Blanche wanted to express her protest and say that she didn’t drink, but he had already lowered the glass into her palm, toasting his with its rim.
“Prost.”
Blanche gulped down the amber liquid and nearly choked when it burned her throat. Sievers chuckled and soon returned with a glass of soda. Blanche washed down the bitter, burning brandy with relief and froze in her seat as he lowered his hand on her shoulder again.
“What happened to my sweet little sales girl? Did anyone offend you?” He sounded almost compassionate.
Blanche worried that he knew all too well what exactly she’d been up to and was now simply grooming her into openly admitting it.
She shook her head slowly, trying to resist the hypnotizing look of his.
“What is it then? Money? Some scheming, no-good salon owner refused to pay you? Just tell me, Schatz, and I’ll send my men to shake all of your money out of them right in front of your eyes.”
Her eyes lit up with unexpected mirth at such a prospect, sending her into a fit of chuckling. Suddenly, Sievers caught her by the chin and turned her face towards his.
“What is it, Lucienne?”
He was so close to her that she could smell his aftershave on his immaculately shaven face; his unmoving eyes fixated on hers without blinking, hypnotizing, terrifying, and reaching for the biggest of her secrets.
“Lucienne,” he drawled in a sing-song voice, a teasing grin playing on his vicious mouth as he traced his finger on her lips. “Tell me the truth. There is nothing that I can’t help you with.”
Yes. He definitely knows.
Blanche shuddered. “You’ll get mad at me.”
“I only get mad when people lie to me, Lucienne.” Sievers stroked her cheek with his finger, with a tenderness that never reached his predatory gaze.
“My name is Blanche,” she uttered, at last, not knowing what she shivered more from – the fear or his seductive touch.
Sievers grin became even wider, a triumphant light dancing in his conniving eyes.
“Schatz.” He cupped her cheek, leaning even closer. “You’re an even bigger treasure than I thought.”
His mouth closed on hers, his hand holding the back of her neck firmly as if he had expected resistance. Blanche was mortified and elated at the same time, failing to make any sense of her own emotions with her wildly beating pulse muting everything besides the taste of him. Her first kiss. Who would have known that it would be with a Nazi, the most formidable of them, who could devour her alive if it came to his mind?
Margot had made her into something suitable, attractive, into this Lucienne persona. Because of her origin, boys had only mocked her or ignored her completely, and, besides, she had always worked from dawn till nightfall, and such a schedule didn’t leave much time for romance, not that anyone showed interest in her anyway.
Blanche caught herself thinking that while she didn’t consider physically resisting him, her hands were still pressed against his cross-marked chest, like a barrier which referred to her instinctual modesty, until something different, much darker and much more feral replaced it, fueling the hunger with which she responded to his demanding mouth.
But, just as her hunger urged him on, he pulled away as unexpectedly as he had kissed her. “And now be so kind as to tell me: why did I just kiss you instead of breaking your neck, Schatz?”
His palm, still grasping the hair on the back of her head remained in place, only now it wasn’t from passion anymore, but like a hardly veiled threat. Blanche swallowed a lump in her throat.
“I can be of use, I promise!”
“What use can I possibly make of one silly girl who plays around with the Resistance? Why don’t I just kill you instead? A public execution, let’s say, just to teach everyone a lesson?” He grinned again, his forefinger pressed against his chin in play-pretend decision making.
Blanche’s eyes froze in terror, which seemed to amuse him even more.
“I can give you all the names of all the connections that I’m working with.”
“They will be fake names. Just like yours was. As soon as my people arrest one, the rest of the cell will scatter, and I will never find them.”
Blanche raked her thoughts feverishly, in the hope of finding something that would save her life, now potentially hanging by a thread. “I can give you the names of my superiors.”
“You don’t know them.”
“I can find out.”
“They will never let you.”
“I can sabotage their operations then. I can inform you of everything that they’re planning, and you will be able to arrest them on the spot.”
