Sins of the Flesh

by Fern Michaels

  The boy had been watching the women without their knowledge. They thought he was asleep, and he allowed them to think so, hoping to catch a few of their whispered words. But they spoke too softly for him to hear. Although he wanted to view himself as his mother and godmother’s protector, in reality he knew they were protecting him. He should be in the army fighting the damn Germans. Someday his heart would burst at the knowledge that he was a disloyal Frenchman.

  Every day for the past year, from the moment France fell to the Germans, he had grieved for his old life. It had made him want to lash out at something, anything, to rid himself of the anger that was flooding through him—anger that had been simmering within him from the moment Paris was confiscated by the Germans. Never would he forget the sound of the hammer securing the filthy sign to their neighbors’ doors. When the Germans were two doors away, they’d slipped out the back door, and with the help of friends his mother had secured forged travel warrants to aid them in traveling south to the château where he was born.

  It happened so quickly, there’d been virtually no warning, and suddenly Paris was overrun—a conquered city. Overnight hundreds of huge swastikas blazed from buildings. Food disappeared from the markets to feed the German Army, and gasoline vanished as if by magic, commandeered for the German war machine. His mother had looked so helpless at first, and then anger had set in, and for weeks now he hadn’t seen the shadow of a smile on her face. Thank God for the timely visit a few months before of Yvette and Henri…. He would not, could not, think about the last time he had seen Henri…not now…perhaps not ever.

  Thoughtfully he fingered his student enrollment card in his pocket. It was the only document his mother allowed him to carry. It said he was French, Philippe Bouchet. When he’d told her he wanted to stay and fight the filthy Boche as any good Frenchman, she had refused even to discuss it. “That is the very last thing you will ever do,” she had said with staunch determination. But he was sure it was not because she was being over-protective—she had told him too many stories with pride of the bravery of his father and uncle Daniel and how they had fought in the Great War and been injured. They hadn’t balked or turned tail and run; they’d been boys much like himself when they went to war, and they had survived. And Yvette was not the only one to tell him of his mother’s seemingly boundless generosity and energy during that war. No, it was something else. Perhaps his mother had some plan other than the agreed-upon one that they would head for Spain via Marseilles.

  Now Tante Yvette and his mother were always whispering together, sharing secrets that left him feeling cheated. Why wouldn’t they take him into their confidence? He was twenty years old, for God’s sake! He couldn’t understand his mother’s relentless determination to return to Marseilles, but when he had insisted upon knowing, she had answered him in a voice she’d used only in times of crisis—a voice that warned and convinced at the same time. “It is for your own safety, Philippe,” she had stated. “Soon enough you will be told, and now not another word!”

  His thoughts grew dark and angry. Why wasn’t his father here helping them to safety? Because he was in America making films and money, so much money that it made Philippe sick. Recently he’d learned that except for their American holdings, they were virtually paupers. The Banque de Paris, where his mother had been doing business since before he was born, had informed them that the Germans had helped themselves thoroughly. And now most of his mother’s jewelry was gone, used for bribes, food, and shelter.

  Slowly his anger intensified, overpowering whatever tender feelings he felt for the American father he had never seen. His mother, his aunt, and he were running for their lives like hunted criminals while his father was free and safe and unconcerned. Such diabolical unfairness almost stopped his breathing. Now he was beginning to see things in a light other than the rosy ideal his mother had consistently offered throughout his life. Lifelong promises that when he finished his education he would go to America vanished from his mind. Surviving was more important at the moment—surviving and preserving a particular way of life, hanging on to the things that he was familiar with, things that made him feel as though he belonged. The loss of his personal possessions, his education, his home. The possibility that he would never walk down the Champs-Élysées nor see the Étoile. That they might become only bittersweet memories—as had the Sorbonne and the sidewalk cafés he’d frequented with his school chums—was too painful to contemplate. Avenue Foch was now home to the Gestapo and the SS. The clatter and specter of goose-stepping troops and armored tanks rattled ominously through his brain. All information pointed to one distinct, terrifying reality: The Germans had the upper hand. Filthy Boches! They would rot in hell if he had anything to do with it. Tears of frustration gathered in Philippe’s eyes, and he wiped at them with the sleeve of his cotton shirt. His life as he knew it was over. What lay in store for him? All he knew was that he was terrified—not for himself so much as for his mother and his aunt Yvette. But if a decision had to be made, he would die for his mother. Of that he was sure.

