The Girl from Vichy

by Andie Newton

  He gazed into my eyes, which glinted green rather than a river’s blue, and I felt the heat of his body an arm’s reach away. ‘I know about today.’

  ‘What?’ I stood straight.

  ‘I only heard half of the radio transmission, but I put the pieces together. I didn’t know until moments before that it was you in the field. With the Germans.’

  ‘Germans and French.’

  Luc nodded. ‘They’re integrating into the Free Zone and into the police.’

  I didn’t say it out loud, but I assumed that was why Marguerite wanted to know if I could get back into Gérard’s office. I dug my hands into my skirt pockets and felt the underground newspaper Luc had given me earlier, which I had completely forgotten about. ‘This is yours.’ I held it out for him to take but he pushed it back.

  ‘I gave it to you to keep,’ he said. ‘Unless… it makes you nervous.’

  ‘Nervous?’ The zip of the bullets as they whizzed through the catchfly were still very ripe in my mind. ‘It did, honestly, when you gave it to me. But now I can tell you with all certainty, it does not.’

  He nodded as if he understood what I meant. Mama had walked outside with a basket full of bed linens to be hung on the clothesline just a few yards from the kitchen window. Luc pointed with his eyes to Mama. ‘Pauline doesn’t know about today. And she won’t unless you tell her yourself.’

  We watched Mama as she studied the embroidery on a pillow case hanging from the line, running a flat hand over it before putting it to her cheek—Mama’s trousseau, the linens from her marriage to Papa. Sheets of white hanging on the line flapped in the breeze, hiding parts of her body as she pressed the linen to her face.

  ‘I don’t think I will. She’ll worry, and she’s got enough going on with Papa,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t need to know the details.’

  We watched Mama out the window, the ginger hairs on his arms grazing mine he stood so close, that same musky scent from his microphone coming from his skin and clothes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver flask, taking a whiff of the alcohol inside after he unscrewed the cap. ‘Want a real drink? Not everyone can say they’ve had their life pass before their eyes.’

  ‘I used the last glass for the wine.’

  Luc took a swig and then offered me the flask. ‘We can share.’

  I smiled without meaning to, taking the flask from his hands. The wrought smell of the whisky hovered between us, and I looked at him curiously, wondering where he developed a taste for a drink as stout as most Englishmen. ‘Who are you really, Luc?’ I took a swig from the flask and let the warm whisky linger on my tongue before swallowing. ‘Where did you come from?’

  ‘I came from the barrel cellar,’ he said with a little smile. ‘Below the oak-bending machine. You saw it just this morning.’

  I handed him back his flask. ‘You know that’s not what I’m talking about.’

  He shrugged, and I stared at him, examining the bristly beard budding on his chin and resisting the urge to run a smooth hand over it to feel his face and rugged skin.

  ‘Are you making issue about my voice again, Adèle? Because if you’re implying I’m British for a second time, I shall have to ask you to take it up with my mother.’

  ‘Oh, you shall?’ I said, chuckling.

  ‘Yes!’ He took a gulping drink from the flask and then put it back into my hand, wrapping my fingers around it. ‘I shall.’

  ‘I should like to meet your mother.’ I took a quick sip, wetting my lips. ‘It’s only fair since you know mine.’

  ‘Someday I will tell you where I’m from.’ He leaned in close, and I backed into the counter, knocking over wine bottles Mama had placed there earlier. He reached way behind me, stopping them from rolling. A heavy pause. He smiled, looking deep into my eyes. ‘But today isn’t the day.’

  ‘It isn’t?’ I asked.

  His hand touched the soft part of my arm just under the ruffle of my sleeve, his lips nearing, my eyes closing. All was quiet except the drumming buzz of hawk moths in the arbours as our lips touched, and I felt myself melting, fading, fading, in his long kiss, and then Mama screamed from outside and we jerked away with fright.

  She waved her hands at us, and then pointed behind her to a motorcycle driving up our road, dust and rock curling into the air. ‘Someone’s coming!’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, hands flying to my mouth, looking to Luc and then to the speeding motorcycle.

  Gérard!

