“Yes.” She nodded readily.
“One of my men will find you on Pont Lafayette in two weeks. You’ll meet him Monday, eleven in the morning. He’ll be wearing a green scarf and posing as a seller of postcards. The code words he’ll say will be ‘You have such a pretty face, Mademoiselle. Will you allow me to take a picture of you?’ To which you'll respond, ‘Only if you give me a copy to send to my husband. He’s a prisoner of war.’ Then you’ll follow him to wherever he leads you; he’ll take your picture and that will be placed on your new papers. Bring your old ones and give them to him; he’ll fix you up with a completely new identity. From there follow his instructions. Is that clear?”
“Yes.” She nodded once again.
“Good. Goodbye then.”
“Thank you, Monsieur!”
Etienne winced at her joyful farewell, fighting off a feeling of unease, and hurried back onto the avenue to quickly blend into the crowd.
3
Blanche danced around her new lodgings. Her room was small and modestly furnished with a narrow bed, a closet and a square table with a single chair, but it was hers; for the first time in her life, she didn’t have to share anything with her sisters. When Father Yves offered her the opportunity to temporarily stay on the church’s grounds on the condition that she would help the elderly widow, Madame Freneau – also a refugee and the only woman who also lived on the premises – with cleaning and cooking, Blanche was delighted beyond measure.
Despite the hard work polishing the wax off the candle holders and scrubbing hard marble floors, Blanche threw herself into every task with inexhaustible energy, eager to not disappoint her new generous hosts. Madame Freneau helped her find a much-needed job in the town center, and even though it meant once again putting on an apron that she loathed, Blanche at least was spared the unwanted attention of the Boches and got to keep all the money she earned instead of giving most of it to her mother.
Now, within the space of only two weeks, her life would take an even more drastic change, and she would have her revenge… Only, the problem was that Blanche sometimes questioned herself on who had wronged her more: the Boches, or her countrymen. She sat on the edge of her bed, deep in her brooding once again. It would all get clear in time, or so Father Yves said. And since he was the first person who had treated her with true kindness, something she had hardly ever encountered in her life, Blanche willed herself to believe him.
Father Yves was a man like no other. He was kind, quiet, intelligent and serious – quite the opposite of the type that Blanche used to encounter throughout her whole life, and during the last few months in particular. How wonderful it was, just to share meaningful silence with him whenever the occasion presented itself and Blanche caught him alone and contemplating something from one of the front pews, his steel-gray eyes staring, without blinking, into space while his fingers counted the beads of the rosary. Blanche experienced some inexplicable guilty pleasure from watching him like that, without him noticing at first. But when he would shake off his everlasting brooding, feel a pair of eyes watching his every move intently, he always offered Blanche the gentlest of smiles and shifted slightly, offering her to share a pew and a prayer with him. Yes, Father Yves was a man like no other. Only he understood her. Maybe, eventually she’d be able to share her new life with him, and who knew, if he would even want to share it with her as well…
She counted the days till the eagerly awaited Monday, and flew through her daily routines, as driven as ever, her pale eyes shining with a new ferocious energy. The night before the momentous morning, Blanche lay wide awake unable to fall asleep due to the overwhelming anxiety washing over her with a hot, fiery wave despite the chilliness of her room. Tomorrow. Tomorrow her life would change at last. Tomorrow she would become a new Blanche, no, not even a Blanche but someone entirely different, shedding the old name which sounded like constant taunting to her, always reminding her of her mother’s sin; a sin for which she had been made to pay for, whatever the reason.
The dawn stalled to break that morning. The sun didn’t deign to make its daily appearance at all, slumbering with a lazy indifference somewhere behind the fog-bearing clouds, heavy and unmoving, ready to drench the whole of Lyon in their icy November downpours. Blanche shivered in her thin overcoat, pulling the ends of a black shawl under her chin – another generous gift from Madame Freneau. Widowed and childless, with the uncertain heart of a lonely woman, she took to Blanche with the shifting senses of mistrust and affection, fearing yet another eventual loss yet clinging to the overpowering need to care for someone besides the statues of the saints. In the few weeks that Blanche had spent in Lyon, Madame Freneau had become more of a mother to her than her birth mother ever was.
Blanche hastened her pace on the way to the bridge, not only due to the bone-chilling cold but also by the need to arrive on time. She had asked directions on how to get to the bridge the day after she’d met the mysterious gentleman who had saved her from the gendarmes. She had even timed her way from the church to it, rehearsing her walk several more times over the next two weeks. Blanche smiled conceitedly as she noticed the time on the big clock near the Metro, opposite the bridge: she was fifteen minutes early.
Counting her steps in a vain effort to curb her anxiety, Blanche stopped in the middle of the bridge and turned away from the river so that she could look in both directions. Leaning against the railing, she kept turning her head left to right, peering into the faces of every passing gentleman in search of one with a green scarf. Just as she thought she had noticed someone fitting that very vague description, a voice spoke softly above her ear, startling her.
“You have such a pretty face, Mademoiselle. Will you allow me to take a picture of you?”
