Wolfsangel

by Perrat, Liza

  I leapt from the Traction as Père Emmanuel, Dr. Laforge and Jacqueline appeared from the cottage with a man and a woman. From the man’s blue overalls, and the woman’s apron, it was obvious they were the farmer and his wife.

  ‘Well done, Gabrielle,’ Dr. Laforge said. ‘Good work, everybody.’

  ‘This is my brother, Georges,’ Père Emmanuel said, introducing the farmer. ‘And his wife, Perrine.’

  ‘Come in, quickly,’ Perrine said, taking my arm and ushering me up the crumbling porch steps. ‘You look fagged out. What a time you must’ve had.’

  ‘I’m all right, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’d just like to see the boys … to take care of them.’

  I followed the woman into a dim hallway, leaving the others murmuring outside with the agents.

  Perrine lit a candle and I saw we were in the kitchen, the stove set into a blackened hearth, the pots and skillets dangling from racks above the low cupboards, much like Maman’s at L’Auberge.

  ‘They’re in the living room,’ Perrine said as she added a shovelful of charcoal to the stove and placed a wide cauldron on top. ‘Why don’t you go through and bring me their clothes? I’ll put them in to soak while you tend their wounds.’ She started filling the cauldron with water.

  My brother’s smile revealed a mouthful of broken teeth as he turned his face to Olivier. ‘Can you believe it … what my sister just did?’

  ‘Best resistor around these parts,’ Olivier said.

  ‘Oh I know that.’ My casual shrug masked the surge of pride I felt as I began cleansing their wounds. ‘And you’re to call me Gabrielle Fontaine now.’

  Olivier smiled. ‘Gabrielle. It suits you … very heroine-ish.’

  I could tell the boys were trying not to wince or cry out as I peeled away their grimy, bloodstained garments and for the next few minutes I filled them in on the news. I told them about Maman and her release from prison. Reluctant to worry them more than necessary, I didn’t voice my suspicions as to why she was released so easily, and how she was carrying on the angel-making as usual, with real soap. I could hardly believe it myself. The very thought of my mother with a German was vulgar.

  ‘The Boche took Maman’s pig and some hens,’ I said. ‘So there’ll be no pork next year. And someone from Lucie is giving the Germans information about the villagers, who they then blackmail. Ghislaine, Miette and I have our suspicions, but no proof … yet.’

  ‘So much for patriotism,’ Patrick said. ‘While we’re risking our lives, all some people think about is what they can get out of this occupation; taking their cut from those Nazi bastards.’

  Nazi bastards.

  It struck me then, was Martin a Nazi? I’d never thought about it. I only knew that, kneeling beside my heroes, Patrick and Olivier, I wanted to beat Martin’s image from my mind; to snap the threads of those two conflicting strands that stretched my nerves so tightly I feared something inside me would snap. How could I truly dedicate myself to our Resistance while Martin Diehl was hanging off every one of my thoughts? How could I be certain never to reveal the tiniest morsel of confidential information –– unconsciously perhaps –– in a moment of unthinking desire?

  The talk of collaboration reminded me of Gaspard Bénédict but when I told Patrick and Olivier about his beating and how he lay, brain-dead, in his mother’s back room, they barely flinched.

  ‘Traitors get what they deserve,’ Patrick said, his words a bitter whisper.

  ‘Many of the prisoners talked,’ Olivier said. ‘Couldn’t cope with the torture, and told the barbarians what they wanted. But we never did.’

  ‘Because we knew they’d shoot us whether we spoke or not,’ Patrick said.

  My brother and Olivier may not have revealed their secrets to the Gestapo, but as I continued dabbing their wounds with warm water, I sensed those brutes had broken something inside them. They’d stolen their youth; their joie de vivre.

  ‘How’s Ghislaine … and her father?’ Olivier said.

  ‘Not good,’ I said. ‘Père Emmanuel says Bernard Dutrottier’s a broken man. He doesn’t speak anymore. And he’s had to close the shop. Two of the Boche found out he was selling his meat on the black market, so now he has to sell it all to them. There’s none left over for the villagers, or for his family.’

  ‘Bastard pigs,’ Olivier said with a groan as he shifted to his other side. I tried not to flinch at the whip marks criss-crossing his back.

