“Right. Let’s get him into bed,” said Liliane. “He’ll have to stay here until I can make arrangements.”
They hefted the wounded man over to the spare bedroom and muscled him onto the mattress. Gabby checked that his wound had not reopened due to their clumsy handling, then tucked him in. The simple act of smoothing the covers over him produced a strange feeling of tenderness.
The man’s dark blond hair was a little long; the darker stubble covering his jaw gave him a rakish look. English, behind enemy lines, and wounded. She couldn’t imagine how frightening that must be.
When she had closed the spare-bedroom door behind them, Liliane said suddenly, “What happens to the apartment, now that Madame LaRoq has gone?”
Gabby flinched. The question was indecent, with madame silent and still in the next room.
She blew out an unsteady breath. “Usually, I would need to find a new tenant, but I already have several vacancies I can’t fill.”
“In that case, we have time.” Liliane grabbed her purse and tucked it under her arm. “I’ll meet my contact and request instructions and make the arrangements for madame. Back as soon as I can, all right?”
Gabby nodded. Alone again, with the immediate problem resolved, loss bloomed in her chest. She forced back the threatening tears. She didn’t want to weep in front of this petite woman with her steely resolve and her unnatural composure in the face of danger and death.
“Oh, my dear.” Liliane laid a hand on Gabby’s arm. “You were most fond of madame, I can see that.” She sighed. “The war has hardened me in many ways, of a necessity. It is not always a good thing.”
Liliane turned to leave, then looked back. “Madame LaRoq . . . She had the heart of a lion, you know. She might have been bedridden, but she did much for the cause. Everything she could. You should be proud.”
Gabby nodded and closed the door after Liliane. She looked around at the apartment, empty now of that charming, warmhearted spirit.
Now that there was no one to see her, Gabby could let herself fall apart, but the desperate bout of weeping that had threatened to overtake her seemed to have vanished. She might not be as brave as Liliane or Catherine or Madame LaRoq, but she could gather the courage to face this challenge. She took a few moments to collect herself. Then she put her shoulders back and went to make madame presentable for the undertaker.
YVETTE
Yvette had delivered books on birds several times without incident when a greater challenge presented itself. This time, it was an envelope monsieur handed her, rather than a book. She delivered three packages from Lelong before following Catherine’s instructions, crossing the Pont des Arts and cycling toward the Luxembourg Gardens.
“You have done well, Yvette,” Catherine had said when she had briefed her for this new mission the night before. Catherine did not call them missions—she called them little jobs—but that was how Yvette liked to think of them.
Catherine had ceased to waver about whether she ought to employ Yvette in such dangerous work. Now she was all business. “I leave for Callian in the morning. I’m sorry I won’t be here to check on you afterwards, but I trust you, Yvette. I know you won’t let me down.”
“What’s the address?” Yvette had a little trick for remembering where to deliver the messages, using the digits of the street number to make a word or a silly phrase that stuck in her memory better than a number ever could.
“It is not an address, as such,” said Catherine. “This time, it will be what we call a ‘dead drop.’”
A chill skittered down Yvette’s spine. That sounded ominous. But she remembered what Liliane had said to her. “When you are most afraid, smile. It will distract others and relax the rest of your body.” So she smiled. And she breathed in and out and tried to stay calm while they practiced what she would do the next day.
The following morning, Yvette did an awful lot of smiling as she went through her routine at Lelong, until finally, the time came to make the dead drop. Her entire body trembled as she cruised past the Institute of France toward the Luxembourg Gardens.
Much of the park was barred to the public. Not content with requisitioning half of the Ritz hotel for the Luftwaffe, Göring had taken over the Luxembourg Palace and much of the adjacent parkland, surrounding his fiefdom with high railings and German guards. As instructed, Yvette took the long way around and entered the section of the gardens still open to the public from the boulevard Saint-Michel.
She made her way along the leafy avenues, where the dappled shade provided a blessedly cool change from the baking heat of the Paris streets. When she heard music, she headed in that direction and soon came to a clearing dominated by a bandstand and a large crowd of people, either standing, fanning themselves with their hats or newspapers, or seated on folding chairs.
Incongruously, the sweet strains of the music were produced not by Parisians, but by a string quartet of German soldiers, each sawing away at his instrument as if the performance was his sole reason for being in Paris. And here gathered Parisians and Germans alike, shoulder to shoulder, united in their love of music.
Never had Yvette felt so keenly the difference between her own situation and the attitude of so many Parisians. To them, this was a rare and wonderful opportunity to enjoy live music for free (if one didn’t wish to pay for a seat). If they had to mingle with Germans for the privilege, so be it. To Yvette, it was like diving into a pool full of sharks. She was literally surrounded by the enemy.
Too nervous to even think of appreciating the music, Yvette dismounted. As instructed, instead of paying two francs for a folding chair, she wheeled her bicycle toward an unoccupied bench some distance from the bandstand. She soon saw the reason the bench remained empty. It was covered liberally in something nasty and yellow that looked like vomit.