Sievers squinted his eyes slightly. “Maybe you’re not as silly as I originally thought. Good thinking, Schatz.”
He finally let go of her hair. Blanche breathed out with relief.
“Why did you get involved with them, Blanche? Someone else in my place might not have been so charitable with you.”
“It’s a long story, Monsieur Sievers.”
“We have plenty of time. You came here to talk, didn’t you? So, go ahead. Talk.”
He stood next to her with his arms crossed over his chest, smirking slightly, looking like a typical Gestapo interrogator. What was she thinking, imagining him as being noble and gallant, able to save her from her imaginary foes, when the real one was right in front of her?
As if sensing Blanche’s hesitation, Sievers stepped forward and lowered his palms onto her shoulders, sending a jolt of electricity into her chest.
“Do not be afraid of me, Blanche. I can be your worst nightmare or your best friend, and it’s up to you to decide which one it will be. I only need honesty from you, my sweet, little Blanche. Truth. Do not lie to me. Understand?”
She nodded readily several times.
“It’s all because of the circumstances of my birth.”
“Must be fascinating circumstances if they got you involved in the Resistance.” He sneered and squeezed her shoulders slightly.
“My father was a German soldier.”
Sievers pulled back at once, the Cheshire cat’s smile returning to his face.
“Is that so? Fascinating indeed. So, you’re half-German? Why such hostility to your compatriots then?”
“Because since I was born all I was called was a Boche’s bastard. Had that soldier not raped my mother, maybe I would have respected his kin better,” Blanche blurted out with unexpected defiance.
Sievers, much to her surprise, only shook his head and laughed.
“I see. Your mother probably told you and her neighbors, and most certainly your Papa – there was a French Papa, who had returned from the war and was very much surprised with such a turn of events, wasn’t there? – this incredibly sad and tear-jerking story. Some luck she had, getting pregnant from the only time she’d been with that German fellow, passing her town by, eh?”
Blanche scowled, observing the mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, some women take years to produce a child, and your Maman, according to her, went and won the lottery getting big-bellied from one single occasion. Must have been some fertile German seed, if I do say so myself!” He burst out laughing.
“I don’t see how it’s amusing.” This time Blanche folded her arms on her chest.
“Don’t take offense, Herzchen. If your poor Maman indeed got raped, that would have been truly tragic, and I would wish to find that despicable excuse of a man and execute him personally. Only, I regret to disappoint you, but she made this story up for her reputation’s sake, and to escape some good trashing her husband would most likely give her. The German was probably stationed nearby, fancied your Maman, offered her some rum and sausage, and there you have it – he was more than welcome in her household. Why rape anyone if the soldiers had women go with them more than willingly? Their men were at the front, too, and nature and desire are such that one can’t go against it. And when they bring food a
nd rum with them on top of it… Trust me, my little Blanche, she lied to you and turned your life into hell just to make her own life easier. So, it’s your French folk you should hate, Schatz, not the Germans.”
Blanche sat quietly for some time, her hands folded on her lap, recollecting all the rumors that she had heard from the neighbors concerning her mother and her Boche-lover. A lover, they said, not a rapist. Not that it made her life any better, but her mother could have at least not blamed her for her sins. As if it was Blanche’s fault that her mother had gotten pregnant.
“Come, cheer up, Maus. You’re half-German. That has to account for something. At the least, I like you even more now.” Sievers lifted her chin again, making her look him in the eyes. She was confused, about good and bad, truth and lies, light and darkness, and finally let him decide for her, entrusting her very life into his hands, even it be the biggest mistake she could possibly make. “Now, how about that dinner? Still not hungry?”
She nodded and took his gallantly offered hand. Yes, let him decide. He knows better.