  ‘And the family?’ he said. ‘They’re in a safe place?’

  ‘As safe as possible.’

  ‘Nowhere is safe these days,’ Patrick said.

  ‘There’s more and more talk of this Allied invasion coming to save us,’ Olivier said.

  ‘Well I wish they’d hurry,’ I said as I continued cleaning the wounds. ‘Now don’t speak too much. Save your energy to recover.’

  ‘Yeah, so we can go back out and shoot their ugly Boche arses,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Go back out?’ I said. ‘You’re surely not …?’

  ‘You know we can’t return to Lucie,’ Patrick said. ‘Or L’Auberge. Besides do you want to live the rest of your life under the rule of those pigs?’

  ‘Of course I don’t, Patrick. That’s what I was trying to tell you both from the beginning. I need to fight too.’

  ‘I thought your job was finding out if the Boche officer knows about us?’

  ‘He doesn’t know a thing,’ I said, swivelling about to hide my flushed cheeks. ‘I’m sure of that.’

  ‘We’re joining the Maquis,’ Olivier said. ‘Père Emmanuel’s brother –– Georges’ group. We’ll be staying on here in Saint Martin-en-Haut.’

  ‘The Maquis,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’ve heard about them.’

  ‘At first,’ Olivier said, ‘they were just men running off into the hills to avoid compulsory labour serv ––’

  ‘Unlike our father,’ Patrick said, with a bitter twist of his lip.

  ‘But now they’re highly-organised Resistance groups,’ Olivier went on.

  ‘That’s dangerous work.’ I dabbed their wounds with antiseptic. ‘Living out in the hills … the cold, the threat of informants. Not to mention the Nazi reprisals –– punishing the villagers –– for Maquis sabotages.’

  ‘Georges and Perrine will watch out for us,’ Olivier said. ‘Three of their five boys are prisoners-of-war; they’re dedicated to helping the Maquisards.’

  ‘They seem lovely,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know Père Emmanuel had a brother. It’s strange to imagine him with a real family, you know …’

  ‘You understand we won’t be able to have any contact with you, Maman or anyone else,’ Patrick said.

  ‘No contact at all?’

  ‘We’ll send messages when we can,’ Olivier said, pressing a palm to my arm. ‘Through our contacts. You understand why we have to keep fighting?’

  ‘Yes … yes I do, but it seems I’ve only just got you both back. Back from the dead!’

  The SS might have beaten the boyish, carefree joy from Patrick and Olivier, but something entirely different had awoken from the darkness of those savage beatings –– a passionate, almost feral urge to fight for us; to risk their lives for what they believed in. It was a strength I realised, that Martin Diehl no longer possessed –– a quality he’d perhaps never had, even before he became disillusioned with the war. For a fleeting instant the German officer struck me as a weakling who lacked the fierce dedication of Patrick and Olivier.

  I swatted those unsettling thoughts aside as Perrine appeared with bowls of vegetable soup. She handed one to me, knelt beside my brother and began spoon-feeding him.

  ‘Be a good boy now,’ I said, holding the spoon to Olivier’s swollen lips. ‘Drink up your soup.’

  ‘Oui, Maman Gabrielle,’ he said with a small grin, and swallowed the warm liquid.

  Sitting by Olivier’s side, gripped with the same kind of maternal protection I felt for Talia and Jacob Wolf, I sensed the change that had come over us both. The gleeful chil
dren who’d jibed, teased and swum together were gone. Age, war and the occupation had transformed us, and I knew things could never be the same.

  ***

  I left Patrick and Olivier sleeping and took the soup bowls back to the kitchen. Our “Gestapo” agents finished their coffee and, with nods all round, they got up and drove away into the bruised dusk light. Apart from Pierre, I hadn’t learned their names, and suspected I never would.

  ‘Coffee, Gabrielle?’ Perrine said. She pushed aside the already long scarf she was knitting and crossed to the stove.

  I sat at the table with the others. ‘Who were they, the fake agents?’

  ‘Members of our group,’ Jacqueline said, lighting a Gauloise. ‘The one with the German accent is from Luxembourg. He ran away from forced German military service; deserted the beloved Führer. As you can imagine, he’s quite useful to us.’