She took the newspaper from the basket of her bicycle, removed an inner sheet, and used it gingerly to wipe off whatever concoction had been used by the resistance to deter other patrons from taking that spot. Then she took another sheet of newsprint, laid it on the bench, and sat down upon it. A fitting use for Nazi propaganda, she thought. Opening what remained of the newspaper, she stared blindly at the print, while fear became a hard pulse in her throat.
How long would she have to sit there waiting for the concert to end? She made herself leaf through the newspaper slowly, scanning each article. Occasionally, someone would pass by quite close, and she tried not to look up in case she caught a German soldier’s eye and somehow betrayed her guilt.
Finally, the concert wound to a close. As the audience showed their appreciation in applause, Yvette took the large envelope out of her satchel and slipped it inside the folded newspaper in a movement she had practiced over and over with Catherine. She put the folded newspaper with the envelope inside it on the bench, then picked up her messenger bag and fastened the clasp.
Who would collect the newspaper she left behind? Catherine had told her she was not to linger or be anywhere in the vicinity when the other person came. That was the whole point of a dead drop.
As Yvette stood up, a German soldier accosted her. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
Chapter Thirteen
Paris, June 1944
YVETTE
The hairs on the back of Yvette’s neck rose and her skin turned cold and clammy, despite the heat. The soldier had seen her make the drop. She was cornered. Her gaze darted left and right. There was no way to escape without running into more Germans.
Calm, Yvette. Smile!
She spread her lips and tentatively showed her teeth, wishing she was a better actress. But she must have fooled the soldier, because he smiled back at her, touching his cap in a greeting that was clearly benign. He was young and fresh faced and he seemed to mean her no harm, but she couldn’t risk his noticing the newspaper she’d left behind. Releasing a breath, she moved toward her bicycle, trying to draw his attention away from the bench.
He spoke to her in German, and she thought he’d only in
quired after her health but couldn’t be certain. “Pardon?” she said, playing for time. “I don’t understand.”
“Good morning, mademoiselle,” he tried in French. “What is a pretty girl like you doing here all alone on such a beautiful day?” He chuckled, as if aware he spoke a well-worn cliché.
He seemed harmless, but one never knew with the Boches. They liked to toy with their prey. “I love this park.” It was the truth, although she did not love it so much when it teemed with Nazis. “I was lured here by the music, but now I must get back to work.”
If she walked off, would he notice that she’d left her newspaper behind and try to return it to her? That would be disastrous. It might be better to humor him, to draw him away from the scent.
“I, too, am a lover of music,” said the German. His grin widened, as if he was enjoying a joke at her expense. “You do not recognize me, mademoiselle?”
“No, I . . .” She really looked at him then. “Oh!” She laughed from relief. “Sabine’s friend.” They had only met once, briefly, at a café. She had been rude to him, but he did not seem to remember that.
“And you are . . . I am sorry. I have forgotten your name,” he returned, glancing back toward the park bench where she’d been sitting, as if he might find a clue to her identity there.
Before he could notice the newspaper she’d left, Yvette tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, obliging him to turn away from the park bench. “Why, it is Yvette, of course! Will you perhaps take a little stroll with me or do you have to get back to your important duties?”
He seemed like a nice enough young man for a Nazi. Yvette could see why Sabine liked him. He was pleasant, well mannered, and not terribly bright.
“Yes, of course.” He gestured for her to precede him, a guiding, familiar hand on the small of her back.
“As her very good friend, I want to be sure that your intentions toward Sabine are honorable,” Yvette said. “So I intend to interrogate you mercilessly. Would you bring my bicycle, please?” He would need both hands to wheel it. Thus, they would be occupied and not pawing at her. She hoped very much that he didn’t take her invitation to stroll as encouragement to pursue a romance. She had no intention of poaching on Sabine’s territory.
They ambled through the tree-lined paths, carrying on a stilted conversation. Although Sabine’s boyfriend was very good at French, he seemed rather tongue-tied. Yvette began to relax, though her heart was still beating hard.
“I think here we must part ways, monsieur,” she said, reaching out to take her bicycle from him when they neared the park entrance. “Thank you for the walk.”
“Can I offer you lunch, mademoiselle?” said the young man, retaining custody of the bicycle.
Food! Her stomach cramped at the thought, her mouth filling with saliva. No doubt this young man ate well. All the Germans did. The temptation was great, but she could not compromise her principles for the sake of nourishment. And besides, he was looking at her in a way she was sure Sabine would not like. She checked her watch and gasped. “Is that the time? So sorry! Truly, I must go.”
With hurried thanks, she yanked her bicycle from his slackened hold, hopped onto it, and called to him as she pedaled away, “Be good to my friend, monsieur!”
* * *
BACK AT LELONG, Yvette was immediately summoned by Madame Péthier. “Le patron wants to see you.”
A spurt of guilt about her detour to the gardens made her exclaim, “Oh, dear! What have I done?”
“Don’t joke about it,” said madame. “He looked very serious when he asked for you.”
Not the gardens. Dulac’s invitation. That must be it. Yvette’s stomach gave a queasy roll. Did she really want to go through with her visit to the château? Her encounter with Sabine’s German friend in the middle of her dead drop that morning had been a very close call indeed.
