Etienne concealed the expression of his blue eyes with his long, dark eyelashes and looked down at the table nonchalantly. No need for Bouillon to notice even a speck of defiance in them. Instead, he looked at his immaculately polished black shoes made of the finest patent leather, stroked the soft material of the tailor-made pin-striped suit that he was wearing, took in the elegant luxury of the drawing room of his family house, in which he had invited Bouillon to, for he wasn’t sure that he could bear to witness the travesty of what this nouveau-riche had done to his family friend’s mansion a second time, and calmly admitted to himself that he didn’t mind losing it all, as long as his conscience was clean. That was the difference between them: Etienne had been raised with morals, with an almost romantic idea of sacrificing himself for the better cause, with the aloof serenity of a future martyr – it didn’t matter whether he was a diplomat or an officer. Raimond Bouillon loved his money and would spring a rope for anyone who threatened to take it away from him.
Etienne took another sip from his crystal glass. “You can fully count on me. How exactly can I be of service?”
Bouillon beamed, his round cheeks reflecting a healthy, pink glow from the fireplace that had been lit up early that year. The autumn was particularly cold, but Etienne couldn’t help but gloat when reading the news on the Eastern front in the newspapers. In Russia, the snow had already fallen, catching the whole of the German army, in their summer uniforms, unaware.
“Splendid! They need wooden planks for their tanks. The dirt and muck on the Soviet roads are so deep that they get stuck, and, what’s worse, when all that mess freezes overnight, the heavy machinery freezes in its tracks as well. I need you to supervise the first shipment of wood that goes to the front from Lyon. Fill up the whole train, all the freight cars you can use. I want them to see that we won’t spare anything for the victory.”
For the victory, bien sûr. All the while, our French citizens are chopping up their furniture to warm their houses, Etienne thought. He gulped more of the finest Spanish Madeira after raising his glass in a toast.
“I’ll go see Morel from Morel Woodworks first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll tell him that not a single wooden board will leave his premises until he fills up our train to the brim.”
“And please, mind the route you choose, I beg of you. After what happened in Dijon… The Germans can offer some of their men to watch the tracks. All you have to do is ask.”
“No need. Nothing will happen to their precious wood, you have my word,” Etienne promised, hiding his eyes once again.
“I knew I could count on you, Etienne.” Bouillon held out his hand, and Etienne shook it firmly, trying not to show his disgust. “And know that you can count on me also. I never forget favors, and I return them gladly.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They were getting closer to the mountains, Yves could tell. Gusts of wind tore into their black robes, flapping the cloth against their legs, which were numb from exhaustion, and slowing them down with each passing hour. They had been on the road since early morning, after getting off the last station the train reached. The rest of the way had to be on foot.
His new charges, five sturdy airmen that Jules had entrusted into his care at the orphanage, some of whom didn’t even speak French, trailed patiently behind him, dressed in black cassocks. The enthusiasm that they had displayed when Yves first met them, had long been exhausted. Even as they neared the escape route that would take them back home, their spirits didn’t seem to lift.
Yves stopped and checked his compass. This was his second expedition, and he was grateful for the military training that allowed him to easily navigate his way through unknown terrain; nevertheless, he preferred to double check his coordinates now and then to ensure that they didn’t veer off the correct path.
“How much longer?” one of the downed airmen asked in English, his comrade translating his words to Yves.
“About four hours.”
A collective groan echoed through the group.
“Can we take a break at least?”
“In this cold?” Yves raised his brow, regarding the youngest of the pilots with skepticism. “Do you want to catch pneumonia? We need to move without stopping, son. When we get to the hut, you’ll get a nice warm meal and a very hot iron stove to warm yourselves by. So now, man up and stop your whining. You’re shaming your celebrated air force with your nancy-boy attitude.”
The young pilot blinked a couple of times, clearly not expecting a dressing down from a priest who spoke more like a drill sergeant back in his base, and mumbled a quiet “yessir” out of habit. They resumed their walking when the same British fellow, who could not communicate in French, said something excitedly. Yves shifted his gaze to where he was pointing and understood everything without translation. A military car had appeared on the horizon and was approaching them quickly, the Vichy police markings soon revealing themselves, much to everyone’s horror.
“Don’t move and don’t say a word, any of you,” Yves warned them quietly, clasping his hands in front of him and stepping towards the vehicle. “Let me do all the talking.”
“We all have guns,” the young boy whispered, while the car slowed as it approached them. “There’s only four of them. We can outshoot them.”
“And then what?” Yves hissed, barely moving his lips, watching the patrolmen getting out. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, four hours away from the nearest shelter. If they don’t come back to their base within a couple of hours, their comrades will send a reconnaissance mission, and we’re all done for. Shut up and let me do the talking, I said. And don’t you dare do anything stupid.”
