Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  There came a stifled giggle from the blackness of the vestibule just inside the street door. “Oh lala, we are discovered!”

  “Shhh!” More low laughter, a female snort.

  “Who’s there?” Gabby said sharply.

  A low, calm voice said, “It’s I, Catherine Dior. And some friends to stay. I beg your pardon, Gabby. I hope we did not wake you.”

  That must have been the noise Gabby had heard. Catherine and her friends coming in through the street door.

  There were three people with Catherine. The woman who must have giggled—for one could not imagine Catherine Dior ever giggling. Two larger figures Gabby guessed to be men, though she couldn’t see their faces, one swaying drunkenly, the other man’s arm around him, holding him up.

  Gabby wasn’t sure of the time, but it must be well past curfew. That was dangerous. This recklessness seemed quite unlike Mademoiselle Dior. But Gabby said nothing. It was not her place to chastise tenants for their nocturnal activities or the risk they courted by flouting Nazi edicts.

  “Don’t let me keep you,” she murmured. “Good night.”

  She turned to let herself into the loge, but a deep disquiet filled her. She hoped Catherine Dior didn’t mean to make a habit of late nights while she was in Paris. The last thing they needed was to have the Gestapo sniffing around.

  * * *

  “GABBY, WAKE UP!” It was Yvette, shaking her shoulder, but sleep dragged Gabby back.

  “Mmph, go away . . .” Then she gasped and sat bolt upright. “What is the time?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve done the bannisters and the floors, too,” said Yvette. “You should have woken me last night. Did you catch our thief?”

  Gabby pressed her fingertips into her temples, fighting the druglike stupor. “No.”

  Something altogether more shocking had occurred. Now that she thought about it in daylight, she was more worried than ever about Catherine Dior.

  Gabby plucked at the neckline of her nightgown. Catherine was far too sensible to risk being discovered breaking curfew for the sake of a night out. The more she considered, the more likely it seemed there was some other explanation for her behavior. But did Gabby really want to know?

  “Will you be all right now, Gabby?” Yvette was being very careful around her. “I have to get to work.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” The words came out as a snap, and she bit her lip. “Thank you, Yvette. It was kind of you to let me sleep.”

  Later, when Gabby was sweeping the courtyard, Catherine reappeared, dressed in a smart suit and pumps and a jaunty little hat.

  Gabby straightened to greet her. “I trust your friend has recovered, mademoiselle.”

  She had meant it as a semi-joking reference to the man’s inebriation but it came out in a tight, accusatory manner that made her inwardly cringe.

  “Good morning, Gabby.” Catherine’s dark eyes held a question. “I am sorry we disturbed you last night.”

  “You did not disturb me. I was . . .” Gabby almost laughed to think she could have been so crazed about a mere vegetable thief. “I was already up.”

  Catherine’s gaze sharpened. “You get up in the middle of the night often, then?”

  “Not often. Hardly ever.” Where was Catherine heading with this?

  After a hesitation, Catherine said, “My dear, I might have more visitors arriving late tonight.”

  Gabby’s chest tightened. “You mean, after curfew again?”

  Catherine met her gaze steadily, as if willing her to pass a test. “Yes.”

  The trickle of fear that there was more to last night’s episode than Catherine had let on burst into a flood. Catherine Dior working for the resistance? Gabby would never, not in a million years, have guessed.

  Seeming to take her silence for acquiescence, Catherine leaned toward Gabby and continued in a rapid undertone. “I will let them in myself. You have nothing to do with it. If you hear anything at all, stay where you are, don’t look, and don’t worry. All will be well.”

  “But . . .” It was a terrible risk. If a German patrol caught Catherine admitting people after curfew, they’d haul the lot of them in for interrogation, maybe worse. Gabby did not want to get mixed up in this. Not even passively.

  Catherine gripped Gabby’s shoulders and met her eyes in a long, charged look. “Do you understand me?”

  Gabby hesitated, then nodded. What else could she do?

  “And Yvette?” said Catherine, releasing her. “Do we need to warn her?”

