Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

  “Too late for what?”

  “To save her.”

  “Who?”

  “Olivia Soutine,” he says.

  The crowd sways back and forth, and only then do I realize that they are weeping, silently. Grasping one another for strength. Most of them look at their feet or at the sky, anywhere but the village center. It takes a moment to find the woman chained to the light post. Her arms are stretched taut above her. Her head hangs to her chest at an unnatural angle. And her entire torso is split open from throat to groin. At her feet, in a ghastly pool of blood and entrails, lies her unborn child—a full-size infant, ready to be born. To her left stands a little girl—her daughter—no more than two years old, shrieking and crying like a tiny wounded animal. Eyes red. Nose running. Chest heaving. Her arms are raised to the mother who will never hold her again. And, to Olivia Soutine’s left, is the Brownshirt who slaughtered her, dripping bayonet raised above his head.

  “Jesus God in heaven,” Hubert whispers, his voice stretched thin by the agony of prayer. “Help.”

  After a moment the toddler looks around and sees an old woman with silver hair and a face creased like worn linen. The little girl stumbles toward her, arms outstretched, desperate, begging to be held against that ample bosom. But the old woman turns her away, visibly shaken, as she denies the deepest instinct of any woman, much less one her age.

  The soldiers pace, waiting. Ready. Almost eager.

  “They will not let anyone help the child,” the old man whispers. “They threaten to shoot anyone who does. Twenty-four hours we must leave Olivia there before she can be buried. The child can be taken in at sunset. If we touch them before that, they will shoot all the children in the village and throw their bodies in the well so we can never retrieve them.”

  I rise up on my tiptoes to peer over the crowd. Only then do I see that the old man is telling the truth. All the village children have been brought to the front, where desperate parents cling to them and cover their eyes.

  “Why did they do this?” I ask, but I do not recognize my own voice. It is hollow and tremulous.

  He tries to explain. “The garrison commander at Montluçon came looking for her husband, Gabriel. His men blockaded the road on both sides of the village, then went house to house searching for him. But all they could find were his wife and daughter.” He nods toward the light post and I feel a wave of nausea rising in my belly. “Once they had her chained they forced everyone out of their homes to watch. The German officer in charge asked her three times where her husband was but she refused him each time. And all the while her daughter stood there, eyes wide, sucking her thumb. I could see, even from here, that Olivia tried to be brave. She kept her voice steady so as not to scare the child. The officer gave her a fourth chance, but when she refused once more, he screamed. I have never heard a grown man make such a noise. And then he gave the order for her to be…” He gulps. “For his man to do that.”

  Rage is an odd thing, not so different from grief in the way it catches you unaware and then explodes in your chest. It crashes against you like a wave and all I can think in this moment is that we are sitting here, watching this happen. Doing nothing.

  “We have to stop them!” I hiss.

  “No.” The old man looks at me and I am ashamed, suddenly, because his eyes reflect pity. “You need to leave. While you still can.”

  Hubert sets his hand between my shoulder blades and leans close to whisper, “There are nearly thirty soldiers in this village, all of them heavily armed with rifles and bayonets. The villagers number little more than one hundred and they have nothing. If we move, if we act at all, they will open fire on those children.” He points toward Olivia Soutine’s child. “And they will start with that little girl.”

  “So we do nothing?”

  “They came for Soutine. They came to make a point. They do not want anyone else,” the old man says.

  There are some things that little eyes can never unsee, some moments that no mind, no matter how young or resilient, can ever forget. For the little girl beside the light post, this will be one. She has gone into shock now. Her tears have ceased, and she drops to the ground beside her dead mother, stupefied.

