The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  Immoral. Again, that damned word. Father Yves cursed inwardly, and at once made a mental note to himself to recite certain passages later to make up for it. He almost laughed at his hypocrisy.

  “It’s a noble goal, Blanche. Lucienne, I beg your pardon.” He corrected himself. “We need to be careful with your new name, don’t we? I’ll tell Madame Freneau to pay attention to what she calls you from now on. But you’ll be traveling a lot now if I’m correct? So, it shouldn’t be a problem, I believe. We’ll hardly see you.”

  Blanche nodded, even more confused with his unexpectedly calm demeanor and impenetrable gaze.

  “If that’s all, I will have to ask you to excuse me,” he said with a polite but distant smile. “I have duties to attend to.”

  He had already started to leave when Blanche spoke softly behind his back, her voice betraying her unsatisfied interest.

  “How long have you been a priest, Father?”

  Father Yves stopped and pondered something for a moment before turning around to look at her. Something menacing flashed in his eyes, the color of cold steel, some long forgotten wound freshly disturbed.

  “Ten years as an ordained minister, not counting the seminary,” he replied with curtness.

  “You’re nothing like other priests,” Blanche pressed carefully, an uncertain smile playing on her face. “The ones that I knew couldn’t even talk like ordinary people. They would only reply with a certain scripture to every question as if reciting a prayer twenty-five times would solve all problems.”

  Father Yves snorted softly, agreeing with her. She was right about that, truth be told. He hardly ever told his parishioners to recite scriptures as punishment for their sins or as a means of enforcement against a wavering spirit. He preferred speaking with them at length instead and to help them come up with the right decision. The Lord likes the ones who help themselves, he liked to say. After you sort yourself out, you can always thank Him with a prayer later.

  “What did you do before you became a priest?” Blanche stepped a little closer.

  At once, the light was gone from Father Yves’s gentle smile.

  “Nothing to be proud of,” he muttered softly, and he walked away in haste before she had a chance to ask him anything else.

  Now, sitting in his room and still holding the gun that felt frightfully natural in his hand, Father Yves closed his eyes and prayed; he prayed that he would never have to use it again.

  The immaculately tailored civilian clothes that the man wore were supposed to deceive his visitors into believing that he was a mere middleman. However, it was his perfectly maintained composure, like that of a trained hound combined with the penetrating look of his blue, watered-down eyes that betrayed his belonging to a much higher echelon of power than he wished to pass for. Etienne grinned slightly and returned the man’s firm handshake, taking in all these details.

  The man had introduced himself as Mr. Brooks, just seconds ago. No rank, no official position, no explanation as to why Etienne and Jules were escorted to see him instead of Général de Gaulle as they initially had asked. Très bien, let it be Mr. Brooks, Etienne conceded, if it was even his real name. MI6 was known for using aliases just like they, the Resistance, now did.

  Jules remained noticeably on edge throughout the whole journey, even though it had proved to be an uneventful one, just as Etienne had predicted. Two masterfully executed fake passports and a generous sum of money paid to the smugglers got them across the border without any questions asked. Due to his late father’s connections, securing a meeting with an official who had access to the General in exile was also an enviously easy task. However, when an MI6 agent appeared at the door of the hotel where they were staying and kindly asked them to follow him – with typical British politeness which left no choice – that’s when their luck seemed to run out. Jules ceaselessly threw glances at Etienne along the way to MI6 headquarters as if asking a silent question: what if it’s me who they’re after?

  Etienne shook his head in a barely noticeable manner and patted the young man’s clenched fist with his gloved hand. Stay put, Jules. I’ll handle everything.

  He was a diplomat’s son after all; a gift for negotiation ran in his blood. Jules nodded, but his scowl remained in place.

  Mr. Brooks assessed both men with a fleeting glance and at once assumed Etienne to be the leader. One more detail that gave away his ability to read people – an attribute of a typical intelligence officer. With an almost sincere smile, he insisted that he was here only for paperwork.

  “We get a lot of volunteers these days and many of them wish to offer their services to the General. Someone has to sort all of them out.”