  “No.” Definitely not. She’d never put her sister in such danger. It would be her secret. Hers and Catherine Dior’s. The thought gave Gabby a tingle of pride, though her body was vibrating with anxiety and her chest was so tight, she could hardly breathe. “Both Yvette and Maman sleep like the dead—don’t worry.”

  Catherine nodded. “Thank you, my dear,” she said. “I am greatly in your debt.”

  Gabby wanted to say something significant, something meaningful and brave. But she couldn’t think of the right words. “De rien,” she murmured. It is nothing. What a trite thing to say.

  YVETTE

  That afternoon, Yvette returned to Lelong to pick up her last load of deliveries for the day. It was so hot outside, the very air seemed to shimmer, and it was a relief to enter the comparative cool of the fashion house.

  Tiny though the mail room was, Yvette loved Madame Péthier’s domain. It was so orderly and neat, with its high zinc-topped counter in front of a wall of floor-to-ceiling shelving. On those shelves sat boxes of every conceivable size and shape, covered with the distinctive coffee-and-cream Regency stripe of Lelong. On the counter sat all the accouterments of wrapping: scissors and ribbon, tissue paper and brown paper, envelopes, labels and paste, stamps and string.

  “What’s wrong?” said Yvette, realizing that Madame Péthier stood at her counter looking haughty and affronted and Jean-Luc was scowling back. The two of them could not have been more different—madame dressed to the throat in unrelieved black, her dark hair exquisitely styled into a chignon, her makeup expertly applied; Jean-Luc, stocky and short, with patches of sweat in the armpits of his grubby white shirt and his untrimmed hair tousled by the wind.

  “There you are, Yvette!” said madame, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

  “About time.” Jean-Luc snatched up his satchel and a stack of parcels from the counter. “Maybe you will take the next delivery. I certainly won’t.”

  “Why? What is it?” asked Yvette.

  “You tell her, madame.” Jean-Luc shouldered past Yvette and limped toward the door. “I can’t stomach much more of this.”

  Yvette stared after him, then turned to Madame Péthier. “What is the bee in his bonnet?”

  Madame licked her lips and smoothed her skirt. “I wonder what is taking Clothilde so long?” Strangely, she was avoiding Yvette’s gaze as well as her question. “Go up and see, Yvette.” When Yvette stayed where she was, her eyebrows lifted in inquiry, madame sighed. “Mademoiselle Dulac needs that cloak for this evening’s reception. It is getting late.”

  “Dulac?” Yvette echoed, impressed in spite of herself. “Not the—”

  “Yes,” snapped madame. Lowering her voice, she added, “And if you want to keep your position here as well as your freedom, you will not mention the lady’s morals, or that she is mistress to one of the most powerful men in the German air force. You will not gawk or ask for her autograph or spit in her face and call her a dirty collaborator. Understand?”

  “Yes, madame.” Truthfully, she felt no such impulse. For years, she had loved to watch Louise Dulac on the silver screen, worshipped her in the way young girls worship glamorous movie stars. She was not a flesh-and-blood person; she was a goddess. Yvette could not believe what they said about her was true.

  Excitement bubbled up within her. Would she actually get to meet the famous Dulac?

  Yvette went up to the workrooms, where the afternoon sun slanted through the long, rectangular windows set int
o the sloping attic roof. Seamstresses in white coats hummed about, pinning models made of toile onto dummies, correcting a seam here, adding a pleat there, under the watchful eye of Monsieur Balmain. In the corner, two seamstresses sorted through bolts of fabric, searching for the particular rose silk Monsieur Lelong had ordered for the spring/summer collection and disagreeing most politely with each other about who had handled the fabric last.

  Yvette sidled past this pair and made her way to the end of the room, where three seamstresses sat on stools around one of the high tables, embroidering crystals and tiny pearls on a luxurious white silk cape, their needles flitting in and out like dragonflies. Shaded lights hung from long cords to illuminate their intricate work, but Yvette noticed Diane rubbing her eyes and blinking, as if to focus better on her task.

  “Excuse me, Clothilde, but Madame Péthier needs that cape immediately,” Yvette said. “Is it nearly done?”

