by Laura Leone
Paul stayed where he was, waiting for her to pull far enough ahead of him that he could risk coming out of hiding.
She walked fast and purposefully, her high, tight buttocks moving rhythmically under the cotton of her dress. He watched her with miserable longing, knowing he couldn't quit now. He had to know the truth.
He remembered being so in love he no longer trusted his own judgement.
But I don't remember not trusting her.
On the contrary. He remembered trusting her, believing in her, more than he'd ever trusted anyone.
Was that the judgement that was questionable?
No... He'd valued her life above all else. Had struggled with his desire to choose her safety and well-being over her duty, even over his. He had no memories of doubting her, the woman she was, or the love they shared. Only memories of doubting his ability to work and to lead effectively while she remained here, in danger, and under his command as a member of the Resistance.
The noise of a car engine intruded on his thoughts. His heart pounded with renewed dread as Gabrielle, also hearing the engine, turned around. Her posture was tense. Her body language suggested she was trying to identify the car as it approached.
Paul was relieved to recognize both the driver and the vehicle as they passed him. Not a German. The old but well-maintained car belonged to a local farmer, an old man who'd lost an arm and an eye in the Great War. He was an absolute menace on the road, steering and shifting gears with his sole arm while not necessarily seeing obstacles ahead with his sole eye.
No, Gabrielle, no...
Paul forgot everything else for a moment as he watched his wife wave down this death -trap and request a lift.
Oh, for God's sake, have you lost your mind, woman?
He watched in appalled fury while Gabrielle climbed into the car. He would kill her for this! That old man's driving was practically a national scandal! She'd be lucky if she wasn't missing an arm and an eye by the time they reached the center of town!
Planning all the absolutely cutting things he would say to his wife about this... if she didn't turn out to be a collaborator... Paul gritted his teeth and waited until it was safe to emerge from his hiding place. Then he climbed back on the bicycle and started pedaling after them. It was at least a blessing, he supposed, that the old man didn't drive so fast that Paul would lose sight of the vehicle before it reached town.
Once they were in the narrow medieval streets of Caen itself, Paul's bicycle would have the advantage over any motored vehicle, in terms of his ability to pursue Gabrielle without being seen. It helped that she assumed he was stranded naked back at the barn—Had she denied him clothes for that very purpose?—and therefore wouldn't be looking for him or expect to see him. Still, a spouse was all too easy to identify, even unexpected and at a distance. Paul hung far back as he followed the car into Caen, knowing he must be careful now.
* * * * *
Gabrielle was so tense she felt like she'd shatter into a thousand sharp pieces if someone so much as touched her.
Paul was healing much faster than she'd expected, based on how close to death he had seemed when she'd collected his body at the gates of the chateau. He was now restless, impatient, edgy. Ready to act, to engage. She knew him well enough to know that by tomorrow—perhaps even tonight—he would insist on leaving the barn and pursuing his duty... even if he couldn't remember it.
Fear flooded her. Even once he knew the truth, she wasn't sure he'd remain in hiding. Besides, what was the truth? Things looked very bad for him. She even feared... Yes, she hated herself for thinking it, but she feared that his memory of his imprisonment remained so vague because he didn't want to remember what had happened there.
Well, no, what mind would want to remember what they did to him there, after all?
She had wept uncontrollably upon seeing the results, and couldn't bear to imagine what the process must have entailed. So surely it was natural that Paul's mind would block it out, even if he had nothing to be ashamed of?
And even more natural if some part of him knows that he betrayed us and is ashamed.
Desperately, bitterly ashamed. Paul would rather die than betray people dependent on him. So if, in fact, he had betrayed them rather than die...
Gabrielle shuddered. Maybe he couldn't bear the memory. And if he did remember it—
No, no, no!
—maybe he'd want to die now.
She must have made a distressed noise. The old farmer giving her a lift into town asked what was wrong. She shook her head and said nothing, just staring out the window at the rain-drenched landscape as they approached Caen.
