The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  Claire checked the napkin on her lap, her hands – ensuring that they were washed most likely – and glanced at her mother again, positively confused.

  “The Grace, Claire. We have to say Grace before the meal, don’t we?”

  The girl’s face lit up with recognition at once, and she compliantly lowered her head over her hands to recite the prayer in her melodic, high-pitched voice.

  They aren’t Christians; it finally hit Blanche with indisputable clarity. Jews, most likely, and ones who had run from the Occupied Zone. They couldn’t cross the border anymore; the Germans had closed it to them. Of course, that explained everything. Why else put so much effort into learning prayers and studying scripture all the time? To pass for good Catholics, no doubt.

  Only, why was Yves hiding them in the first place? Lyon was full of their lot; there was no need for them to hide in churches after they made it safely through the border… Unless they were some sort of criminals from the Occupied Zone.

  Criminals. That’s probably what Jürgen Sievers called just about anyone who didn’t belong to the good Aryan race or who disagreed with the Reich’s policies. Their meeting that took place just a couple of days ago was still fresh in Blanche’s memory; how he sat across the table from her in a pose that was full of relaxed confidence, bordering on arrogance even; how he lazily waved the waiter off with a simple flick of his wrist while musing aloud on matters that Blanche had no clue about; how he sent away the most exquisite dishes, barely touched; and how she was afraid to eat her dinner, in that brightly lit restaurant full of German military elite and their French mistresses, simply because she didn’t know which fork to use for certain dishes.

  What was also still fresh in her memory, emblazoned somewhere deep under her skin once she experienced it, was the feeling of power that emanated from all those men in their perfectly starched uniforms, so different from the soldiers that she had had to deal with before she ran away to Lyon. How she basked in this power, absorbing it, breathing it in, taking it into her very pores with every low bow of a waiter, with every envious glance from her fellow female counterparts, with every new glimpse of luxury thrown at her feet by this man who she feared… but couldn’t help but admire.

  “They’re all nothing but a bunch of petty criminals, ja,” he mused aloud, swirling the burgundy wine in his glass, his tone sardonic and mocking. “All those so-called Resistance fighters. Noble defenders of their land? No. Just a bunch of lowlife thugs who are mad at us simply because their women like us better.”

  He burst out laughing, making a circle with his hand around the restaurant. “Am I wrong? Of course not. All those Resistance fighters are a bunch of Jews and communists, without any good leadership or any kind of power whatsoever. They sit holed up in their underground hideaways and talk about booting us out of the country. Gut. I say, let them sit. My people will eventually get them all. I can’t even quite take it in, what they’re hoping for? They will never succeed in their plans. Simply because we’re superior. A superior race with superior intellect. It’s the law of nature, for the superior species to be on top of the food chain. The rest is only – food.”

  Blanche smiled meekly, feeling her cheeks flare up under his scrutinizing gaze. “I guess that makes me food then.”

  “Ach, but no, my dear Lucienne.” Another Cheshire cat smile flashed onto his face as he played with his golden lighter. “You’re here with me, and that makes you part of the clan, and definitely not food. Playing around with the Resistance, that would make you food.”

  A long, pregnant pause settled between them as Blanche felt all the color leave her face. The cruel lines around his mouth seemed to have become more prominent.

  “But you’re a good girl, aren’t you, my sweet little Lucienne?” Sievers smiled again, almost kindly, even though his cold gaze dissected her with its sharpness. “You don’t want to be living in hiding with Jews and communists, do you? You want to be on the right side of the power balance, ja?”

  Blanche lifted her eyes towards Mariette who was eating her chicken silently, then to Yves and finally to little Claire, sitting to her right. After trying lobster served on the finest porcelain, chicken, no matter how deliciously it was prepared, just didn’t taste the same to Blanche anymore.

  Blanche put her fork down, pushed her plate away under Yves’s concerned gaze, and excused herself from the table.

