Behind The Mask

by Marianne Petit

  “That’s one of the landmarks on the map.” He pointed.

  A church stood in the distance. Destroyed by shellfire, only the crucifix remained untouched. The indestructible silhouette, against the inky darkness, was a testament to religious faith, a symbol that righteousness would overcome evil. In the church’s shadow lay the cemetery. Their destination. Damn. André gripped his revolver. Why did their meeting place have to be in a cemetery? He hated cemeteries. Damn. Damn.

  Fearful they were being watched, he halted the group at the foot of a bridge and glanced to both sides. “Take off your shoes.”

  Everyone did as asked.

  When the moon, once again, hid, he put his finger against his lips hushing the little ones. “Walk lightly,” he whispered as he slipped into the darkness.

  As noiselessly as ghosts, they tiptoed across the wooden bridge to the watchful eyes of Gothic tombs that stood like silent sentries witnessing their escape. Halfway across the rickety wooden structure the moon shone.

  “Drop,” André ordered. Everyone complied.

  The bridge swayed, groaned on rusty hinges and tired ropes.

  A moment passed. He waited, listened for voices, listened to the moaning wind. He lifted his head, straining to hear—to focus all his attention on his surroundings.

  Slowly he stood and they silently followed his lead. Cloaked in distorted shadows they hurried into the cemetery.

  “Something is bothering you,” Yvette whispered beside him.

  “We’ve got to hurry.”

  “Please tell me.”

  He wasn’t comfortable talking about his past, trusting someone with feelings he didn’t like to think upon. Not opening up and sharing his thoughts had been a thorn in Amelia’s side, placed a wedge between them that widened as the months wore on.

  “This place gives me the creeps. That’s all,” he said.

  Hell, he couldn’t change who he was, he’d told her that many times. Amelia never understood. He didn’t understand why he closed down when she insisted he spill his guts.

  “I find cemeteries peaceful,” Yvette said. “And old tombs fascinating. Look at that mausoleum, it’s beautiful.” She pointed to an old ivy-covered structure now illuminated by the moon. A stained glass window cut into the stone. Wrought iron doors barred entrance. A swag of sculptured stone roses encrusted the top of the arched doorway.

  “The darkness inside one of those places is enough to set your teeth on edge.”

  Yvette stared at him and he felt the need to explain.

  “When I was young and quite curious, after my uncle died, I snuck inside his burial place and got locked inside. I can tell you it wasn’t a pleasant experience.”

  “Oh.”

  Thankful she didn’t ask any more questions, André bent and picked up a small girl who looked so tired she was about to collapse. “We need to hurry. Our contact is waiting.”

  He’d been told to rendezvous at a large cross bearing the image of Christ holding a child in both arms. A light fog hung over the weathered tombstones adding eeriness to the atmosphere. As they walked, André had the intense feeling something was wrong. No one stood waiting at the headstone.

  “Where are we to meet our passeur?” Yvette asked.

  “Right here.” André’s gaze darted around the darkness.

  “Did we miss him?” Yvette’s voice sounded thin with worry. “This is my fault.”

  “No. We needed a moment’s rest. You were right.”

  “But--”

  “We had plenty of time. We didn’t miss him.” Had their contact fled in fear of capture? Was this a trap? Once again, André glanced around. “We need to find a place to hide until he comes.” Damn. “Wait here.”

  He didn’t like his options as he slithered between tombstones and monstrous stone buildings decorated with statues distorted under the shifting moonlight. He fiddled with door handles with the apprehensive hope one would be unlocked. He crossed paths with ghoulish bronze figures weathered green from age and passed a sculptured angel bent over the head of a stone skull.

  André stepped up to an ornate mausoleum with huge hooded figures standing guard on either side of the door. He tugged on the frozen brass handle that seemed to bite his palm. The door groaned open. A blast of fridge air hit him in the face. Goosebumps crept up the back of his neck. He reached inside the satchel slung over his shoulder and rummaged inside until he found his flashlight. The bright beam illumined the lone coffin. André pivoted. They had no choice; standing in the open was too dangerous. He hurried back to the group.

