Flame of Resistance

by Tracy Groot

  It took a cruelly long time for the water to boil. She wanted nothing more than to get him out from under Marie-Josette’s toying gaze, before Colette or Simone showed up.

  She poured the water into the teapot, threw a cozy over it, put two cups on a tray, and said, “Come, we’ll take it in my room or Marie-Josette will have you for dessert.” She turned the corner, and he followed her upstairs.

  She pushed open the door with her foot, set the tray on the little table near the window, then went back to the door and closed it. She listened for a moment, told herself time was past for second thoughts, and turned around.

  Did she look at him as he looked at her? Did brown eyes reveal the same as the blue—the uncertainty, the doubt? Just when she saw these things, she saw other things in that strong, smooth face. Resolve. Defiance. Then the flash of uncertainty once more.

  Two strangers stood in a room. What were they doing? What were they playing at?

  “Hello,” he said softly, with no Dutch accent.

  “Hello.”

  “I’m Cabby.”

  “I am—” She had to think for the English letters. “GP. Call me Brigitte.”

  “I’m no spy. You may as well know it.” He took off his hat, as if to complete the admission. “I’m just a pilot.”

  “I’m—” She lifted her chin. “I used to be a file clerk at the US embassy in Paris.”

  They studied one another, silent, until Brigitte murmured, “The tea is probably ready. Please—have a seat.” She turned to pour the tea.

  He wasn’t what she expected. None of this was. And what was that? She couldn’t remember. She only knew, looking into those frank blue eyes, that this American was far more human than her imaginings. When reality did not match the imagination that gave it shadings and flourish, it never failed to surprise her.

  When she turned around with the teacups, he hadn’t sat down. Then she realized he did not want to sit on the bed. The only chair was next to the table where she had set the tea.

  She felt a stir of annoyance. Was it so loathsome to sit there? She had taken pains to make her room a pleasant place. It was neat and tidy, with warm, comfortable tones. The bedspread was chintz, with a pattern of tiny roses, the head of the bed piled with artfully placed pillows and cushions. The curtains were a lovely burgundy, with an inset of cream-colored crepe, perfectly matching the cream in the bedspread. A braided oval rug covered much of the wooden floor.

  Near the window was the little table with a pretty doily and a chair with a burgundy cushion that matched the curtains. A wardrobe was on the other side of the room, her grandfather’s wardrobe, an antique made of bird’s-eye maple; the grain had a beautiful, satiny patina, and there were rosettes carved in each corner. It had a tall cabinet on one side and four drawers on the other. A tilting mirror in a frame carved with the same rosettes topped the drawers. It was the loveliest and likely the most valuable thing she owned.

  He was looking around, too, and his eyes rested on the wardrobe. “I’ve never been in a brothel before.” He put his hands in his pockets, then took them out. “This looks like a regular home.”

  “It is a regular home,” Brigitte said icily.

  He glanced at her, then came and took his cup. “Thanks.”

  “Do you have a problem sitting on the bed?”

  His face colored in earnest. “No. Well—that chair is fine. I like natural light.” He went over and sat, and huge as he was, looked like a man sitting in a child’s chair. He took a sip of tea, clearly uncomfortable, and turned toward the window.

  A new atmosphere tinged the room, and she regretted it. Perhaps it wasn’t what she thought. Maybe he had no problem with what she did. He was here to get information, not to judge her. But she felt judged. She took her cup and, with dignity, sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I am sorry for the weakness of the tea. I am also sorry I can offer you no sugar. Or milk.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You folks have had to put up with a lot.” He looked both ways out the window. “I can only imagine what it’s been like,” he said, half to himself. He turned to her. “What do you have so far on the bridge?”

  She told him about the antitank gun placement on the east bank. She told him about the twenty soldiers, French gendarmes included, stationed at the bridge for the different shifts, and that she knew next to nothing about the Orne River Bridge, on the other side of the Caen Canal Bridge, other than that it pivoted in the center to allow boats to pass.

