by Tracy Groot
Colette was upstairs in her room with Claudio. Brigitte could hear them arguing. They did not often come to the sitting room. Marie-Josette sat on the lap of the German soldier with the lively, grinning face. An officer, if Brigitte wasn’t mistaken, maybe from the bridge. She couldn’t remember his name. Marie-Josette was his favorite.
She had not known Marie-Josette in Paris. Brigitte had moved to Bénouville with only Colette and Simone. After a week or so had passed, and the town became aware that Thierry Durand’s house was now occupied for nefarious purposes, a stream of angry callers came to pay visits. Neighbors came to protest such a place so close to their families, especially neighbors with adolescent boys; the mayor came to tell her that until now, Bénouville was unstained and would she please consider relocating to Ranville. When Brigitte told him she had every intention of paying taxes on her earnings, he left smiling; he knew how many soldiers were stationed at the bridge garrison.
She once opened the door to a bucket of fish guts being heaved at her. She recovered in time to snatch up the bucket and chase the two teenagers down the street, likely sent on their mission by parents. She ran fast enough to bounce the bucket off one of their backs with a most satisfying thud. Once she opened to a grim-faced group of women from Father Eppinette’s parish. She had preferred fish guts to protestations that the neighborhood was about to go up in perdition’s flames.
One day, expecting perdition, she opened to a large-eyed, dark-haired young woman with rouge, curves, and a suitcase.
“Good evening, mademoiselle,” the girl had cheerily declaimed, presenting a card between two immaculately manicured fingertips. “Are you the proprietress of this establishment?”
“I am.”
Marie-Josette Caldecote. Lady of Gentlemanly Companionship.
It was embellished with a border of tiny yellow fleur-de-lys. Brigitte found herself smiling, as much at this bright piece of whimsy in a gloomy day as the fact that this time, no perdition awaited on her doorstep. She looked up at the friendly face.
“You had these printed?”
“I did them myself, pen and ink. I used the back covers of ration booklets.”
“Nice job.”
“Thank you.” Marie-Josette beamed. “I would like to apply for—”
“Can you cook?”
“I can bake.”
“You’re hired.”
Now Marie-Josette looked up from the lap of the German officer and cried, “Brigitte! It is too funny!”
“Let me tell it!” the German begged.
She waved him silent and said, “Remember the apple dessert I made? What do I have in common with it?”
“I have no idea.”
“We are both . . . Occupation tarts!” She and the German roared with laughter.
From the corner, Simone smiled without opening her eyes. Her soldier took another swig from the bottle, gave an impatient jerk of his shoulder. Simone readjusted herself, then settled in again.
There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover tomorrow, just you wait and see. There’ll be love and laughter, and peace ever after, tomorrow when the world is free . . .
Maybe the man didn’t like Vera Lynn’s lyrics. If Claudio had been in the room, he would have first made some loud and derisive comment, then would have commanded the station to be changed. Claudio was under the impression that it was he, not Brigitte, who owned the place.
Brigitte went to the radio to adjust the tuner. Some of the static dropped away. She smoothed her hands on her dress, then turned to Simone and her soldier.
“I haven’t seen you before. You are new to the area?” Brigitte sat in the chair near the radio, across from the couple.
He eyed her as he took another swig.
“He’s from Ouistreham. He’s stationed at the bunker on the beach,” Simone answered with a yawn. “Doesn’t speak a word of French.”
He considered Brigitte’s face, then her body. There was a time when she never would have suffered a man to look at her so. She should be used to it.
She usually didn’t come to the sitting room if she didn’t have to, but she couldn’t get that horrible woman out of her head. She had to make sure of something. She looked from the brooding man to Marie-Josette.
There was something endearingly ridiculous about Marie-Josette, the way she decorated the German’s head with some tinsel left over from Christmas, the way she wore her makeup, as if determined to not only play her part but hold her own in a fashion pageant of chic Parisian harlots. Every detail about Marie-Josette went one step further: the makeup, the hairstyle, the studied pout of her lips, the clothing and the way she wore it. Even natural details made way for her. She had large dark eyes and full lips and a bustline to make men look twice.
