Liberation
A French resistance novel
Ellie Midwood
Liberation: Book Three in the Indigo Rebels series. Copyright © 2018 by Ellie Midwood.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
www.elliemidwood.com
Designed by Melody Simmons
ASIN: B07CXS7VG8 (ebook)
Contents
Book three in the indigo rebels series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Afterword
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Book three in the indigo rebels series
1
Paris, March 1942
The dull droning of the single lamp hanging over her head was slowly driving Giselle insane. Massaging her temples to get rid of a growing headache, she tried concentrating on the papers, carefully laid out in front of her. Over the two months that she had spent there, Giselle could now find her way inside the endless cellar of Michel Demarche – her former editor and a fellow resistant, in whose publishing house she currently resided – with envious ease, even when the Allied bombings of the factories knocked the electricity out.
The Allies, it should be noted, were quite apologetic on the matter. They never failed to express their regret at such drastic measures, in countless leaflets which rained from the night sky following each operation, in which they explained the importance of such actions to the population of France and apologized profusely for any loss of civilian life. The Parisians took it all surprisingly well, and took out their anger on the occupants instead, for the latter invariably executed twenty to forty hostages following each new Allied bombing raid. And so, the Resistance’s cause flourished and bloomed into quite a formidable force, finding more and more supporters amidst the previously indifferent citizens. The growing shortages of food and such elementary supplies as shoes and warm coats didn’t add to the Germans’ popularity in the slightest.
To her great disappointment and growing annoyance, Giselle didn’t see the brewing moods of hostility, expressed in hushed grumbling in the endless lines, Metro cars, and empty stores. She couldn’t hear boys shouting their insults at the Germans and scattering before the gray-clad soldiers could grab them, and what’s worse, she could not mingle with her fellow Parisians, couldn’t fuel their hatred with a couple of timely thrown remarks; couldn’t direct the tide of the rising resentment. Instead, she was confined to this dingy concrete sack which was no better than the cell in which the Gestapo had thrown her, a few months ago. She was no longer able to gather pieces of information from the leaflets, telegrams from the Free Zone that Philippe would decode and kindly supply her with, and reports from London, which he would deliver to her in his own words. Philippe and Michel were her only connection to the outside world now, and despite feeling the utmost gratitude to both men for keeping her in the loop, Giselle soon found herself slowly being driven to madness by the constant darkness, the typing machine being her only companion while Philippe was outside running his errands.
Giselle jumped to her feet when she heard a particular knock on the door and rushed to open it for her comrade, as she teasingly called him. They couldn’t have been more different – him, a towering, black-eyed communist, and her, a sharp-tongued novelist who embodied everything Philippe used to despise in her capitalistic class. Yet, over the course of nearly two years, they had become quite an efficient team, and recently, a couple, even though a rather unorthodox one.
“I brought you some cheese!” Stepping inside and shaking the snow off his dark brown mane of hair, Philippe produced a carefully wrapped delicacy from the inner pocket of his well-worn, leather jacket. “I thought you might enjoy it later tonight with some of Monsieur Demarche’s fine wine.”
“I’ve been drinking ‘Monsieur Demarche’s fine wine’ every evening for the past three months. By the time the war ends, I’ll drink everything in his entire wine cellar and become an alcoholic,” Giselle grumbled, but she snatched the wrapped object nevertheless, smelling it through the cloth with a greedy gleam in her green eyes. “Where did you get this?”
“Le Marché Noir, bien sûr.” Philippe smiled fondly, watching the woman in front of him unwrap the cloth and take a generous bite off the piece without bothering to cut it. “Apart from the Black Market, no one else can get it in Paris anymore.”
“The Germans can; I bet my monthly salary,” Giselle retorted with her mouth full, a familiar sardonic expression appearing on her face.
“You don’t have a monthly salary anymore.” Philippe chuckled, helping himself to the opened half-empty bottle of Beaujolais that stood on top of the papers littering her makeshift desk.
“And there’s where you’re wrong, comrade.” Giselle took another bite and closed her eyes, with the expression of a cat, savoring the taste of the cheese before continuing. “Michel has just started making deposits into a separate bank account which he opened as soon as the Nazis seized mine. Not that I blame them after I murdered their beloved Gestapo chief. So, I’m still getting paid for all of my books that are sold overseas. Unfortunately, they have been prohibited here in France, for obvious reasons. Minister Goebbels, apparently, isn’t too fond of the enemies of the Great German Reich selling their books in one of their occupied territories.”
“That’s nice of Michel, that he’s taking such thorough care of your income,” Philippe responded coolly, shuffling through the fresh leaflets seemingly without purpose. Silence flooded the room for a few seconds.
“Michel has always been an honest man and always took care of his writers. And don’t be so bitter about it. We spoke about it, Philippe; the war will end someday, and I fully intend on having my apartment returned to me, and all of my arrested accounts restored as well.”
“Of course. That’s what’s important in life. That’s what we’re fighting for.”
