“It’s a long story.” He kissed her hand gallantly and rose from his chair to escort her out of his study. The conversation was obviously over. “You need not worry your pretty head about such matters anyway. Why don’t you go for a walk with Coco? Maybe your muse will visit you after some fresh air.”
Giselle recalled that recent conversation while lingering in the doors until Karl lifted his head from his papers and obliged her with a polite smile.
“Did you want something, Gisela?”
Giselle swallowed her annoyance and ignored him pronouncing her name once again in his German manner. Instead, she put on her most charming smile and walked over to the officer, gracefully perching on the edge of the desk in front of him.
“As a matter of fact, yes, I did.” Giselle took his hand in hers and lowered it onto her lap, studying his fingers. “I told you that my sister, Kamille, lost her husband to the war, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, you saw how she is after that, all sad eyes, and so subdued, the poor thing.” Giselle threw a quick glance from under her lashes to see his reaction. The German’s face remained immobile. Giselle sighed deeply, trying not to overplay her words, and continued. “I want to cheer her up a little. She deserves it after all she’s been through, the poor, devastated widow of a war hero…”
“I hate to cut you short, but what exactly do you need from me? I have a lot of paperwork to finish, and I need to be done with this by five if you still want to get to Maxim’s for dinner in time.”
Giselle barely suppressed her indignation at his dismissive tone, a malicious green ire igniting in her eyes, but for a fleeting second only. She lowered her gaze, hiding her defiance from him the best she could, even though any other man in his place would have long been kicked out into the street, and the doorman would have been told to give his hide a good tanning if he dared to solicit a meeting with her ever again. Giselle always refused to put up with such condescending treatment, and cut short any of her lovers, no matter how handsome or influential they were, if they dared try to express any sort of dominance on her territory. Only, with the new masters of the house, it was all far too different.
“Mais, Charlie,” she purred his name, changing it into French as well, like he did it with hers, satisfied with the seemingly innocent act of rebellion. “That’s exactly what I came to ask you for. You and me, we go to different restaurants, to Maxim’s, to the Ritz even, at least twice a week; we go to see shows and plays, all the while ma petite Kamille sits at home, locked away under that cursed curfew of yours, and withers away day by day. She’s sad as it is after the loss of her beloved husband, and I can’t even do my sibling duty for her and entertain her a little.”
“Süße, I can’t possibly cancel the curfew. What do you want me to do?”
Was he really that thickheaded, or just really good at acting? Giselle tried her best to suppress her temper once again.
“I know you can’t, mon coeur, but you can write an Ausweis for each of us. This way I will be able to be a dutiful sister and take my poor Kamille out once in a while. When you have your own plans for the evening, that is.”
“Nein.” He took his hand out of hers and picked up his pen again, turning back to his papers. “I don’t want you walking around at night all alone, without an escort. It’s too dangerous for a woman to be alone in the streets at night. There are a lot of communists and other criminals who roam around when they shouldn’t, and despite our utmost efforts, we, die Staatspolizei, still can’t wipe the streets of Paris clean of them. We will, most certainly, but with time. Until then you tell me where and when you want to go with your sister, and I’ll send Otto with you. He’ll drive you there, and he’ll take you back home after that.”
Those streets were perfectly safe before you Herren showed up. Giselle bit back her thoughts. But she still refused to move and retreat to her room just because some Boche has spoken his weighty nein.
Even though he had already shifted his attention back to the documents in front of him, Giselle slid off the table and circled his chair. She lowered her hands on his shoulders and rested her chin on the back of her hand, pressing her cheek to his immaculately shaven one.
“But Charlie, Charlie, mon amour, it’s not fun for two girls to be out with a military escort. We’ll look ridiculous as if we’re two kids who can’t be trusted to go outside without an adult. Besides, Otto will be bored to death with us, and our girls chat…”
“He won’t be escorting you inside. Think of him as your personal driver. He’ll do just that,” Karl retorted, cutting the conversation short once again.
A driver is not good enough, Giselle huffed angrily, if I want for us to be alone with Jochen and Horst. He’ll see us together, most definitely.
She had her own plans for Kamille’s lodger’s young adjutant. The boy was clearly infatuated with her, and she could milk him for information during the dinner, just to prove to that uneducated leader of the Resistance, or whoever he imagined himself to be, that she was a far better leader and organizer. And then let’s see how he starts singing about her “cuddling the Boches.” Communist, all right. He probably doesn’t even know what communism means.
Giselle shook her head slightly, clearing it from distracting thoughts, and decided to press the matter further.
“Karl.” She tried his German name this time, thinking that maybe that would coax him into a better disposition. That and her arms, which she slowly lowered down to his waist to start undoing his belt while covering his neck and jawline with soft, seductive kisses, bit by bit approaching his lips. “I really would like to have that Ausweis. And I’ll be forever grateful, every single night, I promise.”
He caught her hands in his and gently but firmly removed them from his belt, readjusting it in its place.
“I said no, Gisela. It’s non-negotiable, herz. Now, why don’t you get ready for dinner? I really am busy and would like to finish everything in time.”
Straightening behind his back, Giselle gestured desperately, barely containing herself from swatting him on his perfectly coiffured head.
