Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

  And then he says, “Non, ma chère.”

  “But—”

  “Soon.” His breath is warm in my ear. His hand dipping beneath the hem of my sweater. His fingers trailing across my spine, up and down, up and down. Gentle. Methodic. He is lulling me to sleep.

  “But,” I argue, again, “I won the drinking game.”

  “It was a tie.”

  “Let’s both get what we want, then.” I wriggle closer and he laughs. Wraps both arms tight across my shoulders.

  Henri Fiocca is a big man. Tall and broad, with a deep, commanding voice. And though my pride stings—am I not desirable enough?—I don’t stand a chance. I am so perfectly warm and safe and happy in this moment. So groggy from a long, emotional evening—from hating Old Man Fiocca while falling madly for his son—that I simply drift away right here and I know that sometime tomorrow, when the sun is high in the sky, I will wake alone.

  Madame Andrée

  CHAUDES-AIGUES PLATEAU, CANTAL, FRANCE

  March 21, 1944

  Once again, I wake up in the backseat of Denis Rake’s little Renault. It is hard, grueling work that we’ve gotten ourselves into and I am exhausted—what with keeping our radios on hand at all hours to listen for transmissions on the BBC French Service—and being up all night waiting for the drops at various airfields, then cleaning the weapons of grease and packing materials. We’ve been doing this for three weeks now and my muscles ache. My fingers are dirty and numb. I’d exchange one of my lesser organs—say, an ovary—for a jar of cold cream and a hot bath. There is a natural hot springs near Chaudes-Aigues where we can bathe, but it requires use of a vehicle to get there and several spare hours, so we go only once a week. Most of the Maquis just rinse off in the creek as necessary. Which means I have to go upstream each morning to perform my necessary ablutions. Sleep, when I’m able to get it, is like falling into a deep, dark cavern that swallows me whole. Denden’s Renault is a better option than the ground beside the fire. I stay a bit drier this way, and it allows me enough privacy to sleep in one of the two nightgowns I’ve brought with me. But it’s hard to stretch out in the backseat, and all the little muscles along my spine, and down the back of my legs, seize up during the night. They complain at any sudden movement. Each day I wake missing my bed with its proper mattress. I miss Picon. I miss Henri most of all.

  But there is work to do and I must get after it. No time to sit around feeling maudlin. So I pull on my clothing beneath the mangy blanket I’ve acquired from one of the maquisards, cursing, once again, all the various contraptions required to function as a woman. This tiny, inadequate space is the only privacy I have and I am determined to find a better solution.

  “Madame Andrée, we have a problem,” Fournier says, finding me a short time later at the creek. I am brushing my teeth and tucking the craziest strands of my untrimmed hair beneath my beret.

  I sigh and spit toothpaste into a gorse bush. “Of course we do.”

  “Come with me,” he says.

  Fournier leads me back up the hill, to the clearing, where a young Frenchman stands beside the fire. He is tall and thin, with a nice jaw, but his pretty eyes are pinched in exquisite pain. A dirty bandage is wrapped around his left hand and blood seeps through the cloth.

  I nod at the young man but do not smile. These poor boys take even a half-hearted grin as an invitation to flirt. And given that my left hand is bare, none of them know that I am married. Not that it would do much good anyway.

  “This is Louis,” Fournier tells me. “He blew three fingers off his hand with a grenade yesterday.”

  Louis holds up the bandaged knob as proof.

  “Why the bloody hell did you do that?” I ask him.

  Louis looks so mortified you’d think that I had caught him in the act of pleasuring himself.

  Fournier digs the toe of his boot into a patch of charred ground near the fire. “Most of my men do not know how to use the weapons. They are tradesmen. Factory workers, mostly. Men who fled our cities during the relève so they wouldn’t be drafted into working for the Germans. These men, our maquisards, are not traditional soldiers.”

  “Thus, our problem,” I guess.

  Fournier nods. This is his most frequent form of communication, and I have learned to read each little bob of his head for subtleties. “We need someone to train the groups in weapons use,” he says. “We have to be prepared if the Germans attack.”

  “When,” I correct him. “It’s likely to happen sooner rather than later. Unless we strike first.”

  There are twenty-two thousand Germans garrisoned throughout the Auvergne and Cantal and they know that something has changed within the Maquis structure, not the least of which is that the Resistance is acquiring weapons from an unknown source. So they have increased the number and range of their daily patrols. They are harassing the local villages more often, sometimes to the point of unspeakable violence. Our scouts indicate that the Germans are suspicious and looking for Resistance leaders, they are looking for a fight. And we can’t have our men blowing themselves up before the fight even arrives.

  I turn to Louis and study him closely. He can’t be more than twenty-three years old. “Are you married?” I ask.

  The stupid boy cannot help himself. Who knows how long he’s been out here in these woods. Even his pain cannot overrule his biology. He looks me over, head to toe and then back again. He smirks. “For now.”

  Gah! Frenchmen. I roll my eyes.