  15

  I clutched my chest, reaching for Luc. ‘You have to hide!’ Mama threw open the screen door, tossing her linen basket down. Gérard had just parked his motorcycle and was taking off his helmet.

  ‘In the cellar!’ Mama said, shooing Luc toward the door, but he hesitated.

  ‘He can’t do that!’ I said. ‘He’ll be stuck! Nowhere to go.’

  I watched in horror as Gérard walked up the gravel walkway, and into Mama’s linen lines, throwing sheets out of the way as they flapped around him.

  ‘We don’t have time for anything else!’ Mama said.

  Luc rushed into the corridor, our hands slipping from each other’s, and ran downstairs into the root cellar.

  I shut the door behind him. All was quiet. ‘Mama?’

  ‘Stay calm,’ she said, and I closed my eyes, counting backward from ten, breathing deeply, thinking about the grass and the sun and then to Luc in the root cellar. I whimpered, shaking my hands in the air, breathing through my teeth when it wasn’t working. Mama grabbed me by the shoulders. ‘Hold it together,’ she said, ‘if anyone can do this you can.’

  My eyes popped open, and I nodded. ‘All right,’ I said, still breathing hard. ‘All right. All right…’

  Gérard knocked on the door. ‘Adèle?’ he said, and then peeked through the screen.

  ‘Just a moment!’ I said from afar.

  ‘You can do this,’ Mama said before letting go of me and moving out of the way. I faced Gérard through the screen door.

  ‘Adèle?’ he said.

  I smiled. ‘Gérard!’ I said, and then realized I sounded too excited to see him, more than he’d expect. I slumped forward. ‘What are you doing here? This is a surprise.’

  He walked in, helmet under his arm, looking at Mama’s stern face, as she stood defiantly near the stove, and then around our sitting parlour. ‘Is it?’ He chuckled.

  ‘What?’ I said, and he turned to me.

  ‘Is it a surprise?’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t expect you,’ I said, and I tossed my hair back, that’s when he grimaced.

  ‘Lord, Adèle,’ he said, ‘wrestling pigs, or do you always look this horrible in the middle of the day?’

  ‘Get out!’ Mama snapped, but he only laughed.

  ‘Easy now,’ he said, laughing that throaty laugh of his. ‘Kidding.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mama,’ I said, and he brushed a smear of gritty dirt from my cheek with his thumb.

  ‘I know you’ve never liked me, Pauline,’ Gérard said, still looking around. ‘I’d expect nothing less from you,’ he said, and Mama’s eyes shifted to mine.

  ‘What brings you here,’ Mama demanded, in true Mama style.

  Gérard pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘I saw Albert this morning, asked if I’d deliver this money to you—’

  Mama snatched it away, and he chuckled. ‘Maybe I should have kept it.’ She stuffed it into her apron pocket, and he turned his attention back to me, flicking his chin. ‘Go clean yourself, Adèle,’ he said. ‘I have a place a want to take you.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said.

  He flicked his chin again. ‘Go on,’ he said, and I looked at Mama who nodded carefully. ‘I’ll wait.’

  He picked through the photos on Mama’s sideboard, choosing one of Charlotte on her wedding day to study while I dashed off to my room to change, trying to give him as little time as possible alone with Mama.

  I pulled my hair into a bun and took a wet rag to my legs and face, listening to Gérard’s voice
lifting from the front room, asking Mama questions. I slipped out of my dirty dress and put on a new one, before racing out the door, only to find Gérard standing in the corridor waiting for me, not far from the root cellar.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said, my heart beating fast again.

  ‘What?’ he said, and I realized I sounded suspicious.

  I cleared my throat. ‘It’s not proper to wait for a woman so close to her bedroom.’

  He folded his arms, and I thought he was thinking about walking away, but then he pointed down the corridor. ‘What’s down there?’

  ‘Charlotte’s old room,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, pausing.

  I shut my bedroom door after he caught a glimpse of my bed, but then realized the tease of seeing where I slept was just another thing to keep his treacherous thoughts of me burning in his mind.

  ‘All right,’ he said, and he turned on his heel and walked into the parlour but stopped at the cellar door. ‘And here?’ He pulled on the doorknob.

