Was this a ploy to get her fired? A test? Expecting the worst she pivoted on unsteady feet. “Sir?”
“Don’t look so nervous.”
She nodded, wondering why she was still standing here. Had he changed his mind? Was he turning her into the authorities?
“I was just going to say…” he put down his pen, his eyes serious. “You really do need to relax.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Since we will be working so closely and I take it you will be familiar with my handwriting, call me Hiram.” He winked.
Yvette nodded, hurried from the room and thanked the dear Lord for his mercy.
***
André was up a tree—literally making his way up a tree. He was a little old to be climbing trees and if the situation wasn’t so dangerous, he would laugh.
Memories of himself and his brother came to mind. They’d shimmied up a few trees, especially around chore time. Problem was, he was afraid of heights; something his brother always reminded him when they were ten feet off the ground.
André held the copper wire tightly in his hand as he made his way upward. Across the way, Father François stood on the roof and held the other end of the wire. André could tell, by the way the good father kept glancing around, that he was nervous, not so much from the height, but from the fear of being seen; and rightly so.
Since a radio-listening blackout was in effect, the only way to get news from the BBC, where de Gaulle broadcasted from London, was through clandestine radio lines like the one they attempted to rig together from the church to the top of the tall pine.
Anyone caught with any type of listening device would be arrested. His parents hid an unfinished crude radio in a spinach can in their basement. Everyone knew the dangers and used the code word “pianos” for radios and “pianists” for the operators. Nevertheless, since the church was a safe house and meeting place for his network, the group decided it was worth the risk and the only way to listen to the coded messages sent by de Gaulle in an effort to build-up the Resistance.
André wrapped his scarred leg around a flimsy branch and hauled himself further upward like a gorilla, he thought with a chuckle, a big fat, awkward gorilla that was way too heavy. A fall from this height would defiantly do some damage.
A strong gust of wind shook the trees. His heart pounding, he gripped a handful of thin branches. The sharp bite of bark cut into his palm.
Father François’ black robe flapped in the breeze like a propeller cranking him up for takeoff.
André forced his attention to the ground, glanced to the sky and listened attentively for the rumble of planes. An image of Marc came to mind. He pushed the heartache away. History would not repeat itself.
Satisfied no immediate danger would thwart their mission, André pointed to a high peak of the church. The priest made his way gingerly over, but his sandals, having no traction caused him to slip. Panic contorted his face. Debris tumbled and pinged off the gray tiles. Not far from a smaller peak, he grabbed the roof, and straightened. The harrowing fall behind them, André nodded, signaling to continue, then shimmied higher, pulling the antenna with him. The line got stuck. He tugged; gave the wire a yank and the line unengaged. He dared not look down. Again, the line caught on a jutting branch. Again, he yanked it free and managed not to fall and kill himself.
When he was about ten meters up the tree, the sound of male voices came out of nowhere. André stiffened and glanced beneath him. Two uniformed Gestapo agents headed in his direction.
The wire, André realized, not yet anchored, hung about six feet above their heads. His pistol lay on the ground by the church’s stone steps where he left it, thinking it might fall out from his pocket, a foolish decision he realized. But, it wasn’t Sunday and no one, especially the Gestapo, came to this area when the church was closed. For a moment, he feared someone had denounced his unit, but the agent’s relaxed stance didn’t look like they were on official business.
Slowly, his palms clammy, André reached for the small knife strapped to his leg. One dead German increased his odds some.
André glanced to Father François, who crouched low behind a peak, his gaze frozen on the two men. Leisurely the agents strolled past the steps. André held his breath. His pulse throbbed against his neck. If there was any time for a prayer, this was it. They came to a dead stop directly beneath him.
André clung to the tree. He’d faced many dangerous situations, but was always in control, not stuck like a sitting duck. All they needed to do was point and aim…
A flock of crows flew over the church. Their loud cackle drew the men’s attention.
Father François dropped to his stomach. The end of his wire slipped from his hand. André held his breath as the wire started to slide down the roof. The priest tried to grab the metal, but it was out of reach.
André glanced down at the men, who, thank God, had no idea what was going on over their heads. To his angst, they decided to take a seat on the bench beneath him.
But the danger was far from over. The wire was falling, falling fast and would soon be dangling in the air where they sat. And there was nothing he could do.
André clenched his knife. This was not how he envisioned his death. He thought he’d go out fighting, not stuck up in a tree, an easy mark for someone’s target practice. Whoever drew first would feel his blade.
The agents smoked a cigarette.
André glanced back to the roof. Inches from the edge, seconds from falling and alerting the agents, the wire snagged on a curved tile.
Father François made the sign of the cross and André focused his attention on the two men below him. They chatted about their boring day and laughed at some ridiculous joke about a panicked American soldier whose parachute didn’t open when he fell out of a plane. Since it was only a training exercise, the one man joked, his Sergeant told him not to worry. Having jumped from many planes, André didn’t find the joke funny. Finally, the men crushed their smokes in the gravel.
