The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  Blanche swallowed and smoothed out her skirt over her knees self-consciously, an uneasy feeling taking over her as it finally hit her as to who exactly Laure reminded her of – Jürgen Sievers. Laure was just as cold and mocking, with the same penetrating gaze. Had she been a man, she’d have been a perfect Gestapo agent.

  “You travel a lot, don’t you, Lucienne?” Laure inquired, a subtle grin playing on her unpainted, stubborn lips.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you talk to station workers at all?”

  Blanche scowled, unsure as to where Laure was leading with all these strange questions.

  “Not really.”

  “Time to start then, ma chérie. I have a lovely new task for you.”

  Marcel was cleaning up after all the hired workers had left. As soon as Marcel spotted the Catholic priest ascending the stairs with a dark-haired woman in tow, he quickly wiped his hands on the wet rag that the construction workers kept mainly for this purpose, and smoothed out his hair, in his best effort to make himself look presentable.

  “Jules Gallais,” he introduced himself, holding his hand out to the tall pastor who had gray, attentive eyes.

  “Father Yves.” The minister shook his hand and stepped aside so that his female companion could make her acquaintance with him as well.

  She shifted her dark, almond-shaped eyes from the priest to Marcel and back as if looking for affirmation of something she was afraid to utter.

  “It’s all right.” Father Yves touched her elbow in the gesture of reassurance. “You can tell him your real name. I’m quite certain it was his comrades who smuggled you across the border and made you your new papers.”

  The woman chuckled with embarrassment and offered Marcel her narrow palm.

  “Augustine.”

  “Jules.” He felt a pang of conscience for having to introduce himself with an alias whereas she trusted him with her true identity, but rules were rules, and in times of war, conscience was something that should be forgotten in matters like this. “And Father Yves is right; it was indeed our cell that helped you. Patrice is the one who’s been coordinating everything. I believe he’s the one who spoke to you about our little enterprise?”

  “I wouldn’t call it little,” Father Yves replied with a smile, looking around. “This is quite an impressive estate. How did you persuade the government to let you use it as an orphanage?”

  “The new sub-prefect turned out to be an incredibly generous man.” Marcel grinned.

  Well, he wasn’t lying exactly; he just failed to mention that the new sub-prefect was the head of the Resistance in the Free Zone. But, Father Yves didn’t have to know that snippet of information.

  “Would you like a little tour?” Marcel addressed his guests again. “This wing is almost done, as you can see. We started in March, so it took us nearly two months work to completely redo all the floors, to panel the walls and to change the electrics. The wires were so old they were a fire hazard. We haven’t ordered the furniture yet; I will be honest, we were hoping that you would help us with that. We don’t specialize in orphanages, you see.”

  Father Yves chuckled with him, nodding his understanding.

  “Do you mind Madame Augustine helping me here with the orphans? Your comrades offered her a new place to stay but…”

  “I think I will serve a better purpose here,” the woman finished for him.

  Marcel shifted his eyes from her to the priest and wondered if there was more to their story. Father Yves was a man of the cloth, after all. They exchanged strangely intimate glances, though, especially for a man of the cloth and his charge, who couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  Not my business, whatever is between them, Marcel quickly decided and rushed to reassure Augustine that she was more than welcome in the new orphanage and that her help would be greatly appreciated.

  As they finished their improvised tour around the premises and Marcel diligently put down all of Father Yves’ wishes in his notepad, rushed steps on the staircase made the three of them turn their heads towards the entrance.

  Much to Marcel’s surprise, Etienne appeared in the doorway, still panting from the hurried ascent and positively agitated about something. Used to seeing his superior invariably collected and calm, Marcel felt something in the pit of his stomach clench with worry.

  “Oh, what luck!” Marcel managed to say, his change of demeanor almost imperceptible to the couple, or at least he hoped as much. “And here’s Monsieur le Sous-Préfet himself! I was just showing Father Yves the building. He will be our new overseer. And this is Madame Augustine; she’ll be helping him also.”

  Etienne made an attempt to regain his composure, which didn’t escape Marcel’s attention, and somehow succeeded.

  “Etienne Delattre.” He presented himself with the most pleasant of smiles, despite the red spots still marring his pale cheeks. Marcel wondered if it was a result of the run or anxiety. “It is my utmost pleasure, Father. Madame Augustine. Allow me to express my gratitude for agreeing to help us with looking after our poor orphans. I can’t tell you how grateful we all are.”

  “It’s our sacred duty, just as it will be our pleasure.” Father Yves shook Etienne’s hand but eyed him with caution nevertheless.

  Marcel guessed that, just like himself, Father Yves didn’t trust officials that much. Maybe it was for the better though.

  “I apologize for my intrusion, but I’m pressed for time, and I was hoping to speak to Monsieur Gallais about something urgent.”

  “No need to apologize, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet,” Father Yves replied, returning his polite smile. “We’re already finished here. It was a pleasure to personally make your acquaintance. We’ll be on our way, and thank you again for everything you’re doing for the poor children.”

