by Ariel Lawhon
“Of course.”
To the Maquis, the ability to outdrink an opponent is proof of one’s manhood. To refuse Gaspard would be to undo all the progress we’ve made these last few days. Besides, I know what game he’s playing, and I intend to win. Henri trained me well.
Once seated around an old, scuffed kitchen table, with a glass of brandy in my hand, I tell Gaspard, “I can offer you and each of your men thirty-five francs a day. That should nicely accommodate your needs for food and basic supplies.”
“Non,” Gaspard says, shaking a thick finger in my face. “I know for a fact that Fournier and his men receive forty-five.”
“What I give to them is none of your concern.”
“Come, Madame Andrée! You must be equitable.”
I look around the small, tidy kitchen. “Is it equitable that you have lodgings and he does not?”
“This village has been here, empty, for months. He could have taken possession anytime he liked.”
I hide my smile with a sip of brandy. “I believe he likes to maintain the high ground. Comfort is less important to Fournier than security.”
If that hits the mark, Gaspard does a remarkable job of not letting it show.
However, I can see Judex grip his glass a little tighter. “These men are not the same,” he mutters, then swallows a large mouthful of brandy.
“Thirty-five francs a day. Boots. Revolvers. And ammunition. That is where we will begin.” Gaspard’s brandy isn’t the worst I’ve had. But it clearly hasn’t been long in the bottle and there’s a trail of heat at the back of my throat. It’s strong. Too strong to take as quickly as they are. “But your men are obviously of strong fighting caliber. They’d have to be to fend off the Germans the way they did. You killed ten men for every one you lost. That’s impressive.”
Big men and small boys are much the same. They need female validation. And I don’t regret saying this to Gaspard—it’s not an empty compliment. He and his men fought ferociously. I can respect that. And I don’t mind tossing him that bone if it will help bring him into line.
Gaspard nods, pleased with the compliment, and pours each of us another finger of brandy. I lift my glass and gaze at the warm, amber liquid. I think of Henri and his drinking rules. Then I take off my jacket and place it on the back of the chair.
I take a sip. Smile. “Thirty-five francs. Boots. Weapons. Ammunition. And tomorrow I will place an order for the explosives you’ll need to destroy the railway that services the German garrison near Le Puy.” It’s what I’ve planned to give him all along, but Gaspard thinks I’ve made a concession. He congratulates himself by tipping a bit more brandy into my glass.
“Drink up!” he insists.
I lift my glass and raise it toward Hubert. “Cheers!”
He clinks his glass to mine and squints.
God love Hubert. The man could spot a cue at fifty paces.
Hubert reaches inside his jacket and pulls out the map Fournier has given us. “Now we must discuss our plans for retreat in the event of attack,” he says.
“There’s no need!” Judex says. “Together our numbers are strong. We can fight off the Germans easily.”
“That’s what you thought once before,” I say. “And our numbers, together, are just over seven thousand. One-third of what the Germans have. We will not take chances. And we will be prepared.”
Hubert turns the map and pushes it across the table to face Gaspard and Judex. “Here, here, and here,” he says, tapping the map, “are the lines of retreat that we have established.”
“But those are rivers.” Judex blinks heavily. The brandy is already getting to him. “And you have us going through the deepest sections. That is insanity.”
“You might be surprised how passable they can be. Fournier has spent a great deal of time working out this route,” Hubert says.
I raise my glass once more and roll the amber liquid over my tongue. I let the heat ground me as it slides down the back of my throat. “You may have been the king of Mont Mouchet, but Fournier knows this area and you will have to trust that the rivers are the safest means of retreat.”
“No matter,” Judex says, and I detect the faintest slur at the edge of his words. “We won’t need to retreat.”
There is less than a finger of brandy left in Gaspard’s glass and he tips it into his mouth. He holds it there for several seconds and then I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Now let us discuss the weapons. I want to be there during the airdrop.”
“No,” I say.
“I have the right—”
“No,” I say again. “You do not.”
“I could come anyway.”
“You tried that once,” I say. “I would hope you’ve not forgotten how that ended.”
Judex looks back and forth between us curiously and I realize that he doesn’t know what we’re talking about. Interesting.
The tip of Gaspard’s nose is red, but I can’t tell whether it’s caused by anger or brandy. He lifts the bottle and tips it toward me in question.
I nod.
He pours me another finger. Then two more for himself. Hubert, I notice, swirls the brandy around his glass and continually lifts it to his mouth, but there is little change in the level of alcohol. He’s doing an excellent job of making it look as though he’s drinking, however, because Gaspard tips a bit more into his glass without paying attention to how much is there already.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, “I need the loo.”
This was Henri’s fourth lesson, learned many months after that first dinner with his father. Excuse yourself. Use the bathroom. And, if at all possible, get some fresh air.
“Outhouse,” Judex says, pointing toward the kitchen door.
Hubert takes his cue and repositions the map in the middle of the table. He taps six different areas marked in red. “Here are the known German positions,” he says.
