by Perrat, Liza
‘Everything all right?’ I whispered to Ghislaine, with a glance at the armed sentry, visible through the open doorway.
‘It’s so frustrating, isn’t it?’ Ghislaine murmured, resting the back of her hand against her brow. ‘When all we can do is offer a bit of antiseptic and a few soothing words, knowing our work will be undone as soon as those SS bullies torture them again.’
‘The doc warned us it wouldn’t be easy.’
Ghislaine’s hands shook as she wrung them. ‘Yes I know, but I still don’t see how you’ll manage to get to the women’s section,’ she said with another nervous glance at the guard. ‘You know he won’t leave his post for a second, or ever let us out of here.’
‘I’ll find a way.’
‘Duties will be carried out in silence!’ the sentry shouted as our next patient shuffled in, a scarlet trickle from a gash staining one cheek.
‘Lie down, we’ll take care of you,’ I said, and began to bathe the fresh wound.
‘Bless you,’ he said, as I slid our copy of the underground newspaper –– Combat –– within his view.
I kept one eye on the guard as the prisoner quickly scanned the newspaper, containing mainly articles criticising the actions of the Vichy government, Nazism and collaboration.
‘Thank you, mademoiselle,’ he said, shuffling off to return to his cell, where he would pass on the precious information he’d gleaned about what was truly happening in the war.
Ghislaine and I worked together to plaster a man’s arm, which the SS had twisted and broken.
‘Sorry, it’s a bit messy,’ I said, the mixture slopping over the floor and our white aprons. ‘It’s our first plaster.’
‘I’m sure you’ll do a great job,’ the prisoner said, his eyes scanning the articles of another underground paper –– Libération –– I’d slid beneath his gaze. His arm in an untidy sling, also our first, he thanked us and left as the bell sounded midday.
Lunch break, and my only chance to catch a glimpse of Félicité; perhaps a hurried word.
***
As Ghislaine –– Lucie –– and I stood in the dining area ladling out soup to long lines of haggard prisoners, I scanned the room for my sister.
‘Thank you, dear,’ one man said with a small smile. ‘This German soup isn’t too bad. Shame the Boche are so stupid, spoiling it with all that cumin. At least it’s better than their other one, though.’ His mouth twisted in a grimace. ‘Tastes like bitter almonds.’
‘Nothing like the good Red Cross evening soup, eh?’ the next prisoner said, with a weary wink. ‘At least you get something in the water –– a potato, a carrot, maybe a leek.’
‘Prisoners will cease to speak!’ the guard snapped, standing stiffly beside the queue. ‘Or you’ll be back in the cells with nothing at all in your miserable bellies.’
My eyes kept skittering across the desperate faces. None of them was Félicité.
‘She must be here somewhere.’
‘We’ll keep looking,’ Ghislaine muttered, as we continued spooning out the stipulated half-litre of soup into bowls marked with Secours National and La Croix-Rouge.
‘Just the sight of that insignia alone is a comfort,’ another prisoner said to us as he moved off.
By the end of lunchtime I was certain my sister had not been in the eating area.
‘Maybe they’re keeping her locked up like they do some of the prisoners?’ Ghislaine said. ‘Giving her soup in her cell?’
I shuddered at the image of Félicité beaten and lying on some cockroach-infested straw mattress.
***
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted,’ Ghislaine said, as we left the sour stench of Montluc Prison after our first gruelling day. There had been no news, or sight, of Félicité.
‘Not too tired to come to the station with me, I hope? I want to see if I can get a ticket to Drancy. I can’t bear the idea of not doing a single thing to try and help the Wolfs. Of course, I wouldn’t think of using our funds though, I’ve got enough of my own money.’
‘Isn’t it dangerous to go near the holding camps?’ Ghislaine said, as we squeezed onto the crowded trolleybus. ‘They might throw you in there too. But I suppose if you insist, we could go and see.’
Amidst the crowd at the Perrache railway station, I glimpsed flashes of the Germans’ almond-green uniforms amidst the drab garments of the Lyonnais people.
‘Let’s find the ticket-office,’ I shouted over the screech of axles and the hiss of steam. I took her arm and we fought our way through the cursing, crushing throng.