  Philippe jerked to sudden awareness as the cloud cover his mother prayed for suddenly slid across the bright quarter moon. As one they surged to their feet, moving silently through the tall grass toward the edge of the road. Another kilometer or two and they would be in the village where, hopefully, there would be food and water. His stomach growled rebelliously, a reminder that he had had no food for three days except for what they’d been able to forage in the woods.

  An hour later the weary travelers arrived at the village and were stunned to find it deserted, the occupants undoubtedly having moved south.

  “We should keep on going,” Yvette said fretfully. “If everyone is gone, that means the Germans are close. I want to go on. I don’t care how hungry I am. I’d rather starve than be caught by those bastards.” She spat on the ground as she cursed the murderers of her husband.

  Mickey shivered. Yvette was correct in her assumptions, she knew, yet she wanted to stop, to gather food for…Philippe. When she looked toward him in the darkness, he nodded his head to show he agreed with Yvette. With a sigh Mickey moved forward, keeping to the shadows of the village street. “We’ll find food tomorrow, perhaps something left behind in someone’s abandoned root cellar. Perhaps a fat frog or two as we get closer to the water.”

  “How much farther to the château, Maman?” Philippe whispered.

  “Another day and a half if we haven’t lost our way,” Mickey whispered back. “Possibly sooner if we can travel by daylight. It is difficult to see familiar landmarks in the darkness. Are you tiring, Philippe?”

  “No, of course not. It is you and Tante Yvette I am worried about. She showed me her blisters last evening. I don’t know how she can walk.”

  “She’s walking because she has to. One does what one must do, Philippe. Always remember that. Neither I nor Yvette have any desire to be sliced to pieces by some dirty German’s cursed bayonet. Nor do I want to see you marched off to some camp. We walk,” she said briskly.

  They moved on steadily after that, so Mickey did not see the expression on Philippe’s face at her last statement. At last he had a clue to his mother’s innermost fears for him, he mused—she didn’t want him to be marched off to some camp. There had been rumors, ugly, disquieting rumors, of some type of labor camps believed to be located inside Germany, established for the imprisonment of enemies to their country’s ideals.

  Suddenly, from nowhere, a thought surfaced that made his skin crawl. It was no secret that the Germans considered Jews a threat to their basic ideals—and he was a Jew. He stumbled and almost fell, then reassured Yvette with a wave of his hand as she looked back at him. In that instant he understood his mother’s concern, if not her actions. He hoped she knew what she was doing.

  They continued on for the next two days, stopping to rest, greedily picking at the sparse berries that lined the roadside. When they reached the crest of their village, Mickey held her hand up to slow Philippe and Yvette.


  The town was strangely quiet, the streets empty of people. From her position at the top of the hill Mickey could see no sign of activity, French or German. Where were the people, the neighbors she knew by name and had shared meals with, sat next to in the village church? Had they left or were they hiding? The church—she looked to the end of the small town square where the old white church loomed, alone and solemn, its spire stretching upward as though in supplication. Where was the curé? Where were the children, the laughter, the dogs and cats that roamed? The silence was eerie and so total that she felt as though she could reach out to it. Philippe and Yvette joined her, looking down at the village.

  “We’re home, but I fear our friends and neighbors are gone. Listen to the stillness. Even the birds are quiet today.”

  “A bad omen,” Yvette said tartly. “When the birds and small animals leave, it is a bad omen. Pay attention, Michelene.”