  I laughed to shake off my nerves, trying to act casual and flirty. ‘What’s gotten into you?’ I said, my laugh turning into a giggle. ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘before you give Mama a heart attack. She’ll think you came to steal our food. It’s the cellar.’

  I held my breath walking away, praying he’d follow me, taking wobbly steps down the corridor, when he said, ‘All right.’

  And I exhaled, closing my eyes briefly. ‘Mama,’ I said, ‘Be back by supper.’ I moved in to kiss her cheeks just as Gérard walked past me and out the door.

  ‘Don’t be too sure!’ he said, as the screen door clacked closed behind him.

  ‘Be brave,’ Mama whispered.

  I looked down the corridor to the cellar door, hesitating, and Mama patted my shoulder, urging me to leave.

  I climbed into Gérard’s sidecar, feeling Mama’s eyes on my back through the window. ‘Where are you taking me?’ I said, and I tied a scarf over my hair.

  ‘Do you have to know everything?’ he said, and we drove off down the road in a cloud of dust. I looked back, watching Mama’s white linens flapping on the laundry line getting smaller and smaller and smaller through the road haze.

  Luc.

  *

  I thought he might be taking me to the outdoor market, or to the Source des Célestins, give me a scolding and prove the lines were short, but we drove into the shopping district, where light reflected off windows and ladies walked around with frilly hats.

  He parked in front of Madame’s Dress Shop—the most expensive shop in all of Vichy.

  I untied my scarf. ‘What are we doing here?’

  Gérard laughed. ‘You have an image to uphold now.’ He looked me up and down after I climbed out of his sidecar. ‘Come on.’

  A saleswoman opened the door for us and he whispered in my ear. ‘See, Adèle,’ he said, but his voice had changed and it felt very unsettling. ‘I can be nice.’

  The saleswoman clasped her hands together, eyes twinkling. ‘What’s your favourite colour, mademoiselle?’ She looked me over, studying my complexion. ‘Oh, we’re going to have so much fun together this afternoon.’

  She whisked me off to one of the dressing rooms where her assistant dressed me in silky Parisian undergarments. ‘Where do you get these garments?’ I said. ‘The clothing rations—’

  ‘I find it’s best not to ask,’ the assistant said, before looking away.

  I saw her face in the mirror as I looked at myself, and I could tell she didn’t want to dress me, which made my stomach hurt. ‘Excuse me?’ I said, when she mumbled.

  Gérard’s voice drifted down the corridor and into my dressing room. ‘She’s my fiancée,’ he said to the saleswoman. ‘She should look a certain way. Elegant. I am very important, as you know.’

  The assistant mumbled some more. ‘What are you saying?’ I said.

  She turned around, big smile. ‘Nothing, mademoiselle.’ She adjusted the strap on my brassiere, finding a lost pin in the seam. ‘Close call,’ she said, pulling the pin out only to toss it into a pin pillow like a dagger. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  I collapsed against the wall when she left, listening to her whispering to the other assistants. ‘Collaborator,’ I heard. ‘A Vichy bitch.’

  I held my face in my hands, but when the saleswoman walked in carrying a heap of dresses in her arms, I stood straight.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘let’s have some fun.’

  Only I didn’t try on a few dresses. I tried on every dress in the shop close to my size. Nothing satisfied Gérard. Every time I came out and twirled in front of him he’d shake his head. ‘Too revealing,’ he kept saying, which sent the saleswoman into a state.

  She took me back into the dressing room after trying to sell him a satin number. ‘I just don’t know what else to do,’ she said to me, as if it was my fault she hadn’t made a sale. She looked me over, my brassiere strap slipping from my shoulder. ‘He doesn’t like anything on you.’ I pulled up the strap.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, but she had walked out of the dressing room.

  The assistant came in with the last dress in my size. A pink thing with lacy long sleeves and a straight neckline. ‘He has to like this one,’ she said, looking at the dress, and then looking at me. ‘It’s the most conservative dress we have.’

  She turned me around and tightened my stocking belt, before reaching for the pin pillow. ‘What are you going to do with those?’ I said, and she tucked one pin between her lips.

  ‘Nothing,’ she murmured, pinching the strap that kept falling off my shoulder with one hand, and pulling the pin from her mouth with the other.

