“I’m Augustine. And this is my daughter, Lili.”
“Welcome to Lyon, Madame Augustine. Lili.” Father Yves found himself smiling at the little girl who couldn’t have been older than eight and yet carried herself with an air of an adult who had seen her share of life already. “Will your husband be joining us too? I’m only asking because I need to know if I will have to move another bed into your room for your daughter.”
“Papa is in the German stalag. He’s a prisoner of war,” the girl answered instead of her mother, and as soon as Father Yves glanced up at the woman, he understood why.
Her lips trembled as she made an inhuman effort to pull herself together and not to break down in front of her daughter. Those eyes of hers told him everything and no words were needed. Her husband was dead, and she couldn’t bring herself to announce the news to her brave little girl.
“Please, don’t worry about anything,” he whispered. “You’re safe now. I will see to it.”
Augustine nodded, looking as if she were restraining herself from throwing her body into Yves' arms, to weep the thousands of tears that she had contained for far too long. Father Yves nodded his reassurance once again and turned to the staircase. For the first time in many years, he felt his heart beating with purpose.
Etienne smiled contentedly as he watched Marcel wolf down his lunch. Marcel hardly ever came to his house, preferring to meet in neutral locations, but apparently, he had something important to report to him.
Etienne dismissed the maid as soon as she set the table for his guest, asking only for a cup of coffee for himself, to keep Marcel company. For some reason, he recalled his father’s war stories and how Monsieur Delattre Sr. had admitted to him once that the brightest moments of his service were to watch his soldiers eat their rations.
“Why?” A young Etienne snorted with laughter in response.
A shrug followed. “They’d survived another day and hadn’t lost their appetite and their will to live and fight. Whenever I saw a soldier leave his meal untouched, it was always a bad sign. At war, you feel your end nearing, I suppose. If you eat – you’re alive.”
Etienne hardly had a couple of years on Marcel, and yet the same paternal feeling overcame him at that moment. His own father gave his life to protect his, and so would Etienne for this man; yes, he would give his life for the men in his charge.
“I’m sorry. I missed my breakfast,” Marcel mumbled with his mouth full and offered Etienne a guilty grin. “Patrice and I were scouting the mountains all night and all morning, trying to find the best drop-off spot.”
“Were you successful?”
“Oh, yes! Tommy has already sent the coordinates to London. We’re all set for this Thursday.”
Marcel attacked his pancakes and jam with renewed vigor.
“How many people are they sending?”
“Tommy says just one. If everything goes smoothly and the gendarmes don’t get wind of anything, they’ll send more.”
“What are they? Spies for MI6?” Etienne carefully placed a small silver spoon next to his porcelain cup and took a sip of bitter, black coffee.
“They’re all from some sort of a diversion unit, as Tommy explained it to me. Half of them will go straight across the Demarcation Line, but they will be reporting to us, of course. They’ll be blowing up German commute routes, train tracks, cut their communication lines… Cause them all sort of trouble, in short. Our task, for now, is to take them in, check their papers to make sure that they’re all up to date and have all the necessary stamps and send them on their way.”
“Papers won’t be a problem. I’ll be the first one to know about all the new changes, now that I’m a sub-prefect.” Etienne followed his words by a mirthless chuckle.
Marcel put down his fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin and said carefully, “Maybe it’s not my place to say, but I don’t think it was a good idea.”
“What? To accept Bouillon’s proposal?”
Marcel didn’t reply, but only searched Etienne’s face with his eyes.
“Let me worry about that.” Etienne’s tone sounded sharper than he intended.
“Bouillon is a well-known collaborator. You’re muddying your good name agreeing to work with him. What if, when the war is over—”
“When the war is over, then we’ll worry about all what ifs,” Etienne interrupted him coldly, and regretted his rudeness at once at the sight of Marcel’s pained look. He resembled a pup, whose owner had just kicked him for the first time, and rather painfully as that. “You worry too much about others, Marcel. Just worry about yourself, won’t you?”
Marcel nodded and picked up his fork again, but only used it to push his food around the plate, seemingly losing all interest in it.
“How’s your new roommate?” Etienne decided to change the subject, softening his tone as much as he could. “Are you getting along?”
Marcel’s face brightened at the mere mention of the British radio operator. “Yes. He’s a great fellow. We’re getting along just fine. He’s incredibly good with radios and all sorts of mechanics, and, well, everything really; he’s sharp like a blade! And he knows so many amusing stories; you won’t believe it! I wish I had half his wit!”
Etienne smiled at such a gushing description, but then his dreamy expression changed, as a desolate feeling of loneliness crept up on him without any warning. He was apart from them now, from these men and their cells; cells that he had personally created and interweaved into an intricate lace of men, working in the shadows, underground, and through half-whispered messages. He would never shake this rascal Tommy’s hand, just like he would never personally welcome any recruits into their secret club of men who were ready to die for their land. Instead, he would have to shake Raimond Bouillon’s hand, well-greased with the Boches’ money, and try to persuade himself, just like he had tried to persuade Marcel, that he’d manage to come out of this swamp somewhat clean. Who was he trying to fool? If he came out of it alive, that would be a miracle… But let’s worry about it when the time comes, he thought to himself and he forced another pained smile on his face in response to Marcel’s beaming.
