Behind The Mask

by Marianne Petit

  The gendarme escorted a man down the aisle. “Écoutez!” he ordered the man beside him to listen.

  The man wrung his hands together. “He says the theater is closed. What is your explanation?”

  “Well, the door was open,” she said, the sarcasm hard to keep at bay. Yvette prayed the child kept quiet. “I planned on taking my sister to a show.” She dare not look at the little girl in fear that she may contradict her. “According to my watch...” Yvette held up her arm, “what time do you have?” she asked demurely, praying anxiety didn’t show in her tone.

  Still wringing his hands, her interpreter glanced at his watch. “Fourteen…” he said quietly, “hundred hours.”

  “Well, there. My mistake. My watch is twenty minutes fast, the movie hasn’t started yet.” Her knees quivering, Yvette forced herself to move.

  The child clung to her hand like a lifeline.

  “La mademoiselle--”

  The gendarme rattled off a command cutting off the nervous man’s sentence. He swallowed, then continued. “The officer says there is no movie. Didn’t you see the sign?”

  “Obviously not.” Yvette snapped.

  The Gendarme grabbed the child’s arm and she realized he planned to interrogate her. She clenched her fingers around the little girl’s hand and dug in her heels.

  From her vantage point, Yvette could see the child’s father about to open the closet door. His wife held him back. The look of terror on their faces, the possibility they might have to sacrifice one child for the safety of the others, pierced through her own fears. They trusted her, a stranger to protect their daughter.

  The gendarme tugged attempting to drag the frightened child away.

  Yvette feared their secret pact would at any minute slip from the little girl’s lips.

  “She’s a mute,” Yvette screamed. “Leave her alone.” She yanked the little girl free.

  Struck across her cheek, by the back of his hand, the stinging blow caught Yvette off guard. Despite the pain, she picked up the child and hugged her tightly against her chest.

  The nervous man, who stood quietly watching the exchange, explained to the officer, in a shaky voice, this was all an innocent mistake and the child who had no voice could tell him nothing.

  The gendarme grabbed Yvette’s arm to check her watch, released her, pivoted on his heels and slammed the cinema’s doors behind him.

  “Merci,” Yvette managed to whisper through pulsating fear and relief.

  A startled look, then a smile curled his lips. “You are welcome,” he said in English. With a tip of his hat, he walked away and Yvette knew her mission would go on as planned.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ANDRÉ WAS LEAVING the church when a group of people, a family by the looks of it, made their way toward him. He recognized Luis, one of his members, leading the group and he waved. When Yvette stepped out from behind the troupe, he nearly stumbled down the steps. What the hell is she doing here? Lord, it’s good to see her. He wondered how she was doing. What she was doing. Never in his wildest dreams, and he’d had plenty about her, did he imagine her leading a group of refugees. He watched as she reached into her purse, pulled out money and placed the cash into the woman’s hand, reassuring the grateful woman, she needed it more and apologizing it was all she had. Her generosity melted an edge of his guarded heart.

  She looked up at him and her eyes widened.

  “I trust all went well?” he asked Luis, focusing his attention away from Yvette.

  André frowned. How could she? How could she disregard his specific orders to stay put? He ground his teeth. Hell, he’d gotten her into this war. She was now his responsibility.

  Though he didn’t want to look, his gaze, once again, found her. The red coat she wore complimented her fair complexion. Her wide-brimmed hat partially blocked out the sun, shadowing one cheek. Her hair, crimped with waves, fell over the brown fur collar. And damn that red lipstick reminding him of strawberries. God, he craved strawberries… wanted to taste those lips… He snapped his attention back to Luis.

  “It was touch and go. As usual, too close for comfort. We almost lost the package.” Luis glanced toward Yvette. “She made it work.”

  Through his negativity, André could hear the pride in Luis’ tone.

  “Yoo-hoo! Très jolie, Mademoiselle.” Jacques waved his hand. “It is me, Jacques, beautiful lady.”

