The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  It was a strange thing that the occupation did, when the people of France learned how to pour out their resentment and detestation on just about anyone when baring their teeth at the real enemy was not an option. The enemy made everything worse for her already unfortunate situation, that very Boche, who was the reason for all the unwanted attention and grumbles. After their “reconciliation” as he called it once, not coming up with a better alternative in the French language, Karl made it a habit to take walks with Giselle along the Champs-Élysées, her arm on the crook of his, as if parading another one of his war trophies with the same conceited look with which he put on his crosses and other signs of recognition every time the maid delivered his uniform, pressed and in immaculate state. Only the typical Parisian dog was missing from the “idyllic” family portrait on such walks, but Giselle didn’t think twice before scooping the pooch up together with her bed, leash, and bowls and handing Coco into Violette’s awaiting arms two days after the vicious kick. A glare stopped Kamille’s protesting all at once.

  Today, Giselle marched along the drenched streets alone, stepping over puddles and passing the few German sentries, also miserable in their melancholic state, in soaked raincoats with the hoods pulled on top of their helmets. She pressed the brown leather valise towards her chest under the cloak, guarding it against the rain. A most precious possession was hidden inside, smuggled from right under her watchful tenant’s nose – a new article for La Libération, Michel Demarche’s pride and joy which had already gathered quite an audience, as he announced himself during their last meeting. It was her third article already and even more poisonous and revealing than her previous ones.

  Giselle gathered little snippets of information from all sources available to her: from Karl during their dinners (even though she was trying to be as watchful as possible with him); from Otto, when he would carelessly blabber something during an amicable chat to which she invited him from time to time; and, finally, from Horst and Jochen whenever she went over for dinner.

  It was through her that the people of Paris, and soon several other cities to which the copies of La Libération traveled, discovered that the food was lacking due to most of their farm produce going to the south – to North Africa to be precise, to sustain a rather big German Afrika Korps. It was Giselle who revealed that most factories worked for Germany now and that due to the Vichy government’s collaboration policies the British proclaimed them, the French, an enemy nation and announced their plans to start bombing those factories, killing more French people in the process. People owed it to Giselle that they learned to be careful and not to trust their acquaintances and neighbors so readily, for the Staatspolizei employed more and more agents from the local population, promising them money and ration cards for collaboration. But, it was also due to La Libération that they learned not to lose hope, for each issue always ended with good news from the North about the undefeatable British navy, with more encouraging words from Général de Gaulle, and with calls to resist in spirit until they were able to resist with weapons in their arms.

  Giselle ran up the stairs to the Demarche Publishing House and smiled at the doorman gleefully, shaking the raindrops from her cloak and hair, which still got damp even under the protection of the hood.

  “Some weather today, eh?” she remarked, pulling her valise out from under the cloak. “Is everyone here yet?”

  “Yes. I was just waiting for you to lock up, Mademoiselle Legrand.”

  After more and more rumors about unexpected raids by the Gestapo circulated around the city, Michel wisely advised his loyal concierge to lock the front door as soon as all members of the group, who gathered for “discussions” every week, were inside the building. This way, in case the Gestapo agents did show up, the concierge would at least have time to make a call before unlocking the door, thus giving Michel a much needed chance to hide any fresh articles brought to him by his writers.

  Hearing the loud clink of the heavy front door being bolted, Giselle pulled the iron doors of the elevator closed and waved at the doorman through them. Upstairs, Michel’s office was full of cigarette smoke and muffled chatter. Giselle waved at the men gathered around the desk, deeply immersed in some heated discussion, judging by their concerned looks and the number of cigarettes they must have smoked.

  “How’s everyone doing?” the blonde chirped, heading to her seat.

  Michel took the article from her hands and placed it together with the others, in a separate stack on the side of his table.

  “We have some important news, Giselle,” Demarche announced, his hand still resting on top of the newly submitted articles.

  “What is it?” Giselle cocked her head curiously and smiled at Antoine, who gallantly offered her his silver cigarette case. “Merci.”

  “A man from the Free Zone came to see me last night,” Michel continued. “A son of an old friend of mine. His father and I used to work for the same newspaper many years ago… The father died during the summer campaign, I’m afraid… The son, Etienne, was fortunate to be in the Free Zone with his mother and sisters when the new government was established, but now he believes that he owes it to his father to continue his fight.”

  “That’s understandable.” Giselle nodded. “Many young men feel the same way.”

  “Yes.” Michel cleared his throat, pondering something. “Somehow our little Libération made its way to the South.”

  “That’s great news, isn’t it?” Giselle’s eyes gleamed with pride.

  “It is, and it isn’t. You see, Etienne kept asking me if I knew who published the newspaper. After I admitted that it was I, he offered to distribute the newspaper among the population of the Free Zone, not just in Paris and its surrounding towns.”

  “You agreed, didn’t you?”

  “I promised to give him my answer tomorrow night.” Michel shot Giselle a sharp look in response to her enthusiasm. “It’s good news in one sense, and bad in another. And being the cautious and responsible people that we are, we have to weigh all the pros and cons before agreeing to something of this sort.”

