Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  Gabby didn’t answer. She peered into the bubbling pot of chicken soup. The broth was almost clear; the scrawny black-market chicken carcass had been picked bare last night and rendered little in the way of further flavor. Only a pitiful few strands of cabbage bobbed here and there.

  She had queued for hours that morning, clutching a raft of coupons from her family and several of the tenants, but by the time she’d reached the front of the line, there had been only cabbages left. The meal was little more than a gesture, but the soup was hot and would warm the bones of the old lady in apartment twelve.

  “This is so typical of you, Gabby,” said her mother with a tired smile. “You are a concierge, remember. The tenants are supposed to give you favors, not the other way around.”

  “It is no trouble,” said Gabby. “Madame LaRoq has always been kind to Yvette and me.” When they were little girls, their mother was always working, with no time to spare for them. Madame had invited them into her pretty apartment and played games and sung songs and told them fairy tales. As they’d grown older, she’d listened to their woes and dispensed wise, shrewd advice. Now madame was frail and ill and alone in the midst of war, and it was Gabby’s turn to be kind.

  She ladled soup into a blue bowl, set the bowl on a tray and a faded checked cloth over the bowl, put a spoon beside it. Then she hurried across the courtyard to the east wing.

  On the stairs, she passed Madame Vasseur with her poodle. Madame closed her eyes as if in great pain. “I wish you would not cook so much in that apartment of yours,” she said to Gabby. “It stinks up the whole place.”

  “One must cook to eat, madame,” said Gabby. “Often cabbage is all there is.” Madame might exist on cigarettes and acorn coffee, but others needed a little more sustenance.

  “Hmph! You’d think we lived in the slums.”

  Bidding madame a determinedly cheerful good day, Gabby reached number twelve and set the tray down on the floor beside the door. Out of politeness, she knocked, but madame was bedridden. She would not come to answer it.

  Gabby took out her big iron ring of keys and found the right one. The door opened with a creak. She would like to oil that hinge, but of course there was no oil to be had.

  Madame was propped up in bed, a lace shawl about her shoulders, her soft white hair plaited in a long braid and a white linen cap on her head. She looked like the grandmother in a fairy tale, but her smile held a youthful radiance that belied her infirmity. “Good day to you, child.” She held out her hand in welcome.

  Gabby set down the tray and went over to grasp madame’s hand and kiss her cheek. “I’ve brought soup. It’s a little weak, I’m afraid.”

  Not even the hint of a wince crossed madame’s features. With so much to complain about, she never said a word. Gabby laid the tray carefully across madame’s knees.

  “I wish it was cassoulet,” said Gabby, beginning their game.

  “Or caviar.”

  “Crème caramel.”

  “Calvados!”

  They both chuckled. Gabby’s stomach growled. Rationing had been in place for so long, she’d become accustomed to doing without. Sometimes, when another of the tenants, Catherine Dior, came up from her farm, she brought fresh produce with her. She would sneak Gabby eggs or butter. Sometimes even salted pork or sausage. And there was the black market when they could afford it, but that was not often.

  “How is the little Yvette?” madame asked, spooning up her soup and taking a careful sip.

  “Oh . . . She is Yvette.”

  “Any more incidents?”

  “No, madame.”

  The older lady raised her eyebrows. “Tell me.”

  Gabby shrugged. “She is impulsive and reckless. She burns with hatred. It is dangerous.”

  “And yet, there are many who would lie down and let the Boches have their way with us.” Madame gave a grim smile. “Don’t look so shocked. We need people like Yvette. It is time for France to stand up and fight.”

  “France does not need hotheaded young idiots who go about spitting in Germans’ eyes.”

  “Is that what she does?”

  Gabby threw out a hand. “Metaphorically.” She lowered her voice. “Yvette is mixed up with that Jean-Luc and his communists. But as far as I can see, they never actually do anything useful for the cause. She’d be better off queuing for rations or helping me around here than delivering leaflets for those bags of wind.”

  “She has a job at Lelong. That is something.”

  “Of course.” Madame was right. Gabby sighed. “It is just that I worry about her.”

