Behind The Mask

by Marianne Petit

  Thinking she would be useful was a mistake. A dangerous mistake. For both of them.

  He reached into his pocket. “Here,” and handed her a handful of francs.

  “I do not need your charity.” She stood, snapped out her arm and offered him his handkerchief. “And if my presence in your home offends you, I will be more than happy to depart immediately.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Don’t be a pig-headed fool. Take the money. Call it a loan if that makes you feel better.”

  She waved his linen at him until he snatched it from her hand. Hesitant, her gaze downcast, she took his offer. “I will repay you.” She tucked the currency in her purse, then turned her head away and he sensed her embarrassment.

  “There’s no need.”

  “I insist.” When she looked back, determination shone in her eyes.” A loan.”

  “Agreed.” He held out his hand and she slipped her fingers against his. They shook and he held on a little too long.

  He cleared his throat. “Fine then. Be seeing you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Right.” He nodded.

  She started to turn.

  “Yvette…”

  “Oui?” she said as she glanced over her shoulder.

  “Your presence does not offend me.”

  If truth be told… André watched her walk away… he was going to miss her company.

  CHAPTER TEN

  BEING AN AMERICAN citizen, with a legal safe-conduct pass made traveling in the unoccupied zones a bit easier. After stopping home and checking on her family, an ample amount of money strapped around her waist and hidden from sight and her mother’s lecture on her carelessness still ringing in her ears, Yvette traveled to her next destination without incident.

  A city known for its seedy reputation, Marseille spread out before her as she stood on the stone steps leading down from the train station. The staircase descended, what appeared to be some one hundred steps, an overwhelming, dizzying trek. Statues of women, one Asian, one African, flanked the stairwell. In the distance, built on the city's highest point, the white stone Basilica of Notre Dame de la Garde dominated the mountain like a beacon.

  As Yvette slowly descended the steep incline, clutching her suitcase, she thought of her father and the look of surprise her presence would bring. She hated having to confront him. Hated asking him to return home and hated the thought of seeing him again. But, Grandpère was right. Her father’s contacts at the consulate were invaluable. Without documents released by the Americans, her family was stuck in France. Her father was the ticket out.

  She caught a trolley that emptied out at the American Consulate. Standing in front of the stone building with its two massive carved wooden doors, she stared at the long queue snaking around the building. Hundreds of people waited to get inside, all hoping to flee the country. Those at the front of the line pressed against the doors guarding their place like a precious treasure.

  Her fingers taut against her suitcase handle, Yvette straightened her stance. Shoulders back, her gaze level, she walked past the line. The shouts and grumbling of impatient people bombarded her as she continued making her way under the stonewalled archway. When she finally pushed her way into the building, a guard accosted her and ordered her to return outside to stand in line like the rest of the people. She explained, in perfect English, that her father worked for the consulate. The guard apologized and pointed to a door down the hall.

  The chaos inside was worse than outside. Scores of people shoved their way into rooms or were crammed into a doorway like pickles in a brimming jar. A long line, of bodies pushing up against the walls, snaked its way down the corridor. The stairs were covered with people. A woman sat in a corner weeping. Angry voices demanded to see their Ambassador, demanded counsel. Dull eyes, filled with apprehension and despair met her at every corner.

  Someone screamed, “This is not my country. I demand to go home.”

  The noise and pain surrounding her overwhelming, Yvette focused her attention straight away and tried to block out everything around her.

  Learning the location of her father’s office, she pushed her way through the crowd and entered the room. A woman rose from her chair and smiled when her father’s name was mentioned.

  The redhead grabbed Yvette in a warm embrace and kissed her on both cheeks. “Your papa will be so pleased to see you. He worries fiercely.” Her ample bosom pressed against Yvette’s chest.

  Judging by the woman’s words, she knew her father quite well. Yvette felt a pang of resentment toward the woman who chatted with excitement, gathered her purse and locked her desk drawer.

  “I’ll take you to him right now,” she said. “He will be so happy. Oh, très bien. So very happy.”

  Yvette’s stomach churned. She had not seen her father for seven months and she doubted he’d be happy. She forced a smile and followed, dragging her suitcase down the hall.

  Her father sat at a desk cluttered with papers. Surprise registered on his face when they entered the room.

  “Bonjour Papa.”

  She saw his hesitance to greet her. “Yvette.” He stood stiffly. “What a pleasure.” His edgy gaze swept toward the redhead. “I see you have met Marguerite.”

  Tension snapped in the air.

  Yvette’s fingers curled tighter around her suitcase as she studied him. She had her father’s green eyes. As far as she was concerned that was all they shared. His wavy brown hair had more silver than she remembered and his once solid build had turned flabby around the middle from too much good cooking. He wore the body of a content man no longer worried about his physic.

  Yvette glanced at Marguerite and knew immediately, by her nervous fluttering and stolen glances that they were having an affair. A vise-grip dislike toward his mistress settled on Yvette’s chest.

  “I am here because Grandpère insisted I--”

  “How is he?” her father asked.

  “He is dead.”

