by Ariel Lawhon
Oh, it is a herculean effort not to smile. Not to act superior. I would lose my advantage, and this war is too important for me to indulge my ego. “Very well. But I’m in the middle of something. You may meet me in my office in two hours.”
He snorts. “Your office?”
I lift an arm casually toward my bus. “Two hours.”
* * *
—
I spend the next one hundred and twenty minutes coding messages for Denis Rake. We need London to increase the amount of supplies they send in each airdrop if we’re to outfit our new recruits. I put in another urgent request for the weapons instructor I know only as Anselm. Hubert does his best, but we need a dedicated trainer to turn these farm boys into fighters. Hubert is outnumbered and out of his league and Anselm is our only hope of getting these troops trained in time.
Speaking of the devil, Hubert stomps up the bus steps and drops into one of the four seats I’ve arranged around my stump. “Gaspard is coming,” he says. “This should be fun.”
“Define fun,” Denis mutters, shuffling papers and stuffing them into his pack. It’s unlikely that Gaspard can read his particular brand of Hungarian shorthand, but he won’t take chances regardless.
“Watching Nancy go for the jugular.”
Gaspard does not come alone. Nor does he knock. He and Judex are through the door and up the steps without a word of greeting. They survey my office with skepticism but say nothing.
“Please, sit down.” I motion to the benches at the rear of the bus. Gaspard eyes the empty seat beside me but does as he’s told. “You’ve met Hubert. And this is Denden, our radio operator. As luck would have it, he picked us up a few miles from Mont Mouchet the morning you turned us away.”
I know it is unnecessary, and possibly cruel, but I want Gaspard to understand how easily he could have been in a position of power had he not been so rash from the start.
Gaspard looks at Denis Rake and I can see all the calculations flash across his eyes. Whatever he’s thinking he keeps to himself, choosing instead to nod, once, in greeting.
I speak to Gaspard in a voice devoid of accusation. “Patrice is dead. Victor has rejected your overtures. There are now seven thousand maquisards in this camp, two-thirds of whom are yours—all of them without arms. And I am the only source of communication between here and London.”
He does not dispute this, which is good, given how little he will like what I have to say next.
“Your security is awful. So awful, in fact, that a known German double agent was able to get through your checkpoints, kill Patrice, and arrive at your doorstep before being apprehended. Your lack of emergency planning at Mont Mouchet is unpardonable. I told you to break your men into smaller groups and disperse them throughout the area. I told you to have escape routes prepared in the event of an attack. Had you done as I instructed, you would have been fully armed and able to drive the Germans back in a decisive victory instead of retreating here.
“But here you are. Under my command.” Hubert’s eyes widen in surprise and Gaspard opens his mouth to argue, so I cut him off. “I am chef du parachutage. You have no other means of getting weapons, explosives, supplies, or finances. It comes from me or it does not come at all. If you want that to be your legacy, you may take your men—those who are willing to go with you—and leave immediately.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “Otherwise you will consider me your bloody field marshal and you will never argue with me again.”
Judex flicks a nervous glance toward Gaspard but says nothing. They are both proud men and I know that abandoning Mont Mouchet to the Germans is more painful to them than receiving a dressing-down from me.
“I will arm you,” I say. “But only if you conform to my standards of military preparedness.”
I do not ask for permission or agreement. I let them consider my words. And I wait.
After a good thirty seconds Gaspard nods in mute acceptance.
“We have an understanding, then. Leave, now, and begin organizing your men into groups of one hundred. Each of them must have a leader who reports directly to you. And as I have done with Fournier, I will meet with your chosen leaders, individually, to assess their needs. Only then will I begin requesting your arms from London. You have twenty-four hours to begin dispersing your troops.”
Gaspard rises from the bench and motions for Judex to follow him. Neither of them looks at me as they move toward the door.
“Wait,” I say, and Gaspard turns, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. He’s had all he can take for one day. I pull a set of papers—folded into thirds—from my back pocket and hold them out.
“What is that?” he asks, as though I’m handing over a court summons.
“A list of known underground cables the Germans have installed throughout the countryside as a means of communication. We believe there to be many more, however, and your job is to locate them, so they can be systematically destroyed by you and your men when we give the word,” I say. “Prepare accordingly.”
Gaspard does not like me. He will probably never like me. But in this moment I think he respects me, and that is far more important. “Madame Andrée,” he says with curt nod.
I hand him the papers. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Nancy Fiocca
MARSEILLES
March 1, 1940
I say good-bye to my husband on an unusually cold, rainy morning. The Gare Saint-Charles platform is crowded with travelers rushing to catch their trains and I cling to him as though we are parting for eternity. I want everything to stop. I want everyone to leave. I would pause time if I could, anything for a few more precious moments together. But there is no more sand in the hourglass. Henri’s bags are packed, and his train leaves for the Alsace in three minutes.
He will be stationed somewhere along the Maginot Line, defending an ouvrage—one of the concrete weapons installations recently built along the French border as a means of resisting German invasion. To our army he is simply a warm body. A former soldier called to duty in time of need. A number. He knows this, and I know this, but to me, Henri is the only number that matters.
