Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  “Ten minutes.” The warden shut the door on them with a resounding clang.

  Before Yvette could say anything, Monsieur LeBrun darted forward, offering Louise a cigarette, lighting it.

  Blowing out smoke, Dulac sauntered over to the window embrasure and leaned against it, lifting her face to the light in a sinuous movement, like a cat basking in the sunshine. Then she turned and took a long drag on her cigarette, her gaze kindling with challenge as it rested on Yvette. “Come to gloat?”

  But whatever response Yvette might have made was cut off. With a brisk shake of the head, Dulac fixed her gaze on LeBrun. “So. We go to trial.”

  LeBrun cleared his throat. “It is fair to say that the examinations with the magistrates did not go as well as we’d hoped—”

  “Magistrates!” Louise threw up a hand. “These are the very same men who condemned French patriots in Vichy, those black-robed puppets with the Nazis pulling their strings. Now they turn around and presume to judge me—” She broke off, straightening her shoulders as if to throw off the sudden emotion. “But in the high court, it might be different. Maybe I will get a fair hearing there.”

  LeBrun hesitated, as if about to disagree, but the film star took no notice. She gestured at Yvette. “And what are you doing here, if you haven’t come to gloat?”

  There was no point prevaricating. They didn’t have the time. “I thought seeing you would help me decide.”

  “Decide what?”

  “What to say in court, of course.”

  Louise removed a strand of tobacco from her lower lip, flicked it away. “I should have thought that was simple. You tell the truth.”

  Yvette nearly laughed. “You know as well as I that the truth can be colored in the telling. How hard should I fight for you? Should I fight at all?”

  A shrug indicated an indifference Louise could not possibly feel. She turned to stare out the window, taking long, deep drags on her cigarette.

  Yvette wanted to scream. She wanted to shake that arrogant, beautiful icon, to interrogate her until she spilled all her secrets. But there was no use trying. Beneath that gilded surface, this woman was pure steel.

  “And if I decide not to testify at all?” Yvette didn’t mean it. At least, she wasn’t sure that she meant it.

  That captured the movie star’s attention. “Then I should be forced to call on the man you knew as Vidar Lind to take your place on the witness stand.” Her gaze flickered to LeBrun. “I’m sure none of us wants that.”

  It was Yvette’s turn to shrug. “What is Vidar Lind to me? By rights, he ought to be in the dock along with you.” When Louise did not reply, Yvette struck the table with her open hand. “Tell me that is not the case!”

  Louise tapped the ash from her cigarette. “If you are determined to be petty and stupid about it, there’s nothing I can do to persuade you. For all that you were a clever little thing, you never learned to separate personal feelings from the work, did you, Yvette?”

  That was like tinder to flame. The old Yvette would have flown at Louise in a rage. Now she forced herself to match that tone of disdain. “We are done here,” she told Monsieur LeBrun. “Call the guard.”

  Monsieur LeBrun hurried to keep pace with Yvette as she stalked back along the dim, dank corridor that led away from the women’s prison. “Will you do it, mademoiselle? Will you sign the statement? Will you testify?”

  LeBrun was either obtuse or desperate. Perhaps he was both. Yvette swallowed a harsh retort. It wasn’t the law clerk’s fault his client did not have the sense to placate her star witness. Dulac’s arrogance hadn’t dimmed, not even in the face of hardship and imprisonment. Yvette could almost admire her for that.

  “I’ll sign the statement,” she said as they emerged into the fresh air once more. Glancing back at the ugliness that had become Louise Dulac’s life, she added, “I’ll testify, too. But she might not like what she hears when I do.”

  GABBY

  Gabby and Yvette were admitted through the outer gate to the British embassy on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré without incident, but in the courtyard before the grand Hôtel de Charost, which housed the embassy, Gabby balked. “I can’t. I can’t go in there.” Other guests flowed around her, moving toward the shallow flight of steps that led to the palace entrance.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Yvette. “You can and you will.” She tugged at Gabby’s hand. “We’ve come this far.”

