the most feminine way possible. He’d rather she slept naked but he can’t argue the appeal of satin rubbing against his own bare skin. They never stay on her long, but Henri knows she would want to have them.
He pulls the green cashmere sweater from the closet and begins to fold it, then hesitates and presses it against his face. He inhales that seductive scent so unique to his wife. Juniper berries and jasmine and vanilla. It smells bright and warm and clean. He loves this sweater. He loves his wife in this sweater. Her body was made for cashmere. He tosses it onto his pillow instead of setting it in the trunk. He will ask forgiveness later.
None of these things can travel with her, however. They will have to be shipped. So he grabs her second-best handbag from the closet and turns toward her jewelry case. Her engagement ring goes in first, zipped snugly inside an interior pocket. Then the diamond eternity ring he gave her on their first anniversary. A watch with diamonds that circle the face. He never cared about diamonds until he met Nancy. But he likes the way they sparkle against her skin and he’d bathe her in them if she’d let him. Her favorite little brooch, also diamonds, in the shape of a wire-haired terrier—he gave it to her the week after they lost Grenadine. Three gold bracelets. Two dinner rings. But no necklaces. Nancy rarely wears them, arguing that a good set of clavicles is far better adornment. He won’t fight her on that point. And besides, he suspects her aversion has something to do with Marceline and that damn letter H.
The majority of their cash is kept in his safe-deposit box in Marseille. He does not have time to get there, however. Nancy will be home for lunch soon and then he must send her away. But there are twenty thousand francs at the bottom of his armoire and he adds half of it to the contents of her purse—along with the set of papers declaring her to be Madame Fiocca, without the pesky details of her British heritage—and the other half he hides through the trunk in her clothing, waistbands and pockets mostly. He shoves a set of spare keys—apartment, his office, and safe-deposit boxes—to the bottom of the trunk in case she comes home.
For one reckless moment he considers stuffing Picon into the bag as well but then he laughs. If he were to send everything she loves, he’d have to find a way to pack himself as well. He wants to go with her. He would give anything to go with her. But if the two of them were to approach the train station together, they would no doubt arouse the suspicion of every Gestapo officer in the city. No. He will send her first and then he will follow later. Besides, there are other things he must arrange. Other loose ends to tie.
But for now, there is nothing left to pack. He drags the trunk into the living room. Pours himself a double brandy, sits down, collects Picon into his lap, and waits.
* * *
MARSEILLE
March 1, 1943
I come home for lunch. This is the agreement we have made in recent weeks. If I am not traveling, we eat lunch together at home. There is this need to see and touch each other. To know the other is safe. There is nothing to be done about this fear while I am traveling for the Resistance, but when I am home neither of us can wait an entire workday. So I return to the flat at noon, breezing through the door, a greeting on the tip of my tongue, when I notice Henri in the middle of the living room, sitting on a large trunk. Picon is on his lap, and the look on his face tells me everything.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
He shrugs, then says in a voice I can barely hear, “They know. I don’t know how, but they do. And you have to leave. Right now. Yesterday I thought someone was following you. But today I’m sure. Yesterday it was a man. Today it was a woman.”
This stuns me. “I didn’t see anyone.”
“I did. Our phones have been tapped—”
“I know. We talked about that. We have a system—”
“And yesterday I caught someone going through our mai
l.”
Henri stands, takes five long strides across the floor, and pulls me into a crushing hug. He bends his mouth low to my ear. “I will send your trunk with Ficetole and he will ship it to Barcelona.”
“Henri—” I try to plead with him, but he cuts me off.
“We have run out of time, ma chère.” His voice cracks. “This is the only way. Let me know when you get across the mountains. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Where is your purse?” he asks.
I hold it up, only to see that my hand is shaking.
Henri takes it and then returns to the trunk, where my other purse sits on the floor. He empties the contents of the one I’ve just handed him into the other. “I will join you in London as soon as it’s safe.”
Through all this, Picon has been standing at our feet, his little head swiveling back and forth, his body shaking. I pick him up and press my face into his neck. I scratch him between the ears. But he knows. And he begins to whine.
“Ssshhh,” I tell him.
His whine becomes a series of loud, panicked barks, and Henri pulls him away from me.
“You have to go now,” he says. Then adds, “If anything happens to me, you can go to the bank, the Société Marseillaise de Crédit. I have a safe-deposit box set up in your name and you will be well cared for.”
I didn’t realize I was crying until he said this. I wipe my face on my sleeve. “No.”
“There is cash, gold, and bonds inside,” he says, ignoring me. “Roughly sixty thousand pounds in British currency. It’s yours. And I will not touch it no matter what happens. Promise me you will collect it.”
“Henri.”
“Promise me!” he hisses.
I am choking back sobs now. “I promise.”
“Ssshhh.” It is his turn to quiet me. Then he whispers, “Call O’Leary from the train station. Tell him what’s happened.”
And now he has me by the elbow and is steering me toward the door. Henri hands me my second-best purse, packed with who knows what. He kisses me firmly on the lips. There is nothing sensual about it. This is not the sort of kiss he would use to seduce me. This is an emotional kiss. Urgent and terrified. The sort of kiss a man gives his wife when he’s going off to war. But I am the one leaving. How, how, am I supposed to leave?
Picon is losing his mind now, howling and snapping at Henri to be let down. He tucks my sweet little dog into the crook of his arm so that neither of them will be hurt. Then Henri swings open our front door.
“Have fun at lunch!” he says, his eyes flooded and his mouth trembling.