Blanche turned swiftly and let out a nervous giggle. The connection that the mysterious gentleman had sent appeared to be much younger than she had expected, yet there was something hidden in the depth of his hazel eyes that aged him just by the sheer force of his gaze; the gaze of a very old man on the face of a very young one. Blanche suddenly realized that she had forgotten the code phrase. He waited patiently until she quickly collected herself and muttered, “Only if you give me a copy to send to my husband. He’s a prisoner of war.”
The young man grinned, nodded and extracted his camera, motioning Blanche to pose in front of the river. She leaned against the railing and tried to look relaxed and at ease even though she was positive that her smile was constricted and anything but sincere.
“Maybe a few more in my photo atelier?” he inquired, tilting his head to one side. “You would do me an honor if you allow me to make some professional portraits of you.”
Blanche nodded and followed him off the bridge, falling into step with his purposeful strides. However, his whole demeanor changed as soon as they slipped into a side street with broken cobbles under their feet and sheets stretched in between the windows concealing them from curious eyes.
“Why on earth did you turn your head without stopping on that bridge?” He growled at her, clearly irritated. “Weren’t you instructed to walk there inconspicuously and wait for me, gazing at the water?”
“I didn’t want to miss you by accident.” Blanche blinked a couple of times. “I thought you might not recognize me and in that case—”
“In that case what? You would have called out any man wearing a green scarf and asked him if he would like to take a picture of you?”
Even though his voice was low and barely audible, to Blanche it equaled him actually yelling at her.
“N-no…”
“Listen to me carefully before I take you anywhere.” He stood right in front of her, and though they were almost of the same height, Blanche cowered involuntarily under his penetrating, heavy stare. “If you want to work for us, you need to understand one simple thing: always follow instructions. That’s rule number one of survival, simple as that. You don’t follow the instructions, you fail the operation, you reveal yourself, you die, and, what’s wors
e, you take others from your cell with you. Do you understand or not?”
“Yes, I understand.” Blanche nodded earnestly.
“Next time someone tells you to stroll towards the bridge and stand with your back to everyone gazing at the water, you stroll, you turn around and you gaze. Is that clear? You’re lucky you weren’t in the Occupied Zone where the Gestapo pigs are at every turn, just waiting for an opportunity to grab someone like you. And you broke almost every single instruction today, running towards the bridge like a lunatic, looking at your watch every five minutes and staring at every passer-by making it more than clear that you were waiting for someone when our meeting was supposed to be accidental.”
Blanche lowered her eyes, her cheeks taking on a crimson shade.
“How do you know I ran towards the bridge?” she mumbled, not finding anything else to say.
“I followed you of course. Had to make sure that you didn’t bring anyone else on your tail,” the young man grumbled, with barely concealed annoyance.
“I didn’t notice…”
“And that’s another mistake of yours. Let’s go, enough of wasting time here.”
The walk was fast and silent. The photo atelier, to which he’d brought her, was warm and cozy, albeit small and clouded with cigarette smoke. A brass bell chimed, announcing their arrival to the dim anteroom which had a burgundy rug in front of a small counter, and a cash register standing on its top. Samples of portraits and postcards with local views were displayed both in a small window and the wall above the cash register.
Her new acquaintance went past the counter and slipped behind heavy, burgundy red curtains with a fringe adorning them. Blanche followed him into an even dimmer room with a single sheet of white paper stretched on the opposite wall and a camera facing it. On the other side stood a beautifully executed Viennese chair in front of a small table decorated with flowers and a painted scenery behind it.
“For weddings,” a woman’s voice clarified in response to Blanche’s inquiring gaze. Blanche jumped, not expecting anyone to speak from behind her and chastised herself once again for not paying attention to her surroundings. These people just seemed to live in the shadows, just like this smirking woman, who separated from the dark corner and stepped into the light, looking Blanche over. “But you’re here for something different, right?”
She arched her dark brows and exchanged handshakes with the young man. Communists, Blanche decided at once. Only their women shook hands with their comrades – that much she knew.
“This is Lucienne.” The young man motioned his head in Blanche’s direction.
“I’m Blanche,” she corrected, feeling guilty for no apparent reason.
“Not anymore, you’re not.” The woman chuckled, shamelessly scrutinizing Blanche. “I hope you haven’t forgotten to bring your old papers?”
“No, they’re all here.” Blanche dug in her rucksack and handed the woman everything she had. “My birth certificate, my passport, and my ration card. But I was told by the priest who shelters me that it’s of no use here and I will have to apply for a new ration card…”
“You haven’t yet, I hope?” The woman frowned.
“No.”
“Good.” She took all the documents and disappeared with them into the back room. Returning barely a minute later, she beckoned Blanche to sit in front of the white sheet. “Hold your head straight.”
Blanche froze in her seat, but the woman was still studying her, in no hurry to take the photo.
“You said it’s our new Lucienne?” she asked the young man once again.
“So I was told.”
“Lucienne’s legend is that she’s a girl who distributes cosmetics catalogs. Does this one look like she sells cosmetics? Look at her. Would you buy anything from her for your lady friend?”
“I don’t have a lady friend.”
“It’s a hypothetical question. Look how pale she is. Invisible almost. No, that won’t work, I tell you.”