  “I am, old friend. We have seen no Germans for three days. I think we are safe for the moment. Come,” she said, “we are going home.”

  Mickey looked neither to the right nor to the left as she led her son and friend through the small main street. The sight of the boarded-up shops made her want to weep. She could smell the fear, probably because it was her own. Suddenly she turned, startled, when she heard her name called. She backed up a few steps to the boulangerie when she saw Monsieur LeForge waving to her. She walked over and embraced him. “It is good to see you again, old friend,” she said warmly. “Tell me, what has happened here? Where is everyone?”

  “The men and the boys…most of them are gone. I was too old to…join the fight with them…. The others, they stay in their houses waiting for the sound of boots to come marching in. They said the soldiers will be here in another week or ten days. How did you get here, madame?”

  “With the help of our countrymen. Thank you for being brave enough to greet us. You remember my friend Yvette and my son, Philippe?”

  LeForge tipped his cap and smiled at Yvette. He looked long and silently at Philippe. “The boy is a man now.”

  And he should be fighting with his countrymen, Mickey added silently, reading the old man’s thoughts. Philippe began to speak, but Mickey stopped him. “We will wait…for word…. He will do what he can, as I will,” she said sharply. “We are patriots the same as every Frenchman.”

  “Not all are patriots,” the old man snarled. “There are those among us who…Never mind, go. Go to your château and don’t talk to anyone, that is the best advice I can give you.”

  “And I will take it, old friend. Au revoir.”

  It was less than a mile to the château. No word had been spoken as they approached their destination. Mickey felt the tension emanating from her son and was torn between the wonderful sight of her beloved estate, nestled in its ancient foliage and welcoming her home, and Philippe’s obvious torment.

  At the door Philippe uttered his first words through clenched teeth. “How long will we stay, Maman?”

  “We shall see,” Mickey whispered.

  The heavy doors creaked as Philippe shouldered them open. To Mickey’s ears it was the loveliest sound in the world. She was home, safe at last to wait for Daniel. Surely God was on her side now, making sure they all stayed alive until her American friend came. And he would come. He had to come. Then and only then could she deal with Philippe.

  Everything in the château was miraculously intact. Obviously no German had crossed this threshold.

  “Philippe, see to the beds for us while Yvette and I find out if we have anything to eat. Come and join us in the kitchen as soon as you have done so.”

  In the root cellar Mickey and Yvette gathered turnips and potatoes and boiled them with a large bunch of onions into a hearty, nourishing soup. As the fire warmed the kitchen, the two women bustled about chatting amiably. Ten minutes later Philippe joined them, carrying a second armful of fresh wood for the fire. There was no bread, but a vintage wine from the wine cellar accompanied the hasty meal and brought a sigh of contentment to their lips.

  Mickey reached across the table and enclosed her son’s hand with her own. “Philippe, you look exhausted, why don’t you try to get some rest now. We can all think more clearly with food and rest. Go.”

  “All right, Maman. Do you need anything else?”

  “No. Yvette and I will be fine.”

  “Bonsoir, Maman, Tante.” Philippe rose heavily to his feet. The two women watched as he left the warmth of the kitchen. They looked at each other, eyes full of unspoken words when he was gone.

  They sat side by side, soaking their blistered feet in a smelly concoction of water, oil, and herbs. An equally vile-smelling ointment would be applied once their feet were dried. “I don’t know which is worse, the pain or the remedy,” Mickey said flatly.

  Yvette grimaced. “What will we do if Philippe refuses to leave with Daniel? You must decide what will be said at that time, my friend.”

  Yvette’s words bolstered Mickey momentarily. Her friend was speaking positively about Daniel’s arrival. “We’ll deal with that if and when it happens,” she said quietly.

  Yvette watched her friend’s eyes fill with tears. “Do you see how he looks like his father?” Mickey murmured. “We’ve not been here for two years, and in just that amount of time the resemblance has settled onto him as if carved in granite.”