  “I know you do. You are a good sister. But she is not a child anymore. And to live a full life, one must take some risks, you know.” There was a glint in madame’s eye that told Gabby she wished she could be out there taking risks, as well.

  Gabby said nothing. When the war was over, there would be time enough for Yvette to spread her wings. With the Allies already landed in Normandy and fighting their way south, surely the occupation would soon be at an end. They all needed to keep their heads down, stay out of trouble, until then.

  She waited until madame had finished the pitiful meal, then she removed the tray from her lap. She performed the other nursing duties necessary for the bedridden patient, then washed her hands and returned to the boudoir.

  “I hear Catherine Dior arrives today,” said madame.

  “Yes. Monsieur is very excited.”

  “Ask her to call on me when she arrives, will you? At her convenience.”

  “Yes, madame,” said Gabby. She hesitated, curiosity stirring. Whenever Madame LaRoq wanted someone to do something at their convenience, it meant “straightaway.” What did she need from Catherine Dior?

  Madame held out a hand. “Come. Kiss me, my dear.”

  Gabby smiled and bent to the frail figure to kiss her soft cheek. “I’ll stay and read to you if you like.” Madame’s sight was still good but she had mentioned once or twice that her eyes became dry if she read for too long.

  “I can read to myself, but thank you. Off you go.” Madame smiled at her warmly and made a shooing movement with her hands. “You have work to do. I’ll be fine.”

  As she left the east wing, Gabby stopped in the courtyard to check on her seedlings. The planter boxes on either side of the entrance used to contain bright red geraniums, but she had dug them up in order to plant vegetables. Green shoots peeked out from the soil, making her heart lift. Her carrots and turnips would be fully grown in a few weeks. Then they would have a feast.

  The street door opened, and a voice called a cheery good day. It was Catherine Dior, carrying a small suitcase, a shopping bag, and a hatbox.

  “Let me help you.” Gabby hurried over to take the suitcase from her hand.

  Catherine gave her a weary smile and relinquished the suitcase. “Thank you, my dear.” She was a slender, dark-haired young woman, very like her brother. Not beautiful, it was true, but she had a subtle charm. Even in a suit that had seen better days, she managed to look elegant.

  They went upstairs to Monsieur Dior’s apartment, which was down the hall from Madame LaRoq’s. The apartment had an unexpectedly masculine ambience, with dark red velvet drapes and mahogany furniture. So unlike his deeply feminine gowns, Gabby always thought. But then he was a man, after all. She could not expect him to decorate in florals.

  “How was the journey?” Gabby handed the suitcase to Sabine, the maid. Catherine removed her hat and gloves and handed them over also.

  “Oh, it was fine.” Catherine never complained but Gabby sensed something troubled her. Not that she would ever expect Mademoiselle Dior to confide in her. They did not have that kind of relationship. Gabby couldn’t help wishing for more, despite Maman’s warnings about getting involved with the tenants.

  Catherine set her shopping bag down on the hall table and dug around in it. She came up with a package that smelled of garlic and squished a little as Gabby accepted it from her. “Sausage! Oh, thank you, mademoiselle. T
hank you!”

  The savory reek of small goods made her stomach give a loud growl. Heat rushed to her face, but Catherine laughed, extracting her cigarette case from her purse and opening it. “Enjoy that, won’t you? It is the last one for a while, I’m afraid.”

  Gabby was about to leave but remembered her message and turned back at the door. “Oh! Madame LaRoq wishes to see you.”

  Catherine paused for a couple of heartbeats, then shut her cigarette case with a snap. “I will go to her now.” She called to the maid that she was going out.

  “Do not be late for dinner, Mademoiselle Catherine.” Cook emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Monsieur Dior expects you. He has been planning the menu for weeks, saving up the sugar ration especially.”

  The somber look vanished and Catherine chuckled. “Heaven forbid I should keep dear ’Tian from his food.”

  YVETTE

  There you are, Yvette!” Madame Péthier beckoned imperiously as Yvette entered the mail room at the House of Lelong the next day. “Monsieur Dior wants to see you right away.”