He pulls me close against his chest as we stand beneath the overhang, inches from the downpour. He buries his face in my neck. Inhales. Presses one hand to the small of my back and runs the other through my hair. It feels as though he is trying to absorb me right into his body.
“I hate to see you cry,” he whispers.
“I hate this fucking war.” I cannot stop the tears or my ragged breath or the panic that fills my mind and makes it hard to imagine anything but disaster. Already I see a version of my future, the Widow Fiocca, just another woman who loses her husband to the Nazi scourge. I cannot accept this. I will not. “Please come home. Please. Please,” I beg.
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise you, ma fille qui rit. I will come home.”
“Alive.”
He laughs but I don’t think it’s funny. “Of course,” he says.
“Henri Edmond Fiocca, I will never forgive you if you don’t.”
“I must. How else will I ever hear your laughter again?” Henri brushes his lips against mine in the barest whisper of a kiss. His warm, brown eyes are filled with determination. Then he takes a step backward into the downpour and the last thing I hear him say is “Back soon.”
MARSEILLE
Hôtel du Louvre et Paix, April 25, 1940
Antoine looks at the suitcase I set on the floor, beside my barstool, and raises one eyebrow. “Taking a trip?” he asks.
“Yes,” I tell him as I stick out my hand, palm up. “Scissors, please. And a menu.”
He slides both across the bar and I cut the tags from my newly purchased case. I’ve not heard from Henri in almost two months and I’ve grown restless. I miss him, and I can’t seem to stop my m
ind from imagining one terrible scenario after another. At this rate I’ll be certifiably insane by summer. I need a change of scenery. But first, lunch.
“Where are you going?”
“Cannes. For the weekend.”
“I like Cannes. Where are you staying?”
“The Hôtel Martinez.”
“Really?” Antoine has been polishing the bar with an old rag, but he stops and looks at me with a calculating glint in his eyes. “You might be able to help me, then.”
“Yes. How?”
“Would you deliver a package to the front desk at the hotel? It would save me a trip.”
“For you, of course.”
Antoine leans closer and says, “Not for me, technically. For a friend.”
I cannot decide whether I am drawn to the intrigue because it runs so counter to what I know of Antoine’s personality, or because it provides a much-needed diversion.
“And what sort of friend might she be?” I ask with a grin, imagining that the barman has found himself a lover.
“The sort who helps Jews escape Nazi-occupied Europe,” he whispers.
“Oh,” I say, and then, “So this package—”
“—could get us both in a great deal of trouble.”
Four years ago, when Stephanie and Count Gonzales helped me get Janos Lieberman out of France, it took an act of God and Parliament. I can’t imagine how difficult the process must be now. But I am glad to know that my friend is doing what he can. And he ought to know by now that I’m not one to run from trouble.
The smile I offer Antoine is all the answer he needs. “I’ll have the bouillabaisse,” I say.
* * *
—
I leave Antoine’s and go directly to see the tram conductor, Ficetole, and arrange for him to care for Picon and Grenadine while I am gone. Then I return to our flat to pack my things. On my way out I am met on the landing by Monsieur Paquet, the local commissioner of police. He lives in the apartment across from us, on the top floor of our building, and has taken a rather unnerving interest in me since Henri left.
“Madame Fiocca.” He nods, then glances at my suitcase. “Are you leaving town?”
“Oui.” The way he studies my face makes me nervous, so I lie. “I am off to visit Paris with a friend.”
“Which friend?” he asks, unable to hide the glint of interest in his eyes.
“An old one. À bientôt!” And then I am off, down the stairs, elated at having something useful to do.
CANNES
The Hôtel Martinez
It’s only an envelope. That’s what I tell myself, repeatedly, on the train. And there is nothing in this envelope but a set of fake identification cards. Four in total. To be delivered to the front desk of the Hôtel Martinez and picked up by a guest named Simón Bolívar. The only reason I know that this is not the real name of the person who will collect the envelope is because I have a very strange memory. I remember things. Irrational things. Odd little tidbits that stick in my brain and remain there forever. I think of it as a box, of sorts, that holds information at the ready should I ever need it. Sometimes it even empties itself of random objects and hurls them at me, unbidden. The middle names of half a dozen famous authors. Bawdy limericks. Dates. Locations. Faces. Accents. Because of this I know that Simón Bolívar is in fact, not a real guest at the Hôtel Martinez, but a nineteenth-century military and political leader in Venezuela responsible for freeing six South American states from colonized Spanish rule.
Whoever collects this envelope will distribute the contents to four desperate people within the coming days. The identification cards will allow their owners to travel freely under assumed French names from Cannes to Marseille to Toulouse, where they will be collected by Antoine’s friend—a woman he calls Françoise, though I suspect that is not her real name—who will escort them to Perpignan and, finally, across the Pyrenees Mountains to whatever freedom they can find.
