“Because she is. Arrogant and stuck-up, like she some society dame, and not a union worker.”
Sievers narrowed his eyes, sudden interest shining in them. “How does she talk, this mysterious Madame Laure?”
“I didn’t hear any accent…”
“No, that’s not what I mean. How is her speech? Choice of words? The manner of her talking?”
“She sounds… educated, I suppose,” Blanche conceded at last, grudgingly. “And she always talks down to me, like she knows it all.”
“Educated like you, or educated like me?”
Blanche bit her lip, trying to ignore the jab. “Like you.”
“What about the husband?”
“He talks… normal. Not condescending, like her. He’s definitely a communist; he told me that himself.”
“But he’s not from Dijon, so that poses a certain difficulty. He could have come from anywhere.” Sievers tapped his finger on the rim of his glass several times. “Do not fret. We’ll find out who they are eventually. And for now, sit tight and play along with them. Report every task they delegate to you, of course.”
“How long shall I pretend before you arrest them?” Blanche inquired gingerly.
She loathed the thought that she would have to go back to “befriending” more train station workers, but Sievers didn’t seem to care for her feelings on this account. He rose from his chair and lifted up her chin, holding her head firmly in place.
“For as long as I tell you to. Hast Du verstanden?”
She nodded, swallowing her pride. She wasn’t in a position to question him, and, besides, he treated her far nicer than any other man had or could. Not that she had much to compare to, but Blanche thought that the new silk and Crepe-de-Chine dresses that he bought for her accounted for something, just like the fact that he would take her out from time to time.
And now, he had given her the earrings, telling her to wear them next time he took her to the opera.
“We need to educate you too, don’t we? Then you won’t have to envy Madame Laure.” He grinned.
Blanche nodded happily and impulsively kissed the hand on her face, that was so generous to her. Sievers only pinched her cheek in response; Blanche tried to ignore the condescension in his gaze, the same look that she had seen so many times in Laure’s.
Father Yves fumbled with the impressive lock on the door, leading to the cellar, his brows drawn together in utter concentration. Tonight, he was determined to get to the bottom of the whole conspiracy and what exactly the communists, who Monsieur Jules Gallais oversaw, could possibly be hiding in the Sub-Prefect’s new orphanage, right under his nose. Crouching by the door, his gaze fixed on the precise, almost professional movements of his hands, Father Yves heard the familiar click of the lock giving in to his efforts at last when suddenly a voice spoke right above his ear.
“Father? What are you doing?”
Caught red-handed, he turned to Augustine and offered her a timid smile instead of an answer. She was supposed to be sleeping now, yet there she stood, looking puzzled and alarmed, tugging the ends of her shawl to cover her bare arms and the upper part of her simple cotton nightgown.
“Did they teach you that in the seminary? To pick locks?” Augustine tried to smile back at him, but worrisome thoughts still wrinkled her forehead.
“No. Of course not.” He lowered his head, chuckling softly. He couldn’t quite tell her that a fellow marksman with a shady past had taught him during their service together when the two would break into abandoned houses. So, Father Yves lied to her, just like he had lied about so many things before. “I’ll admit that I have a rather shameful fondness for crime stories. In one of them, the process was described quite explicitly, so it wasn’t particularly difficult to follow the ‘instructions’.”
“I see.” Augustine seemed to be satisfied with such an explanation. “What are you hoping to find inside?”
“It’s what I’m hoping to not find.” Father Yves got to his feet and dusted off his black robe mechanically. “I’m afraid our communist friends might be hiding something illegal down there.”
“Illegal like what?”
“Weapons, for one example.”
His nonchalant reply, or maybe the tone that he used, brought a frown back onto Augustine’s face.
“Why would they? There aren’t any Germans around,” she spoke quietly, hugging herself with both hands under her shawl.
“Not yet,” Father Yves remarked and cursed inwardly at once, seeing her reaction.