  But it was all happening too quickly. Gabby had been so focused on Jack and the slim possibility that he might be alive, she hadn’t considered the ceremony itself. Now the thought of being singled out in public and having to receive the medal, knowing what to do and where to stand . . . And good God, she wouldn’t have to make a speech, would she? She would fall down dead on the spot.

  “Gabby!” Yvette’s voice was sharp, commanding. “Come on.”

  Somehow, she managed to move. They mounted the stone steps and entered the magnificent building. “Apparently, the Duke of Wellington bought this house from Napoléon’s sister before Waterloo,” Yvette whispered. “So, in fact, the English indirectly funded Napoléon’s escape from Elba. Did you know?”

  Gabby shook her head. She appreciated that Yvette was trying to distract her, but it wasn’t working. Once inside the building, with its high ceilings and checkerboard marble floor, its chandeliers and gilt and ornate balustrades, the thought of getting up in front of people in such a place made Gabby’s stomach churn anew.

  She let Yvette steer her down a corridor and into a reception room, following the rest of the guests, who seemed to know the way. There was a handsome red Persian carpet on the floor but the room was quite sparsely furnished, with only a lectern, a few rows of chairs in front of it, and some couches by the windows.

  There were already people milling about, conducting hushed conversations, checking the seating arrangements.

  “Isn’t this nice?” said Yvette in her normal speaking voice, drawing a few looks. She still gripped Gabby’s hand, as if to stop her bolting from the room. “I wonder where we are supposed to sit.”

  A smiling woman with a clipboard came up to them. “May I have your name, please?”

  Gabby gave it with a surge of fear that she was in the wrong place, or that they would have left her name off the list and she would be told to go home. But the woman made a checkmark next to her name and said, “You’ll find designated seating in the front row. I’m afraid your companion—”

  “My sister,” Gabby said.

  The woman smiled apologetically and nodded to Yvette. “Your sister will have to sit behind.”

  “Oh . . . Yes. All right,” said Gabby, clutching Yvette’s hand tightly.

  “Good luck!” said Yvette, extricating herself, then adding in a whisper, “You’ll be fine. Your fear will evaporate when it’s your turn. The anticipation is always the worst.”

  And it was true, Gabby found, once the ceremony started and the official speeches were made. She did not catch the title or the name of the dignitary who awarded them the medals—she did not think it was the ambassador himself—but his words about courage and sacrifice made her heart swell in her chest.

  She could not help peering around from time to time, to see whether Jack had come. As soon as the ceremony was over, she stood and turned around, surveying the room.

  He wasn’t there. He hadn’t come.

  Disappointment sank like a stone to the pit of her stomach. But how likely was it that he would be there, after all? If he had wanted to see her, he would have come to the rue Royale long ago. She ought to have known not to hope. And yet, she had hoped. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  On to plan B, then. She would go to London, find whatever records office there might be, and try to discover what had become of him. She would never be ready for the news of his death, but it was time to face the truth. She had earned a medal for courage. Well, she would try very hard to deserve it.

  Light refreshments were served: cucumber sandwiches—suc
h an odd, bland combination—and an abundance of strong, hot Indian tea. Gabby took the tea Yvette pressed into her hands and they found themselves congregating with a handful of other Frenchwomen who had been honored that day. They spoke of everything but the war, and Gabby tried to listen, but her mind kept wandering. She felt honored to be part of this ceremony, and yet, she felt like a fraud.

  Catherine Dior had been decorated by the French and British governments, a heroine on both sides of the channel. Gabby turned to Yvette and pressed the velvet case into her hand, whispering, “This is for both of us, Yvette. You deserve it, too.”

  Yvette’s eyes widened, then glazed with tears, but she gave a curt shake of the head. “No, Gabby. I don’t.”

  Before Gabby could explore the subject further, someone touched her shoulder. She turned, to find the most quintessentially British woman she’d ever seen smiling down at her.

  The stranger was dressed in good-quality tweed and a battered brown hat with a limp pheasant feather curling over its brim. She was about Gabby’s age, attractive in that slightly horsey way some Englishwomen were.