“So what do you suggest? We need to send her on her first trip this Thursday.”
“I think I can make her look like Lucienne, the cosmetics catalog girl. Give me a couple of hours with her, and you won’t recognize her, I promise.”
Blanche kept shifting her guarded glance from the man to the woman while they were exchanging their remarks, feeling more and more uneasy. They hadn’t even introduced themselves, then they took her papers away and now this woman wanted to alter her appearance to send her on some trip for who knew what purpose… Blanche swallowed a nervous lump in her dry throat and told herself to keep still. She knew what she was getting into, didn’t she?
Before she could answer herself, the woman lifted her face by the chin, scrutinizing every feature with a skeptical look, feeling her hair and nodding to some thoughts she was obviously having.
“Yes. We’ll definitely cut your hair, curl it and color it. It’s too limp and lifeless now; no one will believe you’re a cosmetics girl. And your face, that too. We need rouge. A lot of it. Mascara and eyeliner – you can’t go without them. And lipstick is a must in your case, Lucienne.”
Lucienne. Blanche kept tasting the new name on her tongue, still unsure if she liked it or not, while the woman, who had finally introduced herself as Margot (even though Blanche was more than certain that it wasn’t her real name), clipped off Blanche’s long blonde tresses. Blanche entrusted her new self to Margot’s strong, skillful hands and slowly allowed her old, invisible, persecuted self to dissolve in the small clouds of smoke that the woman puffed out with such natural ease as if the cigarette was glued to her mouth. Blanche suspiciously eyed the reddish paste in the bowl that Jules – another alias most likely, but now at least Blanche knew how to address him – brought in, together with a sturdy man with his hair and mustache colored in such an unnatural shade of black that it shined into blue every time he turned his head. More chemical smell, more hair pulling and wrapping it around small iron cylinders that the blue-black-haired man – the hairdresser – had brought with himself; more tweezers above her eyes, already burning from the acidic smell; more “don’t blink now, look up, look down, press your lips together…” Just when Blanche thought that it would never end, all three of them stepped away and took turns exchanging glances and tilting heads left to right, grinning like conspirators.
“Now, that’s more like it,” Margot declared with satisfaction. “This is a Lucienne; this one I’ll believe.”
“Well… she draws attention, that is a fact I can’t possibly dispute.” Jules pursed his lips.
“So?” Margot snorted, crossing her arms over her chest.
“So, every Boche will be staring at her. Are you sure that’s what we want in our situation?”
Margot arched her brow, offering him a knowing grin. “That’s precisely what we want. If you were a Boche, would it come to your mind that this girl, with so much paint on her face and red hair, could possibly be a Resistance member smuggling something illegal?”
Jules smiled, at last, acknowledging the validity of the argument.
“I suppose not.”
“May I take a look?” Blanche chimed in tentatively.
Margot grinned with one side of her mouth and motioned her head towards the small mirror hanging behind Blanche’s back. Blanche slid off the uncomfortable chair and slowly turned around. She leaned forward as if not recognizing her own reflection, and stepped closer, her hand hovering near her rouged cheek, her scarlet lips slightly parted in amazement as her brain tried to process the sheer possibility that this woman in the old, clouded glass with brownish stains on it, could be her, Blanche.
No, it was a mask most certainly, like the ones femmes fatales wore on movie posters. This was no Blanche from Dijon; impossible. Women with fiery red locks like she was now sporting were either some big shots’ mistress - scandalous, pouting and invariably carrying some small dog under their arm - or women of an even more disreputable profession, like those cat-calling German officers from under da
rkened corners in her native Dijon.
“I think our little Lucienne is in shock.” Margot snorted with amusement and without further ceremony pulled Blanche by the elbow back into the photo room. “Let’s get on with it and take your picture for your new papers if we want them to be done in time. You can stare all you like at yourself later. Oh, and I’ll make a big headshot for you, too, so you can use it as a sample and learn how to apply makeup by yourself every day.”
“Every day? But I can’t go back to work with all this on my face…”
“Work? What work?” Margot’s brows shot up, and her nicotine breath hit Blanche’s senses. “You don’t work there anymore, girl. That blondie girl who did, she stepped through our doors to never return. This is the ultimate rabbit’s hole, ma chérie, and you can only come out of it as an Alice. Or Lucienne in your case. And Lucienne sells cosmetics.”
“But…”
“Don’t concern yourself with money,” Jules replied to her unspoken question. “We’ll provide you with everything needed. All we need in return is your loyalty and compliance. The rest, you just leave to us.”
The rain was drenching the streets of Lyon when Lucienne stepped outside the doors of the photoshop, her red locks and scarlet mouth the only bright spots against the bleak canvas of the city. She opened her borrowed umbrella and hid her face from the rest of the world.
4
Etienne pushed the massive iron gates open and gestured for Jules to follow him inside. Of course, the name “Jules” was just as fake as the young man’s metal-rimmed round spectacles and newly grown beard, but Etienne had never known his real name, and he didn’t want to know. Jules was introduced to him as Jules by his late father’s friend from Paris – the owner of the publishing house – and was already provided with new papers, which suited Etienne just fine.
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 3