Flame of Resistance

by Tracy Groot

  “You are Thierry Durand’s granddaughter,” he said in sudden recognition. “You seemed familiar.”

  If, in realizing who she was, he made the connection to her profession—and surely he must know—his face never let on. Instead, preoccupation left and he smiled.

  “It is good to see you again. Come to church sometime, will you? It will do an old man good to see a Durand in the pew again.”

  “Is there a place for one like me?” she asked before she could stop it, and could not keep the challenge from her voice.

  Brown eyes crinkled. “Mademoiselle, if there is not a place for you, there is not a place for any of us.”

  “I don’t know if I believe that.”

  “Hmm.” He gave a tiny shrug. “Perhaps you should find out.”

  Brigitte frowned, studying him. Maybe the old man was a little thick. “You know what I am, yes?” Early on, when she had moved back from Paris, the women of the village had let her know just where Brigitte’s kind stood. “You know what I—”

  “I know.” His face remained amiably benign.

  “You’re saying you’d let my sort just sally on in and have a seat. Without confession.”

  And still, his face remained benign. There was a challenge of his own in that benignity, as if he dared her to come and find something other than what she expected. Something hopeful.

  Fortunately, she had no time for this. She had to get to La Broderie before her appointment. She looked at her wristwatch. “I must go.”

  “Good-bye, my dear,” he said, and he touched his hat while giving a courtly little bow. “Do come and see us sometime.”

  Us? What did he mean, us? Him and the congregation? Him and the two people buried nearby? Him and God?

  “Coffee, please, with milk.”

  “Apologies, mademoiselle. No coffee. No milk. Not this week.” The waiter smiled sadly.

  “Oh. Well, tea, then. With sugar, if you have it.”

  “We have sugar—if you produce coupon number 46b. We will, of course, make sure you receive every gram coming to you.”

  He wasn’t kidding. But she’d put that coupon under a rock on the steps of the Allied chapel last week. “What if I produce francs?”

  The waiter smiled. “We still take francs, m’selle. Anything else?”

  Brigitte shook her head, watched him go. He was nice to her. He obviously didn’t know her occupation.

  The café was certainly busier than she remembered, because of the garrison at the bridges. Five German soldiers were in this café alone, probably more at the café across the street. She didn’t often visit the cafés. When she came to Bénouville in October of ’42 to set up business in the old family home, she made a choice not to mix with locals. She went to Caen for her shopping or if she had a spare franc for a café—a ridiculous extravagance that reminded her of Paris, and Paris she wanted to leave behind. She was in Paris on the day France fell, June 14, 1940. Jean-Paul told her to meet him there after they’d thrown back the Germans. He never came. Brigitte knew he was dead long before she saw his name on the list.

  She glanced around the café and felt a small wistful pang. She wouldn’t have minded waiting tables. In Paris, she’d worked tables before she found a good job at the American embassy. But after France fell, the embassy was gone. She had no job, with none to be found. After sleeping twice with the bridge soldier, Brigitte ran into someone she hadn’t seen in months: Colette LaPonsie, her friend who had worked at the flower store not far from the embassy. Brigitte knew the flower store had closed. She asked Colette how she was getting by. Colette took Brigitte home, to a place where she lived with several others, including a girl named Simone. Brigitte learned that what Colette was doing to survive was no different than what Brigitte had done. It was simply . . . organized.

  Brigitte rubbed her gloved hands together. Every customer in the café wore his or her coat. It was some satisfaction to know the two soldiers, seated just a few tables over, were as cold as she.

  She couldn’t stop a smile. She was about to make contact with the Resistance—with soldiers of the Reich in spitting distance! And she knew one of them! She had to calm herself. She had to be discreet. Her blood alternately froze and jumped and ran, since the very moment she left the—No. She would not name her home a brothel.

  Grandfather had died in May 1940, one month before France fell to Germany. He never saw a day of occupation. And he never could have conceived what his granddaughter would do to his home.

