“Can I count you in?” the hoarse voice asked.
“Merde!”
His curse plastered grins on the faces of his men and the last traces of André’s resistance vanished.
André nodded. “What’s my mission?” What the hell was he getting himself into?
CHAPTER FIVE
YVETTE REASONED LIFE in her little village of Luceney now teetered on the edge of normalcy. France settled under occupational rule, a new government, located in the town of Vichy and governed by a man named Pétain, replaced the French Republic and ordinary life continued, if somewhat strained, under familiar routine.
The shot in the garden changed her perception of reality. The blood, gushing from her grandpère’s chest, pushed her over that imaginary ledge.
“No!” Yvette screamed. She ran to his side and fell to her knees. She cradled his head in her lap and covered the wound with her hands. Warm blood oozed between her fingers.
Sounds, muted and sharp at the same time, bombarded her.
Her cousin, Louise, shouted French obscenities while pounding the back of a young German soldier. Ignoring her, his eyes uncaring, he stood at attention, his arms laden with wine he stole from their cellar.
The gendarme, the French police officer she had believed to be their friend, mopped his bald head with a white handkerchief.
A second soldier gripped a confiscated bicycle to the hysterical cries of her ten-year-old sister. German words Yvette didn’t understand bounced around her mind.
Grandpère’s pipe lay on the ground beside him, the smoke still wafting. Only minutes ago, the smell of his spicy tobacco reassured her she was home.
Two days ago, she had sat calmly in this very garden watching a yellow butterfly inhale sweet nectar as she dreamed about her future. Now vomit and hysteria welled within her and malicious evil cast its ugly shadow over everything she held dear to her heart.
Tears clouded Yvette’s eyes, but fearing for her cousin’s safety, she blinked them away trying to focus. “Louise, vien ici, maintenant. Now!” A brisk wave brought her cousin to her side. “Go get Doc.”
More blood stained Grandpère’s white shirt as she pressed her shaking fingers deeper into his chest trying to stop the flow.
Panic and guilt hammered her temples.
“Your papers,” one soldier demanded in French with a heavy German accent.
This was all her fault. She should have said something. Warned them. Confronted Grandpère. Maybe then, none of this would be happening. Signs of menace against intellectuals grew. Books, that according to the German ambassador poisoned French public opinion, were banned. Grandpère was an obsessive reader and a published author. A naval general, during the Great War, some of his books were anti-German.
“We have American papers,” Yvette managed to say with choked emotion. Being American born protected her mother, her sister and herself. Grandpère and her brother, being French, didn't have the same protection. The thought sent a wave of panic to her stomach.
Just last week Grandpère reminded her that W. Bullitt, the US ambassador, ordered all American citizens to return to the states. She wouldn't even consider leaving, despite his insistence it would be safer. He was like that, always thinking about her well-being. Fighting tears, Yvette looked back at her grandpère. How could he ever think she would leave him.
“American--” The officer spat. “Your papers.”
Louise’s gaze rose to the all-imposing German whose potbelly protruded like his last meal still sat waiting to be digested. He shoved his pistol back into the holster at his side and his gut jiggled. She studied him not with fear, but with hate and defiance, and Yvette felt the loss of her cousin’s youth. To witness such horror at fifteen was a crime.
Guilt, once again, seeped through and Yvette lost herself in her thoughts. She had blamed Louise’s association with an Italian named Vitorio for this disaster. Just last week she had heard them arguing. This morning, when the Gestapo arrived at their home, she was sure Vitorio had denounced her family. She believed her cousin’s boyfriend had accused them of some false crime. After all, she had assured herself, the Italians sided with the Germans.
“Ma petite. She is young. Let her live her life,” Grandpère had said with a twinkle in his eye, referring to their budding youthful love. “Not every Italian sides with Mussolini,” he’d insisted.
Now staring at the printing press, the catalyst causing this nightmare, Yvette knew the truth—and it ate at her. She recalled the hidden article she had found in their cellar. Grandpère had quoted Winston Churchill.
“The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France. We shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength.”
What had he been thinking? His foolish patriotic cry placed her family in danger. People who spoke out against the Vichy government’s demand for compliance, with the Germans, were being arrested. After reading her grandpère’s paper, she feared for his life.
Her hands shook as she held them against her grandpère’s chest. Now look where this has led to…
Louise ran to the house, then hurried out, their documents clenched in her hand. “Here.” She shoved the credentials into a solid chest. Anger crept up the soldier’s neck and Yvette feared he would strike her cousin.
“Oh mon dieu! Mon dieu.” The gendarme, she knew as Monsieur Le Blanc, ran his fat hand across his mouth and stared at Grandpère. “Silly man. Stupide. Why did you not give the officer the names he demanded? Now look what you have done.”
“You are the police. You are supposed to protect us,” Yvette screamed. “He was your friend.” She began to rock as hysteria took over. Her future… everyone she loved was slipping away from her. “How could you escort them here? You are one of them. Vichy puppet. Traitor to your people; to your country.”
Grandpère gripped her wrist with strong fingers, despite his eighty years and the pain she knew he felt. “Mais, no,” he protested.