  She spent the next few days in her room barely moving from her bed, her resentment towards Mariette, Claire, and even Yves, growing stronger with each hour, as she replayed Sievers’ words in her mind, giving in to their hypnotic, poisonous power. A wounded, rejected pride swelled up in her chest as she heard yet another exchange of soft voices somewhere in the hallway, outside her closed door, Yves’s voice sounding with notes that he had never used with her. Well, if he chooses Mariette over me, then he’s an idiot, and a worthless one on top of it, Blanche thought, letting anger overtake her completely and fill her from inside. One had to be an idiot to choose a Jew over her. So be it. Let them all rot here, in their underground hideout.

  Yes, she did want to be on the right side of the power balance. The thought snaked and slithered its way into the back of her mind. Let them all rot… And Jules, and Margot, too…

  Jules had recently confirmed that they would be traveling together to Dijon on a new assignment. Apparently, she wasn’t trusted anymore and needed a nanny to watch her every move. Still, Blanche decided to act like a dutiful orderly for now, and not show her temper to her immediate superior, and, so, the two spent almost the entire journey to Dijon in the most uncomfortable silence.

  “Where are we going?” Blanche inquired when Jules headed towards the metro as soon as they got off the stuffy train car.

  “To meet your new superiors.”

  Blanche stopped in her tracks for a moment but, seeing that Jules didn’t even turn around to see if she was following him, hastened her steps to catch up with him.

  “What is that supposed to mean? I won’t be working with you anymore?”

  “You will. They will be your superiors here, in Dijon. Whatever they tell you, you do. Got it?”

  Too many superiors for one subordinate, Blanche caught herself thinking grudgingly, but only nodded instead.

  After they ascended the stairs from the metro, Blanche scrunched her nose involuntarily at the sight that lay ahead of them. It was most certainly an industrial part of the city in which she had never been before, an area that was even more run-down than her own side of the town, which wasn’t a comfortable place to live in by any means. They made their way along the concrete fences shielding the factories that lay behind them and changed narrow streets for quite some time until Jules finally stopped at a small, two-story building which was as gray as everything else around it, in the meager light of the street lamps.

  Inside, they almost felt their way to the second floor, for the light on the first level was not working, and finally came to a stop in front of a door with a doorknob barely hanging from it, held only by one loose screw and some miracle, no doubt. Jules knocked, and stepped aside, as if unsure of what to expect. Yet, as soon as a giant of a man appeared on the doorstep he immediately grabbed him into a bear hug, and Blanche realized that he must have known the people he had brought her to.

  “You?” Jules and the other man, who must have been over two meters in stature and possessed a robust built, wouldn’t stop slapping each other's shoulders and exchanging the most amicable of chuckles. “No, I positively refuse to believe it! How-?”

  As if suddenly remembering about Blanche, Jules stopped himself mid-word and gave the man a warning glance.

  “Come in, don’t just stand there!” The owner of the apartment flashed two rows of even, white teeth at them and gallantly stepped away, holding the door for Blanche.

  She carefully slid past him into a tiny hallway and was almost immediately – and rather unceremoniously – pushed out of the way by a woman who ran out of the kitchen and threw hersel
f at Jules, covering his face with loud kisses.

  “Mon petit!” The woman squealed in delight, an emotion which was reflected at once in Jules’s stunned face. “I haven’t seen you for ages!”

  “What are you doing here?” Jules whispered, observing the young woman like she was a newly found treasure. “What happened to your hair? And…”

  His gaze shifted to Blanche again and lost some of its excited glimmer. He quickly composed himself.

  “I’m Jules,” he announced his name to the couple who obviously knew him under some different name.

  “Laure.” The woman grinned mischievously and shook his hand with theatrical ceremony. “And my much better half, Alain.”

  The woman motioned them all to the kitchen, and there, squeezed against a wall that sported soiled, peeling wallpaper and a narrow table that was only designed for two, Blanche finally had a chance to see them both clearly.

