The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  “My father is a Brit, but my mother is French. Can’t you tell from whom I got my good looks?”

  Tommy squinted mischievously, fixing his hair theatrically and burst out into quiet laughter. Marcel grinned with one side of his mouth and shook his head at the boy. He couldn’t stand him in moments like this. He was just too much for him; his eyelashes were too long, his laughter was too contagious, even when he cursed like a sailor and put his sarcastic wit to work; his hands were too confusing when they touched Marcel’s, on purpose, he was certain of it…

  Tommy was too much. Too overwhelming, and Marcel tried not to even think of him. At all. And then that rascal went and announced that he wouldn’t stay home alone and would follow him and Patrice to personally meet the very first parachutist that MI6 was supposed to drop off from their plane tonight. Then he stumbled his way in the dark, catching Marcel’s hand to steady himself and didn’t let go after. And Marcel couldn’t stop chuckling at the cursing next to him, and at the fluttering in his stomach that he desperately wanted to believe was merely due to his excitement about the operation.

  “If you two don’t shut the hell up this fucking instant, I will tie you both to a tree and go get the guy myself!” Patrice turned around sharply and growled, looking each man in the eye, meaning business this time.

  Marcel nodded his understanding. Only, as soon as the communist turned his back on them again, he could hardly restrain himself from laughing: Tommy, being Tommy, made an indecent gesture with his hand and rolled his eyes, indicating how “impressed” with Patrice’s threat he was.

  It’s good that he’s a friend of mine now, Marcel thought, a subtle smile playing on his lips.

  He’d never had a best friend. A couple of pals at school and the boys who he grew up with; a few friends at the Sorbonne… But no one quite like Tommy. At least something good had come out of this war. Something which had dropped right from the sky and into his hands…

  With the compass in Patrice’s hand, they had reached the drop-off point twenty minutes earlier. The snow was all but gone, and wet leaves rustled softly under their feet as they shifted from one foot to another, trying to keep themselves warm. March or no March, the forest was still wafting its misty, chilling fog through the growth, turning the men’s breath into liquid crystals of moisture. Patrice extracted a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and all three shared a match, lifting their heads back to the navy-blue sky, full of clouds.

  “Not good,” Tommy observed, pulling his head into his shoulders and scrunching his nose at the weather. “They will have to fly by their navigation system only. The pilot won’t see shit in this fog. They dropped me off on a good night and still missed, bloody eejits!”

  “So, we’ll have to look carefully then,” Patrice conceded, his bad mood all but forgotten.

  They heard the plane but never saw it through the thick belt of clouds, when the parachute appeared from the sky and floated slowly and slightly off course, closer to the mountains from where they came from than the forest.

  The parachutist was already collecting his parachute when they ran up to him, out of breath from their rush to reach him. Marcel would give him credit if he weren’t too busy trying to take control over his heaving chest: The Brit didn’t forget to pull his gun on them.

  “Are you from MI6 or SOE?” Tommy didn’t seem to be impressed with the gun, just like he hadn’t been impressed with Patrice’s wrath before, and outstretched his hand, palm up, his beaming smile visible even in the darkness. “I’m Tommy, your radio guy. MI6.”

  “Arthur, MI6. Demolition expert.”

  The two exchanged crooked grins and handshakes.

  “Well, there, mates. Make your acquaintance: your first bomb-making guy.” Tommy motioned his head towards his fellow countryman.

  Things were starting to look up, at last, Marcel caught himself thinking as everyone introduced themselves. Hopefully, the chain kept working just as smoothly.

  Etienne jerked his wrist impatiently and glanced at his watch for the third time in the past five minutes. This was getting ridiculous, the wait. Even his angelic patience had started to wear thin. He had become so used to being a master of his own time back home, in Lyon, that this absurdity of being made to wait for a German official to receive him here, in Vichy, had been a rough awakening, a reminder that even in the capital of the Free Zone they were reduced to nothing more than slaves of their new northern neighbors.