  Recognition lit Yvette’s eyes and she smiled.

  With a silly grin plastered on his face, Jacques ran up to her and spun her around. “Mon amour, my heart is doing a happy dance to see you, but I wonder how you got mixed up with these hoodlums?”

  Yvette laughed. “Oh, it’s a long story.”

  The gaiety, when clearly a reprimand was in order, fueled André’s annoyance and he clenched his hand.

  “She’s a secretary. Not…” he bit off with an aggravated snarl, “a field agent. Not going to happen again.” He stalked toward the church, leaving them all behind.

  When everyone settled down in the basement and had something to eat, André pulled Yvette aside. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at work.”

  “I am part of the group.”

  “Since you work at a desk, in an office and I don’t see any desks…” he gestured around the stone cellar. “I remember saying under no uncertain terms... paperwork, only paperwork.”

  “André,” defiance sparked a fire in her eyes, “I couldn’t leave them. What was I…”

  The bruise on her face, that hadn’t registered until now, blurred her remaining words.

  “What happened?” Anger spilled into his tone and he immediately took a calm breath. The thought of anyone laying a hand on her clenched his jaw and heated his face.

  “What? Oh, this?” She ran her finger across her skin where a bruise discolored a cheek he envisioned kissing. “I am fine.”

  “You certainly are not.” He wanted to follow the trail her fingers left with his, but left his hands clenched at his side.

  “Nothing a bit of makeup cannot fix,” she mumbled as she focused on his lips.

  “Whatever were you thinking? Lord, you could have been arrested.” The unsettling thought soured his gut.

  “I had no choice. Would you leave them behind? I was asked to deliver a message. My contact did not show, so I brought them to the next stop and Luis brought us here.”

  “That doesn’t explain this.” He brushed her swollen cheek, wishing he could erase the disfigurement he knew a few days would bring.

  Her eyes widened, turned a startled shade of green. “I do not want to talk about it.” She stepped back.

  “Who in their right mind would ask you to do something so dangerous?”

  “I have the papers we need,” she said, not answering his question.

  The thought that he cared too much, that he was becoming too invested in a woman he hardly knew, stifled his emotions and snapped his attention to their mission. “Good. We can proceed then.” If she wanted to risk her life who was he to stop her.

  “We have a friend in the embassy, one who will be very helpful to us.” Yvette proceeded to tell him about her encounter with H. Bingham and André felt the sudden need to tell her boss a thing or two about the dangerous mission he placed his employee in. “After today I want to work in the field,” she said with excitement.

  “We need you in the office. And I am going to talk to your boss. No more messages.”

  She slammed her hands on her hips. “There is nothing you can do to change my mind. Either we are working together or I am on my own. I do not need your help.”

  Pig headed fool! André shook his head, frustrated by her stubbornness. The resistance needed all the help it could get. Who was he to interject his reluctance because of concern for her well-being? Many women helped the cause. Beautiful women… André studied Yvette’s creamy flawless skin, shadowed by a hat, the small delicate nose and high cheekbones, the intelligent blue-green eyes, he could drown in… Hell, women, esp
ecially ones as beautiful as Yvette, could lead a man to make admissions they would never make to the likes of him. “It seems there is no stopping you.”

  A satisfied grin lit her face. “Good, then we agree.” She held out her hand.

  He ignored it. “You, woman, try my patience.”

  Yvette bit her lip and he realized he was staring.

  "What?" he snapped, his irritation getting the better of him.

  She cast him an annoyed look. "I want the others to know me as… you know.” She leaned in and whispered, “Eva. I know it is foolish, but--"

  "I understand." He did; completely and would keep her secret.

  “André! André!” Bayard rushed over to them.

  They both turned in unison.

  “What?” The nervous energy bouncing off Bayard sent a pang of anxiety to André’s gut

  “I am sorry, so sorry.” His breathing quick, he wrung his hands.

