“You think you’re so smart, don't you?” she began in a low voice, as Laure calmly pulled the suitcases out from under her legs and arranged them by her own feet. “You think that you’re better than everyone else.”
“No. I think I’m smarter than you, but not better. If we had had more time to become acquainted, you would have soon come to the conclusion that I’m not a good person.”
The reply, offered in an impassive, leveled tone, infuriated Blanche.
“You’re not smarter than me, Laure. And do you know why? Had you been, you wouldn’t be sitting here next to me right now. Isn’t it the first rule that Jules teaches every recruit? Predictability kills. One always has to strike where it’s least expected. I’m surprised that you, being such good friends with him, or whatever it is that you are to each other, didn’t pay attention to such wise words. They might have saved your life.”
The train’s whistle shrilled, the conductor announcing that it would leave in three minutes. Laure, for some reason, didn’t rush towards the exit. Instead, she remained in her place with a mysterious grin on her face.
“Remember the last time I told you to go home, Lucienne?” she said. “You should have listened to me. You should have gone home while you could.”
“You’re not in a position to threaten me, Laure,” Blanche started haughtily.
“Do you still think you will be able to get out of the mess you put yourself in?”
“I’m not afraid of your friends either.” Blanche gave her a dismissive shrug.
Laure shook her head slowly, with a look about her that shattered Blanche’s newfound confidence, much to her dismay.
“It’s not my friends who you should be afraid of. You should be afraid of the one who recruited you. The one who gave you all those pearls, and that new coat, and your new golden watch.”
Blanche pulled away from her, scowling. How could she possibly know?
“Oh, I knew all along. Would you like to know the very first thing that gave you away? You shouldn’t have repeated quotes, the origins of which were unknown to you. And the rest… The rest was far too easy to guess. I’m a woman too; you think I didn’t notice the very first golden bracelet, that you, a poor girl-résistante, started sporting all of a sudden?” Laure cast a knowing look in her direction. “I was engaged to one of them. They can be very chivalrous, the Germans. And very generous; when they need something, that is.”
“He loves me,” Blanche hissed.
“He was only using you, you silly thing.” Laure got up, picked up both suitcases and turned around. “You better pray that his people kill me first, Lucienne. Because if they don’t, I'll come back for you, and it won’t be an easy death.”
Blanche laughed with intentional loudness, but mirth was absent from her voice. She watched the plain-clothed man follow Laure to the exit, watched Laure step off the train, and rushed to the window across the aisle to press her face to it in excitement. Several uniformed men appeared out of nowhere and surrounded the woman. Blanche couldn’t contain an elated gasp when she noticed Sievers himself among them; he had most likely ridden on the same train so he could be personally present during the arrest. Blanche hurried to the platform to stand by his side.
Laure didn’t appear taken aback by the ambush and stood in place with a tranquil half-smile on her face. Blanche carefully observed Sievers as he approached Laure, scrutinizing her with greedy fascination.
“Madame Laure Vignon, I suppose?” He spoke in a mild voice, tilting his head slightly. “SD Standartenführer Jürgen Sievers, at your service, Madame.”
He clicked his heels. Laure placed both suitcases at her feet and held out her hand to him. Blanche watched in amazement as he took it, almost with reverence, and shook it gently. The surrealism of the scene seemed to confuse his men as much as it did her; however, they didn’t betray their incredulity in any way, likely too used to fully trusting their commander’s judgment.
“It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Herr Sievers. May I ask if there’s a problem?”
He beamed, seemingly delighted with her, and eyed the suitcases with interest.
“Would you be so kind as to open your luggage for us, Madame Vignon?” he asked her in the most courteous of manners. “I’m afraid my informant has labeled you as a known Resistance fighter. It is my duty to my country to check every such lead. I hope you won’t hold it against me.”
Blanche’s stomach twisted and churned when he didn’t grace her with even a single look, but merely flicked a wrist in her direction. An informant. Was that all she was to him?
Laure glanced at Blanche with a hard, triumphant look. Didn’t I tell you so? It read in her green, cat-like eyes.
