The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

“I’m not talking about Jews from the Free Zone, no. They’re fine and well, joining our legion in Africa in the hundreds, and especially the foreign ones, which the Nazis kicked out of their homes in their own countries. They’re hell-bent on taking their revenge on the Boches, that much you’re right about. And who would blame them, right?”

  Father Yves didn’t laugh with him, instead patiently awaiting further explanation. Regardless of how little he wanted to deal with the communist, he had to admit that he intrigued him.

  “I am talking about the Jews from the Occupied Zone, Father.” The man regained his serious look. “The Boches are plotting something against the poor devils, I’m afraid.”

  He pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips, smiling at Father Yves apologetically. “I beg your pardon, Father. I shouldn’t say ‘devil’ in the church, right?”

  Father Yves dismissed his apologies with a simple wave of his hand.

  “Don’t worry yourself over it. I listen to confessions from sinners far worse than you, and if they haven’t been stricken by a bolt of lightning by now, I’m quite sure that you’re safe. Get to the point, please. I have to prepare for the Mass.”

  “My comrades were right. You are not a typical priest. I think you would be perfect for our plans, if you agree to them, of course.”

  “You still haven’t revealed these mysterious plans of yours.”

  “Would you agree to shelter several families here from time to time? We’ll be smuggling them across the border, and they need to stay someplace safe before we get them new papers and sort out their new living arrangements. It won’t take long; a week or two at the most for each family. We’ll pay you for the food, bien sûr.”

  Father Yves sat, letting the beads of the rosary run through his fingers while pondering on the request. He had had no dealings with Jews before, only prayed together with everyone for the poor souls whenever news poured across the border that the Nazis were acting more and more savagely and ruthlessly towards them. Wasn’t it his Christian duty to care for them? Only, he wasn’t that much of a Christian. Father Yves smirked slightly at his unhappy thoughts. An imposter in a black robe, who thought that he would find solace and forgiveness in the holy, marble-clad house of God. God hadn’t spoken to him once; not that Father Yves blamed Him.

  “What do you say, Father?”

  What should he say? Maybe this was it, his chance for redemption?

  He turned to the communist, put the rosary away and offered him his hand.

  “I’ll do it.”

  The communist looked at the priest’s palm in surprise but grasped it after a moment of hesitation and gave it a firm parting press.

  Marcel balanced on the edge of the sturdy wooden windowsill, his gaze glued to the Brit’s nimble fingers that seemed to fly over the Paraset radio transceiver, now almost completely taken apart. Last night, after recovering the parachutist from the tree, in which the straps of his parachute had the misfortune to entangle, the three of them braved the storm that had regained power while Marcel and Patrice searched for their radio man.

  The British plane had dropped him a little off the designated location, and it took them longer than expected to finally locate him and take him to the safety of a small hut, in which the forest overseer used to live, but since his death, had stood abandoned, mostly used by hunters – according to Patrice. Shaking from the cold and having lost almost all sensitivity in their frozen limbs, the three of them dropped down onto the floor as soon as they stepped through the doors of the hut. They fell asleep right on the floor, huddled tightly together for not one of them could muster enough strength to light the fire; their fingers simply refused to listen to them.

  In the morning, after a royal breakfast of smoked sausage, a loaf of bread (all produced from the depths of the resourceful Patrice’s backpack) and even coffee, which Patrice brewed on top of a small stove, the men felt almost completely recovered from their ordeal and even felt alive enough to start exchanging jests and chuckles, ridiculing the “preciseness” of the British pilot. The young British fellow, who had suffered the most from his parachute mishap, acquiring several scratches gained after falling through the branches, rubbed his sprained ankle and even grumbled under his breath that he would report the pilot to his superiors in the first radio message that he sent. Only, as soon as he sat down to see to this task, the radio stubbornly refused to cooperate.

  He introduced himself as Tommy, immediately sending both Frenchmen into a fit of chuckles.

  “What could be a more suitable name for a Brit?” Patrice noted with obvious irony. “It fits you as perfectly as Fritz would fit a Boche.”