The four Vichy gendarmes held their weapons in sight, with visible hesitation. Yves took on a compliant expression, calmly waiting for their leader to approach their group. The leader’s gun pointed to the ground, he noticed. Maybe their good Catholic faith would do him a favor that day; the men were clearly apprehensive to point their weapons at a rather peaceful looking group of priests.
“Good day, fathers.”
“Good day, my son,” Yves replied in the soft manner he always adopted while listening to confessions.
“May I ask as to where you’re heading, fathers?” the leader, a man in his early forties asked, giving each man of the cloth an evaluating look up and down.
“They’re not fathers yet.” Yves motioned his head to the young men behind him, huddling together meekly. “They’re merely seminary students. I’m the only ordained minister here. It’s almost their graduation, but before that, they must pass their last test to show their dedication to the Lord. They need to spend a week in silence, away from civilization, and that’s exactly where we’re heading – to a hut near the mountains. If upon completing this final task they feel that the strength of their faith has grown, they will become ordained ministers as well. For some, such a demand can be too much, and they return to their civilian life. I hope you forgive them for they cannot talk to you for the reason I just explained.”
The leader of the Vichy police squad looked at him askance. Yves patiently waited for him to allow them to pass.
“This route is known among the résistants, who take downed British airmen through the Pyrenees to Spain and from there back to Britain, Father. That’s why we patrol it.”
“I assure you, I haven’t seen any résistants or any British airmen here.” Yves allowed himself a little smile.
The policeman grinned as well, but only with a corner of his mouth.
“Let them go, Jacques.” One of his comrades beckoned the police leader, stepping forward. “They are priests, can’t you see?”
Jacques, however, didn’t seem persuaded, much to Yves’s annoyance.
“And how can I be sure of that?”
“I’ve never seen résistants dressing up as priests,” the second policeman continued, catching his comrade’s sleeve. “Leave them be.”
“Maybe it’s a new ploy that they’ve adopted,” Jac
ques said, looking Yves squarely in the eye. “Would explain why the boys can’t talk. Maybe they’re Brits.”
“Test me then.” Yves held out his small, leather-bound Bible with worn out corners to the leader of the squad. “If I really am a Resistance fighter, I won’t be able to quote the Bible. Open it on any page and ask me what a certain passage says. If I reply correctly, you will have your answer as to what we are: men of the church or partisans.”
Jacques looked at the Bible in Yves’s hand for a few moments, then shrugged and took it in his.
“Bien, Father. Let’s see.” He flipped the yellowish pages. “Genesis 4:7. What does it say?”
“If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.” Yves looked at his feet with a subtle smile.
The leader of the police squad nodded his appreciation and opened a different page.
“James 1:2-4.”
“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”
“Leviticus 26:6?”
“I will grant peace in the land, and you will lie down and no one will make you afraid. I will remove wild beasts from the land, and the sword will not pass through your country,” Yves quoted, regarding the leader of the police with a strange gleam in his eyes. “God truly works in mysterious ways, don’t you find? How befitting those passages are to our current situation.”
The leader of the squad scowled as the second policeman took the Bible from his comrade’s hands and handed it back to Yves, bowing his head before him. “Forgive us, Father.”
“You don’t have to apologize, my son. You’re only doing your job.” Yves took the Holy Book from him.
The leader of the squad gave him a last appraising look, then tipped his hat and turned around to leave. “Have a safe trip, Father.”
Yves nodded and drew a sign of the cross in the air. The leader’s comrade whispered “thank you” and hurried away after his friend. In a few minutes, the truck disappeared in the same direction from where it had come from.
“That was close.” The youngest of the airmen wiped his brow which was now covered with sweat, despite the cold temperature. “Are you really a priest then?”
“No. Just a sharpshooter with a photographic memory.” Yves grinned crookedly and started walking towards the mountains once more, the pale sheen of their peaks barely visible in the distance.
Dijon, October 1941
Clouds of cigarette smoke lingered heavily in the living room where the five résistants sat in a tight circle around a map of the city, an overflowing ashtray pressing the southern part of it down.
“Right here we’ll hit them.” Arthur pointed to an object on the map.
He, Marcel and Tommy, who refused to stay in Lyon and miss another diversion, had just returned from the place that they were currently studying on the map and were meeting with Giselle to discuss their next move. They had gone there in the daylight, strolling casually with their hands in their pockets, and walked right past the uniformed German patrol without causing any suspicion… After all, what Resistance fighters in their right mind would scout the future location of a mission in broad daylight?
“Will you have enough time to leave after you place the bomb?” Philippe asked the demolition expert.
“The bomb will have a pencil-timer detonator, so yes. Don’t worry about my well-being. I promise, getting killed by my own bomb isn’t in my plan.” The Brit chuckled good-naturedly.
“Did we agree on the day when that big shipment of wood will be passing through? What does the Chief say about that?” Giselle turned to Marcel.