Augustine had just lost her husband to the SS a year ago, and, had one decent German not warned her of the upcoming raids, she would have long been gone as well, to Drancy or even worse, to one of those ill-famed Nazi camps in Poland, from which no one had returned so far. And, here he was, lacking the common sense not to tell her that they might very well come to the Free Zone as well.
“You shouldn’t be afraid of them,” he said softly, stopping himself from reaching out and touching her shoulder. “You’re not Jewish anymore, according to your new passport. Your papers will protect you, and little Lili too.”
“I hope so,” she murmured, lowering her big black, liquid eyes.
Father Yves hesitated before pulling the cellar door open.
“Why don’t you go back upstairs?”
She pondered something, eyeing the door with suspicion.
“No. I want to go in with you.”
“As you wish.”
He flickered a small flashlight that he had brought with himself and started descending into the darkness, barely seeing two steps ahead. Augustine clasped his shoulder midway, after nearly losing her footing. Father Yves straightened out rigidly but didn’t say anything against the fingers that remained on top of his robe. He didn’t want her to stumble, did he?
Liar. Her palm warmed him like the most euphoric of blessings in the middle of the darkest witching hour. When she removed it, as they stepped onto the concrete floor, Father Yves sensed its absence as if his own limb had been taken away from him.
“What do you think, are there rats in here?” she whispered behind his back.
“No. There’s nothing for them to feast on here.” Another lie. But, even he be damned, he only wished for her to be safe, and to feel safe, above all.
She took his hand, still throwing fearful glances under her feet. He bit his lip and clasped her palm tightly.
“Come. There are some crates over there.”
He led her towards one of the supporting columns near which wooden boxes were stacked, resembling the one that he had seen in the communists’ hands. Setting his flashlight on top of one of the boxes, he let go of Augustine’s hand, warning her to stay near. To his luck, the first crate that he decided to inspect wasn’t closed properly or had been left open on purpose by the communists, for easier access. Not that they expected anyone to snoop around in their cellar, he guessed.
Father Yves removed the bulky top and sighed. Just as he had suspected: the cold, unmistakable glimmer of dull gray metal shattered the rest of his hopes. Old memories caught in his throat at once, and his hand outstretched towards one of the rifles that lay in a cozy bed of straw. The heavy weapon felt natural in his skilled hands, like that of a killer, and Father Yves grinned crookedly against his will, instantly immersed into the old world of endless trenches and no-man's land, pockmarked with countless wounds from artillery shelling. He inspected the gun almost with reverence, gliding his fingers along its length, put the wooden butt to his shoulder with a practiced move… and only then noticed Augustine’s gaze, shifting her eyes from his face, which no doubt displayed blissful forgetfulness, to the rifle in his hands, and back.
“Do you know how to use it?” she asked in a flat, impassionate tone.
Father Yves lowered the rifle slowly, together with his guilt-ridden eyes, and nodded.
“Have you ever… used one?” Her words were a mere whisper.
He only nodded again.
“How many times?” she asked s
o softly that he barely heard her.
“Three hundred confirmed ones. After that, I stopped counting.”
She caught her inaudible gasp with her hand, now covering her mouth.
“You fought in the war, didn’t you?”
“Yes. All four years. I was a sharpshooter.” He snorted softly, shaking his head at himself. “But I suppose you guessed that much already.”
Augustine’s eyes looked even brighter despite the meager light; two pools of the most tantalizing darkness he’d ever seen, in which it was impossible to read anything.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Come now, Augustine.” He tilted his head to one side with a reproaching smile.
“No, I understand that you’re not supposed to… I mean… How did they accept you into the seminary?”
“I lied to them, of course.”
She made a small step towards him, much to his surprise.
“You could have trusted me though. I would have kept your secret.”
She sounded almost wounded by his mistrust. Father Yves smiled the warmest smile, radiating from his very tormented soul.
“Augustine, I didn’t tell you not because I didn’t trust you. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid that I would lose your trust.”