  “Most certainly.” Etienne nodded his understanding and declined Mr. Brooks’ courteous offer of whiskey.

  “So, gentlemen. Let’s not waste any more of your precious time then.” Another polite smile followed as Mr. Brooks interlaced his fingers together. “As I understood from your friend’s words you two wish to get involved with the General’s Free French movement?”

  Etienne hesitated a moment, wondering if he should put all his cards on the table with this mysterious Mr. Brooks without even knowing his official standing and rank. Clearly, Mr. Brooks would withhold that information until he knew what exactly Etienne and Jules had to offer, and so Etienne decided to reply honestly.

  “Yes, we do. We know that the General is in dire need of a good network that will allow him to manage loyal people on French soil more efficiently, and I believe that with the help of the network which I have personally organized and which I’m currently supervising, it’ll make his work much easier.”

  Mr. Brooks leaned forward slightly, a flash of interest just barely detectable in his hawk’s eyes.

  “Could you describe your network a little bit more specifically, Mr. Delattre?”

  “I have about fifty people, in several different cities, working under my charge. Some of them are communists, some – just ordinary patriots willing to take a risk for the sake of their country. That last fact is particularly favorable if you think about it, for, unlike the communists, they aren’t on any government radar and therefore have much fewer chances to cause suspicion. Particularly those who work in the Occupied Zone.”

  “You have people working for you in the Occupied Zone?”

  Mr. Brooks’ interest was apparently piqued.

  Jules fidgeted in his seat while Etienne simply nodded his affirmation.

  “Yes. In Paris and Dijon namely. We’re trying to spread our network to more locations, but as you probably understand we must tread very carefully. The Gestapo is not an organization which should be discounted as inefficient by any means. They infiltrate the cells far too often for us to run the risk of employing people who aren’t recommended and vouched for by one or more of our members personally.”

  “I certainly appreciate you being so cautious. It’s a much-needed quality that too many people in our business are lacking, much to our disappointment.” Mr. Brooks offered Etienne another smile. “What exactly do they do, these people? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

  “Why would I? We’re allies, aren’t we?”

  Etienne grinned, adopting a distantly polite attitude which mirrored that of Mr. Brooks. The technique, becoming a vis-à-vis’s metaphorical twin during negotiations, was something that the late Monsieur Delattre had taught Etienne a long time ago. Etienne employed this technique quite often, becoming completely unreadable to his opponent and therefore impossible to manipulate. He needed to find out why MI6 was so interested in him and his network because he knew all too well that the British didn’t take Général de Gaulle seriously, and therefore didn’t bother too much with his business, assuming he did not have any real power over the Free French or anyone else on French soil. Why such interest in his organization then?

  “They print and distribute an underground newspaper, La Libération,” Etienne explained, noticing Jules’s growing uneasiness. Any mention of anyt
hing connected to the paper or Paris unnerved him, but Etienne had decided, as soon as he met Jules, not to ask why exactly. The less you know, the less you’ll be able to give away during an interrogation. It was the first rule that Etienne taught his people, and which he himself always observed. “Also, they’re storing weapons after having bought them from the barracks and army storages just before the Germans raided them and took everything under their control. So far, following Général de Gaulle’s instructions, we have abstained from any hostile action towards the occupants; however, our people have proved themselves to be trustworthy and reliable, and they are ready to act as soon as he gives direct orders to do so.”

  Mr. Brooks remained silent for some time, contemplating something. Etienne leaned back in his comfortable leather chair and started observing the interior of Mr. Brooks’ office. Dark wood, immaculately clean surfaces, a neat stack of papers and the complete absence of any personal items reflected the owner’s personality with painstaking precision. The office was as faceless and undetectable as Mr. Brooks himself.

  “What if I told you that while you have a lot to offer Général de Gaulle, the Général himself has nothing to offer to your Resistance yet?” The MI6 agent suddenly tilted his head to one side with an enigmatic smile.

  Etienne restrained himself from frowning instinctually and replied with the same grin, “I would say that I find that rather surprising. From his speeches, I gathered that the General was more than capable of managing people if only those people were given to him.”