  Madame sounded stern. Jean-Luc, who also made deliveries for the fashion house, gave Yvette a warning glance as he limped past with a pile of packages in his arms. Together, they had been distributing leaflets for his resistance group while on their rounds for months now, without the knowledge or permission of Monsieur Lelong. If the Gestapo caught them, they would be arrested, perhaps shot. Yvette’s conscience had begun to smart because perhaps Monsieur Lelong himself would be blamed for their crimes. “Then don’t get caught” was all Jean-Luc had said.

  Before going up, Yvette paused to tidy her hair a little in the cloakroom mirror. Monsieur Dior would not like to see her disarranged from cycling all over Paris, no matter how urgent his need for her.

  She found him up in the studio and hovered on the threshold, not wanting to disturb his train of thought. Bathed in a shaft of sunlight that streamed through the window, he looked more like a priest than a fashion designer, with his balding, egg-shaped head and his gentle, almost reverent, manner.

  He was arranging and rearranging sketches on his desk, muttering to himself. The new season’s designs, perhaps? She tried to catch a glimpse but couldn’t quite see from the doorway. He held one drawing to the light and viewed it with a dissatisfied grimace. Ripping it up, he caught sight of her in the doorway.

  His frown turned to a smile of welcome. “Come, petite. I need you to deliver this package to my sister.”

  He reached for a box, exquisitely wrapped in silver paper and tied up with white ribbon. It was not a Lelong package, but Yvette did not mind at all running errands for Monsieur Dior.

  “Is your mother well?” murmured monsieur.

  Yvette made no answer, holding her breath as he retied the bow on the small gift, his fingers tugging and working with deftness and precision. He liked to say he had the hands of a laborer, but that was silly. He was an artist in the truest sense of the word. Yvette had learned so much from being near him—not least of which was how to tie a bow.

  He finished with the ribbon, but still his mouth turned down at the corners. For Monsieur Dior, even the presentation of this small trifle for his sister must be perfect. Then his face lightened, his hooded eyes sparking with an idea. “Go to the workroom and fetch me some lily of the valley. The smallest sprigs you can find.”

  She dashed to the ateliers, which were always well supplied with these flowers, as monsieur often had them sewn into the hems of his designs. Careful not to bruise the delicate white blossoms, she hurried back to monsieur and spilled them into his hands.

  He selected a sprig and threaded its stem beneath the white bow. The deep green of the leaves and the purity of the bell-like flowers struck the perfect note of elegant whimsy.

  “There,” he said. “Now it is worthy.” He placed the box carefully into her hands. “Take this directly to Mademoiselle Catherine. She is meeting Lili Dietlin at the Café de la Madeleine.” He lowered his voice as if to share a secret. “I heard them talking about it the last time she was here.”

  Yvette grinned at him, pleased to be included in the surprise. “With pleasure, monsieur.”

  Yvette cycled toward the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré with the scent of lily of the valley filling her nostrils. Such small pleasures were precious these days. As she rounded the corner, a German patrol goose-stepped toward her. Their heavy boots struck the cobbled road in perfect unison, a soulless, inexorable beat that haunted her nightmares. The street was narrow at this point, so she stopped outside an empty boutique to wait for them to pass by, before continuing on her way.

  As she cycled by the church of La Madeleine, she noticed a woman collecting for the Red Cross. Two German soldiers stopped to drop coins in her little bucket. The woman smiled and nodded, as if she was genuinely pleased to receive their money. Did none of them see the irony?

  At the café, Yvette propped her bicycle against the wall and scanned the outdoor tables for Catherine. The place was full of German officers, reading the paper and sipping ersatz coffee beneath the café’s bright red awnings. A couple of young soldiers gave a jackknife salute to their superiors as they passed.

  Yvette frowned. Why would Mademoiselle Dior want to eat here, surrounded by the enemy? Yvette did not see her but noticed Catherine’s friend Liliane Dietlin sitting by herself at a table, smoking a cigarette. She was a lively, elegant creature, with a quick mind and a ready smile.