“Not at all, Herr Sievers.” Poised and dignified, Laure extracted the keys from her purse and held them out to Sievers. Her hands were steady.
He motioned one of his men to open the luggage, nearly holding his breath in anticipation, and then suddenly burst into laughter upon seeing the contents. Blanche stepped forward, not believing her eyes. Both suitcases were full of men’s clothes.
Having gotten his laughter under control, Sievers pressed one hand to his heart, nodded several times and started clapping. Laure merely lowered her head, trying to conceal her smile. Blanche went completely pale observing them both.
“Madame Vignon, I must say, you’re a fascinating opponent, the likes of which I’ve never met in my entire career.”
“Merci, Monsieur Sievers. I’m truly flattered.”
“You wouldn’t be so kind as to inform me of the whereabouts of the real suitcases? The ones with the explosives?”
Laure shook her head with the same sweet smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course, you don’t.” Sievers stepped aside, gesturing Laure towards the exit. “Won’t you come with me, please. We have a lot to discuss.”
Laure followed him without any display of resistance. Blanche trailed after them; her nerves were strained like a guitar cord.
Inside his car, Sievers continued to ignore her, condescendingly telling Blanche to ride next to the driver in the front while he slid into the back seat together with Laure. Blanche glared at them through the large rearview mirror.
“Would you like some cognac perhaps? I’m sorry, I don’t have any glasses.”
Sievers offered his silver flask, with an eagle holding a swastika wreath engraved on its face, to the woman next to him. She regarded the offering for a moment, took it in her hand and took a hearty swig from it, much to his pleasure.
“Danke, mein Herr.”
Sievers beamed.
“You speak German, Madame?”
“Just a little.”
“I’ve been watching you for some time.”
“I know.”
“You noticed my man?” Sievers cocked his head curiously. “No one has ever noticed him before. He’s one of my best assets. We call him ‘The Shadow’.”
“No, Herr Sievers; I never saw him. I felt him though. And, besides, your little informant was careless enough to display all of the presents you awarded her with for her service. It wasn’t hard to guess where it all was coming from. The French are all poor nowadays. Only you, Herren, have money.”
Blanche turned around to defend herself, but Sievers shot her such a glare that she thought better of it.
“I would like to know your real name, Madame Vignon.” His tone softened at once as soon as he addressed his captive.
“Laure Vignon,” she said with assured confidence.
“Laure Vignon,” Sievers mimicked softly. “And you know nothing of the suitcases with the explosives.”
“I’m only a poor working factory girl, Herr Sievers. What would I know of such matters?”
“Oh, no, you’re by no means a factory girl, Madame Vignon. Your speech, the manner in which you hold yourself… You’re one of us, Madame. Part of the upper class. Not one of the masses.” The admiration in his voice was a
pparent. “Those whose lives are impoverished, the weak, impoverish life even more; those whose lives are rich, the strong…”
“…enrich it,” she finished after him. “The former are life’s parasites, the latter its benefactors… How is it even possible to confound them?”
“I knew you would know your Nietzsche, Madame. Now you truly have my utmost respect.”
“I knew a man who used to quote it quite a lot,” she replied pensively. “Sometimes we had night-long discussions about Nietzsche’s philosophy.”
“A German? Anyone I know, perhaps?”
“Could be. He’s no longer with us, I’m afraid. Died of a rather unfortunate accident.” She turned to the German, her eyes sparkling emerald green with emotion. “Unfortunately, you won’t be able to win with me. We’re both strong people, Herr Sievers. So, where does that leave us?”
“I wish to have you as a friend, Madame Vignon, not my enemy. Work with me. Say the word, and together we’ll be unstoppable.”
“A very alluring proposition, Herr Sievers, and especially in my current situation. However, I’m afraid I must decline.”
“Why? Patriotic duty? Morality? Ethical reasons? But they are signs of weakness, and we have just spoken of how we are both strong, Madame! Only the strong survive, those who don’t burden themselves with such notions, those who crave power, those who deny the very notion of altruism and self-sacrifice…”
“What if you’re mistaken on account of my reasons, Herr Sievers?” She squinted her eyes, an enigmatic smile playing on her lips. “What if I have no morals in me whatsoever, and no desire to do my patriotic duty? What if I only want to prove myself as the strongest, and kill you all?”