  “That’s the point of it,” the svelte young man with golden hair, who had an air of being a rascal about him, countered nonchalantly, not taking any offense at the joke. “Now, if asked about me, you will only be able to say that you had a tommy with you. Which interrogator would accuse you of lying?”

  His amber eyes twinkled with mischief as he offered the two comrades a wink.

  Now, Tommy hissed and cursed in expressions that would put any sailor to shame while trying to get the radio to work. Marcel and Patrice had nothing better to do but trade accounts of their progress with La Libération within their different cells, and agree on a new set of rules that were to go into effect now that they had a direct line with their allies in England.

  “Think of it as a measure towards being overcautious, but I believe it wouldn’t hurt us if, when recruiting a new member, we could sort them out in three-member cells,” Marcel suggested to Patrice, who kept nodding solemnly. “The initial two members should be the ‘old fighters’, though. This way we will be able to kill two birds with one stone; the recruit will learn from them – number one; number two – if the recruit turns out to be an agent infiltrated by the Gestapo or the gendarmes he will only be able to sell out two people from his cell and not the whole chain.”

  “I like the idea.” Patrice patted his pockets in search of cigarettes, produced a crumpled pack and offered Marcel one. Tommy managed to snatch one for himself without even taking his eyes off the radio in front of him. Patrice snorted softly and stood up to help the British radio operator with the matches. “Also, it would be smart if each cell had a certain structure. Let’s say, a ringleader, a liaison agent, and an engineer. There should be an engineer if you ask me. Or a sharpshooter. Or an expert in bomb-making, I don’t know. But if they’re all ringleaders or are all only good at talk and no action there’s really no point in the cell itself. Someone has to do the job, physically that is.”

  “Soon both liaison agents and bomb-makers will be dropping on you from the sky in such quantities that you won’t know what to do with them,” Tommy remarked nonchalantly, once again indicating that he, in fact, attentively listened to every word the Frenchmen exchanged, despite the utter concentration in which he seemed to be immersed.

  “That would be grand. Only, first, you will have to fix that radio of yours.” Patrice’s sneer, which was intended to look mocking, came out kind-hearted for some reason.

  The young Brit’s charming boastfulness and typical arrogance reminiscent of youth couldn’t possibly be met with contempt solely because of the sheer innocent naïveté of it. The boy was talented; there was no doubt about it. MI6 wouldn’t send him here if they weren’t sure of his qualifications. He was too handsome, with the whiskey-colored eager eyes of an eighteen-year-old who had only seen war, in textbooks and probably loved romanticizing it with the all-knowing air of a university professor, while puffing on a thin cigar and discussing what Napoleon did wrong with his own similarly eager-eyed young men. He most likely believed that now, having analyzed and discussed all of Napoleon’s mistakes, he would most certainly avoid them, and maybe even beat the Germans single-handedly. It was all understandable, too. When one was eighteen, one didn’t believe death was on the horizon. It was too far away, too contrived and fictitious when one was too full of life and the conceit of youth.

  �
��Don’t worry yourself about my radio. It’ll work perfectly fine in just… Ah, sod it!” Tommy suddenly slumped to the back of his chair, sending a small screwdriver flying across the room.

  Marcel caught himself smiling. Tommy even managed to make temper tantrums look charming.

  “You can put a fork in this radio, for now, mates. It’s done.” Tommy declared calmly, his demeanor changing within seconds from one of a pouting child who had just discovered that his favorite toy was broken to a self-assured professional. “Need to get new bulbs for it. Without them – say bye-bye to the communication line and therefore to the bomb-makers raining on you from the sky thanks to the generous MI6.”

  “What kind of bulbs?” Marcel frowned.

  “Well, obviously not ones that you would put in your chandelier.” Tommy snorted with laughter and scrunched his nose comically at the overpowering tobacco stench of his cigarette, something he was apparently not used to. “I need very small ones that are used in portable devices like this one. The problem is, if you go to an electrics store and ask for them, the chances are that they’ll know that you’re getting it for a radio. I know that it’s a Free Zone but… Will it not put you on the radar of the gendarmes?”

