The Girl from Vichy

by Andie Newton

  Breathe. I counted, thinking of the sun, and the grass like Marguerite had taught me.

  Gérard looked through Papa’s window, and I stood straight up. He brushed a lock of hair from his eyes, which had turned beady and red as a flare when he spotted me holding on to one of the tables. He pulled open the door, Papa’s bell chiming frantically.

  ‘Adèle.’ A snarl turned on his lips. ‘You’re back.’

  The old men outside pressed their faces to the window. ‘Gérard.’

  We stood in silence, Gérard’s shoulders puffing along with his chest. Papa banged around upstairs singing a song meant for himself, unaware Gérard was here and standing in front of me.

  Breathe, I said to myself, but my heart raced no matter how many numbers I counted in my head, and I wondered what Marguerite would say if she knew I had started to panic. She’d pull me up by the armpits, tell me the Résistance isn’t a place for weaklings. I exhaled. Be yourself. He wants to win.

  I smoothed my skirt against my thighs, holding my head up. ‘I want to apologize.’

  He laughed. ‘What makes you think I’ll accept?’

  ‘I got cold feet, Gérard. I was wrong with how I handled it, and I want to make it up to you. Give you—us—a second chance.’

  Gérard licked his lips as if he had just finished eating me and had spat out my bones. ‘I’ve moved on.’

  ‘Well if you don’t want me then—’

  He caught me by the arm. ‘Do you realize how much you’ve embarrassed me, my family?’ His fingers dug into the soft part of my underarm. Gérard was all muscle, brutish some would say, with a round nose and face. He was never one for nice words, and I was prepared, albeit mentally, for him to strike me. ‘The humiliation of telling Prêtre Champoix you’d run away… he’s been my family’s priest since I was a boy.’

  ‘I’m sure the situation was displeasing—’

  ‘You left me for a nunnery. Lord, Adèle!’ His lips quaked. ‘Even if I wanted to I couldn’t take you back. It’s a question of decency.’ He threw my arm to the side. ‘I can’t remember the last time I was that mad. You can thank your sister for—’

  Papa bounded down the stairs with a grin glossed red with wine. ‘Gérard!’ He had his own glass in one hand and a clean glass in the other. ‘How lovely.’

  Papa handed him the clean glass, which he twirled in his hand, eyes boring into mine. He knew as well as I that Papa had his own interests in linking our families together. Papa talked about the new German wine that had just come in, flipping the crate around as if forgetting he had tried to hide it just a few minutes ago.

  A sly smile cocked on Gérard’s face. I could see his gums, which was normal since Gérard rarely closed his mouth. ‘I was just telling Adèle how the Hotel du Parc needed a maid. Someone to clean the toilets, wash out the bins.’

  My faced dropped, and Gérard burst out laughing. ‘Kidding, of course. Why don’t you bring me lunch tomorrow, Adèle? Let’s start there.’ He took a cigar from his front pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. ‘A second chance.’

  Once I saw his cigar all I could think about was the box in his office. ‘Thank you, Gérard.’

  Papa smiled—Gérard had agreed. He pulled a German bottle of wine from the crate. ‘Please, stay for some wine.’

  ‘No time for wine, Albert,’ he said, giving Papa the glass back. ‘I’ve got diplomats arriving in half an hour.’

  ‘Very well,’ Papa said. ‘Say hello to your family for me, will you?’

  Gérard nodded, looking me over.

  ‘Are you still with the police?’ Gérard was dressed in a pressed business suit, the kind I used to see the wealthy wear in the gardens, before the war. ‘Because you’re dressed rather nice for a day of arresting.’

  ‘Sharp little tongue you’ve got for someone wanting a second chance,’ he said. ‘It’s good to know you haven’t changed too much since you’ve been gone. Here’s a lesson for you.’ He ran his fingers down the front of his jacket. ‘People who work hard and don’t run away from commitment get rewarded. If I ran away from opportunity, well, that would make me a defeatist. Right, Adèle?’

  ‘You’re right, Gérard. You can’t run away from opportunity.’ I smiled, putting my arm around Papa. ‘That’s why I’m looking forward to bringing you lunch tomorrow.’