  She casually checked out the soldiers. The one she knew had glanced over but hadn’t recognized her yet. He probably never expected to see her in daylight. His name was Alex Tisknikt, from Austria. He was a groom before his country fell to the Reich. Now he guarded the Caen Canal Bridge. He was nice, one of the few who came for companionship as much as for sex.

  She glanced at her watch. Five minutes past two. Rafael said two; he said things had to go exactly so. What if someone came at two thirty, with exactly the passwords but not at the right time?

  The waiter arrived with hot tea. She tugged off her gloves and put her hands around the small porcelain teapot. Blessed warmth. “I wish I could crawl inside,” she answered his amused smile as he placed a teacup and spoon in front of her.

  “Are you from around here, mademoiselle?” he asked.

  Her smile faltered. Just then, the soldier noticed her.

  “Brigitte!” he called in surprise, a big gap-toothed grin on his wide lumpy face. “Why you are here? I bet you are not used to daylight, ja?” He meant no harm, and thought she’d share his amusement, like she did at her home. “Hey, you try the soup! The soup is good.”

  So much for discreet. She gave him a little smile, then slipped a glance at the waiter. Whatever conclusions he came to, he kept to himself.

  “The soup is good, m’selle.” His tone was in quiet and arch contrast to the soldier’s. He seemed to care far less what the soldier said than how he said it. “Would you like some?”

  She shook her head. He nodded and left.

  “Foreigners,” came a disgusted voice at her side. It was the woman who had waited on her at La Broderie, not ten minutes earlier. Rather—it was the woman who would not wait on her. She clutched a Bible and a folded newspaper, glared at the soldiers. “Loud, uncouth barbarians.”

  Brigitte had asked about the Battenberg lace. But the woman had paused, then folded her arms and said loud enough for the other three customers to hear, “You’re the whore. You’re the head whore, if I’m not mistaken. Well, I knew Thierry Durand, and he would die of shame if he knew how his granddaughter used his home. No, I’m sorry; you are not welcome here. I protest your presence, in honor of your grandfather.” She nodded at the notice in the window: Jews Not Served Here. “I’ll add the word sluts. You think you’re so smart, living better than the rest of us.” She chuckled. “You’ll get yours after the war.”

  And Brigitte spit in the woman’s face.

  It caused a bit of a commotion.

  She was hustled to the door by two very angry customers, while another rushed over to the woman, producing a handkerchief. But the woman showed no anger. She only laughed at Brigitte as she left.

  A horrid thought came.

  No. Please, God. Not her.

  She was a beauty just past her prime, with bright-blue eyes and perfectly applied makeup, not too much, not too little. She wore a stylish, immaculately fitted coat as suited the proprietress of a fabric shop. She wore navy pumps, not a nick on them, and, Brigitte could tell, real silk stockings. She stood next to Brigitte’s table with her haughty glare fastened on the soldiers and, without looking away from them, smacked her Bible on the table.

  “I’ve decided to convert you. It’s the only decent thing to do.” She sat across from Brigitte, set down her purse, and began to page through the newspaper.

  Brigitte looked at the Bible. It had a lavender leather cover with a gold gilt edge and a gold clasp. Who would have a lavender Bible? Brigitte met this intr
usion with a mix of repugnance and relief. She could not—

  “I can’t tell if coupon J has been issued for the month.” She paged through the newspaper. “They never put the coupon news in the same spot.”

  It couldn’t be.

  Brigitte worked up the words. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have children. I’m a slut, you know, not a mother.”

  “Some are both. But lucky you—I have three. Not easy to feed three huge boys these days. They eat all the time.” She scanned columns of print. “They want to eat all the time. The war is a pity. I love to cook.” The bright-blue eyes stopped and finally looked up at Brigitte. She folded the newspaper and laid it aside, then took the Bible and placed it on top.

  “I just spit on you.”

  “That’s why I’m late. I had to redo my makeup.”

  The waiter arrived with a warm greeting for the woman. “So good to see you, Madame Bouvier. How is your mother?”

  “She could not be crazier, Guillemot. Gets worse every day. I love her this way. She’s very amusing, and no longer mean.”

  The way the waiter was smiling, he had a great deal of affection for this Jew-hating, slut-hating woman.

