Sins of the Flesh

by Fern Michaels

  These members were new, so new that Mickey and Yvette had yet to be told their code names. The other members they’d come to know over the last months had either left for other networks, been reassigned, or joined God. Mickey dreaded the day she and Yvette would reach a rendezvous with no one to greet them, give them orders, share the latest news, and tell them yes, France would rise again. Her thoughts had never carried her beyond that particular moment.

  She was cold now, numb actually, and hungrier than she’d ever been in her life. As always, she tried not to think about food and her stomach and a warm bath. Such luxuries were not for her at this time. Months earlier she’d given up the game she’d played with herself when they rested, the game of Reuben and Philippe, reliving memories of happier times. It had taken Yvette and her stern, waspish tongue warning her she would get them all killed because her mind was not on the business at hand, and she’d been right. She wanted no loyal Frenchman’s death on her conscience. There was no time for reveries of any kind if one wanted to stay alive.

  Mickey felt her group had done well considering they were not trained soldiers. By military standards their efforts might seem puny, but she knew, as the others did, that people continued to live because of their efforts. The Basil network of which they were now members was more refined, with members who knew how to create believable identity papers, and tailors who could craft a German uniform by hand. Somewhere there was a storehouse of confiscated German weapons, uniforms, transmitters, and anything else the Boche had unwillingly given up to the patriots. So far, though, she and her colleagues had been unable to avail themselves of these necessities because the storehouse was outside the perimeters of the Basil network. Others used it and lived to tell about it, which was all to the good, she thought.

  It was snowing now, large, feathery flakes that would get smaller as the wind shifted. Once she’d thought snow beautiful, so clean and pure, but she’d since seen it stained with her countrymen’s blood, seen others frozen to death. It was hateful now, but unlike the rain, the snow was a smothering blanket to sound that they used to their advantage. It would help them now when they sent out a member to reconnoiter the village. If they were lucky enough to eliminate the command post, they could build a fire and warm themselves. There would be food, and it wouldn’t matter if it was German food or not. Silently, she prayed that there would be enough for the second group of children due to arrive tomorrow.

  This would mark the second trip over the mountains to safety. The first trek across the Pyrenees had been in September, and weather conditions had been tolerable; only one grave had been dug.

  Mickey shuddered. “Yvette,” she whispered, “this weather…the higher we go the worse it will be. The children…even we won’t be able…There must be a better way.”

  “There is no other way,” Yvette grumbled. “I think God will watch over the lot of us. They say He watches over drunks and little children. And foolish women,” she added.

  “It’s not myself I’m worried about, it’s the children.” Mickey’s eyes misted. “I can still see myself digging that grave with my hands and those children, their sad eyes. They trusted us, and we…we lost the little one.”

  “We didn’t just lose him, Mickey, we lost him to God and that’s what makes the difference. I heard you tell Philippe on more than one occasion when he was little that when a child died, it was because God needed another angel. Did you lie to your son?”

  “Stop it,” Mickey panted as she came to a halt behind the man in front of her. “I was responsible for that child, and he died. It is on my conscience. I saw the way the others looked at me. I’ll see their eyes until the day I die.”

  Yvette was saved from the sharp retort that was on her lips when the man in front of them turned. “There is no room for martyrs in this movement, nor for foolish sentimentality. Take my advice and don’t look at their eyes and don’t ask them their names, either. You are not their God, their mother, or their relative. You are their guide and nothing more.”

  Mickey shrugged. The man was right, and she knew Yvette meant well, but that wouldn’t change the way she felt and thought. Children were children. Someday these same children would be France’s future. Never again did she want to see condemnation in a child’s eyes when he looked at her. Never!

