The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  Of that – them hurting a woman that is – Giselle had never heard talking of. So, he was bluffing, nothing more, just like some of her previous lovers, who had tried to threaten or manipulate her on several rare occasions. She was too opinionated and strong-willed for them all, and even if her compatriots couldn’t have the upper hand with her, some Boche would never be the first one to do it. Giselle swore to herself that she would die first before she would submit to him or his threats. She didn’t mind him or their occupation before that, but now that he had shown his true face, he had made it personal.

  Immersed in her thoughts and still breathing heavily with barely suppressed anger, Giselle didn’t notice how they stopped at 93 Rue Lauriston in the 16th arrondissement which the local Gestapo had turned into their headquarters. She refused to even grace the Boche with a single look when he opened the door for her. They walked in silence along the marble-floored hallways with overpowering crimson swastika banners decorating each wall around them. The orderlies and officers snapped to attention at the sight of her guard, while he only nodded his acknowledgment to a rare few of them. Giselle snorted with contempt each time she heard the familiar Heil Hitler being shouted instead of a greeting.

  One of Karl’s orderlies opened the door for the two of them after giving his chief a crisp salute and disappeared as soon as Karl said something quietly to him in German.

  Giselle looked around the spacious room, which served as his personal office no doubt. Apparently, it used to belong to some French official before that; some diplomat or city council representative, who she maybe even knew. Extravagant cherry wood panels decorated the walls and the silky dark green wallpaper above them. Rich Aubusson rugs covered the hardwood floor, velvet window panels embellished the windows, and in the center of the room stood an imposing gilded mahogany desk, surrounded by three padded chairs.

  Karl moved one of them with a false chivalrous grin and motioned his head towards it as if inviting his guest to take a seat.

  “How do you find my working arrangements?”

  “The portrait has to go.” Giselle thrust her chin towards the picture of Hitler, marring the sophisticated office just with its overpowering size. Needless to say, Giselle didn’t fancy the man on it either. “Apart from that, I’m glad you kept our French interior intact.”

  She sat on the offered chair gracefully, smoothing the skirt over her lap.

  “You see, that’s what I was afraid of, Giselle.”

  She pricked her ears as he called her by her real name without twisting it into a German version, and in such a mild tone on top of it. He was onto something, that damned Boche, digging in one of his drawers under her watchful eye.

  “I was afraid that with your rebellious nature it would come to this. That you wouldn’t be satisfied with a good life and the freedom that I offered you – we all offered you, the French people – and that you would want to defy me in one way or another. Why can’t you be content with what you have? All of you? Is that some national pride of yours showing its ugly head? Why do you feel compelled to challenge our authority day by day? Why all this?” He lifted his hand with a communist leaflet in it, one of those that she had seen in Philippe’s hands. Giselle suppressed a smile, trying to keep an impassionate face. “What for? Do you want to live in a communist state now? I think not, so you’re just doing it out of spite, like spoiled rotten children. Do you know what my father used to do with me if I tried to come up with something of this sort? He would belt my back until I screamed for mercy.”

  “And look at you, you turned out just fine, didn’t you?” Giselle arched her brow sarcastically.

  Karl paused for a moment, giving her a hard glare, and returned to the papers on his table. “Yes, we did. We all did. We are disciplined and know our place. And so should you.”

  “You haven’t taken into consideration that the French aren’t Germans. We are unruly, stubborn and disobedient people who value our freedom above all. So, good luck trying to discipline us.”

  “Oh, but we will discipline you. We’ll discipline you into submission like our father disciplined us. Then I would be able to read a nice, normal newspaper in the morning and not something of this sort.”

  He thrust an outstretched arm in front of her eyes, holding a paper with an unfamiliar name on it. La Libération it read, in proud black letters, and under it – Giselle wasn’t able to contain a victorious grin this time – she recognized the title of her article, submitted to her editor under the false name, Jean Moreau. So, Michel Demarche, her fearless publisher and a fellow “unruly, disobedient French,” was able to not only print the copies but somehow distribute them so that even Karl got one on his table. She only regretted that she didn’t see Karl’s face when he realized exactly what he was holding in his hands.

  “Have you read it?” he demanded, misinterpreting her smile.

  “No. Just glad to see that at least someone has the guts to point out that nothing is as peachy in our beautiful Occupied Zone as you depict it to be in your state propaganda news.”

  “What do you have to complain about, Giselle?” he asked somewhat tiredly. “Why did you have to go against me?”

  “How did I go against you?”

  “Sneaking into my study, disappearing somewhere for twenty-four hours. What do you suggest I think if not betrayal?”

  “Ah, so we’re back to that, are we? First, I didn’t sneak into your study, and second, I didn’t disappear. I was at my sister’s.”

  Karl shuffled through one of his drawers again and took out a pair of handcuffs without uttering a word. Giselle straightened in her seat warily.