“March is so drab. Now you sparkle.” Marie-Josette handed him a piece of tinsel. He began to awkwardly thread it through her dark curls. They could have been a couple on a bench at the Eiffel, giggling and carrying on with life’s silly little pleasantries.
Brigitte and Jean-Paul had had no time for silly pleasantries. He came into her life like the crescendo of some march, like a heroic line from an epic poem. There was nothing silly about him because he knew what was going on in Germany in the late thirties. He had been a university student there. She’d met him at the embassy, where he would have long talks with Ambassador Bullitt. He shared the same sort of hero worship she did. He shared the same fear of the things happening in the East, and both were afraid only because the ambassador was afraid.
Marie-Josette’s chatter shook her from her thoughts. Marie-Josette’s voice had a charming huskiness to it, not like a sultry vamp but like a girl who had cheered her lungs out at a sports event. She was quick to laugh, too quick, most thought. She was a naturally cheerful girl, with an airy way of looking at life that left little room for serious thought. Marie-Josette caught Brigitte’s gaze.
“Look at my man! He sparkles! I will put him on top of a cake.” She lowered her voice. “Better than the creep in the corner, eh?”
“Don’t call him that,” Simone said. “He’s not so bad.”
“He looks angry as a stepped-on cat.”
“Why are you so tired?” Brigitte asked Simone.
“I biked to Caen today,” she said. “Five farms. Not an acorn to be found. Bruno here brought wine.”
“We have wine. What else did Bruno bring?”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “What else did you bring?” But the man was looking at Brigitte. Simone straightened a little, then said indignantly, “Say . . .” But he didn’t take his intent gaze from Brigitte.
“Alex will be here soon,” Brigitte said archly, meeting his wine-bleared look with one of subtle defiance. “Poor little Bruno.”
Simone pulled away from him, tucking escaped locks into her scarf. “His name isn’t Bruno. I can’t get it out of him. I think your Alex is in love, Brigitte.”
“He’s afraid I’m going to convert.”
Simone chuckled. “What gives him that idea?”
Always act naturally, the battle-axe said. Always be yourself.
“You won’t believe this—the woman who owns La Broderie tried to convert me the other day.”
“You’re kidding,” Marie-Josette said. “What did she do?”
“Well. It started when she refused to serve me at her store.”
“Oh, that’s a nice way to convert someone,” Simone said.
“I thought you said they didn’t have any lace,” Marie-Josette protested.
“They didn’t because she wouldn’t serve me. She said she’d add the word slut to her No Jews sign.”
Marie-Josette’s soldier pulled the tinsel off his head. “She said that?”
Be careful, Brigitte.
“Yes,” she said, and she waved her hand as if it was nothing, “but she came to the café to apologize—and she brought her Bible. Apparently, I’m her new project. Alex had a heart attack when he saw that Bible.” The German’s ston
y expression, she noted, had eased. “I assured Alex I wouldn’t convert until after the war—imagine his relief.”
Everyone laughed except for Bruno. He looked at Brigitte more intently than ever, then took a long swig from the bottle.
“Alex may have to wait,” Simone said crossly. She folded her arms.
“Sure he can wait—if your ugly pirate can come up with something other than wine. Wine does nothing for my curves.”
“We haven’t had curves in months,” Simone complained.
“What about you, Stefan?” Marie-Josette asked the German with a pout. “Are you going to convert?”
“Of course—after the war.” He buried his face in her neck, and she squealed. He pulled back and looked up at her. “Say . . . what will you do after the war?”
“I can make a delicious apple tart out of nothing. Just think what I can do with real ingredients.” She lifted her chin. “I will work at a fine patisserie in Paris someday.”
“Do you know?” Stefan said earnestly. “I believe you will do it.”