Giselle stopped chewing and shot him a sharp glare. “Philippe, we’ve been through this far too many times.”
“Yes. Far too many.” Philippe said, with strained notes of pain in his voice.
They both questioned themselves, what would happen to them after the war was over, but not once had they dared to voice such thoughts, leaving them to dissolve into the damp, moldy air of the large cellar – their temporary hideout. It was full of draughts; they blew in from everywhere, sometimes bringing the dank smell of miry water from the Seine. Here, they loved each other with ravaging, ferocious force and made their plans for the next few weeks; never longer than that. Here, they somehow silently agreed that any arguments would solely be about their strategies on the partisan war; never about the future after it was over. It might never come, after all. Why argue about something that would only leave them both bitter and hurt?
Philippe eventually lowered his gaze under hers, sharp and ruthlessly stubborn as always. That’s what had attracted him to her when they first met; the arrogant, diamond-like hardness in her. He admired and hated her for it.
“How do you think it makes me feel,” she co
ntinued, softening her voice a little, “sitting here like some rat while you and your men-at-arms from FTP are having your fun outside?”
“Giselle, come now. You know perfectly well that you can’t just walk outside and start roaming the streets, let alone work with the cell again. You’ll get arrested in no time. It’s Paris; everyone knows you here.”
“Everyone, who knows me, my dear Philippe, won’t even look at me in the state that I am now.” To emphasize her point, Giselle gestured to her worker’s attire, consisting of corduroy pants and an oversized woolen sweater. “All of those people you’re talking about knew me as Giselle Legrand, the socialite, a bright blonde always dressed in the latest fashion. I’m no longer blonde; I’m no longer a socialite, and I’m certainly far from being dressed in the latest fashion. Besides, Giselle is officially dead, Philippe. Not a soul will recognize me, and yet, you keep me here like some prisoner.”
Giselle sat on the small cot that the two of them shared, seemingly losing all interest in the cheese.
“It’s for your own safety, you know it perfectly well,” Philippe protested quietly. “Besides, you’re not ‘sitting here like some rat’; you’re writing all of these articles for La Libération. You give hope to people. It’s just as important a job as any résistant’s.”
“No, it’s not,” Giselle objected flatly. “Do you know who does an important job? You do, as a liaison agent. Michel does, printing the newspaper and helping his writers. My brother Marcel, sabotaging the Nazis’ work in the South. Father Yves, taking the allied parachutists to safety. The Chief, directing all of us. You all do an important job. And I’m just an underground rat. A big fat rat with a piece of cheese in her hand!”
She burst into mirthless laughter, throwing the delicacy on the thin straw mattress next to her. Philippe bit his lip for some time before kneeling in front of her to take Giselle’s hands into his large and calloused ones.
“I almost lost you once, chérie. I don’t want to lose you again,” he whispered, kissing each of her hands and hiding his face in her lap as she sat with a vacant expression on her pale face. “I love you, Giselle.”
She brushed the dark locks off his face and planted a soft kiss on his temple.
“If you do love me, Philippe, you will have to eventually let me go. I won’t be able to stay here much longer.”
A dark-haired woman pulled the shawl away from her face as she ascended the stairs of the Parisian Red Cross training college. The establishment was bursting with activity during the lunch recess, and the woman, taking advantage of such perfect timing, slipped unnoticed through the crowd of uniformed nurses who were talking in animated voices as they headed for the canteen.
In her resolute step, she approached the office of the head nurse – Madame Lavoie, according to the nameplate – and knocked after hesitating a mere second. After receiving an “Entrez” from behind the door, the woman stepped inside the cramped office and paused before approaching the imposing desk, which appeared even heftier in the small confinement of the room. A severe-looking woman in a Red Cross uniform lifted her head from the papers she was perusing and quickly scanned the newcomer with her piercing eyes.
“How can I help you?” she finally spoke, her voice betraying a slight trace of an accent.
An Alsatian; perhaps not even a French Alsatian but a German one, married to some unlucky fellow whose last name she’s bearing. The woman smiled brightly, the sickly wave of nervous perspiration dampening her clothes under her thin woolen coat. Willing herself not to betray her nervous state, the woman approached the desk with almost desperate confidence.
“I would like to study to become a nurse.”
Head nurse Lavoie scrutinized her for another moment, taking in the visitor’s deep brown eyes, the dark locks framing her pretty but somewhat gaunt face, and her full lips. Half of Paris looked like her nowadays; hungry and desperate for a ration card.
“We don’t welcome Jews here.”
With that, Madame Lavoie returned to her papers, hoping that the woman before her desk would understand. I’d help you, Madame, but I have my own position to consider. Go to L’Union des Israélites; they have jobs nowadays, they say.
“But I’m not Jewish, Madame. I’m French.”
With those words, the woman handed Madame Lavoie her carte d’identité, which she extracted from her pocket, smiling nervously. Madame Lavoie took it after a short pause, and carefully studied the papers, while the woman stood, seemingly unfazed, in front of her desk awaiting a verdict.
