Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  “Me?” Yvette retreated toward the door. “Oh, no, thank you. I shouldn’t. I need to get back.”

  She wasn’t sure why she was suddenly so shy. Not just shy but apprehensive. Maybe it was the look on Catherine’s face, a press of the lips and a slight dent between her eyebrows, as if she was reluctant but determined to carry out an unpleasant task. A task that seemed to have something to do with Yvette.

  “I think the door can wait awhile,” said Catherine. “Your mother will hear anyone wanting admittance, will she not?”

  Yvette didn’t answer. What could she say? That Maman would slumber through a herd of elephants breaking down the door?

  “We have a very important question for you,” said Liliane. She took a deep breath. “We want you to do a small errand for us.”

  “No. Stop.” Catherine pressed her fingertips to her temple, as if to try to clear her thoughts. “I think we must not do this.”

  “You know it is the only choice we have,” argued Liliane. “It has to be tomorrow. And there is no one else.”

  Catherine said, “They are not watching me. I can go. It is not right to ask Yvette. I won’t do it.”

  “Don’t be a fool, my dear,” countered Liliane, her voice gentle but firm. She gestured toward Yvette. “You know she is the perfect choice. Yvette is on her bicycle making deliveries every day for the House of Lelong. She knows Paris. She is smart and capable and she can ferry messages to and fro without raising suspicion. She has the perfect cover.”

  Catherine sliced the air with her hand, as if to cut off the conversation. “No. It is not right. She is too young.”

  Yvette looked from one woman to the other as they argued back and forth. What was this? Were they actually talking about her joining the resistance? If what Yvette suspected from their conversation turned out to be correct, she was going to play her part in the liberation of France. That would be worth any risk.

  “I will do it,” Yvette said, making both women’s heads snap around to look at her. “I am ready.” She had been ready to do something important and dangerous for her country since the beginning of the occupation. How wonderful that there were brave women doing important and dangerous things right under her nose and she had never even suspected it.

  “I want to help,” Yvette said. “Please. Use me.”

  Catherine gazed at her for a long time. “Gabby will never forgive me,” she murmured.

  “It is my life, not Gabby’s,” Yvette said. “I am not a child.” What a childish thing to say! As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she could have cut her tongue out.

  Catherine gave a short, broken laugh, making Yvette flush hotly, but the older woman sobered again almost at once. What had happened to make her so upset and afraid?

  Catherine shot a glance at Liliane. “Don’t you see? She is a child at heart. You cannot ask it of her.”

  Liliane’s beautiful face hardened. “There are boys fighting in the trenches who are years younger than she is.”

  “Tell me what to do,” Yvette begged, “and I will do it.”

  Liliane took her hand and drew her to sit beside her on the sofa. “Tomorrow, when you are on your rounds, cycle past Monsieur Arnaud’s bookshop—you know the one?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” said Liliane. “If you see a potted geranium in the window, go inside and ask monsieur for a book on birds.”

  She waited, searching Yvette’s face to see if she comprehended. Yvette gave a slight nod.

  Liliane’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Monsieur will give you the bird book and you will then take that book to this address.” She rattled off an address in the eighth arrondissement and added, “Memorize it. Do not write it down. Do not tell anyone where you’re going, or look behind you, or cycle too quickly, or do anything that could arouse suspicion. For you, it is a day like any other and you are simply making your rounds.”

  “Yvette, know this.” Catherine leaned forward in her chair and fixed Yvette with her gaze. “The message you will carry is for the resistance. If you’re caught, we cannot help you. No one can. Think very carefully before you agree to take this on, my dear.”

  To be caught by the Gestapo would be the most terrifying thing imaginable. But what about the brave young men who fought and died for the Allies, the men and women of the resistance who risked their lives every day? For years, she had fretted and fumed at her helplessness, longing to make a contribution beyond distributing the communist leaflets Jean-Luc gave her. She could not fail to act now that she had the chance.

  Besides, she was quick and nimble and good at talking her way out of difficulties. And who would suspect her? What was one more delivery among so many? Liliane was clever to think of using her.

  “I’ll do it,” she said quietly. “I understand the risk.” She held Catherine’s gaze, trying to convince her without words that she accepted the gravity of her position. “I would never betray you,” she promised them both. “I will not even tell Gabby or Maman.”

  Liliane nodded, clearly satisfied. She believed Yvette. She believed in her, which was even more important.

  Catherine still seemed uncertain. She muttered under her breath, “It has come to this. We are using children to do our work.”

  Yvette wanted to protest again that she was nearly twenty years old but stopped herself. She lifted her chin, waiting for Catherine’s final verdict. Any more pleading on her part would probably hurt her chances.

  The silence wore on, and Catherine sipped her apéritif and gazed out of the window, her troubled thoughts making creases on her brow.

  Unable to stand the suspense, Yvette blurted out, “I know enough now to get me into trouble. I know about the two of you. Why not trust me further with this message?” She licked her lips. “Besides, it sounds as if you have little choice but to use me.”

  The women looked at each other. Catherine said, “The reason we need you, Yvette, is that the last courier we used is dead.” The sentence came out baldly. If it was intended to shock, it worked. All the oxygen left the room. Yvette couldn’t catch her breath.