“How’s our Lucienne doing?”
The light disappeared right away from Marcel’s gaze. “She’s the reason why I’m here, actually. Apparently, our little Lucienne got herself in some big trouble with the Gestapo. Not the Gestapo even, the SD.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Etienne paled at the news. “Has she been arrested?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Marcel rushed to reassure him. “That silly girl decided that the back of the train was too overcrowded and noisy for her liking, and took a seat in the very front, with the Boches. And what do you know? One of the leather coats got in the same train car, noticed her and asked her to ride with him in his private compartment. She had no choice but to agree. She reassured me that he only spoke to her about trivial things, and she doesn’t think that the Gestapo is onto us. Just a coincidence, probably. But I still didn’t want to send her on any new trips before I heard your opinion.”
Etienne sat quietly for some time, digesting the information with his dark brows drawn tightly together. In cases like this, rushed decisions always led to grave mistakes that could cost people their freedom, or even their lives. Gut feeling was also not such a reliable companion when it came to an opponent such as the Gestapo, let alone the feared SD.
“How about you send her on her trips, just as they’re scheduled; only, don’t put anything in her catalogs,” he suggested to Marcel after a few moments of pensive silence, squinting his eyes slightly. “This way even if someone is indeed following her, they won’t be able to accuse her of anything illegal. That is if we discount the possibility that she can actually meet with this SD big shot voluntarily.”
“Why would she voluntarily meet with him?”
“Money.” Etienne shrugged calmly. “He could have offered her money in exchange for information.”
“You think sh
e would have sold us out as easily as that?”
“I prefer not to think and speculate; I would prefer to know the facts. And we’ll only know the facts if we confirm them ourselves. Now, finish your lunch and have some more coffee with me. You have another big task coming.”
“What task?”
“You’ll have to find me a man who will be in charge of our little ‘orphanage’ as soon as I finish the reconstruction. Preferably a priest. This way we’ll raise less suspicion. Who’s going to poke their nose into a children’s orphanage run by a Catholic priest, under the direct control of the sub-prefect?” Etienne grinned. “And then put all the British agents there you want; you won’t find a safer place for them, that much I can guarantee you.”
Marcel beamed right back at him. “I think I already know the priest who fits the criteria.”
11
Blanche was wandering aimlessly through the streets of Dijon, her hometown, and yet it had felt hostile to her since the day she was born. She had mistakenly assumed that Lyon might have been kinder to her but had faced bitter disappointment, just as it always seemed to happen with her and her terribly unjust life.
Jules had hardly spoken to her after the dressing down he had given her in the café with tables full of splinters and the bitter coffee that matched her mood. The next time she saw him he was with the good-looking young man whom she had seen in the photo atelier, who hid behind his back and whispered something into his ear. Jules handed her a canvas bag with its usual contents, glared at her with disdain accompanied by his mysterious friend’s mischievous giggling, and left her to her own devices, without even wishing her a safe trip as he had always done before. Not that she didn’t deserve the cold shoulder treatment after her silly mistake, but the more distance she put between Lyon and Dijon, the more isolated Blanche felt, like a tiny twig thrown into the ocean without anyone caring as to what was going to happen to it.
She deserved at least some respect, didn’t she? She risked her life for them, after all! And now some new woman with charcoal black hair and with eyes the color of molten onyx had appeared out of nowhere with her daughter and seemed to take up all of Yves’s time and attention. Just like Jules refused to reveal his new friend’s name to her, Father Yves’s lips turned out to be sealed as soon as Blanche started prodding him about the church’s new tenants. Whenever Blanche saw them together, their heads were almost touching above the Bible, Yves invariably in the process of teaching the woman some new prayer, which she diligently repeated after him, word for word, like a lesson that had to be learned to pass some important examination. Blanche was excluded from their company, left to feel alone and unwanted, like so many times before.
Having satisfied her hunger with a croissant smeared with butter bought from a street vendor, Blanche sat on a bench facing the busy street, a used napkin crushed between her lifeless fingers, deep in her brooding.
“What happened to your smile, Mademoiselle?” a young man on his bicycle called out to her, grinning widely. “Cheer up! You’re too pretty to be sad!”
He had already sped away, but Blanche sat on her bench, a silly grin plastered all over her face.
Why, he’s right, she thought to herself, digging in her purse for her lipstick. I am pretty and young, and life can’t be all bad. It’s just one of those days… Tomorrow will be a new one and I will feel back to myself.
A small card fell to her feet. Blanche scowled as she picked it up, and then hesitated when she recognized the handwriting.
Standartenführer Jürgen Sievers. Call me next time you’re in town, Mademoiselle. I’ll take you to the opera. Do you like opera?
She had never been to the opera…
Blanche contemplated the card in her hand, painted her lips absent-mindedly, pondered her choices some more, and then rose from the bench and headed towards the phone booth across the street. Her fingers trembled slightly as she dialed the number, and the words she had planned to say caught in her throat when a voice with a distinctive German accent replied on the other end.
“Standartenführer Sievers’ office.”