  “Is it really you?” the woman said, peering into her face as if to better identify her. Then she drew back and stuck out her hand, adding in English, “Mademoiselle Foucher, I am so glad to meet you!”

  Bemused, Gabby shook the proffered hand. It was bare and cold, and she noted the lady carried her gloves and a small, compact purse in her other hand. “Vraiment? Pardon, I mean, really? But if you please, madame, to whom am I speaking?”

  The woman laughed. “Oh, how silly of me! I’m Audrey Miller.” When Gabby still looked nonplussed, she added, “Jack’s sister.”

  “Jack’s . . .” And then she saw it. The fair coloring, those blue, blue eyes, and something about the expression . . . Gabby clutched at Yvette to steady herself. Her sister’s arm came around her, strong and comforting.

  “It is such a pleasure to meet you.” Audrey chattered on about her eventful trip to Paris. Due to several hitches along the way, she almost hadn’t made it to the ceremony in time.

  Gabby felt sick. She was going to be sick. She had looked for him, thought of nothing but him, yet she had not been prepared for this. “But tell me!” she burst out. “Please tell me. What happened to Jack?”

  “Silly old thing stayed home.” A flick of her gloves brushed off his behavior, but Audrey’s eyes were watchful and anxious. She made a comical moue. “Please don’t be offended. He has turned into a positive recluse these days.”

  “Then he’s . . . he’s not dead?” The room was starting to spin.

  “No! Oh, no!” said Audrey. “Oh, my poor dear. You didn’t know? I’m so sorry, I—”

  “Why don’t we sit down?” suggested Yvette, steering Gabby over to a group of chairs by the window. She perched on the arm of Gabby’s chair and addressed Audrey in English. “Please. Will you tell us where Monsieur Miller is? Gabby would very much like to see him again.”

  “Ah, no, Yvette! We must not . . .” Gabby didn’t know the word in English. Intrude.

  “Nonsense!” said Audrey. “Of course you must come to stay with us. I insist. The sole reason I came to Paris was to bring you back with me, I assure you.”

  She’d so feared hearing news of Jack’s death that the invitation to stay at his home, extended so matter-of-factly by his sister, bewildered Gabby. She wanted to leap at the chance to see him again, but Jack hadn’t been in touch all this time. Did he even want her to come?

  This was all too much on top of what had already proven to be an emotional day. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Audrey tilted her head, her brow furrowed in concern, and glanced at Yvette, as if seeking an explanation.

  “Yes, but of a certainty, she will come,” said Yvette. “I will arrange it all. Gabby will be ready to leave tomorrow.”

  “But . . . the tenants . . . Maman . . .” Gabby stammered.

  “If I might have a word with my sister in private, Madame Miller?” Without waiting for an answer, Yvette pulled Gabby to her feet and dragged her into a quiet corner. “If you are worried about your concierge duties, don’t be,” said Yvette in a low voice once they were out of earshot. “I’ll fill in for you if Maman won’t.”

  “You?” Her sister, the glamorous Dior mannequin, scrubbing floors and sorting mail?

  Yvette shrugged. “Why not? I won’t do it half as well as you, of course, but I’ll keep things going until you get back. All right?”

  Gabby wavered. Yvette was likely to do any number of impetuous things if left to her own devices at the apartment building. She’d probably give Madame Vasseur a piece of her mind, for example, or fail to keep the common areas up to Gabby’s standards.

  Oh, but to see Jack again! To touch him. To put her arms around him. It was too much temptation. Then she recalled another objection. “But what about Dior?”

  Yvette shrugged. “Now that the show is over, the mannequins are only required between three and five in the afternoon each day. Surely Maman can manage for that long without me.”

  This casual generosity was so typical of Yvette. Fighting back tears, Gabby took a deep breath. “Very well, then.”

  “You will do it? That’s wonderful, Gabby!” Yvette clapped her hands, oblivious to the stares she was getting from others in the reception room. She looked wistful. “What a pity I can’t go with you. And what a pity we cannot beg Monsieur Dior for something for you to wear.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Gabby shuddered to think of such presumption. “Besides,” she added in a whisper with a glance around her, “the English dress so shabbily, I will hardly stand out over there.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Yvette with an impish twinkle. “You would not wish to shame them too much with your elegance.”

