Behind The Mask

by Marianne Petit

  “Géry it is very late.”

  Anger brewed in his chest, but he managed to stay calm, despite the heat creeping up his neck. “No one should spend Christmas alone.” Obviously, she knew that, but felt he didn’t warrant time in her presence. “With your permission… just a short visit,” he said.

  “It’s really not appropriate.”

  Appropriate he wanted to yell… appropriate?

  “No, I guess not.” Did she tell that to the others as they trampled through her door? They would only hurt her. He had to make her understand. “Please accept my gift.”

  She nodded, took the roses from his clenched hand and brought them to her nose. “They smell lovely. Thank you.”

  She had saved his life and cared enough to protect him. Now it was his turn to protect her, to keep her safe from rogues, like André, who would slowly break her spirit. He knew the kind of man he was, unemotional, detached, incapable of loving anyone. That kind of false, quiet emotion simmered and brewed until it exploded. His own father was proof of that.

  “This is a mere token. The real gift I will show you tomorrow.” He slipped his bloody hand into his pocket.

  “Géry, really this is more than enough and so kind of you.” She placed her hand on his arm and the neckline of her robe opened slightly. He could see the swell of her breasts.

  “Nevertheless, I think you will be pleased.” He licked his dry lips. “I will see you tomorrow.” And then the day after and the day after, until I win you over and take you to bed.

  “Yes. I look forward to seeing you.” She smiled.

  He was better than all of them, she’d see that soon enough. He’d prove his worth; then she’d be his. No one ever cared about him like Eva, not even his good for nothing mother.

  Géry reached out, took her hand and brought it to his lips. Her fingers felt cold against his mouth, a cold delicacy that titillated and brought a rise in his body.

  Yes, tomorrow is only the beginning…

  ***

  André was roughly shuffled down the street. His head covered with a burlap bag made seeing difficult. His hands pinned down against his sides made reaching for his gun impossible.

  There were four of them, he calculated. Two pair of hands held him. He could hear heavy footsteps behind him and the “lookout”, walking in front of him, ordered them to hurry up.

  A sulfuric odor like sewage wafted through the burlap and he knew they were closer to the docks and in the seediest part of town.

  André struggled, dug in his feet, refusing to be a passive pawn.

  A fist hit him squarely in the gut. He doubled over. Before he could straighten, an elbow crashed over his collarbone, then a foot slammed into the back of his knee bringing him down to the ground.

  His hands free, he reached for his gun as punches and jabs attacked him from all directions, but his coat pocket was empty.

  André knew he had to stand; stand and fight, but relentless hits pounded him making it impossible to do anything but protect his face. Pain shot through his chest. A foot met his cheekbone and he tasted blood.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a boot, grabbed the ankle and jerked the body down.

  Words of obscenity flew from the man’s mouth.

  André ripped the bag off his head and a fist met his jaw.

  Fueled by anger he struggled to rise. A blow to his chest, then to his back, brought him flat to the ground. He reached for the knife he hid against his ankle, but before he could touch the blade, a boot came down on his bad leg grinding it into the street. Shooting pain rose bile in his throat.

  “A message from a friend,” a deep voice said sarcastically.

  “Oh yeah, where is he?” André tasted blood. The side of his face felt warm and sticky. “Maybe we could have lunch.” He spit on a dusty, worn leather boot. His defiance earned him two more kicks to the ribs. André coughed and spit blood. “Not lunch? Maybe dinner, then?”

  “Aren’t you the cocky one.”

  André got a good look at his attacker’s sallow face, taking in the scar across his chin, the crooked mouth, silver hair. Storing those features to memory, he calculated his next move.

  “You like fish?” André asked as he tried to figure out how to reach his knife.

  The gang leader sneered. “Fried with butter.” He pulled out a gun. His gun.

  Before André could reach for his weapon, two pairs of strong hands hoisted to his feet. He struggled against their hold.

  “Good,” André spat, “because you’re gonna be swimming with a school of them.” André kicked back his good leg hoping to strike the man pinning him. His foot slammed into his opponent’s knee.

  “Son of a bitch,” he heard his attacker say before two men pinned André’s arms to his sides and brought him to his knees.

  The leader put his finger to the trigger. André felt his heart hold.

  Bullets don’t bounce, he recalled Yvette saying. No. I guess they don’t.

  “And when you give up the name of the bastard who hired you and I’m through with him, I’m coming after you,” André promised.

  Yvette. I’m sorry.

  The gun misfired. Relief whooshed the air from his lungs. André’s shoulders sank. Focusing on the trigger, his mind plotted an escape tactic. He struggled to rise, but strong hands held him down.

  Inch by inch, the gunman slowly pulled back on the mechanism as if enjoying the torture. His closed-lipped grin was one of triumph and smugness.

  Inch by painful inch, unable to stand and full of regrets, André’s future ebbed before him as he waited for that final blow.

  “Merde.”

  The curse darted André’s gaze and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approaching.

  His attacker jerked the gun away, slammed the butt into André’s head then pivoted. His vision blurry André watched them scatter like rats and then his world went black.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IN HIS STUPOR, ANDRÉ heard the cawing of birds, smelled the sea and listened to the clang of metal against sailboat masts.