“Very well, Mademoiselle Savatier—”
“It’s Madame Savatier,” the woman corrected her with a polite smile. “My husband was killed in the war. I’m a widow.”
“My condolences,” the chief nurse said in a softer tone. “Your classes will start next week, Madame Savatier. Do you need help finding living arrangements? I see in your papers that you’re not from this area.”
“No, that will not be necessary, Madame. I’m already renting a room with my daughter. But thank you for your generous offer.”
The head nurse quickly wrote something down on a piece of paper and stamped it with her stamp. “Take this to the office of admissions on the first floor. They will process your papers and write down the detailed information.”
“Thank you so much, Madame.”
“He’d better be good,” Madame Lavoie murmured as the woman was on her way to the door.
“Who, Madame?”
“The person who made your papers. He’d better be good at his craft. The Gestapo holds regular checks here.”
The woman paused, her hand steady on top of the door handle, and finally spoke in a firm voice, “They’re authentic, Madame. I told you, I’m French.”
“Mmm. Just like I am.” With those words, the chief nurse dismissed her new student with a wave of her hand, not deeming her a farewell glance.
The woman quickly slid through the door and was on her way. A milky fog still lined the streets of Paris, glistening with moisture. The day was cold and breezy, tasting like rain and memories on her lips. Her husband had left for the front on a day like this; walked into the fog and disappeared forever. She wrapped herself once again in a thick woolen scarf and quickly crossed the street, heading to the post office – a small one, not like the two-story palace near which she had lived before running to the Free Zone a year ago. Small offices were a safer choice; in big ones, Gestapo informants had the habit of people-watching, dressed as a civilian, seemingly indistinguishable from regular customers. There, she wrote a quick telegram to Lyon: FATHER STOP THE NUN WHO YOU ASKED ABOUT IS WELL AND IS WORKING IN THE RED CROSS STOP SHE SENDS HER GRATITUDE FOR RECOMMENDATIONS STOP MARIETTE SAVATIER.
A German walked in, in his gray overcoat, and held the door for her, smiling a genuine, though tired smile. She nodded her gratitude, swallowing her doubts down. She felt sorry for him; he appeared haggard, as though coming down with something, or maybe he’d just been transferred here from the Eastern Front. While she felt sorry for him, she also felt a kind of inexplicable restless cruelty, the desire to punish them all.
“Don’t hesitate, Augustine,” Yves murmured as he walked her to the Perrache station in Lyon later. “Because they won’t, if they catch you. We need them all gone, whatever that would mean. God will sort them out later.”
2
Lyon, April 1942
Etienne exited his car and stood, leaning on its hood, a subtle grin playing on his clean-shaven face as he watched Father Yves. The latter was supervising his young charges who were playing outside in the knee-deep snow. Etienne had bought the old and partially ruined mansion to set up as an orphanage for children from the North as a front – the true purpose was to store weapons and provide shelter for downed parachutists and résistants, who managed to cross the Demarcation Line into the safety of the Free Zone.
The whole scheme had been operating like a well-oiled machine for over a year already, without raising any suspicions in the local genda
rmes. Etienne fixed his felt hat with his gloved hand. Who would suspect the Sub-Prefect of Lyon of concealing criminals, after all? He was a Vichy-supporting collaborator in the eyes of the public, faithfully carrying out all its policies with bureaucratic precision and conscience, completely devoid of any humanitarian qualms. Only a madman would deem it possible that the mysterious Chief, whom the Gestapo had long been after, who coordinated the actions of the whole Free Zone Resistance faction, was the well-established diplomat, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet, Etienne Delattre.
It was exhausting though, leading this double life day after day. His fellow résistants respected him for his sharp, ruthless intelligence while at the same time the Vichy praised his efficiency. Prefect Bouillon treated him with distant politeness and mistrust; Etienne was far too difficult to understand and to influence. The young Sous-Préfet seemed to live according to his own laws and obey his own code of conduct. What was worse, he came from a well-respected family with money, and therefore was impossible to bribe or manipulate. Etienne knew perfectly well Bouillon’s attitude and disregarded it with almost admirable indifference. Bouillon needed someone in the office while he was busy stuffing his pockets with the Germans’ money in the North, and Etienne happened to be a perfect candidate. He’d just have to let him be.
Yes, Etienne schemed behind Bouillon’s back and did as much as his position allowed. Yet, he still had to submit the dreadful “lists” as soon as either Vichy or – even worse – the Germans themselves demanded them. He still had to play along and invite the corrupted chief of the police, who was a known collaborator and exercised an extremely pro-German attitude, for dinner on a regular basis. He did save lives – the runaway Jews, the résistants, the allied parachutists - but he had to sacrifice others to continue his work. One day he would have to answer for that, before people, the courts, or God – he didn’t know. Just like many of his compatriots, Etienne preferred not to think that far ahead and only worry about his current problems instead.
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