Blanche’s immediate reaction was to hang up the phone and flee from the phone booth, to never come back. Yet, something stopped her from following her first instinct, and, drawing a breath, she spoke as confidently as she could into the phone.
“Can I speak with Monsieur Sievers, please? He gave me this number. My name is Lucienne Bertin.”
Beads of perspiration appeared on Marcel’s forehead from the concentration needed to complete his task… Or from the intent gaze of Tommy’s amber eyes, fixed steadily upon him. The young British radio operator sat across the table from him, his long fingers playing lazily with a pencil, as his signature enigmatic grin shone on Marcel completely distracting him from the radiogram in front of him.
“I give up.” Marcel finally threw his own pencil down and slumped to the back of his chair, angry at himself for looking so pathetic and incompetent in his handsome counterpart’s eyes. “Numbers and all these ciphers are not my thing! I’m a history student; I don’t understand any of this!”
Tommy rose from his chair with the poised grace of a feral cat, circled the table and lowered above Marcel, almost resting his chin on the young man’s shoulder as he placed his hand over Marcel’s. Marcel froze, trying to breathe steadily as if it didn’t bother him. Only, it did. Everything about Tommy bothered him, stirred the strangest range of emotions; causing his cheeks to flush whenever the exasperating British boy started pestering him with his ciphers; to nearly choke with romantic joy at having him so near; to melt into a puddle of pure delight just because the golden-haired boy’s hand was close to his. It was like the Brit purposely did everything to unnerve Marcel and laugh with his eyes at his uncomfortable squirming; eyes that were so unbearably golden and handsome, as if made of pure sunlight, soft Mediterranean sand and everything sinful that existed in the world.
“You’re not a history student anymore. You’re a Resistance fighter,” Tommy explained with infuriating calmness and started crossing out numbers with Marcel’s hand in his still, forcing him to move the pencil across the paper, taking away any possibility for Marcel to think straight. “And Resistance fighters must know the basics of decoding.”
“No, they don’t,” Marcel grumbled, forcing himself to concentrate on the paper. If only Tommy’s pine aftershave didn’t invade his senses, completely replacing the air in his lungs. Marcel didn’t want to breathe anything else.
“You must, at least.”
“What makes me so special?”
“We live together.” The young man started counting, only bending Marcel’s fingers instead of his own. “You know what I do. I trust you. If I get killed, you can continue my job.”
“You won’t get killed,” Marcel blurted out, far more fervently than he wished to, and bit his lip, lowering his head away from the golden prying eyes.
“It’s the war, Jules. We can both get killed.”
“My name is Marcel. I’ve told you a million times before.”
“And I told you that I want to forget that I even heard it the first time. You’re Jules.” The intent eyes were peering into his again, so hypnotizing and ruthless in their unbearable depth. “If I get captured, and they start interrogating me, Jules will be the name I want to say, understand? Jules.”
Tommy’s face was too close to his own.
Marcel turned away quickly. “Whatever.”
“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” A familiar grin played on the Brit’s angular face as he went back to his seat. “Now, be a good lad and finish decoding the radiogram just as I taught you.”
An unexpected guest rapping on the front door saved Marcel from yet another failed test. He smiled triumphantly and headed to the small hallway to discover Etienne on his doorstep, much to his surprise.
Even though the new sub-prefect managed to successfully conceal his face under a wide-brimmed fedora pulled down low enough to shield his eyes, he had nev
er appeared at Marcel’s apartment before for fear of being recognized by Marcel’s neighbors.
“I had to come myself,” Etienne explained after Marcel ushered him in, closing the door right away. “You will have to go to Dijon with Lucienne next time she goes. Pretend to be a couple. And when you two are in Dijon, head straight to this address and ask for Monsieur and Madame Vignon. Lucienne will be in their charge from now on.”
“Who are these Monsieur and Madame Vignon?” Marcel glowered, feeling positively confused.
“Our new liaison agents in Dijon. They will be in charge of everything.”
“But who on earth are they? I’ve never heard you mention them!”
“Friends of an old friend. You’ll understand everything once you see them.” Etienne gave him the parting wink of a conspirator together with a firm handshake and disappeared before Marcel had a chance to ask him anything else.
Blanche accepted a plate that Mariette – or Marie as Yves called her, with a fondness that he couldn’t conceal from his voice no matter how much effort he thought he put into it – offered her and even smiled at the woman, even though the look in Blanche’s eyes remained harsh. Mariette and her daughter Claire tried to be as agreeable as possible and had even taken up all of Blanche’s former tasks concerning her duties around the church. Mariette certainly knew her way around the kitchen and managed to make a feast out of the simplest products, Blanche would give her that. With Blanche, they acted with the utmost amicability and respect, and yet Blanche couldn’t help experiencing the most hostile feelings towards the unsuspecting woman, whose only fault was that she had arrived without invitation and had become Blanche’s rival for Father Yves’s attention.
“Claire!” Mariette’s voice distracted Blanche from scrutinizing Father Yves’s face and the subtly affectionate smile playing on his lips. The girl had already stuck her fork into the chicken breast on her plate but she immediately froze in her place, startled by her mother’s voice. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 10