She'd struggled with her appalling choices ever since discovering that Paul couldn't remember anything. Should she tell him what everyone suspected? What if he was so appalled it made him worse? He seemed to plunge into a spiral of pain and confusion when he tried to summon memories of his imprisonment. She didn't want him to lose ground in his mental recovery, which was what seemed to happen when she pushed him. Or what if, even worse, upon discovering that her own cadre wanted to kill him, he tried to confront them, convinced he could talk them out of it?
She repressed a shudder, picturing him dead at their hands.
Until now, shielding and comforting him, trying to help him get well and recover his memory, had seemed her best option. However, based on the way he had behaved today, she knew she'd have to tell him everything when she returned to the farm later today.
Oh, God, please, help me, she prayed.
The one thing she knew for certain that he wouldn't do was run away. Part of her longed to convince him to do so, and the other part of her knew he wouldn't be the man she loved if he could do it.
The car slowed down as it approached the center of Caen. Normally, Gabrielle would have been terrified by the way her one-armed, one-eyed chauffeur carelessly whipped around blind corners, came within a hairbreadth of running down pedestrians, and careened through intersections without even pausing. Right now, though, she stared through the windshield with almost total indifference, her mind wrestling with dangers that scared her far more.
When they came to a stop outside Café Didier, Gabrielle thanked her escort, got out of the car, and walked into the simple stone building on legs weak with fear. As she entered, she passed Didier's fourteen-year-old nephew, Michel, who was sweeping the floor. The boy had loved Didier and insisted on becoming more active in the Resistance after his uncle's death.
Now children are our spies and soldiers, Gabrielle thought sadly as she nodded to Michel.
Jean Deschamps was here, sitting at a table in the corner, tuning his guitar and smoking a cigarette. He hit a sour note as he saw her enter, then put his guitar aside and rose to greet her.
"Chérie."
She didn't like him calling her that. Her brief affair with him had been casual, the product of loneliness rather than real affection. He'd been angry about her breaking off with him, and genuinely resentful of Paul—whom he had recognized as the cause of her sudden change of heart, even though it was another couple of months before anything happened between her and Paul.
Nonetheless, Gabrielle now let Deschamps use the endearment, take her hands, and kiss both her cheeks. He, after all, had been the one to tell her Paul was in the chateau. Who knew what would have happened if Deschamps hadn't warned her? And he had been surprisingly sympathetic to her horrified grief at the news, even though he was convinced Paul was betraying them.
Now Deschamps touched her cheek. "You look tired, chérie."
"I haven't been sleeping." She pulled away from the caress and walked over to the bar.
Didier's widow was there, a voluptuous woman in her late forties who had always, Gabrielle thought, had a slightly sour manner.
Gabrielle nodded. "Madeleine."
Madeleine Didier studied her. "Been crying over Paul, haven't you?"
Now that Didier was dead, Jean Deschamps and the priest who'd performed the service were the only people who
m Gabrielle was certain knew about her marriage. But everyone knew that there was something between her and Paul, even if they had no idea how much.
"Yes," she admitted. "I've cried for him."
"A pig like that," Madeleine said with chilling contempt. "He's not worth it."
Gabrielle didn't reply. Instead, she glanced across the café to where the only two other customers at the moment sat: Arneau and Raine, both members of the Resistance. Arneau was fussy, effeminate, and very high strung. He was such a strange candidate for dangerous Underground activity that Gabrielle had wondered more than once if he might be a traitor. Raine was a tough, humorless man who seldom said much to anyone.
Gabrielle asked no one in particular, "Has there been any news?"
"There has indeed," Deschamps replied, reclaiming her attention. "Michel." He got the boy's attention, then gestured to the entrance. "Watch the door."
Didier's nephew, who often acted as their lookout, went outside where, Gabrielle knew, he would pretend to work on a bicycle repairs just outside the door and warn them if anyone approached the café.
Deschamps said to Gabrielle, "We've been wondering where you were."