  A warm glow spread through Gabby, then bubbled up into excitement at the thought of seeing Jack again. They moved to where Audrey now stood by the window, clutching her purse handle with both hands, her eyebrows raised as if in hope of a good outcome.

  “Thank you for your kind invitation, madame,” said Gabby softly. “I would very much like to come.”

  “Oh, but that’s simply marvelous!” said Audrey. She placed her large hands on Gabby’s shoulders and kissed her soundly on each cheek.

  A little overwhelmed by this heartiness, Gabby added, “But I can only be gone a week at the most. Is that enough time, do you think?”

  Audrey seemed to consider for a moment, then said, “Well, at any rate, it’s a start.”

  What she meant by that, Gabby couldn’t tell, but her longing for Jack banished everything else from her thoughts. Who cared for medals or receptions or cucumber sandwiches? Jack was alive. Her Jack. And she was going to see him again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paris, June 1944

  GABBY

  When Gabby arrived at the Café de la Mer at the appointed time, Berger’s usual booth was empty and Rafael was nowhere to be seen. Upon inquiry, the waiter handed her a note with an address: 180 rue de la Pompe. “Monsieur Rafael left word that you are to go there, mademoiselle.” He eyed her for a few seconds before he added, “But I wouldn’t. Nice young lady like you doesn’t belong in a place like that.”

  A place like what? A den of thieves and black marketeers, no doubt.

  But she had to go. If she didn’t, Jack would die. “Thank you, monsieur.”

  She did not have too far to walk to the gang’s headquarters, but a woman alone at this time of night had to be vigilant, and she was on edge as she hurried along, burningly aware of the sapphire ring in her pocket. She ought to have put it in her shoe or sewn it into the hem of her skirt or something. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  Panic welled up to choke her. Every man she passed was a threat. She couldn’t do this. She simply couldn’t. She almost turned back, but the thought of Jack made her go on.

  All too soon, she arrived at Berger’s apartment building. Music and laughter blasted from an open window on the ups
tairs floor, so unexpected in light of her grim imaginings that, for a moment, she was disoriented.

  A large man holding a machine gun across his body stood guard at the door. “State your business.”

  She handed him the note Rafael had left. “I-I’m here at the invitation of Monsieur Rafael. It is about—”

  The guard jerked his head, which she took as permission to enter. Cautiously, Gabby opened the tall, solid door and stepped into the foyer, a large, imposing space with a marble floor and a concierge desk beside the staircase. She was about to ask the concierge to direct her when a sharp voice called from above, “Who’s there?”

  Gabby looked up to see a woman, young and red haired, with a supple body and hard eyes, pause halfway down the stairs. She raked Gabby with her gaze and curled her lip, as if she’d sized her up and found her wanting.

  Gabby repeated her business and the woman shrugged. “Upstairs. Come.”

  The woman gestured for Gabby to precede her. As she went up, the redhead followed so closely, Gabby smelled the sweet odor of wine on her breath.

  A shout came from somewhere below. Another, more like a muffled scream this time.

  Gabby halted, her head snapping around. “What was that?” But silence fell again. The woman rolled her eyes and gave Gabby a shove between the shoulder blades. “Move. I don’t have all night.”

  At the top of the stairs, Gabby’s escort brushed past and let her into the apartment. Berger’s quarters were large and spacious, even bigger than the suites at number 10 rue Royale. Through an open door, Gabby caught a glimpse inside the drawing room.

  That was where the music was coming from. A couple of sharp-suited fellows smoked fat cigars, puffing thick grey clouds toward the ornate plasterwork ceiling. A young woman in a slinky gown was draped across an armchair, one long, bare, white leg swinging, marking out the beat. Another sang along to the record in between swigs from a bottle of champagne. Rafael was there, too, doing tricks with a pack of cards, while two other men sorted through boxes—contraband, she assumed.