‘You must be joking, mademoiselle?’ the man said, when I asked for a ticket that would get me to the Drancy holding camp. ‘Why ever would you want to go there?
‘My friends are being held in the camp,’ I said. ‘I must try and see them.’
The ticket man shook his head. ‘They don’t let visitors in,’ he said. ‘Ever. You’d be wasting your time and money, mademoiselle.’
Ghislaine touched my elbow. ‘It would be silly to go chasing off to Drancy for nothing. Let’s go home.’
‘All I want is to try and help them,’ I said, clutching Ghislaine’s arm as we made our way out of the ticket-office. ‘I didn’t get to see my sister and it seems I won’t get to see the Wolfs either.’
As we started walking away from the station, a jumble of suitcases and bundles on a siding caught my eye.
‘What are all those things?’ I looked about us. ‘Nobody seems to be guarding them, or the least bit worried about them sitting out there in the open.’
‘I’m amazed someone hasn’t already made off with them,’ Ghislaine said as we took tentative steps towards the pile.
Many of the suitcases gaped open, the contents spilled out onto the tracks in a muddle of dirty clothes, single shoes, books, a child’s doll –– its china face cracked and grit-stained. The bags and items littered the ground over a wide area, surely many more things than from one single trainload of people. Much of it was sodden and flattened, as if it had been sitting there for days.
‘Who do all these things belong to?’ Ghislaine said.
I shook my head as we kept walking amongst the mess, trying not to step on anything. ‘I have no idea, but I can’t imagine any little girl abandoning her doll.’
In the lamplight, a flash of something bright caught my eye. I looked closer, bent down and plucked it from the debris. It was a little wooden soldier, with a red coat. The face of the toy was crushed, almost split in two, as if a careless heel had trampled on it.
It was a little newer-looking, and larger than the soldier Papa had carved for Patrick, but my fingers tightened around the figure as I lifted it to my chest. With my other hand, I groped about for my angel pendant. There was nothing, only a great, gaping emptiness where it normally sat. But, as if it were still around my neck, the leather cord seemed to tighten, so much that I felt it was strangling me.
I gulped in breaths of air, one hand grappling with that invisible choker, the other still clutching the soldier with the red coat.
My tears came, dripping silently onto the pile of abandoned belongings, and the first snow fell, light and soft as a ballerina’s step.
31
The frigid north wind tugged at my flimsy coat as we headed back to Jacqueline’s flat in the old district, the grief, the bitter disappointment, tearing at my heart.
A group of German soldiers swaggered along the pavement towards us, laughing loudly.
‘Pon-soir, mam’zelles,’ one of them said with a lecherous grin. ‘Care to share a drink with us? Warm yourselves on such a cold evening?’
‘No, thank you,’ I said.
‘It seems those pigs have truly made themselves at home here,’ Ghislaine said, as they sauntered away.
‘Be careful,’ I hissed. ‘They’ll hear you.’
‘The Boche control everything now,’ Ghislaine said later, as we got off the trolleybus and continued the rest of the way on foot. ‘Traffic, food, newspap
ers, movies, the French police. I just wonder what will be left of our city once the war is over. ’
‘At least we have the Red Cross laissez-passer,’ I said. ‘They can’t stop us going out at night, when we have to.’
‘I’ll do whatever it takes to get rid of those murderers,’ she said, and even in the dim streetlight I could see the determination in her eyes glinting a steely blue.
‘Don’t forget what Dr. Laforge says,’ I said. ‘The Germans can afford to pay informers well. Trust nobody. Say nothing.’
As we climbed the steps to Jacqueline’s flat, I saw the same woman, clutching her infant son. The girl’s eyes grew wide and she held the boy closer.
‘What a sweet baby,’ Ghislaine said. ‘A boy or a girl?’
‘H-his name’s S-samuel,’ Ellie stammered.
‘The doctor’s our friend, Ellie,’ I said. ‘I heard you tell him you were leaving Lyon, going to a safe place?’
‘It’s dangerous for you here,’ Ghislaine said. ‘They’re rounding up more and more of your people.’
‘I’m taking Samuel to the countryside as soon as I … when I can get the money for our train tickets,’ Ellie said. ‘But thank you for your concern.’
