***
Yvette’s anticipation grew with each push of the pedal that brought her closer and closer to Monsieur DeParc.
The promise of September’s cooler weather only a few days off, she was thankful for the coat she wore that still hid the message in its lining.
Very aware of the eerie quiet, her heart beat briskly as she pedaled down the boulevard. The streets were empty, with only an occasional pedestrian mulling about. As she passed by they shot her a skittish look, then hurried on their way. The soft thud of her bicycle over the gray stones gave away her location and might as well been a honking horn. Every turn of the gears tightened her chest.
Trying to relax, she forced her attention to the buildings, noticing how the gray clouds broke and sparse sunlight cast shadows on the church, bathing the cream-colored stone with hues of tans and gold. Vines dangled and clung to buildings their leaves gently swaying.
She’d been told Monsieur DeParc’s residence was the last house, on the left of the street des sentiers tortueux, which was appropriately named she noted, as she wound her way down the crooked path. Soon, very soon, with any luck, she would meet this mysterious man and be done. Thank the good Lord!
Picking up her pace, she rounded the corner and came to a screeching halt, nearly tumbling off her bicycle. A large black and white cat feasted on what appeared to be left of a big fat rat. Rats, ugh, she hated the disgusting, filthy vermin that at times ran around their barn back home. One had gotten into the house and the commotion the little beast caused was something she’d never forget.
Yvette quickly rode to the other side of the street with the image of her mother, standing on an embroidered chair and the sound of her hysterical screams ringing in her ears. The doors and windows had been promptly sealed shut for a week after that, during a particularly hot summer’s day.
A two-story structure with a red tiled roof and sandstone exterior came into view. This was the house. The house that would either end her journey, or keep her on this dangerous mission. Her feet planted firmly on the ground, Yvette sat, her hands tightly gripping the handlebars, and surveyed the house. Claret colored shutters framed the windows. White flowers cascaded over a wrought iron balcony beneath an upstairs window. Ivy clung to the walls.
What if Monsieur DeParc wasn’t home? What if he refused to see her? She chewed her lip, propped the bicycle against the small stone wall surrounding the house, and squared her shoulders. Standing in front of the thick wooden door, her heart raced and, as she knocked, she held her breath.
A movement at the window caught her eye. A child’s face peeked from behind white lace curtains. Finally, the door creaked partially open. An elderly man stood in the entrance. He wore a blue beret on his head and a pipe sat on his lip.
“Monsieur DeParc?”
Silent, studying her a moment, Yvette was afraid he’d slam the door in her face. She knew firsthand how neighbors and friends turned on one another. So many people were fearful. No one trusted.
He removed the pipe, his teeth clicking against the stem. “Oui.”
“Oh, Monsieur, I am so happy to finally meet you.” Relief flooded through her. “You know my grandpère.”
Confusion, then recognition lit his eyes and he smiled. “Come. Come.” He ushered her inside and shut the door behind them.
A boy, probably no older than five, ran up and hugged Monsieur DeParc’s leg.
“This would be my great grandson, Etienne” he patted his head. “Go now. I have a guest.”
The child quickly ran down the hall.
Seated, he offered her a glass of port, which she gladly sipped.
She couldn’t believe she was about to fulfill her grandpère’s wish. Finally. Finally, it would be over.
Yvette glanced around the gray stonewalled interior with archways that separated the rooms. Heavy green drapes darkened the windows. Light, from a globe-shaped lamp painted with pink roses, gave the room a warm, cozy glow. Pine bookshelves, now void of books, lined one wall. Her thoughts strayed to her grandpère’s well stocked library. She hoped her mother had the good sense to hide those of controversial reading. It seemed like forever since she’d been home.
“So?”
Lost in her thoughts, Yvette barely heard the question and dragged her gaze back to the man sitting opposite her.
“You are here, why?”