  “What do we need to discuss, Michel? It’s a brilliant idea! And if he has the means of copying and distributing La Libération in the Free Zone, I say that’s just grand! We couldn’t even dream of this a month ago!”

  “Giselle, the Nazis are already searching major newspaper headquarters, looking for the people behind La Libération. We are quite a big thorn in their side as it is. Now imagine how rabid their reaction will be once they get wind of us distributing La Libération in the Free Zone as well!” Michel clasped his hands together and tilted his head to one side, awaiting Giselle’s response.

  She took a drag on her cigarette, squinting through the gray cloud of smoke. Antoine paced the room behind her back while the other two men – Pascal Thierry and Gilles Le Roux – shifted in their seats, also deep in thought.

  “I still say that it’s a chance we’ve got to take,” Giselle announced resolutely. “If we can distribute even several issues in the Free Zone before the situation here gets too dangerous for us to continue – it’s still better than nothing. People across the border need to know what is really happening to their friends and relatives in the Occupied Zone, because now they’re all being fed Vichy government propaganda, according to which the German occupation is the best thing that could happen to France next to the Second Coming.”

  The men chuckled at the joke and then sighed almost in unison.

  “It’s going to be a very dangerous undertaking,” Michel warned. “Etienne will be risking his life smuggling La Libération through the border, and then establishing the cell which will help him copy and distribute it. I don’t want his mother to mourn not only the loss of her husband but also an only son.”

  “But you can’t stop him either if that’s what he wants to do. It’s his decision, Michel, not yours.”

  “What if the Gestapo double their efforts in looking for us though?” Pascal inquired, searching Giselle’s f
ace.

  “If the Gestapo is on to us, I’ll be the first one to know,” Giselle promised confidently with a cynical smirk. “Sometimes it can be very convenient keeping such an enemy in your house.”

  “Let’s vote then,” Michel spoke, drawing everyone’s attention back to himself. “Raise your hand if you’re for the idea that La Libération travels to the south. I’ll vote the last.”

  Giselle was the first person to raise her hand. Antoine followed suit, after which there was a moment of hesitation among the other two writers. Finally, Pascal lifted his arm, and after him Gilles, who shrugged carelessly.

  “I’m voting as everyone else is voting. If you all say yes, I say yes too.”

  “It’s all decided then,” Michel concluded, after raising his arm as well. La Libération will make itself known in the Free Zone, and from there – who knows? – maybe even in Britain. Etienne says he has connections within the army as well, among the ones who ran to the UK to join de Gaulle. Only, be careful, my friends. Be very careful from now on. The Nazis won’t let it slide.”

  19

  The heavy rain was coming down in buckets, turning the ground underneath in mud. Pearls of raindrops bounced off leaves in a never-ending, angry shower, soaking clothes to the bone. Marcel lay down on his stomach, shivering both from cold and anticipation, as he peered into the distance through the thick wall of bushes. The picture in front of his eyes was the same as it was during the other four times Nicolas and he had come here to observe, to assess the situation and to learn the schedule of the patrolman so that they could carefully plan everything. After all, sabotaging a German operation, no matter how facile it seemed, was no easy feat, and especially for two inexperienced young men. Philippe had twice offered to go instead of him, but Marcel was determined to execute this plan on his own.

  After spending four consecutive Sundays watching the movement in the former wheat field, Marcel and Nicolas learned that the patrolman only checked on the two sentries, guarding the reel and wire, every three hours, after making his round on foot around the wood. Then the other patrolman changed him with him and also appeared to call out to the two guards every three more hours. The Germans all seemed to be bored out of their minds (that much Giselle was right about, Marcel noticed to himself), especially the ones who manned the wire.

  One of them, who stood guard down the hill (even though the word “stood” would do him too much of an honor given that he spent most of his time napping, and woke up only to shift position and to take another swig from his flask) would be Nicolas’s guy, Marcel decided. Immobilizing an intoxicated man would be much easier than a sober one, and Nicolas was too frail to fight him off if he put up a fight.

  The other one posed a bigger problem, for he was positioned on the edge of the wood, and a dense one at that, so getting close to him without making any suspicious noise would be much more challenging. Besides, unlike his schnapps-loving comrade, this one took his task more seriously, shifting his eyes from the book that he carried with him all the time to check the perimeter with irritating regularity.

  “We’ll have to do it in the rain,” Marcel had announced during one of their meetings a couple of weeks ago, when the five of them, including Philippe and the boys, sat in a tight circle on the floor, their heads lowered above the map. “This way they won’t hear us approach. The noise from the rain will be a perfect guise.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Philippe. “Also, it would be better if you take care of yours first, and Nicolas takes care of the drunkard after you give him a signal. This way the Boche with the book won’t notice Nicolas coming down the hill and won’t be able to warn his buddy. The latter I’m not worried about; he’ll most likely be sleeping and won’t see what’s going on across the field when you’re dealing with his comrade.”

