Liberation

by Ellie Midwood

  Augustine pondered something for a few long moments, during which only the hustle and bustle of the street outside could be heard as people rushed home before the curfew.

  “What if I asked you to do something, that would help us greatly?” Augustine spoke slowly at last, as though probing the waters.

  Kamille’s head shot up at once. “Us?”

  “Yes, us. The Resistance.”

  “What can I possibly offer you?” Kamille smiled weakly. “I’m not résistante material by any means…”

  “You don’t need to be anything besides what you already are.” Augustine paused and grinned. “A dutiful wife looking for her German husband. A conscientious German Red Cross nurse.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You won’t be working in one hospital, from what I understand?” Augustine waited for Kamille’s nod, confirming her guess, and continued. “So, you’ll be moving around the country. While you are moving, all you’ll have to do is to send me letters from time to time, telling me about your progress. That’s what they will look like to any unsuspecting outsider. In reality, I’ll teach you the basics of coding and decoding, and you’ll be sending me coded messages, in which you can give me invaluable information from the very heart of the country, which I will pass to my superiors, and they – to London. They have an established connection with people in London.”

  “Do you want me to spy on them?” Kamille breathed out in a mere whisper, dreading the very idea of being caught in such a grave crime. She knew well enough what the punishment would be.

  “You just said it yourself that you were feeling guilty for not helping your countrymen. I'm offering you a solution. The risk is minimal, but the information that you would pass us would help the cause immensely.”

  Blood rushed to Kamille’s cheeks under Augustine’s steady gaze. She was always the good child; since she was a little girl, Kamille strived to always present herself in the best light, to leave only a good impression. But this...

  “I don’t know if I can do it,” Kamille said, and added quickly, already sensing some disagreeable remark from Augustine, “I’m taking Violette with me. What will happen to her if I get arrested?”

  Augustine only shrugged. “I would take care of Violette for you. It’s foolish to drag her all the way to a country where she doesn’t even speak the language and putting her in potential danger. But it’s up to you, of course. I can’t force you into anything you don’t want to be a part of.”

  With that, the matter was seemingly dropped. They continued their conversation but the warmth was gone from it.

  5

  Lyon, May 1942

  “You told me that you needed a liaison agent, not a babysitter.”

  Etienne stared out of the window of his Citroën – a Gestapo car, she had remarked sardonically when she first saw it – thoroughly ignoring Giselle’s glare.

  “I also promised Michel to keep you out of harm’s way,” he grumbled, failing to come up with a better excuse.

  They were still sitting in his car, the spring air full of the aroma of blossoming trees wafting through its open windows. Giselle had just lit up her second cigarette; she held it with languid, wonderful grace, with her eyes half-closed. She outright refused to come outside when he told her that the mansion, in front of which they had stopped, was in fact not only a hiding place for the downed allied pilots but a children’s orphanage as well.

  “What is it with you men always trying to keep us ‘defenseless women’ out of harm’s way? And besides, had I known that I’d be exchanging my cellar with unlimited access to wine for this kindergarten, I would have stayed put where I was.”

  Etienne watched her subtly while she smoked, as she took long, deliberate drags. Unlike him, she was not pretending. He had picked up the habit from his father and solely because his cigarettes came with a beautiful silver engraved case – a symbol of status and something he could use as part of his fashionable attire. She smoked greedily, exhaling smoke through her full lips as if in defiance.

  “I thought I’d never come near a cigarette after...” Her voice trailed off back there, on a train, with a soft chuckle, as her fingers grazed the skin on her chest slightly. She regarded the tip of the cigarette with a strange, transfixed gaze, and blew on its glowing end, sending amber ashes flying through the thin air. “That’s how it’s done. You don’t feel the pain for the very first second. Only later, when it’s too late.”