Brigitte was glad Colette was not in the room to dim the lovely glow on Marie-Josette’s face.
Brigitte loved Marie-Josette because she was cheerful. She had plans for the future. She sometimes gave Brigitte newspaper clippings she thought would help a travel book writer. If Brigitte fed the occasional vagabond who knocked at the door, Marie-Josette would run to find something else to add. Nothing infuriated Colette more than people who asked for food.
Brigitte liked Simone because there was a steadying quality about her. She acted lazy, but was not. She complained, but didn’t mean it.
Colette, she couldn’t figure out. They had been friends in Paris, before the war. They sometimes had lunch or coffee together. Colette had an eye for one of the messenger boys employed by the embassy, and she and Brigitte would have fun plotting “chance” encounters. What few real conversations they’d had, Brigitte enjoyed. Now they were apart from each other, some strange abyss between them that Colette would not allow Brigitte to cross. But Brigitte remembered who she used to be. First impressions were hard to shake.
She looked at the tinsel gleaming in Marie-Josette’s hair, at the red button on Simone’s ear. Hardship did unexpected things. It made friends into strangers, and strangers into friends. The madame was correct. She had a lot to lose.
The German took Marie-Josette’s hand and kissed it. His face was troubled. “Your people will not let you get away with what you have done.”
“Lucky I won’t be around. No one knows me in Paris.” She put a kiss on his nose, then pulled him up from the chair and led him from the room.
“You and I have something different, ja?” Private Alex Tisknikt asked.
She’d heard it before, more times than she could count.
“Is not such bad idea, Brigitte. To convert after war.”
Alex paused on the edge of the bed when she did not answer. He pulled on his trousers, stood, and buttoned them. “You would like my mother. Well—after you know her, ja? And after you convert. And baptize. Your clothing—well, I think is okay.”
“Do you ever get tired of your duty?”
“What duty?”
“Bridge duty.”
“Ja. Is boring out of mind. Except when old ladies cross, and we search baskets. They get . . . What is word . . . ?”
“Feisty?”
“Ja. Like my mother.” He added quickly, “But you would like her. We will not tell what you have done.”
“Don’t you wish you could do some target practice or something? Shoot some tin cans off a fence? My brother used to do that.” She affected interest in the frayed edge of a pillowcase. “Do you have guns in your little foxhole at the bridge? You could do target practice. You wouldn’t be so bored.”
“Sure we have guns. But we cannot waste ammunition on fun. I used to hunt squirrel on estate where I worked. I miss that place. The smell of barn. The warmth—Gott im Himmel, the warmth. My favorite horse was—”
“Topka.”
“Ja.” He smiled at her, and the smile became dreamy. “What a horse.”
Five minutes of silly talk later, things got interesting.
“Do you ever do target practice with that machine gun at the bridge? My, what a big gun. I bet it could blow holes in a—a wall.”
“Machine gun?” Alex scoffed. “Is no machine gun. Antitank gun, little one. Blow holes in tanks. Rommel should install more.”
Antitank gun. Brigitte kept the unpleasant surprise from her face. “Why should he install more?”
“Because, my little bird,” he said patiently, clearly happy to have someone upon whom to bestow knowledge—and Brigitte reinforced it by staying wide-eyed and impressed—“my bridge is steel bridge. Is only crossing of Caen Canal along major road to Ouistreham, where empties into sea. Allies attack on beaches, then steel bridge give passage to Rommel’s panzer division from Caen—once division is finally transferred to Caen. Panzers go over bridge, go east, then come back around to flank Allies’ attack on beaches. Bam!” He flashed his wide grin. “Stop Allies dead.”
“My goodness,” she said slowly. “Your bridge really is very important. I had no idea.” She thought she had believed in what she was doing. She hadn’t, until now.
“Is most important bridge in all Normandy!”
A panzer division was being transferred to Caen. Caen! Here, in Normandy! Did the Allies already know about it? Brigitte had no idea how big a division was, but it sounded—frightening. She used the alarm she felt. “Do you really think the Allies will attack on the beaches?” she asked anxiously.
