Behind The Mask

by Marianne Petit

  Yvette bit her lower lip as disappointment washed over her. “I’ve hardly done anything.”

  His hypnotic blue eyes softened. “You’ve done more than you know.”

  ***

  Géry paced the narrow alleyway.

  His contact had left a few minutes ago with a purse full of coin. As far as he was concerned that bum shouldn’t have gotten one franc. That job hadn’t gone according to plan. André was supposed to be out of commission, leaving him time alone with Eva. But noooo… André stood there giving orders to everyone as usual, including ordering Eva to stay behind.

  Géry punched the stone wall.

  Damn him to hell! Didn’t André get the message to stay away from the blonde?

  His fist struck the building a second time. Blood oozed between his fingers. His knuckles stung.

  Eva. She was all he could think about. He had to have her. Possess her. Thoughts of her titillating breasts made him hard. Maybe she didn’t look at him the way she looked at André, but when she got to know him, spend time with him, when he took her to bed, she’d learn to love him.

  He stepped into the street, careful to avoid the sewage that ran like a river through the cobblestones. He’d long ago gotten used to the putrid smell that on hot days seemed to seep into the air like a steaming hot vapor of stench.

  What will it take to get Eva away from André? Kill him. Kill him.

  Géry’s head throbbed. He pressed his palms into his temples.

  No. He wouldn’t go that far. But what? What? Think. What would it take to get him out of the picture?

  Gathering his thoughts, Géry looked around at the familiar landscape. Here, behind the right bank of the harbor, where tall buildings crammed together, allowing little light, where the criminal underground flourished, here lie his roots, taken up when he had run away at the age of eleven from a drunken father and mother whose love he sought but never obtained.

  He remembered that day as though it was yesterday, the day his mother lie broken and bruised by a beating from his drunken father. After being admonished by the crazed man’s raving, he had begged her to run away. She told him to leave and then she went running back to his father. After weeks of waiting, frightened and alone in the filthy streets, hoping she’d come looking for him. As the days turned into months and she never did, his hatred grew.

  So this became his home; a place where he learned to beg and steal, where he’d run from the authorities through tunnels intermingled in underground dwellings like mazes; where even now he knew of trap doors beneath rugs and escape doors hidden behind commodes.

  A woman walked in his direction. Her short curled, frizzy blonde hair stood up like wire bristle and as she eyed him, she dropped her flea-bitten mangy fur jacket, revealing a net-like top that hung torn over her shoulder. Her belly strained against her too tight skirt.

  She grinned, showing yellow stained teeth. “Hey handsome, you wanna ride?” She cupped her crotch and jut out her breasts.

  The throbbing ache, evoked by thoughts of Eva, needed release. This one here could fit the bill, Géry reasoned, if he kept his eyes closed and his mind locked on a different blonde.

  “I like my rides rough, like one of them western bronco riders.” He stepped up to her and slammed his hand between her legs. “You woman enough for that, cause when I straddle you, you’ll be begging for my mercy.”

  “You pay, I play.”

  Géry pulled out some coins and dropped them down her cleavage.

  Eva will soon beg for attention.

  And André…

  Accidents happen…

  He grabbed the whore’s arm.

  They did. They certainly did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IT IS A NEW YEAR, the end of January 1941 and still the war goes on.

  My favorite patisserie closed yesterday from lack of butter and flour. Meanwhile, rumors circulate that the Germans stuff their faces with our lavish pastries while we must barter and bicker amongst ourselves for necessities.

  Snow blanketed the streets of Paris and still lingers here, so far south. The cold is biting and my thoughts stray to my family. How do they fare? Do they have enough fuel to keep them warm?

  It has been… what… six or seven months since I have laid eyes on my sister and brother? Who does he resemble? Is he alert? Healthy? I miss them all so much that, at times, I want to run from this town and find my way back to them. Father still insists he will bring them here and has forbidden me to leave, not that I listen to a word he says. He is right, however, on this account. Traveling between lines as I have seen first hand is more and more difficult. So, I must be patient and hope he fulfills his promise to me.

  Since father visited me at Christmas, I understand his plight, therefore I make this vow… in this new decade, I will try to be more respectful and try to remember, when I have no tolerance for his words, the circumstances that have brought him to this place in life.

  Yvette paused from her writing and glanced out her hotel window to the rooftops, where the setting sun warmed the burnt orange tiles, and shadows from passing clouds danced.

  Her thoughts, as always, settled on André. She loved him. There was no denying that. But would it be enough?

  She glanced at her diary, put her pen to the page and hesitated. If she wrote down that truth, put that word on paper, it would be a permanent admission that might come back to haunt her. She laid the pen down and sighed.

  Why did love have to be so scary? Why couldn’t she lie aside the “what ifs” and let go of her worries? There were times, like when she was wrapping his chest, when everything felt right, when she desperately wanted to let go and follow her heart. Several times, she wanted to open up and tell him how she felt. The moment was short-lived. René’s betrayal poisoned and ate away at her heart’s desire like an infection that ran deeper than she thought. Sometimes she felt like she was living someone else’s life. What is wrong with me? André’s restraint was commendable. She on the other hand was acting like a strumpet. Lord, what had she been thinking, trying to seduce him?

