Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  “What is it?”

  “Marceline Carmèle, a native of the Île de Feme, must be allowed to return. Your man controls the port, does he not?”

  “Rainer is the head of the GAST, the customs office. He is not ‘my man.’”

  “Whatever. He is in the position to do you a favor. He owes that much.”

  “What makes you think he owes me anything?”

  “This war has taken your husband, and now your child. You are owed.”

  I stared at her. It had been months since that terrible day, and I still could not laugh, however joylessly. “I am not owed anything, Noëlle. As Madame Thérèse says: Life is pain, and war is worse.”

  “Anyway, you will talk to him, convince him to allow Marceline to return to the island. It was not her fault she was caught in Nantes without papers. I have them here.”

  Noëlle gestured at a pile of official-looking documents, including a carte d’identité with the photograph of a young woman, not much older than we.

  “I don’t know who this Marceline Carmèle is, but she’s not from here.”

  “Of course, she is. You don’t know everyone,” Noëlle continued.

  “Yes, I do. I’ve lived here all my life. What going on, Noëlle?”

  “Tomorrow or the next day, Marceline will be at the dock in Audierne, and your boyfriend must permit her to come to the island.”

  “Without any papers.”

  “She forgot them. They’re right here. You are an islander, Violette. Remember?”

  “I remember that in school you excelled at penmanship and drawing,” I said, perusing the documents. “So, are you forging fake identities now, with your grandfather’s old printing press?”

  Noëlle’s face registered surprise and something else much harder to define. Something like hope. “She needs our help, Violette. And we need hers.”

  “For what?”

  “She’s been injured. Madame Thérèse has agreed to take care of her. She needs someplace to be nursed back to health.”

  “And to hide from the Germans.”

  Noëlle said nothing.

  “It won’t work, Noëlle. Even if I could do as you ask, no islander will believe she’s a native. We’ve never seen her before. Someone will give her away.”

  “Leave that to me. All you have to do is convince your boyfriend to allow her passage to the Île de Feme. Will you do it?”

  I hesitated. “Let me think about it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I had not entirely made up my mind what to do when I sought Rainer out that evening. I found him in his room alone, distraught, a crumpled letter in his hands.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Sascha has been arrested.”

  “Arrested?” I breathed. “Why?”

  He shook his head. “Sascha is no friend to the current regime, and those who speak up too loudly are”—his voice broke—“cut down. Our friend in Berlin wrote to tell me that the SS arrested Sascha last week, but he has heard nothing more.”

  “I’m so sorry, Rainer,” I said. “Is there anything you can do? As an officer . . . ?”

  “I am a customs officer, that is all. I don’t have any influence with the Gestapo, and I don’t know anyone who does.”

  I felt tears stinging my eyes. “We have both lost so much to this insanity.”

  “I used to tell myself that out here, I was not really involved. But now . . .”

  “You should escape! Go to England. If you took a decent boat, you would be able to make it!”

  “I can’t simply leave.”

  “You can. You should. I would if I could.”

  Rainer gave a humorless chuckle, and brushed my cheek with his hand.

  “Liar,” he said in a voice so soft and gentle, it brought more tears to my eyes. “You wouldn’t leave your people. You couldn’t bring yourself to.”

  We stood at his window, watching the flashing of the lighthouse.

  “I have to ask you a favor,” I said, my heart pounding in my chest. Its very thudding was reassuring somehow. After the shock of Marc’s death, and then the loss of my child, I thought I might never feel my broken heart beat again. “I don’t want to ask, but I feel that I must.”

  “What is it?”

  “There is a native Fémane on the mainland who needs to be allowed to return to the island.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “She doesn’t have her identification papers.”

  He gazed at me a long moment. “Why not?”

  “I have them.” I pulled them from my robe noire and handed them to him. Marceline Carmèle. Place and date of birth: Île de Feme, Finistère, 1919. “Perhaps you could take them with you to Audierne. Marceline is expected to arrive at the ferry dock tomorrow or the next day—you could give them to her so she can come home.”

  Rainer studied the papers, and then searched my face. “What is going on, Violette?”

  “Marceline is sick and needs to be with family.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Women’s troubles, nothing contagious. What possible threat could she be?”

  He let out a harsh laugh. “I do not underestimate women.”

  “Most of your colleagues believe we’re harmless, worried about nothing but cooking and knitting and gossiping.”

  “Most of my colleagues are fools.”

  “Please, Rainer. Do it for Sascha. For every innocent person who is being arrested, sent away for no good reason.”

  Rainer looked out to sea for so long that I thought he wouldn’t answer. At last he said: “Promise me that none of my men will be hurt. They may be fools, but they’re under my protection.”

  “I promise. Marceline needs to come home, that’s all. She’ll come here to the Île de Feme, and that will be the end of it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  But that wasn’t the end of it, not by a long shot.

  Marceline did appear at the Audierne pier the next day, and Rainer recognized her from the photo, though she was frailer in person. A pinched, unhealthy pallor was common to those of us living under wartime rations and worries.