“Oh. Pardon me. I… I am just so happy to finally meet you. You don’t know how long I have been searching for you.” Her words came out in a frenzied rush. “May I have a knife?” She put out her hand.
His brows shot up with surprise. His apprehensive gaze darted toward the kitchen where his grandson sat playing.
She realized her innocent question had been misconstrued. “I mean you no harm. Really. I need to cut my coat. Oh dear, that sounded ridiculous… what I mean is… I have a message for you.” She sounded like a babbling fool. No wonder he stared at her like she was not of sound mind. “From my grandpère.”
“Bien. That is good.” His shoulders relaxed, he nodded, reached into his pocket and pulled out a pocket knife.
Yvette carefully undid the stitches, slipped out the note and handed it to him.
After a few moments of tense silence, he looked up. “And your grandfather is well?”
“He…” She shook her head, the words hard to say. “…is no longer with us.” She did not want to explain, didn’t want to relieve the nightmare, but she did and when she finished, he handed her a handkerchief.
“Your grandfather was a brave man,” he said, his voice laced with sadness. “And a good friend.”
“Can you tell me what the message says?”
Monsieur DeParc picked up his wooden pipe and took a puff. “You would be better off not knowing.” A scent of vanilla, spices and leather, tickled her nostrils.
“Please,” she pleaded, the suspense gnawing at her. She risked her life, traveled all over this war-stricken country; she deserved to know why her grandpère had sent her here.
“Let us just agree that you will be saving many lives by bringing this to me.” He stood. “I would ask you to join us for supper, but I fear the roads will soon be dark and dangerous.”
Disappointed, wanting to argue, Yvette kissed him on both cheeks. “It has been my pleasure meeting you.”
He did the same. “You risked your life for a worthy cause. Your grandfather would be proud.”
Yes, she thought, he would. But she still deserved an answer. And somehow she was going to get one.
***
Pedaling quickly back to Madeleine’s home, Yvette thought about Monsieur DeParc's words. Had she really saved lives? Whose? How? She understood why he would not tell her the meaning of the cryptic message; it was too dangerous. But bringing him the message was dangerous. Being alone on this road…she glanced around, was dangerous.
Maybe he was right and she should just move on and forget. She should be thrilled her mission was over. But all she felt was disappointment and driven curiosity, which was probably not a good thing, she reasoned, trying to rebuff her frustration. But the message? What did it mean?
Her legs tired she slowed her pace, even though she knew she should hurry before nightfall.
The stillness creepy, she glanced at her surroundings. The sun was setting over the barren dirt road flanked by trenches and pastures of green farmland. Abandoned vineyards dotted the landscape, the vines heavy with unharvested grapes. Fading light, pink and gray clouds played among the lilac glow.
Below, in the valley, nestled together, lay a village. Red tiled roofs took on the sun’s soft glow. In an effort to distract from the tension tightening her shoulders, she wondered how those families, in the valley, fared. Did they find the means in which to enjoy a leisurely dinner? Were they…
What was that? Her fingers curled around the handlebar. She looked toward the sky, saw nothing and picked up her pace. Don’t be a scaredy-cat, she told herself as her tires splashed through a patch of muddy rainwater. Everyone
is probably sitting by a warm fire talking about the latest gossip. Or torn apart by war, she mused, her gaze darting around her. Lord, she missed her grandpè…
A low buzz rumbled in the sky. Yvette’s gaze flew upward. She’d recognize that sound anywhere. Her heart jolted. Planes. Coming from behind the hill, a group of fighters emerged.
Instinct kicked in. She jumped from her bicycle, nearly getting one foot stuck in the pedal, threw herself into a ditch on the side of the road and fell on top of a hard body.
“Sorry ma’am,” a low male voice muttered.
Her breath jammed into her throat as she stared into the face of a young soldier wearing the German uniform. Her breasts, pressing into his chest, plastered a grin on his face. His taut groin, pressing against her thighs, made her grit her teeth. Unable to stand up and move without being seen, they both lie in silence, looking at one another in the cramped space.
