Behind The Mask

by Marianne Petit

  Yvette suppressed a grin.

  Pierre broke out in song.

  The commander spun on his heel. He said something to the handsome soldier in the corridor, stomped outside, then slammed open the next compartment.

  The train whistle blew and the clanking of wheels, picking up speed vibrated throughout the compartment.

  The soldier, who had stood at attention, strode in.

  A jolt of fear attacked Yvette's chest, yet she was struck by the strong sensual lines of his face. A muscle clenched in his narrow jaw. Eyes, like chips of glacial ice, hard and sharp, stared at her. This man seemed far more dangerous than his superior on so many levels.

  He stepped up to her seat and bent before her, his face inches from hers. “You are either one brave or lucky woman,” he whispered in English.

  He understood her! She froze.

  Despite the dangerous situation, she was keenly aware of his vitality, of the waves in his sandy hair and his wide forehead. Her senses leapt to life by the warm breath near her ear and the clean scent of freshly washed hair. She felt as though they were the only two people in the small room. As though they shared, a private moment meant for lovers. Her hands trembled.

  Before she could respond, he continued. “Lucky for you that bird did not bite him.” The threat had an odd lilt, its tone almost amused. He straightened and stood over her. Whatever compassion she thought she sensed disappeared behind a mask of indifference.

  “My commander is not happy,” he said in French. “He has instructed me to find out why an unchaperoned woman of your age, I surmise you are about nineteen, is traveling alone. He believes you pose a threat. Would you care to explain?” His voice took on an air of superiority.

  “I am quite adept at taking care of myself and I’m twenty one.”

  “Get up,” he ordered. “Gather your things.”

  Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. Her legs refused to move.

  He grabbed her arm. “Now.” He yanked her from her seat.

  No one in the compartment made a move to help and she understood their fear.

  His touch disgusted her and, for a moment, reined her terror. She yanked free. “My bag.” Before she could reach up for her suitcase, the German grabbed the satchel. She pushed past him and stepped into the corridor. Once again, he grabbed her arm. His gait quick, he practically dragged her down the passageway. A few times the birdcage bumped the wall and Pierre’s loud chirping filled the corridor.

  Yvette clamped her mouth shut, suppressing the barbed words on her tongue. She was in enough trouble. As she walked, she deliberated on how she was going to ditch the hidden message. Leaving Pierre behind was not an option. When they approached the lavatory, she came up with a plan. "I have--"

  “In here,” he ordered as he pushed open the door and shoved her inside. “Stay put.” The door thud shut.

  Yvette dropped onto the small toilet. What in the world had just happened? Quickly she slid out the bottom of the cage and pulled out the note. She scribbled the words on the tiniest piece of paper she could find, slipped off the metal casing of Grandpère’s cigar lighter and neatly pressed the message inside the casing, something, she realized, she should have thought about doing earlier.

  Footsteps stopped outside her door.

  Her fingers shaking, she managed to put the lighter back together as the door squeaked open. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the original message on the floor. A long arm shoved a pair of pants, shirt and jacket at her. Yvette's pulse pounded as she slowly eased her foot over the paper.

  “Put this on, lock the door and stay quiet,” the familiar voice ordered.

  Before she could say a word, the door closed. This time she locked it. Dumbfounded, Yvette stood in the cramped space and stared at the clothes. Whose side was he on? Why help her? Or was he? If this was some perverse game… no, he didn’t appear to be the kind of man who played games.

  Yvette picked up the incriminating note, opened the toilet, ripped up the message and flushed the paper onto the tracks.

  She struggled out of her clothes and slipped on the pants that surprisingly, fit rather well, securing them around her small waist with a belt, a size too big. The shirt fit a little snugly, the jacket fit perfectly. The thought that he’d sized her up sent an uncomfortable pang to her stomach. Her nerves throbbed at the base of her throat as she waited for his next move.

  An hour passed–then another.