“Très bien, Charlie,” she replied sweetly instead. “You know better.”
He beamed at her with a rather uncharacteristic smile. Giselle replied with a lopsided grin.
This is not over, Charlie, Giselle promised to herself, leaving his study. Not by a long shot. I’ll still get that damned Ausweis, with your help or without.
14
Marcel pulled his cap down to his eyes, doing his best to avoid the Boches’ beady eyes, which surveyed everyone coming and going from the munitions factory. Due to Philippe’s contacts, Marcel was fortunate enough to secure himself a position as a press worker, and even though the job was exhausting and physically demanding he felt much better having a task to do, a certain purpose, instead of lingering in the apartment together with two teenagers. The boys grew restless, just like he did, and started voicing their suggestions to do some sabotage work more and more often, but Philippe had already stated his attitude on the matter, strictly forbidding the two brothers to leave the apartment without his permission. However, both he and Marcel knew very well that Pierre and Jerome had reached that age when they defied any authority: parental, governmental and even their comrades.
“Those kids are trouble,” Marcel recalled Philippe grumbling when they were walking towards the factory one day, lowering their eyes each time a German lorry filled with ammunition passed them by. “They’ll get into something before you know it. We need to move them, and fast.”
Marcel only nodded, shifting his satchel on his shoulder and catching a whiff of the two ham sandwiches that he had packed as his lunch at home. Thanks to the money that Giselle had left (Reichsmarks even, not the devalued Franks!), Philippe was able to obtain some food which they could only dream about for the past few weeks, together with the rest of the population. However, Le Marché Noir – the Black Market – thrived and flourished, distributing prohibi
ted or unobtainable goods for a price that exceeded their actual value five and sometimes ten times more. Philippe kept grumbling about the profiteering traitors of la République, who didn’t give a damn about their fellow countrymen but still paid the price for ham, bread, and eggs to feed the boys. Even though he and Marcel had their ration cards as factory workers, they weren’t enough by any means to feed all four of them.
Today, walking out of the factory after a blaring siren had signaled the end of the day shift, Marcel noticed at once that something troubled Philippe. The communist leveled his steps with Marcel’s as the crowd of workers slowly made their way through the checkpoint, where every single one of them was checked for stolen parts or scrap metal, which they could later sell at the Black Market. The German soldiers with their machine guns paced leisurely near the exit, supervising the process.
“We need to talk,” Philippe spoke inaudibly above Marcel’s ear.
“Something happened?” Marcel replied in the same manner.
“Yes. Let’s have a walk before we head to the Metro.”
After they were both thoroughly searched and waved away to the exit, Marcel could barely contain his anxiety. Philippe was a seasoned fighter, and rarely ever exaggerated the gravity of the situation. Now, however, he looked as grim as the sky above them, which was ready to burst into September, bone-chilling showers.
“Well? What is it?” Marcel demanded impatiently, catching Philippe’s sleeve as soon as they had walked away enough from the crowd.
“The boys’ father has been arrested by the Gestapo. A comrade delivered the news from the village. Apparently, the flag was indeed marked and brought them to him.”
Marcel swallowed hard, already foreseeing the reaction of the two brothers. Both Pierre and Jerome didn’t fancy the Boches as it is, but now they would most definitely do something utterly stupid either to avenge their father or to try and rescue him.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Philippe spoke again, motioning Marcel to a small bench with a newly screwed plate on top of it saying ‘Nur für Arier’ – ‘For Aryans Only.’ “I’m wondering myself if we should tell them at all. On the other hand, they’re both members of the Komsomol and it’s against the code to use a situation against your fellow comrade. We don’t deceive each other to profit from it, no matter how grave the situation is.”
Marcel dug in his satchel and fished out the last sandwich from it. He sunk his teeth into it and took a hearty bite, while Philippe chewed on his lip, scowling and staring into the distance.
“What do you suggest we do then?” Marcel spoke with his mouth full, forgetting all the good manners that his mother had taught him. He was certain that she would forgive him now: he could have hardly been blamed for feeling almost starved after a hard day’s work. After all, his parents raised him as a future bourgeois, a history professor, and not a factory worker. The war had turned everyone’s world upside down.
“Tell them as it is and try to reason with them.” Philippe opened his satchel and offered Marcel his daily ration, completely untouched and still carefully wrapped in newspaper. “Here, have mine too. You must be starving.”
“What about you?”
“I’m used to going without food when needed. Don’t worry about me. Eat. Manual labor doesn’t seem to agree with you just yet.” He smirked, but kind-heartedly.
Marcel reddened but took the offering with gratitude.
“Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me. Communism isn’t as bad as you think. It’s not about ‘stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.’ We share everything with the ones who need it more than us, willingly. Now imagine if our society were built on the same principle, the world would be a much better place.”
“I suppose,” Marcel muttered, working on Philippe’s sandwich. “What about my sister then? You still think she’s a typical profiteering capitalist? She shared her money with us. Gave us all she had in her wallet, actually.”
“It wasn’t her money; it was probably her Boche’s.”