  Working out the details of the plan in a warm, secure apartment was one thing, but lying flat on his stomach for several hours in the pouring rain, preparing to go along with it, was completely different. Marcel clenched his jaw so that his teeth didn’t chatter so loudly. He’d checked his watch only a few minutes ago: the time on which they had agreed to carry out an attack was nearing. Marcel felt the firm handle of Philippe’s gun pressing into his stomach with every ragged breath he took. The terror, the animalistic, frantic terror which had sent him off running without looking back several months ago, further and further away from the frontline, was coming back in disgusting, sweaty waves. That terror saved his freedom – or maybe even his life – back then. Now, it might turn into his worst enemy.

  The Boche sat within a few steps of him, now that Marcel had crawled so close to him that he could hear each time the man in his army issued raincoat cleared his throat. He could hear his quiet cursing in his strange, harsh language whenever his newly lit cigarette died from an unfortunate raindrop falling on its tip. Marcel stilled himself, prohibiting himself from panicking, and crept even closer, clenching a bottle with chloroform in one hand and a handkerchief in another: Philippe was more than clear on this point – immobilize them, don’t kill. The only issue that Marcel had with that order was that “immobilizing” meant getting in direct contact with a German, covering his face with that chloroform-soaked cloth, fighting off his struggling hands until he would still in his arms… But what if he managed to fight him off instead? Then what?

  “Then you use your gun,” Philippe concluded with a deadly calmness in his voice.

  Merde, he should have agreed to switch places with Philippe! He should have known he didn’t have the guts to proceed with it… he was a coward, a lousy coward and nothing else; what was he doing in the Resistance at all? Who was he fooling with all this newly found bravery and patriotism?

  Marcel noticed a movement on top of the hill across the field and realized that it was time. Yes, it was time, and also there was a young boy, a very young boy in his charge carefully treading his way down the steep surface. What about that signal, flashed in Marcel’s mind, but then he forced himself to take a deep breath and carefully uncover the bottle, holding his breath and ensuring that the wind was blowing in his direction, away from the Boche’s nose. He poured the clear liquid onto the handkerchief, soaking it completely, and slowly rose to his feet, ready to pounce on the Boche, who sat only two steps away from him.

  The pouring rain shielded his steps from the sentry’s ears, and all the German did was release a startled yelp when Marcel’s hand with a chloroform-soaked cloth landed on his face from behind his back. Marcel held both hands as hard as he could against the writhing man’s head, feeling the man’s hard helmet through the hood of his raincoat, pressed against his chin. And then, just as Marcel hoped that he had overpowered his enemy at last, the German’s hand found the rifle laying on the muddy ground, and, with his last power and on the verge of losing consciousness, the sentry pulled the trigger.

  A powerful, warning shot reverberated across the field, and Marcel, with a sense of horror that sharpened each of his senses, saw the second sentry bolt upright and grab his rifle, knowing where the shot had come from. Marcel dropped the unconscious man’s body from his arms and stood on the spot as if he was glued to it, already giving in to his fate.

  “Run, comrade! Run!!!” A desperate shout pierced the cacophony of the rain together with several shots of Nicolas’s gun. Unfortunately, neither one of them even grazed the German, who now switched his attention from his fellow guard’s assailant to the small, frail figure on top of the hill.

  Marcel’s lips moved in silent denial as the Boche lifted his weapon and took aim with the trained eye of a soldier. The boy didn’t stand a chance, and yet he continued to shoot just to die fighting, to protect his comrade even though it was his, Marcel’s, duty to protect him from a disaster like this.

  “Nicolas…”

  The scrawny figure was already falling, sliding down the hill in mud, to halt right under the iron-lined boots of his murderer.

  “No.” Marcel’s trembling fingers clenched the handle of an ax that w
as tucked in his belt on the small of his back. He charged forward before he even had a chance to consider his options. “You haven’t died for nothing, Nicolas, I promise.”

  The wet ground exploded under his feet, but Marcel had already swung his arm with a determination that he had never experienced before, and landed on top of the thick cable, cutting it in two with the blade of his ax. Another shot followed, sending chunks of mud into his eyes, but Marcel had already pivoted and taken off as fast as he could, sliding in dirt and scratching his arms and face with the spiky branches of thick growth and bushes, that clawed into his clothes as if nature itself collaborated with the Boches to prevent him from escaping.

  He ran, without looking back. He ran from the soldiers as he had done several months ago, also leaving dying comrades behind; comrades, who gave their lives so he could live. For a second, stopping to catch his breath as soon as he was out of the woods, a thought crossed his mind to put Philippe’s gun to use and to shoot the traitor with his own hands, who had just sent another innocent soul to the devils to buy several more precious hours of life for himself. But, he was too much of a coward to shoot. And so, Marcel kept on running.

  The basket was already full to the brim, yet Kamille struggled to stuff a bag of flour inside. A red and white checkered napkin lay on the counter next to the basket, to cover all the food items, neatly stacked inside, from curious eyes. Giselle’s dog barked relentlessly near the front door, and Kamille shouted at the animal without turning away from the countertop. Apparently, it was due to that high-pitched barking that Kamille didn’t hear Jochen’s steps when he entered the house and jumped like a criminal from his voice behind her back, caught on the spot red-handed.