  The clanking of metal on rails and rocking of the train had a soothing quality and finally convinced, for the moment, she was safe, Yvette's heart settled back to a normal beat. She was just about dozing when the train slowed and a knock snapped her to attention.

  “Open up.”

  He was back. Her heart collided with her ribs.

  "Hurry, there’s not much time,” he ordered.

  She unlocked the door.

  He grabbed the birdcage.

  “What do you think--”

  “Keep your head down and your mouth shut,” he said, his tone stern. With a heavy hand, he plopped a blue pillbox hat on her head. “Follow my lead.”

  At the end of the corridor, a woman and her little girl stood waiting. As they approached them, Yvette noticed they had her suitcase. The German handed the cage to child. Her mother took her purse.

  “Wait!” Grandpère’s lighter was in her pocketbook. She couldn’t put them in danger.

  “You’ll get him back,” he whispered.

  “A smoke. I need a smoke.” She reached inside her bag and pulled out the lighter.

  The German eyed her with an odd expression, then pivoted on his heel.

  She followed him into the next compartment.

  The rail car was full of men wearing the same outfit she wore: khaki pants, a white shirt beneath a khaki jacket and blue and gold hat.

  “Foreign Legion.” Short and to the point was his explanation. He was certainly a man of few words. “A dangerous lot. Keep your distance.”

  “How can I--”

  “Get off with them. The lost child will be a distraction.”

  Yvette watched as the mother started to walk away, leaving her daughter behind.

  “Take her hand, “The German whispered beside her. “You’re on your own from here.”

  “But--”

  “Go. Now.” He practically pushed her into the back of the tall, thin man in front of her. She was about to protest when she noticed, over her shoulder, the approaching German soldiers, one in particular—the Commander.

  Yvette watched her savior walk away and greet his fellow comrades. For as long as she lived, she would never forget the kind German with the slight limp in his gait, who might have just saved her life.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ANDRÉ SAT IN THE SMOKY room and ordered whiskey. This, being an establishment that served German officers, he figured the bar would be well stocked and he needed the drink to drown out the disgust he felt wearing the German uniform. Across the bar, topless women danced in front of a group of officers who treated them like dirt beneath their fingernails. They called them derogatory names, filthy peasants, dirty immigrants, and all the while they laughed and fondled the young girls.

  André itched for a fight, but his mission was clear: learn what you can about Operation Sea Lion, the planned invasion of England.

  A short, balding man wearing spectacles over his hooked nose weaved his way to the bar and sat. He ordered a drink, then turned to André. “Good? Huh?” His bushy eyebrows arched as he tilted his head toward the women.

  André forced a grin and nodded.

  Those women were not on his mind. Those women, unlike the strawberry- blonde beauty from the train, did not get him hot and sweaty. For the last hour, images of full pouting rosy lips and her fair, delicate complexion appeared in his thoughts. He could tell by looking at her, she was of fine breeding and not used to soiling her hands. And, she’d been crying. Her lids were swollen, her blue-green eyes clouded with pools of emotion. He vividly recalled
the flush on her cheeks as he leaned close to whisper in her ear and the flowery scent of her perfume. Not smoke, he realized. She wasn’t a smoker. She’d transferred whatever she had been hiding under that birdcage into the cigarette lighter.

  Though she’d tried to conceal her fear it had shouted at him loud and clear. The lieutenant had smelled her fear as well and had gone to inform his higher-ranking officer. That beauty had no idea of the danger she’d been facing. Whatever was hidden in her birdcage could have meant her death and a beauty like that—what a shame that would have been.

  André downed another drink and turned to the man beside him. It was hard not to rip the swastika off his arm and he had to remind himself that he too wore the Nazi emblem. Blending, he reassured himself, was the only way to learn all he could about the German’s invasion plan.

  “Damn shame we lost Operation Eagle Attack,” André said in his best German.