  “Alex also told me about a division of panzers. He said it was being transferred to Caen. Is this already known?”

  “I have no idea,” he said slowly, taking this news with more gravity than the rest.

  “How big is a division?”

  “It depends,” he said, still lost in troubled thought. Then he said, “What else?”

  “That is all.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have so far?”

  “Alex hasn’t been in for a while. The doctor told me he’s getting over pneumonia. I only see two other bridge soldiers, and they don’t talk much. Alex is the best source I have.”

  “Only three customers?”

  “There are others,” she said stiffly. “From different placements around Ouistreham, Ranville. They have nothing to do with the Caen Canal Bridge.”

  “Oh.” He finished off his tea and put the cup on the table. “Well. Very good. See what else—”

  “Wait! The bridge keeper’s home. It is due for demolition, for the purpose of—” What was wrong with her? She spoke perfectly fine English, yet found herself fumbling for words. “For the purpose of—seeing.”

  “A clear sight to the sea?”

  “Oui!”

  “Okay. That it?”

  “Oui.”

  “Very good. Well, then. See what else you can find out.” His tone had gone brisk and a little more superior, a little more take-charge than Brigitte liked, especially since he was her own age. “Get the dimensions. They especially want to know if the bridge is rigged to blow. With charges.” His hands made a gesture like a bomb going off. “You know—charges placed at intervals along the—”

  “Yes, I know,” Brigitte cut in. What did he think she was, some ignoramus?

  “Okay. Well, then. I’ll be going.” He rose and put on his hat. “See you next time.”

  Brigitte stared up at him. “You cannot leave yet.”

  “Why not?”

  She couldn’t stop an incredulous smile. “Because we are not . . . finished.”

  “You have more information?”

  “We are not—finished.”

  At his blank look, Brigitte politely pointed out that “The time elapsed for this little chat will not coincide with the time it takes for an appointment with a real customer.”

  His face turned a flaming sunset. He quickly took his seat, bumping the table and jostling the teapot, which he hurried to right. Brigitte bit back a smile.

  “You must think of these things,” she murmured. “You must be aware.”

  He snorted ruefully, and the superiority vanished. He leaned forward, twirling his hat with his finger inside the brim. “Yeah, that’s what M—Greenland said. And I almost messed up again, with his real name. He said to be alert at all times. Some spy, huh?” A glance flickered at the bed. “So . . . ah, how long is the usual . . . session?”

  Suddenly she found herself giggling. She put her hand over her mouth, but couldn’t stop. And the big man, far from being embarrassed, first grinned a sheepish half grin, then laughed, too, a warm, rolling sound.

  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” he said, blue eyes glinting. He twirled the hat with his finger. “The guys would have a field day. Especially Ozzie.”

  “I won’t tell.” Then her amusement vanished, and his because of hers. “I have to tell you about Claudio.”

  “Rafael says he’s someone to avoid.”

  “That won’t be easy anymore. He’s moving in.”

  Cabby strai
ghtened. “What? When?”

  “I don’t know. Soon. He’s moving in with Colette. Her room is just down the hall. He is assigned to keep a closer eye on the bridge.” In case the pilot wasn’t sure, she added, “If this was dangerous before, now it is . . . perhaps perilous.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Cabby muttered. She could tell his mind was working quickly by the slow way his fingers moved the hat in a circle.

  “He will wonder about you.”

  “Yeah? Well, I wonder about him. Why here?”

  “Because the Mairie is filled up.”

  “Doesn’t make sense. Why not one of the cafés by the bridge? Why not one of the shops? If he’s supposed to keep an eye on the bridge, they’d post him by the bridge. They’d kick a soldier out to make way.” He looked at her. “Maybe it’s you he’s supposed to keep an eye on.”

  She stared. That never occurred to her. Who was the spy now?

  “They must suspect you. What about the other girls? Are they Resistance?”