  I lift my binoculars from where they hang on the cord around my neck and inspect the village. Hubert is right. There is one soldier for every three villagers and they all carry rifles affixed with bayonets. I know that I am a coward, but I keep my gaze away from the light post. I cannot bear to see that woman again. I cannot bear to see the face of her child up close. I do not want to know the color of her eyes, because it will henceforth be associated with slaughter. So I scan the crowd instead and I bear witness to the shock and horror on their tear-streaked faces. Hands over mouths. Eyes squeezed shut. Chests that heave with silent tears. Unmitigated fury and despair beyond words. Some are frozen. Others are shaking. More than one young woman and old man has fainted. The old woman who turned the child away has collapsed into the arms of a man beside her.

  And then I see the face.

  His face. That face made of spare parts and pure hatred. So unique and ghoulish it cannot be mistaken.

  Obersturmführer Wolff.

  He has stepped from the shadows of a building to oversee his handiwork, walking a lazy circle around the light post as he nods. Wolff speaks in a low voice, so I cannot hear what he says to the officer holding the bayonet, but he is clearly pleased with the work that has been done.

  I associate Wolff with that waterwheel in Vienna and my mind struggles to make sense of his presence here. But there is no mistaking him. The cruelty. The hatred. The whip. I don’t even realize that I’m lunging forward, trying to push my way through the crowd, until Hubert’s arms are around me. He slams me against the nearest building, hard enough to knock the wind out of me.

  My grunt, mingled with stinging breath, comes out in an inaudible puff.

  “What are you doing? You’re going to get us all killed,” Hubert hisses.

  I am gasping for air like a dying fish and my head throbs from where it’s hit the wall. All I can manage to spit out is a strangled whisper. “I’ve seen that man before.”

  “I don’t care,” Hubert says, and there is no small amount of regret in his voice when he adds, “There is nothing we can do for these people.”

  No. I shake my head because speaking the word feels impossible. It feels like failure.

  “We need to leave,” Hubert says. His voice is a low, steady thrum in my ear. “Now.”

  How can we walk away without doing anything? I ask myself that over and over, even as we retreat. I feel like a failure. A traitor. But the tiny, rational voice at the back of my skull insists that Hubert is right. We accomplish nothing if we get these people killed. If we die ourselves. I let Hubert steady me as we crawl back over the wall and through the pasture toward the road, sick and shaken. He looks as though all the blood has been drained from his body. When we reach the car, we stand there for a moment, feeling helpless and guilty and disgusted with ourselves. Both of us are considering the odds and whether we could have killed the Brownshirts without unleashing more hell on that poor village.

  Oh God, that tiny child. I can’t help it: I drop to my hands and knees and vomit. Everything I had for breakfast. Weak tea. Some biscuit. And then, bile. When there is nothing left in my stomach I dry-heave while hot, furious tears flood my face. My throat burns. My face feels warm and my hands are cold, shaking. I feel betrayed by my own body, as though I have become the weakest version of myself.

  “Nance,” Hubert says, so overwhelmed with emotion that he’s unaware he has used my real name. “We have to go.”

  I lift one hand and he helps me to my feet. I suck air in through my nose. I spit, then drag my hands down my face. I stand there, eyes watering, long enough to calm my stomach. My fear is gone now. My nausea fading. All I have left is rage. This impotence is a
n all-consuming fury. I cannot do anything to help. I am useless. But I want revenge. I want…I…

  I look at the bus parked farther up the road.

  I have an idea.

  “Where the hell are you going now?” Hubert hisses after me as I march toward the blockade.

  I turn, looking at him over my shoulder, cheeks damp and voice raw. “I’m going to take that bus.”

  Nancy Grace Augusta Wake

  VERDUN’S RESTAURANT, MARSEILLE

  January 7, 1939

  Henri brings me to this restaurant every time I’m in Marseille. I think it is partly to banish the memory of meeting his father, but also because this place was ours first and he does not want to relinquish its meaning to a man who persists in trying to separate us. So, in a way, every meal that we enjoy within these warm, paneled walls is a way of thumbing our noses at Old Man Fiocca. However, he is the last thing on my mind at this particular moment.