  Yvette put her pen to the page.

  Being near André now makes me uncomfortable. Nearly a month has passed since that day in his room. He has not asked me to change his bandage, which is fine by me, since I can hardly look him in the eye without blushing. I can tell by the way he stands that he is healing. I have a feeling he is as uncomfortable as I am when we are togethe--

  Rapid knocking tore her from her writing. She slammed her diary shut and ran to the door.

  “Madeleine! Come in. Come in,” Yvette gestured André’s mother inside. “What a surprise.”

  Madeleine hurried into the room. “I wish I could say this is a social visit.” She wrung her gloved hands together.

  Yvette closed the door. “What it is?”

  “André…”

  The worry on Madeleine’s face and the mention of her son sent a knot of anxiety to Yvette’s chest. She strained to focus on Madeleine’s words.

  “He’s in trouble.”

  “How? What?” Yvette spun on her heel, ready to leave without further conversation. Madeleine’s hand stopped her.

  “Gèrald found out someone is setting him up. There are discriminating documents. The police are headed for him. I don’t know where he is. Gèrald is sick or he would have gone to warn him. Do you--”

  “Yes. I know where he is.” Yvette ran for her coat.

  Madeleine sank into a chair. “I should go with you, but I am exhausted from the trip here. I am afraid I will only slow you down.”

  “You rest. When I return, we will talk.”

  “It is growing dark. I fear--”

  “Don’t worry. I know the way.”

  “Take my bicycle it will get you there quicker,” Madeleine said.

  Yvette shut the door behind her thinking she may already be too late.

  ***

  She made him feel whole.

  André paced the small cemetery outside the church with
that thought stuck in his head. What was he supposed to do with that realization? What was he supposed to do with feelings like that when it was only a matter of time when Yvette would be forced to leave?

  Bayard told him what Roosevelt said during his last fireside chat. He told his citizens the Nazis want to enslave Europe and then dominate the rest of the world. He said it was vital to the US that the war makers not gain control over oceans leading to their hemisphere. He went on to say there is a danger we must be prepared for. Roosevelt’s closest advisor, Harry Hopkins, was in London. Rumors were, his presence was to determine the Brit’s needs. Rogér believed it was to plan an Anglo-American war on Germany. Hell. André rubbed his temples. The US was preparing for war and Yvette would have to go home. He knew that day was coming. In fact, he planned to insist she go, but it was becoming clear to him that even with an ocean between them, forgetting her, not dreaming about her was going to be impossible.

  Damn it! He swore he would never let a woman into his heart again. When the hell had it happened?

  He stopped pacing and glanced around. The setting sun rest atop a mausoleum and he recalled the time they spent huddled together waiting out the rain. Yvette’s nurturing manner and concern for the well-being of the children was such a contrast to his wife, who didn’t want children despite his desire to have them.

  He recalled their first encounter on the train and Yvette’s courage despite her fear; her fierce protection of his mother; her determined spirit to help the cause… her seductive touch as she wrapped his chest and that kiss… that kiss that made him want more. Hell, who could fight falling for a woman like that?

  How was he to concentrate? He had a list of missions, a mole to catch and an attacker to confront. He had no time to court her, not in the proper way she deserved, no matter how much he wished things were different.

  André pivoted and headed toward the church. As he strolled past the pews, he noticed Father Francois lighting candles on the altar. Fresh flowers sat in front of the marble slab, a colorful bouquet of yellows, purples and whites, a small touch that said so much in these trying times, a symbol of beauty and defiance that life will go on as normal, despite the hand trying to diminish hope with ugliness.

  The first thing he noticed when he walked downstairs and turned the corner was that his bedroom door wasn’t fully closed. André took out his gun and put his ear to the doorway. Hearing nothing, he slowly eased the door open. His gaze darted, a quick search, then he stepped inside. No one stood waiting and since there were no closets, it was clear he was alone. He slipped his gun back into his waistband, took off his coat and placed the black wool over the back of a chair. Out of the corner of his eye, his desk caught his attention. What the hell?

  With two quick strides, he stood gazing down at the table. Maps, strategic sabotage plans and what appeared to be highly secret military documents lay in plain sight. His thoughts immediately went to Louise’s group who, were still locked away somewhere as political prisoners. No one just left papers lying around without asking for trouble.

  André grabbed up the documents and was heading up the stairs as Father Francois was heading down. “Father, has anyone been down here?”

  “Bayard and a few of the locals.”

  “Do you know if anyone was in my room?’

  “No.” Father Francois shook his head. “Wait, now that I think about it. I do recall Géry over in that direction, but then so was one of the new recruits, I think his name is Marcel, and Bayard was there. But I can’t say for sure if they went in your room, why?”

  “Someone left me a present.” He held out the papers. “Now, who do you think wants to see me arrested?”

  Father Francois scratched his neck. “I’m sure no one wants that.”

  “This is not procedure and not safe for all of us.” Intel came from Rogér, only Rogér. No one in this unit had the authority or the contacts to get high-level documents such as what he held.