  “I would think a married man would be more careful with his hands,” I say. “Now go find someone to take you to Chaudes-Aigues so you can see a doctor before the rest of it rots off.”

  I motion for Fournier to follow me and we leave Louis standing there, bandages pressed against his chest, looking for all the world like he’s just been chastised by an irascible schoolmarm.

  Fournier chuckles as we turn into the woods and onto a path that has been beaten down by countless footsteps. “Do you have children?” he asks.

  “No.”

  He gives me one of his nods. There is no pity in it. Nor sympathy. Just understanding. “Neither do I.”

  This surprises me, and I tell him as much.

  “My wife and I are unable to. I have come to think of these young men as the children I did not get.” He gives me a sideways look followed by a crooked grin. “They like you.”

  I snort. “A bit too much, perhaps.”

  He shrugs. “They have been out here for a long while, but they are not dead. So that part is inevitable. What I mean is that they are willing to be led by you. It took me nearly a year to gain their trust. But you have done it in weeks.”

  “You’re the one who leads them. I only boss them around occasionally.”

  “And yet they do what you tell them.”

  “Only because I threatened to shoot their balls off if they didn’t.”

  “Well, they are not entirely stupid.” Fournier stomps through the undergrowth after me.

  Though I could easily debate him on that point, I change the subject. “Tell me what you know about the man they call Soutine.”

  “Gabriel Soutine?” He scratches his chin for a moment as we work our way around a fallen log. “He is a local partisan leader. He lives in the village of Termes.”

  “Is it true that he monitors the German troop movements throughout the region?”

  Fournier looks at me curiously. “Where did you hear this?”

  I point to the sky, from whence comes most of our information. “London.”

  “Ah. Well, yes. If anyone knows where the Germans are and how many, it would be Soutine.”

  “Will he talk to us, do you think? Hubert and me?”

  “I am sure he would be willing to barter information for supplies.” At this I get one of Fournier’s rare smiles. “You are a very powerful woman, Madame Andrée. Word
has gotten out.”

  “Let’s just hope word doesn’t get to the wrong ears.” The last thing I need is anyone associating the White Mouse with Madame Andrée. Hellfire will rain down on us the moment that connection is made by the Germans. “We will pay Soutine a visit later today.”

  “I will send word,” he says. “But where are we going now?”

  “To find Denden.”

  Fournier looks at the sky. The sun has barely risen. “I imagine he’s still sleeping.”

  “Oh, I’m certain he is.”

  Denis Rake is up half the night operating his transmitter and listening to the radio. And then of course there are the airdrops. None of us are exempt when those are scheduled. So he has created his own quiet space in the woods to retreat from Fournier’s rowdy Frenchmen, and the Maquis generally let him be. They understand that if he’s not alert enough to work the transmitter, no one gets their supplies. Denis has erected a small lean-to for himself beneath a giant pine tree in the woods. He has quite cleverly used shipment crates and parachutes to build the small, waterproof dwelling. It’s so clever, in fact, that many of Fournier’s men have begun doing the same and I am often put upon to settle quarrels about who can abscond with the packing materials once the weapons have been cleaned and distributed.

  A low rumble drifts from the lean-to as we approach.

  “Denden,” I say, louder than necessary, and then, as Fournier steps forward to shove aside the tent flaps, add, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Why?”

  “He sleeps naked.”

  Fournier jumps back as though the tent flaps were vipers ready to strike. “How—”

  “Long story that takes place in Scotland and involves myself, Denden, and a rubber duckie.”

  His eyes narrow. “Do you mean to say that the two of you are—”

  “Absolutely not!” I am tempted to add that I am married and Denis Rake is a homosexual, but that is personal information that could be used against us should it ever fall into the wrong hands. I pick up a small rock and toss it toward the tent. “Denden!”

  A snort. A groan. And then a thump as Rake tries to sit up and whacks his head against one of the wooden slats. “What?” A pause. “Dammit. That hurt.”

  “Get up.”

  “I’d rather not just yet, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “I need you to take notes.”

  “I am not your secretary, Duckie. Find someone else.”

  “Ah, but you are my radioman. And I need to make additions to the list of supplies you’ll request tonight.”

  He yawns. “Run out of toothpaste, have you?”

  “No. But I could use some face cream. So that will go on your list. Along with a bit of tea.” That was my deal with Buckmaster. I get into France and get situated with the Maquis, and I will be allowed to request personal items. “But the real reason I need you to get your skinny arse out of bed is because Fournier’s men are out there blowing off bits of themselves in the woods—”

  “Bully for them—”

  “—so it’s time we put in a request for Anselm.”

  The lean-to goes very quiet at this. Then, after a few seconds, Rake shoves aside the tent flaps and sticks his head out. The man looks as though he’s been electrocuted in his sleep, hair going everywhere, and I want to crack a joke about newborns and birth canals. But he’s grinning like a madman and I don’t want to disrupt his sudden good humor.