  The building, housing a relatively newly elected government (Elected? Forcefully installed, and quite illegally too, after Pétain and his administration dismissed the assembly), was just as suspicious and quiet as the quiet spa town itself, like a sky brewing and stirring before a storm. Etienne had noticed a new coat of arms proudly displayed at the end of the long corridor with an endless row of chairs lined up against the wall. The words “Famille, Travaille, Patrie” had replaced “Liberté, Equalité, Fraternité” and a big portrait of the Maréchal himself had appeared, gazing at the people sitting in the corridor with his usual condescending look. Changes weren’t as prominent in Lyon, Etienne noted to himself, a shadow passing over his always immaculately shaven face.

  Ten minutes later he rose from his chair and approached a secretary who was typing something at her desk.

  “I beg your pardon, how long must I wait for? I have a train to catch.”

  “Herr Oberst is on tight schedule himself, I’m afraid. He’s also leaving Vichy tonight so he must see as many people as he can during his short stay. I do apologize for the inconvenience.” It was an impassionate and standard reply it seemed.

  Etienne could do nothing else but return to his chair.

  Finally, he was called in. The German, with a haggard face and a weary look about his black eyes, rose from his chair and offered Etienne his cool, narrow palm.

  “I apologize for making you wait, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet.” His accent was barely detectable. “I won’t keep you long. I only need a few things from you, and we can both be on our way. You might want to write them down.”

  Etienne took the offered chair and pulled a small notepad from his pocket.

  “As you know, Monsieur Bouillon, the Préfet is busy working on our factories in Bretagne.”

  The Oberst’s slip of the tongue and that word, our, didn’t go unnoticed by Etienne.

  “Therefore, the responsibility for obtaining the necessary information and making it into a report will fall on your shoulders.” The German paused and leaned forward, squinting his eyes slightly. Etienne realized that the Wehrmacht official was likely near-sighted but refused to wear glasses, perhaps out of infamous Prussian pride or some other ridiculous reason. “You’re a very young man to occupy such a post, I must say. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I’m twenty-four, Herr Oberst. I assure you, my age will not be a hindrance to state affairs; I would have been a foreign affairs attaché by now anyway, had the war not started.”

  “A foreign affairs attaché, eh?” The German allowed a thin-lipped grin to appear on his face. “Well, at least Monsieur Bouillon appointed someone with actual qualifications to manage his matters. I feared that you were just some son of a business acquaintance of his. Well, never mind that. What I will need from you, first and foremost, is a full list of Lyon’s infrastructure. Factories, farmlands, agriculture production, vineyards – everything that brings profit to the city.”

  Etienne’s cheek twitched against his will.

  “Second, I will need a list of your enlisted men, number of the army barracks and everything else that is situated under your jurisdiction. Most importantly, an account of all firearms. Third, I will need a full list of your communists, suspected and convicted; this list should be the easiest one to compile I believe. Take the names from the Prefecture de Police; they should have them. And another thing: Maréchal Pétain has already created an office to deal with Jewish affairs, so I will need you to ask them to make a list of all the Jews currently living in Lyon.�
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  “The foreign ones?”

  “No. All of them,” the German replied in a nonchalant tone.

  “May I ask for what purpose you need these lists?” Ordinarily, Etienne would have known better than to ask such a provocative question, but he was irritated by the long wait, the muteness of the city and disgusted with his own government who allowed such a travesty to happen, where everyone dropped everything at the first German’s arrival and stood at attention to them, in their own land. “With all due respect, Lyon is under the Free Zone jurisdiction and under the conditions of the armistice of June 1940. It was promised to us that we wouldn’t be affected by the occupation.”

  The Oberst regarded him with a faint smile for quite some time, before replying, “I’m only asking you to bring me the lists. I’m an office worker like yourself, you see. And my superiors pay me to make lists. That’s all this is. Paperwork. Don’t assign any meaning to it other than that.”