"Watching the chateau," she mumbled.
"For Paul's body?" Deschamps asked.
She nodded. The others gathered around her.
"And?" Deschamps prodded, lowering his voice.
"Nothing," she lied. "I haven't seen it."
Arneau glanced nervously toward the door before saying, "There may be no body. Perhaps he's been sent to a concentration camp."
"Or perhaps he's still inside the chateau," Deschamps suggested quietly, "telling everything he knows."
Gabrielle said, "There's no proof—"
"Now Le Blanc has been shot, too," Madeleine said, keeping her voice low, too.
Gabrielle gasped. "When?"
"Day before yesterday."
"That makes six of us," Deschamps said, "murdered or arrested since Paul was taken prisoner. Six, Gabrielle."
"He is not a traitor."
"Will you still believe that," Madeleine said coldly, "when the Gestapo come for you?"
"Didier thought there was a traitor among us before Paul ever came here," Gabrielle reminded them.
"Don't you bring my husband into this!" Madeleine snapped.
"Shh." Deschamps reminded her to keep her voice down.
Gabrielle said, "I'm just saying—"
"And when did Didier get taken?" Deschamps said. "After Paul was among us—and eager, I might add, to take Didier's place."
"He wasn't!" Gabrielle snapped in a furious whisper. "It's what Didier wanted. And you know that!"
"I know," Deschamps replied, "that it was certainly convenient for Paul."
She wanted to hit him. Instead, she forced herself to take a calming breath and ask, "No other news?"
"Besides the little matter of Le Blanc's death, you mean?" Madeleine said icily.
"My God, do you think I'm not sorry he's dead?" Gabrielle exclaimed. "Do you think I'm not afraid of being next? I am! But I don't agree with you that Paul is responsible for what's happening to us!"
"Be realistic, Gabrielle," Arneau urged. "He's a good man, I'm not denying it. But the Gestapo can make anyone talk."
Because she feared it was true, she said nothing. Having failed twice to elicit the information she wanted for Paul's sake, she tried one more time to find out if the Germans were looking for him—without giving away to her associates that he was now free. "What about other activity? Are there any round-ups? Any house-to-house searches?"
Deschamps shrugged. "Apart from killing or capturing all of us with remarkable efficiency, the Germans seem to spend most of their time gazing across the Channel."
"Waiting for invasion," Raine added gruffly, surprising Gabrielle by the mere act of contributing to the conversation.
"They're not that worried about it," Arneau opined. "Rommel went home yesterday."
"Home?" Gabrielle repeated in surprise.
"Tomorrow is his wife's birthday," Arneau explained.
"Not a decision which stinks of military urgency," Deschamps agreed, "but the Germans are jumpy, even so."
So that was the situation, then. Her comrades were still being picked off one by one, and still convinced that it was Paul who had exposed them, telling everything he knew under torture. Meanwhile, the Germans evidently weren't looking for him. No one but Gabrielle knew that he was free. He was still safe for the moment... but she could tell these people would kill him if he couldn't convince them he wasn't responsible for what was happening. And how could he, if he couldn't remember? Besides, what if he had talked?
Lost in these tumultuous thoughts, it was a few moments before she became aware of a crawling sensation on her skin and looked up. Madeleine was staring at her with a coldly suspicious expression.
Feeling uneasy, Gabrielle rose from her seat. "I should be going."
Deschamps eyed her. "Back to the chateau?"
She nodded.
"I'm surprised you've left it for so long," Madeleine remarked.
Gabrielle said, "I must eat, sleep, and change clothes sometime."
"Without asking anyone to watch in your place?" Madeleine prodded.
Realizing she hadn't covered her tracks well enough, Gabrielle lied, "If they throw his body outside the gates while I'm gone, it'll still be there when I return."
"Not necessarily," Madeleine said. "Seems to me that by being here, you're taking the risk of never being sure, if his body never turns up."
Does she know?
No, she was guessing. Prodding to see if she got a response.