  His head throbbing, he felt something wet and rough slip across his face, but he didn’t have the energy to look. With great effort, he reached out. Pain shot through his body like he’d been seared with a hot iron. Tangled hair met his palm— that and a large snout.

  André’s eyes flashed open, well one eye did— the other was swollen shut. Sunlight blinded him. He blinked several times to clear his vision and a face came into view. A mangy dog stood over him, eyeing him like a big, juicy bone.

  “Shoo. Go…” He waved and his effort to scare the beast away earned him another shot of unbearable pain. “Get out of here.” As the dog scooted away, André eased himself to a sitting position. The effort excruciating, he cringed.

  What the hell happened last night?

  He put his hand on the building nearby for support and eased himself up. The strenuous effort drained the blood from his face. Weak, he leaned against the building and tried not to breathe too deeply. His bruised body felt like he had been run over by a seventy-ton tank. André coughed and clutched his chest to stifle the knife-like pain.

  Lucky for him the gendarme had walked by, not that he cared or offered help. He’d left him bleeding and unconscious in the alleyway. At least his presence had spooked his attackers.

  Trying to focus out of one eye, André peeled himself off the rough stones and glanced to the street.

  Who the hell sent him that message and why? He’d ticked someone off. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of who.

  Yvette… she’d be waiting.

  André stumbled forward.

  She’d be wondering what happened.

  Dragging his bad leg behind him, André limped out of the alley to the main thoroughfare.

  A man and woman strolled passed him.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  They barely glanced at him and hurried away. Sure, he thought as he hobbled past bicycles and carts and horr
ified people who crossed to the other side of the street at the sight of him. What a spectacle he must be.

  Every step cut like a knife. To stand, to walk, exhausted him. He fought for every breath that cut into his chest, knocking the wind and energy out of him. Blocks later, he decided Yvette couldn’t see him like this and although he knew she waited for him at her hotel, he’d go to the church and get cleaned up. She would understand, he reasoned as he tried to see out of his swollen eye.

  And then…

  He crossed the street and swerved out of a cyclist’s way.

  Pain shot through his chest. He clenched his fists.

  Then he’d find the bastard. Find the bastard responsible for his beat down.

  ***

  Yvette glanced at her watch. André was late… very late. It was not like him to be so late. She glanced up and down the empty hall outside her room. Not like him at all. An uneasy feeling soured her stomach. What if something happened to him? He’d left late last night. Where would he have gone? Gosh. She had no idea where he was staying. How could she not know that?

  Again, she glanced at her watch, then massaged her temples. She had no choice. She had to leave. Quickly she scribbled the message,”at church”, tacked it to the door and hurried outside.

  She was met at the church with her usual spin around the basement by Jacques and the comforting sound of Bayard’s harmonica, both of which, she realized, she looked forward to. Somewhere along the way, these men were becoming like family and their presence lessened her anxiety, which was no small feat.

  She defended André when she heard Luis’ unconstructive quip about André finally having his full of them and hanging them out to dry. She understood Luis’ feelings. A navy man, when de Gaulle escaped to England and left the military to fend for themselves, Luis felt abandoned and disillusioned. He just figured André had done the same to the unit. She assured him André would indeed be here and she prayed she was right.

  The sight of André, hanging onto the stair railing as he made his way gingerly down into the church’s basement, stopped her in mid-dance.

  “Oh! Dear Lord.” She hurried over. “André. What happened?”

  “Nothing.” Sweat dotted his brow. His face looked like it met one too many fists.

  “Those bruises are certainly nothing. And your eye---”

  “I recall the same response from you, not so long ago, when I asked about your bruised cheek. It’s nothing,” he insisted.

  Nothing he cared to discuss, she thought. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I’m fine.” He took a step and grimaced.

  “Andr--”

  “We have work to do.”

  She grabbed his arm and helped him down. Extremely aware he favored his good leg, she wondered if the other had been injured in whatever fight he had gotten himself into.

  Bayard and Jacques came running over and bombarded him with the same questions burning on her lips.

  “We’ve acquired a roneo machine,” André said, not answering anyone’s questions. He insisted they get to work and that he was fine.

  Yvette eyed the printing press on the table. Thoughts of her grandpère’s death flashed across her mind. She hadn’t understood why he’d chosen to print what was on his mind, despite the dangers; why he fought in the only way he knew how, with his pen. Now she stood in his footsteps and identified with his reasons. Pride warmed her heart.

  “We are printing our first newsletter,” André stepped up to the machine, leaned forward to grab a sheet of paper and clenched his jaw. “We will call it Résistance. With this baby, we’ll have a wide distribution network.”

  Completely aware of his pain and trying to keep her voice light, she forced a smile. “Wonderful. Now what happened to you?”

  “It’s nothing to concern that pretty head of yours,” he replied. Before she could argue he shot her a stern, “not now” look and handed her a rough draft of what appeared to be an article. “Can you doctor it up?”

  Frustrated, she sighed, “Yes, I can edit it.”

  “Good.” He slowly turned to the men standing around them. “As soon as Eva finishes, we will start cranking these babies out.”