  Would you really drag me out of Lyon all the way here for some simple paperwork? Etienne incredulously asked himself. Instead, he only lowered his head before the German, compliant and suspiciously silent, like the city of Vichy itself. Outside, a storm was brewing.

  13

  “They’re planning something, mark my words,” Marcel declared as the group of four – Tommy, Patrice and their new demolition expert, Arthur, sat around the table in the café, their hands wrapped around their coffee mugs.

  The owner, also one of their men, had closed down early that evening and was listening to the illegal BBC broadcast in the backroom with the door open.

  “If Chief said that they demanded the lists from him, then you can say with certainty that things are going south. Literally.” Tommy called Etienne by the title they had recently adopted for him; no new men had to know who was really in charge of the southern faction of the Resistance movement.

  “You think they’re planning to occupy the Free Zone as well?” Marcel glanced askance at the Brit. “But what about the armistice?”

  “What about it?” Tommy snorted with his habitual contempt. “They’ll do with the armistice paper the same thing they did with the Munich agreement – wipe their derrières with it.”

  “Call me crazy, but from the rumors I’ve heard from some people in MI6, the Huns are thinking of invading someone all right, but not southern France.” Arthur spoke quietly and waited for the coin to drop.

  “Surely you don’t mean the Soviets?” Patrice pulled back in his chair, chuckling at the impossibility of such a turn of events.

  “That’s precisely what I mean. Supposedly, our government even warned Stalin of this. I don’t think he listened to them though.”

  Marcel chewed on his lip under his neatly trimmed beard, deep in thought. After Etienne had handed him actual control of the net, he had to be particularly careful in considering and calculating all the options, risks and possibilities presented to them. And this was an opportunity that only a fool would miss.

  “In that case, it would be a true blessing for us,” he finally determined, causing everyone to murmur in approval. “If the Boches take off and head to the east, we’ll be able to overpower the remaining forces quite easily.”

  “Just don’t forget to tell your chief not to give the Boche the real number of firearms the Lyon barracks have.” Tommy gave Marcel a conniving grin.

  “Well, the firearms are all long gone from those barracks; hardly a few dozen are left.” Patrice snorted under his breath, lighting another cigarette. “The troops handed them over to us as soon as they had to choose between the Boches or us. The communists suddenly started to look like mighty trustworthy fellows to them, ha-ha!”

  The owner came over to refill their cups and to tell them a joke that he had just heard on the BBC.

  “Do you know the latest news? According to Radio Paris, last night at 9.20 a Jew attacked a German soldier, cut his heart out and ate it.”

  The men around the table broke into wide grins as the burly café owner continued. “And that’s how you know that Radio Paris is the German bullshit-teller: Jews don’t eat pork!”

  As soon as the men recovered from their laughing fit and dug into the cheese sandwiches that the café owner placed before them, Marcel returned to his serious self.

  “I think Arthur is right. It makes sense, them demanding information on our infrastructure and all. They’re milking the Occupied Zone for its coal production as it is now; all the produce goes to Germany or their Africa Corps. Naturally, if they decide to attack the Soviet Union they will need much more than that.”

  “Do we have any connections along the train tracks in both zones?” Tommy inquired.

  “Why?”

  “Because if we make friends with a couple of the train track workers, I’ll be able to transmit the troop movements to MI6 headquarters, and my mate,” he nodded in Arthur’s direction, “will be able to blow those tracks up.”

  Arthur didn’t even attempt to conceal a predatory grin at such a prospect.

  “Do we?” Marcel turned to Patrice, who knew more union workers than he did.

  “A couple, but only here, in the Free Zone.” The communist rubbed his chin. “I can ask them to make more friends, but I can’t promise anything concerning the Occupied Zone. That’s all yours.”

  Marcel immersed himself deep in thought, but in a few moments, his face brightened with a newly concocted plan.

  “I have someone in Dijon who is also a comrade. He’ll know how to talk to them, the workers.”

  “Bien. Let’s get to it then.”