“For being a soldier?” She offered him a tentative smile as well.
“No. For taking lives without any remorse.”
“Judging by the minister’s robe that you’ve been wearing for over ten years now, I don’t think anyone would dare reproach you in not having any remorseful feelings.”
“I’m not even a real priest. I lied to become one. Do you think it counts?”
“Good intentions, that’s what counts.”
Simple as that.
She moved a little closer, stood on her tiptoes, cupped his face gently and placed a kiss on his cheek. She waited as if for him to interject something, to push her off, but he stood as still as a statue, his knuckles turning white on top of the rifle’s butt. Augustine moved closer again and kissed him on the corner of his mouth, her black eyes peering into his with an unspoken question in them.
She gasped when he grabbed her by the waist, making her body crash into his as he covered her mouth with his, a hunger present that would ordinarily have frightened her. Now, however, she seemed to crave his suffocating embrace and demanding lips like a starved person that had just gotten to his first meal, in the most inappropriate of settings, with the most inappropriate of men.
The rifle fell from Father Yves’ hand, its dull thud going unnoticed by both. Augustine’s shawl joined it soon as Yves’ fingers – he would never call himself Father again after that night – closed on her ample breast, pressing it insistently through the cotton cloth. She didn’t offer the slightest resistance when he lifted her on top of a crate and yanked the hem of her nightgown up, his hands pushing her legs apart with an unmistakable urge raging in his steely eyes. Augustine only opened her mouth to his again, breathing heavily from his ruthless caresses and hands that felt almost rough on her tender breasts and thighs.
He relieved her of her underwear with a practiced move, pulled his robe up and pushed her down onto the crate. Augustine blinked her eyes open when he froze suddenly, shaking his head and stepping away as if doubting his own strength if he had stayed near her.
“What? Is it something I did?” she muttered, sitting up and covering her bare legs in sudden shame.
“No. It’s not you. It’s just…” He shook his head again and let out a ragged sigh. “It’s wrong, Augustine. It shouldn’t be this way.”
“But you said it yourself that you aren’t even a real priest.” She couldn’t bring herself to look into his eyes now.
“It’s not that,” he began softly, picking up her shawl, and handing it to her. He stepped away again, away from the biggest temptation he’d ever faced – a black-eyed witch that captured his soul. He didn’t mind; God wouldn’t want it anyway. “I can’t do this to you. Not here, not in some dirty cellar, like two thieves...”
She hung her head, tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, her dejected look almost painful to him.
“Augustine…”
“I think I’m in love with you,” she proclaimed calmly out of the blue, her hands lying limp on her lap.
“I’m quite certain I’m in love with you, too,” he replied with a lopsided grin.
Her head shot up, her mouth twitching slightly as if she couldn’t decide whether to cry or to smile.
“Let’s go back upstairs.” Yves offered her his hand. “I need a good night’s sleep before I can demand some answers from Monsieur Jules tomorrow.”
Augustine enclosed her palm into his and slid off the top of the crate, stepping closer to him than he wished.
“Don’t tempt me. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to stop next time,” Yves warned her, narrowing his eyes, a gleam in them that rendered it impossible for Augustine to decipher whether he was joking or speaking seriously.
18
Suburbs of Dijon, July 1941
A match flared in the almost absolute darkness, highlighting the faces of two German patrolmen who cupped their hands to shield their cigarettes from the wind. Five pairs of eyes followed their steps as the Germans moved further along the train tracks, back to the station, away from the people laying still in the midst of the tall grass, alert and vigilant despite the late hour.
“The good thing about them Boches is how regimented they are,” a voice murmured, even though the soldiers were well away from hearing distance. “They come here every night at the same exact time. I’ve been watching them since June.”
A man lifted his head and slowly got up on his knees, still following the patrol, his eyes shining in the darkness.