  ‘And the one who looks like Pierre,’ Dr. Laforge said. ‘Is codenamed Antoine. He and Pierre are law students at the Université Lyon 2. They work there as cleaners in return for free lectures.’

  ‘The Boche killed three of Pierre’s brothers and two of Antoine’s,’ Jacqueline said, cigarette smoke streaming from her nostrils.

  ‘We need to let my mother and my sister know the boys are safe,’ I said to Dr. Laforge.

  ‘Père Emmanuel and I are going back to Lucie now,’ the doctor said. ‘I’ll call in at L’Auberge … on the pretext of a medical visit.’

  ‘I’ll telephone your sister,’ Père Emmanuel said. ‘Best you stay away from L’Auberge for a while. The police will be like ants, crawling all over the farm looking for Patrick and Olivier. And while they can’t connect the girl who lives there to Gabrielle Fontaine, it’s better to be safe.’

  Dr. Laforge and Père Emmanuel drove off too, and Georges plugged the cork into his wine bottle.

  ‘Bonne nuit, ladies.’ The old farmer lifted his arm in a wave and turned to climb the stairs. ‘Sleep in peace.’

  I was weary beyond exhaustion but knew I was too charged up to sleep, so I left Jacqueline in the kitchen with Perrine, and the scarves and socks she was knitting for her prisoner-of-war sons.

  I slipped outside and stood on the porch, my arms clamped across my chest against the cold. I couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride. The boys were safe. Despite the Martin Diehl dilemma, I’d proved myself a worthy Resistance fighter. Nobody could treat me as silly, rash or hot-tempered.

  The door creaked open and Jacqueline came to stand beside me. She pulled her pack of Gauloise from her pocket, lit two cigarettes and handed one to me. She took a few deep drags and laid a large masculine hand on my shoulder.

  ‘What would you think about coming to stay at my flat in Lyon?’ she said. ‘To continue working with our group?’

  I couldn’t resist a smile. ‘I’d like that very much, Jacqueline.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, in her no-nonsense tone, ‘it’s settled then. You should get some sleep now. It’s been a long day.’ She patted my shoulder, the manly hand lingering, then slipping away.

  ‘I’ll be in soon,’ I said, breathing in the sweet night air. ‘It’s just so peaceful out here, after … after today.’

  Jacqueline nodded and flicked her cigarette butt into the frosty darkness. It fizzed on the damp ground and she disappeared inside. I stared out into the quiet night, and up at the amber cloud obscuring the moon. The sky was clearer, away from the city, the stars blinking at me like the eyes of a thousand, protective gods. The scent of cow dung, rotting leaves and moist earth filled my nostrils. Familiar, safe smells.

  I hooked my arms around myself, hugging my elbows, and thought of L’Auberge. I’d been bursting to get away, but once gone, those comforting scents seemed to call me home. Nobody could connect Céleste Roussel to an Antiquaille nurse who’d helped break out two prisoners, but Père Emmanuel was right and I should stay away for a time. Besides, Martin being away on leave certainly doused any urge to rush back to Lucie.

  A lick of wind shifted the cloud from the moon, and the ivory face peered down at me from the blackness. The soft light streaming onto my face, I felt the anguish of the past weeks seeping from me.

  I had no idea what would happen to Patrick and Olivier –– and to me –– from then on. And what of my future with Martin? That too, was foggy. But after such a harrowing day, all I could think of was the bliss of sleeping in peace for the first time in weeks.

  ***

  Jacqueline and I stayed with Georges and Perrine four more days, nursing the boys back to health. Besides the farmer and his wife, we didn’t see another soul. On the fifth day, when Dr. Laforge came to take us back to Lyon, Patrick and Olivier were up and walking, their wounds healing, all traces of the typhus infection gone.

  I walked down the porch steps, and across the grass that was knee-deep in a milky mist, to meet him.

  ‘All is well at L’Auberge,’ he said. ‘As Père Emmanuel predicted, the Gestapo went there, searching for your brother and Olivier.’

  I imagined Maman, pottering along with her business as usual, certain she wouldn’t get away with it a second time.

  ‘I managed to see your mother before they got there,’ Dr. Laforge said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘She was prepared for their arrival.’

  ‘And my sister knows the boys are safe?’

  The doctor nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you for everything. Félicité must’ve been frantic with worry. But I’d still like to see her. And the Faviers.’