  “It would be done quicker if she stopped sending people to check whether it is done,” said Clothilde, snipping off a thread.

  “Where is Monsieur Dior?” Yvette asked. “Has he approved it yet?”

  “Monsieur will not be back this afternoon,” said Léonie, selecting a crystal and holding it up, winking, to the light. “He has taken his sister to lunch.”

  Yvette smiled. “The two of them are very close.”

  Diane and Léonie exchanged knowing looks. Yvette gave an inward sigh. Usually, she tried not to mention that she lived in the same apartment building as one of the head designers at Lelong, nor that she knew him quite well. Sometimes these things slipped out. She shut her mouth and waited.

  One by one, the seamstresses finished. Clothilde checked every inch of the cape for marks or stray threads. An imperfect crystal was removed and another stitched in its place.

  An apprentice brought out the dummy that had been made to mademoiselle’s exact measurements, and Clothilde settled the cape around its shoulders. She stood back, eyeing the garment. “Perfect. Take it down.”

  Yvette put on her white gloves and removed the garment from the form.

  “I’d like to spit on it,” muttered Diane as Yvette walked past.

  “Or stick it with pins,” said Léonie.

  “That’s enough!” Clothilde wouldn’t hear of compromising any of her creations, even to avenge France. “Off you go, Yvette.”

  Taking great care not to snag the cape on anything, Yvette carried it downstairs to Madame Péthier, who wrapped the garment in tissue and laid it in its box as lovingly as a maman might lay her sleeping infant in his cradle.

  “You will deliver the parcel to Mademoiselle Dulac in suite twelve at the Ritz with the patron’s compliments,” said madame.

  Yvette stared at her. “But aren’t you going to come with me?” Ordinarily, a vendeuse would attend to ensure the garment fit properly and was to the client’s satisfaction. Yvette had fetched and carried for the vendeuses before but she’d never delivered a garment to a client on her own.

  “I regret we are too busy with the new collection to spare anyone else,” said Madame Péthier, folding the tissue paper away, avoiding Yvette’s gaze. “There is a war on.”

  “I see.” Monsieur Lelong might be obliged to dress the mistresses of Nazi occupiers, but there were some small rebellions his employees could make in the name of France. Despite Yvette’s loyalty to the nation and her disgust at dirty collaborators, she could not suppress the excitement that flooded her veins. A shameful double standard, it was true.

  “Hurry now,” said the vendeuse, handing the parcel to her. “It would not do to be late.”

  “I’ll be as quick as I can.” Yvette dashed outside, stowed the box in the deep basket of her bicycle, and pedaled toward the Ritz.

  The rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré was lined with tall white buildings with red awnings over their doors. Many of Monsieur Lelong’s rival couturiers were to be found on this street, and even though several ateliers lay dormant now, the air still reeked of luxury.

  The street was narrow and she had to concentrate as she weaved in and out of traffic and pedestrians, but she could never pass the empty president’s palace without a pang of shame. The French government had abandoned the city to the Germans and fled in the night, leaving Parisians like her family to carry on as best they could under the new regime.

  A shout and a scuffle further up the street caught her attention and her chest tightened. What this time? Since the Normandy landings, the Boches had become even more brutal than before.

  She pedaled slowly toward the commotion. There were tall men in black uniforms on the sidewalk across the road. Gestapo. Her stomach turned over. Raids usually took place under cover of darkness. It was unusual to see a disturbance in a genteel street at this time of day.

  A small crowd had gathered on the pavement opposite. Yvette dismounted and wheeled her bicycle over to them. Nodding to a bright-eyed woman who carried her rations in a string bag, she asked, “What is happening over there, madame?”

  “Someone informed on her,” said the woman in a low voice. “She’s the concierge of that building. They say she’s been giving aid to Jews.”

  The front door to the apartments slammed open and two Gestapo officers muscled a thin, middle-aged woman out of the building. She was struggling, protesting her innocence at the top of her voice. A fist rammed into her stomach, cutting off her cries. She doubled over and the two men dragged her into their waiting car.