  Both husband and wife were most definitely factory workers, judging by their overalls and the greasy mechanic oil splattered over their garments and still visible under their nails. For some reason, there was something off-putting about the woman, and the more Blanche peered into her face, the more confused she found herself to be.

  Laure held herself with a sense of grace and arrogance that was simply uncommon among the class of people she appeared to belong to, and the sneer with which she welcomed Blanche, who was dressed far better than her, was so full of self-assurance and mocking condescension, that Blanche felt just as uncomfortable in her presence as she had felt in the company of a German’s mistress, who had been powdering her neck next to her in the gilded bathroom of the restaurant where she dined with Sievers.

  Her speech was too refined and elevated for a factory girl, and her hands, though soiled with oil, were too gentle and delicate to reflect years of hard work. Blanche watched her flip her short, shoulder-length dark tresses over her shoulder effortlessly, mesmerized by the cold, ironic expression on her sharp face. Laure discussed something with the two men whose attention she held just as easily as she balanced the worn-out slipper on the tip of her toe. Laure was older than her, Blanche concluded, drinking in the slightly contemptuous pursing of Laure’s lips and the squinting of her green eyes as she said something mocking on Jules’s account, to which both men laughed. Was she Jules’s former lady friend? Blanche wondered. She certainly gave him a rather warm welcome. Why was her husband so happy to see him then? No, something was off here, and Blanche vowed to get to the bottom of it.

  The husband, or Alain, as he was introduced to her, was much more attentive to Blanche than his spouse, who had taken Jules by his hands and led him away to what seemed to be the only other room in the tiny apartment, where their voices soon turned to a hushed whisper as the two spoke of something that obviously wasn’t meant for Blanche’s ears. Alain, with his intelligent dark brown eyes still twinkling with joy, offered Blanche another cup of tea, which she accepted more out of politeness for it was almost impossible to drink being so bitterly flavored and asked her a few questions about her work with Jules.

  “We have only recently moved here,” he explained, running his hands through the chestnut mane of his thick hair. “But don’t fret; we know exactly what we’re doing. Especially Madame over there.”

  He chuckled and motioned his head towards the other room, implying his wife.

  “How do they know each other?” Blanche tried her luck and hoped that the friendly giant would supply her with information that Jules would never give her, willingly that is.

  “We’re all longtime friends,” he replied rather evasively and patted her hand. “As I said, don’t fret. Soon we’ll make this machine called the Resistance work as it should! Time to show those Boches what’s what.”

  Blanche nodded several times and pretended to drink the disgustingly bitter tea.

  12

  Father Yves walked up to Augustine’s door to offer her some hot tea with honey that Madame Freneau had just made and set up downstairs with Lili’s help, but froze in the threshold with his hand ready to knock; out of politeness, of course - as always, Augustine’s door was open.

  He didn’t dare disturb her in such an intimate moment and yet he was afraid to turn around and slip away out of fear of being noticed. No wonder she hadn’t heard her daughter’s voice when Lili called her from downstairs to invite her to the table. Deep in her own world, oblivious to everything around her, Augustine sat on her bed and caressed an old photograph with gentle strokes of her fingers. Her stooped frame, highlighted by a strand of dark hair that had loosened from the bun at the nape of her neck, and her eyes, so big and full of sorrow and memories, still too fresh and painful, made Father Yves wish for the ground to swallow him there and then, so she would not discover his insolent intrusion.

  Despite his discreet motion to move away from the door, she noticed him. She seemed to refocus her gaze, clouded over with melancholy and tears, towards his stiff frame in the black robe, and smiled, gently and so warmly, much to his terror. Less than anyone he deserved her warmth.

  “Your husband?” he whispered, just to say something to break the intensity of the silence.

  Augustine nodded slowly and shifted on her bed, inviting him to take a seat beside her in such an inappropriate yet sincere gesture. Father Yves contemplated the invitation for a moment and approached her carefully, still hesitant and unsure.