  “We don’t know,” Patrice replied after exchanging glances with Marcel. “We don’t know how diligent our gendarmes are in their work, that is. Never had to deal with them before.”

  “That’s a problem.” Tommy nodded several times, carefully taking the thin broken glass out of his now useless radio.

  “Wait a minute. What about professional cameras which they use in photo ateliers?” Marcel snapped his fingers at the idea. “Do they use the same bulbs?”

  Golden specks shimmered in Tommy’s eyes as he squinted them slightly, regarding Marcel with an attentive gaze.

  “Quite possibly. I don’t specialize in cameras, but… Could be.”

  “We’ll never know until we try it, right?” Marcel shrugged as he spoke, grinning in reply as the contagious smile of the young Brit brightened up his face once again. He turned to Patrice. “What do you say, comrade?”

  “I say if we want to make it before sunset, let’s get moving.”

  Ten minutes later the old cabin looked just as it had before the three men had appeared – old, abandoned, and devoid of any trace of the recent presence of the men. Just as when the sun had occupied its highest position in the sky at midday, the gusts of wind completely concealed any footsteps, imprinted in the luminous crystals of the snow. The three figures disappeared without a trace.

  8

  Blanche caught a fleeting glance of her reflection in the glass of the revolving door of Gare de Lyon-Perrache, before letting herself inside the familiar foyer with its marble-clad floors and tall ceilings. A subtle smile played on her painted lips as she walked resolutely towards the teller’s window to buy her ticket to Dijon, feeling nowhere near as nervous as she had been during her first few trips. She still remembered how her hand had been shaking when she gave the stern-looking man the money, and how perspiration dampened her back under her coat as anxiety covered her in one nauseating wave after another.

  That fearful girl had disappeared somewhere along the way, lost between the railway stations, and forgotten like an old dress that Blanche had decided to shed once and for all. She was Lucienne now, and Lucienne had nothing to fear. She wasn’t some Boche’s bastard daughter; neither was she a neglected child to whom even her mother paid no heed. Lucienne was confident and attractive, even though it was all a mere mask made of thoroughly applied makeup and hair dye, imprinted in her new papers. But, slowly, Blanche was growing into the new person her papers said she was.

  She’d adopted new mannerisms that she learned from observing good-looking women, wrapped in silk and bright jewelry as they accepted the adoration of the men around them. She had spent hours in front of the mirror trying to smile as mysteriously and seductively as the actresses in those black and white movies that she could finally afford to see; she taught herself how to walk looking straight ahead, holding her head proudly under the lingering glances of men, whose wives usually pulled them by the crook of their arm the moment they spotted Lucienne. Even Yves (for Blanche stubbornly refused to call him Father while giving in to her not such holy thoughts) had complimented her appearance a couple of days ago, noticing how becoming her new hat was.

  Around her, he still acted the same as he did when she had first stepped through the doors of his church. It seemed like ages since they had first met, but he retained the same air of indifferent melancholy and ignored all of Blanche’s attempts to penetrate the wall that he had seemingly erected and which he flat-out refused to discuss. Yet, each smile and each word of encouragement, each blessing he softly whispered while making the sign of a cross in front of her face before she set out on yet another trip, fueled the feelings that she, at first, had refused to acknowledge, soon creating a veritable fire that seemed to consume her soul at the mere thought of the holy man, who Blanche suspected was a much bigger sinner than she was. It was a fire that made her assign meanings to the most ordinary words he uttered, look for something deep in his glances, and create pictures of the future in her mind that painted a natural rosy radiance on her face, that made her smile seem so dreamy and that made the grip of her gloved hand much more relaxed on the canvas bag with the catalogs that she carried. Yes, she was an attractive young woman now, and soon he would give in to her charms and let her inside his world, at last, Blanche thought, just as yet another man lifted his hat and moved out of her way, looking her up and down appreciatively.