  Yvette winced and sucked a breath through her teeth. “What sort of aid?”

  “Hiding people. Moving them from place to place until she could arrange safe passage to Spain.”

  They watched as the big black Citroën sped off. Through the back windscreen, Yvette made out the woman fighting still. Yvette admired her spirit, but perhaps she ought to save her strength for whatever would come next. “Did she do what they say?”

  The bright-eyed woman shrugged. “What does that matter? She has been accused. These days, that is enough.”

  Inside Yvette, a deep anger bubbled up and threatened to boil over. She closed her lips tightly and breathed through her nose until the urge to release a torrent of abuse against the Nazis passed. “Thank you, madame.”

  She rode away, furious at how powerless she’d been to help that poor woman. Much as she railed against the Nazis, she had done nothing at all to fight them. Distributing propaganda leaflets for a ragtag band of communists did not count.

  Mademoiselle Dulac’s parcel slid sideways in her basket as she dodged around a horse and cart. Yvette felt stifled, almost suffocated with rage. Her legs pumped and the wind whipped her hair so that it flew like streamers out behind her. Everywhere she went, the swastika loomed above, its ugliness a constant reminder of scenes such as the one she had just witnessed.

  She was going too fast. These days, to appear in any great hurry was dangerous. The slightest deviation from the ordinary, and you could end up like that poor woman, dragged off to an unknown destination, never to be heard from again. She applied gentle pressure to the brake to slow down as she entered the Place Vendôme.

  Outside the Ritz, the square was littered with German vehicles, the shining black motorcars that transported high-ranking Nazis from place to place. Swastika flags hung from the entrance, proclaiming that the hotel was under Nazi command. The Luftwaffe had commandeered half the hotel—the side that faced onto the Place Vendôme. Civilians had been corralled into the rue Cambon section.

  At the Place Vendôme entrance, Yvette hesitated. Should she take the parcel up to mademoiselle’s suite herself? That was what the vendeuses usually did.

  Always make the bold choice, as Madame LaRoq would say. She would walk in by the front entrance and up the grand staircase as if she had every right to be there. If anyone questioned her, she need only name her client and show the box from Lelong.

  She propped her bicycle against the wrought iron gate that opened onto the colonnade outside the hotel. She explained her mission to the doorman, poin
tedly ignoring the German soldiers who stood sentry at the door. Of course, given the occupants of the hotel, security was tight.

  The doorman waved her in, but one of the soldiers held out his hand for her to halt.

  Stomach tightening with apprehension despite her innocence, Yvette froze, gripping the package from Lelong as if it would protect her. Trying to appear confident, she said, “I have to deliver this package to Mademoiselle Louise Dulac. It is most urgent.”

  Did they even understand French? Well, at the least they recognized the screen idol’s name. There was a widening of the eyes, a sideways glance, and a smirk, hastily repressed. Yvette’s tension eased a little. These men were not much older than she was. They were not to be feared. She refused to fear them.

  One soldier, the blond, gestured to the box. “Open it.” He spoke in French.

  “Are you crazy?” she said. “What do you think will happen if you rummage about in a parcel belonging to the special friend of Oberst Gruber?”

  With a lift of one eyebrow, as if he didn’t quite believe her, he took the box and turned it over.

  “May I have your names and ranks?” Yvette lifted her eyebrows, imitating Madame Péthier at her most supercilious.

  The blond openly laughed at her. He tilted his head and said something in German to the other soldier. The gazes of both men wandered over her body, and it felt as if their hands crawled over her bare skin.

  Her stomach flipped over, but she made herself be calm. There wasn’t much they could do to her at the entrance of a luxury hotel. Flushing, she made herself go on. “I want your names so that I can tell Oberst Gruber who ruined this very expensive garment mademoiselle was to wear to the reception tonight.”

  That brought the blond’s attention back to her face. He said something to the other soldier, weighing the package in his hands, then he gave it back to her. “On your way, mademoiselle.”

  Nerves jangling with relief and a strange exhilaration, Yvette continued into the grand hotel. A small victory, true, but a satisfying one.