  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  * * *

  —

  In the end, Hubert and I decide to visit Soutine alone. It takes over an hour as we pick our way north through back roads, near Montluçon. We thought about taking Fournier, but we do not know when the Germans will strike, and it would be unwise to leave the Maquis without their leader. We are on the outskirts of Termes when we see the blockade. Stretched across the road is a Nazi Wehrmacht bus, one of the transport vehicles used to bring soldiers into France. It is parked at such an angle that no traffic can get through from either direction. On the other side of the blockade is the village of Termes, where, according to Fournier, we will find Gabriel Soutine.

  The village is set on a low hill overlooking vast pastureland. It is as lovely and picturesque as any French town I’ve ever seen. But today there is something desperately wrong.

  “Pull off the road. Now,” I tell Hubert, and he swerves onto the shoulder beside a low fence meant to keep sheep and goats off the road. I can feel him stiffen in the seat beside me and I know he’s reaching for his gun.

  “Do you see anyone?” I ask.

  “No.” Hubert rolls down the driver’s-side window and listens. He shakes his head. Nothing.

  “I’ll go check.”

  “Are you crazy?” he asks.

  “Many people think so,” I say, digging around in my purse. I fish out my red lipstick, apply a fresh coat, then flash him a disarming smile. “I’ll be right back.”

  The thing I like most about Hubert is that he doesn’t argue with me. No doubt he finds me endlessly trying. But he lets me do what I think is best. I tuck my revolver into my waistband at the small of my back and cover it with the edge of my blouse, and I’m out of the car, creeping toward the bus.

  “Bonjour?” I ask. “Anyone there? We’re just needing to get through.”

  No answer. The bus is parked several hundred feet from our Renault, stretched across the road at a forty-five-degree angle, with its nose pointing in the opposite direction.

  “Anyone there?” I call again and lift my hands, palms out, to show I mean no harm. But once again I am greeted by silence.

  Closer now, I peer under but see no one. I knock on the door and push it open. Completely empty. The bus has four rows of seats and then, at the back, two long benches that face each other. I assume that this is where the Brownshirts store their machinery. But a quick glance under the benches shows nothing. Whatever they brought with them, they have taken into the village. If packed to capacity, the bus can hold about thirty people. I step outside and move toward the rear, just to be safe. No one.

  “We just want to get home,” I call, giving Hubert a look over my shoulder. I shake my head.

  It’s obvious the bus has been parked here but it’s strange that no one has been left to guard it. I am walking back to convene with Hubert and see if he has any ideas what we should do, when the sharp, metallic sound of a whistle cuts through the air. It is followed by three more, then a single gunshot. A cascade of horrified screams drifts up from the village on the hill, followed by coarse, guttural shouting. Another shot and all is silent except for a single indecipherable German voice that seems to be giving orders.

  I hurl myself toward the car as Hubert puts it in reverse. The road is narrow and he has to make a five-point turn before he’s able to get the little Renault pointed in the other direction.

  Neither of us speaks for a good ten seconds, but I know we’re both thinking the same thing.

  “We have to help them,” I say.

  “Yes,” Hubert answers.

  He has spoken a grand total of ten words since we left the encampment but he offers an eleventh now. “Soutine.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Why else would the Germans be in this little village?”

  Hubert drives a short distance in the opposite direction—far enough to round a sharp bend before he pulls the Renault to the side once again. There’s a bit more shoulder on this stretch of road, along with patches of gorse brush, so we hide the car and formulate our plan.

  “Do you have your binoculars?” he asks.

  “In my pack.”

  “Grab them. We can approach Termes from here but we’ll have to go through the pasture.”

  Hubert’s revolver is strapped to his leg, so his hands are free as we scramble through the waist-high gras
s. There’s a flush to his cheeks, and I am reminded that my partner is first and foremost a soldier.

  Somewhere, in the village, a small child begins to scream. It’s the kind of sound that can make your knees go out from under you. It can twist your stomach into a boiling mass of bile. It can stop your heart. It is the sound of soul-ripping terror.

  A German solider shouts.

  A lone woman is wailing. Grief and fear penetrating every note of her voice.

  And we are running, as quietly and quickly as we can, toward Termes. Like something from a fairy tale, the entire village is surrounded by a low, stacked-stone wall covered in budding vines. It is roughly three feet tall and looks as though it will be buried in honeysuckle blooms within days. But the continuing, traumatized shrieks of that child indicate that what’s happening within resembles something from a nightmare. We push through the last section of pasture and come to an abrupt stop behind the wall. We ready ourselves, then peer over the edge, between two stucco buildings, into the center of the village. Like many old French hamlets, it is a cluster of shops and homes built around an open central area—something like a town square, only much smaller. It appears as though the entire village is gathered there, watching something.

  Hubert goes over the wall first and I follow close behind, then we ease between the two buildings until we reach the edge of the crowd where an old man leans hard against the wall. Hubert sets his hand on the man’s shoulder and he physically recoils. He must be nearing the age of ninety. His spine is bent. His hair is gone. And his eyes have the milky look of one going blind.

  “What is going on here?” Hubert whispers, gently, in French.

  The old man hangs his head. “You are too late.”