The planes must be British. Why else would the soldier be hiding? she reasoned. Was he alone or were his comrades also in hiding? Her heart rate notched up its pace.
They stared at each other, each lost in their own musings. He appeared to be younger than she was and just as afraid. And, at that moment, it didn’t matter what side they were on. She thought about his mother, who probably worried about her son, fighting a war, following orders, maybe by no choice of his own; a mother, like many French mothers, who prayed for the protection of their child. She thought about Theresa and that kiss.
The soldier gave her a tentative smile and she sensed he meant her no harm.
Yvette’s breathing evened.
When the skies calmed, she managed to pry herself off his body and stood. No one shot her and the only head, she saw was his.
“God bless,” she said as she got on her bicycle despite her weak knees.
He waved good-bye.
She pedaled quickly, keeping her eyes on the ditch alongside the road and her ears tuned to the sky.
When she arrived at Madeleine’s house, a man close to her age with dark wavy hair, olive-toned skin and wary brown eyes, met her at the door.
“You must be Yvette. I am Gérald.” He held the door open for her and then followed her to the small tidy, but welcoming kitchen.
Madeleine stood at the stove over a boiling pot. “I see you have met my son. Did you find who you were looking for?”
Hesitant to say yes, not sure she trusted giving away any information, Yvette nodded, then stole a quick glance at Gérald who was staring at her.
She took off her coat, hung it on the beautifully carved wooden coat rack and glanced in the mirror. Boy, had she misread Gérald’s suspicious stare. One look at her sun- beaten face and messy hair… She ran her fingers through a few strands, combing out dried grass that must have clung to her when she managed to roll off that soldier in the ditch. Lord, no wonder he was staring at her. She looked like a street urchin.
“How did you rip your coat?” Gérald asked, eyeing the torn hem.
Why would he care, let alone notice? Yvette shrugged. “I fell off the bicycle.”
“Are you all right?” The concern in Madeleine’s voice was genuine.
“I’m fine. Do you mind if I get washed up?”
Madeleine poured olive oil into the pot, wiped her hand on her apron and pointed. “Powder room is down the hall.”
“We were starting to get worried. We heard the planes,” Madeleine said, once Yvette returned.
“They were British.” Not sure if she should offer to help, sit or just stand where she was, Yvette toyed with the cuff of her blouse.
“The Brits find it necessary to bomb our factories, despite the damage to French civilians.” Gérald sat on one of the wooden chairs around the table. Their gazes met and he glanced away. The avoiding response made her wonder if he was uncomfortable with her presence, and it had nothing to do with her appearance.
“Since the Germans have overtaken our warehouses the British are set on destroying everything we own, even if it means killing our citizens,” he added with disgust.
Not comfortable with the way he studied her, as though she was the enemy, Yvette took a seat opposite him. “So… you… don’t like the British?”
“Their lack of RAF presence above the skies at Dunkerque was the reason we lost.” He speared a Brussels sprout on his fork.
“So you side with whom? The Communists? Vichy?” Mussolini and Hitler, she wanted to add.
“Some Communists are in opposition to the Germans and Pétain’s regime.”
That didn’t answer her question. Why was he being so cagey? Yvette fidgeted in her seat. “And you don’t think the British have no choice and are trying to destroy our supplies to keep them out of Hitler’s hands? Why not blame the Italians they side with that madman,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.
The fork in Gérald’s mouth stopped mid-stride.
Madeleine brought a steaming pot of chicken soup to the table and plopped the container on the table. “War is never pleasant and I have seen one too many. Now eat,” she ordered.
They spoke no more of war, but of food, fashion and art, a topic that brought passion to Yvette’s voice.
The atmosphere calmed and she tucked her misgivings in the corner of her mind. Gérald’s sense of humor was surprising, and contagious, a welcomed relief. Monsieur Rinaldo’s pipe reminded her of grandpère and Madeleine’s friendly warmth made Yvette feel right at home.