  The news struck him hard, surprising her. He sank into his chair. Genuine grief softened his face. “I am sorry.”

  “You need to come home,” she insisted.

  He ran his fingers across his mouth and shook his head. “I cannot. I have too many responsibilities.”

  “Your responsibilities are to your wife and children.” Not your mistress, she wanted to say. “Do you even care that you have a son?” Yvette dropped her suitcase and felt like kicking it across the room.

  “A son?”

  “Yes, another child, you left behind. Mother has told me many a time you did not wish me born as well.”

  His face turned red. “Do not make such remarks that I wished you had never been born. And in the future, do not think, or mention such horrible words.” He stood, his hand clenched. “As for your mother making such statements… she is liable to say or do anything, as usual. Do not mind what she says. I have endured so much from her and her mother. It would be impossible to describe it all.”

  “He carries a picture of you and your sister with him,” Marguerite chirped.

  “And brother? Would you carry a picture of him as well? No, I think not. You tried to kill him.”

  A vein bulged in his temple. “Daughter, I shall overlook that ugly remark. You do not have any right to make it when you are not certain of what the situation is or was.”

  So, it was true. He did not deny her words.

  Apparently uncomfortable, Marguerite snuck out of the room.

  “Do you even care to know his name?” Yvette asked.

  “Of course I do. I am not a monster,” he said flatly. “And young lady I am still your father, so do not talk to me with such disrespect.”

  “Yes; a daughter who, thanks to her never present father, learned to speak her own mind. I’m leaving.” Yvette turned. “I respected Grandpère’s wish. I am done. Stay or leave it’s no matter to me.”

  “Don’t go.” The sadness in his voice made her stop and turn around. “You mean so much to me. More than you know.”
In the few short minutes of tense conversation, he looked like he aged ten years. Guilt could do that. “Do you have money, a place to stay?”

  She shrugged. “Yes. But I am going home as soon as I can.”

  “Stay. Have I ever asked you to do anything for me? I would gladly do anything for you, if you would only consider the whole situation.”

  “I’m asking you to come home.”

  “Impossible. I cannot leave my position here.” He sank into his chair and rubbed the creases in his forehead. “You were told I am considered nothing to you. I realize it is not entirely your fault, your idea of me. However, I would appreciate if you would at least be more considerate of me, not only as your father, but as someone to help you. Let me tell you my side of the story.”

  “No. Mother needs me.”

  “If I promise to work on visas to get them out of the country and bring them here, will you stay?”

  Her family here? Yvette nodded. “I’ll be staying at the hotel Splendide.” She picked up her suitcase and headed for the door.

  Grandpère. Is this what you had in mind?

  Knowing her grandpère and his optimistic hope of a united family, yes. That was not going to happen. Not when mother saw Marguerite.

  ***

  October 1940

  My heart aches so for this country so broken.

  Yvette paused from writing and stared out the window of her hotel room, then continued writing her thoughts.

  Yesterday, on October third, the Vichy government announced that all Jews are barred from any type of job the government deems influence’s public opinions. They are being dismissed from all positions in the press, film, radio and even universities. Today, these poor people have been hit with another blow. All foreign Jews are to be confined in camps or will be forced to remote villages under the controlling eyes of the local police. Some cling to the hope that on Victory day all anti-Jewish decrees will be annulled. I do not believe that will come to pass.

  I fear the madness that is happening will escalate, stirred by a fear that will contaminate and pollute common decency and poison minds against a people who are no different than I, except for their beliefs.

  I think about André and my request to help in some small way. I think about the people in hiding. Now so many families will join those refugees in the dark world of the underground. And my heart is heavy with the thought that I can do little to help.

  ***

  André was with his superiors when, on September seventh a report came in stating the German Air Force launched a massive attack, dropping three hundred tons of bombs on the streets of London. Termed the Blitzkrieg, a highly mobile form of infantry and armor working together, the units struck with lightning speed. The attack decimated the docks and the densely packed streets of the East End. Fires lit the sky for miles allowing 250 more bombers, a total of 550 Luftwaffe units, to attack from eight pm until dawn.

  André got little sleep that night, thinking about his university days and the men he called friends who lived and worked in that area.

  Two weeks later, he reported that the Intel he had gathered, from Frederick, was indeed correct. On September seventeenth, Hitler postponed Operation Sealion indefinitely and André, once again, justified that wearing the Boche uniform had spared Britain from another devastating attack.

  Now in Marseille, he was to meet up with the American, Varian Fry, who was heading the evacuation of prominent ‘marked’ people.

  He made his way down the narrow streets lined with tall buildings dotted with lattice-windows, passed crowded bars and alleyways festooned with whores. The smell of salt air and sewage accosted his nostrils. Fishwives shouted their wares as burly men dumped barrels of fresh fish onto stalls that lined the market. He kept his hand in his pocket, his fingers on the small pistol. Violence lurked in the labyrinth of tunnels leading to the sea, lingered in the tight dark alleyways.