15
Dijon, Occupied Zone, June 1941
Marcel paused in front of the familiar door with the broken doorknob, removed his cap to smooth out his hair and caught a glimpse of a mischievous smile on Tommy’s face. The British rascal had somehow wormed his way into what was supposed to be Marcel’s trip to Dijon, alone, throwing the most unbecoming, fake temper tantrums until Marcel finally gave up and allowed him to tag along. It was pure madness, taking Tommy across the Demarcation Line, and even though he spoke perfect French and his papers were in perfect order due to MI6’s impeccable efforts, Marcel spent the entire trip on pins and needles, breaking into a cold sweat every time an inspector in a German uniform entered the train car. Tommy, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more at ease, humming something under his breath and breaking into the brightest of smiles at somber looking conductors while handing them his papers – like a kid on a holiday trip. Marcel cursed inwardly the whole time on the train; but then, Tommy fell asleep and dropped his head on Marcel’s shoulder, and Marcel didn’t move for two hours straight, so as not to disturb his comrade’s slumber, suddenly forgiving him everything he’d put him through.
Marcel knocked, and the door opened almost instantly. No wonder, taking into consideration how small the apartment was. He was immediately scooped into an embrace, and Marcel happily returned the affectionate hugs and kisses on both cheeks, finally turning to Tommy and introducing the leader of their Dijon cell to him.
“Tommy, this is my sister, Giselle. You know her as Laure, just like everyone else in the cell. Giselle, this is Tommy, our radio guy from MI6.”
“The famous Mademoiselle Legrand.” Tommy bowed down and kissed her hand most graciously. “It is my honor to finally meet you in person. I couldn’t wait to make your acquaintance after everything your brother told me about you.”
“Kind sir, your impeccable British manners are a breath of fresh air for me after all the riff-raff I have to deal with daily,” Giselle replied, playfully squinting her green eyes.
The tall man with dark features, who stood behind her back, cleared his throat with intentional loudness.
“Oh, don’t take offense, Philippe. I wasn’t talking about you.”
Marcel grinned at the skeptical look Philippe shot his “wife.” Leaving them both in Paris last November, Marcel could never have imagined that these two would have been able to coexist at least somewhat peacefully for even a few days, given that Philippe – or Alain, as everyone knew him now – was a hardened communist, while Giselle was a firm believer that money ran the world. Yet, they somehow managed to not only restrain themselves from murdering each other in this sorry excuse of an apartment but worked seamlessly together.
“Tommy, this is Philippe, otherwise known as Alain to everyone else,” Marcel quickly corrected himself as the two men exchanged their handshakes. “He saved my skin when I deserted from the army.”
“Almost exactly a year ago,” Philippe confirmed, his warm brown eyes smiling warmly at the memory. He went on to explain. “Marcel was such a terrified mess of a boy; I felt sorry for him. So, my comrades and I took him in, even though, at first, he was almost as afraid of us as he was of Germans. And now look at him, the right-hand man of Lyon’s Résistance leader, the infamous Ghost as the Boches call him. Just that name makes them shake in their boots.”
“Giselle created the Ghost, actually.” Marcel grinned crookedly at his older sister, who returned the smile at once and added a playful wink to it. “She and her Libération, the newspaper that started all this.”
“I read all of your articles when I can get my hands on them.” Tommy beamed at Giselle. “I can’t even tell you how much I admire your writing. Not as much as I admire the way you finished off your Nazi fiancé, I must admit. Poison – this is so… noir!”
Tommy’s eyes sparkled with excitement, despite Marcel’s attempts to shush him.
“Well, technically speaking, she didn’t poison him. She strangled him with her bare hands; that’s what the poor fellow died from,” Philippe remarked, looking at his nails and barely hiding his grin. “Although, the poison would have killed him in the end anyway.”
“Trying to get back at me for calling your comrades riff-raff?” Giselle threw him a glare, much to Tommy’s delight, who was obviously enjoying the couple’s banter.
“Oh, please, do tell me the whole story! It is so exciting!”
“You’ve heard it a hundred times from me,” Marcel pointed out, trying to shift the Brit’s attention away from the morbid subject. Tommy harbored a strange fascination with murders, bombs, and guns – basically, all things that Marcel tried to stay away from.