  The words began to churn in André’s chest, forming a tight knot. “Tell me what?” Cold sweat began to settle over him.

  “Your village… There was an attack…”

  André’s breath held. His heart seemed to stop as he tried to listen through a numbness overpowering his thoughts.

  “The men... all of them.” Bayard’s gaze fell. “I’m--I’m so sorry.” He shook his head.

  André felt a soft hand on his shoulder. He noticed the angst on his comrade’s face as the church bell clanged its solemn death toll. The powerful ringing resonated down his body and stabbed his chest. He tried to count the death knell, three strokes for a man or was that two? There were so many he couldn’t think; he couldn’t breathe.

  “André?” Yvette said quietly beside him.

  “I must leave.” He pivoted on his heel.

  “I am going with you.” She grabbed his arm.

  He wanted to argue, but didn’t have the strength.

  ***

  How they managed to get a car and a full tank with the growing shortage of petrol was something Yvette was not going to ask as they drove in silence toward Lyon. André gripped the steering so tightly she swore there would be finger grooves marring the wheel. The worry etched in his face, the clenched jaw, and his stoic control, despite his erratic breathing, betrayed his emotions and broke her heart. They sped along the winding roads and Yvette clutched the door handle. André had not said a word since they’d left and she figured no words would ease his thoughts.

  She thought about his mother and nearly cried, thinking about what she must be feeling over the loss of her son and husband. She held her emotions in check for André’s sake, but she felt sick; sick to her stomach. The road sped past her and she closed her eyes, which made matters worse. Almost three hours later, they pulled up to his home.

  “André, is there anything I can do,” she asked, knowing his answer before he spoke it.

  He shook his head.

  “I did not know them very long,” she said, apologizing, “But I feel like I knew them.” She wasn’t explaining her emotions very well. What she wanted to say was that in the short time she had stayed with them, they treated her like family and she cared deeply about them. “I mean--”

  “I know what you mean.” He pushed open his door and stepped out.

  She reached for her doorknob, but he was there, opening the door for her, despite his desire to rush inside. The thought warmed her heart. His mother would be proud.

  Madeleine met them at the door and grabbed André in a big bear hug. She did the same to Yvette. Her face was blotchy, her eyes swollen red from crying.

  “Ma mère--”

  “Sit,” she ordered. “I’ll pour us some tea.”

  André went to a cabinet and took out a bottle of bourbon.

  Madeleine turned off the kettle, took out three glasses and placed them on the table. André poured. Lost in his grief, the glass overfilled splashing the golden liquid over the white tablecloth. Yvette placed her hand over his and then eased the bottle free from his tight grip. Without a word, he sat, downed his drink and swiped his mouth with his arm.

  “André, really,” his mother protested. “Where are your manners? We have a guest.”

  “Manners?” he growled as he pushed back his chair and stood. He poured himself another glass and chugged down another swig. “Really?” His face turned pale. He ran to the sink and vomited.

  Madeleine’s brow crinkled with confusion. She rushed to his side and placed her hand on his shoulder.

  Yvette’s eyes clouded with tears.

  “André is that you?”

  André spun around. She could see confusion swimming in his eyes.

  Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a surprised cry as realization hit her. Monsieur Rinaldo was alive!

  Yvette glimpsed to Madeleine, who was studying them with an odd expression of curiosity and confusion.

  André bolted to the parlor and Yvette followed.

  André gave his father a hug that lasted longer than she suspected they would usually show such emotion.

  “I don’t understand.” He sank into the sofa.

  “Yvette, sit,” his father, gestured.

  “Gérald?” Yvette asked, afraid of the answer.

  André clenched his hand—waiting...

  “He’s fine. Off visiting his latest girlfriend, I suppose.”

  A heavy breath escaped André. His posture relaxed.

  Relief eased the tension from her shoulders and she leaned back into the couch.

