Etienne stood quietly, taking in his story.
“You remember Madame Augustine, who helps me with the orphans?”
Etienne nodded his acknowledgment.
“She’s Jewish. But you most likely know this, because it was your communist friends who made her new papers and brought her here; for which I will be forever grateful.” He paused as if collecting his thoughts. “She has a little daughter, Lili. Augustine lost her husband during the war. The Germans shot him, for being a Jew.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Etienne muttered instinctively.
“I’m telling you all this so that you’ll know how much I do not want the same to happen to them. But it will, as soon as the Germans march in here.” Father Yves lifted his heavy gaze to Etienne. “I want to be prepared when they come. I want to be able to protect them, in case I have to. And I want your word that you will let me.”
Etienne glanced at the door leading to the cellar. “You want to be a part of the cell?”
“Whatever you call it. I want to fight together with your men, communists or not; it doesn’t matter. I just want to get rid of the Nazi lot if they show their faces here.”
Etienne rubbed his chin, looking the priest up and down with his eyes slightly squinted, appraising him. “We might have another use for you, even though it doesn’t involve actual fighting yet.”
“Whatever it is, I’m ready.”
“Can you get any more of those black cassocks?”
“Why?”
“There are some ‘fathers’ out there, who got shot down above our zone and desperately need to get to their ‘flock’ across the Pyrenees. It’s them, whom you’ve been feeding this whole time. You won’t have to march with them all the way, just up to the mountains. We don’t have a good cover for them, and your attire would be perfect.”
Father Yves held his hand out, a satisfied grin on his face. “Consider it done, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet.”
“What about your penance, Father?”
“It’ll have to wait until the end of the war.”
20
Dijon, August 1941
“Well, at least we now know what was in those suitcases.” Blanche watched as Sievers methodically tapped his finger on top of his sleeve while keeping his arms folded on his chest. “Our armies were advancing so rapidly towards the crumbling Soviet capital, and now one of our major coal supply routes has been blown up to all hell. Berlin has called me more in the past few days than all other times combined since I started my career. I have promised them results and what have I got? The Resistance sabotaging supply routes in the city that has been entrusted me. Fascinating. Fascinating indeed.”
His unemotional tone terrified her more than any screaming would. Even if he was indeed furious with her for failing him, he still masterfully concealed his true emotions.
“Blanche. I trusted you. I gave you a chance to work with me because I assumed that you would do anything to prove yourself to me, as a representative of the Reich, your country by blood let me note because you would want to become a rightful citizen eventually. I assumed, and mistakenly as it appears, that you possess a superior intelligence because of your birthright, that you would effortlessly outplay your former countrymen, to show them what you’re truly worth so they would regret ever scorning you. Now, I’m starting to wonder if I have any use for you at all, Blanche?”
“What can I do?” she pleaded in a whisper.
Sievers arched his brow in mock curiosity.
“What could you do? Let’s see. Not sleep on the train for starters so that no résistants can steal your suitcases from under your nose?”
Now she could detect hardly contained fury in his voice. Blanche shriveled under the icy glare of his eyes, lowering her head into her hands.
“I never thought she would appear out of nowhere, and especially in the first train car…”
“But she did. Why? Because obviously, she has more brains – or guts – than you. Because it was something important to her, and she wasn’t afraid to risk her life for it. Because she’s crafty and brave – everything I thought you were. But you’re not, and that’s why you hate her so, Blanche.”
Every word of his hit worse than a lash, lacerating her very heart with their sadistic coldness. Blanche felt hot tears pooling in her eyes and applied all her will towards not allowing them to spill over.
“I’d love to meet her one day,” Sievers declared with a strange dreamy note in his voice. Blanche lifted her head and, through the tears distorting her vision, she saw him smile as he stood by the window, looking out at something in the distance. “Ja, she seems like a formidable foe, your Madame Laure. How I would love to get my hands on her.”
“So, do it,” Blanche muttered, wiping her eyes angrily. “Go ahead and arrest her. I told you where she lives.”
Sievers cringed and looked at her like she was an annoying insect that had ruined his enjoyment of the weather with its incessant pestering.
“You’re such a stupid girl, Blanche.” He didn’t hide a disappointed sigh. “I need to arrest them all at once, on the spot, while they’re preparing another diversion. If I arrest her, and even her husband, now, the rest will disappear without a trace, and I’ll be left empty-handed again.”
“She’ll tell you where to look for the rest of them if you…” Blanche bit her lip, a strange gleam appearing in her eyes. “If you interrogate her intensively.”
“You mean torture her, Herz?” Sievers’ nostrils twitched ever so slightly. “She won’t talk. Women like her don’t talk.”
“You don’t know that,” Blanche argued sulkily, fidgeting with the hem of her dress.
Sievers grinned, traced his fingers on top of the windowsill, scowled at the dust that collected on them and took out his handkerchief to wipe them in an irritated manner.
“I’ll give you one more chance, Blanche. Only one more. Bring me to her, when she’s red-handed and vulnerable. So that I can have her friends and loved ones to threaten her with. So that I have all the cards up my sleeve, you understand? So that she won’t be able to back away.”