  Gérard stared at me, sucking on his unlit cigar, while Papa talked about getting me a car. ‘I’ll make arrangements with our neighbours, the Morissets. He owes me a favour and with enough wine… he’ll have petrol for the both of you.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa—’

  Gérard started for the door, shouting back as he left, ‘I’ll be waiting!’

  ‘Gérard saved a soldier from the mud during the Battle of Sedan,’ Papa said, pouring himself another glass of wine. ‘He’s just a fine fellow—brave.’

  I watched Gérard as he crossed the street, pausing to pick up a lone RAF leaflet that somehow survived morning foot traffic. He crumpled it in his hands and packed it like a snowball before throwing it at a man hunkered against the side of a building, picking stickers from the bottom of his feet.

  The man looked up at Gérard with gaunt, sunken eyes.

  ‘Sure is, Papa.’

  12

  The savoury aroma of Mama’s pot-au-feu seeped from the cracks of her kitchen door and hovered in the late afternoon air. Nobody made stew like Mama: root vegetables from the cellar, and most likely the best cuts of meat from a special tin she hid under the mounds of canned ox tails. I dropped my bicycle on the patio, not even bothering with the kickstand. Comfort—that’s what I thought, as I smelled the clove and onion in the air, and God knew I needed a little comforting after the day I’d had, and maybe even a scalding hot bath with salts for my feet.

  I opened the door and my heart leapt from my chest. Mama wasn’t the one at the stove, but a stranger. A man. I must have screamed since he jumped higher than I did. I drew a knife from the counter and waved it in the air. ‘Who are you?’ I barked.

  One hand held his chest as he exhaled; the other held a soup ladle he’d been using to stir Mama’s stew. ‘You must be Adèle.’

  I lowered the knife.

  A dark blonde curl fell near his eyes, and he swept it back into a smooth wave. He was too young to be Mama’s lover, and by the distinguishing lines near his eyes I knew he was too old to be some boy Mama paid for handy-work.

  ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but we know mutual people.’

  ‘My mother, you mean?’

  He glanced back and forth between me and the ladle still in his hand, stirring faster the lower I dropped the knife.

  ‘Who are you?’ I said. ‘And where’s my mother?’

  ‘I’m Luc,’ he said. ‘Pauline has told me a lot about you.’

  ‘She’s told me nothing about you.’ I had lowered the knife completely, but still gripped the handle, looking around the room as if Mama was hiding somewhere. ‘Where did you say my mother was?’

  He smiled slightly as he stirred the pot, and it was hard not to notice his long-lashed bluish-green eyes and the rugged shadow budding along his jawline.

  ‘I didn’t,’ he said.

  My mouth hung open at his gall, and we stared at each other. I wanted to be mad at him, but something gleaming in his eyes and the way his lips looked when he smiled made it impossible for me to feel anything other than an irritating sense of intrigue.

  Mama burst through the root cellar door, a jar of pickled onions gripped in her hand. She looked surprised to see Luc and I talking and then oddly complacent.

  ‘You’ve introduced yourselves,’ she said. ‘Good.’ Mama set the jar on the counter and popped the lid off.

  I finally let go of the knife. ‘Introduced?’ I said. Luc glanced at me, which made me pause. ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

  Mama asked Luc to pull the bouquet garni out of the pot. He seemed hesitant at first, looking into the pot as if unsure where it was
, but then pulled out the soggy twine of herbs she had used for seasoning and set it on the counter.

  Luc licked a drop of broth that had gotten on his finger. ‘This might be better if it were lamb.’

  ‘You can’t get lamb in Creuzier-le-Vieux,’ Mama said. ‘Pétain shipped it all to Germany.’

  Luc took an unmarked bottle of wine and dumped what was left into a tall glass meant for milk. ‘At least he hasn’t given away all of the wine,’ he said, and Mama chuckled, though I could tell she wasn’t amused.

  The strange scene that had unfolded itself before me took me by surprise as much as making me wonder. Mama didn’t share her kitchen with strangers, other than the rabbits and chickens she killed for us to eat. ‘What’s going on here?’ I waved a finger at everything from the boiling pot, to Luc, to Mama. ‘And I’m not talking about supper.’