  “Do you remember that night in Paris when you walked with me along the Seine?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s something I didn’t tell you that night.” There is a slight tremble of emotion in his voice and I am intrigued. I have never heard him speak with anything but charm and authority. “Do you remember how I found you at Luigi’s with your colleagues?”

  “Of course. I told you I’d be there, remember? I practically dared you to come.”

  Henri nods, then covers my hand lightly with his. He brushes his thumb across my knuckles. “I was so jealous,” he says, as though confessing to murder or burglary or some especially egregious fetish.

  “Of who?”

  “Them. Your friends.” He waves his free hand in the air. “That Frank fellow in particular.”

  I try not to laugh but I cannot help myself. “Frank Gilmore? Whatever for?”

  “Because it was obvious that you were their Nancy. I envied the way they made you laugh, their easy acquaintanceship. The fact that you’d chosen them over me—that night, at least. I watched you for several minutes before sending that drink and I found myself consumed with the reality that I wanted you all to myself.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  He averts his eyes for a moment, those dark lashes brushing his cheeks, and when he returns his gaze there is an intensity I have never seen in them before. “I still want you all to myself. But the wanting isn’t the half of it. I love you. With the entirety of my heart.”

  “I—”

  “Which is why I would like to know if you will be my wife.”

  Henri pulls a small, red velvet box from his suit pocket and sets it on the white tablecloth. It stands out like a blood drop on snow and I cannot look away.

  I stare at him, helpless.

  Our relationship has always been strange. The way we came together and the way we have stayed together, long distance, for over two years, scraping out pockets of time to travel back and forth from Marseille to Paris. Despite having me meet his father soon after we began dating, he has never pressed me for anything or set an expectation. We discovered almost immediately how much we enjoy each other’s company, which is quite separate from being in love. Love is a choice. It is the active choosing of good for another person. But like? It is a gift and it cannot be forced. The degree to which we like each other cannot be overstated. Though I won’t deny that we fell fast and hard into love as well. We laugh at the same things and he pretends to be long-suffering about my outspokenness, but I know it delights him. He is my match and I am his and we are both well aware of this. I am stunned that he has offered me a ring only because we have never once spoken of marriage and I have always assumed that such conversations precede a proposal. But here I am, staring at a velvet box, clenching his hand so hard that our knuckles have turned white.

  “I…” Once again I try to find the words but they drift away before I can grab hold of them.

  He wants me all to himself.

  He wants me to be his wife.

  I have never thought of myself as the marrying type. The type to settle down. Or commit. I don’t even own furniture for Pete’s sake.

  “If you need more time—”

  “Yes,” I say, and then, when I see the hopeful look on his face, hasten to add, “I need time. Just a little bit. I did not expect this. I—” Damn words. Now they choose to tumble out, an unruly mess, and I am in danger of breaking his heart. “I’m so sorry. It’s only that—”

  “You do not have to apologize. Or explain,” Henri says. It is a great testament to his character that he does not get angry. Or defensive. He doesn’t backtrack or pretend that what he’s asked isn’t important. He simply lowers his head in a gentle bow and then lifts my hand from the table and kisses my knuckles. “There is no hurry. I am not going anywhere. I would be happy to marry you first thing in the morning. But if you ask that I wait until we are bent of spine and silver of head, I will.”

  Then he calls for the waiter and orders a shockingly expensive bottle of champagne, as though we are celebrating. And perhaps we are. Commitment comes in many forms other than matrimony. But it isn’t until he has paid the check and is helping me into my jacket that I notice the little red velvet box is no longer sitting on the table.

  MARSEILLE

  Le Parc Valmer, January 14, 1939

  “Come with me,” Henri says, pulling off the road and stopping his shiny new Renault beside a low, crumbling stone wall. “I want you to meet someone.”

  “Not another one of your relatives, I hope?” I give him a warning frown but it’s all for show.