  Madame Bouvier eyed him. “You heard what she did the other day?” By his look he had, but he said nothing to encourage her to recount it. “We were at the café across the street. Right in the middle of our luncheon, she unbuttons her dress. She pulls it apart, looks down at her breasts, and says quite earnestly, ‘Do these match?’”

  It was the punch line he’d waited for, and he put his head back and laughed. Brigitte was not over the sting of the whole impossible situation to be amused by anything. But this reserved waiter, laughing so freely, made her stare.

  Madame’s lips twitched. “Imagine my shock. I wasn’t sure what to be more upset about, that she’d exposed herself in public or that her brassiere was on backward.” The waiter erupted in a fresh wave of hilarity. He had a high-pitched laugh. “I’d been after her about that, Guillemot. She does it on purpose, this backward brassiere nonsense. She has developed a fascinated concern for her breasts. It is disconcerting.”

  He covered his face with his hand, shoulders shaking with laughter. A few customers looked over, bemused smiles twitching. Finally, composing himself, he managed to say, “Oh, I’d heard it, of course, but knew you would tell it better.” He wiped his eyes.

  “What a wretch she used to be. If only she knew the things she did now. It’s a small revenge. Yes,” she said abruptly, “to the matter at hand: I’ll take coffee if you have it, tea if you don’t, and a bowl of your magnificent soup but only if Adèle made it.”

  “She did. Right away, madame.” He bowed, a smile lingering on his face, and left for the kitchen.

  “Adèle is the only one who salts it correctly.” She folded her hands. “Now. That was an unpleasant business at my shop. I could not believe it—there you were, when we were supposed to meet in a quarter of an hour. I had no idea what was going on. I improvised, and it has turned to betterment. It created perfect pretense.” She patted the Bible affectionately. “When you left, I declared to my customers—one of whom is the wife of the mayor—‘What was I thinking? A perfect chance to convert that wicked woman, and pfft—I blew it. What would Father Chaillet say?’

  “Well, of course they consoled me, and I brooded, then announced, ‘Father Chaillet would have me do my Christian duty. I will go to that house of sin and disease, and I will remonstrate.’ ‘Remonstrate, madame!’ cried they, and mousy little Cherise Baton suddenly squeaked from the window, ‘But, madame! She did not go to the house of sin! She went to the café! Whatever will you do?’ I lifted my chin—” here, Madame Bouvier lifted her chin, and resolution flashed in her eyes—“and said to them, ‘As she goes, so goes my duty!’ I marched to the back, got my coat and Bible, and strode to the door, shoulders like so. I looked at each in turn, said not a word . . . just raised the Bible, and nodded—like so.” She demonstrated. Her expression could not have been more regal. She could have been a figurehead on a mighty ship. Brigitte could not help an absurd flash of admiration. “Cherise opened the door, and out I swept. I stopped and turned once; they were on the doorstep, clutching each other. Cherise was weeping.”

  Brigitte sipped her tea. “And do you plan to convert me?”

  “Heavens, no. I wouldn’t know how to go about it properly. The bit about Father Chaillet was inspired. They all know he changed my life. I made it no secret when I came back from Lyon, the summer of ’42.” She smiled at Guillemot when he delivered the tea. Her eyes followed his retreat to the kitchen.

  She lifted the pot lid, gave a single sniff as if that alone determined the perfect brew strength, replaced the lid, and waited a few seconds. Then she poured the tea and stirred in sugar, the teaspoon making a gentle clink on the cup. “We now have a splendid alibi to meet.”

  “You needed an alibi to meet with me?”

  Madame Bouvier looked at her as if she’d said something utterly preposterous. “Of course. You’re a prostitute.”

  Brigitte lifted her cup and took a deliberate sip. The woman’s manner was intolerable.

  “Spare me your sensibilities and think logically, my little chou-chou—why should a self-respecting patriot such as myself have tea with a woman who sleeps with Germans?”

  Brigitte set down her cup a bit harder than intended.