  As soon as the pair disappeared downstairs, Etienne seemed to completely fall apart. He leaned against the freshly-paneled wall, his shoulders hunched and his hand squeezing his eyes tightly. Marcel shifted from one foot to another uneasily, whispering in a barely audible voice, “What?”

  “You didn’t hear, did you?” Etienne replied in a dull voice after what seemed to be an eternity of silence, finally taking his hands off his face. His eyes were dry but red with anxiety.

  “I was with the workers all day… What’s happened? One of ours?” Marcel whispered, holding his breath. “Who?”

  Etienne shook his head slowly, took a deep breath and started speaking.

  “Last night there was a raid in Paris. Ten thousand Jews were rounded up by the Gestapo and local gendarmes. They took them to the stadium and from there – to Drancy.”

  “What the hell is Drancy?”

  “Some transit concentration camp, as I was told after I asked around in the prefecture today.”

  “They’re building concentration camps on our territory now?” Marcel’s eyes widened with disbelief.

  “Apparently. And not only building but housing people there as well.” Etienne let out a ragged sigh and patted his suit absent-mindedly, looking for his cigarette case. As soon as he took it out and flipped it open, Marcel saw that, for the first time since he had met Etienne, the case was empty. Even Etienne was staring at it with a frown, seemingly confused with this fact. Marcel’s hand dived into his pocket, and he gingerly offered his superior his crumpled pack.

  “Only five a day. Moderation and discipline is the key.” Etienne’s voice was a mere whisper. “My father always taught me that.”

  He smirked, then shook his head and took a cigarette out of Marcel’s pack, muttering, “to hell with everything,” under his breath.

  “Maybe it’s some sort of a… Maybe they just…” Marcel stumbled over his words as if pronouncing his thoughts out loud only made him realize the futility of such hopes. So, he sighed as well and lit his own cigarette.

  “You know what the worst part is?” Etienne continued, taking a deep drag and looking out of the window where only darkness and their half-hearted reflections were visible.


  “Maréchal Pétain wants to send them our Jews as well, the ones from the Free Zone. As a gesture of ‘good will’, mind you.” He snorted with contempt and looked at the burning tip of his cigarette, shaking his head. “The worst part, my friend, is that I handed him the lists myself. With these very hands, I compiled them and handed them over, served them on a dish for the Nazis to do whatever they please with them. Imagine that, eh? Some Resistance leader I am, aren’t I?”

  “Stop it.” Marcel touched his sleeve, tilting his head in reproach. “You didn’t know.”

  “Oh, I knew. I suspected as much, and don’t act like we haven’t discussed it, you and I. Didn’t I tell you that I didn’t like all of those demands about the lists?”

  “What choice did you have?”

  “Refuse to comply and step down from my position. It’s very simple.” Etienne sounded almost angry now. “If Maréchal decides to fulfill his promise to the Nazis, all of Lyon’s Jews’ blood will be on my hands.”

  He went quiet and rubbed his eyes irritably.

  “How will I live with it, Marcel? Knowing that I willingly sent innocent people to their death?”

  Marcel smoked next to him in silence for a very long minute.

  “At least you won’t be the one who pulls the trigger.”

  “The German that you shot and these people are not the same thing.”

  “And what did that German do?” Marcel retorted. “Wore a German uniform, in the wrong place and at the wrong time. He was a naval officer, Etienne. A simple serviceman. And I shot him for that. How is that better?”

  “We’re both murderers then.”

  “They forced it upon us.”

  “Excuses.”

  “No. Bitter truth.”

  They stubbed their cigarettes in an aluminum can that had been left on the windowsill by the workers and turned to leave.

  “Here, take the rest of the pack.” Marcel handed Etienne what was left of his tobacco stash.

  Etienne didn’t reply, only hid the offering in his pocket, trying not to meet his comrade’s gaze. Marcel pretended that he didn’t notice the tears pooling in Etienne’s eyes.

  14

  A lazy afternoon filled with transparent air and the tunes of singing cicadas rolled around them, as they lay on the blanket with a picnic basket beside them. The cotton candy of a single cloud floated delicately in the sky, glowing with a gentle radiance.

  “An odd view we make, don’t you think? A Catholic priest, a Jew and her daughter on a picnic.” Augustine grinned sleepily, lulled by the golden specks of sunlight warming her face through the thick growth of a wide tree, and the red wine from the church that they drank in abundance.

  Father Yves observed her relaxed state, the first time he had seen her in such a way since they met. The pain was all but gone from her eyes, her melancholic expression replaced with serenity and, if not oblivion, then acceptance. That would do for now.

  “Lili needed it.” He refilled his glass, a long-forgotten feeling of a slight buzz and pleasant numbness overcoming him. He’d refused to return to his old ways as soon as he donned his black robe for the first time. He didn’t deserve the bliss of forgetfulness that a drunken stupor always brought, just like back in his army days. No; he would have to relive the horrors haunting his memory day after day, sober and clear-headed. That would be his penance.

  But today was special. Today he deserved a little peace for all those years of constant inner torment. He didn’t know why; he had woken up with a feeling that a rock had finally been lifted off his chest, and all because of her. She had come into his life and brought peace, something for which he’d been striving to achieve for far too long, eventually losing all hope that it was possible.