  “She was tortured before she died,” Catherine added.

  Yvette felt sick and hollow, as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She had not been treating this as a fictional adventure. She knew that she would be taking a risk, but Catherine’s words brought the danger sharply home.

  Did she really want to do this? She could still back out. Her pride might be hurt, but at least she would be alive.

  But the very fact that they lived under a regime that would torture and execute people like this courier meant that she, Yvette Foucher, must stand up and fight, whatever the cost.

  “Geranium in the window. Book on birds.” She recited the address Liliane had given her. She pictured the Paris map in her mind and the route she would take to get there, then back to Lelong. Or better yet . . . “I will make a few deliveries in between, before I deliver the book. That way, if anyone is watching the bookstore they will not see me go straight from there to the destination you gave me.”

  Liliane nodded approval. “Yes, that is a very good idea, Yvette. But do not hold the book for too long. If you are found with it, that is reason enough for them to arrest you.” She smiled. “Thank you for doing this, my dear. And good luck.”

  Yvette got up to go before Catherine could raise more objections.

  Liliane stood, too. With a worried glance at her friend, she tucked her hand in the crook of Yvette’s arm and went with her to the door. In a lowered tone she said, “Leave Catherine to me. I will persuade her. If you do well with this, there will be more work for you.”

  Yvette left the Dior apartment with her head spinning. It wasn’t until she got back to the loge, to be scolded by Gabby for her neglect of the front door, that she was yanked back to the present. With that, the realization hit her anew. Finally, finally, she was working for the resistance. At last, she would be doing something to make a difference in this war.

 
Chapter Eight

  Paris, February 1947

  YVETTE

  She had thought about him so often in the years since she’d left Paris, it was as if a figment of her imagination had turned to flesh. He must have picked the lock of her suite. Either that, or convinced one of the maids to admit him. He could be very persuasive.

  All the fatigue and aches of the long day disappeared in a rush of adrenaline. The cool metal edge of the room key dug into her palm. She should unlock the door, get out and run.

  How had he found her so quickly? Did he have an informant among Dulac’s defense team? But if her lawyers could have called him as a witness, why would they need Yvette?

  A hundred thoughts chased through her mind in those few seconds of silence. Images of their shared past flashed before her eyes like the numbers flicking at the end of a newsreel.

  How could he be in Paris like this? Surely, it was dangerous.

  “Yvette.” Her name, spoken in that low rasp of his, made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

  “Don’t.”

  He was dressed in white tie, which might have made him stand out in another milieu, but at the Ritz at this hour, it was practically a uniform. Was he staying in the hotel as well? Yvette shivered, then began to tremble.

  Perhaps he was here to silence her. But then she’d be dead already. She swallowed hard, struggled to find her voice. “What do you want?”

  He hesitated. Then he spread his hands, palms up. “I need your help, Yvette.”

  She laughed, a pathetic sound that scraped her throat. “Do you know how crazy that is? I am the last person you should turn to.”

  His straight black eyebrows drew together, as if he were genuinely puzzled. “Believe me, you and I are not enemies. We never were.”

  She made no reply, simply waited. She wanted to hear this. She wanted to know how he could justify what he’d done. Perhaps he would sing the same tune as those unrepentant Nazis at Nuremberg: They were under orders. They weren’t aware of what was happening in the death camps of Ravensbrück and Auschwitz and the rest.

  He did not elaborate. Perhaps he needed goading. “I was right all along. The only good Nazi is a dead one.”

  His nostrils flared. “I am not a Nazi.” Another lie. He had pretended to be a Swedish diplomat by the name of Vidar Lind. All the better to worm his way into the resistance networks, no doubt.

  “I suppose that explains why you are still at large,” she said. “Shall I call the gendarmes and tell them you are here? I doubt you have many friends left among the authorities in Paris.”

  “Yvette, listen. I need you to—”

  “Why me?” She hated how weak that sounded, but she had to know. “I was young and stupid, of no possible use to you. Why spin me your lies?”

  On the surface, he was so elegant and cool, black hair neatly trimmed, the set of his coat across those broad shoulders utter perfection, handsome features composed. But there was a banked fury in his eyes. She had touched a tender spot. Could she make that anger boil over if she needled him in the right place? Enough to tell her what had really happened, back in 1944?

  He broke eye contact, flicked something from his sleeve. “You are here to testify in the trial of Louise Dulac.” Back to business. Well, a man who consorted with Nazis and hardened criminals would not crack in the face of her abuse.

  “How do you know that?”

  He simply stared at her, as if expecting her to do the math. Her eyes widened. He was the man with deep pockets funding Dulac’s defense—not to mention paying for Yvette’s travel and accommodation at the Ritz. The idea was like a kick to the ribs.

  “It is important in this case that certain things do not come to light,” he said. “What do you intend to say about your involvement with her?”

  “What is your real name?” she countered. If he would not answer her questions, she would not answer his.

  He sighed. “Yvette.” He had remained where he was by the window since her arrival, but now he moved toward her.

  “Don’t.” She held out her hands to ward him off. “Don’t come any closer.”