  “No.” Henri laughs. “Someone else.”

  The hillside drops away sharply on the other side of the road, falling swiftly toward the Mediterranean—currently a bright and startling blue—and I stare at the water while he crosses around to my side of the car. I will never get over the staggering beauty of Marseille—even in January, the worst month known to man. Henri opens my door, helps me into my new red wool peacoat, and takes my hand. He leads me through the gate and down a long, winding gravel path.

  “Where are we?”

  “Le Parc Valmer,” he says.

  “It looks like a cemetery.” I take in the old, bare trees with tangled roots and long, dark branches. The stone benches. The whispered hush that has settled about the place like a wool blanket.

  “Non, ma chère. It’s a park. One of the oldest and smallest in Marseille. But it’s the prettiest, I think. You cannot match the view.”

  He’s right. Even if it hadn’t been framed by the sea, the little park would be bursting with charm and dignity. The stone wall curves around the perimeter like a stream, offering visitors endless places to sit beneath the latent willows or stretch out in the sun. There are duck ponds, rosebushes—long gone dormant for winter—and footpaths meandering this way and that. Thankfully, there’s not a gravestone in sight.

  It has been a week since Henri proposed and he has not mentioned it again. He has, however, kept me busy. Every day we go on an excursion. We visit museums and art galleries. We take the train into the nearby countryside and eat at small, family-owned restaurants that do not offer menus. He has taken me shopping and sailing and picnicking and all the while I have thought about his proposal. I know Henri can see that I am growing more comfortable with the idea of marriage. Sometimes I catch him smiling as he watches me.

  “This way,” Henri says. The path before us forks in half and we go left, then down, and around a sharp curve, only to find a man sitting on a bench to the side of the path with a little dog in his lap. Henri leads me toward him.

  “And who is this?” I ask, bending down to scratch the small dog, a wire-haired terrier just like Picon. I look up at the owner—expecting to discover a kindred spirit—and see that he’s a short, broad man with a kind face and extraordinary, odd eyes. One is brown and the other gray. Not blue or green like you
’d expect with a mismatched pair. But gray. Like one of the pebbles on the path beneath our feet. I feel at once as though he is measuring my soul for quality and a chill runs up the back of my neck.

  “It’s not my job to name her,” the man says.

  “It’s yours,” Henri adds, and when he sees the confusion on my face, he laughs. It’s a booming, raucous sound and a puffy bluebird startles from the branch above his head. “She belongs to you now.”

  The little dog barks as if to confirm this and then she wags her tail, her entire body shivering with anticipation.

  “Mine?” I look back and forth between Henri and this man, delighted, and scoop her up to pull her close beneath my chin.

  “A wife for Picon,” Henry says. “Every gentleman should be so lucky as to marry the woman he loves.”

  His voice is thick with meaning, and the little Frenchman turns away, suddenly fascinated by something on the horizon. The tip of my nose is nearly frozen in this January air, but my ears grow warm. My face flushes. I clear my throat. “Picon hasn’t even met her yet.”

  Henri shrugs as if this fact is unimportant. “No matter. He will love her. How could he not?”

  It’s true. She is a lovely little thing. White, with large brown patches, like puddles of chocolate. Eyes as big and round and dark as the buttons on my coat.

  I turn to the little Frenchman. “Thank you, monsieur!”

  He tips his chin toward Henri. “Thank him. He’s the one who arranged the sale.”

  “But you had to part with her and that must be terrible. She is perfect. I’ve only known her for a few moments, but I could never let her go.”

  This pleases him. I hadn’t thought of him as stiff, but his shoulders relax and those startling eyes soften. Whatever measuring he began earlier seems to be complete now, and he gives me a warm smile. “My daughters will be pleased to hear that. They raise the dogs and cry whenever I have to find them homes. But I do not think they will cry tonight.”

  I offer my hand. “I am so very pleased to meet you, monsieur…?”