  When the group walked away and a lively harmonic tune filled the air, Yvette turned to André. “So?” She put her hand on her hip and stared.

  “I was attacked last night, leaving your hotel.” He fisted his hand, a contradiction to his calm demeanor.

  “Who?” she blurted out, then covered her mouth. Realizing everyone heard her startled cry, she lowered her voice and leaned toward him. “Why? Who would do such a thing? Why would anyone want to hurt you? ” She ran a finger against his split lip and he looked away. “What did they steal?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t either, but I plan on getting some answers.”

  “You should see a doctor.”

  “No,” he said, his voice firm. “Let’s get to work.”

  Deciding an argument would be futile, she stepped back.

  The cellar stairs creaked against heavy footsteps. They turned to see Géry enter the room.

  “Dear God, man. What happened to you?” he asked.

  Wariness settled on André’s face as he studied Géry.

  “He was attacked,” Yvette blurted out, wondering why André gave him the cold attitude.

  “Well, when you set out to find the bastards, I’ll tag along.” Géry put his hand on André’s shoulder and Yvette noticed André’s posture tighten. “You know I’m always watching your back.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” André replied, his tone flat. He stepped back.

  “Is something bothering you?” Géry cracked his knuckles.

  “Not a thing.”

  Yvette’s gaze darted between the two men who stood like two roosters about to battle. She was about to ask what was going on between them when Géry spoke out.

  “Eva I brought you a surprise.” He whistled and footsteps padded lightly against the wood. “A little extra Christmas present,” he said, pleased with himself.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw André’s jaw clench.

  “Géry you shouldn’t--oh Louise!” Yvette ran toward her cousin and wrapped her arms around her. She pivoted. “Look André, it’s Louise.”

  “How did you manage that?” André’s tone was laced with suspicion as he studied Géry and Yvette didn’t understand why he didn’t share her excitement. Surely, this wasn’t a macho thing. She knew he promised to get Louise released. That would be ridiculous.

  Géry shrugged. “I got friends in high places.”

  “No. Really,” André questioned.

  “I know the captain. He looked the other way. One escaped prisoner wasn’t going to be missed.”

  “Is that where you were last night?” André said.

  Yvette didn’t like the tension she felt hanging in the air. She hurried over. “Don’t we have a paper to print?” The last thing she needed was for Géry to say he’d been at her hotel.

  André pivoted on his good leg, grabbed a sheet of paper and jammed the sheet under the roller. His jaw clenched in pain as he cranked the wheel on the side of the machine.

  Géry walked away, sat at the table in the far corner of the room and picked his nails.

  “Did they break your ribs?” she asked concerned.

  “Feels like it.” He straightened, stiffened in pain and handed her a printed page.

  “If you won’t go to a doctor, let me tend to you.”

  “Read this.” He waved the paper before her.

  Yvette read the list of names. “These men…” She looked at André. “They all died?”

  “Yes, I fought with them at Dunkerque. It’s important they are remembered.”

  She felt Louise’s hand on her arm. “Do not mourn for those who have protected our country. They died for the glory of France.”

  Yvette nodded. How many men would it take to d
ie to finish what the Germans had started?

  “I’ll start editing this.” She sat at the table and read the first line. Resist! It is the cry that comes from your heart… It is the cry of all who do not give up. Whoever wrote this had a way with words, an eloquence that touched her heart.

  “I’m sorry for what I said the other day.” Louise sat beside her and toyed with a piece of her hair.

  “Don’t concern yourself. I am sure it wasn’t of any importance.”

  “No. I thought you didn’t care for the cause. I thought you a coward for not helping me put up tracts.”

  Yvette put down her pen. “You are very brave, a bit careless, but I admire your tenacity. I only ask in the future you be extremely cautious.” The last thing she wanted to do was encourage Louise, but she knew there would be no stopping her. She couldn’t demand Louise stop helping the cause. Hadn’t André insisted she stay behind on dangerous missions? A lot of good that did.

  “No more putting up tracts in broad daylight. Do you understand?” Yvette asked.

  “I’ll be more careful.”

  André walked over. “Your grandfather would be proud seeing you working on this.”

  Yvette could almost feel Grandpère’s presence in the room. “Yes, he would.” She leaned over to Louise and whispered, “And he’d be smiling.”

  ***

  For the last two hours, thoughts of who might be behind his attack rumbled amid the ache in André’s head. His leg felt numb. The pressure in his chest felt as though he were being compressed like the sheets of paper he ran under the printing press. But he had to push himself. His men had to see that no matter what, no matter how bad things got, they had to carry on. All that mattered was the cause and the fight.

  As he inked the machine, he thought about everyone who might have a grudge against him. He thought about those men he’d served with and in his gut knew none would turn on him. The idea to write an article and to list the names of those in his regiment, who had died, seemed a way to honor them.

  In November, he organized an active network he called the Brotherhood of Our Lady and they merged with this smaller unit. That had been his assignment, to make the underground movement spread throughout France. A large network meant more hands to stop the Germans. It also ignited more suspicion and the likelihood that spies infiltrated with the intent to sabotage their plans.