  “No. Colette is Claudio’s girlfriend. Marie-Josette . . . well, she’s my friend, and she’s never spoken of it.”

  “Have you said anything?”

  “Of course not. But I’d read it in her eyes, and I do not see it. Neither is Simone. Simone is a survivor. As a general rule, survivors do not join the Resistance.”

  Floorboards creaked in the hall. They shared a frozen gaze.

  “Shall I make some noise?” Cabby presently whispered, his deadpan face belying the glint in his eyes. “Customer noise?”

  She clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “What kind of noise would I make?”

  She warned him silent with a fierce wave.

  “Do they whoop it up?”

  She bent double from the edge of the bed, shaking with muffled laughter.

  “I’d probably whoop it up,” he said, in that relentless, innocent whisper.

  She snatched a pillow and plunged her face into it.

  When at last the creaking passed, she looked up at him, face sticky and hot. She brushed hair from her eyes and said fiercely, “This isn’t a joke!” The pillow fell to the floor. She smoothed her dress in a huff. Then she rubbed her stomach and chuckled helplessly. “Oh, that hurt. I have not laughed that hard since—”

  But no, not even Jean-Paul made her laugh that hard. In fact, he never made her laugh, though he always took her breath away.

  The pilot had a self-satisfied look. He twirled the hat, smirking, until the problem of Claudio came upon them once more. The hat stilled. She picked up the pillow and put it back where it belonged. She tugged her dress a little lower over her knees.

  “What do you miss the most?” he asked softly. “From pre-Occupation days?”

  “Soap that smells good and lathers.”

  “Not freedom?”

  “Soap, I tell you. Nothing but soap. Freedom is for the birds.”

  A smile twitched. “What else?”

  “I miss our flag.”

  “What else?”

  “My fiancé.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Buried near the Maginot Line.” She took a bolster to her lap. “I miss everything. I miss the way things used to be. Life, work. You are suddenly out of the routine you were in for years, and all is different, cruelly so, because it is an inescapable different. Nothing will ever be the same and you cannot comprehend it. It is a death. Death is difficult to—” she rolled her hand for the word—“mold to.”

  She rolled the bolster back and forth. “We kept waiting for everyone to come to their senses. ‘Come now, enough of this war stuff. Back to Germany you go. It is just a big misunderstanding.’ But no one came to his senses. I saw a memorandum on Ambassador Bullitt’s desk. Someone told him, ‘The game is lost. France stands alone. The Democracies are again too late.’ At first we were sure Britain meant France to fight the war alone. Let the French fill the casualty lists, while England sits on her panzer-free island. And America . . .” She glanced at the pilot. “If you’d come to our aid sooner, if you had believed the reports—”

  “You’re gonna pin the war on me?”

  She looked into his eyes. “Not anymore. When I look into someone’s eyes, it changes things. Sometimes against my will.” She was talking too much. “After four years, it seems we are fallen into a haze of endurance. I am astonished at what we have come to put up with. And I am astonished to discover the profound indifference of the average citizen to another’s fate. People once kind and personable, now cold and gray, dead to another’s suffering. I never would have believed it. It’s every man for himself in France. No one cares. No pity.” Her voice dropped to a bare whisper. She rolled the bolster on her lap. “I was starving. And no one cared. No pity.”

  “It isn’t true.”

  She looked up, shocked to find his eyes hot, his face intent.

  “You can’t think your entire nation has abandoned pity.”

  “What do you know, Cabby?” she said indignantly. “I was nineteen! I was—”

  “You dishonor a remarkable woman with this talk.” He rose and pointed out the window with his hat. “If you speak against your nation, you speak against her, and I won’t hear it. You wanna talk about how awful your people have been, fine—not around me.”

  He glared at her for a long moment, then he lowered his hat and began to halfheartedly twirl it. “Are we done? Is it time enough?”

  She nodded, senses stinging.

  “I’ll see myself out.”

  “Wait—you must pay me,” she said very quietly.