  By this time the fat, lacy snowflakes had given way to hard dots of icy rain. It would change back to fine snow shortly, Mickey decided, looking around her anxiously. They were waiting for a man named Gage to return from the village. He wasn’t really a man at all, but a seventeen-year-old university student who claimed to know the village as well as he knew his prayers. There was a tunnel, he said, that had been dug during the Great War that led from the rectory to the church and then to the hilltop a mile from the village. He’d argued vehemently with André, the group’s leader, that the command post would be in the belfry of the church, for it was the highest vantage point, offering visibility to both ends of the road as well as to the entire village.

  In the end André had acquiesced, but only because Yvette had given him not one but two resounding kicks to his shins. “If the boy knows the area, he’s the one to go. I don’t plan to stand here and freeze, so send him on his way,” she’d said in the voice she’d used to order her husband about. André had waved his hand, a signal that the youth was to go ahead and report back as soon as possible.

  “It’s been too long,” one of the men whispered much later.

  “Too long,” whispered another. “The snow is coming down harder. Maybe he can’t find his way back.”

  “You talk too much,” Yvette snapped. “He’s young, his eyes are sharp, and he’s resilient, not like this group of old men and women. He said he’ll come back, and he will.” He had to come back; she’d given the order for him to go. Unlike Mickey, who relied on prayers, she was depending on luck. Now she crossed her fingers in their thick gloves.

  When the boy returned an eternity later, he was as frisky as a newborn pup, his eyes shining with his news. He addressed himself to Yvette, probably because she reminded him of his mother, Mickey thought sourly.

  “Their machine guns are in the belfry, as I thought they would be. I was standing right under them in the tunnel. I heard everything they said. There are six of them, I think. The floor was warm, so they have a fire. No smoke can be seen the way the snow is blowing.”

  “What did they say, these bastard Germans?” André demanded.

  The boy gave a Gallic shrug. “I don’t understand German,” he said. “Do you?”

  “How do we get in there?”

  “Through the tunnel, of course. It opens in the small room off the sanctuary. I think they’re clustered at the back of the church, near the confessionals. There’s more room there. They’re using lamplight. I cracked the trap-door and it was black as hell. I know of no other way. Besides, the snow is worsening,” he said pointedly.

  He was their Pied Piper; they were his mesmerized followers, slipping and clawing their way to the hill opening that would lead them into the tunnel. Muttered curses and sharp expletives were strangled in the swirling snow, all made by the men in the marching column. Yvette kept her lips clamped together, as did Mickey. I hope I live long enough to talk about this, she thought crazily. To her dismay she’d found out over the past months that men were not the superior force she’d believed them to be all these years. After all, she and Yvette were alive and had done everything that these men had done, possibly more. But unlike the men they hadn’t whined or cried or complained except to one another.

  The church was large by most village standards, Mickey reflected a while later when she peeked through the partially open door into the sanctuary. It had eight pews divided into fours, made from Austrian walnut, and in the back of the church a cavernous fireplace and stove that could be cooked on, as these filthy Germans were doing now. The aroma of frying sausage and potatoes made her dizzy. In the faint yellow light she could see guns and boxes of ammunition stacked against the wa
ll near the one confessional. God alone knew what the Germans had stashed behind the confessional curtain. Quickly she blessed herself, asking forgiveness for carrying her own gun into the house of the Lord. It was sacrilegious. She wouldn’t think about the killing that would happen shortly.

  André motioned for the patriots to gather together in a circle. His whispers sounded harsh in the quiet sanctuary. “We must wait till we see how often they go to the belfry and how often they transmit. It’s possible we’ll be here for a very long time, so get comfortable. Gage will monitor the door.”

  “We are going to take one prisoner, aren’t we?” Gage asked excitedly, his boyish face lighting in anticipation. “Since none of us speaks German well enough to use the wireless, we need a prisoner, and we need someone close enough to hear what they’re saying. It would help if we could watch their transmittal.”

  The boy was right, Mickey thought morosely. “I speak German—quite well, as a matter of fact,” she said. “I can listen, and Yvette, if she can get close enough, will…she can try to get a feel for his touch. But it’s tricky.”