  But by the time the ferry docked at the island, Marceline was near fainting. Not wanting to call more attention to her arrival, Rainer told her to wait until the men had disembarked and the supplies had been unloaded before helping her off the ferry and bringing her to the guesthouse. They burst into the kitchen while the others were at dinner, Marceline clinging to him, unable to stand on her own.

  My mother and I rushed her into our chamber.

  “I’ll fetch Madame Thérèse,” I said.

  “No, I’ll go,” insisted Rainer. “Madame Thérèse will be stopped, and if they discover she has medicine or medical supplies . . .”

  “You’re right,” my mother told him. “You should go.”

  My mother placed a cold cloth on Marceline’s forehead and tried to spoon some sweet tea into her mouth.

  “Poor thing has a fever,” my mother said. “What is this all about, Violette? Noëlle says she’s an islander but I’ve never seen the girl.”

  “It is important that she be from here,” I said. “That’s all.”

  She nodded. Since I had lost my husband and my child, and donned the robe noire and jibilinnen, my mother gave my opinions more respect.

  Madame Thérèse rarely left her cottage except to tend to her garden. But she came to the guesthouse that evening, young Ambroisine trailing behind her and carrying her basket. Rainer told me later that twice they passed the guards. He had explained that he was escorting them to a family dinner, held by special permission of the prefecture.

  Madame Thérèse and young Ambroisine entered the kitchen, gave us a nod, and disapp
eared into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them. Rainer, my mother, and I waited in the kitchen in tense silence. Maman made tea and passed us each a steaming mug. It felt like hours passed.

  Finally, the bedroom door opened.

  “She has a bullet in her side. It doesn’t appear to have hit any vital organs, but it’s been there too long and festers,” said Madame Thérèse in a hushed voice, washing her hands at the sink. “She needs surgery and treatment for the infection. I’ve applied an iodine and mustard plaster, and can keep the fever at bay for a while, but if the bullet is not removed, she will die.”

  “How long?” asked my mother.

  “A few days, maybe a week. I’ve seen people survive worse, but she’s already frail. . . .” She shrugged.

  Just as we were digesting this information, Noëlle stormed into the kitchen. Upon learning of Madame Thérèse’s diagnosis, she glanced at Rainer and asked to speak with me in private.

  “Did she give anything to you? Was she carrying anything?” Noëlle whispered.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Microfilm.”

  “Microfilm of what?”

  “Don’t ask questions.”

  “I will ask questions,” I insisted. “I have that right. My husband died for our cause.”

  “My brother died for our cause.” Noëlle suspected I had not loved Marc the way a good man’s wife should have loved him. But she said: “Photographs of the shipworks at Brest. It is critical that the British get that information. Otherwise Marceline’s life has been sacrificed in vain.”

  “She’s not dead,” I said. “Not yet. We’ll search her things and see if we can find the microfilm, Noëlle. But we have to save the poor woman’s life as well. Otherwise, we are as bad as the enemy.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Later that evening, Rainer pulled me into his room.

  “I’m being asked about her,” he whispered.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Hans, of course. He heard there was an unaccompanied woman on the ferry and has already contacted the Gestapo. We have to get her off this island, and soon.”

  “We’ll hide her somewhere.” I thought of the secret crawl space in the guesthouse attic, but that was meant for valuables, not humans. A person could hide there for a few minutes, maybe a few hours, but no more.

  “Where? They’ll tear your homes apart looking for her. And if he finds her here, Hans might well burn this place down with you inside.”

  I hadn’t told Rainer about the microfilm, but he was no fool and must have suspected the story I told him was a lie. Noëlle and I had gone through Marceline’s things, and found the microfilm tucked into a lipstick case. How odd that something so small could cause so much trouble.

  “All right. That means she has to leave the island. But how do we do that?” I asked myself as much as Rainer.

  “The military transport is out; I might as well gift wrap her for the Gestapo,” Rainer said.

  I rose and went to stare out the window. The lighthouse beacon shone, its constant rhythm reassuring. It made me wonder. . . .

  “The smugglers’ boat. It comes to the island occasionally and drops things,” I said.

  “Smugglers? Or spies?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “It should matter to me, but at the moment, it doesn’t. How do you get in touch with them?”

  “I don’t. But I know someone who does. Maybe this person could arrange for the boat to come get Marceline.”

  “You would need a signal of some kind to coordinate the pickup.”

  “Like what?”

  “A radio would be best. But the lightkeeper’s radio was destroyed, and as customs officer, I have no access to the communications equipment.”

  My gaze returned to the window. “What about the lighthouse?”

  “What about it?”

  “Aren’t there codes sailors are familiar with? What’s it called, the one with dots and dashes?”

  “Morse code?”

  “That’s the one. The lighthouse beacon is visible all the way to Brest! A boat crew could decipher the message easily.”

  “So could anyone else who saw it.”

  “But surely, only if they were looking for it. Otherwise, wouldn’t they just see the lighthouse beacon?”