  He paused at the door. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of francs. He looked at the mess of bills and coins helplessly, then held it out for her to pick out the right amount. “I’ll be back in a few days.”

  “Hopefully I will have something more.” She added, “Do you play chess?”

  A little surprised, he nodded.

  “It will give us something to do.”

  His apparent relief annoyed her.

  He stepped into the hall and looked toward Colette’s room, slowly turning the hat in his hands. Then he put it on his head and settled it. He turned for the stairs, ducking under the low-slanted ceiling, and descended without a backward glance.

  She shut the door. She went to the table and tossed the bills on the tea tray. She sat very still on the edge of the bed. The motorcycle started, and she listened long after it had faded into the distance.

  Tom took off his hat and hung it on the coat tree near the door. He stood in the doorway of Rousseau’s study. The Frenchman sat at his desk with a glass of cognac and a very dark look.

  “You’re late.”

  “When was I supposed to be back?”

  “Don’t be stupid. Hours ago. As planned.”

  “I went for a drive.”

  “You went for a drive,” Rousseau said, nodding. “You used up Resistance-obtained Occupation petrol to go for a drive. I hope you had a good time.”

  “I did, in fact. I went to the coast and walked around. Visited an installment. Listened to a guy play the accordion on top of a bunker.”

  Rousseau softened a little. “Rommel is fond of handing out accordions to deserving soldiers.”

  “He should give them to people who can play.”

  “Unnecessary exposure is foolish. Coming home late instead of when you are expected is unacceptable. Did anyone talk to you?”

  Tom’s belligerence faded as he remembered the reactions he’d received. “Why should they? They’re too scared of me. You should have seen her face when she first saw me.” He stared at Rousseau. “Do you know the only place I feel at home is with the Germans? Nazis! I blend in with Nazis.”

  Rousseau was silent. Then, “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” Then, “Yes.”

  “Charlotte made some stew.”

  They sat at the small kitchen table and ate without conversation. Charlotte had not only made stew, she had also brought a baguette and some coffe
e from the office, the latest gift from Braun. She seemed distressed that the Germans had inconvenienced her boss, and she apparently felt personally obliged to answer for his indignity, although she and her husband had put up with two soldiers for years.

  When they finished eating, Michel made coffee and brought it to the table. Something made him think Tom needed a small and comfortable kitchen, not a large, cold study.

  Tom held the cup under his nose and inhaled the aroma. “Where did you get this?”

  “Hauptmann Braun. I suspect he gives it to us because he hates to come to our office and be without.”

  “You two seem to get along okay.”

  “He’s not bad.”

  “Hauptmann. He’s an officer, like me?”

  “Not exactly. His is a civil commission. He’s an engineer assigned to certain installments along the Atlantic Wall. His official title is a little difficult to manage. Take the word Festungspioniere and add about five syllables. He told us to call him hauptmann to make things easier.” Michel breathed in the fragrance of the coffee. He was suddenly sent to cafés with his father when he was a boy, to cafés with François during school breaks.

  He took a sip, but was not sure he enjoyed it as much as the transportive fragrance. “What is she like?”

  Tom didn’t answer, just took a gulp of coffee.

  Michel winced. “You need to savor it. I beg you, savor it, for my sake.” Michel took a hopefully exemplary sip.

  “So,” he finally asked. “How did it go?”

  “It went all right.”

  “And what could she tell us?”

  Tom told him the few details of the Caen Canal Bridge that Brigitte knew.

  “What about the charges?”

  “She doesn’t know yet. The guy who talks the most has been sick. She should be able to learn more soon. She did say something about a panzer division transferring to Caen.” Tom looked at Michel. “Know anything about that?”

  He kept the alarm concealed. “We know Rommel had re-formed the Twenty-First . . .”

  “Right here? Here in Normandy?”

  “I don’t know.” Well, this was something to talk to London about. Surely aerial photographs would reveal something as large as a panzer division on the move. “Did she say when the transfer would occur?”