Behind The Mask

by Marianne Petit

  Understanding the code for, ‘I am with the Movement,’ Jacques smiled. “Are you sure Bénédictine is not more to your taste?

  “I prefer the taste of apple brandy to that of a Cognac based drink,” André replied, confident he said the correct code response, confirming he was with the resistance network.

  Jacques nodded. “I believe I have a bottle downstairs.”

  As soon as they were down in the cellar, André turned to Jacques. “Can I count you in our little group?"

  Jacques shook his head. “If our own Navy couldn’t defeat the Nazis, and the Brits, well, they believe we are of little use to them, what can we lowly citizens do? Churchill now looks to the Americans for help. We have been written off.”

  Without the help of able-bodied men and women, Germany would win. For the sake of all those friends he had lost André wasn’t going to leave here without a yes.

  “We must refuse to accept the armistice,” he insisted. “If we do nothing more than provide escape networks for our allies, work on tracks to inform our people of the truth and oppose our enemy’s propaganda, then we successfully thwart our enemy.”

  “Our posts are censored. Telephone operators listen in on our calls. Our country is being raped,” André continued as he unfolded a leaflet he'd ripped off a wall. "Have you seen this latest list of forbidden behaviors?” He shoved the paper toward Jacques then jerked his hand back. “It reads…

  One: No hostility to Germans.

  Two: No helping former French soldiers or anyone attempting to cross the free zone.

  Three: No photographs shall be taken outdoors.

  No displaying of the French flag; foreign propaganda is strictly banned.

  No public affection, and on and on.”

  He waved his hand. “No one has the right to dictate.” André began to pace. “Does it not anger you that de Gaulle, leader of free France, has been condemned to death by that Vichy puppet Pétain, who says we are a people conquered? Our own government has turned upon one of our leaders. It is up to us, the people to fight.”

  A sorrowful expression fell upon Jacques’s face. He sank into a nearby chair.

  André placed a hand on his shoulder. “We must resist. Though we fight without uniforms, or without an army behind us, resisting will be our battle cry. We must not give up, or give in to our oppressors. If we stand together, we will succeed. Our country has surrendered. Our spirits must not.”

  Jacques made no comment and before André could think of a way to convince him, Jacques stood, grabbed the paper and glanced at the list. “No kissing in public? Mon dieu! I am in.” He grinned, extended his hand and they shook. “Vive la France.”

  “For France,” André repeated, satisfied that one more body was willing to stand up and fight.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING came too quickly. At the sound of Pierre’s merry chirping, Yvette dragged herself from under the downy white comforter.

  She’d gotten very little sleep. A pair of brilliant blue eyes had haunted her. The feel of strong arms shielding her from harm and at the same time threatening to turn her over to the police had kept her tossing and turning.

  His comment that she had been leading him on annoyed her as much now, as it had then. What did that mean? She certainly hadn’t flirted with him. That was preposterous!

  Yvette flopped back against the headboard and dragged the comforter over her head, wishing she could stay hidden beneath the blanket’s safe haven; wishing she could stay in bed, close her eyes and just escape. She dreaded today’s meeting; dreaded seeing him again. She curled a strand of long hair around her finger and debated whether or not to get out of bed and meet Monsieur… she realized she had never gotten the German’s last name.

  Truth was she had no choice. She threw back the covers; no choice but to meet him. His threat had been all too real—breakfast with him or turning her over to the authorities. He knew she was hiding something in the bird cage.

  She flung open her suitcase and turned to Pierre. “Well, I certainly will not eat with him.” Her statement gave her a small sense of satisfaction.

  As Yvette closed the last button of her black suit jacket, she concluded that standing the German up would be rude and unladylike.

  Deciding it would be safer to transfer all her money from her bags to her pocketbook, she placed the currency inside the red leather zippered compartment and snapped her purse shut. Her mother had insisted she keep the money in her suitcase, that it was safe there. Having lost all her painting supplies that day at the station, she had disagreed; but in the end, it wasn’t worth the argument. At least they both agreed losing the money would not only be careless, but a heavy blow when money was the difference between sleeping in the cold or on a soft mattress. The thought too awful to revisit, she slipped on her white kid gloves, grabbed her pocketbook, glanced in the mirror, adjusted her wide-brimmed hat to sit perfectly and then closed the hotel door behind her.