  “You were in my study, Giselle.” He circled her chair and pulled both of her arms backward, cuffing them behind the back of the chair. “Working for the intelligence, or the Gestapo, you learn certain tricks which come in very handy. One of those tricks is to attach a string in between two drawers, which won’t fall off by itself and will only move if someone pulls the drawer open. There are other options, which I won’t reveal to you in the event of you coming up with another stupid idea about rummaging through my papers once again – if you’re still alive by then of course. And now that we have both agreed that you were indeed in my study, I would like to know the reason why exactly. Have you been foolish enough to get involved with one of those criminal cells? Did you sneak in there with the purpose of obtaining information for them?”

  Giselle watched him with caution as he pulled out a pair of pliers from the same drawer. She hated to admit it, but her palms started to sweat.

  “Well? Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” He glided behind her back, but she refused to turn her head to follow his moves no matter how much this maneuver unnerved her. “Speak, Giselle. What were you looking for?”

  Giselle pondered her options for a few short seconds and decided to keep her mouth shut, calling his bluff.

  “Giselle?”

  She only smirked in response. “Well? Proceed. You wanted to interrogate me, didn’t you? Go ahead. Interrogate. I’m waiting.”

  “I would really hate to hurt you, Giselle.” She felt the cold metal squeeze a phalange of her forefinger slightly. “You know that I’m a surgeon, don’t you? And I know just the right amount of pressure needed to crash a bone.”

  The pliers dug into her skin painfully. Giselle flinched but decided to play along with this twisted game of wills. Only, she wasn’t so sure anymore as to what his intentions were.

  “If you keep being stubborn, I’ll have to go from one phalange to another, one finger to another, until I break all of them.” He pressed the pliers tighter, and Giselle had to press her tongue against her teeth to bite back the hot, stinging tears already pooling in her eyes. It started to hurt like hell as her finger went numb, with its end pulsating violently. “Do not doubt me. I’ll make you speak one way or another.”

  Suddenly, he pressed the pliers together with such brutal force that Giselle could swear she heard her bone crack. She screamed
out in agony as he twisted the ends of the instrument around her finger, adding to the searing pain.

  “Speak, I said!!!” he yelled in her ear, squeezing the pliers even harder.

  “I was looking for the letters from your wife!” Giselle shouted back the first credible lie that came to her mind, and burst into tears, dropping her head on her chest.

  “What letters?” he demanded, sounding a little confused, but at least he stopped his tormenting, for now. Giselle was grateful for that.

  “The letters… You know, the personal letters…” She kept sobbing, feverishly trying to make her words sound as plausible as possible. “I kept asking you about your wife, and you kept telling me that you didn’t have anybody at home, and I thought that you were lying to me… So I wanted to look for myself…”

  “How could you look for yourself if you don’t read German?” Karl spoke again, slightly releasing the grip on the instrument.

  “Of course I don’t, but you know us women.” Giselle sniffled, trying to look as miserable as she could. Taking into consideration how much pain she was in, it wasn’t a hard task. “We know these things, and I don’t need to read German to recognize a handwritten letter, smelling of perfume and starting with ‘Mein Lieber Karl.’ That’s how I would know that it’s from your wife.”

  “Well? Did you find something smelling of perfume?”

  She could swear that he sounded almost amused. The pliers suddenly disappeared from the top of her finger. Giselle breathed out in relief.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” He moved to stand in front of her again, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Giselle managed a one shoulder shrug.

  “Didn’t want you to think too much of yourself,” she grumbled in response, convincingly, judging by his reaction that followed. He burst out laughing.

  “And to think of it, you were the one accusing me of jealousy just thirty minutes ago.”

  “I’m not jealous. It was just curiosity.”

  “It killed the cat.”

  “I guess I should be grateful for getting away with a broken finger.” Giselle wiped her wet cheek on her shoulder.

  “Your nail is probably broken, but apart from that your finger is perfectly fine.” He moved behind her back to undo the handcuffs. “I told you I’m a surgeon, and I know anatomy too well to hurt you by accident.”

  Giselle pulled her left hand to her chest at once, inspecting the damage. The tip of her forefinger was visibly bruised and still red, and the nail had already started to turn blue, but apart from that it indeed seemed to be all right. It wasn’t getting swollen, and she could bend it at least.

  “Connard,” she hissed under her breath. “You’ll pay for this.”

  He either didn’t hear her words, or decided to ignore them. “You did it to yourself, Gisela. I didn’t want to do this to you.”

  She refused to utter a word when he helped her upwards and offered her his handkerchief. She even allowed him to take her downstairs, and into his car; but as soon as they stopped at a red light close enough to the entrance of the Metro for her to make a run for it, Giselle pushed the passenger door open and rushed outside, to the welcoming darkness of the underground.

  17

  Kamille made her way along the street in between the German lorries, pulling her daughter’s hand and urging the girl to walk faster.

  “Violette, you need to put some pep in your step, chéri,” Kamille spoke, after glancing at the big clock, which was crowning the bell tower of the church. “Madame Marceau will be very upset if we’re late again. You wouldn’t want your favorite teacher to repeat the beginning of the lesson just for you personally, would you? That would just be rude and inconsiderate.”

  “I’m hurrying, Maman,” the girl argued, tucking a loose strand of hair back under her navy blue beret. “My feet are smaller than yours, that’s why I can’t walk as fast.”