  “We didn’t have a chance in hell.” The German slid his tortoiseshell glasses over the bridge of his nose. “Barges weren’t designed for use in the open sea. They slowed us down. We were vulnerable.”

  “Yeah, we lost a hell of a lot of artillery and tanks,” André agreed. “Without the right landing craft we’d need to capture a port,” he leaned closer, “which, between you and me, seemed unlikely, given the Brits coastal defenses around the southeastern harbors.”

  The German’s gaze darted around the room, then back at André. “Heard tell there was a meeting.” His voice dropped lower.”Our Führer met with Göring and Gerd von Rundstedt.”

  If Hitler spoke with the Commander of the German air force and one of the Army’s highest Field Marshals, strategies, to cross the English Channel and invade Britain were being discussed. Reports stated the chief of the Abwehr, Admiral Canaris, had begun an intelligence attack against the British Isles to provide the Wehrmacht with the information it needed for battle.

  “Wish I could’ve been a fly on that wall.” André raised his drink and the two men clicked glasses in agreement.

  “You and me both.”

  André studied the man beside him. A postal worker had sent André a picture of him, identifying him as one of Hitler’s aides. Known to have a “loose tongue” André had been instructed to get him to spill Intel.

  A young woman walked into the bar. At first glance, André didn’t recognize her, though she looked familiar. Then it hit him. They were from the same town. Letty, once a pretty brunette, looked worn, haggard, wearing her present occupation, one of prostitution, on her face. She glanced at him, her brow drawn in puzzlement.

  Damn. She’d recognized him

  “I got one better,” The German said beside him. “I got it first hand.”

  André drew his attention back into the conversation. He had to remain calm though his cover was about to be blown. He had to finish this. “Care to share? I won’t tell a soul.”

  Letty headed in his direction.

  Beside him, the German looked hesitant and swirled the contents of his drink.

  Wearing a look of confusion on her face, Letty continued to walk toward him. She’d recognized him all right.

  “Probably shouldn’t,” he said. “But, well…we’ll all know soon enough.”

  “Ah, come on…” André’s heart began to pound. “I can keep a secret.”

  Two minutes. Two minutes before Letty either kept her mouth shut or destroyed him.

  André leaned in. “Promise I won’t blow our Führer’s big announcement,”

  “Sure, why not,” he shrugged. “There’s opposition, talk that the attack should be postponed. The operation requires air and naval supremacy over the English Channel, which we are not prepared for at this time. The earliest date to embark will be in September.”

  “September? Generally the weather is bad, the fog too heavy and the water’s rough,” André said, keeping his gaze on Letty.

  One minute…

  “Exactly! We will lose our barges, rendering our large fleets helpless since unloading supplies would be a disaster in choppy waters. Between you and me, I believe our Fuehrer is hesitant. The Brits have a vastly stronger Navy. But you didn’t hear any of this from me,” he concluded.

  André pushed his stool away from the bar and stood. “Thanks for the info, but I got an itch for that one,” he indicated to Letty, “can’t put it off any longer.” He winked.

  “Monsieur--” Letty began.

  “If you’re asking, I’m paying,” he said in German, loud enough for everyone’s benefit. He grabbed her arm before she could open her mouth again. “Don’t say a word,” he whispered in French then kissed her neck.

  He walked her quickly to the stairs and threw a handful of paper currency on a table. “You’d better be worth every mark.” He slapped her ass and the men in the room laughed. They whistled and hooted as he gave her a quick shove up the steps.

  Upstairs, André opened a bedroom door, then slammed it shut. The sound vibrated through the hall. Satisfied that everyone heard the noise downstairs, he turned to Letty. “No. I did not switch sides.”

  “Monsieur Rinaldo I do not understand.”

  “And it’s safer if you don’t. Is there another way out of here?”

  “Backstairs. Follow me.”

  They walked in silence until they found themselves in an alleyway.

  Certain no one followed them André turned to Letty. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “It’s a job.”