  Blanche studied Laure while the woman read a letter from Jules that Blanche had just delivered. Alain, her husband, was at work, according to her. Blanche had just opened her mouth to inquire as to why she, Laure, was procrastinating at home, but the woman clarified before she even had a chance to do so.

  “I work night shifts.”

  Blanche had nothing better to do but hand her the letter and follow Laure to the small kitchen with the smell of burnt grease that seemed to be forever imprinted into its walls.

  From a liaison agent to a delivery girl. Blanche allowed her thoughts to run their sardonic course. Some promotion. And what did this broad do to appear out of nowhere and overstep her in rank?

  “Don’t hold a grudge against me,” Laure spoke softly out of the blue, without taking her eyes off the letter. “We all - Jules, Alain and I - have been in this far longer than you.”

  “It’s not that,” Blanche said sulkily. “They don’t trust me, that’s all. None of them. Won’t tell me a thing!”

  Laure nodded pensively a couple of times and fixed the gaze of her hazel, intelligent eyes on Blanche. “You made mistakes. And in our ‘profession’ it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  “As if you never made any mistakes.”

  “Not really.”

  “I will prove to Jules, to Margot, to all of you, that I am not some brainless girl, only good enough to deliver your messages to one another. I didn’t come to Lyon to work as a postwoman but to…” Blanche made a gesture of frustration. “I want to be an active part of the cell. The only thing I ask for is some trust in my abilities. Someone had to trust in you some time ago to accept you in the cell, didn’t they? Why can’t you vouch for me now, before Jules, since you’re such intimate friends?”

  Laure grinned, folded the letter, sliding her fingers sharply over its crease, and placed it in the pocket of her trousers. “You’re an ambitious one, aren’t you?”

  “I want to help,” Blanche muttered somewhat defensively.

  Laure shook her head slowly, grinning wider. “No. You want recognition and fame. Those are your reasons; not the selfless desire to help. That’s why Jules doesn’t trust you. We all had to sacrifice a lot for the cell. You, on the other hand, are here to profit from it, no matter how fervently you’re trying to persuade yourself in the opposite. You came to us for the wrong reasons, and that’s why your superiors are so hesitant when it comes to delegating yo
u something more serious than delivering messages. People do very stupid things when they crave for power. Don’t give me such an accusatory look, Lucienne. You know I’m right. And I’m saying all this not to insult you in any way but because there shouldn’t be any secrets or half-spoken truths between the members of the cell. I’m only trying to set you on the right way before you slip even further.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with craving recognition,” Blanche argued in an odd tone and added the phrase that Sievers had uttered with a strange, dreamy look in his eyes, as if revealing the most sacred of postulates, according to which his people lived: “One must want more to become more. Don’t you agree?”

  Laure’s gaze shot up at once, sharp and intent, her green eyes slowly narrowing into slits, scrutinizing the red-haired girl in front of her with newly established interest.

  “Which university did you go to, Lucienne?” she asked suddenly.

  Blanche’s cheeks flared up. She lowered her eyes, clasping both hands on her knees.

  “I only finished high school,” she admitted reluctantly.

  Laure arched her brow in exaggerated surprise. “Is that so? And how long ago did you acquire a taste for nihilism?”

  Blanche blinked, mulling over a word she must have heard somewhere but the meaning of which had slipped from her memory.

  Laure’s grin took on a devious shade as she had likely caught on to Blanche’s confusion.

  “Do you read philosophy at all?” she inquired.

  Blanche grew rather annoyed with the unraveling interrogation. “I don’t read philosophy. It’s old men’s entertainment. Useless ramblings and nothing more.”

  Laure’s eyes shone with a triumphant light like that of a policeman who had just caught a criminal red-handed, but only for a second before her face once again turned into an indifferent mask, as unyielding as a wall. The more Blanche bore her eyes into the woman sitting so close to her that their knees almost touched, the more she admitted to herself that Laure intimidated her. She was intimidated by her relaxed posture, and that superior smirk, which Blanche hated most of all, a look Laure was giving her right now.