“I don’t know. I didn’t think, I guess.”
“Fair enough. Well… Thank you anyway.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s my life. I suppose it’s yours now.” Tommy breathed softly, put Marcel’s arm around his shoulder, and the two started making their way back home.
19
Giselle lay on the battered sofa, wide awake despite feeling severe exhaustion from the night shift. She curled and uncurled her toes in an effort to return some feeling to them, inwardly cursing the day when she’d donned men’s working boots for the first time, replacing and discarding the patent leather shoes she used to collect. With disgust, Giselle studied her feet and the never-healing sores and blisters on them, recalling the times when she had flipped through the pages of a literary magazine, drowning in the softness of a leather chair, while a salon girl painted her toes burgundy red – to match her fingernails and favorite lipstick. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to have her pedicure done now! Giselle groaned her frustration, rubbed her eyes and cringed at the smell of the oil on her fingers of which she never seemed to rid herself of. And to think of it, just a few months ago those fingers were taken care of with commendable thoroughness, for those precious fingers typed the novels for which Michel Demarche, the owner of the publishing house that bore his name and who had become her most intimate friend, paid her ridiculous money. What happened to all her bank accounts after she had fled Paris, Giselle wondered. The Gestapo had seized them all most likely. She doubted that they would leave them be after she had killed their chief in cold blood. Not so much cold, as it had turned out...
Giselle tried to banish the image of his face from entering her thoughts; the face that seemed to haunt her ever since her fingers had coiled around his throat with ruthless determination. She didn’t have to kill him with her hands; he would have died eventually anyway, after consuming a lethal amount of strychnine which she had doctored his wine with. She could have just left him in that secluded place; but with his relentless willpower, who knew if he would have crawled to the nearest road, and it would have been just her luck that some of his fellow countrymen might have picked him up.
The image stood so vile and tangible in front of her unblinking eyes that Giselle shuddered involuntarily, just as she had when she awakened from yet another nightmare earlier that morning. In her dream, she was strangling him again, but this time, instead of dying, he broke into a grin that grew wider and wider and soon burst out laughing as if her whole murder scenario was one big joke. Giselle had blinked her eyes open and nearly fell off the narrow sofa, finding herself lying right next to the man she had killed. Karl was sleeping next to her, his features hardly distinguishable in the graying morning light outside; austere and somber, dark-haired and strong-chinned, handsome and dead, and yet breathing by some miracle. Giselle had pulled herself upwards on one elbow, peering into the face she could barely make out in the meager light of the dawn and breathed out in relief when the veil of the deranged delusion fell off her eyes. It wasn’t Karl anymore, but Philippe, sweet old Philippe, her comrade as she teasingly called him and which irritated him to no end.
Giselle sank back into the flat pillow and fought the urge to smoke. She tried losing herself in sleep again, but familiar charcoal black eyes peered into her closed ones and the voice with its slight German accent, that she would never forget, mocked her, putting ideas into her mind that she had struggled so hard to relinquish. So, my beautiful Gisela, how do you like waking up next to a communist? Is that the life you wanted for yourself? Was it truly worth it, killing me for it? You disappoint me, Herz. I thought you were smarter than that, superior, my kin. But you turned out to be nothing but one of those weaklings we both always despised. What happened to the Gisela I met in Paris, on that stifling June day in 1940? She was a brilliant woman, a cynical, practical writer who defied the very notions of morality and sentimentality. She was a veritable Nietzsche scholar, one who understood every word he expressed and lived according to those postulates of his. Remember what remarkable debates we had about him, Gisela? You out-argued me on most occasions, being the sharp, brilliant conversationalist that you are... Or used to be, should I say? What do you talk to this Neanderthal about? Diversions and communism? Has he converted you to his faith yet? How long will it be before you start discussing the postulates of Marxism and Leninism with him, Gisela? My little comrade, eh? Ha-ha-ha! My little comrade; I think it’s hysterical, don’t you? The renowned novelist Giselle Legrand, who used to spend thousands of Franks in the casinos in Riviera, who drank Dom Perignon for breakfast and typed her groundbreaking, rebellious novels wearing silk robes in her ridiculously overpriced apartment in the Champs-Élysées. Did you really find writing for your little underground newspaper more important and satisfying? Running around with your new friends from the Resistance? Trading me for that excuse of a man who wouldn’t even know what to do with a woman like you? We could have been so happy together, Gisela... You could have been home, in Paris, with me now. And I would bring you something better than a chicken as a present. I would wrap pearls around your neck, Gisela... But, apparently, you like chickens better.
‘Shut up! Philippe had to turn the whole city upside down to find that chicken for me. And no, we wouldn’t have been “so happy together”, Karl! You were this close to uncovering the cell that was behind La Libération. You would have only thrown me in jail together with the rest, so don’t even start on that account. You keep tormenting me because you can’t let go of the fact that I outsmarted you and killed you first before you got the chance to kill me. And you would have done it; without batting an eye, you would have done it.’
Why do you feel so guilty then?
‘I don’t.’
Liar.
‘Go away.’
I can’t; you won’t let me.