  “This way.” He heard a soft whimper and grabbed up two small children.

  With Yvette’s encouraging hand on his arm, his flashlight revealing the stone interior, they entered the musty, dead cold, building. A familiar suffocating awareness fell over André. He pushed the door ajar, so he could see outside. He listened intently for any indication that someone lurked in the shadows. Thunder rumbled and a bright flash of lightning split the dark sky. Soft rain began to pelt the roof.

  In the small, cramped room, the children huddled together to keep warm. Several of the younger ones looked frightened. A tall, slender girl, of about fifteen, gathered a crying child in her arms. As time slipped by, a few children fell asleep. One of the older boys paced the small space and a few whispered amongst themselves.

  Howling gusts of wind interrupted the monotonous unfriendly raindrops. Echoing thunderclaps made shoulders jerk and caused wide-eyed terror. It didn’t take long before the storm grew with blinding intensity and André struggled to see outside for the man he knew in his gut had stood them up. Angry rain attacked the top of the mausoleum. The dampness leached into his bones.

  Reasoning the storm may have delayed their contact, André struggled with indecision. Staying here was not an option. Going outside in the downpour didn’t seem wise either. He rubbed his stiff leg trying to ease the knotted ache. At least they were dry and for the moment, unnoticed.

  “Sir?”

  He felt a tug on his pant leg and looked down at a little girl who couldn’t be more than six years of age. She wasn’t heavy by any means, but her disheveled coat, a size too small, hugged her underclothing like a stuffed scarecrow. Her brown pigtails had unraveled and her cheeks, chafed by the cold wind, appeared red.

  “I’m hungry.”

  He reached into his bag, pulled out a chocolate bar and handed it to her. The toothless smile he received brightened the tight spot in his heart.

  “Sir.” Again, he felt a tug on his pants.

  “What?”

  “I’m afraid.”

  André bent down. “What is your name?”

  “Hanna Weisberg, but I’m supposed to say Hanna Weis now.”

  She, like most of the children in hiding, was of Jewish decent. Some of them had German parents wanted on the Nazi’s blacklist for crimes they deemed warranted arrest. Others were stateless, from neighboring countries, despite that they’d lived most of their life in France.

  “Well, Hanna. “André took the little girl’s hand. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m a little scared too.”

  ***

  “Shh.” Yvette cradled the sobbing child in her arms. “Don’t cry baby.”

  The little girl’s cheeks were flaming and Yvette knew a fever played havoc with her body. They had to find a warm place where she could give her proper care. If the other children caught her sickness, they’d have an epidemic on their hands.

  “André.”

  Deep in thought, he stared outside.

  She tapped his shoulder.

  “André, it’s been over an hour. I don’t think he is coming.”

  “You’re right.”

  “We can’t stay here much longer.” She knew she spoke the inevitable, but felt the need to express her opinion for the good of the children. They were all cold and exhausted.

  “What do you suggest? He gestured to the howling wind and rain. “We can�
��t go trampling in that. Someone could be watching us. There’s no place to hide and the rain will slow us down.”

  His clenched jaw and tight posture were an indication he wanted out as badly as she did and she understood why. He had surprised her earlier, talking about his past. That he felt comfortable confiding in her was a small bright spot in this otherwise miserable day.

  “I don’t think we have a choice.”

  “I know.” André stood. “Children, it’s time to leave.”

  As they gathered up their belongings, Yvette hoped her suggestion wouldn’t lead to disaster.

  Hesitantly, she followed André outside. A nasty wind whipped brutally against them as they fought the storm and headed out of the graveyard. In fear of discovery, André kept his flashlight off making it difficult to see. Several times, she tripped over the hem of her Nun’s habit or hit her toe on a gravestone. Mud splashed. Rain dripped down her face and the cold seeped through her clothing.