  “She can’t sit confined to four walls, learning prayers day after day,” Father Yves continued, watching the girl run around the field chasing a butterfly, or a dragonfly, carefree and blithe, just as it should be.

  Augustine sighed blissfully, resting on her elbows and following her daughter with her eyes.

  “Thank you for taking us out, Father.” She beamed at him, glancing up and shading her face with one hand.

  He met her eyes and drowned in their depth, suddenly forgetting that he was still wearing his church robes. Today, with the wine bottle in his hand and her by his side, the thought of it was ridiculous. He wasn’t a priest; he was a former soldier who had lied when he walked into the seminary for the first time. They lay so close to each other that he could easily lean towards her wine-stained lips and kiss them greedily, like he had kissed so many women before, during the war too, before picking up his rifle and setting on his way to claim more lives.

  He turned away quickly. She cleared her throat, shifting away from him ever so slightly as if sensing the vulnerability of their common situation.

  “Do you think I should tell Lili?” Augustine asked quietly. “About her father.”

  “I think you should. It’s cruel for the both of you to keep this ruse going. It probably hurts you as well, hearing her say all these ‘When Papa returns…’ phrases.”

  “I’ll tell her then. She needs to let go.”

  Did you? The words almost broke off and fell from his lips before he bit them back and gulped his wine down just to distract himself from the lavender smell of her hair. She insisted that regular soap was fine, but he paid a ridiculous amount of money for some of Blanche’s insanely overpriced cosmetics that she carried with her on her trips. Blanche had given him a mighty strange look when he had tentatively asked her if he might buy the soap from her…

  And for what, all of this? He could never be with Augustine. He would never tell her about his feelings, only suffer silently by her side, and let her go once she was ready to.

  “I wish I could shake that German officer’s hand,” he confided so softly that Augustine barely heard him. “The one who saved you. Who told you to run.”

  “I thought he was lying at first, imagine that. I thought he only wanted to get rid of Lili and me because the woman who he lodged with took us in, and it was all of us under one roof: Kamille, the German, his adjutant, and us two Jews. I thought he was afraid someone would discover us. But those poor people in Paris! He was telling the truth, after all.”

  “You have nothing to fear now, Augustine. You’re safe now.”

  “Thank you for letting me stay with you.”

  “You can stay as long as you want.”

  Her subtle smile and how she closed her eyes, settling for a nap beside him, was all he had needed all these years, he realized that now. Father Yves looked up at the azure sky and prayed, with gratitude and sincerity pouring out of his heart, for this woman’s happiness above all.

  Villas like this only existed in the glossy interior magazines that she saw on the newsstands, Blanche thought. She sat rigidly in the burgundy velvet chair that the gentleman across from her had offered, her back unnaturally straight, hands clasped on her lap, and glanced up at Standartenführer Jürgen Sievers, lounging leisurely in the chair opposite her, with the relaxed poise of a resting lion. What was she thinking, coming here in the first place? Blanche pulled her legs under the chair, shrinking from his steely eyes which penetrated to her very core. Why did she call him again, when she shouldn’t have done so the first time?

  The truth was that Blanche was tired of all the nauseating, sleazy men and their continuous insinuations that she had had to deal with lately, and all thanks to the high and mighty Madame Laure, whom Jules had appointed as Blanche’s superior so unjustly. After reading Jules’ letter which had apparently been full of instructions, Laure ordered her to make connections with platform station workers, ticket booth tellers and even porters, who worked in the first class waiting rooms. Anyone who would be sympathetic to their cause and interested in helping a pretty girl out with some information, while Alain would work on recruiting union workers who worked on the railways.

  The plan was good, there was nothing that could be said against it, e
xcept for one thing only: all the tellers, porters, and platform station workers she approached had seemingly, and unanimously, decided that their information should come at a price. Blanche shuddered with disgust in her padded chair at the thought of all those disgusting, sloppy kisses and cheap feels she’d had to endure in so many back rooms over the past couple of months, so many that she had eventually lost count of them. All the while, Laure sat on her high horse and commanded. Now, Blanche just wanted to enjoy a tiny sliver of respite among the people she craved to be surrounded with. So, she was now in the company of the most feared of them, someone certainly possessed of enough power to not only put Laure and the likes of her in their place but squash them all without mercy. Blanche swallowed the dark thought like liquor and felt it warm her lungs from the inside.

  “I see that something’s bothering you, Herzchen.” The unfamiliar term of endearment that rolled off his tongue made her cheeks light with a warm glow. Sievers tilted his head to one side, observing her with curiosity. “Must be something serious, if you refused dinner.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t hungry.”

  He had invited her to the same restaurant as before, but she wouldn’t have been able to talk to him there, so she was secretly thrilled when he had casually invited her to his house. She didn’t know if she could find the strength to speak to him at all, so she spent time attempting to collect her thoughts. All the while he sat there patiently as if he had all the time in the world. He probably did.

  “Let me pour you some brandy.” Sievers got up and, passing her by, patted Blanche’s shoulder slightly. She heard the clinking of glasses behind her back. “It always seems to do the job.”