“If so, we throw them into the sea! No worry, darling. We do not worry. Not so much about Allies.” He wagged his finger importantly. “Resistance, ah, now that is other thing. If Resistance target bridge—”
“God forbid,” Brigitte said indignantly. Yes, it was exactly how she would react. “How horrible if we had to resort to ferries! Many people travel to work between Ranville and Bénouville, people who can’t afford a daily crossing fee. It is impossible! They would not do such a thing, would they?”
“Say . . . ,” Alex said slowly, grasping his chin. “Do you get French customers?”
“Not very often.” The skin tingled at the back of her neck. “Why?”
“I get in good with commanding officer if you found things. You know—if Resistance plans anything.”
Brigitte shook her head. “You know what the sign on the door says, and we only get the occasional . . . politician . . .”
What if—?
She sat up straight, clutching the covers to her chest. What if she told Alex she’d keep an ear out for anything of interest from French customers? Then, under the guise of trying to get information out of the Resistance, she could get information out of Alex. She could hear a conversation now. I found out the Resistance thinks you have the bridge rigged to blow. Of course, that isn’t so. Right, Alex?
“What is it, Brigitte?”
“Alex, you are very smart. I do suspect that one of my customers—and I’ll not tell who—may be helping the Resistance. What if . . . ?” She allowed her countenance to turn a shade wily. “What if I fished about for interesting little scraps? What if I passed those scraps to you?”
Alex’s wide face lit up. “And I pass to commanding officer,” he breathed. His eyes lit with a hungry vision of glory.
“Exactement.” She folded her arms.
“Brigitte! What a girl! My mother would—well . . .”
And while Alex tried to reconcile his mother and Brigitte, Brigitte saw only images of German panzers rolling through Caen, heading for Bénouville.
When Alex was long gone and the doors closed for the evening, she was in the kitchen preparing a cup of tea from overused leaves. She heard Claudio lumbering down the stairs from Colette’s room. He was drunk.
He watched her prepare the tea from the kitchen entrance. He was an arrogant buffoon when sober, fond of checking his reflection in the mirror
in the hall to make sure his Milice beret showed the silver-circled insignia to the best advantage; but when drunk, he was an arrogant and dangerous buffoon. “Look at you. Making your tea.”
Her heart beat a little faster.
She wished he wasn’t blocking the only way out of the kitchen. She didn’t answer, because she had learned it didn’t matter if she said something or not—either would provoke him.
He lurched forward a few steps. “We had a good time, last time, didn’t we? When they were all gone to bed, and it was just you and me?”
“That was a long time ago.”
He was drunk, then, too. Her stomach tightened. She calmly poured hot water over the tea, wishing she could hurl the pot at his head and end many little miseries on this earth.
“Colette hates you, you know,” she said.
The words stopped his approach. He seemed to work them over in his tiny booze-befuddled mind. “Why should she hate me?” He suddenly lunged.
He wasn’t big, but he was strong. He grabbed her hair and jerked her close. The teapot clattered into the sink, the teacup smashed on the floor.
“So proud,” he breathed into her ear. “You’re not better than my Colette. I’ll show you who’s in charge. It isn’t you, Brigitte Durand. This place isn’t yours. No, this whorehouse belongs to the Reich. And so do you.”
Once she had come upon Marie-Josette curled up in the sitting room with a swollen lip and a bruised cheek, eating a little packet of raspberries, a tear slipping down her cheek. Marie-Josette wouldn’t speak of it. The first time Claudio had cornered Brigitte in the kitchen, he showed up the next day and gave her a small packet of raspberries. Where he got them, she didn’t know, and where he came by a conscience, she knew less. She had never told Colette what happened, and gave the raspberries to Simone.
That was last summer, and Claudio had gone from a brute who still had a sense of remorse, to a brute with none. There would be no raspberries tomorrow.