“Don’t count on knowing Claude better—you, of all people. He despises the British.”
“For letting France fall?”
“Nothing so pragmatic.”
“What did we ever do to him?”
“Perhaps a simple difference in ideology,” answered Lise. “Claude is a Communist.”
“They are a wild and dangerous lot, especially now that Hitler has invaded Russia. Why do you people keep him around?”
“Antoine feels a loyalty toward him, for his daughter’s sake, no doubt. But perhaps in the case of a man like Claude, it is sometimes wise to have him where you can keep an eye on him, non?”
“I hope you’re right,” said Logan with some skepticism. “Now, what about the most fascinating member of your secret little enclave?”
“Jean Pierre?” As she said the priest’s name, Lise’s taut features momentarily softened. “An incredible man. His father was Baron Olivier de Beauvoir of Belgium. Jean Pierre, for better or worse, is the only one of us whose life is an open book. Before entering the priesthood, his face appeared on the pages of every society paper in Europe. He was present at all the social events, and even considered to be something of a philanderer. I must say,” she added with a smile of affection, “he still manages to be in attendance at as many parties as possible. ‘For the cause,’ he always says with a coy grin. His family has been in Paris for two generations, accumulating their vast wealth in the textile industry. His brother Arthur, now head of the family, is in quite tight with von Stülpnagel, the military governor of France. Jean Pierre is truly cut out of a different cloth than the rest of his family, in more ways than one.”
“Is his brother a collaborator, or is it some kind of front?”
“How Jean Pierre wishes it were a front! But Arthur de Beauvoir is making a fortune off the German occupation—a true profiteer. Poor Jean Pierre! I suppose he will die one day trying to atone for his brother’s sins.”
“The Germans have arrested him several times, have they not?”
“Merely a show,” replied Lise. “They hope eventually to break him down, and bring him over to their side with his brother. But they do not know Jean Pierre! He could never be one of them but he is too well-connected for them to hold him. It drives the Germans crazy! They know he is involved in the escape route, but they can do nothing about it—unless they apprehend him in the very act.”
“I appear to have fallen into quite an assemblage!” said Logan.
“And despite what anyone says, it will be for you to take the reins and lead us.”
“What!” protested Logan immediately. “That’s not my game.”
“Quelle bêtise! Nonsense!” replied Lise. “I saw you in action, Michel. You are the man for the job.”
“The man for what job?”
“Leading our small group.”
“I came here merely to deliver some money and teach someone how to operate a wireless, not to join your band permanently.”
“Perhaps your commander did not tell you all.”
“I was sent on assignment to help you however I could, but—”
“The help we need, Michel, is leadership.”
“I didn’t know the job was vacant.”
“Henri is the closest we have to a leader. But he would be the first to admit that he is not capable of making La Librairie a truly far-reaching and effective weapon against the Nazis. He lacks the audacity, the élan necessary—qualities, I might add, you seem to possess in abundance.”
“What about Jean Pierre?”
“He is too visible.”
“Claude and Antoine would have something to say against your views.”
“Claude would submit to no one, that is true. But he himself could not garner the loyalty of an ant,” Lise replied with conviction. “And Antoine, though he has the heart of a hundred patriots, knows he is no leader.”
“That is exactly how I feel about myself. I’ve always worked with one or two others only. I’m not your man.” Logan knew that the sort of leadership Lise spoke of demanded more than he was willing to give. The thrill and excitement of this work were appealing enough, but not the responsibility for others. Had he looked more deeply into himself, he might have quickly seen a connection between his refusal to entertain thoughts of responsibility in this situation, and his failure in his marriage. Instead, he offered Lise another suggestion.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Face it, Michel. Whether it’s here or in some other circumstance, you were meant to lead. Even if you try to hide from the inevitable, the day will come when it will find you.”
The words had a strange ring of familiarity to them. Into his mind darted a fragment of something Joanna had said as he was leaving Stonewycke.
Now it was Logan’s turn to change the subject.
“I’d better start instructing you on this wireless, as long as you’re the one who’s going to be taking it over.”
She nodded her consent, and for the next hour he gave her some initial instruction, ending with the words, “I’m scheduled to transmit to London tomorrow. I’ll give you your first actual experience in being La Librairie’s new radio operator.”
By the time he returned to his hotel that evening, Logan was exhausted. He stopped on the way for a quick dinner, then took a moment to call Henri from the hotel phone. It was nine o’clock by the time he dragged himself up the stairs to his room.
He kicked off his shoes and literally fell into bed. Almost immediately the moment his head hit the pillow, however, it seemed as if his mind suddenly came awake, though his body screamed out for sleep. For half an hour he fought with himself, turning back and forth, then finally swung out of bed, hoping a few paces around the room would help. All he managed to do was stub his toe against his suitcase in the darkness.
To kill time, he switched on a light, flung open the suitcase lid, and began to unpack his few things. His hand fell upon two shirts and he lifted them out.