Blanche felt her cheeks flare up at the unconcealed passion in his voice. He sounded like a hunter who would give his life to claim the king of the jungle as his trophy. Apparently, with Sievers, the mere scent of blood excited him, and no matter how twisted and perverse it sounded, Blanche was almost envious of this new obsession, even though the obsession would die as soon as he laid his hands on Laure. With her, all he did was cringe and mock her impotence. Blanche nearly wished to switch places with Laure; for Laure, he felt at least something.
And what if I don’t put her in your hands? She had just opened her mouth to say as much but met his gaze, which made her shudder inside. He wanted that damned Laure. Very well then. She’d bring him to her, and watch him kill her, and laugh.
Lyon, August 1941
Marcel inhaled sharply as Tommy pulled another thread from his back. He had refused stitches at first, but Tommy was more than insistent on tending to Marcel’s wounds in a proper manner. The Brit was cautious when he was cleaning his wounds and stitching the two deepest ones, that much Marcel had to give him. He was just as careful when removing them, or maybe it was because Tommy pressed his lips gently next to each wound that made Marcel’s breath catch in his throat.
“I sent a message to London, told them to hold off all on all drops until we scout a new place.”
Laying on his stomach in their apartment, Marcel thought of how different Tommy’s words and actions were. He kissed him one moment and discussed MI6 matters at the same time as if such behavior was normal. Marcel thoroughly tried to ignore the kisses.
“It’ll take us some time,” he mused out loud.
“Who cares?” Tommy was his usual nonchalant self. “We have enough supplies for now. A few weeks of not getting any won’t do us harm.”
“What’s the news from London?”
“They asked me if we had anything to do with t
he Dijon diversion.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
“What did they say?”
“They asked me if we can do another one anytime soon.”
Marcel broke into a fit of chuckles together with the Brit and turned his head to face him. Tommy outstretched his hand and brushed the hair away from his face. Marcel turned away at once and heard Tommy sigh inaudibly.
“Did you hear the latest news in regard to our untimely departed forest friends?” The Brit decided to change the subject.
“The gendarmes? They found them? Are we in trouble?” Marcel shifted on his elbow, visibly concerned.
Tommy grinned and shook his head. “Not at all. Apparently, it seemed like an open and shut case to them, whoever led the investigation. The papers also unanimously decided that all the blame went to us, the Brits, who dropped ‘all that nonsense’ from the sky, which, instead of helping the French folk, killed them. They thought the gendarmes found the case while patrolling the forest, tried opening it and – a very unfortunate accident happened. No one suspected even for a second that someone else could have been with them.”
“Lucky us,” Marcel commented, lowering back down onto his bed.
Tommy nodded in agreement and returned to his task of tending to Marcel’s wounds.
“It was a very admirable thing what your sister did. Stealing those suitcases from under that girl’s nose.”
Marcel was relieved when the Brit changed the subject.
“Yes, it was. Giselle doesn’t trust her. Neither do I.”
“Why did you hire her then?”
“It wasn’t me. The Chief did. There were circumstances… Well, let’s just say, he had no choice.”
“Hm,” Tommy grumbled his disapproval and started rubbing something cool which smelt of herbs on top of Marcel’s healing wounds. “She’s a great girl, your sister. A real tough cookie.”
“She likes you too.” Marcel smiled, trying not to melt under the gentle strokes of Tommy’s fingertips. “And she doesn’t like anybody.”
“I don’t like anyone either. Except for you.” Marcel tried to let the insinuation pass. Tommy snorted softly and added, “And your sister. She talks in her sleep, you know.”
“How would you know?”
“I couldn’t sleep that night we spent at their place. She kept repeating the same name again and again.”
Marcel kept his face buried in the pillow without acknowledging the Brit’s words.
“You’re not going to ask me the name?”
“I know it already.” Marcel’s voice was muffled by the pillow. “Karl.”
“Sounds German.”
“That’s what he was.”
“A lost love?”
“More of an exorcised demon.”
“What a fascinating comparison,” Tommy noted. “Only, not so exorcised, if she keeps talking to him in her sleep, eh?”
Marcel was quiet for some time, before speaking so quietly that Tommy could barely hear him. “Some demons have to be killed twice, I suppose.”
Dijon, September 1941
Dijon still smelled of summer, warm asphalt, and an earthy breeze. The local feldgendarmes were busy supervising the prisoners who were entrusted with the task of removing all of the V letters that had been marked on the walls of the city during the brave act of sabotage executed by the résistants. The sabotage was praised not only in local underground newspapers but even on the prohibited BBC radio channel. Skinny, unkempt children eyed the prisoners from around a corner, only to put more V’s on walls with white chalk as soon as they had moved to a new spot, together with a cross that had become the national symbol of the Resistance.
Giselle’s mind, however, seemed to be a thousand miles away for she failed to notice all this, or at least it appeared as such to Philippe who was walking next to her. He wondered why he had to almost drag her out to the street for a Sunday stroll; before, she used to love being outside. Lately, she’d been far too quiet and subdued, and surprisingly unwilling to leave their apartment.
Her hand caught his suddenly, pulling him close.