  A man in a new uniform smiled brightly from the picture, his dark, handsome features looking even more virile against the typical pastoral background used in most photoshops.

  “This was taken just before he went to the front.” Augustine’s soft voice dug like a knife somewhere at the pit of his stomach. “He didn’t want to pose for it, called it a silly idea, said that he was an accountant and not a soldier, laughed at me for my sentimentality… But I talked him into it after all. Like I knew something, knew that he wouldn’t come back to me. And he was so sure of himself, said that the war wouldn’t last long and he would be back sooner than I knew…”

  They both sat, immersed in silence and thoughts until those same thoughts started suffocating Father Yves with the cruelty that only one’s guilty conscience could inflict. He had no right to sit next to this widow and listen to her stories when he himself had made countless women widows, back then, when he wore a different uniform and when his guilt was so easy to drown in a canteen of rum. Still, his lips twitched and muttered, almost against his will, “What happened?”

  Augustine offered him a sigh and a half-hearted, apologetic one shoulder shrug, in tow with another miserable smile.

  “I’m afraid I will never know.” Her gaze glazed over again as her fingers resumed their stroking of the man in the photo who would remain forever young. “I was initially told that he was taken as a prisoner of war and sent to Germany. And then one day a German officer – he lodged with a friend of mine in Paris – he told me that my husband is no longer alive. I didn’t believe him at first, but he said…”

  The words caught in her throat, and she brought her pale hand to it, to regain control of her emotions.

  “He said that if my husband was Jewish, the SS had shot him while still in France. They didn’t bother taking Jewish prisoners of war to Germany, he explained. I didn’t want to believe that… But then it all started to make sense. Why else would he not write to me, not even one letter?”

  Her smiling lips trembled, and a dew of tears threatened to fall off her lashes as another ragged breath escaped her mouth.

  “It was that German officer who persuaded me to run to the Free Zone together with Lili. He said that if we didn’t run now, the SS would eventually kill us all. He said that it was the reason why they closed the border to us: so, they could keep us all inside making it easier to account for us all.”

  She sat, staring into space again, cheeks glistening with tears and dark brows knitted together. “I had no reason not to believe him. He’s German; he knows better, certainly.”

  “You’re
safe here,” Father Yves spoke, and almost choked on the hypocrisy of his own words.

  Safe. Didn’t you kill men, wounded and still alive, the same prisoners of war who your commanders didn’t want to bother with, asking the most heartless ones to get rid of them? Didn’t you laugh after that, together with your comrades, at a game of cards, drinking stolen German rum that you took from the dead soldiers who you killed, cutting more marks into the butt of your rifle, bragging about the lives that you claimed with it?

  But those were Germans… Boches… They deserved to be killed.

  How do you know that the SS men don’t justify their actions with the same words? And you’re just like them. Liar. Murderer. Hypocrite.

  Augustine’s cool palm found his and made him jerk in his seat.

  “Thank you, Father. For everything.”

  That day he didn’t find the strength to tell her his story. Maybe those communists would find her someplace to live, and he would never have to see her again… Because he already knew that he wouldn’t be able to stand the look that she would give him once he told his truth. It would end him, that much he was certain of. Simone was right after all. The past did catch up with him and demanded they pay its price, and one thing he was wrong about: praying definitely wouldn’t help him now. Only redemption would. And he was damned if he knew how to right all the wrongs he was guilty of.

  Tommy hissed and cursed, causing Marcel to chuckle. Patrice had silenced them several times already, but that night Marcel was in too good of a disposition to take the communist’s threats to tan their hides, seriously. As a matter of fact, he didn’t ever remember being in such a boisterous, elated mood. Well, not since he shot that naval officer at least. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge that it had something to do with the cursing and hissing coming from the Brit in his slight accent, barely detectable but so delicious to the ear.