"You're right," Gabrielle agreed. "I'm so tired, I wasn't thinking clearly. I should go right back."
"I'll take you," Deschamps offered.
"You don't have a car."
"I'll walk you there."
"No, it's too long a walk," Gabrielle protested.
"I don't mind."
She knew that additional protests would only draw more of Madeleine's unwanted attention to her, so she agreed. "Thank you, I appreciate the offer."
Damn, damn, damn.
Wondering how she'd get rid of him, she let Deschamps escort her out of the café.
Chapter Nine
June 5, 1944
Paul waited outside the café, hidden in a doorway across the street. The familiar surroundings were making him recall things, but his head was nonetheless a bewildering jumble of fragmented memories and half-formed knowledge.
He recognized Didier's nephew, Michel, and knew that the boy's working on his bicycle right outside the café meant there was an impromptu meeting occurring inside among people who didn't want to be seen or heard.
So Gabrielle was meeting her Resistance comrades at Didier's café. It relieved Paul's mind considerably, already making his earlier fears seem as absurd as they were appalling. Nonetheless, he was still puzzled. What was she hiding from him?
He withdrew deeper into the doorway when he saw her exit the café. Accompanied by—
Jean Deschamps.
Paul knew who he was within an instant of seeing him. And with the knowledge, a chaotic flood of memories poured into his consciousness.
Deschamps knew who Paul was, and knew about his marriage to Gabrielle. And he resented Paul.
Gabrielle had an affair with him.
Paul had realized early on that Deschamps wanted her and resented him, even before he'd become her lover. What he hadn't known, until Gabrielle had one day confided it to him, was that Deschamps had briefly been her lover. Paul had never seen anything in Gabrielle to suggest tender feelings for Deschamps, and he believed her when she said that sheer loneliness had prompted the short-lived fling. Ever since breaking off with Deschamps, in fact, she had avoided him, since she felt awkward, aware that his feelings for her were more intense than she had realized and that he'd rekindle the affair in a heartbeat if he could.
So what's she doing walking arm in arm with him now?
Wondering what Gabrielle was up to, Paul followed them.
* * * * *
"You're not really going to the chateau, are you?" Deschamps said, holding her arm hard against him.
Her heart skipped a beat. "Why do you say that?"
Does he suspect?
"He's not worth it, Gabrielle."
Momentary relief flooded her. "He's my husband."
"He doesn't deserve you."
She was tempted to bite his head off, but she was trying to focus on what mattered most: Getting rid of Deschamps, then going to her cottage to gather supplies to bring back to Paul. And doing it all without arousing Deschamps' suspicions.
"You think I've made a mistake, don't you?" she said.
"Marrying him?" He nodded. "You know I do. You know I... wanted things to be very different than this."
They were approaching the street which eventually led to her cottage at the edge of town. She let him lead her past the street, then paused, as if suddenly changing her mind. "You know... I've just got to lie down for a few hours. I know Madeleine was right, but I—"
"Madeleine is a bitter bitch who was just trying to upset you." He raised her hand to his lips. "Which is unkind, because anyone can see how much you're tormenting yourself already."
She put a hand up to her forehead. "I want to go home for a bit."
He patted the hand he held and turned back to lead her down the right street. She gritted her teeth with impatience, wanting to walk much faster than this—and wanting, above all, to get rid of him. However, she knew she had to be careful.
"Paul didn't belong in charge," Deschamps said. "Didier had no business naming an American as his successor."
"Only you and I knew his nationality," she reminded him.
Deschamps knew because he'd liaised with the OSS before Paul's arrival. Gabrielle had known Paul's identity from the start, too, because she'd acted as his courier after his arrival; Didier had insisted that a good-looking young woman with an established community of art school friends in Paris could travel back and forth to the capital without arousing suspicion, and he was right. The others all thought that Paul Finley was Paul Fouquet, though, because Paul and Didier both believed that everyone was safest if no one knew more than they needed to know.