She reached the studio and walked in, to find Monsieur Lelong putting the finishing touches to one of his models, tugging and pushing the mannequin about as if she were a dummy rather than a flesh-and-blood person. The girl looked bored and tired as she put her arms up and her arms down and allowed herself to be swiveled this way and that.
Yvette remained quiet, waiting until finally, monsieur dismissed the mannequin. He turned to beckon her inside.
“Ah, Yvette,” he said, smiling a little. “It seems you have been very busy of late.”
“Yes,” she said cautiously. “Busy” did not begin to describe it. “Well, no more than usual, monsieur.”
Now his brow furrowed, but he appeared concerned rather than angry. “I have had a request—a rather unusual request—from Mademoiselle Dulac.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sit down, my dear.” He indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk and she complied.
Monsieur Lelong perched on the edge of the desk, looking down at her as a fond uncle might, with a rather exasperated affection. “What have you been doing to get yourself into that woman’s good graces?”
She grimaced. “I am not sure.” She told him about her encounters with the movie star. “She is surrounded by Germans. I wonder if she likes to have a young French girl with her who does not despise her for the way she lives.”
Lelong raised his eyebrows. “And do you not despise her for it?”
Yvette shrugged. Her feelings on that subject were complicated in a way that Monsieur Lelong would probably understand. He, too, was obliged to work for people he might privately despise. “I keep my opinions to myself. When I visited mademoiselle, I thought of what Monsieur Dior always says: he wants to make women feel happy and beautiful. I thought that if a woman wears a Lelong creation at all, she must be made to feel special. Certainly, she must not be insulted.”
Monsieur Lelong’s expression was enigmatic as he studied her. She couldn’t tell whether he approved of her statement. “This invitation to the Château de Saint Firmin,” he said. “I will not conceal from you that I do not like it.”
“I am sorry that you have been placed in this position, monsieur.” She was ready to argue her case, but that was difficult because she could not pinpoint the reason for Monsieur Lelong’s disquiet. “Is it not a benefit to stay in your clients’ good graces?”
His dark eyes shadowed. “There is a limit. And besides, we have enough business without touting for more from those quarters.” He sighed and ran a hand over his high forehead. While he was always point-device, she noticed dark circles beneath his eyes. As president of the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture, he had worked tirelessly to secure the future of Paris fashion.
He said, “I feel a responsibility to you, Yvette, since you have no father to guide you. I hope you understand what might be asked of you if you go with Louise Dulac to the château.” He hesitated. “You are aware that she is Oberst Gruber’s mistress, I presume.”
Such things were hardly a source of embarrassment to a French woman, and yet, she felt awkward talking about it with Lelong. She nodded. “But there is no danger to me in that, is there, monsieur?”
He smiled a little at that, as if he could not help being amused at her naïveté, and she felt herself redden. He bent his head to look into her eyes. “If you wish me to forbid you to go, I will.”
“But it is the ambassador . . .” She spread her hands. “And Gruber as well. I think it is not a good idea for you to stand against them.”
“You let me worry about that.”
It warmed her heart to hear him say this, even though the reason for his concern set her insides churning. “No, monsieur. Thank you, but I do not want that.”
She hoped her voice sounded firm and decided. She would not burden him with the knowledge that she intended to spy for France while she was at the château, but she wished she could make him understand that her motives were far from frivolous.
His heavy frown lightened a little. Undoubtedly, he had not relished the task of confronting the German ambassador, particularly not over a delivery girl. But there was a s
light catch in his voice when he said, “Be careful, Yvette. If a woman like Mademoiselle Dulac is kind, there is always a reason.”
Did he suspect, as she did, that Dulac was a spy? No. That was not it.
Yvette didn’t like to question him, and he didn’t elaborate. “Sleep on it. Whatever you decide, you have my support. But I’ll need your final answer in the morning.”
She left the fashion house that day with her mind full of this conversation. She wasn’t sure what she might find out at the house party. She only knew that it was an opportunity she could not afford to miss.
After work, Yvette was stowing her satchel in the basket of her bicycle when Jean-Luc returned, dismounting from his bicycle and wheeling it toward her. “You keep avoiding me,” he said, grabbing her arm. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“Let me go!” She pulled free, then lowered her voice, glancing around in case anyone overheard. “All you ever do is talk, talk, talk. I am tired of handing out leaflets. Tired of listening to hot air while nothing ever gets done.”
He moved close to her, eye to eye. She could smell the faint sourness of his breath. “We are expecting a parachute drop of guns any day now,” he whispered. “Then you will see action.”
She stared at him. This was crazy. It was too early to begin fighting in the streets. Without the Allies to sweep in and take advantage of a local uprising, the insurgents would simply be crushed under the Nazi jackboot. Arrested. Tortured. Executed. A complete waste of lives.
She understood why these men were so filled with the need to act, but she no longer wanted to join them. “I don’t want to be involved anymore.”
“You think you’re too good for us, is that it?”
“I just don’t agree with the plan,” she said. “Let me know if they come up with something sensible. In the meantime, count me out.”
Sisters of the Resistance Page 14