They were French made, as were the trousers and handkerchiefs that followed. These were not really his things. They belonged to Michel Tanant. Razor, soap, socks—all of French origin. In addition there were several book catalogues Henri had provided him with last evening to further validate his Lyon identity. And if all this was not sufficient, his wallet was stuffed full of additional reminders—the name and number of Tanant’s unit in the French army were stamped on his demobilization papers. His work permit stated that his occupation was bookseller and that he was employed at La Ecrit Nouvelle in Lyon. With this was the ticket he had supposedly used to travel from Lyon to Paris, officially stamped. London missed no details. He even carried a much-worn photo of Tanant’s parents, now dead, whose graves the Gestapo could find in a churchyard outside Lyon—if they chose to check so closely.
Logan smiled mordantly. Taking everything together, Michel Tanant’s life appeared to be on more solid ground than Logan Macintyre’s. How nice it would be to be able to wrap himself up so completely in the person of this exemplary Frenchman that, as Atkinson had said, he could erase his own name from his mind.
But that was easier fantasized than carried out in reality.
To forget who he really was would mean forgetting Allison too. Could he ever do that? Did he want to? He had been successful over the last several months of pushing her toward the most obscure corners of his mind. He could have spoken of her to Lise, but he hadn’t, though he had thought of her once or twice during the conversation. But he hadn’t even mentioned that he was married.
He had told Allison that he needed time to think about their relationship. Yet he had run off to an environment where he did not even have to be himself, much less meditate on the problems of one Logan Macintyre, distant Scotsman from out of his past. It would be so easy just to let Logan die a slow and silent death. Everything he needed for his new life was right in this bag.
Oh, Allison, Allison! he thought. This war has made everything so easy for me, easy to forget the past, eas
y to run away. I wonder if you’ll ever understand why I must continue with what I am doing, even though it might tear us apart. You may hate me when I return—I wouldn’t blame you if you already despised me. But that’s a chance I guess I’ll have to take.
Suddenly he shoved aside the suitcase, only half empty. He had to sleep. He wouldn’t be thinking such stupid, morbid, defeating thoughts if he wasn’t so bloody tired!
He lay back again on the bed more determinedly than before. But he was able to find only fitful rest throughout the rest of the night, until the light of dawn pierced through the blackout shades. What sleep he did get was filled with ghoulish images and nightmares, featuring alternately Claude’s sneering countenance, S.S. soldiers gunning Logan down while he was trying to run a roadblock, and Allison’s lovely face—but only her face, floating as in a fog above him, crying out to him, but he could not answer.
And in her eyes were the tears of endless weeping.
26
Face in the Crowd
Allison looked across the table at her old friend Sarah Bramford, now Sarah Fielding, wife of a well-to-do shipping magnate. The years had been kind to Sarah, though she had never been a particularly pretty girl. Today she was strikingly attractive in her exquisite Dior silk suit and rich fox stole, obviously selected from the season’s new collection and priced well beyond the limits of clothing rations.
Allison tried not to think of the fact that her own dress was two years old, and had hardly been in style even then, notwithstanding that the lovely silk print did possess stylish lines and was the nicest dress she owned. If everything else in her life had been right, she would probably not even have noticed, because clothes, after all, had very little to do with her present frame of mind.
“You should have seen my Wally’s face when the sheik asked him if I could be part of his harem!” Sarah paused to giggle in the midst of her story about her adventures on one of her husband’s recent trips to the Middle East. “Oh, but those Arabs are charming,” she added with a coy wink.
“My father is in Egypt,” said Allison, attempting to keep her focus on the luncheon conversation as the two women sat in the plush dining room of London’s Green Velvet Restaurant. “He is fascinated with the Arabs, but doesn’t think they like the British much.”
“They like our money, though,” replied Sarah knowingly.
“They’d just as soon have German marks as British pounds.”
“But as long as we still control the canal at Suez,” said Sarah, “they’ll be our friends. My Wally says that’s why the fighting in North Africa is so crucial—keeping the sea lanes open.”
“At the rate that Rommel is going, all the fighting might not matter much longer.”
“What defeatest talk!” exclaimed Sarah, with more emphasis than she felt. “Don’t let old Winnie Churchill hear you. Now, no more politics or war talk. It’s positively depressing.” She took a dainty sip of tea as if to emphasize the more vital things in life. “You haven’t said a word about my dress, Allison—isn’t it scrumptious?”
“It certainly is,” answered Allison with proper enthusiasm. “How on earth do you manage it these days?”
“Oh, Allison, don’t be so naive. If you know the right people, you can manage anything.”
At that moment a waiter came to replenish their pot of tea. “Will there be anything else, ladies?” he asked.
Sarah shook her head and the man departed.
“I wore this to the Fairgate’s for tea last week,” she continued, as if the announcement were tantamount to the capture of the German high command. “Olivia and her mother practically drooled all over it. Have you been to their new city place over by Hyde Park? It’s on Portland Place.”
“No, I haven’t,” replied Allison.
“Oh, well, you must. By the way, did you hear that Charles was wounded recently?”
“No. How serious is it?”