  They had spent almost twenty-four hours in one train compartment; it would have been much less in peacetime, but now, with all the stops, with all the check-ups, with all the time wasted... She was doing most of the talking, and he just watched, observed, studied. She thanked him for the dress again, commenting on his excellent taste. He’d just chosen the most expensive one – black, simple, with pearly buttons running down its length – his palms sweating when he handed the salesgirl a pack of bills. Yes, for his wife. No, she’s not a lucky woman; he’s a lucky man. Merci. Adieu. Thank God, no familiar faces in the department store; only Germans on their lunch break and their mistresses, pointing excitedly at the mannequins.

  Giselle studied her new papers between the stops, critically and intently, and grinned every time yet another German muttered his “Alles in Ordnung” at her. They’re good. They’ll hold.

  Of course, they would. Etienne had made sure of it. She had outstretched her arm and held his cold hand for a long time. Etienne hadn’t realized that he sat straight as a statute the whole time, with a painfully pale face. He had never feared those checkups, even when transporting highly compromising materials in a secret compartment of his valise. But this time a woman was traveling with him, and he was suddenly so very afraid… Not for himself, bien sûr. He was afraid that one of them would recognize her face by some terrible, unlucky chance.

  “Why would they recognize me?” She had shrugged in a careless and nonchalant manner. “I’m officially dead. They don’t look for dead people. It’s the ones who are alive, and on their lists, that should be afraid.”

  Another ten minutes passed. Giselle reclined in her seat with her head thrown casually backward as her lazy gaze studied the roof. Etienne smirked. It was as though she was giving him time to come to terms with his new situation; her way or no way. The sun was stinging them unmercifully, filling the interior of the car with a rich smell of leather and the slight remnants of cognac that the chief of the police had spilled on the seat when Etienne gave him a ride home from the opera. Etienne licked his lips and turned to face her, started saying something, then receded slowly, losing his ground. Giselle smiled gently, as if in consolation.

  “I can’t look after your orphans, Etienne. I’m the worst possible person to be tasked with something of that sort. I’m mean, vulgar, and horribly rude.”

  Etienne toyed with his keys for some time, released another dejected sigh, finally inserted them back into the ignition and started the car.

  “Thank you.” Giselle expressed her relief from the passenger’s seat and had already turned away, leaning against the frame of the opened window, seemingly forgetting all about him.

  “Now I have to come up with something, and fast,” Etienne muttered under his breath; his reproach, however, sounded half-hearted at best. Michel had warned him that Giselle was a handful and far too strong-willed to be influenced by any sort of authority, even from the Chief of the Free Zone’s Resistance.

  “Concerning me?” Her good disposition seemed to return as if by magic as soon as the orphanage had disappeared in the rearview mirror. “Why? Just let me out somewhere in the field where your British friends usually drop their cargo, and one of your communist cells will pick me up.”

  “It’s not a joking matter.” Etienne clenched the steering wheel tighter.

  They drove in silence for a few minutes. The countryside, emerald with its endless green pastures, surrounded the only road leading to Lyon. Giselle put her bare arm through the window and grinned. At one point, she leane
d back and even closed her eyes like a cat who had finally gotten its chance to sprawl in the sun after a long winter.

  Let her enjoy the fresh air, Etienne thought to himself, stealing another sideways glance at his passenger. She was locked for so long in that cellar… Yes, let her enjoy it. Just look at how pale she is…

  “I can try and find you a position in the prefecture,” Etienne started. “Maybe a secretarial post or something of the sort.”

  “No. Find me a position where I can be of some use. You know perfectly well the comings and goings of your own prefecture; you don’t need me there.”

  Etienne pursed his lips together, thinking that she was too smart for her own good. Of course, he knew it perfectly well that he didn’t need her in the prefecture. He wanted her there because that way she would be under his protection, out of harm’s way, as she so mockingly put it with such disdain. Philippe, her lover, had given him enough grief for taking her out of Paris as it was. Giselle, however, waved him off with the same carelessness she always seemed to exude and wisely noted that she couldn’t actually sit in that cellar for the duration of the war. Etienne solemnly promised to the very somber-looking communist that he would take the best care of Giselle. And now, he was dangerously close to breaking his promise.