‘Take care, Ellie,’ I said as she scuttled off up the stairs.
‘Poor girl,’ Ghislaine said. ‘How humiliating to have to wear a stupid star, and to live in terror of their roundups. Nazi Bastards.’
‘But the doctor is right,’ I said. ‘She should leave now; it’s only a matter of time before they catch up with her.’
I thought of Max and Sabine, Talia and Jacob in Drancy, or perhaps already in Poland or Germany. I hated thinking of them in some harsh labour camp, working through the frozen German winter. I hoped they would give them enough to eat at least, and clothes to keep them warm.
***
Ghislaine looked as startled as I was, to see Miette Dubois at Jacqueline’s flat.
‘What are you doing here?’ Ghislaine said. ‘Has something happened in Lucie?’
‘My father told me where you’d both gone,’ Miette said, with her usual bright smile. ‘I convinced him, and Dr. Laforge, that my German language skills could be useful here in the city. His sister got me papers; I’ll be working as a courier.’
‘Of course,’ Ghislaine said with a smirk, as we hooked our coats on the rack. ‘The Boche would never suspect such a sweet, innocent face.’
‘How was it at the prison?’ Miette said. ‘I suppose you’d have said if …’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing. No sign of my sister.’
She laid a hand over mine. ‘I hope you get to see her soon.’
In the cramped living room where Ghislaine and I –– and now Miette, I supposed –– shared the sofa bed, we peeled our white caps off, our aprons and blue blouses.
‘I love your new look,’ Miette said, admiring our other “uniform” –– trousers and a shirt like Jacqueline’s, with a forage cap for outdoors.
‘Jacqueline believes if we dress like men,’ I said, ‘it will give women the power to live like them; to gain the same respect as men.’
‘She says we need to be free of men,’ Ghislaine said, tucking her shirt into her trousers. ‘And that we should liberate ourselves from the bonds of this country’s old-fashioned Catholic government.’
Miette laughed. ‘It reminds me of you as a kid, Cél –– Gabrielle, climbing trees and playing cowboys and Indians with Olivier and your brother. Just like another boy.’
Olivier’s cheeky grin flashed into my head, and I felt his lips pressed against mine. How impressed he’d be, to see me like that. Patrick too. Maybe even Maman would finally be proud of me.
‘Yes, it was fun,’ I said with a nostalgic smile. ‘But I’m not that kid anymore.’
No, I was Gabrielle Fontaine now, free of the restraints and flaws that had tied Céleste Roussel to her monotonous, uneventful existence. Yet a part of me still pined for the old life.
‘I know it’s too soon for any word from the boys,’ I said, as we squeezed around Jacqueline’s table. ‘They’ve only been gone a few days, but I can’t stop thinking about them.’
‘Try not to worry too much,’ Miette said, patting my arm. ‘I’m sure they’ll be careful.’
‘Eat quickly, girls,’ Jacqueline said in her no-nonsense manner, swallowing mouthfuls of red wine between picking the stones out of the bowl of lentils. ‘Pierre and Antoine will be over shortly to pick up the news-sheets for tomorrow’s distribution. You’ll take some too,’ she said, pointing her fork at Miette, ‘and I’ll take the rest to my school. The more people we get word out to, the better.’
‘Thank you for preparing a nice dinner, Jacqueline,’ Miette said, passing me the Jerusalem artichokes and rutabagas. ‘And for having all of us here, crowding out your flat.’
‘Dinner was pretty awful,’ Jacqueline said with a snort. ‘It all tastes the same –– of the grease we’re forced to cook with, instead of real butter.’ She pushed her plate aside, lit a Gauloise and flanked one leg across the other. I couldn’t help smiling at her man-like gestures.
‘At least we have food,’ Miette said.
After our pumpkin compote and custard dessert, Ghislaine and I washed up while Jacqueline and Miette set up the printing press.
Jacqueline lifted the piano lid and sat on the stool. She started playing as Miette fed paper into the press, Ghislaine turned the handle and I collected up the single sheets, silently reading the printed words:
Each sabotaged piece, every working minute lost, saves a human life. A fault in the machine –– a tool, an unscrewed nut, a pinhole in a food tin –– hastens the German defeat.