“Philippe! Lay down for Christ’s sake!” a woman’s voice hissed at him. “Of all of us you have to be the last one to get up, with your height!”
“They’re gone. Besides, without a flashlight, you can’t see squat here.” He straightened out completely, and the rest of the group soon followed suit. “Come, let’s go!”
Philippe trotted in the front, a man in grimy road worker’s overalls trailing after him step by step, followed by Giselle, Marcel, and Arthur – the British demolition expert. As they stepped onto the train tracks, Arthur squatted down and lit a dim yellow flashlight, checking the rails and the wooden beams connecting them while the rest of the group shielded him. The whole inspection took less than fifteen seconds, after which the Brit turned off the flashlight and hid it in his pocket.
“Just like I thought. Standard construction, nothing fancy. Is this the only route that they use?” Arthur turned to Philippe’s comrade, who stood nearby with his hands in his pockets.
“This is the only eastern route that goes straight through Alsace and towards the Eastern front. There are other rail tracks, bien sûr, but those will slow them down for at least a day or so, and during the war, a day without needed supplies can be decisive for a victory. Now that the Soviets are at war with the Boches, the Party demanded that we help the Red Army with all we can. I say blowing up the tracks that they need to cater to their celebrated Wehrmacht will do exactly that.” The man smirked from under his mustache.
“Will you be able to do it?” Philippe turned to the British specialist again.
“With the right amount of explosives – no doubt. The only problem is, all my supplies are in Lyon. How are we going to get them here?”
“How much do you need?” Giselle inquired.
“Well, if you want me to just cause a minor derailment and some track damage – half of one standard case, which is how MI6 drops them. If you want me to blow this thing up so that they couldn’t repair it for a month at least – two cases.”
Marcel whistled quietly. Giselle chewed on her lip, deep in concentration.
“How are you going to get two cases of explosives through the Demarcation Line?” Philippe’s comrade asked the question that occ
upied the minds of everyone.
“Standard route?” Giselle suggested to Marcel.
The latter shook his head. “Impossible. They arrested our guy in May, and we are afraid to try and find a new one. Someone from the Occupied Zone tried that, and the fellow who promised them safe passage turned out to be an infiltrated Gestapo agent. Everyone got shot on the spot.”
“Merde,” Giselle cursed out loud, and shook her head, with its neat French braid holding her hair together.
“Wait, we do have a perfectly suitable courier with an Ausweis, don’t we? That Lucienne girl.” Philippe’s expression brightened at once. “Why doesn’t she transport the explosives for us? No one will ever suspect her; just an ordinary girl and two suitcases. We can fit those explosives into regular travel suitcases, right?”
Arthur nodded pensively. “Yes, only she will have to be very careful transporting them. MI6 packs them a certain way and drops them off with small parachutes so that the crates don’t get damaged in any way. If that stuff starts leaking, one single kick into that suitcase will send the whole train flying.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Giselle folded her arms on her chest, looking skeptical. “Telling that girl about the operation.”
“Oh, Giselle, give it up!” Philippe snorted with amusement. “You didn’t take to that girl from the first moment you met her, for no apparent reason.”
“Say whatever you want, but I don’t like her.”
“You don’t like anyone,” Philippe retorted, laughing.
Giselle shrugged nonchalantly. “True, but it has nothing to do with our current situation. Didn’t I tell you that she quoted Nietzsche to me when she seemed to have no idea whose words they belonged to? Do you know who always used to quote him? Karl. The Germans built their whole worldview on his ‘Will to Power.’ Where do you think she picked up such quotes from, if not from some Boche? Do you think it’s a wise idea, to trust her with something so serious? What if she’s seeing one of them? Who else would teach an uneducated girl philosophy?”
“It’s all conjecture,” Philippe declared, shaking his head. “That’s merely your opinion, and we all know that, as a writer, you have quite a wild imagination. I met the girl, too; she’s a little too impulsive but she seems a good girl nevertheless. She’ll do just fine.”
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 17