  André scowled at his little band of freedom fighters. Through no fault of his own, he seemed to be losing control. The eager young boy had shown him up several times, and the red-haired woman had a tongue like a viper. Christ, he hated working with women; they were too emotional and temperamental in his opinion. Only four months with the Resistance and already his head was clotted with too many deaths, half of them women. These two, though, he admitted, were different, older and more dedicated, if that was possible. Although he worried about them, he’d never let them know it, for they’d think him soft and weak. He worried about the boy, too, who hadn’t even tasted life, probably had never had a woman in bed. For a moment he felt unsure of himself as the others looked up at him expectantly. His scowl deepened. There was no room here for ego or personalities, it was what was best for the lot of them and their country.

  He moved closer to Gage. “Is there any way to reach the back of the church without going down the center aisle?”

  Gage shook his head. “If the wind picks up a little more and they keep on drinking, one of us could crawl on his belly under the pew and get close enough to hear what they’re saying.” He shrugged; it was the best he could offer in the way of a solution.

  One of us, Mickey thought. What he meant was, she should be the one to crawl on her belly since she was the only one who understood German. Yvette would transmit. There was no other choice. Without being told, she knew that their weapons would be left in the sanctuary. A knife up her sleeve would be her only protection. Without a word, she nodded at André.

  “We’ll give you an hour,” he told her. “At the end of that time one of you crawls back here to tell us what those bastards are saying. Take off your boots and remove your jackets. Buttons make noise and boots might hit the footrests. Maman to the left, Chapeau to the right. One hour. Go!”

  Mickey’s heart pounded as she dropped to the floor to crawl through the half-open door. She bellied her way across the front of the altar, blessing herself and then slithering down the step to the communion rail, fumbling with her numb hands to find the latch on the center gate. The latch clicked beneath her fingers when she held her breath, then gently, she inched it backward, allowing just enough room to crawl through.

  For a moment she hesitated; had her movements alerted those at the back of the church? A light touch on the heel of her foot by Yvette urged her on. By now she was in front of the communion rail, straining her eyes to see exactly where the footrests were. One to each side of the pew…If the last parishioner had raised it on leaving, there would be no problem. When she reached the first pew, her gloved hands straight in front of her, she crawled forward. The footrest was up, as were the second and third. Five more to go. The fourth was down, without enough room to crawl over it. She sucked in her breath as she gripped the hard wood in both her hands. Then she heard a sound, a whispery, scratching sound as the footrest moved upward. Mother of God, it wasn’t the footrest at all, but a rat crawling over her arm! She wanted to scream, to drop the footrest and run. Her eyes were wild, her arms stiff as the rat scurried up her arm to her shoulder and down her back. It would be right in Yvette’s face. She felt rather than heard Yvette move, then something sailed up and past the pew she was under. The rat made a screeching sound that was followed by an arc of light and a gunshot so loud it deafened Mickey’s ears.

  “A rat, nothing more,” she heard one of the soldiers say in German.

  After a few moments, she began to move again, slower this time, her eyes straining for other vermin. When she reached the seventh pew the footrest was down, which was fine this time, as it afforded her more protection in the faint light and shadows at the back of the church. When she moved to the side so Yvette could crawl next to her, she could feel her friend’s trembling body. She reached out to offer a comforting pat on her arm.

  The Germans were playing cards, eating, and drinking. Their talk was desultory—the storm, one soldier’s wife who was due to have a baby by the new year, a superior they all seemed to detest, a woman named Renée who, according to one of the soldiers, was the commandant’s French mistress and fucked like a rabbit.

  Boots scraped the hard wooden floor and chairs were pushed back suddenly, the sound like thunder in the quiet church.

  “Ach, no fool will be out in this weather. Who will know if I climb that damn belfry? You can’t see your hand in front of your face,” one of the soldiers grumbled.