“But you should recognize when it is time to admit defeat then, Madame. Because your fight is all but over.”
“I’m afraid to disappoint you, but I think it is you who are defeated. You still don’t have the suitcases you so desire and know nothing of the place where, let’s say, a possible diversion might happen.”
Sievers laughed softly. “You are one fascinating woman, Madame Vignon. Please, tell me where the suitcases are. I’ll grant you a pardon; I give you my word.”
“I can’t tell you something I know nothing about.”
“For some reason, I suspect that I will be hearing the same reply from you for the next forty-eight hours. Ja, I saw you note the time on the station clock. Forty-eight hours during which you will exert your willpower, to allow your men to proceed with their operation and disappear without a trace. Do you think you’ll be able to hold out for so long? I would hate for anything to happen to you.”
“Don’t torture me then.”
“I have never laid a finger on a woman in my life, Madame, and never will. My men, however, are an entirely different case.”
“It will be a very long forty-eight hours then,” she murmured with strange aloofness.
“As soon as we arrive at the prison, or at any point in your interrogation, just say the word, and it will stop. I’ll come and get you, we’ll sit upstairs in my office, have some coffee, and you’ll tell me everything, in a civilized manner. No need to sacrifice yourself, Madame. I already know that you’re targeting the tracks. I have my men all over them. Your friends will only end up getting arrested and executed, together with you. Save yourself, Madame. Accept my offer, I beg of you.”
“You’re very persuasive, Herr Sievers. Now I see why this silly girl in the front seat fell under your spell.”
“Just say the word, Laure.” His words came out in an almost seductive whisper.
She regarded him, took in his icy-blue eyes with fire dancing in them, outstretched her hand and grinned at him crookedly. “Can I have some more of that fine cognac of yours?”
Sievers handed her the flask and watched her gulp it down, admiring her exquisite profile and the silent desperation in which her throat moved with every new gulp.
Blanche sobbed silently in the front seat, wiping bitter tears away with the back of her hand, as if it was her who was heading to the Gestapo prison.
23
Giselle stole a last glance at the simple white clock above the entrance of the narrow corridor, its walls painted green, smelling of fear and death. They’d driven for a miserable twenty minutes only, which meant that for forty-seven hours and forty minutes she would have to endure whatever the Gestapo agents’ sick, inventive minds were capable of. The worst part of it all was that she wouldn’t be able to trace the time anymore; inside the damp, concrete cell, smelling of old rot, to which they had brought her, there was no such luxury as wall clocks. Only desperation and agony, imprinted into the silence of it; into a single chair in the middle of it, with iron cuffs designed to hold the prisoner in place; into a small tank of water, still bearing the metallic scent of blood left from the previous occupant; into the small table laden with metal thongs, a hammer, a blowtorch, and God knows what else, laid out neatly on top of a pristine white cloth. Giselle commended the meticulousness of the Germans but clenched her teeth as hard as she could while they cuffed her to the chair, telling herself not to start openly shaking, so she might save face and keep her dignity for another useless minute.
Sievers stood in the door with his arms folded on his chest, observing the preparations with a deep scowl. As soon as one of his agents picked up a hammer, he stepped towards him and said something quietly in German. The agent replied with a curt nod and the usual “Jawohl” and placed the instrument down. Giselle looked stubbornly in front of herself, counting seconds in her mind with feverish obsession, just to distract herself from what was going on around her. Noticing that her fingers dug into the handles of the chair against her will, she forced herself to relax them.