The Marseille-Cannes train rattles along its track for two hours and I sit in my seat, hair coiffed, belt neatly cinched, glad to be of use. I am wearing Victory Red lipstick, there are false identification papers tucked inside my purse, and my heart is ticking fast enough to make me sweat.
* * *
—
I check into the Martinez under my own name and the girl behind the counter gives my papers a cursory glance. When she hands me the key to my room, I pull the now-rumpled manila envelope from my purse.
“Can I leave this here for one of your guests?” I ask.
“Oui.” She looks at the name printed on the envelope, then checks her guest list, puts it into the appropriate mailbox, and gives me a bright smile.
“Enjoy your stay!” she says, then turns back to her work.
Who knew subversive activity could be so simple? Heart rate restored, I walk through the lobby toward the bank of elevators but something occurs to me as my finger hovers over the button: the hotel bar is across the lobby from the check-in desk, and I am very curious to learn the real identity of one Simón Bolívar.
* * *
—
Whatever his name might actually be, Monsieur Bolívar is not Spanish. Nor is he French. As a matter of fact, if I had to lay money down, I’d say he was British. Or at the very least, from somewhere in the Commonwealth. Because I am sitting beside the window, suitcase tucked under my table, chin tipped toward the sun, drinking my second French 75, when a tall, redheaded man with excellent posture walks through the lobby, speaks with the girl behind the desk, and collects my envelope.
MARSEILLE
May 12, 1940
Word reached Marseille yesterday that the Germans have broken the Maginot Line and crossed into France. Over a million German soldiers and almost two thousand tanks have entered the Ardennes forest—a thing that every single French general said was impossible. They mean to drive the English back to the sea at Dunkirk and cut off the Maginot Line from the rest of France. In the meantime they litter the countryside with wounded civilians. I cannot sit here, waiting to deliver another envelope for Antoine, so I return the dogs to Ficetole and begin the long process of driving north.
Henri made good on his promise a week before deploying to the front and delivered a rickety truck that I had fitted as an ambulance, then parked behind our building. My driving lessons consisted of one literal crash course given by a nerve-racked mechanic who works for Henri’s company and was terrified he might kill the boss’s wife. Every day since, I have driven it into the hills and now feel as comfortable driving a truck as I do engaging in subversive activity—which is to say, my heart races every time I’m behind the wheel.
There is one rather large complication, however. I did not arrive in Europe until I was well into my twenties. Long enough to become quite settled with the belief that cars should be driven on the left side of the road. In France, however, as in the United States, they drive on the right side. It’s one thing to be a passenger in such circumstances but something else to be behind the wheel. It is a new habit that does not come naturally to my Anglo-Saxon mind. That long first day, driving north, I inevitably drift to the left-hand side, swerving at the last moment to miss oncoming traffic. No wonder Henri was so hesitant to make good on his promise. I am a menace on the road and, more than once, passing cars are forced into a hedge or fence.
On my second day, I take regular breaks and try to stay more alert. I won’t be much good to the war effort if I can’t even reach the front lines without mangling myself in a car crash.
It takes another day of solid driving to reach the northern front near Belgium, and I arrive without having forced anyone into the hedgerow in a good six hours. Upon arrival I am directed to a voluntary ambulance corps that has set up headquarters in a field hospital in the small town of Marville. It is a near-straight shot north from Marseille, from the bottom of France to the top, but accessible only by
a winding network of narrow roads and byways. My entire body is sore and tight when I climb from the truck and face the reality of what is before me.
I have been living in the land of make-believe. Of blue skies and sunshine. Marseille is a naive paradise, hidden from the realities of war. This is the true France, a battered, bleeding outpost filled with wounded soldiers and fleeing refugees.
It smells of fear and unwashed male. Gunshots echo in the distance and military trucks roar through the streets every few moments. Beyond that, there is an eerie silence.
“Who’s in charge here?” I ask the first soldier I see. He can’t be more than seventeen. Crooked teeth, face pockmarked with acne scars. “Of the ambulances, I mean.”
He points in the general direction of an old church with arched windows and a high stone steeple. “Bulgar,” he says, and then shuffles off without another word.
Bulgar? Or did he mean bulgur, like the wheat? What sort of name is that? These are the things I’m wondering as I mount the steps and walk into the church. The smell stops me short. Marville’s place of worship has been converted into a field hospital. The sick and dying are scattered everywhere. Or what’s left of them. There are more people with missing limbs and bullet holes than I can count. At least a dozen of them children. The smell of sickness and infection hovers in the air. Like rotten fruit, it cloys at the nostrils. I must look stricken, because a passing nurse approaches me.
“Are you looking for someone?” she asks. “A loved one?”
“No.” I blink. Shake my head. “I mean yes. I am looking for someone. But not a patient. I need to find…Bulgur?” I go with the wheat. It seems the most likely option.
She is young, but her face is worn and tired and it takes a moment for the confusion to pass. “Oh. You mean Petar Konev?”
“Does he run the voluntary ambulance corps?”
“Yes.”