André’s bad hip cramped. He remained still, despite the agitating pain shooting through his appendage like a hot iron. Sweat beaded on his brow as he calculated his next move. A precise angle would be needed; the right amount of speed and with any luck one son of a bitch would feel a knife in his heart.
The branch he sat on cracked. His pulse leaped to his throat.
The men leaped to their feet.
André hooked his foot under a nearby limb.
As they were about to draw, André steadied his hand.
“Kommen.”
The command to come jerked André’s glance to his left.
Another agent waved to his comrades. “Wir brauchen.”
Told they were needed elsewhere, the two men holstered their weapon and André finally breathed. When they were out of view, he tugged the line, continued to the top, secured the wire and got down as quickly as possible, skimming skin off his legs and arms on his trek downward; a small price to pay for being alive.
***
Two days after their meeting, Hiram Bingham slipped Yvette a note and asked her to pass on a message. Her first thought, oh no, not again, but she reminded herself, she wanted to help, so she found herself waiting patiently, for over an hour, for her contact.
Her foot nervously tapped the paved walkway as she glanced up and down the unsettling boulevard. Bicyclists pedaled silently down the street. The clopping of hooves disrupted the unnatural stillness usually filled with honking horns and whizzing cars. A few automobiles,whose drivers were lucky enough to get petrol, drove by. The city seemed to have gone back in time.
Curious about what the note said, several times she was tempted to take a peek at the message hidden under her glove.
Chilled, she ran her hands up and down her arms. She really needed to understand why she was here. What if her contact didn’t show? What then?
She turned her back to the street and slipped the small note free. Familiar words, her grandpère’s message, written in a different han
d, stared up at her. It took her a moment to realize the severity of its meaning, then another line caught her eye. Une fleur de lys pousse dans les champs de fleurs; a lily grows in the flower fields. What did that mean? Yvette crumbled the paper, stuffed the note in her pocket and waited. Fifteen minutes… twenty… no one showed.
She debated whether or not to return to the office and tell her boss there was nothing she could do, but the significance of the message played on her conscience. Somewhere hidden in a cellar, or attic, people were waiting to be taken to safety and the brave patriots who hid these refugees were in danger as well. She couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. Recalling she’d passed a street called the Champs de fleurs, Yvette turned and headed from where she’d come. Halfway down the street, she saw a windowsill with white lilies painted on the flower-box.
Hesitating, she knocked. When a young woman opened the door, Yvette stood there, a moment, not sure what to say. “The crows sang at four this morning,” she blurted, recalling the code words she’d been given. It dawned on her that she might be in the wrong place and she cringed.
“You are not Raymond.” The door began to close.
Yvette slammed out her hand. “He did not make it. I have his message.”
The woman’s gaze darted up and down the street, then she ushered her inside and quickly closed the door.
“Give it to me.” After a silent moment, the woman looked up from the note, walked over to a lit candle and the paper went up in flames. About to protest, Yvette shut her mouth when the woman pivoted and said, “Come with me.”
They walked through a small kitchen, in the back of the house to a door. It groaned open. Stairs led down to a silent darkness.
“Dépêchez-vous,” she ordered. “Hurry up.”
The first to ascend from the basement was a man who wore a look of apprehension on his fatigued face. Coming up behind him a woman carried an infant protectively against her bosom. Slowly trudging behind, an older girl held her younger brother’s hand.
Yvette noticed the man clutched a few small wrapped square packages in his arms. The corner of an oil painting peeked out from the disheveled paper wrapping. Some right winged artists refused to leave France and believed those who left were cowards. She did not agree. This man standing before her wanted to save his art. Should he stand by and watch some madman destroy his hard work? The thought sickening, Yvette sent him a sympatric smile. His lips curved slightly, with a sadness that mirrored the sorrow in his eyes.
His wife stared with silent reproach, but Yvette knew what they were thinking without a word, she was to be their guardian—she— for this brief encounter, held their lives in her hands.
What if the handoff does not go smoothly? Yvette’s knees began to tremble, but the thought that she was possibly saving lives and art as well, pushed up her resolve. She shook away her negativity. You can do this, she told herself as she followed the group back into the kitchen.
After receiving a small bag of food, they shuffled through the back door of the house toward the Cinema, where, according to the homeowners instructions, they were supposed to meet yet another contact who would get them further along on their journey.
Casually they walked down the street, despite their instinct to hurry. To Yvette’s relief, people passed them by with little regard, but that didn’t ease the rapid pounding in her chest, or keep her gaze from darting around to make sure no one followed them.
As thoughts of being caught and arrested, and the fear no one waited for them at the cinema, thundered in her brain, Yvette was keenly aware that people, in general, not just the ones passing her by without giving her a glance, went on with their lives in compliance, as though living in prison, be it without bars, didn’t affect them.
As she walked she heard chatter about what they had for dinner, not what was missing from their table. Two men spoke about a friend who “volontaire” to go work in Germany. If she’d been alone, she may have argued the man they spoke about certainly hadn’t chosen to go.