“Can you do something for me?” her urgent whisper murmured next to his ear. “Stop right now, stand before me, put your hands on my waist, kiss me and look above my head right after, but do it discretely, will you?”
Philippe was more than surprised with the unexpected request but complied nevertheless, stepping in front of her and hugging her just like she had asked.
“You see anyone suspicious?” Giselle’s whisper caressed his neck.
Philippe pressed his mouth to her hair, smelling the lavender soap he had bought for her for ridiculous money on the black market, and slid his gaze over the street as inconspicuously as possible.
“No.”
“Anyone at all?”
“No. No one.”
Giselle let out what sounded like a disappointed grunt. Philippe released her as if sensing her mood, and the two resumed their stroll.
“Who was I supposed to see?” Philippe inquired, noticing a scowl creasing her brow.
“I don’t know. No one, I hope.”
He caught her hand and pressed it gently as if asking her to trust him with her doubts.
“I’m just paranoid. Don’t pay attention to me.”
“I can’t. Now that you told me this, I’ll be paranoid too,” Philippe replied jokingly.
They walked in silence for some time, until she pulled him into an alley by the canal, where the trees formed a shadowy natural arch above their heads.
“I’ve had this feeling for some time now,” Giselle resumed the conversation, not forgetting to glance over her shoulder once again. “Like someone’s following me all the time. I swear, I feel someone’s presence near me, right behind my back, like a constant pair of eyes are boring into my back as soon as I step out. But no matter how carefully I look, I can’t seem to notice anyone who could possibly be following me. Do you think I’m slowly going insane because of all this subterfuge, that I’m only imagining Gestapo agents dogging my every step?”
Philippe felt an urge to throw a glance behind them as well but willed himself not to. Giselle had never been a particularly overly-cheerful person, and was prone to dark, melancholy moods; but back in Paris she had at least been a society dame, a celebrated novelist with high standing friends and well-established connections, which in its turn allowed her to be much more carefree, laughing off all dangers in an admirable manner. Ever since they fled Paris, Philippe hardly saw her smile at all. She smoked a lot, bit into her stained, broken nails angrily and waved off all his attempts to penetrate the walls around her private world that she had so carefully erected.
“It’s just the money issue, comrade,” she even mocked him intentionally, just to disguise her true feelings. “I grew up in poverty, and I swore to myself that I would never be poor again. And look at me now, even worse than when I was a student at the Sorbonne and as poor as a church mouse. At least back then I had a dream. But why do I even bother saying this to you? You wouldn’t understand anyway, with your everything-for-the-masses ideas.”
She would shake her head bitterly, take another drag on her cigarette, cough and look out of the dirty window. Philippe would only sigh and leave her alone.
“How long have you had this feeling?” Even if she was paranoid, Philippe decided to indulge her with his question.
“A couple of months.”
He frowned. For some reason, he had expected her to say, ever since we came here from Paris. This didn’t seem like paranoia anymore; more like a gut feeling, and gut feelings were something Philippe had learned to trust, ever from the moment he had enlisted in the International Brigades during the Spanish Civil War.
“What about when you’re at home?” he asked her.
“I feel safe at home. Especially when you’re there with me.”
He couldn’t suppress a radiant smile from appearing on his face. He should be used to Mademoisel
le Giselle Legrand always being full of surprises and the most unpredictable of mood shifts - which, no doubt, had enthralled far too many men in Paris - yet, she never ceased to amaze him.
“I’m with you now,” he replied softly.
“I still feel someone staring at me.”
This time Philippe turned. The emerald alley stood empty and silent.
“There’s no one there, Giselle.”
She made a dismissive gesture with a graceful flick of her wrist. “I told you I was only paranoid. Don’t listen to me then.”
Philippe lowered his head and followed her in tense silence. Neither of them noticed the man who stepped from behind a tree trunk, fixed his hat and disappeared back into the shadows.
21
Lyon, October 1941
Etienne sipped his sherry, nodding his agreement to everything Raimond Bouillon suggested. He had to nod, and with as much enthusiasm as he could muster; after all, if he faked enough compliance and the fervor of a collaborator, there would be more chance that the Prefect of Lyon Bouillon would leave the whole enterprise in his hands without any additional supervision. Sabotaging it would then be a piece of cake.
“The Wehrmacht’s advance slowed down considerably when they were almost at the doors of Moscow.” Bouillon swirled the liquor in his glass, his sapphire cufflink sparkling with every movement of his wrist. “Our German partners need our support more than ever now. You assured them not too long ago in Paris that they can count on our assistance as soon as they ask for it, and now is the perfect time to put ourselves at their disposal. With our support, they will take the Soviet capital, they will make the Soviets sign the capitulation, and I have already been promised – but it’s a secret matter so far, so, please, I ask you not to discuss it with anyone until everything is settled – that the permit to open the new Bouillon Works will be granted to me on the territory of a newly conquered Soviet protectorate. If you help me achieve this, you’ll get your share in the whole business affair, of course. The Germans are very generous when it comes to their partners, and there are so many business opportunities in the Soviet protectorate, that we will both be swimming in money.”
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 20