Gaspard and Judex lean over the map and neither of them notices me take my glass with me. I push through the kitchen door and out into the night air. The outhouse is located several hundred feet away, but I take a moment to assess myself. I can feel the pleasant tingle of a buzz but nothing more. A guard stands on either side of the door and I smile at each of them in turn.
“Follow me to that outhouse and I’ll cut your throats.”
Once inside the stone privy, I hold my breath, pour the rest of my brandy down the hole, and relieve myself. On the way back to the house I find what I’m looking for. The water pump is almost hidden in a clump of weeds beside the garden gate, but it works. And the water is clean and cold. I drink an entire glass before heading back inside.
The brandy bottle is almost empty now, but Gaspard does not hesitate to offer me more. I accept, noting that Judex can hardly sit upright any longer. My guess is that he will be the first to fall. And I’m not wrong. It’s not that he goes out of his chair a few minutes later, but rather that he sinks, slowly, to the table, chin resting on his forearm. His eyes are glassy, the tip of his nose is red, and the corners of his mouth are turned down. His bluster has turned to melancholy and the effect is one of being deflated. I wouldn’t have taken him for a sad drunk. Not the thing you’d expect from a man who could ruthlessly torture his enemy with a red-hot poker.
When I finish off my brandy half an hour later, Gaspard concedes defeat. “You are not at all drunk,” he tells me.
“No. I am not.”
“I did try.”
“I knew you would.”
“But did you know, Madame Andrée, that you are a brass-plated bitch?” Somehow, coming from Gaspard, in this moment, it does not sound like an insult. In fact, this may be the closest he ever comes to paying me a compliment.
“I do. And I would very much appreciate it if you would communicate that to your men.”
“They’ll
leave you alone from now on.”
“Good. I will send word when your shipment has arrived, and I will be present when it’s delivered.”
“Why?”
“Because you must sign receipts,” I say.
He doesn’t say good-bye or walk us to the door. He simply watches us leave with a newfound interest. It is after one in the morning, but the stars are so numerous and so bright that Hubert and I can see each other’s face plainly as we walk to the car.
Hubert slides behind the wheel of the Renault and gives me the most curious gaze. “How the flaming hell did you do that?” he asks.
“Do what?”
“Drink like that. I’ve never seen anything like it. You knocked back twice as much brandy as Judex—and he’s passed out on the table, while you’re as chipper as a bluebird—”
“—more like a pigeon—”
“—my point is you’re the last man standing—”
“—woman—”
“Good grief! You know what I mean, Nance. Just shut up for a second. I can’t figure out where it all went. Much less how you’re even conscious. It’s like you have a hollow leg.” He throws his hands up, in exasperation, then starts the car and puts it in reverse. “That is one of the most extraordinary things I’ve ever seen.”
“I had a very good teacher.” I lean my head back against the seat, pleasantly tired and happy with this part of the night’s work. Gaspard got what he wanted—weapons and supplies for his men—and I got what I wanted: dominance. I yawn as Hubert pulls the Renault onto the dirt track to drive us the short distance back to our encampment. “Pity we can’t go to sleep.”
“Why not?”
“We’ve got to help Fournier with tonight’s shipment.”
And this marks the first time I have ever heard Hubert well and properly curse.
CHAUDES-AIGUES PLATEAU, CANTAL, FRANCE
June 5, 1944
Special message for Hélène. Anselm delivered to Montluçon this a.m. Collect immediately.
I take the message from Denis Rake, read it, then shake it in his face. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
He sits across from me in the bus. “Well, apparently, Duckie, you are to drive your scrawny arse—”
“—I am not scrawny—”
“—you are, actually. You’ve lost at least a stone since being here. But that’s beside the point. You’re to go collect Anselm.”
“And how am I supposed to know where he is?”
He shakes his head, exasperated. “Can’t you read? He’s in Montluçon.”
“And Montluçon is Maurice Southgate’s area. He was supposed to meet us at the drop zone, remember? Oh no, that’s right. You were off cavorting in Bourges with your lover.”
“I was not”—he sticks a finger in my face—“in Bourges.”
Despite much prodding, Denis has kept the name and location of his lover a secret. And for good reason: both men would likely be shot on sight if they were discovered together.
“My point is that Maurice Southgate was supposed to give me the address and the password for his contact in Montluçon the night we landed. But I was met by Tardivat instead. Without that information it will be nearly impossible to collect Anselm.”
Denis props his feet up on the stump, leans his head against the back of his seat, and thinks for a moment. “Don’t you have a name for this contact?”
“Madame Renard, and I know that she was once the housekeeper of an ambassador in Paris. Also, that she makes excellent cakes, but this does me little good when I don’t even know where to begin looking for her.”
“That’s not entirely true. Just head to Mont—” he says, and then ducks out the door quickly to avoid the boot I’ve thrown at his head.
“—luçon, I know,” I say. “To find a woman who might live anywhere, and, having found her, persuade her to give up Anselm without a password. Easy enough. Sure. No matter that I’d shoot anyone who tried to pull a stunt like that on me.”