She wondered how many people, if any, took matters into their own hands. Living within an invisible gate certainly made her want to rebel. Forbidden zones, demarcation lines, tyranny, those words should be on everyone’s lips, not what they ate or wore.
An old woman shuffled across her path and a bonded gaze held Yvette’s attention. The woman smiled a knowing smile, like they both shared a secret. She gripped a white fabric woven fleur de lis shopping bag protectively against her chest and Yvette wondered if there was more than baguettes in the bag, something that put her in danger.
When the theater finally came into view, Yvette breathed a sigh of relief. She held the door open and the family stepped inside. She was just about to follow when out of the corner of her eye, the imposing body of a gendarme caught her attention. She—caught his.
When she saw the small sign, movie canceled, the hair on the nape of her neck prickled. Cinemas were well known to be clandestine drop offs. If she knew this, so did the police. There would be no darkness to cloak their movements, no crowds to vanish into and no shouts of protest, against German propaganda on the screen, to drown out their footsteps.
The sharp scream of his whistle pierced the air.
Panic broke out as she hurried inside.
The young boy yanked his hand free from his sister’s hold. The father turned and grabbed his son’s hand, the mother stopped in her tracks just as Yvette reached for the older girl’s hand.
A dark clothed man stood near the stage waving his hands.
“The police—gendarme!” Yvette screamed.
He ran over to a closet and pointed.
In their haste, the child beside her fell, breaking free from Yvette’s grasp.
“Go,” she ordered to the mother who immediately stopped.
Behind her, the door to the theater swung open.
Yvette gripped the frightened child’s hand, bent down and whispered in her ear. “Listen to me,” she said in French. “You must not say a word. Do you understand?”
Big wide brown eyes stared back.
Yvette noticed the family hid in the broom closet. Through a sliver of space, she could see their fear. Thank God they’d been inside when the gendarme had rounded the corner. He couldn’t have seen them, she prayed. He was here to check up on her.
“No matter what,” Yvette said, “No words.”
The child nodded.
The man who was her contact ran and hid under a row of chairs.
Slowly, her heart pounding, Yvette turned around to face the enemy.
***
André stood at the table beside Father François and two men he knew as Bayard and Emery, though he doubted those were their real names.
In front of him, a crude drawing of a radio held all their attentions.
André pointed to the aerial connection, he had earlier pulled down from the roof and snaked into the basement. “Ok, so we have to wind this coil a hundred twenty times around this tube.”
Emery began to twist the copper wire around the cardboard tube.
“Good. Bayard, why don’t you spread the safety pin to about a ninety-degree angle… yes… good. I’ll secure this…”André snapped off the sharp point of the pencil and wired it to the tip of the safety pin. He placed the tip of the pin to the right of the razor-blade and hammered a nail through the pin’s head.
André glanced at the diagram. “So if I’m reading this correctly, the antenna attaches to a nail which connects to this coil and razor-blade.”
Father François pushed a thumbtack on each side of the razor, as André wrapped another coil around a protruding nail head.
“This ground wire attaches… here.” André secured the end to a different nail, then connected the earphones to the end of the coil. “That should do.”
Gently he moved the pin and pencil lead across the razor blade until sound emerged. It took some doing, but finally, a familiar voice crackled. "Before we begin,” the voice said, “please listen to some p
ersonal messages.”
All four men leaned closer, waiting for the coded words, they knew would follow.
“The apples are still green in Normandy so, a bushel of oranges will arrive just in time for Monday’s breakfast, over at starling point.”
André scribbled down the message: A British airdrop of weapons and ammo on a full plane is landing at starling point,
“That’s the field about two hours from here,” Bayard said.
“Yeah,” Emery agreed.
Everyone in this district knew the field was a place where starlings flocked to nest.
“Coffee beans...” the voice continued.
A new group of volunteers... André jotted.
“... we so desperately need, are sure to help start the day. Now onto the news…”
André pulled his fingers off the radio and the sound died. “Well gents, it looks like we just got our next assignment.”
***
“You there, halt!” the gendarme ordered.
Yvette stopped; the throbbing in her neck did not and she was sure the telltale sign would give away her fear.
His polished black boots thud as he marched over to them. His black cape swung behind him, the red lining swaying back and forth like a toreador’s cloak. His stiff posture was almost mechanical. Handcuffs, attached to his breast pocket and the club he held in his hand was ready for the kill.
“What are you doing here,” he said in French.”
“I do not understand you,” she replied in English
The frown on his sharp face and the flash of anger in his eyes made his annoyance clear without saying a word. His short, sinister mustache, a mirror image of Hitler’s said where his alliance lay.
“You,” he pointed to the child in her arms. “Ask her what she is doing here.”
Her heart pounding in her ears, Yvette held her breath.
The child remained silent.
“Merde,” he cursed.” He spun on his heel, marched to the door and gestured outside.
Yvette’s gaze darted around the room. She thought about running, but where to? A plan came to mind. She glanced at the family in hiding and shot them a reassuring smile, hoping they understood her expression. Looking down at the child beside her, she pressed her finger to her lips and the little girl nodded. Yvette wound her watch ahead.
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