Giselle forced her eyes open but, on the verge of the dream losing its power over her, she still heard his voice. You’re wrong about me. I'm not angry that you outsmarted me and killed me first; I would have been very disappointed in you if you didn’t. But there are much more dangerous enemies out there, Gisela. I’d watch your back if I were you...
The drapes were tightly drawn together to block the sunlight that had finally emerged in the growing morning hours, throwing green shadows over her face. Philippe was still snoring softly next to her, unsuspecting and undisturbed, his arm under his head and another one resting on his stomach. Giselle carefully sat up musing over Karl’s last words, and reached for a cigarette pack that lay on a small three-legged stool near their sofa – their bedside table – she thought with a disgusted sneer and lit up one.
She had always prided herself on having a sharp, analytical mind and a cool head when it came to any decision. She never believed in ghosts or any superstitious or religious nonsense, as she had called it from her early teens. Yet, following that voice’s advice, the voice that sounded far too real for some reason, she stood up resolutely, stubbed the cigarette in a small, tin ashtray and tiptoed to the kitchen, throwing a shirt on top of her undershirt and grabbing her pants from the back of the chair. In the kitchen, she took several bills out of the stack that she and Philippe stashed in a can, put them in her pocket, paused on the threshold of the door for a moment to throw a last glance at the sleeping communist, and silently slipped out of the door. He’d try to stop her if he knew, try to bring up some argument, logic, psychology even, against what she planned to do, try to reassure her once again that the voice wasn’t real and it was only in her head… No, she’d rather leave now and deal with him later. He’d thank her afterward, she was certain of it.
Giselle walked to the nearest clothing store, mulled over the idea of throwing away such a ridiculous amount of money on a dress she would probably wear only once in her life, then took a deep breath and walked inside. A salesgirl glanced askance at her but still inquired as to what Madame desired today.
“Whatever fits me and costs the cheapest. And a pair of shoes, plea
se. And the cheapest handbag you have,” Giselle responded in a flat tone, Karl’s amused chuckling still audible in the back of her mind.
The salesgirl cast another apprehensive glance but soon returned with the needed items. Giselle cringed inwardly at the floral pattern on the simple cotton dress but headed to the fitting room, reminding herself that now wasn’t the time to indulge in vanity. She looked herself over critically and decided that this would have to do, hid her clothes in her new canvas bag together with her old work boots, threw the bills on the counter and walked out of the store, heading towards her destination point – the train station.
Blanche pressed her temple against the window-pane and felt her eyes closing as the monotone rocking of the train gently lulled her to sleep. The first train car, which she had started riding in ever since Jürgen Sievers became something more than just a feared name but a means of protection, was cool and almost empty, for most of the troops had left for the front a little over a month ago. Both Blanche’s seat and the one across from her were empty, except for the two heavy brown suitcases, standing near her feet. Sievers had promised her that his men would meet her at the station in Dijon and bring her to his office so he could see for himself what the fighters were transporting. She didn’t know and didn’t care, what was in them, so long as Jürgen was happy.
Oh, and he was more than happy with her, calling her a Prinzessin and his Herzchen, while caressing the bare skin on her neck, right under her hair, causing her thoughts to melt away, disappearing except for one: the sensation of his fingers on her hot skin.
“You will be forever faithful to me, ja?” he had whispered in her ear once, sending waves of euphoric shivers down her spine. “You will do exactly what I tell you.”
Blanche nodded fervently, her eyes gazing adoringly into his, cold like Arctic ice, with unspoken promises in them.
A subtle smile curved Blanche’s lips. Her closed eyelids slightly twitched as she immersed deeper into her daydreaming. If there were something worthy of his time in those suitcases, maybe he would invite her into his bed at last. Oh, how much she desired him!
“Salut.”
Blanche sat bolt upright, startled, and blinked several times trying to figure out if the woman in front of her was a part of a dream that she hadn’t shaken off, or if she was indeed here, sitting across from her with a cynical smirk in its place.
“I thought Jules forbade you from riding in the first car.”
No, she was real, all right. She was even dressed like a lady, with her chestnut hair pinned from both sides, the gentle waves of her tresses barely reaching the tops her shoulders. But it was the eyes, those cat-like devious eyes that were narrowed on Blanche as if she were nothing but prey, which persuaded her that it was indeed Laure.
“What are you doing here?” Blanche straightened in her seat, her face taking on a guarded expression.
“Let’s just put it this way: I was feeling uncharacteristically charitable and decided to relieve you of your burden.”
Only now, after throwing a frantic look under her feet did Blanche notice that the suitcases now stood near Laure’s feet.
“You didn’t have to do that. I’m perfectly capable of bringing them to Dijon myself.” Blanche started feeling nervous under the brunette’s cold, unmoving gaze.
The train was already slowing down, approaching one of the transit stations. The slower it went the more predatory Laure’s grin became. Blanche ground her teeth in helpless fury, knowing perfectly well that there wasn’t a chance in the world that she could make a scene without giving them both away to the Germans now moving towards the exit. Judging by the triumphant look in her eyes, Laure knew it as well. She rose from her seat gracefully, picked up both suitcases and presented the most radiant of smiles to an officer, who immediately offered her to carry her luggage.