  Catherine would undoubtedly join her friend soon. Yvette started toward Mademoiselle Dietlin with her delivery. As she approached, the man at the next table stood up to go, folding his newspaper and tossing it onto the seat between him and Liliane.

  The man brushed past, face averted, as Yvette sidled between the tightly packed tables. When she looked beyond him, Liliane was tucking a newspaper into her shopping bag. Yvette blinked. It was the man’s discarded newspaper that Liliane had taken. Well, that was the rich for you. They tried not to pay for anything. Even a newspaper, it seemed.

  On closer inspection, Liliane’s neat jacket was fraying a little at the cuffs, the same as every other honest Parisienne’s clothing during this dreadful war. It made Yvette feel a kinship with her, even though their situations in life were miles apart. Mademoiselle was highly educated and worked at the Carnavalet museum, while Yvette was a mere delivery girl whose schooling had been cut short by war.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Dietlin,” said Yvette. “Forgive me for disturbing you, but are you meeting a certain someone here today?”

  Liliane stared back very hard, for so long that Yvette wondered what on earth she’d done to offend her. She held out the elegant package. “I-I have a present for Mademoiselle Catherine. Monsieur Dior told me to bring it to her here.”

  Liliane’s face broke into a delighted smile. “Oh, that dear ’Tian! It is just like him. But I am sorry, ma petite, Catherine is not here today. Just me. I think Monsieur Dior must be a little confused.”

  “He seemed quite certain,” said Yvette. “I think he overheard Mademoiselle Dior discussing a meeting with you.”

  “Well, we are to meet tomorrow, so that might be the cause of his confusion,” said Liliane, picking up her purse and her shopping bag with the stranger’s newspaper inside it. “Will you excuse me? I must be going now.”

  “Of course.” At a loss and irrationally embarrassed, Yvette turned to leave.

  “Wait!” said Liliane. “What is your name again, my dear?”

  “Yvette Foucher.”

  “And you run deliveries for Monsieur Dior?”

  “For the House of Lelong, mademoiselle, but sometimes for monsieur.” Liliane seemed to expect Yvette to say more, so she added, “I live at the loge in Monsieur Dior’s apartment building.”

  “Ah! That’s where I’ve met you before.” Liliane nodded. “Well, Yvette, perhaps I will see you again sometime.”

  Yvette wheeled her bicycle toward number 10. She would try at the Dior apartment. She did not want
to let monsieur down.

  She did not stop at the loge. Maman would want to know what was in the package and worry about her running errands for the Diors when she should be working, and valuable time would be lost. Yvette went up to the Dior apartment and knocked, grinning when their maid, Sabine, opened the door. “Good day, my friend. Is Mademoiselle Catherine here?”

  “With Madame LaRoq,” said Sabine with a jerk of her chin. “Mademoiselle Dietlin has been visiting the old lady the last few days, too. Is madame not well?”

  Yvette blinked. “No worse than usual, as far as I know.” A twinge of guilt made her press her lips together. She ought to visit madame more often, not leave it all to Gabby and Catherine Dior.

  Sabine nodded. “You have a delivery for mademoiselle? I’ll take it.”

  “No, I want to give it to her myself.” Yvette showed her the package. “Monsieur Dior wants a full report on her reaction when she opens it, I think.”

  “She is a lucky woman,” said Sabine, shaking her head. Then she lowered her voice. “You know she is living with a married man down there in Callian. They say—”

  “That is none of our business,” Yvette interrupted. Sabine could be such a gossip sometimes. Yvette knew about the Baron des Charbonneries. Apparently, the arrangement was amicable on all sides—the baron’s wife had her own affairs—but Yvette did not intend to share that with Sabine.

  When Mademoiselle Dior did not reappear for some time, Yvette went along the corridor to knock at Madame LaRoq’s door. “It is I, Yvette. Will you let me in please, Mademoiselle Dior?” She did not have her own key to Madame LaRoq’s apartment, like Gabby did.

  There was no answer and Yvette worried that Madame LaRoq might be sleeping, so she did not like to try again. She slipped back to the Dior apartment.