I think of Gaspard and what he did to Roger. And Roger had the correct password. I drop my head to my hands, shake it. I’ve been given a direct order and I can’t very well leave one of Britain’s best weapons instructors unattended in the middle of territory thick with Germans. I have no choice.
“Dammit,” I say as I dig beneath a seat for my pack. “Time to go find a needle in a haystack.”
* * *
—
Fournier gives me his best car and Jacques—one of his lieutenants—to drive. I’d thought of going alone but Hubert rejected the idea out of hand. We know the Brownshirts are looking for the White Mouse. We know that they have connected said mouse to Madame Andrée. He argues they will be less suspicious of a “married couple” than of a woman driving alone through occupied territory. The fact that we are driving at all is problematic. Access to a vehicle immediately identifies us as either Resistance or German and, depending on who controls each checkpoint along the way, could mean the patrols shoot first and ask questions later. I’d take one of Fournier’s bicycles but it’s a long trip and Anselm won’t fit on the back. I have no other choice than to go with Jacques and pretend to be his wife should we be apprehended.
Jacques wisely does not crack a smile at this arrangement. In fact, he does not smile at all. He seems to be the sort of man whose lips were sewn together at birth. He is silent as we load the car with grenades and a Sten gun in case we came across German patrol. Then I strap a bicycle to the roof—it will be less conspicuous to ride around on that once we reach Montluçon. We are about to be off when someone calls for me.
“Madame Andrée!” I turn to see Louis jog across the clearing. He raises his bandaged hand in greeting.
“You look less green around the gills,” I tell him. “Did you find a doctor in Chaudes-Aigues?”
“Oui.” He clears his throat. “I hear you are going to Montluçon.”
“Word travels fast, I see.”
“That is where I lived, before the war. My wife is there still. She is pregnant.”
I’m not sure whether to congratulate him or offer my condolences. I pity anyone bringing a child into the world right now.
“Would you deliver something to her for me?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope stuffed with francs. An address is scribbled across the front. “My wages. I’ve saved them all for her.”
“What are you eating, then?”
He shrugs. “Enough.”
Louis’s thin frame would suggest otherwise, so I pull a lump of bills from the envelope and hand them back to him. “Yes, I’ll take this to your wife. But you must keep yourself fed in the meantime.”
“Thank you, Madame Andrée. Her name is Simone Autry.”
Jacques has the most curious expression on his face when I climb into the car. “What?” I ask.
“C-c-careful,” Jacques says with a slight twitch of his jaw, struggling to control his staggered consonants, “or you’ll end up being p-p-postmaster as well.”
I look at him, fascinated. He stutters. No wonder the man hasn’t spoken a single word since our arrival three months ago. He is looking at me now, one eye pinched tight in expectation of ridicule. But he has trusted me with this secret and I refuse to shame him.
“Jacques!” I say. “Did you just crack a joke?”
“C-c-course not.” His stoic face belies nothing as he starts the engine and puts the car in drive, but I think I catch the hint of a smile when he turns away.
Before long I am grateful for his presence. The whole area is crawling with Brownshirts. There are patrols and roadblocks everywhere and we are forced to take back roads and send friendly scouts ahead when we can find them. Montluçon is only two hours from Fournier’s encampment, but we stop at every farm and village along the way to inquire about German patrols. He stays in the car w
hile I knock at doors and ask about troop movements nearby. I pass along a few francs with each handshake, and explain that we are trying to go north, unmolested by Brownshirts.
“Just down there,” one villager says, pointing to a main crossroads. “They’ve set up an ambush behind the curve.”
“Merci beaucoup!” I say, and we’re off again, skirting around town through an alley and across a field to avoid being detected.
It goes on and on like this for hours, as we creep toward Montluçon. Sometimes it’s not the Germans who give us trouble, however. “They have gone,” one woman tells us, “but the Maquis will stop you. I will come with you and tell them that you are of the Maquis d’Auvergne. I taught half of those boys in school. They will listen to me.”
With local chaperones we proceed slowly, never once having to make use of the Sten gun hidden under the floorboard at my feet.
It is early evening when we reach Montluçon and I have Jacques stop the car a quarter of a mile from the address Louis gave me. I take the bike down while he scouts a position to watch the car.
“If the car draws unwanted attention, come and warn me,” I say.
Jacques nods, then slips into the hedgerow to keep watch.
I cycle into town and look for the house number. Few people bother to lift their heads as I pass.
The cottage is small and tidy. There are flowers in the window boxes and the front step has been swept. I am always a little startled to find my countrymen maintaining any kind of normalcy in the face of war. I respect it. It is one of a thousand courageous ways of thumbing your nose at the enemy. A quick breath, then I tuck my hair behind my ears, trying to look as presentable as possible. I knock on the door.
It is answered by an older woman who appears to be blind in one eye. This cannot be Louis’s wife.
“Madame Autry?” I ask, my voice laced with hesitance.
“Non.” Her hair is like silver feathers drifting in the breeze, and I’m momentarily distracted by its ethereal beauty. “Who are you?” she asks.