  Yvette knew exactly what Mickey was saying. When they had all filed into the great room dominated by the portrait that had hung over the mantel for so many years, the fact was unmistakable. Philippe had stood in front of the painting, presented to his mother by his father and Uncle Daniel on Christmas Day 1918, and the likeness was uncanny.

  “Yes, but did you see the way he turned his back on it? He won’t leave you now. He believes you are his mother. That boy will never…Mickey, you will have to tell him the truth. Only then will he go.” Yvette’s voice broke. “Then we will have only each other.”

  Mickey swallowed past the lump in her throat. “It will be enough. What more can I ask than a loyal, lifelong friend? Together you and I will see France free again. I believe this, and so must you.

  “Have you noticed something, Yvette?” Mickey continued thoughtfully. “Philippe has not been questioning us. I find that strange. He’s always been obedient, but he does have a mind of his own. Do you suppose in some way he knows what is happening?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think it was seeing Henri killed that made him so withdrawn. He’s never seen death—and to witness his godfather slaughtered…” Yvette could barely speak as the tears flowed from her eyes. “Oh, Mickey, I saw his knees begin to give way under him. They…just kept shooting and shooting…for no reason. He was already gone.”

  Mickey comforted her friend. “He walked in front of the commandant…he didn’t know…they smashed his glasses and he couldn’t see without them…He’s in heaven, Yvette. He is watching over us with God. I think you’re right about Philippe. I wanted to hide his eyes, to take him to my bosom, but he had to see what these animals are capable of.

  “Yvette, I must make a confession. I know I said we would head south and try to cross the border to Spain, but once Philippe is gone…I cannot. I will head north again and join the underground. I’ll go as far as the border with you and then I will go back. Chérie…tell me you understand.”

  Yvette’s eyes shone through her tears. “What I understand is that you are not going without me. How could you think, after what happened to Henri…and did you think for one moment that I believed your sorry story! I will fight as you fight. France will rise again and so will we. Vive La France!” she cried passionately, embracing Mickey.

  “It’s settled, then,” Mickey said. “As soon as…as soon as Philippe leaves…we’ll go north. I have a map with a number of safe houses marked which contain wireless equipment.”

  “How soon do you…when do you expect Daniel?”

  “If he can get here, any day now. I had hoped he would be here waiting for us. He won�
�t go to Paris, he’ll find his way here…I know he will. I feel this in my heart.”

  “We will wait for your friend.”

  “Yes. It is all we can do.”

  Chapter Five

  Reuben stepped off the plane at Dulles Airport, his eyes behind dark glasses, searching out a redcap. When he spotted one some twenty feet away, his long-legged stride picked up momentum. Two young men, bent on securing the same porter, came to a grinding halt when they noticed the grim set of Reuben’s jaw as he peeled off two twenty-dollar bills and handed them to the redcap along with his baggage ticket. “See that my bags are taken to the Ambassador. The name is Tarz.” Without a second look at the porter or the hapless young men, he turned on his heel and commandeered a taxi, shouldering a businessman and a middle-aged woman out of the way as he did so. On most occasions Reuben was courteous, but today wasn’t a normal occasion; today was the day he was going to find out where Daniel was and what was going on. He barked out Daniel’s address on K Street to the driver before settling back against the worn seat cushions.

  During the long trip from California Reuben had rehearsed what he would say when he opened the door to Daniel’s offices. Each introduction had been rejected as he sought for just the right words to say in front of Daniel’s two friends. When they were over Missouri he’d decided to say whatever he damn well felt like saying; Daniel’s snooty friends could either take it or lump it. If he had to, he would camp in the goddamn office until word came from Daniel. He was angry, angrier than he’d ever been in his life, and most of the anger, he knew, was misdirected. Instead of venting his frustration on Daniel’s friends, he should be taking it out on Daniel.