  ‘Once the Gestapo discover Patrick Roussel has a sister at the convent, they’ll be all over Valeria, looking for him and Olivier.’

  ‘So I shouldn’t go to the convent?’

  ‘You certainly shouldn’t go as Sister Marie-Félicité’s sibling, or anywhere else as Céleste Roussel right now, for that matter.’

  ‘Couldn’t I be at the convent as Gabrielle Fontaine?’ I said. ‘Vaccinating the students or something? You know how much the Germans fear contagious diseases, ordering all the children to be vaccinated, and I’d really like to see my sister.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds like the perfect alibi,’ he said with a nod. ‘Put your hospital uniform back on. You’ll be at the convent as Nurse Gabrielle Fontaine, immunising the students against diphtheria. I’ll come back for you after I’ve dropped Jacqueline at the flat.’

  Georges and Perrine came outside with Patrick and Olivier to see us off. My throat clenched at the thought of leaving that haven.

  ‘You’ve been so kind and generous,’ I said to the farmer and his wife. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Our pleasure, mademoiselle,’ Georges said. ‘We’ll do whatever it takes to drive the enemy out and bring our sons home, where they belong.’

  Perrine kissed me on each cheek. ‘Keep safe, Gabrielle.’

  I turned to my brother and Olivier. ‘I can’t believe I won’t see you for so long. Promise you’ll take care.’

  ‘You too, Agent Fontaine,’ Patrick said, and I saw the vein ticking in his temple as he kissed both my cheeks.

  ‘See you soon, Gabrielle,’ Olivier said. ‘As soon as we’ve beaten the lederhosen off those Boche.’ He placed a palm on either side of my face and kissed me on the mouth.

  I was startled but didn’t pull away. And I didn’t want him to stop.

  28

  I sat in the convent kitchen, jiggling Jacob up and down on my lap. He pumped his little hands together in glee as his mother glided, swan-like, across the tiled floor. Félicité and another sister sat beside us humming a tune, while a third sister strummed a battered guitar. We were so enchanted with Sabine’s graceful dancing that we barely noticed the car doors slamming outside.

  Before we had a chance to react, to move or run anywhere, the great oak door flew open and the hallway was rattling with the noise of boots and snappy French voices.

  The humming stopped. The nun flung the illicit guitar behind a wide cauldron. Sabine stood still, her eyes growing wide. ‘What shall we do?’
/>
  Félicité patted her arm. ‘Madame Favier’s papers are in order. You have nothing to fear.’

  Sabine shrugged my sister’s arm off, pulled Jacob from my lap and ran out the back door towards the garden. Félicité and I did not budge from our chairs, and I noticed my sister’s hands turn white, as she gripped the table edge.

  Four militiamen, revolvers in hand, burst into the kitchen. ‘Where is the Mother Superior? We’d like a word with her.’

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ Félicité said. ‘I will bring our Reverend Mother to you.’

  Still cradling their guns, the militiamen all rose and dipped their heads as the Reverend Mother Madeleine-Louise swept into the kitchen.

  ‘How may I help you, sirs?’ the Reverend Mother said.

  ‘We’ve been informed that a relative of one of your sisters –– Sister Marie-Félicité –– has recently escaped custody, Reverend Mother,’ the militiaman said. ‘We simply wondered if the man and his accomplice might have taken refuge here.’

  The other three stood, legs apart, their eyes darting about as if they might glimpse the fugitives dashing off into dark corners.

  ‘We also have reason to believe,’ the boss militiaman said, ‘you’re hiding Yids here.’

  ‘I would never permit such a thing, sir,’ the Reverend Mother said. ‘We’re all good citizens here and respect the laws of Marshal Pétain. But if you wish to search the school, one of my teachers will be happy to escort you.’ She nodded at my sister.

  Félicité stepped forward. ‘Certainly, and I am Sister Marie-Félicité. Come with me, sirs,’ she said, one arm outstretched, inviting them to follow.

  From beneath his wide beret, the one who seemed to be in charge frowned as I rose from my chair. ‘What’s this nurse doing here?’

  ‘Nurse Gabrielle Fontaine, sir,’ I said, automatically handing him my papers. ‘Here to vaccinate the students against diphtheria.’