  Walking leisurely down the carpeted burgundy stairs, she paused to admire the stained glass arched windows. The morning sun shone onto the deep yellow walls, giving the hall a warm glow and casting lacy patterns on the wall behind the filigreed brass railing that spiraled up the stairs.

  Not in a hurry to meet up with the German she paused, again, in the lobby and stared up at the circular hand-painted blue ceiling, losing herself in the soft pastels where cherubs leisurely lay on fluffy clouds, their arrows pointed to the heavens. She studied the brush strokes, memorizing the detail, noticed the different shading and the way the artist brought in light and three-dimensional depth.

  A sharp tug yanked Yvette’s arm downward. It took her startled mind a second to realize she no longer had her purse.

  “Thief!” Her shrill scream pierced the silence. She pointed to the dark-haired, thin man dashing across the lobby. “Somebody help. He stole my purse.”

  The concierge darted from behind the counter and ran through the front doors. A minute later, he came back empty-handed. “I am sorry Mademoiselle.”

  A cold sweat broke out on Yvette’s forehead. Her knees wobbled and she eased down into a chair.

  “A glass of water, perhaps,” he suggested and snapped his fingers. A young woman hurried over and handed Yvette a glass.

  “I… I don’t believe it.” She took a sip of water, then handed the goblet back. “What am I to do? All my money--” she wrung her hands together, “is in my purse.”

  “I am sorry there is little I can do. Perhaps you have family--”

  She shook her head. A vision of her mother’s disapproval flashed before her eyes.

  “Friends?”

  Again, she shook her head.

  “I am going to have to ask you to leave,” he said, his voice thin and apologetic.

  “Pardon?” Yvette looked up at the concierge, his words barely registering. Then they hit her like a locomotive in the stomach.

  “We are in need of rooms and you--”

  “My bag is already packed.” Yvette jerked from her seat. It was a lie, but she would not give him the satisfaction of kicking her out. “See to it that my bird is kept warm. I shall return after my breakfast.”

  It took some effort to cross the lobby in a dignified manner, but she managed to keep her shoulders high and the air about her unruffled. When she stepped outside her shoulders dropped. Her legs weak, she leaned back against the building.

  What was she to do? Where was she to go? She stared at the street, her thoughts scattered. How was she to return home without money for train fare?

  Her horrible experience leaving Paris came back to haunt her. For two days, she had followed the mass exodus on foot through silent, eerie villages whose names she did not know. When the weary group knocked to ask for food, doors were slammed in their faces. She’d slept in a barn like an animal on straw and had been drenched to the skin by relentless rain that seemed to leach under her skin. Refusing to beg, by the time she got home, she had been miserable and famished. She cou
ld not go through that again. And, like it or not, her mother was right, something she dreaded telling her. The lecture would be unending.

  A church bell tolled. The clanging chimes disturbed her thoughts. It was ten o’clock. Regaining her composure, she straightened. Time to meet the German, like it or not. The last thing she needed right now was to go against the likes of him. Lord knows what would happen. She had enough problems. Later… later she would figure out this mess.

  She crossed the street and walked to the café where they agreed to meet.

  A few tables were occupied. A man and woman sat holding hands across the table. An elderly gentleman smoked a woodsy smelling pipe and a few other people hid behind their newspaper.

  Yvette sat in the shade of the building’s overhang and fiddled with a napkin.

  The German said he’d be here, she glanced at her watch, ten minutes ago. Where was he? Why insist on breakfast, then not show up? What if this is some kind of trap? She twisted the napkin around her fingers. Don’t be ridiculous, she chided, why save me in the train only to arrest me now? She glanced up and down the street.

  “Coffee mademoiselle?”

  Yvette looked up into kind brown eyes on a weathered face. The woman wore her graying brown hair in a tight bun.