  He found the Seamen’s mission, a safe house where he, along with stranded British servicemen could spend the night, then he headed to the Hotel Splendide where it was rumored Fry was staying.

  “I am here to meet the American,” he explained to the bearded man behind the front desk.

  “Third floor,” the clerk said without looking up.

  As André rode the box lift up, he wondered what to expect of a man who would risk his life for people not of his country.

  Not sure he could trust him, André had done a little research on Fry. A Harvard Graduate, they shared the same passion for language. He was an editor of Headline Books. An article he wrote about Nazi riots in Berlin made page two of The New York Herald Tribune. A German official said the Jews caused the provocation, but the editorial argued to the contrary. André figured that article made Fry a marked man and a hell of a courageous one.

  The black iron lift groaned slowly up and jerked to a stop. André opened the wrought iron cage door and walked to the room number he’d been given.

  The dark-haired man, who waved him into his room in nothing but an undershirt and striped boxers was maybe five years older than he was, and not what André expected. He expected a man with a little more years of experience under his belt. This was, after all, an individual in whom the President’s wife had put her faith, and who people on the streets thought of as their savior. For a moment, hesitant to enter, André thought he was in the wrong room and he glanced at the door number.

  “Come in, come in, hurry up, shut the door,” Fry said without getting up from the typewriter beside his bed.

  The strikes of metal hitting ribbon tapped rhythmically as he finished typing. Done, he stood, strode over and gave André a hug while patting him on the back. “You must be André. Sit. I’ve heard good things about you.”

  “Yes, well, thank you.” André glanced around the tiny room and seeing no chair, other than the one behind the typewriter, he sat on the end of the bed.

  Fry pulled the chair away from the wall and sat opposite him. “Now let’s get to business,” he said with a direct unblinking stare. He pulled out a pad. “Since the beginning of August and up to a few days ago, over five hundred names were submitted for emergency visas. Forty-six have been granted.”

  “As you may know,” Fry continued, “Visas and identity cards are getting impossible to obtain, legal ones that is. This is partly due to the fact that memos have been circulating, around embassies, stating ways to obstruct the granting of visas to undesirables such as Jews. Some consuls have put obstacles in the way and have resorted to administrative devices that have postponed the granting of these sought-after documents.” His brows arched. “I am told you may know of other means to obtain them?”

  “A name comes to mind. Though it will cost.”

  “Yes, well black market purchases, always do. Unfortunately, I find funds are getting tight.” He waved his hand. “Do what you must but bargain efficiently.”

  André gave a curt nod. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good.” Fry slapped his hands on his thighs and leaned back in his chair.

  “Why do you do it? Why come all the way here and help when this is not your country?”André asked, curious.

  “Some of the happiest days, I can remember was spent with my grandfather.” Fry took off his black framed glasses, pulled out a handkerchief and began to wipe the glass. “A charitable man, my grandfather took in orphans he found living on the streets and found them homes. I spent many a summer at his children’s camp in Brooklyn. He raised my father to be good a Christian who believed in helping those less fortunate.” Fry adjusted the glasses on his nose and plopped his feet on the bed. “Anyway, I guess I owe all this to them. My grandfather set a good example.”

  “That he did.” André agreed. “I’ll get you what you need. What’s the route out?”

  “Across the Pyrenees, into Spain, then Portugal, then across the Atlantic to New York.”

  “The port of Lisbon?” André asked, wondering how the old and feeble, women with small children could handle the steep
mountainous trails.

  “Yes. I have several routes mapped out. Some may take longer and, although they are a tad easier, pose more of a dangerous threat.” Fry sighed. “I came with two hundred names on my list, names given to me by the Emergency Rescue Committee. But when I see the wretched helplessness on the faces of those not on my list, when I see the line outside my office and hear them begging me to get them out of the country, how, I ask you, can I not help them?”

  André understood only too well.

  “I understand you speak many languages?”

  André nodded.

  “I could use a man like you, if you’re willing?” Fry looked hopeful.

  There was something about the man that made André want to do more than humanly possible, be it Fry’s relaxed confidence or the hole left by Marc’s death that no amount of good could fill. All he knew was that he wanted to be a part of the operation.

  André stood and extended his hand. “It would be my honor.”

  ***

  The last person André expected to see in the hotel lobby was Yvette.

  She looked stunning in her chic red tailored suit that drew attention to her curvy hips and tiny waist. She wore her hair in some kind of braid that twisted at the nape of her neck. White pearl earrings hugged her ears.

  What was it about her that captured his attention? Her natural, regal elegance? That “je ne sais quoi”; that intangible quality that made her stand out in a crowd? In the past, other women piqued his interest, but she peaked more than interest. Hell, what was so special about her, other than those shapely gams and derriere? He’d dated nice legs and ass before, so why her?

  Hell, he had no time for women, especially spoiled rich brats. He’d been down that road before… André clenched his jaw. No way was he going down that path again. For a minute, he thought about avoiding her but found himself, instead, walking straight toward her as though he had no choice.

  “André what a surprise.” She gracefully extended her hand and his palm slipped against the warm kid leather of her glove.