  “Orders,” another said harshly. “These French are fools. We do what we are told. I want to see my wife again. Quickly, so I can transmit.”

  It was impossible to tell how long they remained under the pews—perhaps close to an hour, Mickey thought. They’d been in the sanctuary for well over an hour, which meant the Germans must be transmitting every three hours.

  Mickey’s entire body was so numb, she thought she’d never be able to move again. The floor was ice cold with drafts blowing from every direction. She could feel herself start to shiver.

  The German returned from the bell tower, his boots stomping across the floor. “I told you there is nothing out there but snow. These French, they are probably lighting Christmas trees,” he snarled.

  Mickey’s eyes widened in the darkness. Christmas! Surely it wasn’t Christmas. If it really was Christmas, that meant they would…be killing…she didn’t know for sure that it was Christmas. Killing is necessary no matter what day it is, she cautioned herself.

  “Send your message, Kort, so we can divide our shift. I need some sleep,” ordered the officer from the belfry, tired now and half-angry. “And while you’re at it, find out how much longer we’re going to stay in this damned church. There are no R.A.F. pilots around here, or we’d have seen them. There are no tracks in the snow, and we searched every damned house in this miserable village. They went over the mountains. They’re probably all dead by now.” His voice was angrier now and sullen.

  “Yes, my general,” the transmitter mocked as he prepared to send his message to God only knew where.

  Mickey could feel Yvette tense at her side. She knew her ears were straining to hear the taps of the keys.

  Fifteen minutes later they were back in the sanctuary, where it was colder still. Mickey slipped into her heavy jacket, grateful for the warmth it offered. “At least two of them will sleep, possibly three,” she whispered.

  André nodded. “You two will be the last in line. The transmitter stays alive. Which one is he?” he asked Yvette.

  “We saw only boots, nothing above the knees. He has very large feet, and he sits like this,” she said, demonstrating a wide-legged stool position.

  “I think it’s Christmas,” Mickey said in a hushed voice. The others were silent as they digested her words, each of them remembering other Christmases with family and friends.

  “It makes no difference,” André said with a catch in his voice. Mickey wondered then how old he was and if he had a fa
mily. Suddenly she didn’t want to know; it was enough to know he was human and had feelings he kept hidden like the rest of them.

  André turned to stare at his group. In a low, harsh voice he whispered, “For thousands of years a church has been designated as a place of sanctuary. This is our church, it belongs to every French Catholic in France, and we are protecting it from those German killers. I don’t know if God will forgive us or not for what we’re about to do. I hope He will,” he said, blessing himself.

  Mickey felt calm suddenly, almost peaceful as she dropped to her belly. God would forgive them because they were His children. He alone knew there was no other way.

  The Germans were sluggish with the warmth of the fire and the wine and food they’d consumed. It was to the partisans’ advantage as they attacked—brutally. Mickey thought she would never get used to the sight of blood spilling from a man’s throat, or the sound of the death gurgle, but this time she barely noticed, wondering if it really was Christmas.

  Two men with braided rawhide strips around their necks were alive. Tethered as they were, they could signal only with their eyes.

  “Call this one a horse’s ass in German,” Yvette said to Mickey as she spat in the soldier’s face. “Look, see the fear in his eyes. He’s afraid of us foolish French. Damn you, Mickey, say it!” she shouted. The soldier cringed, knowing his life was almost at an end. At that moment he would have confessed anything—unlike these men and women. Small in number, these partisans fought loyally and to the death. In his mind he admired them. He was a horse’s ass; well, he’d been called worse in his life, mostly by his wife, who loved him dearly. Now he wished he’d told her more often how he felt about her.

  “Who is the transmitter?” André asked coldly. Neither man acknowledged his question. “Let me put it to you another way: the one who does the transmitting is the one who stays alive.” The man Yvette called a horse’s ass jerked forward. When André nodded, the remaining German was pulled backward into the darkness of the church. There was a moment of light scuffling and then silence.