Marcel chuckled, finding it amusing that Philippe downright refused to accept the very idea that Giselle could possibly have at least one redeeming feature. His brows knitted together soon after though, as soon as he remembered the topic of their conversation.
“What do you think the Nazis will do to the boys’ father?”
“Who knows? Maybe jail him, maybe shoot him. Maybe send him to Germany to one of their working camps. Either way, he won’t end up well.”
“But he probably doesn’t even know about the flag. Can’t he tell them that it was stolen from him?”
“And you think they’ll believe him?”
“Why not?”
“Because when you’re guilty of something, and the police find evidence against you, that’s the first thing you do – say that it was stolen by some crooks who later used it.”
“The boys will not sit idle as soon as they learn. They’ll do something preposterous.”
“I know, Marcel.” Philippe sighed. “Trust me; I’m trying to figure out what to do myself.”
Giselle took on the task of ordering food for everyone at the table, as the two Germans (Austrians! Kamille had corrected her earlier, making big eyes. Giselle did her best not to snigger in response, realizing at once that one of those Austrians had most likely already completed his own blitzkrieg with her little sister) admitted their defeat, at least when it came to knowledge of sophisticated French cuisine. In Café de la Paix, the famous restaurant within walking distance to the Paris Opera House, Giselle was like a fish in water. Her guests didn’t conceal their admiration of the extravagant frescoes and rich gilding reflected in multiple mirrors, and exchanged excited exclamations switching to their mother tongue without realizing it.
“Escargot and oysters,” Giselle declared as soon as they were seated at the round table, which was covered with an immaculately starched tablecloth with another, red one, showing its luxurious material underneath it. “You have to try them. They’re the best here, and even the shameless plunder, which you lot have been doing in our beautiful country for the past month, didn’t change that fact.”
The two officers lowered their eyes apologetically, murmuring some suitable excuses. Under Kamille’s accusing stare Giselle only flicked her wrist effortlessly, placing a napkin on her lap and laughed in her charming manner.
“Oh, don’t be so embarrassed. I’m just teasing you two.”
They beamed at her, Jochen from across the table, where he sat next to Kamille, and Horst right next to her. The four had sat in the same manner in the Opera House as well, from where they walked to the restaurant, in which Giselle insisted they had to dine. After the two glasses of champagne that they enjoyed during the intermission, Horst babbled away about the Vienna Opera House, museums and the army, mixing the words from time to time, not noticing how closely his blonde date was watching him, waiting for the right moment to pounce on her victim.
Giselle had already realized that unlike the experienced and more reserved Jochen, Horst would tell her anything she’d ask him about when combined with the right amount of alcohol and her feminine charms, so she could later rub all that information into that horrid communist’s face.
Giselle moved her padded chair closer to Horst, pressing her knee into his as if by accident. He beamed even wider and scooted closer to her as well, readjusting his plate and cutlery.
“So tell me more about your service, Horst. What exactly do you do now, except for dining with pretty French girls from time to time?” she asked him teasingly.
“There is no time to time, Mademoiselle…” Horst stopped himself mid-word as Giselle’s shoe caught his boot under the table, and cleared his throat, grinning. “I meant, Giselle.”
Giselle nodded approvingly with a mischievous smile, only now moving her foot away.
“I’ll kick you every time you make that mistake,” she warned him playfully.
“Then I’ll only keep making
it again and again.” Horst breathed out, not even noticing the waiter, who had placed a plate of escargot in front of him. “I was saying there is no ‘from time to time’ and there is definitely no other French girls. This is the first time Herr Hauptmann and I have escorted French ladies out since our service brought us to Paris. We used to dine alone before that, in the officers’ mess mostly. Herr Hauptmann didn’t want to impose on Madame Kamille.”
“Oh, what silliness! I’m always telling you that you’re no imposition by any means,” Kamille spoke quietly, smoothing out the skirt of her dress once again in a nervous gesture.
Unlike Giselle, she wasn’t used to places of such fine dining and, besides, she couldn’t even recall when was the last time she was out on a date with a man. Charles never took her anywhere, apart from a few rare times in the very beginning of their relationship. Jochen caught her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, adding in a quiet whisper that she looked stunning – for the tenth time that evening.
Giselle watched the two exchange their hushed words and lovelorn glances with a knowing smile on her face. More than anything, Kamille deserved to be happy after that no-good husband of hers, and Jochen seemed to be a nice enough man for her. Alas, he belonged to the occupying forces and who knew where his fate would land him tomorrow. Giselle caught herself frowning, hoping deep inside that he wouldn’t break her sister’s heart.
“…and then, when Herr Hauptmann promotes me to a higher rank, I’ll be in charge of it.” Horst’s voice broke her concentration and Giselle chastised herself for not paying his words enough attention.
“Really? That is fascinating,” she gushed and picked up an escargot on her small fork. “Here, try it.”
Horst eyed the mollusk suspiciously, without making any attempt to take it from her. Giselle moved the fork closer to his mouth.
“Come, stop being such a scaredy cat. I won’t poison you, I promise.” Seeing his reluctance, Giselle added with a scheming gleam in her green eyes, “And if you don’t like it, I’ll make it up to you with a kiss."
The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel Page 13