  “Unfortunately, I regret to inform you that those speeches are the only thing the General has to offer the Resistance, Mr. Delattre. French people need a French leader to inspire and lead them. So far, due to certain circumstances, the General can only inspire, and we let him do so. As for the organization of the cells and resources – I assure you, he has none. No skilled people, no structure, no chain of command and no technical supplies.”

  During the long pause that followed Etienne finally congratulated himself on his guess of what Mr. Brooks wanted from them, and now waited patiently for the agent to voice it.

  Mr. Brooks didn’t disappoint.

  “We, on the other hand, can supply you with the above-mentioned. We’ll send you liaison agents that will gather intelligence and report directly to us, supply you with radios to communicate with us, and instruct your people through our agents with direct orders that we’ll communicate to you through those radios.”

  “And in exchange, you’re only asking us to pledge our allegiance to you and not Général de Gaulle?” Jules spoke for the first time since the meeting had started.

  “You don’t have to pledge anything to anyone, Mr. Gallais. The only difference between MI6 and your highly regarded General is that we possess the resources that he doesn’t. After all, as your compatriot wisely noticed, we are allies.”

  “Stalin and Hitler used to be allies, too,” Jules muttered when he and Etienne stepped outside the headquarters and each lit a cigarette.

  “He left us no choice. We had to agree to accept the deal on his conditions. Besides, the British won’t collaborate or even sign for peace with the Germans after all the havoc that the Luftwaffe created here, right in their capital.” Etienne exhaled a grayish cloud of smoke and pulled his hat over his eyes, shielding himself from the raw December windstorm. The street itself was barely visible, hidden behind a wall of icy mist. Humid London air made the horrid weather even more unbearable, throwing gusts of wind in the men’s faces.

  “Do you think he was telling the truth?” Jules stepped in front of him and searched Etienne’s thoughtful face. “About the General?”

  “I don’t see how lying would benefit him in this situation. So, yes.”

  “But this means that we’ll be working under the charge of MI6 then?”

  “It was either that or nothing at all.”

  They walked in silence for some time, each immersed in his thoughts.

  “Don’t fret, Jules.” Etienne slapped his shoulder amicably. “We got what we came for after all.”

  “Why, then, do I feel like he played us somehow?” Jules countered, taking a drag on his cigarette before throwing it into a snowdrift.

  “Because he did,” Etienne replied with a nonchalant shrug. “But it’s only the first round, Jules. The game has just begun, and without him, we wouldn’t have the means to continue it. So, let him have this round for now. We have much more ahead of us, my friend. That’s why I said, don’t fret.”

  6

  Blanche hastened her steps both due to the snowstorm attacking the people of Lyon with a viciousness rivaling that of the German army, and the ever-growing impatience that seemed to penetrate every cell of her body together with the cold. Even the canvas bag entrusted into Blanche’s eager hands by Margot mere minutes ago didn’t appear to be as heavy as usual. Margot hadn’t forgotten to nearly suffocate Blanche with the clouds of tobacco smoke billowing from her mouth, while she reminded the girl, once again, that the catalogs were not to be touched under any circumstance. However, Blanche’s curiosity was getting the better of her, heating up her blood and shining her eyes, as she squinted against the raging weather with excitement.

  The church stood gray and graceful, stretching its gothic towers towards the low-hanging clouds that ceaselessly poured their diamond powder on top of the crosses and gargoyles. Blanche circled round its walls, shook the snow off her red curls, inappropriately bright against the churchyard’s austere elegance of dark stone and ivory snow, and pushed the heavy wooden door, letting herself inside its modest living quarters. Animated and breathless, she ran up the stone steps and hid inside her room, like a thief impatient to discover what amazing goods he had managed to snatch from an unsuspecting victim.

  Blanche dropped to the floor and, with her perspiring back pressed against the door, she carefully released the stack of catalogs from the bag and counted to the fourth one in the stack. It was the copy she was supposed to take to Dijon next week. For some inexplicable reason, she refused to go back to her hometown without knowing what exactly she was carrying, even if it might be the biggest mistake she could possibly make, according to that know-it-all, Margot.