‘Sorry, no more paper,’ Miette said, as Pierre’s coded knock tapped on the door.
‘I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to keep this up,’ Jacqueline said, closing the piano lid. ‘With supplies so severely rationed now. I suppose we’ll have to pay some exorbitant price for newsprint on the black market. Or steal it.’
Pierre and Antoine nodded at us wordlessly as they each began wrapping half the pile of pamphlets around their calves.
‘Do you want coffee?’ Jacqueline said.
Pierre shook his head of straggly hair as he pulled his socks back up over the papers. ‘I timed the German patrol. We’ve only got five minutes before they’re back in this street.’
‘Be safe,’ we all whispered, our words escaping in puffs of vapour as the boys slipped away into the icy night.
We were about to collapse onto the sofa bed when we heard another knock –– Dr. Laforge’s distinctive six-knock code.
The doctor strode in, rubbing his gloved hands together. He looked straight at me. ‘I’m sorry to bring bad news, but your sister has been deported.’
‘Deported?’ Queasy waves fluttered deep in my belly. I gripped Ghislaine’s arm. ‘Where?
‘She left last night,’ he said, as Miette came and held my other arm. ‘On a train bound for a place called Ravensbrück. I believe they’ve sent Madame Wolf and her children there too. I have no information about the father though.’
‘Ravensbrück?’ I said. ‘Where’s that?’
‘It’s in Germany,’ Miette said.
‘Yes,’ Dr. Laforge said. ‘A Reich prison. I’m so sorry.’
‘If it’s just a prison,’ I went on, still confused, ‘why didn’t they simply leave Félicité at Montluc? Why bother sending her all the way to Germany? I don’t understand.’
32
Ghislaine and I exchanged nervous glances as Pierre set the thick leather-bound book on Jacqueline’s kitchen table. He took a ruler and carefully cut out a square chunk of most of the pages.
‘You look tired,’ I said to Antoine. He didn’t look especially tired, I just wanted to talk –– anything to calm my jangling nerves. Miette, who I could always count on for a comforting chat, was away on an overnight courier job.
Antoine said nothing, his eyes fixed on the book as Pierre placed t
he bottom half of a small box into the cut-out square, into which he laid three sticks of dynamite. With steady, practised fingers, he connected the wires to the battery and set the clock.
By day, Ghislaine and I continued our nursing work at Montluc Prison which, with the endless raids and massive arrests of Resistance members, was bursting with prisoners. So far, our night-time work had involved letting down Nazi truck tyres and pasting news-sheets to the walls of telephone boxes, public urinals and métro tunnels, printed with such slogans as: vive le Général de Gaulle and nous sommes pour le Général de Gaulle. But tonight they’d assigned us our first real job, and I sensed Ghislaine was as nervous as I was.
Pierre closed the book. ‘All clear with the address, your instructions?’
‘We’re ready,’ I said, carefully placing the book in my classy leather bag.
‘Merde then, girls,’ Pierre said, and we left Jacqueline’s flat, the wintry December air freezing on our cheeks.
Snow fell lightly, mixing with city grit, as our high heels slipped about on the cobblestones. A few people hurried by, men in overcoats, women in coats with the wool hoods pulled up, all anxious to be home before curfew. We walked in silence, passing people huddled in doorways, shivering.
It was a week since Dr. Laforge told us they’d sent Marie-Félicité to Ravensbrück, but I still hadn’t found out anything about the place. Nobody seemed to have heard of it. The thought then struck me –– surely Martin would know about it. I’d been back to Lucie only once, when Dr. Laforge gave me the all clear, but there was no message in Au Cochon Tué. I was certain Martin would be back any day though. As we hurried on through the old district of Lyon, I felt a pulse of warmth, and hope, at the thought of seeing him again.
With people home for curfew, the cold streets had fallen quiet, the snarls of two fighting cats the only sounds piercing the darkness.
We rounded a corner, almost colliding with a group of officers in black uniform. My eyes leapt to their symbol gleaming in the lamplight –– a sideways Z with a vertical line through the middle: the wolf’s hook, or Wolfsangel. Despite the Renaissance buildings around us clinging to their timeless French aristocratic air, that sinister insignia of the Reich’s SS only shouted the message louder: our city was truly under the enemy’s heel.