She wasn’t good with handling pain and knowing that fact didn’t help at all. The memory of Karl’s stern, handsome face flashed through her mind, as consciousness itself nudged her and began pushing her off her intended path, whispering its weak and disgusting solutions with its shaking voice. ‘Accept Sievers' offer. Karl merely played with you back then, hardly bruised you, if he did at all, and you were screaming bloody murder from that single touch. Do you really think you will be able to endure hours of torture? You’re too weak. Surrender all this Resistance business. You’re a writer and should have stayed one. You write about fighting and heroes, but you aren’t one. You’re only a woman and a woman who can’t handle pain. He’ll release you, you’ll see. He recognized a kindred spirit in you. Maybe he won’t even ask you to work against your countrymen. Maybe he’ll just keep you around for his pleasure, instead of that silly Lucienne girl. He’s not too fond of her, and you know it. How is it different from securing a well-connected lover back in peaceful times? Agree, for now, play with him, deceive him later how you deceived Karl… Kill him maybe, when the chance presents itself.’
Because I will need to answer his questions first. Because my safety will mean that Marcel, Philippe and the rest of our cell will get arrested and executed. And I would never be able to live with that on my conscience.
She caught Sievers’ gaze on her. Just one word, he implored her silently with his attentive, pale-blue eyes. Giselle forced a lopsided grin to appear on her face in response and shook her head slowly.
He looked at his feet for a moment, turned on his heel and headed towards the exit. At the outer door, he paused, said something to his men, again in German, and walked out without looking at Giselle. The door closed after him, and Giselle’s eyes met the heavy gaze of a tall, uniformed agent, who stepped towards her. The second one lit a cigarette, having perched on the edge of the table nonchalantly.
“Herr Standartenführer gave explicit directions not to touch your face,” he announced in perfect French. “Which means I will have to work with other areas.”
With those words, he grabbed the collar of her dress and tore it open, a thin cotton slip under it following suit.
“Can I borrow your cigarette, Helmut?” He turned to his comrade.
�
��By all means.”
Giselle inhaled a full chest of hot, sticky air and held it tight, while the man in front of her blew on the cigarette tip, heating it even more. Her scream reverberated through the walls of the cell but nothing could overpower the sickening sound of searing ashes burning through the skin on her chest. Only forty-seven hours and thirty minutes left.
The man on Philippe’s doorstep smiled pleasantly, even after flipping his military ID open and announcing in a calm voice, “SD, Amt IV.”
No name, only the organization he worked for. The Gestapo. Philippe rubbed his eyes, red from lack of sleep, and assessed the man from head to toe. The German, dressed in an immaculately tailored dark navy suit under a black cashmere coat, appeared to be alone. He stood patiently, waiting for an invitation to be invited in. Philippe shrugged, realizing that he didn’t have much choice, and stepped aside, gesturing his guest inside.
The German, who didn’t bother introducing himself, had a face that was pleasant enough yet he seemed to possess indistinguishable features which would be impossible to remember or to describe. He was of a medium height and build, and his age could be anything from early thirties to late forties. He was clean-shaven, poised and, so far, extremely well-mannered. Philippe offered him a seat in the kitchen, and the German accepted it with grace, seemingly not deterred or offended by Philippe’s more than humble living quarters.
“Monsieur Alain Vignon, if I’m not mistaken?”
Philippe barely detected an accent in his voice.
“Yes. How can I help you?”
“Oh, I think it’s me who quite possibly can help you, Monsieur Vignon.” The German offered him another subtle smile, and placed his hat on his lap, folding his hands next to it. “Would you care to guess why I had to pay you a visit today?”
Philippe had returned from his night shift earlier that day, after waiting for Giselle for over an hour next to the factory’s entrance and slowly came to the painful realization that she had disappeared again, likely pursuing another reckless plan which she didn't wish to share with him. First, it was that rotten affair with Karl that landed them here in Dijon with false papers; then the suitcases and Lucienne… Philippe was afraid to think what she could have possibly involved herself with this time. He had arrived home to smoke one cigarette after another, pacing around their apartment and hoping that the door would open any minute and she would come in, and mock him for his worrisome nature. Instead of her, though, a German had appeared, and that fact alone wasn’t a good sign. The suitcases, which Lucienne was supposed to bring to their place, were also absent, together with Lucienne. As to Marcel and Arthur’s whereabouts, Philippe preferred to not even think.
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 22