  Mama’s shoulders stiffened. ‘He’s not my lover, Adèle. If that’s where your mind is.’

  ‘I figured that, Mama.’ The sleeves on Luc’s collared shirt had been rolled up to his elbows, exposing the fine, ginger-blonde hairs on his forearms. ‘From the looks of him, I’m guessing he’s half your age.’

  Luc smiled. Mama didn’t.

  Mama pointed at the photo of her and Papa hanging on the wall. It was taken years ago, before I was born. Both posed with their arms wrapped around each other, their lips locked in a kiss. ‘Hear that, Albert? Your daughter thinks I’m old.’ Mama spoke with ease as if Papa could hear her, as if he wasn’t kilometres away in his own flat with nothing but his German wine and Pétain posters to keep him company.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’ I felt Marguerite’s stern brow on my face.

  Luc looked at Mama while Mama looked at me, the boiling pot of stew spurting broth onto the counter.

  ‘I was meaning to tell you this morning, but you had enough on your mind.’ Mama took a cigarette from her case and lit it with the cloisonné lighter she had taken from her apron pocket. ‘After you left for Lyon, I found myself in a position where I could help. And with your father gone I thought why the hell not?’ Luc had walked over to the window near the door to fix a split in the curtains before Mama blurted, ‘He’s from the Résistance.’

  ‘The Résistance?’ I whispered the words before I shouted them. ‘The Résistance!’

  Luc put a finger to his lips to shush me, but I had already covered my mouth with my hand.

  Mama glared. ‘Why don’t you shout it from the patio, Adèle?’

  Luc moved past me, placing both hands on my shoulders even though there was plenty of room for him to pass. He sat down on a stool opposite me, across the kitchen cart that had now been set to function as our table, and rolled his sleeves up to his biceps before tucking into his bowl of stew, listening to Mama and me talk. He was sculpted in all the right places, and he looked strong, damn strong, as if those arms had muscled the yoke of a plane for many years.

  ‘Are you staying overnight?’

  He nodded. ‘But you won’t see me.’ He looked at Mama, now talking to the both of us. ‘It will be like I’m not even here.’

  I laughed. ‘You’re a little hard to miss.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  My stomach did a little flip when he looked at me this time, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I rested an elbow on the cart that separated us, head in my hand, and thought about how his wavy hair complemented his warming smile. ‘What I mean is… you’re here now,’ I said. ‘And I can see you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and then paused. ‘And I see you.’

  *

  After dinner, Luc slipped out the back door and into the barrel cellar while Mama and I cleaned up the dishes. I scrubbed the same bowl over and over again in the sink as I stared out the window.

  ‘I trust you saw Gérard today,’ Mama said, and I nodded.

  ‘And?’ Mama said.

  ‘I’m bringing him lunch tomorrow at the Hotel du Parc.’

  She took a deep breath, nodding. ‘I knew you’d be successful.’

  My eyes had never left the window, looking for any trace of Luc as he took shelter in the barrel cellar. ‘Where’s he going to sleep, Mama? In the dirt? Next to the barrels?’

  ‘Why do you care?’ she said. ‘Or, do I need to ask?’ She smiled to herself before taking a drag from her cigarette.

  ‘That’s not why I’m asking.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Mama said, studying me. ‘Don’t forget, Adèle, you have an important job to do. It takes a special woman to use her charms on a tyrant. Best if you keep your mind on your goal. No use in getting distracted. Gérard will sense another man’s touch on you,’ she said, placing more dirty dishes into the sink. ‘And I’m worried about you as it is.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘Did the Résistance tell you it was going to be easy?’ Mama had lit another cigarette and was watching me as my fingers worked their way around the slippery, soapy bowl.

  ‘No, Mama. They did not.’

  I thought about Luc’s face when I walked into the chateau, and how relaxed he was even after I waved a knife at his face. I winced, thinking how awful I must have looked.

  ‘He sleeps in a hidden room, Adèle,’ Mama said.

  ‘What?’ I looked at her, mid wash.