  Having carefully separated the two stacks so as not to misplace the catalog that was lying on her lap – the greatest mystery waiting to be revealed – Blanche flipped the first page, then the second one, the third, her searching eyes looking for underlined words or hidden messages that she expected to be dotted in between the pictures of women displaying insincere but bright smiles. But there were no cryptic messages hidden inside; only a two-page newspaper which seemed to be printed by some amateurs, neatly enclosed between pages thirty-two and thirty-three, its ink as blue as the blonde’s eyes on the advertisement next to it.

  Confused and glowering, Blanche scanned the contents, and the more she read, the deeper her scowl grew. She tried to guess if the paper was telling the truth or if it was a piece of anti-German propaganda, deliberately depicting the new occupants of France as merciless beasts. After all, who could verify if the names of the men that were rumored to have disappeared into the Gestapo jail in Paris were real? Who could confirm that the firing squad indeed executed teenagers who were supposedly aiding the rebels? Could it be true that a new law had just been passed, bestowing unrestrained power into the Gestapo’s hands, allowing them to take hostages and execute them in the case of hostile action against the Germans? And all because some Resistance fighter shot some naval officer in Paris, and disappeared into the night?

  Blanche closed the catalog, burying the underground newspaper and its contents into the magazine’s glossy embrace; only, it proved to be much more difficult to bury her doubts concerning the words that she had read. They swarmed around in her restless mind, mixing with her memories and assumptions of the recent past. She knew them well enough, those Germans; she’d lived near them for quite some time, and even though she’d grown to despise them for their drunken bouts and pig-like behavior,
she never saw them actually hurt anyone. It was against the rules of the armistice, wasn’t it? The citizens were to be left alone, and criminals were to be dealt with accordingly – but by the French gendarmes. What was this paper then? A tiny piece of truth that the Resistance fighters were trying to reveal to the people while the official government blasted their propaganda through the official newspapers and state radios? Or just a conniving means of attracting more people into the Resistance ranks? Blanche bit her nail, deep in thought. She could hardly find out until she traveled back to the Occupied Zone and saw everything for herself.

  “They were hiding a simple newspaper from me, can you imagine?” She snorted softly while announcing her discovery to Father Yves later that evening.

  The two shared a modest supper like they always did, with one difference only: that night Madame Freneau was absent from the table, falling sick a day ago and muttering that she had no appetite to all of Blanche’s offers to bring her some food to her room. Warm candlelight glowed softly in the small dining room: the hardships of the occupation had slowly started to slither through the Demarcation Line into the Free Zone. Electricity was not to be wasted, according to the new regulations passed through the préfecture into the hands of the citizens of Lyon, who, while grumbling their discontent, were so utterly powerless against them.

  “Must be one important newspaper then,” Father Yves noted with a soft smile and served Blanche the rest of the cauliflower.

  Blanche mumbled a somewhat embarrassed thank you, still not used to such a kind attitude being directed at her. Maybe it wasn’t doting, but Father Yves was being nice, and that’s how people were supposed to treat each other, weren’t they? Blanche didn’t know. All she knew was that she had been yelled at far too often by far too many people, including her own mother and siblings, and therefore couldn’t possibly differentiate between politeness and interest. She stole a quick glance at the man who was sitting across from her and noticed that his gray eyes looked almost black now, due to the dark ambiance. There was a mysterious air about him, which she tried so desperately to penetrate, yet she failed miserably every time. However, she kept feeling drawn to the enigmatic hollowness marring his handsome features, as if all life had been sucked out of him a long time ago. It reminded Blanche too much of her own emptiness inside, the same dejected gaze aging both of them beyond their years. She’d never felt the warmth of love. She was an unwanted bastard of some German soldier, hated solely for that; what had happened to Father Yves though? Perhaps it was something even worse because it wasn’t resentment and sadness that looked back at her every time she wasn’t quick enough to lower her gaze after her shameless scrutinizing. No, there was something much more despondent and forlorn. He looked simply dead inside. And yet, Blanche held her breath each time his fingers grazed her lips on Sundays.