“Go home, Lucienne. Before it’s too late,” Laure threw over her shoulder, and disappeared out of view, together with the broad-shouldered German.
Blanche sank back into her seat, hit her head on its back several times in despair and cursed under her breath. Now, how was she supposed to explain her failure to Jürgen?
Etienne paced in front of the entrance of the new orphanage, checking his watch for the third time in two minutes. The orphanage was their weekly meeting place under the perfect guise of the Sub-Prefect inspecting the premises when in reality he was getting a detailed report from his second in command. Marcel was never late; as a matter of fact, his punctuality rivaled Etienne’s, and yet today, out of all days, he had to be so very late. Etienne spun on his heel upon hearing steps behind his back, and nearly grunted in disappointment when he saw the priest’s black robe.
“Monsieur le Sous-Préfet.” Father Yves acknowledged him with a bow of his head. “A pleasure to have you here. Can I be of assistance?”
“As it is mine, Father.” Etienne inclined his head as well. “Pay me no heed; I’m only waiting for Monsieur Gallais. He promised to give me his report concerning the construction of the new playground for the children in the back. His men are still working on it, as I understand? Is everything to your satisfaction so far?”
The priest folded his hands behind his back, a hint of a knowing grin appearing on his face. He looked at his feet for some time as if pondering something and then raised his eyes to Etienne.
“May I have a word, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet?”
“Of course.”
Father Yves gestured for Etienne to follow him inside and led him straight to the door of the cellar, Etienne’s uneasiness growing with every step.
“Are you aware of what is being stored down there?” the priest said innocently. “Your construction men never gave me the key, I’m afraid.”
Etienne held his gaze and spoke in a voice that didn’t betray the slightest of emotions. “Construction equipment, I suppose. They didn’t give you the key because they’re communists and don’t trust priests. Don’t take it personally; it’s in their doctrine, or so I heard.”
“It’s rather brave of you, hiring communists nowadays.”
“They’re good, honest workers.”
“They might be good, but they sure as hell aren’t honest.”
Etienne’s brows moved into a scowl upon hearing the word that would send any other priest crossing himself fervently and whispering prayers under their breath. Yet, Father Yves stood tall and unmoving, his steady, gray eyes narrowed in a manner that seemed mocking to Etienne.
“I beg your pardon, Father?”
“I said, your workers have been bringing a lot of items downstairs recently. Lots and lots of very dubious-looking crates that piqued my interest.”
“I have already told you, it is most certainly construction equipment,” Etienne asserted, with a barely concealed warning in his voice.
Father Yves made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Construction equipment? Is that so? Why lock it then? No one is going to steal it; it’s an orphanage, for Christ’s sake.”
“You surely say a lot of unseemly things for a priest,” Etienne remarked coolly, trying to change the subject.
“You surely cover up a lot for your communist friends,” Father Yves countered, unfazed.
“I don’t understand your allegations, Father.”
“I’ll ask you straight then: why are there so many weapons and explosives in the cellar of your orphanage that it would be enough to level the whole city to the ground? And who are the men whom Monsieur Gallais brings here for the night?”
It took Etienne exceptional self-control not to react to the provocation. He regarded the priest silently without so much as a twitch of his mouth, even though his thoughts were dancing in a frenzy.
“How would you know what’s in the cellar, Father?”
“I picked the lock. And it was me who’s been leaving out food and blankets for your Allied parachutists, or foreign agents or whatever they are, all this time. They never saw me, bien sûr.”
Etienne regarded him warily.
Something was off about this black-clad man, so very off that he needed to tread as carefully as possible.
“Interesting. Well, even if you did find the aforementioned items in the cellar, I’m afraid I can’t help you regarding their origin. I merely sponsor the orphanage. I know nothing of any comings and goings, and I certainly know nothing of any Allied parachutists.”
“I suspected you would say something of this sort.”
“What are you going to do? Report me to the authorities?”
“You happen to be the authorities, conveniently, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet.”
Etienne sighed, admitted to himself that he had been cornered, and inquired tiredly, “What do you want? Money?”
The priest chuckled softly. “I’m a man of the cloth, Monsieur. Do you really think I have a use for worldly possessions?”
“You don’t seem like a man of the cloth to me, Father, with your interesting choice of words and skills. You’re a rather unorthodox priest. Hence my question.”
Father Yves shook his head with a slight smile, fumbling with something in his pocket. “I don’t need your money. I only need your word.”
“My word?”
“Yes. I have a cross, you see.”
“I would think so.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Father Yves grinned crookedly and extracted something from his pocket, holding it out to Etienne. “It’s a different type of a cross.”
Etienne studied the military award carefully. Croix de Guerre, 1914-1918, with two crossed swords – for valor.
“Yours?”
The priest nodded. Etienne returned the award and cocked his head, regarding the man in front of him with interest.
“What do you want?” he repeated his previous question with increased curiosity.
“I used to be a very skilled fighter, you see, but I killed far too many men. As soon as the war was over, I swore to myself that I would never take another life and have spent my life in penance. But something happened which changed my mind.”
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 19