  Her heart beat briskly as they made their way into a small town stricken by the war. Shell-shocked roofs collapsed inward. Walls torn and gaping gave glimpses into the lives of those who once lived inside and added to the eerie and heavy sense of death and destruction. She figured the village was abandoned. Surely here they would be safe and find shelter without difficulty. Yvette’s feet sloshed about in her shoes as they silently crept in the shadows.

  The rain stopped and the moon floated out. Startled by her own shadow, she stumbled, clutched the sick child to her breast and gulped in frost biting air.

  André grabbed her arm. “I’ve got you.”

  She nodded, thankful he was close by her side.

  Taking no undue risks, he waited until the moon hid behind a cloud and ushered the group down the street, slinking between houses and hedge-woods.

  They found an abandoned farmhouse bombed by artillery shells, but the roof looked secure. Part of one wall lay crumbled. Other walls stood strong, and an inviting fireplace, stocked with wood, beckoned them welcome.

  Yvette helped the children peel off their outer layers. André got to work ordering the children to find bedding and to gather whatever food they could find. He started a fire and warm light filled the room. Yvette found a broom and swept fragments of glass and bits of wood past heaps of loose stones, remnants of the outer wall. When the room was tidy, she slipped into a bedroom and rid herself of the Nun’s habit. She fluffed up her hair, now free from the black veil and white starched linen. Her clothes were damp, but she felt better without the bulky wet garment.

  André, she noticed, found a shirt that stretched tautly across his broad shoulders. A size too small, the buttons strained to stay closed, and through the gaps she could see a fine dusting of blond hair. Short pants clung to his muscled calf. He was wearing one blue sock and one black stock. He looked adorable. She wanted to say, “I told you so,” and tried not to grin.

  “What?” he asked his stare piercing.

  “Nothing.” Knowing how ridiculous he felt she decided she’d better not comment or all hell would break out. She picked up a linen tablecloth.

  “Gee, the amount of pleasure you are getting over this,” he gestured to his clothing, “is staggering.”

  Yvette grinned. “I didn’t say a word.”

  “Ok. So, you were right. Happy now?” Mischief brightened his eyes.

  Yvette shrugged, stifled her giggle and began to unfold the tablecloth.

  “Let me help you.” André reached over and their fingers touched. His gaze traveled across her body and settled on her hair and she wished she had brought a brush. The tangled mass down her back felt damp and unruly.

  “I must look like a mess.”

  “No.” He reached over and brushed back a lock. “You should wear your hair down more often. It suits you.”

  She sighed, trembling with familiar sensations.

  Sensing her contentment, he drew her into his arms. Giving her no time to think, he pressed his forehead against hers. The scent of smoke from the fire, mixing with rain kissed hair, filled her senses. She laced her fingers around his neck.

  “You feel so good,” he whispered near her ear.

  Her undergarments clung damp against her skin and she doubted she had a stitch of makeup on her cheeks. “I can’t possibly feel--”

  “Like heaven in my arms? You do.” He brought his lips inches from hers and the world seemed to stop.

  Her heart thud with anticipation. The beat of his heart pounding against hers spiked her pulse. Determined to break the social restrictions she knew held him back, she leaned in closer and his muscled arms wrapped around her waist drawing her into the hard lines of his chest. His erratic breathing fanned her face. Their gazes connected, intense, hot, and she closed her eyes, willing him to kiss her.

  The sound of children’s laughter broke the intimate moment, pulling them apart.

  Flustered, Yvette stepped back, turned toward the table and together they spread out the tablecloth, glasses, plates, and utensils. André kept his eyes on her as they set out the food they had packed in the picnic basket and she wondered if he was as disappointed as she felt. There was defiantly something between them, an attraction that grew stronger every time they were together. Did he feel the same way? Was she just another woman in his list of kisses? The thought unsettling, she sat on the floor beside a little boy who swallowed his food like he was starving and handed him a piece of cheese from her plate.

  After a dinner of whole-meal bread, half a round of Brie and a few hard boiled eggs, everyone settled down. Happy to be dry and for the moment safe, the children chatted amongst themselves. A few of the older girls made googly eyes at the boys, while the boys pretended to ignore them. A few children had passed out on a blanket by the fire.