I stare at him, stricken. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. The words, when they come, are not enough.
“Back soon!”
PART FOUR
Hélène
It is one thing to study war and another to live the warrior’s life.
—TELAMON OF ARCADIA, MERCENARY OF THE FIFTH CENTURY B.C.
Madame Andrée
FRIDEFONT, CANTAL, FRANCE
June 1944
“Where, where, where in the name of Winston Churchill are we going to find a radio and transmitter?” I demand.
It is now sunset and while my mood has not improved, my clarity of thought has, thanks to a long nap.
Denis scratches the stubble on his chin. “I think I might know.”
“Do tell. Because I’m out of ideas.”
Fifteen different emotions chase one another across his face and I cannot name a single one of them. Finally, after some intense, silent deliberation, he says, “There is an SOE radio operator in Châteauroux. His name is Alex. He will help you if you tell him that I have sent you.”
Oh.
His lover.
“Does this Alex have a last name?”
He clears his throat. “I never asked. That was our arrangement. First names only. You know. In case…”
“I know.”
In case they get captured. Interrogated. We’ve all made these little arrangements with those we care about. Ways of keeping each other safe.
“How will I convince him that I’m not some German spy?” I ask.
“His group uses a bit of nursery rhyme as their password.”
Denis tells it to me and I commit it to memory.
Hubert consults the Michelin map that he keeps folded and tucked inside his boot. Denis and I both watch as he finds our current location with one finger. He taps that spot, then searches the map for Châteauroux. I see the fingers of his left hand pop up one by one as he does the arithmetic.
After a few seconds, he looks at us, stricken. “That is two hundred and fifty kilometers away.”
As we have been pondering our predicament, we are joined by Anselm, Jacques, then Gaspard, and finally Fournier, who sweeps me into a giant hug.
“What is two hundred and fifty kilometers away?” he asks.
“The closest radio and transmitter,” Hubert answers. “Since ours was disposed of at Fridefont.”
Denis, tired of defending himself, shouts, “Protocol!”
“Then there’s only one thing to be done,” I say.
“And what is that?” Hubert asks.
“I will go to Châteauroux and speak with this radio operator. I will ask him to message London on our behalf and request new equipment.”
“And how are you going to get there?”
I point at Fournier. “I will take his Renault. I can be back before lunch tomorrow.”
Fournier was one of two dozen group leaders who drove, first from the Chaudes-Aigues plateau to Fridefont, and then to Saint-Santin.
Fournier shakes his head. “Non. You cannot drive. It is too dangerous. The Germans have installed roadblocks across the entire region. You will never make it through.”
“You made it here safely enough.”
“I was driving on dirt tracks in a heavily wooded area, beneath a canopy. There is little but national highway between here and Châteauroux. It is entirely different. Besides”—he looks right at me—“where was your identity card issued?”
“The Cantal.”
“Then it is useless. All cards issued in the Cantal have been invalidated. The Germans have ordered them all to be exchanged at local police stations under supervision of the Gestapo. You cannot show your face in a police station and you cannot make that drive without papers. Anyone caught without proper identification is sent to the Nazi garrison in Montluçon for interrogation.”
“Be that as it may, without a radio we cannot stop the Germans from advancing north. All our work will have been for nothing.” I shake my head, unwilling to accept defeat. “I am going to Châteauroux one way or another.”
Fournier snorts. “Do you intend to walk? It would take you a week just to get there.”
He’s right. It’s been five days since we were last in communication with London. We don’t have another five to spare. I cannot walk. I cannot drive. But there is one other option.
“I will bicycle.”
This brings a rousing chorus of laughter from my companions.
“I suppose one of you has a better idea?”
That shuts them up.
“None of you can go,” I say. “You’re so bloody male…so bloody…obvious. One look at you and the Boche would know you’re Resistance. I can get through without much attention. No one in this country ever seems to notice a woman on a bicycle. I could ride across your upper lip and you’d never look twice.”
“Your bicycle was left on the plateau,” Hubert reminds me.
“Then I’ll have to buy another one in Saint-Santin.”
Gaspard nods his great shaggy head beside me. “It’s a good plan if not for one small flaw.”
“Which is?”
“You look like shit.
You’re dressed in filthy trousers and British army boots. No German patrol would mistake you for an innocent French housewife.”
He’s right. Over the last six days I have been through a battle, shot at by an aeroplane, watched my truck get blown to bits, crossed a river, and have slept in the woods five nights straight. It pains me to admit that Gaspard has a point.
“Then what do you propose?”
“If you’re going to do this you’ll need new clothes.” He sniffs. “A bath. And a bicycle. Who is going to acquire all of that for you?”
Jacques steps forward, shoulders back, and says, “I w-w-will.”
SAINT-SANTIN
“Is there no way I can talk you out of this?” Fournier asks the next morning as we sit beside a small campfire.
“None whatsoever.”
“Then how can I help?”
I am ready for my trip, thanks to Jacques, who purchased my bicycle, clothing, and a small amount of food in Saint-Santin last night. What I do not have is any idea what I’ve gotten myself into.
“I need a route,” I tell him. “Along with a sense of where the German troop movements will be. There’s no point going to all this trouble if I’m just going to end up arrested and shot.”
Fournier nods. “I will send a few men ahead of you into the Cantal and the Puy de Dôme to tell the villagers to look out for you and warn you of any trouble. But you’ll be on your own in the Allier. You’ll have to trust luck.”
* * *