Just like him to worry about her—to let her know he did not blame his friend—just like her beloved Grandpère not to give up the names of those who collaborated on the paper with him.
A sob welled in Yvette’s throat. Her eyes stung with held back tears.
“I am so sorry. So sorry.” Le Blanc knelt beside Grandpѐre. “Why, my friend, did you go for his gun? It was, after all, only a bicycle. You should have let them have it.”
That bicycle was the only bit of normalcy, her sister had. It didn’t surprise Yvette Grandpѐre had fought to keep Vero’s prized possession. She wished he hadn’t.
The German officer stepped forward, snapped his fingers, then pointed to her and the young soldier ran over to his side.
Yvette’s heart kicked her ribs.
Le Blanc stood and argued with the officer, “They know nothing. She knows nothing about his activities. You have my word.”
But she did. She did know and she felt sick.
Their gazes darted back and forth at her. The young officer handed their documents to his superior. Silently, the Commander scanned the papers.
Did the Germans believe Le Blanc? Would they take her away? Throw her in jail or worse? Her pulse threatened to tear through her neck.
The officer shouted what appeared to be orders, spun on his heel and walked out the gate. His men followed, taking with them the printing press, bicycle and an arm-full of wine, and Yvette’s held breath gushed out.
“Ma petite.”
Yvette leaned closer to her grandpѐre. “Shh… save your breath… doc will be here shortly.”
“Listen ma petite fille… the cellar. Go. Find my special bottle… the reserve…” he wheezed. “Top shelf behind the burgundy we made last ye--’
“Be still. Please. Grandpѐre, please.”
Wine. Yvette shook her head. He was delirious, wanting wine. Because of her consumption of too much port, and a slip of to
ngue, her grandpère lay dying. Because of her betrayal; because she had confided in someone she had admired, even thought she had loved.
“You must… get it and…” His once lively eyes dulled with pain and determination.
“If you wish. But only if Doc says it’s ok. Bon?”
René had denounced them. The minute she saw the printing press she knew. René had sent the Gestapo to their home. Thinking back to the day she’d been distraught over her grandpère’s article, René had been overly interested in her family and she wondered, now, if he’d had a suspicion about her grandpère. René convinced her she could trust him. He said he loved her and, despite the image of him rifling through the young man’s pockets and the lack of sympathy in his eyes, she told herself she was wrong about him. The minute she’d told him her suspicions she regretted her words. In his eyes, she saw a coldness she had never noticed. In his embrace, she felt a phoniness that only now, she realized, was a ploy to get her to confide in him. How stupid.
“Écouter! Listen.” Her grandpère’s command pulled Yvette from her trance. He tried to sit up and more blood poured out between her fingers.
She was listening, even though panic marched across her chest, as intrusive as the German soldiers who had just left their home. He could not die. He just could not. He was the glue that held the family together. Grandpère… Please do not leave me. I can’t go on without you…
“The message. You must deliver the message. Very important.” He gripped her collar. “You understand?”
“Yes. Lie back.” No. Her world spun out of control and he spoke about messages? “Help is coming.” This was all her fault. Tears welled and she fought them; for Grandpère’s sake, she fought them.
“Take the train to Lyon. La Croix-Rousse--Find Monsieur DeParc… give the paper to him-only him.
“Shh- be still… please…” She wasn’t going anywhere.
Yvette felt the cool wind blow against her heated cheek, though she felt numb. She could see leaves drifting to the ground, but his words barely registered. “I don’t want to lose you.”
She thought about her mother who, wallowing in misery, lay in bed and about her newborn brother. Her younger sister, Vero, could not take care of anyone and her father had abandoned them.
“Go to Lyon…then find your papa…in Marseille.” He wheezed.
“Don’t leave me,” Yvette pleaded as she squeezed his hand.
“Please--”
“He can help. Go home; back to America. Promise me,” he demanded weakly, his voice filled with pain.”
“I promise.”
Grandpère’s eyes rolled, and thinking him dead, Yvette screamed. Frantically, she tried to shake him back to life.
“You must trust no one,” he said under his breath.
Then, no breath came.
***
Three days later, after a quick burial, Yvette sat in a crowded compartment and listened to the clickity clank of the train’s wheels rolling over the rails, taking her away from her home.
Numb. She felt so numb, even though a million thoughts batted her temples.
She clutched her birdcage on her lap.
René betrayed her confidence. She knew it to be true. She confronted him at the burial site and he admitted he denounced them; saved his own hide. He didn’t want to be associated with anyone who threatened the well-being of his country. He went on to say that, anyone who insisted on taking up arms went against the Vichy government. He had to take a side, he told her, and her family was on the wrong one. He never loved her. She pushed the telltale signs away, his lack of interest in her dreams, the way he never really seemed to pay attention to her and the way his eyes followed every woman in the room. Not once, while she had been in Paris had he tried to reach her. She’d made plans, thought René was the one she was meant to spend the rest of her life with. What kind of future was left for her?
Tears welled in Yvette’s eyes. Grandpère… how was she to go on knowing when she came home he wouldn’t be there? She closed her eyes. Grandpère, I’m so afraid. The thought of gallivanting all over the countryside did not sit well with her stomach, but she promised him after Lyon she would continue down to Marseille to see her father. That thought just added to her stomach ache.