  “Put me in the city’s jail, Etienne.” He winced at such a proposition, already sensing that nothing good would ever come out of it. “Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to get a few of our comrades out when needed?”

  Etienne didn’t like the idea one bit, but she was beaming at him with such fire radiating from her eyes that Etienne only nodded slowly, as though under hypnotic influence.

  “I’ll see to it first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Marcel flung his beat-up canvas backpack over one shoulder and turned to face his sister. He looked at her for a few very long moments, imprinting her features into his memory.

  It’s all right, he reassured himself once again. This time, it’s me who’s going to the Boches’ nest. It’ll be her who’ll be worrying about me, not the other way around this time. And that’s how it was supposed to be, from the very beginning.

  They had spent a few days together, reunited at last after several miserably long months, in his small room, rented on a month by month basis from the nosy landlady, who kept inquiring about his new petite amie. It was in an area where they both didn’t belong. With all sorts of shady deals turned over in its side streets, with comings and goings of dubious looking fellows, even the gendarmes avoided showing their noses there – it was the perfect hiding place for them. Marcel knew perfectly well that even if the gendarmes did start sniffing around, looking for people to arrest in order to fill their quota to appease the new Laval administration, the nosy landlady would keep her mouth shut and would deny ever seeing him. Money had that effect on people, and thanks to Etienne, Marcel had that in spades.

  Etienne carefully listened to his plan and gave him the go-ahead after a few days of careful consideration. He even helped him choose a factory which Marcel would attempt to blow up – one owned by Prefect Bouillon, the man who had offered Etienne the position as his second-in-command. Grace à Dieu that Bouillon, while being a greedy pig and a perfect collaborator, he wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the box, and the thought that by putting Etienne in charge of the city’s affairs while he was busy doing business with the Germans in the North had him personally opening the doors of the hens’ nest to the veritable fox, hadn’t occurred to him once.

  As for London, Etienne only shrugged when Marcel asked if they should make contact with their allies and ask for their opinion.

  “London is far,” Etienne remarked curtly. “They may or may not agree with our suggestion. Who knows, if that pilot of yours can get anyone high-ranking to even voice it. I say, we rely on ourselves and start sabotaging anything we can. I never thought that I would say it, but your Comintern was right about something; the more we pester the Boches, the harder we make their lives despite the possible reprisals, and the sooner we’ll tire them out and drive them off our land. They are bogged down in the Eastern Front as it is; the Blitzkrieg has failed, and now they’ll have to strain all their forces to win this war. And if we decide to hit them, let’s hit them where it hurts the most. Bouillon turned one of his factories to a munitions one when the Germans marched into Paris and gained their favor by offering them his services before they even spoke of collaboration. Blow it up. Let’s see how their brave Luftwaffe will do without bombs from now on.”

  Marcel shook the Chief’s hand thoroughly, took a note from his other hand, on which Albert’s – their British “demolition expert’s” new Paris address was listed, memorized it and gave it back.

  “Bon chance, Marcel.” Etienne pressed his hand with a certain emotion passing over his face. “Don’t get caught, please.”

  “Look after my sister,” Marcel replied instead of a farewell.

  Etienne nodded. He would.

  Hands in pockets, face screwed up against the sun, Marcel walked briskly home, gazing longingly at the streets of Lyon. He wasn’t keen on returning to Paris. The truth was that he fell in love with Lyon and fell in love while in Lyon, and such things don’t get forgotten so easily. Paris was a whore, which had opened her legs to the Boches and shamelessly at that. Lyon was planning revenge, like a cheated husband who still wants to keep the family’s name intact.