  ‘Ouch!’ I swatted her. ‘You poked me!’

  I saw her smile through the mirror. ‘Sorry, mademoiselle,’ she said, just above a whisper.

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ I said.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ Gérard shouted from the waiting room.

  I sighed. ‘Last one,’ I said, looking at the assistant. ‘You better hope he likes this one.’ I stormed out of the room, but then I felt bad and wished I could go back in and tell her I hated every single second of it, and that I hated him too.

  I looked at Gérard in front of the big dressing mirrors, swallowing my distaste for the dress, fingering the collar where it suffocated me. I put on a smile. ‘Pink,’ I said, and he spun his finger in the air for me to twirl.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, and the saleswoman all but collapsed on the floor. ‘That’s the dress.’

  *

  I climbed back into his sidecar, holding the dress bag in my lap. ‘Thank you,’ I said, and it was hard to say. ‘For the dress.’

  ‘I’m doing what you asked, Adèle,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t ask for a dress,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he said, fitting his helmet, ‘but you asked me to court you.’

  He straddled his motorcycle and started it up. ‘Hungry?’ he said, but he wasn’t asking.

  We drove to a restaurant I’d never been to before, an out-of-the-way place he said he’d heard about at the Hotel du Parc. ‘La Table,’ I said, reading the sign on the marquee. A fancy woman in a feathered hat walked in with a man in a suit. ‘Looks expensive—’

  ‘It is,’ he said, and then snapped his fingers at the shopping bag. ‘Carry it inside. I want everyone to know where I took you. Only supporters of the Vichy regime eat here.’ He looked at me. ‘We need to make an impression.’

  ‘Supporters?’ I said, ‘You mean…’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He took a few deep breaths near the door to prepare before we walked inside, and I don’t think Gérard was even prepared for the number of eyes that set upon us. He smiled. ‘After you,’ he said, and the maître d' showed us to our table. ‘Hold the bag up,’ he whispered from behind.

  The waiter handed us menus and poured us some wine. ‘Get whatever you’d like, Adèle,’ he said, but when the waiter asked me what I wanted to eat, Gérard spoke up.

  �
�She’ll have the steak. Medium rare.’

  ‘I don’t like steak,’ I said, just to see what he’d say, but he kept talking.

  ‘I’ll have the steak as well.’ He handed our menus to the waiter but looked at me, a strange smile on his face, ordering the rest of his meal. ‘And potatoes with as much butter as you can spare.’

  ‘What’s that monsieur?’ the waiter said, and Gérard looked at him, a little cock in his neck.

  ‘I’m a member of the Vichy police.’ He winked.

  The waiter wrote something on the order. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Do that,’ Gérard said, but it was more of a threat.

  I looked around the restaurant, at the women, eating their medium-rare steaks and the men with their very own butter dish. ‘Butter,’ I said.

  ‘You want some, don’t you?’ he said, and I shook my head. ‘What’s wrong with you? This is where the regime dines,’ he said, as if he knew what I was thinking. ‘Be glad you have your hands in my pockets tonight. I heard there’s a food shortage in Lyon.’

  Gérard ate his buttered potatoes in heaping gulps, never offering me a smidge of his butter, which I wouldn’t have taken anyway, even if the restaurant was full of miserable people from the regime; the butter, I thought, was worth more than the dress. But the steak—the steak made me salivate. I took a drink of water before gulping some wine.

  Marguerite would tell me to eat the steak. Gérard would expect it. He glanced at me once. I picked up my knife and cut into it, bloody and soft.

  Gérard gulped down a chunk of steak, pointing across the room with his knife. ‘Look there,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that your sister?’

  ‘Charlotte?’ I sat up tall. ‘What is she doing here?’ I said.

  ‘Eating dinner,’ he said, but I shook my head.

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ I said.

  Gérard pointed again, talking with a full mouth. ‘That’s why.’

  Henri had walked out of the restrooms and sat down next to her. A little gasp came from my mouth. Gérard had practically admitted that only collaborators ate at La Table. Mama was right. Charlotte never looked up at him, and they ate as if they were seated alone, strangers.