  ‘Dug into the ground, right under your father’s oak-bending machine,’ she said, smiling slyly. ‘Albert would kill me if he knew. But you should know, in case anyone visits us. Wouldn’t want you to stumble upon it.’

  ‘A hidden room,’ I repeated.

  ‘What did you expect?’ Mama said. ‘A bed set up out in the open?’ She laughed her dry, smoker’s laugh.

  ‘How often does he come inside?’ I said, and then wondered if he’d be eating supper with us every night, which made my stomach flip again.

  ‘Not often,’ she said. ‘The cellar door is shut when he’s gone, left open when he’s here. The Résistance likes it that way. Luc said it was to throw off suspicious neighbours. If the doors are open, what would we be hiding?’

  ‘What is he hiding, guns?’

  ‘I saw a radio transmitter,’ Mama said. ‘He said the Germans were driving around Lyon looking for radio pings.’

  ‘Germans?’ The bowl slipped from my hands and broke in the bottom of the sink. ‘In the Free Zone?’

  Mama reached into the sink and fished out the broken bits of bowl. ‘It was only a matter of time, Adèle. Only a matter of time.’

  *

  Mama went up to bed, and I wiped down the counters and turned off the lights before taking one of Mama’s cigarettes outside with me for a smoke. The night looked darker than it did the other night, with little pricks of light for stars that barely lit up the vineyard. Reminded me of the last time I smoked on the patio.

  The night before Charlotte’s wedding.

  She sat with her back to me as I looked out the door. Mama and Papa had already gone to sleep and I thought she had too, so I was surprised to see her outside all by herself in her blue and poufy sleeping gown. I sat down beside her, accidentally scaring her, and her hand flew to her chest.

  ‘Adèle!’ she said, catching her breath, but then smiled.

  I offered her a cigarette after lighting my own.

  ‘You know Henri doesn’t like cigarettes,’ she said.

  ‘He’ll never know,’ I said, pushing it at her. ‘It’s your last night here.’

  She reached for it after a short pause. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, but then took the cigarette. ‘All right. One won’t hurt.’ I struck the lighter and she took a puff with her lips drawn up like a coin purse.

  I laughed, watching her struggle.

  ‘Stop that,’ she said, coughing, waving the smoke away.

  ‘Just breathe normally. You’re trying too hard,’ I said, and we smoked together on the step.

  ‘You’ll visit, won’t you?’ I said. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose my cooking partner.’

  ‘I’ll have a house of my own,
’ she said. ‘Henri says he’s going to buy us a nice apartment near the square. Brand-new furniture too.’

  ‘Where’s he going to get brand-new furniture?’ I said, and she shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what he said.’

  ‘Well, you can still visit…’ I flicked ash from my cigarette. ‘Besides, your paints are here, all your canvases,’ I said, and she exhaled. ‘You promised me a painting of the vineyard. Remember? Papa’s vines in the summer… I want to remember it always. The sun and how it shines on the grape skins. Only you can capture—’

  ‘I’ll try.’ She looked down, sighing.

  ‘Of course, I could try to paint it myself,’ I said, and her mouth hung open.

  ‘Don’t touch my paints,’ she said, but I was only teasing.

  ‘Can I have your bed quilt?’ I said.

  ‘Ready for me to leave, are you?’ she said. ‘Yes, you can have it. But you can’t have my bedroom.’

  ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘You won’t be needing it. I think I might like your bedroom. It’s bigger.’ It was then I thought about what it would be like without Charlotte around, and having her bedroom empty. I didn’t even want her bedroom. ‘I won’t take it. But do paint me something soon.’

  She puffed on her cigarette, blowing great big clouds of white into the air, but then she coughed uncontrollably into her arm, laughing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t imagine what a painting of yours would look like.’ She slapped the patio with her hand, still laughing.

  ‘Shh!’ I looked up to Mama and Papa’s bedroom window. ‘You want to wake up Mama and Papa?’ I said, and she shook her head, her laugh turning into a giggle.

  ‘I can’t be that bad,’ I said. ‘With you as a sister? Maybe I could do it?’

  She snubbed out her cigarette. ‘Umm. Hmm.’