  “Not only that, you do it for money. Bad enough for good, honest Frenchwomen to consort with the enemy and let traitorous little romances develop; you get paid for it. You also consort with Milice, who have sold out their country. It makes you just as bad as they. You do not deserve to be called French.”

  Brigitte thought of the sign in the woman’s storefront, and shook her head.

  “What is that look?”

  “So you’re a good French citizen? What’s that sign in your window? Not that you have any worries; there’s not a single Jew around anymore. I used to have plenty of Jewish friends in Paris, just as French as you and I, and if . . .” But she trailed off, for a distracting change had passed over the face of Madame Bouvier.

  The blue eyes blinked, the nostrils flared, and she slightly withdrew from her aggressive bearing, as if momentarily confused. Her hands went into her lap. Then she composed herself so smoothly, reaching for the teapot and refreshing her cup, her face all implacable serenity once more, that Brigitte wondered if she’d gotten it wrong. Madame Bouvier stirred in a spoonful of sugar and sipped her tea.

  The strange little spell broken, Brigitte took the sugar bowl and added a spoonful to her own cup. Regardless if there wasn’t much sugar in the bowl, a preservation instinct made her want to sweeten the tea far more than she liked.

  “Guillemot is resourceful,” Madame said, eyeing the sugar bowl. “He works for next to nothing. They cannot afford him. This is Bénouville, after all.” She glanced about discreetly to make sure no one overheard, then said very quietly, “Guillemot Picard is a Jew. I brought him back with me from Lyon, after—” She touched her fingertips to the curl behind her ear.

  After what? So something had rattled the battle-axe.

  Guillemot arrived with Madame Bouvier’s soup. He waited until she tasted it.

  She sipped. She savored. She nodded. “Perfection. Adèle is a genius. Tell her she has made my day brighter.”

  Guillemot beamed, inclined his head, and immediately went to the kitchen.

  “Tell me, Brigitte,” she said after a few spoonfuls of soup. “Before we start with your . . . conversion . . . why do you want to convert? You have a lot to lose.”

  But Brigitte was still trying to work out a woman who hung a Jew-hating sign in her window with one who took one home from Lyon.

  She brought her mind to the question. “I have nothing to lose.” She shrugged. “I already lost everything at the Maginot Line.”

  “Do you care anything at all for the women at your home?”

  Brigitte thought of Colette. She forced her mind to Marie-Josette a
nd Simone, but it came back to Colette, who deserved no such attention.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Then keep them in mind. They will suffer if you slip up. Anyone you care for will suffer. And then you will suffer the most. Wear that on the front of your head, as the Jews do the little boxes.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand. Rafael told me.” Couldn’t they get on with it? “Torture, that sort of thing. What is my job? When do I start?”

  Madame Bouvier froze with the spoon halfway to her mouth. She set it down. She folded her napkin with precise movements, placed it on the table, and then brought to bear upon Brigitte eyes blazing blue-white fire. Her tone was low, thick with anger. “Listen to me: you may have small regard for your life, but I value mine. Under torture you could name me, and everything we have labored to build will be gone in an instant. Any chance we small pockets had to help win this war—pfft, wasted. You new recruits are a bunch of adolescents. You who have ‘nothing to lose’ are a trial to me.”

  What could this vile woman know? Angry tears came, and she hated herself for them.

  “We have all lost someone,” the madame said coldly. “And we have all lost dignity. We’ll grieve later. There is no time now, there is too much to be done.” Some of the eye fire eased. She lightly touched fingertips to styled curls, then pushed aside the soup and pulled the Bible over. She undid the clasp, paged through the book, found what she was looking for, and turned it around and pushed it to Brigitte.

  “Your conversion begins. Read while I speak, and listen.”

  “Read what?”

  “Anything. Move your eyes along as if they are reading. Never forget you are being watched, as am I, every time you step out the door.” She opened her purse and took out a slip of paper. She pushed it across the table. “Here is a list of Bible verses.”

  “For what?”

  “If anyone asks, this is what we talked about. You are considering conversion. I am your spiritual guide.”

  Brigitte snorted. The woman hated Jews and whores. Some guide. Then she thought of Guillemot.