“He’s being sent home, but it’s not terribly dreadful. Of course he will be decorated, so I hear.” Sarah sipped again at her tea. “I can’t tell you how thankful I am that Wally’s back has kept him out of the military. You must feel the same way about Logan.”
Allison did not reply immediately.
This was only the second time she had seen Sarah since her return to London, and she had not yet found the opportunity to bring up the subject of Logan. Actually, there had probably been any number of opportunities; she had just not found the courage.
By all appearances, it seemed that Sarah Bramford Fielding had everything—clothes, status, a happy marriage, and was even a reasonably nice person to boot, if you could overlook the superficiality of her interests, and a slightly oversized ego. But she was pleasant enough to be around.
Allison had never spoken of her marital problems to her friends, always choked by her own version of ego, better labeled pride. Yet over the last months Allison had been taking strides toward new levels of maturity. Bit by bit that very pride was being beaten down by the hammer of difficulties, and the reality of true personhood was slowly being built within her. She was learning the folly of living in a manufactured world of shallow whimsy. That world of empty priorities had blinded her to Logan’s need until it was too late, and now she was about to let it supersede her own need. She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t let one more acquaintance drift off into trivialities because she lacked the courage to speak out the concerns of her heart. She needed a friend just now—a real friend. If they could but pierce the surface of their relationship, it was possible Sarah could be such a friend. They had known each other for years, but they had never attained any depth with one another. Dresses and parties and school and men and fashions had dominated their conversations, but nothing beyond. Was it possible there could be more between them? Should be more?
With the question Allison found herself wondering if she had purposely avoided substance in her friendships in order to keep from having to look too deeply within herself. Did she even know how to share her heart with Sarah? What about her faith in God? Was that something she could talk about to another?
These were suddenly new questions for Allison. But they were questions whose answers she did not want to postpone any longer. Reality could only emerge between them one way. And all at once it seemed imperative to Allison that she be a real person, with real emotions, rather than trying to cover up the hurts she was struggling with inside.
“You know, Sarah,” she said, “Logan and I have been having some problems.”
“What is it?” asked Sarah, her high forehead creased with concern.
“It’s been going on for some time, I guess,” Allison went on, hesitantly, but gaining in confidence as she saw genuine feeling etched on her friend’s face. “We’ve been separated for the last few months.”
Uttering the statement was perhaps the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. Yet once it was out, she felt oddly relieved. Perhaps sitting opposite her was a friend to help her shoulder some of the burden.
“Allison, I’m so sorry,” said Sarah. “Why have you waited so long to say anything?”
“It’s not an easy thing to admit. I didn’t know what—you know, what you might think of me.”
“Nonsense. It changes nothing between us.”
“Everyone wouldn’t agree. A broken marriage is the kiss of death to some people. You’re different in their eyes from that moment on.”
“Well, I won’t tell a soul if that’s how you want it.”
“Thank you. It’s hard to admit one’s failings. I guess I want people to think well of me.”
“I suppose I know what you mean,” sympathized Sarah. “Everyone gets together and talks, but nobody says what they’re really thinking, what’s really hurting them inside.”
“For so long I’ve tried to keep anyone from seeing deep inside me, but lately I’ve been so alone. I think what I really just need is a friend—someone to confide in. We’ve known each other for so long that—”
“Th
at it’s about time we started to act like it,” Sarah finished Allison’s sentence for her. “If I let myself admit it, I need that kind of friend too.”
“You?”
“I suppose my marriage itself is fine—most of the time,” said Sarah. “But believe me, the London social set is the most shallow mob you ever want to see, and sometimes I’m no better.”
“Remember, this is me, Sarah. I used to be a part of all that—or at least wanted to be.”
“You never did quite fit in though, as much as you tried. Especially in recent years. And I mean that as a compliment!” Sarah smiled again, then added, “I always thought it had something to do with Logan.”
“Not at first,” replied Allison. “The focus of my life changed when I really tried to give my life to the Lord. It happened with Logan and me together about the same time, just before we were married. God began to teach me new priorities and attitudes, and before I knew it I began to feel out of place with all the gossip and backbiting and petty jealousies and flaunting of wealth that went on among us. I was the worst of the lot!”
“I did see a change in you, Allison, but I guess I was too stupid to say anything.”
“We all try to put on a front of self-sufficiency. Just because I was taking being a Christian seriously doesn’t mean I changed overnight, either.”
“You’ll never know how many times when I was with your family that I wanted to ask what made them all so . . . I don’t know—different . . . complete, I suppose is the best way to describe it.”
“You really felt that way?”
“Your great-grandmother always made me feel so special and loved. I knew she was a religious lady and I couldn’t help wondering if that had anything to do with it. But I was always too embarrassed to ask. You know how it’s embarrassing to talk about spiritual things. It shouldn’t be, I suppose, but it is. You think people will laugh at you for being interested in religion. So many people think it’s only for old people.”
“I know. That’s what I always thought, before I really knew what living closely with the Lord could mean in my life.”
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