  “Perhaps whoever left that information knows this is a safe house.”

  “No house, even the Lord’s is safe.” André glanced down at the papers. So the question was, one: were they legit? Two: who the hell put them there? and three: why?

  It was time to put out some cheese and catch a rat.

  ***

  Pedaling as fast as she could was becoming increasingly difficult as Yvette made her way toward the church. She never realized how far five kilometers was until now, when time was of an essence. Her calves burned, as did her dry throat. Her tortured mind felt as numb as her derrière and the darkness made it difficult to see. If it were not for the bright moon lighting her path, she would be lost. By the time the familiar steeple came into view the angst, building over the miles, began to erupt.

  Yvette skidded to a stop, jumped off the bicycle, threw it to the ground and ran up the steps like an animal giving chase. Her legs buckled and she grabbed the partially open door for support. “André” she cried out, her winded breath lacking punch.

  She bolted down the aisle, thankful someone had lit candles giving a soft glow to the abbey’s domed interior. Halfway down the passageway, her muscles screaming, her breathing labored, she paused long enough to grab a breath, then picked up her pace and ran toward the cellar stairs. Sweat rolled down her forehead. Her hurried footsteps echoed in her ears.

  “André André!”

  At the sound of her voice, he was at the stairs in an instant. “What’s wrong?”

  “The police are on their way.”

  “I knew it!” He met her midway and grabbed her hand. “Come, I need your help.”

  One leg gave way and she stumbled down a step, but André caught her, slipping his arm around her waist.

  “Finish wrapping this,” he pointed to a crude box, of sorts, with wires protruding from different angles, “then meet me out in the cemetery.”

  Yvette nodded and watched him take to the stairs. Her fingers shaking, she wrapped, what she figured was a radio, in brown paper. By the time she made it outside and found her way to the back of the churchyard her head spun with horrific images of them both in jail, or worse. She weaved through rows of tombstones toward a flashlight beam and a shadowed figure she knew to be André.

  Yvette expelled a long breath to steady her nerves, knelt beside him and handed him the package watching as he carefully placed the bundle in the deep hole alongside a coffin then threw some dirt over the parcel.

  He stood. “Grab a shovel. We must hurry.”

  “André,” she dumped a shovel full of dirt into the hole, “what if--”

  “They won’t find anything.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Another pile of heavy dirt flew over the coffin.

  He looked up and shone the light on her face. “I have to be. Are you going to be all right?”

  “Yes.” The answer was far from sounding convincing.

  “We’ve been in worse…” He continued to shovel.

  She gave a curt nod. “I know.” He hadn’t seen the worry on his mother’s face or understood the burden she felt knowing Madeleine was counting on her. And, she’d never forgive herself if they were caught because she couldn’t pedal fast enough to warn him in time.

  Her hands shook, from the cold or from fear, she wasn’t sure.

  They filled in the hole, tossing the last bit of dirt on top as Father Francois raced over. “I’ve checked everywhere. The place is clean. Did you hide the documents?”

  “Yes,” André replied.

  The priest glanced to the burial site.

  “Not there. I thought it best all evidence was separated.”

  Father Francois nodded. “Good idea.”

  The sounds of wheels screeching in dirt jerked all their gazes to the front courtyard.

  “Through the back. May the good Lord protect us.” He made the sign of the cross before them and they ran through the back door of the church.

  They were sitting in the pews when the police entered the front door.

  “
Our Father who art in heaven,” they said in unison.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  Father Francois looked up. “A prayer service. Come join us.” He gestured the officers sit in the front row.

  The youngest of the three men dipped his finger in the holy water basin and stepped forward.

  “We’re not here to pray.”

  The harsh words of his superior made the young man stop in his place.

  “Why are you here so late?” the senior officer demanded.

  As their heavy footsteps advanced, Yvette steadied her breathing, trying to remain calm.

  André slipped his fingers between hers.

  “I will ask you again,” the tall, imposing officer asked. “This is not a Sunday mass.”

  “No,” Father Francois stepped in front of the policeman. “It is a confession.”

  Yvette’s gaze met André’s and she could swear, even in the dim lighting, there was a mischievous grin in his eyes.

  An image of her bandaging his muscled naked chest and the warmth of his flesh made her cheeks redden just as the gendarme glanced in her direction. His intense, condemning stare made her fidget in her seat. He believed the Father, that she and André had sinned! Yvette’s cheeks grew hotter, hotter still when André actually grinned. She guessed she should be grateful the officer thought her a hussy; at least they weren’t being grilled as traitors.

  “Downstairs. All of you,” the officer commanded.

  Despite the chill in the church, Yvette felt clammy.

  “You two,” the officer pointed to the men who stood like statues behind him, “do a thorough search up here.”

  Father Francois wrung his hands. “This is the Lord’s house. I must stay up here to make sure--”

  “Stay if you must. But do not be in their way.”

  André took Yvette’s trembling hand and led the commander down to the cellar.

  After an hour of turning over tables, chairs, even his bed, after tossing boxes and containers onto the floor, the commander turned and ordered them outside, leaving the cellar in shambles and a disgruntled frown on the commander’s face.