  “I…” Oh my God, she had no money. Humiliated, Yvette quickly glanced to her lap. “Water will be fine.”

  “Nonsense.” The woman poured strong black coffee into the cup. “On me,” she said then walked to another table.

  Other than once, on the train, never in her life had she taken charity and from a stranger yet. With all her wealth, she had never done an act of kindness like the one this woman did for her. Ashamed, she sipped the steaming coffee, thankful for the woman’s generosity.

  As Yvette watched a young man pedal past her on his bicycle, she recalled her frivolous attitude toward money, her snippy attitude toward the shopkeeper in Paris and she wondered if perhaps it was because of the sales woman that the driver stopped for her. The picture she saw of herself was not pretty and she vowed, if she got out of this predicament, she would be more generous and understanding.

  A chunk of bread appeared before her. “Madam, I cannot pa--”

  “Ah,” the waitress waved dismissively. “Today we have plenty.” She wiped her hands on her white apron.

  “Merci.” Yvette smiled with gratitude.

  “You are welcome.”

  Wondering what was taking the German so long, Yvette’s gaze darted around to the various people enjoying their meal.

  “Mademoiselle, do you expect company?”

  “Yes,” Yvette answered. Her stomach growled and she eyed the dark bread before her.

  “Bon.” The woman placed a second cup on the table.

  “But I fear he has changed his mind.”

  A frown creased the woman’s lips. “Ah, what kind of man stands up such a beautiful woman?” She shook her head. “His mamma should be horsewhipped not teaching him manners.”

  “You are most kind. But the fact that he is not here pleases me, only--”

  “My dear,” the woman sat down, “the man is no gentleman and certainly not worth being so distraught over.”

  “No, that’s not it,”

  The thought of sleeping, once again, under a tree or barn with a bunch of strangers, as she had done those first days after leaving Paris, was repulsive. Her clothes filthy, her hair in disarray, she had not recognized herself in the mirror. Refusing never to wear those clothes again, for what they represented, she had tossed them away, stockings, shoes and all.

  Now, she was in a dangerous city where she had to stay in order to find Monsieur DeParc. With no money and the local bank closed due to unforeseen circumstances, what was she to do? No matter what, she would honor her promise.

  “I… I guess I do owe you an explanation. You see, I find myself in a bit of an emotional state, one of which I am not accustomed.” Yvette swallowed her embarrassment. “My purse was stolen and the hotel asked me to leave. Quite humiliating, I might add.” Her gaze fell to the table and she toyed with her coffee cup. “I have business I must attend to before I can return home and it seems I am without funds. I know no one.”

  The waitress stood. “You will come stay with me.”

  Yvette cast a leery glare at the stranger. Why? Why would she make that offer?

  “It is settled.” The woman pulled off her apron. “Come, we go home.”

  Yvette refused to stand. She didn’t trust her. What were her motives? She had told her she was penniless, so what did she want?

  Sincerity and genuine concern warmed the woman’s eyes and for a minute, Yvette thought maybe, just maybe she was being nice and could be trusted.

  Thunder rumbled and Yvette recalled, not so long ago, waking to relentless rain thrashing the barn’s roof and the smell of horse dung clinging to her clothes.

  “Looks like rain,” the waitress said.

  Yvette stared at the people hurrying to their homes. Shutters and doors slammed shut. Umbrellas began to flap.

  “Come. Let us get away from the storm.” The waitress began to clean the table.

  Overcome with gratitude, relieved, yet hesitant, Yvette stood, grabbed the silverware, then held out her hand. “I am Yvette.”

  She hated the thought of sleeping outside, feared she had made a mistake by telling this stranger her real name. Afraid to go, afraid to stay, she averted her gaze. “Are you sure because--”

  “Madeleine and yes, I insist.” The woman ignored her outstretched hand, leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks and Yvette felt, for the moment, everything would be all right. At least she hoped so…

  ***

  André was in a foul mood.

  Standing anyone up was inexcusable, but a woman… never.