  “What happened?” André asked as he skirted the edge of his seat and gave his father his full attention.

  “Argh,” he growled. “A few of the younger boys thought it a good idea to destroy the tankers in the tunnel--”

  “The one where the government stores their gasoline,” André asked?

  His father nodded. “Under the railroad bridge. Anyway,” he sighed, “word had it that a convoy was being sent to pick it up to be delivered to the Germans. The officials found out and sent the Milice over.”

  André raked his fingers through his hair. “That group is worse than the Gestapo.”

  His dad nodded. “They threatened to shoot unless the culprits confessed.”

  “No one did,” André stated flatly.

  “They gathered all the men--” Monsieur Rinaldo’s voice cracked. His eyes downcast, his lips quivered with- held back emotion. “Executed them all on the spot.”

  Yvette gasped and covered her mouth.

  “Are you all right?” André asked softly beside her.

  She nodded and once again, he gave his father, his full attention.

  “We were away visiting friends in the city when it happened.” Tedious guilt weighted Monsieur Rinaldo’s features. His body slumped in the oversized chair.

  It was not his fault, Yvette wanted to say, that he was alive and others died. She had the feeling that if they had been there, both father and son would have been killed for their silence.

  Just like Grandpère.

  Heroic to the end.

  ***

  Repetitive thoughts of how close his family came to dying tumbled together with nightmares of his past and kept André awake most of the night.

  His nerves on a short leash, he paced the small office. “And there is nothing we can do?”

  Rogér shook his head. “Moonlight Sonata is set to bomb the city of Coventry on November fourteenth.”

  André stopped and spun on his heel. “Why do I bother gathering information if Churchill refuses to engage his forces? I am getting sick of it. Sick and tired of the whole damn war. One step closer to victory. Three backward.” Was he accomplishing anything?

  “That information came from a confiscated Enigma machine you took off a German torpedo boat and you know very well what that means.” Rogér leaned back in his seat and puffed on his cigar. Smoke curled toward the ceiling. “And may I congratulate you on a mission well done. Sneaking up to enemy fleets in canoes in the middle of the night... Even I wouldn’t have thought of that on
e. Hell, the port looked like the American’s Fourth of July after you and your crew were done.”

  André dropped into a chair in front of a table where maps and Intel lie scattered. “Granted, I understand Churchill doesn’t want to tip his hand, but hundreds of people will die.”

  Starting back in September, nighttime attacks on British cities were Hitler’s attempt to destroy the Brit’s moral. The “Blitz” forced people into the Underground. Scenes of thousands of people seeking a safe haven in the cramped deep train stations were plastered on posters and shown in the cinema. They hid; awaiting their fate in what could be their underground tomb. The thought was sickening.

  “If he does anything to stop the attack, the Germans will know we broke their codes and all future strategic information off that machine will be useless.” Rogér shook his head. “I do not envy the Prime Minister. It is a tragic decision he is facing.”

  “Yeah, and I just bet everyone he knows has already evacuated the city,” André said sarcastically. “Believe me, the Germans are so convinced their codes are unbreakable, they’ll never believe the Brits have one of their damn machines.”

  Rogér leaned across the table and looked him square on. “I understand your frustration. His thought is for the greater good. You had… what, six two manned canoes? Two were lost in the rapids at the mouth of the river. Two boats hit rocks, but those men made it to shore only to be caught and executed. Yours and one other boat made it down that hundred mile ride. War means causalities, you know that.”

  “Merde!” André pounded the desk. “On the battlefield, undercover, going into a suicide mission with open eyes… yeah sure. Those people in Coventry are sitting ducks because their leaders are choosing to sit back and watch them die when they have perfectly good information that can save them.”

  “Look, André, let it drop. Our country needs you back in the game. I need you. So don’t be discouraged by this setback.”

  André couldn’t answer. Feeling like he failed those people was a bitter pill to swallow.