  “Look,” he reached into his pocket. “I know it’s German, but,” he pressed the cash into her hand. “Get out while you can. You’re better than this.”

  Ashamed, she shuffled her feet and glanced downward. “Things have been difficult. Papa is gone. We need money--”

  “You don’t need to explain.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, comforting her anxieties, realizing her plight. So many desperate women had no place to turn to for money. Their men were gone to German work camps or to fight. They were on their own, relying on themselves for the first time, struggling to survive.

  “Merci.” She shoved the currency in her pocket.

  “You are welcome. Just promise me.” He knew she’d be back in that bar before the night’s end.

  She nodded.

  He’d done his best to save her, but understood she had no choice.

  “You didn’t see me,” he said.

  “You are a ghost.”

  Could he believe her? Would she denounce him if the chance presented itself for her benefit? He wasn’t sure.

  “Long live France,” he said in French.

  “Vive la France,” she replied, echoing his sentiments.

  With any luck, he might be safe after all, although this was war. And one never knew what would happen from one day to the next.

  ***

  Yvette clutched the cigarette lighter in her hand and tried to bury her body into a corner of the crowded train. She kept her head down, hoping no one would pay her any mind.

  The little girl beside her stared out the window and the birdcage sat on the floor between them.

  An intriguing man dressed in a legionnaire’s uniform, identical to hers, stepped up to her and Yvette’s heart seemed to stop. From under the rim of her hat, she stole a glance. Tall, his complexion tan, he looked like a character from an Arabian storybook. His dark, seemingly pupil-less eyes swept over her and lingered on her breasts. She gave a casual tug to her jacket.

  “Smoke?” he asked as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette.

  It took her a moment to realize he noticed her lighter.

  Afraid her voice would betray her, she nodded, took the cigarette and hoped it would not go much further. When he didn’t leave, she hesitantly lit the tobacco. The minute she inhaled, she broke out into a coughing spasm. Her Arabian knight pounded her back so hard she thought for sure he had knocked some teeth loose.

  “Happens when it’s your first.”

  “Mme,” she agreed, her jaw tense, her gaze to the grou
nd.

  “You’ll get used to it.” He grabbed the lighter from her hand.

  Yvette felt the color drain from her face. Protesting was not an option. She watched the slow burn of the cigarette between her fingers while her erratic pulse pounded her neck and perspiration dripped between her breasts.

  After a few puffs, that felt like a lifetime, he handed the lighter back to her. She tried to remain calm, but her nerves jumped.

  What if he started asking her questions? What if her guise was laughable? What if… her mind spun and be it her frazzled emotions or the smoke lingering in her throat, but she suddenly felt ill.

  “Thanks for the smoke,” he said then strolled past her into the next car.

  Relieved, Yvette crushed the cigarette under her foot, closed her eyes and prayed everyone would just leave her alone.

  It took over an hour for the Legionnaires to get off the train. Blending in, Yvette stepped onto the platform clutching the hand of the little girl who cried obsessively. Anyone looking at them would have thought the child severely distraught. Thank the dear Lord, she was a good actress because they walked right past the German soldiers, who didn’t even glance in her direction.

  The child saw her mother and dragged Yvette over.

  “Merci,” Yvette said. Thanking them was not enough for all they had done for her. Nevertheless, saying anything else put them in jeopardy. Quickly, she unchained the angel pendant she wore around her neck and bent in front of the little girl. “What is your name,” she asked.

  “Daniah.”

  “Well, Daniah, pour la bonne-chance," Yvette said as she placed her lucky charm in the little girl’s palm.

  The woman smiled and suggested her daughter hand over the birdcage.

  Yvette waved goodbye and headed into town.

  The city of Lyon was a maze of red rooftops and winding narrow cobblestone streets.

  She found a hotel, changed her clothes and headed for the La Croix-Rousse quarter of town where, she believed her grandpère had suggested, she would find Monsieur DeParc.