  “I think . . . I think it’s insane to even contemplate such a thing,” said Rainer.

  “As customs officer, you know when all the regular boats come through. So we wait for this one. I call it a ghost ship, a Bag-Noz, since it’s so mysterious. When it’s nearby, we’ll signal it with the lighthouse beacon.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “Henri Thomas will help us.”

  “But there are soldiers posted all over the island, and by now they’re familiar with the beacon’s pattern. How do you propose to hide the signal from them?”

  “That’s a good question.” I slumped on the deep sill of the window. “We have to distract them somehow. How does one distract soldiers?”

  “How does one distract bored young men?” Rainier gave me a sad smile. “How do you think? Wine, women, and song.”

  “Too bad we’re not in Paris,” I said.

  A long moment passed.

  “You may be onto something,” Rainer said slowly. “The soldiers on the island are jealous of the soldiers stationed in Paris, who get to go to nightclubs and shows. What if the island women put together something to distract them? The soldiers miss the company of women dressed in something other than the robe noire and jibilinnen.”

  “Are you suggesting we put on a show? In costume? Like the ones you told me about, in your father’s cabaret in Berlin?”

  “Exactly. Gather the men around you, like Circe wielding her magic, and render them blind to what is going on, right under their noses.”

  “It sounds awfully farfetched. What if it doesn’t work?”

  “Then heaven help us all,” said Rainer softly.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Natalie

  As she read through the recipes, Natalie began to worry the idea of an annotated Île de Feme cookbook would not appeal to her readers. France’s cuisine was justly renowned, but Brittany’s drew more upon its Celtic roots, with a heavy emphasis upon fish stews and meat pies. It was nutritious, hearty food, and it kept sailors warm out on cold waters. But it was not exactly haute cuisine.

  In Paris, lobster would be served steamed or grilled. Or as lobster thermidor, or braised in a delicate meunière sauce. Creamy lobster bisque, grilled with beurre blanc and served with shallots and white wine. Steamed with Champagne, orange, and fennel fronds en papillote . . .

  Here on the Île de Feme, lobster was usually tossed into a stew. It was a delicious stew, but it was still a stew.

  That evening, Natalie made kig ha farz.

  “Well?” she asked Jean-Luc and Alex.

  “It’s good,” said Alex. “Very filling.”

  Natalie’s mouth twisted a bit. “‘Very filling’ isn’t the sort of description that draws a crowd these days. What do you think, Jean-Luc?”

  “It’s a bit . . . What’s the English word? We say fade in French.”

  “Bland, tasteless, boring, insipid, tame,” Natalie translated, her tone glum.

  “I’ve always admired your command of the English language, Nat,” said Alex with a smile in Jean-Luc’s direction. “But honestly, it’s not as bad as all that.”

  “I appreciate that, Alex, but you’re not exactly my target audience. You’d eat pemmican without complaint,” said Natalie, pushing her plate away. Jean-Luc was right. The food was indeed fade.

  “I’d probably pipe up these days,” said Alex. “And this butter sauce is really good.”

  “Thank you, but butter doesn’t
a cookbook make,” said Natalie.

  “I know a few Americans who would like it. What’s on the menu for tomorrow night?”

  “I was thinking of trying the ragoût dans les mottes, which is a kind of lamb stew.”

  “I love lamb,” said Jean-Luc.

  “It’s supposed to be cooked very slowly in cast iron in the fireplace, over a smoking fire.”

  “How do you make a smoking fire?” asked Alex.

  “I’m still figuring it out. We could have some peat brought in by ferry, but that seems like overkill. I’ve got dessert, though.” She hopped up and brought over the kouign-amann cooked according to Agnès’s instructions, topping it with a salted caramel sauce.

  “I really like the caramel,” said Alex, and Jean-Luc nodded vigorously.

  “Everyone likes the caramel,” said Natalie. “It’s butter and sugar and sea salt. What’s not to like?”

  “Oh, hey, Jean-Luc,” Alex said. “I almost forgot. I bought you a present.”

  She handed him a bag, and he took out a T-shirt from Le Caredec, bright turquoise with a garish picture of the Île de Feme surrounded by dolphins and mermaids.

  He looked at her, eyebrows raised.

  She laughed. “I know it’s not exactly your style, but this way you can get it as full of paint as you want, no worries.”

  “Thank you, Alex,” he said warmly, kissing her on both cheeks.

  After dinner they retired to the parlor and played a few hands of cards, but after winning three games in a row, Jean-Luc excused himself and went to bed.

  “Oh, by the way, Ismael said the Bag-Noz was a good candidate for the solar panel grant,” Natalie told Alex. “But we’ll have to do a basic upgrade first. He left the name of a couple of people he works with, so I’ll get some estimates. Thanks again for urging me to finish things up.”

  “No problem. I feel like I want to be a part of this place. I’m becoming bewitched by your island, after all. How did Jean-Luc put it? Ensorcelle?”

  “It’s the same word in English, ‘ensorcelled.’”