  He stopped. Then a gleam lit his eye and he started toward her again, until he stood close enough that she could reach out and touch him.

  She didn’t feel threatened—not physically. At least, not with violence. The threat of a different kind of contact made her blood race. “Why should I tell you anything?”

  As he stared down at her with such intensity, she became acutely conscious of their surroundings. There was a bed only meters away, a couch even closer. A door at her back, if it came to that. Then he said, “Vidar Lind will do. Why complicate things?”

  “Fine. Have it your way. Are you here to—what do you call it—tamper with the witness?”

  There was a wry twist to his lips, perhaps acknowledging a double entendre she had not intended to make. “Only in one respect. You must not mention my involvement with Louise.”

  “Why would I?” She shrugged. “No doubt Dulac had many lovers.”

  There was a change in his expression, a mere flicker, but it was there. How to interpret it, she wasn’t sure. In another man, she would have said it was surprise. Did he think she was an idiot? “Don’t bother to deny it. She told me herself.”

  “And Louise Dulac always told you the truth.”

  That was a knife-thrust to the gut. “All right,” she said in a low, shaking voice. “I was stupid. I was naïve. But at least I tried to do the right thing.” And how did that turn out, Yvette? What about Catherine Dior? The space between them seemed to contract. Softly, she said, “All those shades of grey, the compromises and accommodations, all that playing along and biding time.” The words tasted bitter on her tongue. “At what point does it become collaboration? At what point treason? Do we judge by someone’s actions or by their intentions?”

  His jaw hardened. “Or do we judge them by the damage they’ve done?”

  Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She was damned if she’d cry in front of him. “Get out.” She fumbled with the key, turned to unlock the door. Opened it, flung it wide. “Get out or I’ll scream for help.”

  He stared at her for a long, hot moment. Then he seemed to close in upon himself.

  There was a pause, and perversely, she groped for something to say to open him up again, to make him stay.

  Too late. He inclined his head. “It was good to see you again, Yvette.”

  Before she could find a response, he was gone.

  GABBY

  The fairy tale Gabby was writing had transformed into an adventure, taken on a life of its own. She couldn’t move her pencil fast enough to get it all down. A little girl, spirited and brave, with an ability to talk her way into and out of trouble—one who looked suspiciously like Yvette as a six-year-old—is locked in the Louvre overnight. She discovers that when no one is there to see, all the artworks come to life.

  Epic battles are waged, men and gods do amazing and terrible things. With the help of a boy from a Renoir painting, the little girl works her way to a basement vault, where her family treasure is hidden. She takes it and . . . Gabby frowned. What happened next? Did she take the boy with her? Was the boy killed and the Renoir forever altered, a blank space where the boy should have been?

  She chewed the end of her pencil. It was a children’s story, after all. Should it be that grim? But then again, every fairy tale she’d ever come across was pretty gruesome in one way or another. Children liked that, didn’t they? Perhaps they could handle such things better than adults.

  And why she was worrying about the audience for her little tale, heaven only knew. It wasn’t as if Elisabeth would want to read children’s books anymore. And naughty Léon never sat still long enough for stories.

  With that single, negative line of thought, the story magic evaporated. Gabby threw down her pencil, frustrated with herself, both for daring to dream and for giving up before her little project was finished. She leafed through the frenzied sket
ches she’d made. Some of them were not bad. Maybe . . . maybe she’d feel better about it in the morning.

  Maman’s gentle snore seemed to dispute that hope. Gabby glanced at the clock. Midnight. She had to be up in five hours. Rubbing her eyes, she gathered her papers and opened her portfolio.

  And saw the envelope. The unopened letter she’d somehow managed to forget.

  Her insides trembled, ripples of anxiety flowing through her veins. Gabby set her papers aside. Lower lip gripped between her teeth, she made herself reach into the depths of the leather case and take out the letter.

  She hesitated. If she burned the letter without reading it, she could go on pretending. One fine spring day, he would walk through the door. He would make her laugh, pick her up and swing her around in his arms and kiss her. Just like they did in the movies.

  That stupid, irrational hope kept her going. If she read this letter, all hope would be destroyed. Why else would she receive correspondence from the British government sealed with His Majesty’s coat of arms?

  Curiosity, her besetting sin, gnawed at her insides. Had she not been curious about what went on behind closed doors in this building, the entire course of her life would have been different. Giving in to her baser nature now was likely to shatter her peace once more.

  There was only one way to remove temptation. She picked up the letter, went to the tiny kitchen, and found matches. Lighting a match, she stared at the flame for so long, it singed her fingers. “Ah!” She shook out the flame, dropping the charred remains of the match into the sink.

  Again, Gabby took out a match and struck. She held the letter up so that its corner was near the flame. She drew a deep breath, let it out. Truly, I do not want to know.

  The envelope was stiff and smooth between her fingers and thumb. She felt the heat as its corner caught and flared, smelled the acrid scent of burning paper. The flame crackled; the envelope’s edges browned and curled into blackened bat’s wings, then floated down. The red seal burned brighter, melting and dripping like real wax. She held the envelope as long as she could before the flame crept dangerously close to her hand.