  “You can walk – and even run – fast enough when you play with Monsieur Horst and Monsieur Jochen outside, mademoiselle. So, don’t give me that.”

  They crossed the street almost running, and Kamille dived under the heavy iron gates of the school together with a few other parents. Nowadays, children mostly walked to school and back by themselves, rarely escorted by their mothers, and even more so fathers, and Kamille praised God daily that she didn’t have to worry about her little girl wandering the streets alone because her mother had to rush to work or to buy food and didn’t have time to take her to school.

  “Ah, Madame Marceau, I’m so glad you haven’t started yet.” Kamille rushed to greet the teacher, who stood on the steps of the school together with her daughter, Lili. Violette waved at her friend and the teacher, smiling widely. “I was afraid that we would be late again.”

  “Bonjour, maîtresse,” Violette chirped, standing next to the woman, who gave her a sad smile in response.

  “Bonjour, chéri. Only, I’m afraid I’m not a maîtresse anymore,” Madame Marceau spoke softly. “You better get inside, girls. I heard your new teacher is very strict when it comes to being late.”

  “But…” Violette’s searching eyes wouldn’t leave the woman, and Kamille hurried to push the girls towards the doors before they both could see the tears that stood in Madame Marceau’s eyes. She looked even gaunter and wearier than when Kamille had seem her last.

  “No ‘buts.’ Do as you’re told,” Kamille spoke with authority, nudging the girls further. “You don’t want to get in trouble with your new teacher on the first day, right?”

  As soon as Violette and Lili disappeared inside, Kamille took the teacher by the crook of her arm and pulled her away from curious ears.

  “Madame Marceau, what happened?” she inquired when they both took a seat on the bench in a school yard.

  “The headmaster told me this morning when I came to work.” The woman sighed, brushing the tears away. “Apparently there is a new law, according to which Jews can’t be teachers from now on. So, I was dismissed, together with the rest of the Jews.”

  “I didn’t know you were Jewish,” Kamille muttered, not knowing what to say.

  She had seen all the new posters with anti-Semitic propaganda, which had started to appear not that long ago, and there were more and more signs every day in the front windows of stores and cafés, declaring that Jews were not allowed inside. She even read it in the newspaper that all officials of Jewish descent had been fired from their positions… But this was simply unjust. Madame Marceau was everyone’s favorite teacher, not just Violette’s, and she cared deeply about every child in her charge as if they were her own. And now they had replaced her with some discipline-demanding collaborator, most certainly, who would demand that the little children sing that cursed Maréchal song and brainwash them into being sympathetic to the new regime as well. No, that was just… wrong.

  “I’m so sorry.” Kamille pulled off her glove and covered the teacher’s hand with hers, offering her at least this silent support. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  The woman, who stared into space without blinking for some time, as if taking in her new situation, slowly shook her head at last.

  “No. There’s nothing that can be done. It’s final and isn’t a subject for discussion, as I was explicitly told.” She shook her head again, with a bitter look in her eyes. “It’s only, I can’t imagine how we’re going to survive this winter, Lili and I. Without a job, without money… What am I going to feed her with? I could start offering to do laundry for those who can afford it, bien sûr… But who would want to hire a Jew nowadays?”

  She pulled her hand towards her mouth and started chewing on her nail, still staring at the ground in distress. Kamille sat next to her for some time, as shaken up as Madame Marceau herself, and wondering what she would do if she happened to lose her job and fearing that her little Violette would have nothing to eat in as little as the next few days. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she quickly o
pened her purse, dug out all the unused food coupons she had and dropped them in the stupefied woman’s lap.

  “Please, take these for now. It should last you for a month at least. I’m not going to use them anyway; I have German officers lodging with me, and I’m sure they have their ways when it comes to getting food, and these coupons for that matter. And I’ll bring you new ones next time when I bring Violette to play with Lili, if you don’t mind of course. And clothes and money, too. You just tell me what you need, and I’ll try to get it. I’m sure that Monsieur Hartmann won’t refuse to help me if I say that it’s for a friend.”

  “Is that the one who taught Violette how to draw?” A faint smile brightened Madame Marceau’s pale face.

  “No, that was his adjutant, Monsieur Horst.” Kamille smiled back. “But they’re both very nice people, I assure you.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Madame Blanchard.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m sure you would do the same if this happened to me. And please, call me Kamille.”

  “Augustine.” Madame Marceau offered Kamille her narrow, delicate palm and two women exchanged handshakes. “Thank you.”

  Kamille brushed her tears away and, as if a simple handshake wasn’t enough, they hugged each other firmly and held it for several moments.

  Giselle knocked on the door in the peculiar pattern which Philippe had taught her, just in case if she forgot her keys one day. Today, she hadn’t forgotten them, she simply didn’t have them, after running out of Karl’s car with only the clothes on her back. The good thing was, the sympathetic teller in the Metro bought her story about being robbed and allowed her inside without a token.

  The door creaked open just enough for her to recognize the face of one of the young boys, who Marcel and Philippe took care of – the older one. He didn’t bother unbolting it as soon as he saw who stood in front of it, only furrowed his light brow.