“The Chief says, blow the whole thing up.” Marcel shifted his position and winced at the pain that shot through his thigh, which hadn’t completely healed yet. “The greater the damage, the better.”
“Isn’t he worried, after we blew up the tracks the last time?” Giselle lowered her voice.
“I suppose he knows what he’s doing.” Marcel shrugged. “That’s why he’s the Chief.”
“That wood shipment couldn’t come at a better time.” Arthur tapped his pencil on top of the map. “The Huns will never know what hit them.”
“And where it will hit them,” Tommy said with an impish grin.
“The Gestapo are all over the train tracks.” Giselle slid a finger along the top of the narrow railroad on the map. “They will definitely send agents there several days before the Chief sends that shipment.”
“Let them send them.” Arthur winked at her. “Better for us.”
“Do you think it’ll work?”
“It’ll work. The plan is perfect,” Philippe reassured her.
“Are you going to use that same girl to bring the explosives into town?” Arthur inquired. “That… What’s her name? Lucille?”
“Lucienne.” Philippe nodded. “Yes, we’ll use her. And this time Giselle will be so kind as to not intercept the suitcases.”
Giselle seemingly ignored the pointed look Philippe shot her. Instead, she got up to her feet and addressed Tommy with a smile.
“Will you help me with something in the kitchen, Tom?”
“It’ll be my pleasure.” The Brit courteously bowed his head and followed her to the kitchen, where she stopped near the window.
Outside, it was raining torrents, streaks of water sliding down the dusty glass, leaving muddied traces in their wake.
Tommy’s wide grin disappeared as soon as he saw a deep scowl settling over Giselle’s pale face as she contemplated something. Tree branches were clawing at the leaded windowpane dangerously close to her face, illuminated from time to time by bursts of lightning.
“What is it?” he whispered, abandoning his usual playful persona as he stepped closer to her.
“Can I ask you for a favor, Tom?”
He didn’t like the cold, determined look in her green eyes.
“It depends.”
“I can see you care for my little brother a lot.” She adopted a new tactic, and her grin was immediately reflected on the young Brit’s face. Giselle caught his fingers and Tommy gladly returned the gentle press of her hand, reading definite approval in both her smile and the intimate way in which she held his hand. “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, would you?”
“Of course not.”
Giselle nodded and leaned towards his ear, making use of the background noise provided by the violent storm outside. Not one of their comrades could hear them conspire together. “Then do what I will ask you to. No one else will be able to do it except you, without him suspecting something.”
“Does it have anything to do with our plan?”
Giselle fell silent for some time but then placed one hand on top of Tommy’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear, his frown deepening with each word.
“Are you sure?” he demanded breathlessly after she stepped away. He refused to release her hand as if it would stop her from executing her suicidal plan.
The resolute look in her eyes was his answer. He lowered his gaze, chewed on his upper lip angrily and then suddenly brought her hand to his lips and kissed it; for his Marcel, for all of them.
“Thank you,” she said with obvious relief.
“No, thank you,” Tommy said, imprinting her face in his memory. Who knew if he would see her again, after this day.
22
Blanche kept twisting the end of her coat belt in her gloved hands, feverish anticipation growing in her with each passing minute. Another train station disappeared from behind the window, the third one she had passed in the Occupied Zone. They had crossed the Demarcation Line a long time ago, and Blanche couldn’t help but throw a plain-clothed man sitting on the bench across the aisle a helpless look when no one appeared in the doors of their
train car after yet another stop. But, the plain-clothed man, who Sievers had sent to accompany her, appeared to be much more patient than she was.
She has to show up. Blanche clenched her hands into fists to prevent them from trembling and bore her unseeing gaze towards the view outside, counting the minutes until the next station.
Twenty minutes later the train started to slow down, and Blanche’s breath caught in her chest, the air tingling in her lungs with every short, shallow breath. She clenched the suitcases between her legs and refused to let her gaze wander away from the doors.
“Salut.”
Blanche jumped at the familiar, mocking voice. She had surprised her again, damned Laure, who had come to her from the direction behind her and slid onto the bench right next to her this time. Who knew for how long she had ridden on the train; maybe she’d even sat behind Blanche’s back and delighted in her nervous shifting and the way she had craned her neck each time the train made a new stop. Blanche pinched her lips in fury, while Laure studied her reddening face with her usual sardonic expression. Don’t worry; soon he’ll wipe that arrogant grin off your face, Blanche thought to herself and sneered.
“What a pleasure it is to see you again, Laure. I was counting on this meeting.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that you did, ma chérie. How could I possibly disappoint you?”
Blanche laughed vacantly, noticing the time on the small watch with a golden face that Sievers had given her for her birthday. The train would leave in five minutes sharp; Laure would most likely try to get off with the suitcases right before it did. That left them some time for talking, and, oh, how many things Blanche had to tell her!
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 21