  Blanche bathed in the new attention and in her confidence that day and even felt bold enough to ride the train in one of the first cars, which the Germans usually occupied as soon as the train crossed the Demarcation Line. Such reckless action proved to be a mistake.

  An officer strode in at one of the transit stations, followed by two younger uniformed men, with the arrogance of a man who held the whole world in his gloved fist. Blanche felt the air leave her lungs as he set his icy blue eyes on her, a look of mild curiosity settling on his clean-shaven face. Blanche took in the deep, cruel lines around his mouth, the leather coat with a rich fur collar, the markings of the SS on his uniform cap, the shoulder-boards on his coat that held too many knobs to signify anything good, and realized that she was as good as dead. The Gestapo. She had never encountered any of them before but had heard enough about them to induce a lump in her throat. It only expanded under the Boche’s scrutinizing glare, threatening to suffocate her if the menacing silence lasted any longer.

  “How far are you traveling, Mademoiselle?”

  His voice had a barely detectable accent, which took her aback with its mildness. Like honey, in which an unfortunate bee can get caught in and die; the fleeting thought flashed in Blanche’s mind for some reason.

  “Not far.” She forced the words out, her confidence melting away as he stripped her bare with penetrating eyes, looking into her very soul, it seemed, and guessing all of her most guarded secrets. “Dijon.”

  “That’s still at least a two-hour trip,” the German noted with the same enigmatic grin. “Certainly, you don’t want to spend it in the company of these scoundrels.”

  He motioned his head towards the soldiers occupying the train car. Blanche waited for what he would say next, holding her breath.

  Exit the train car, please. We know who you are and what you’re here for.

  You’re under arrest, Mademoiselle. Our men in Dijon have been following you for some time now.

  You will have to come with us now. It would be better for everyone if you start talking right away. Maybe then we’ll make your execution swift and painless.

  The two black-clad men behind his back stood like two silent shadows, guarding their master. He shifted slightly, and Blanche heard his glove brush the leather of his coat, breaking the perfect silence.

  “You can ride in my compartment if you’d like.” He casually dropped the words. “I sup
pose you’ll be much more comfortable there.”

  Without waiting for her reply, the German turned on his heel and headed to the front of the car, where a couple of private compartments were situated. Blanche threw a helpless look at his two henchmen, who patiently stood in the same spot, clearly waiting for her to follow their boss. Fighting a sudden wave of nausea, Blanche picked up her bag, trying to contain her reluctance, and headed in the same direction as the German.

  He stood in the doorway of his compartment, holding it for her in the most gallant manner. Blanche went inside, willing herself not to begin openly shaking.

  “Friedrich, bring us some coffee, bitte.”

  The two somber looking men were dismissed, the door was closed, and Blanche found herself face to face with every Resistance member’s worst nightmare.

  “Well, Mademoiselle -” His soft voice sent shivers down her spine as he took the canvas bag out of her hands and placed it on the seat next to him. “It’s time to, how do you French call it? Faire votre connaissance, ja?”

  All of a sudden, she felt trapped and claustrophobic in the narrow space of the private compartment, standing mere centimeters away from the German. Still observing her with curiosity, he removed his uniform cap and smoothed out his platinum hair with a practiced gesture. In such proximity, Blanche realized that she had mistakenly assumed that he was a young man. Now, seeing deep lines in between his brows, the net of smaller ones around his eyes and, more than anything, that air of superiority that he emanated, she concluded that he must be well into his forties.

  “Allow me to take your coat? The compartment is heated, and you’ll find yourself most uncomfortable if you keep it on.”

  Judging by his outstretched hand, it wasn’t a polite request; an order was more like it. Blanche started silently unbuttoning her coat, unable to look away from him. It was almost as if he held her in a hypnotic daze with his stare. After taking the coat from her hands, he hung it near the door and went to remove his leather one. The full view of all his ribbons and military awards terrified her even more, and Blanche lowered to the seat only because she was certain she would most definitely faint if she didn’t.