  “French intelligence reports a possible invasion of Dakar, in West Africa, by General de Gaulle’s forces,” he reported.

  Not that he had a choice, he reasoned. Orders were orders.

  “If all goes well, Operation Menace will happen mid next month.”

  “Well, it’s about damn time the General makes a move.” Rogér Lacau, the man he was reporting to, paced the small room. “It’s bad enough the Brits torpedoed our battleship, but when Admiral Godfrey gave in to British demands to keep his fleet in Egypt, I thought, for a moment, all was lost.”

  “No, sir. Thirty-six hundred Free French troops are said to stand beside de Gaulle, alongside some forty three hundred British troops.”

  André wondered if Eva had kept her promise and now sat waiting for him.

  “The Vichy forces will meet their match,” he said with pride.

  “Well, good for the Brits. At least on this they stand beside us.” Rogér nodded. “Report back to me with new information when you can. In the meantime, continue to plant rumors and propaganda among the Germans you meet. Feed them false information.”

  “Will do.”

  She’d probably be steaming mad. Not that he’d blame her.

  “And how comes the resistance?” Rogér asked.

  “Networks are being formed, but growth is slow because of compliance with the Vichy regime.” Those who put their faith in the government wore blinders. Pétain’s weakness to stand up to a tyrant split the country.

  “Hopefulness for normalcy and a quick end to the war, is lending itself to assist in German endeavors. I heard that to save his own hide Louis Renault applied for permission to build for the German Air Force,” André concluded, his thoughts, once again, straying to Eva.

  He’d bet a week’s salary those flawless cheeks of hers would be rosy red with annoyance and those full lips would be puckered. Damn. He was sorry he couldn’t witness that first-hand.

  “Well, fear can control you to the will of others or binds men to resist.” Rogér propped his booted foot on the table. “Not every worker on his payroll is on the side of the Germans, so see if you can infiltrate the factory. Sand poured into engines as they exit the factory or a defect
ive wire, can do a lot of damage.”

  “Yes, sir. We are in the process of printing out pamphlets with the latest news from the foreign press, both American and the BBC. I had hopes of distributing them earlier, but… well, any day now,” André said, frustrated with the progress and walls of resistance he met.

  “Good,” Rogér picked up a post and waved the paper before him. “Varian Fry, the American, has arrived in Marseille.”

  “Is his government behind him?”

  Was Eva an American? He suspected so, despite her proficient grasp of his language.

  “The President’s wife, Eleanor Roosevelt, supports his efforts to smuggle selected political refugees out of the country. Once all is settled here, you are to meet up with Fry and report back to me on his success.”

  “If that is all, I will take my leave,” André said, suddenly anxious to leave.

  “Job well done.” Rogér flicked his wrist with a dismissive gesture. “Travel safe, dear boy. Travel safe. Oh, and I think you should recruit some women into your networks. Women will be less conspicuous, I should think.”

  André nodded. A pretty, spirited blonde came to mind.

  ***

  Yvette stood in the sparsely decorated bedroom, Madeleine said belonged to her son. She debated whether or not to stay. What if she misread Madeleine’s kind offer? What if this is just a trap? What if… Stop! Yvette dropped her suitcase to the wide planked floor. She had no money, so robbing her was a ridiculous thought. And they had no reason to turn her over to the authorities. So stop being so paranoid.

  When she realized Madeleine’s home, on the outskirts of Lyon, was only seven kilometers away from Monsieur Deparc’s village, the decision had been made.

  The storm had passed. A borrowed bicycle waited downstairs for her. Soon her vow would be met and she could figure out her next move. But first, a disturbing realization that had been bothering her all day, needed to be written. She pulled out her journal and quickly jotted down her thoughts.

  It perplexes me now to think on my oblivious and frivolous time spent in Paris. My only excuse is that blinders covered my eyes, so that I did not have to face reality. It seems life and the war thought to teach me a lesson. One of which I hope will remind me that no amount of wealth can replace a simple act of kindness. Yvette paused in reflection. It was time to go fulfill a promise.