  And so, Marcel packed his meager possessions, bid his farewells to Giselle, held her hands in his for a very long time, kissed both her cheeks and promised her not to get in any trouble. He smiled when she pinched his cheek and ruffled his hair like she did when he was still her little brother, and she took a certain pleasure in teasing him that way. He caught her palm in his hands and pressed it to his mouth, closing his eyes for a fleeting moment. Her skin smelled of the expensive soap that Etienne bought for her, together with her new clothes.

  The Chief will take good care of her, Marcel promised himself inwardly once again, leaving with a slightly lighter heart.

  Giselle waved to him from the window and smiled wistfully. Poor little Marcel. She’d never told him where her new working quarters would be.

  Dijon, June 1942

  His new office was small and barely furnished, but Klaus Barbie was not a man who needed a luxury hotel room with cherry-wood panels and velvet curtains to do his work properly. Efficiency, that was the key, and therefore a desk with a typing machine, a phone, a chair, and a portrait of Reichsführer Himmler above his head was more than enough to satisfy his needs.

  “Splendid. I’ll take it,” Klaus proclaimed brightly, and outstretched his hand to his new superior, Obersturmführer Daimler, and beamed one of his signature smiles at the man.

  Even though Daimler was about a head taller than him and nearly twice as wide in the shoulders, Barbie had already written him off as an office rat, good only for paper-pushing. Despite Daimler’s powerful build, his hands were far too tender and almost feminine, and his eyes almost always looked anywhere besides the person with whom he was speaking.

  Weakling. Most certainly someone’s nephew, appointed to this position as a favor.

  Daimler had finally shifted his eyes from the floor back to Barbie, and the latter changed his predatory grin into a charming smile just in time.

  “Very well. I’ll show you where we keep our prisoners then. Unless you only want to deal with the Jews since you’re attached to Amt IV?” Daimler tilted his blond head to one side as if asking Klaus’s permission.

  Some superior, asking his subordinates what they’d prefer to occupy themselves with.

  The boards creaked slightly under Klaus’s steps. He opened the door and gestured Daimler out of his new office with nearly theatrical gallantry. “By all means, please do. I’m quite sure that your people won’t mind if I take some load off their shoulders, so to speak. After all, communists, Jews, résistants – they’re all the same, aren’t they?”

  “Same what?” Daimler nodded his thanks, accepti
ng a cigarette out of Barbie’s hands.

  “Pieces.”

  Daimler’s light brows knitted together in further confusion. Klaus took a long drag on his cigarette, savoring the moment where he had his superior’s undivided attention.

  “That’s what we called them on the Eastern Front after we shot them. Sometimes we machine-gunned them, and the force of the bullets cut them into ribbons. And that’s how the term originated, pieces. Because sooner or later, every single partisan, Jew or non-Jew, will end up in them.”

  His mirth-laced laughter echoed through the brightly lit corridor. Daimler seemingly forgot about the cigarette he was holding, then suddenly straightened, recollecting himself and murmured a quiet, “follow me.”

  They have it nice here, Barbie noted, observing very few cells and an interrogation room which resembled more a clerk’s working quarters than the first means of intimidation, which such rooms were supposed to represent. Klaus scrunched his nose imperceptibly at the welcoming green light of the lamp sitting on the table and the freshly painted walls. Just from this interrogation room and the virtual absence of prisoners, he had concluded that Dijon was surely a highly desirable posting for any nephew. Klaus, meanwhile, was getting bored.

  “They are all mostly recently arrested Jews,” Daimler continued his monotonous droning, oblivious to his new subordinate’s indifferent expression. “We keep them here until we can verify their true identity. As soon as we do, we process them and send them on their way to Drancy or another camp, depending if we have transport ready.”

  “No résistants at all?” Klaus picked at a splinter on the side of the table.

  “Well…”

  Klaus’s head shot up, his eyes piercing Daimler with their ravenous stare. Daimler lowered his gaze at once, choosing to study the polish on Barbie’s boots instead.