“Maybe another time.” Giselle winked at Tommy and gestured for the men to settle around the small table, moving two additional stools from under it. “Sorry about this; our living arrangements leave a lot to be desired, as you can see. Between this shit-hole and the factory I’m working at, the idea of going to the prefecture and giving myself up to the Gestapo is starting to look more and more attractive.”
Tommy snorted with laughter, gratefully accepted an aluminum mug containing steaming chicory coffee, took a gulp and scrunched his nose in the most non-aristocratic manner.
“Disgusting, I know,” Giselle stated flatly, taking a sip from her mug. “That might be another reason why I should give myself up to those uniformed gentlemen.”
“Stop complaining,” Philippe chided her, with surprising mildness, Marcel noticed. “You should be happy no one has caught us yet.”
“Caught us?” Giselle smirked. “Chéri, look at my face. I’m covered in soot most of the time, while I bend my back at that damned-to-all-hells armament factory; I haven’t plucked my eyebrows in over two months, and my hair hasn’t seen a perm in even longer than that. I wear mousy brown shirts and men’s pants all the time, so, trust me, no Boche in his right mind would want to look at such a disgrace of a woman as I represent in my current state.”
Philippe regarded her for some time, then shrugged and smiled a little bashfully. “You look fine to me.”
Giselle merely waved him into silence and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well? Let’s talk business, shall we? I suppose you didn’t come here just to drink this poor excuse for coffee and listen to me fighting with Philippe.”
Marcel produced a notepad, writing down the numbers from his memory. “This is what we got from our latest radiograms. MI6 agreed to supply us with weapons to store for now, but they need to know if we have a safe place for them.”
“I thought you were going to use that orphanage you were rebuilding for just that purpose?” Giselle frowned slightly.
“Yes, we are, but that’s for the Free Zone. The British want us to store weapons in the Occupied Zone as well, so we can be prepared when the signal comes to attack.”
“That won’t happen anytime soon,” Philippe remarked gloomily, chewing on a nail.
“Did you
manage to make any connections with people who work on the train tracks?” Tommy shifted forward, now fully in work mode.
“I did.” Philippe nodded. “But there’s a problem with them.”
“What kind?” Marcel inquired.
“They’re all members of the Party, you see. Which means that whatever the Party says, they do.”
“Well? Why won’t the Party tell them to kill some Boches?” Tommy was seemingly confused with the inner working of the Communist part of their cell.
“Because the Party, with Comrade Stalin as its leader, signed the non-aggression pact with the Germans if you remember. Which means, we aren’t allowed to attack our Nazi ‘allies’.”
“Well, that’s some first-grade bullshit, if I do say so myself!” Tommy huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yet, they refuse to do anything for now.” Philippe shrugged.
“So, all these weapons and bombs, are all for nothing?” Tommy’s light brow moved into a scowl.
“Not for nothing, but…”
“We’ll have to wait.” Giselle looked into her mug. “Fill up the storages in the orphanage for now, and then we’ll start bringing the weapons here when the time comes.”
“Bloody commies,” Tommy muttered under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “No offense, Philippe. I didn’t mean you. You, obviously, are one of the few rare ones who doesn't lack common sense.”
“None taken. And yes, you’re right: bloody commies,” Philippe repeated the last words in perfect English, mimicking the Brit. The latter grinned in response.
The evening ascended without anyone noticing, immersed in their lively conversation which was quite often interrupted by bursts of laughter. Giselle took a bottle of cheap red wine out of the cabinet, but no one seemed to care about such petty things as to its quality that evening. The golden rays of the sun, melting away at the horizon, colored Tommy’s amber eyes with precious rhinestones, reflecting in Marcel’s hazel ones when the Brit turned towards him and asked Marcel what he thought of Giselle’s kind offer to spend the night in their apartment instead of catching a night train. Marcel didn’t think anything; there was no space in this tiny place, only one sofa in the other room, and he still had no idea how Giselle and Philippe managed to share it.
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 14