It almost felt normal, she thought as she closed the bedroom door an hour later; a normal meal on an average night. It felt so good to forget, for a moment, to just pretend that outside her window children played, shopping wasn’t rationed and one could walk along a boulevard until the first rays of dawn.
It was a bit unsettling that they tossed around the word war with casual carelessness, as though the word had no weight behind it. She sensed sadness beneath their deceptive mask of apathy. Their superficial conversation was an escape mechanism, a ploy to preserve sanity and cling to a familiar culture steeped in tradition. She wished she could be as causal about the war as they seemed to be. Images of the horror and terror she experienced sometimes kept her from getting a good night’s sleep.
Yvette opened her suitcase, laid her clothes on the bed and thought about her mother, who rarely smiled. She reasoned her mother’s stolid demeanor, was a result of her father’s abandonment, though she never remembered feeling the motherly love in her own home as she did in that dimly lit kitchen downstairs.
How did her family fare? Was her new brother sleeping through the night? Did mother watch over Vero and keep her safe or was she still miserable at the thought that she had been left with another mouth to feed on her own accord? Now that Grandpère was gone who was keeping the family together? She hoped her mother’s friend, Theresé, made sure to stop by and check on them every day.
After neatly placing her delicates in the drawers of the tall dresser, Yvette arranged her lace nightgown on the bed. Her hand laden with blouses, skirts and two jackets, Yvette nudged open the closet door. Her eyes widened with shock. The clothes, in her taut arms, fell to the floor.
Inside the closet, neatly pressed uniforms hung side-by-side—French, Italian and British.
Gérald was a spy!
CHAPTER NINE
ANDRÉ COULDN’T WAIT to get home and rid himself of the German uniform. He’d followed orders and had mingled among fellow officers, feeding them one lie after another. He craved a hot bath, to scrub off the disgust he felt, and a hot meal prepared by his mother, who was a fabulous cook.
As he drove home, his thoughts settled on Eva. He learned she had no affiliation with a network, at least none he could find. He liked the idea of working alongside her and wondered if she would consider joining his unit. Although they’d just met he recognized her spunk and strong will. She was just the kind of woman the resistance needed. Hell. Looking at her all day was kind on the old peepers.
He suspected he had guessed the truth, she had been hiding something un
der the birdcage, which meant she was willing to take risks, however, her eyes gave away her fear. Beautiful eyes that turned more green than blue when frightened, eyes that would betray her. Perhaps asking her to join him would be a mistake.
He stopped the car on the side of the road in a dark secluded area and changed back into his civilian clothes, a routine he adhered to every time he wore a different uniform. One never knew who was watching and the last thing he wanted was to place his family in danger of being denounced or shunned by a neighbor who thought his family harbored an enemy.
It took him ten minutes to arrive at his family home. The welcoming lights in the window brightened his spirit. He loved this peaceful town, so different from the bustle of Paris, where his old flat had been. He loved the rolling hills, loved to hunt in the woods and swim in the ponds. A city boy he was not. It was good to be home.
André walked in the door, the uniform slung over his arm.
His father sat in the parlor reading a book.
His brother slapped him on the back as he walked into the hall toward his bedroom.
“Take that offensive uniform and throw it in the wash,” his mother called up the stairs. "And André..."
Yes, it was good to be home. No drama. Just kick up his feet and relax. Smiling, André opened the door to his room. The sight stopped him dead in his tracks, and wiped the smile from his face.
Eva stood in her nightgown, her hair cascading down her back. Light, from a lamp behind her, bathed her in a warm glow. Her beauty stole his breath away. He took in her curvy shape visible through the white flowing fabric, the slender expanse of her neck, up tilted breasts and small waist. His gaze inched lower, drinking in every alluring curve, to the thatch of darkness that tugged up his eyes and a certain appendage.
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