She clutched the birdcage finding small comfort in her beloved pet’s presence. Leaving Pierre, her canary, behind was out of the question, though she knew the idea to be foolish. Her mother couldn’t take care of anyone, let alone herself, and more than likely, her treasured pet would have met his demise before her return. Besides, she mused, he was the perfect cover. She hoped no one would give them a second thought, hoped no one would suspect they carried a message she feared put her in harm’s way.
The familiar farmland gave way to hills and valleys and the deeper they got into the region, the more anxious she became. This was the first time since she’d left America, at the age of two, that she was traveling anywhere other than back and forth to Paris and she hated not knowing what to expect or where she would stay.
She closed her eyes, desperately wanting to escape from reality. Despite a train full of people, she felt utterly alone, frightened by an uncertain future with no one to lean on. One horrible moment, one foolish promise now spun her life toward a path of the unknown; drew her away from the comfort of those she loved. She should have stayed home. She was a creature of habit, she reasoned, this was so far out of character that last night she’d gotten very little sleep. Her siblings needed her. Who would take care of the family? The servants had left with the crowds.
After Grandpère’s death, more Germans came to town. Nightmares of big black motorcycles barreling down the dirt street disrupted her sleep. Those on foot sang, goose-stepping in unison. Despite the language barrier, she could hear the emotion in their song. Try as she may, holding on to her hatred toward them, she couldn’t get that melodic, beautiful sound out of her head.
Yvette thought about the argument she’d had with her mother. Grandpère is gone and there is nothing you can do except respect his wishes, mother had said. She had no idea about the trip to Marseille and Yvette believed if mother had known, she might not be so quick to insist she leave. She felt guilty leaving them behind, but her mother refused to travel with a pack of children and no help.
The train slowed as it approached the station. On the platform, German soldiers stood at attention. As they boarded the train, people shuffled through their belongings for their documents. A hush settled over the compartment in anticipation. Yvette’s proof of citizenship shook in her fingers. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and dropped her hand in her lap.
Pierre was quiet; thank the dear lord, for her nerves were taut enough without his high-pitched chirping. The last thing she needed was for him to draw attention. The last thing she needed was to have someone find Grandpère’s message hidden in the bottom of the cage. The words, written with a shaky hand, made no sense. The grapes are rotting on the vine. It’s time to bring them in. The wine is ripe. But her grandpère’s warning was embedded in her brain. Trust no one. Whatever cryptic message lay hidden under the paper, it put her in danger.
The compartment door slid open and Yvette’s heart skipped a beat.
Two soldiers stood in the corridor. One man, decorated with metals that would way down a rock, appeared to be the superior. He had a wide pronounced brow. His chin melted into his neck and his short-cropped silver hair seemed plastered to his head. A long gray mustache turned slightly down over a frown.
Yvette’s gaze slid past the elderly man to the light-haired soldier who studied her with intense blue eyes. Broad-shouldered, about six feet, two, lean and muscular, he dominated the small doorway. His countenance rigid, like one accustomed to enduring the routine of war, he stood at attention, his eyes assessing everyone and everything.
His superior entered the compartment with an air of bitter disgust.
The routine was common place. Everyone held out traveling papers. Her heart pound
ing, Yvette waited and hoped her American papers would be of no interest to them.
The interrogation began in German and she didn’t respond, which brought a heated tone to the superior’s voice. He snapped something to the soldier who stood silently at the door. The younger man stepped forward, his gait like one of the wooden soldiers from the Laurel and Hardy movie Babes in Toyland.
“My commandant wants to know what kind of name Matikunas is,” he said in French.
Her father’s name was Lithuanian, a country annexed by Nazi Germany and placed under German civil administration. The Poles, especially the elite, became subject to mass murder. Was he fishing to see if she was Polish?
“I am an American,” Yvette insisted without further commentary.
Her remark brought a scowl to the commander’s face. He pointed to her birdcage and Yvette’s pulse leapt.
When he ripped off the cloth cover, the startled bird darted back and forth in the cage. Pierre’s loud chirp filled the compartment. The German opened the door and stuck his hand inside.
“How dare you,” Yvette spat, in English, knowing he could not understand her. She did not care. “I hope he bites you.”
He turned a sinister look upon her and her body tightened.
The nervous bird hopped from one perch to the other.
The German began to peel up the newspaper lining the bottom of the cage.
Color drained from Yvette’s face. If he finds the note...dear Lord… what will he do? Her teeth cut into her lip. She had heard horror stories of people brutalized, thrown in prison for far less. Grandpère’s death flashed before her eyes. Thinking about the possibilities brought a cold sweat to her brow. Calm down, she told herself. Breathe. Breathe.
The German’s fingers were inches away from discovering the hidden message.
Yvette held her breath...
…and Pierre pooped on his hand.
The scene played out in a comic rush. Red-faced, swearing, or so she guessed, the German pulled out his hand and snatched a handkerchief from the breast pocket of the gentleman sitting opposite her, who, in French, called him a German pig.
Behind The Mask Page 4