  Yvette’s concern lay with the sick child, Tanya, who tossed and turned and shivered, despite the heat. She wrapped up some supper, hoping, when the little girl felt better, she’d eat something.

  Whenever anyone was sick, Grandpère used to swear by the folk remedy that putting a slice of raw onion on the bottom of each foot would cure anything. Though she doubted it would work, she sliced a few slivers, pressed it against the child’s foot and covered the smelly vegetable with a sock. Tanya wasn’t pleased and began to kick out.

  “Do you need help?” André stood by the kitchen table.

  “I have to bring her fever down.” She always carried a bottle of lavender oil with her for personal hygiene and took the small vial out of her bag. “Could you bring me a pitcher of water and a cloth?”

  André found an old tin basin and brought it to her.

  She mixed a few drops of oil with water and gently wiped Tanya’s, legs, arms, neck and chest with a coarse towel, making sure to keep away from her face and eyes.

  “I want my mama.” Tears rolled down Tanya’s cheeks.

  Yvette placed a cool towel over her forehead. “I know, I know. It’ll be all right.” She wanted to tell Tanya she would see her mother again, but how could she promise her that? It wasn’t all right. Wasn’t fair. Tanya and all these children were torn from their family by no fault of their own. Alone and afraid, what if they didn’t make it to the border? Even if they did, what kind of future would they face without those who loved them? It was difficult to keep the tears from her own eyes as Yvette continued to bring down the little girl’s fever.

  André knelt beside her and placed a gentle hand on Tanya’s arm.

  After a few minutes, Tanya, probably from sheer exhaustion, stopped her fussing and fell asleep.

  André headed into the kitchen, then returned and handed Yvette a cup of steaming brew. “You are very good with her.”

  “Thank you.” Yvette sat on the floor and leaned against the couch, her gaze focused on the dancing flames and smoke shooting up the chimney.

  André sat beside her. “You’d make a good mother.”

  Yvette thought about her own mother’s lack of nurturing and feared she would follow by example. “Would I? I was raised
by a nanny.” Her mother was incapable of taking care of anyone but herself. “My mother was far from a good role model.”

  He brushed a lock of damp hair from her cheek. “Indeed, you would. I have no doubt.”

  She did have doubts. Today had been grueling. The children, under the circumstances, behaved well, but keeping a diligent watch over their every move was hard work. “Well, that’s a long way off.”

  Yvette inhaled the steaming vapors. “Tea. How wonderful.” She took a sip and wondered how André managed to obtain the rationed tea leaves, the cheese and eggs they’d eaten. Probably, like most, through the black market. The thought that he had placed himself in danger among muggers and thieves for the sake of the children and her warmed her heart. He was a brave, kind man.

  André got up and stoked the fire. Firelight outlined his thick muscular legs and lean hips. His back, strong and broad at the shoulders, bunched as he poked at the logs. When he bent over to pick up wood, his narrow butt lifted and Yvette’s breath hitched. His virility mesmerized her like the flickering flames. Her heart leapt wildly, matching the rhythm of the golden sparks dancing in the hearth.

  Alternating sensations of desire and misgivings spun her thoughts, darted her glance to the clothing hanging over chairs and pegs on the walls, to the children sleeping haphazardly in various places around the room.

  In an effort to calm her spiraling emotions, she focused her attention outside. The wind no longer howled, but blasts of cold air from the far side of the house wafted over them, sending bursts of smoke up the chimney.

  When André sat beside her, her shoulders jerked.

  It felt strange surrounded by children, sitting next to a man she could fancy as her man. No. Banish the thought. “Any children in your future?” she asked as she crossed her arms in an effort to quell the small ache in her chest. There could be no future for the two of them.

  “Wasn’t in the cards,” he replied nonchalantly.

  What would it be like living with him?

  Yvette picked up her teacup. “May I ask what happened to your wife?” Her question sounded like she had swallowed the words with her tea.