by Perrat, Liza
The SS men passed us with curt, polite nods and we veered off down another dimly lit street. We’d only walked a few steps when Ghislaine stopped in the angle of an iron staircase zigzagging down a sooty wall. She pointed down into the shadows.
‘What’s that?’
I took her arm. ‘It looks like people, lying on the ground.’
Our steps hesitant, we walked over.
‘Oh God!’ I gripped Ghislaine’s arm tighter.
We stood motionless, staring in horror at the two corpses, and the surprised looks on their faces, flung back in the agony of death. Blood had leaked from the gaping slashes across their throats, staining the surrounding snow patches the colour of rust.
There was no martyr’s halo glowing about their blood-matted hair, no medals pinned to their still chests, only the rats that had come to gnaw at their bodies, cast aside like rubbish.
‘These two,’ Ghislaine said, hacking her words into the freezing air, ‘are why we’re doing this tonight. And for all the others those monsters have murdered.’
A church bell chimed eight-thirty. ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing we can do for them now and if we don’t hurry, we could end up with our throats slashed too.’
We finally reached rue de la Charité. Distracted as I was, searching for the street number, I didn’t notice the two French police officers come upon us.
‘And where might two lovely ladies be going on such a vile night?’ one of them said, running his eyes over our made-up faces, our fur-lined coats, the nylons and high heels.
‘We’re invited to a book launch,’ I said, as we handed them our papers, along with our Red Cross laissez-passer.
I tried to keep still, acutely aware of the explosive secreted in my bag, the precious seconds ticking away. I was sure they could hear the slow, dull thud of my rebel heart.
‘Mmn, Red Cross nurses,’ he said. ‘Take care out at night on your own,’ the first one said, his smile showing bad teeth. ‘It’s dangerous for young ladies on these streets.’
‘Oui, monsieur,’ we both said with winning smiles as they walked off.
A little further along, I pointed across the street to the bookshop. ‘There it is, Librairie Voltaire.’
Ghislaine and I retreated into the shadows of a bombed building, which had a good view of Librairie Voltaire. As Jacqueline had predicted, the shop was brimming with Germans, for the launch of some book one of them had written –– spouting a fountain of hateful Nazi propaganda, no doubt.
We watched the crowd of Germans, their uniforms a sickly green in the amber light, and the city women hanging off their arms, decked out in their tight-fitting suits, platform shoes and coquettish hats perched on wavy hair rolls. Elegant hands clutching fake crocodile purses, slender fingers wrapped around glasses filled with champagne, they grinned and laughed at everything the Germans said.
‘How can they do that?’ Ghislaine hissed. ‘Sleep with the enemy?’
‘Stupid whores,’ I said, thankful of the darkness to mask my burning cheeks.
‘You wouldn’t catch me with one of those filthy Boche for all the money in Munich.’
‘God, me neither,’ I said. ‘Anyway, we don’t care about them. I should go now. Ready?’
Ghislaine nodded, her eyes peeled for patrolling police as I crossed the street, my stride jaunty in my society clothes.
I waited for a group of guests to enter the bookshop and tagged along with them. Once inside, I mingled and smiled at people, and eyed the table displaying a collection of books. Soft music played and I moved between the people to the table, on which the German’s new book sat.
As other people were doing, I picked up different books –– Devant L’Opinion, Philippe Pétain, Les Décombres –– flicking through each one. I glanced at my watch. Five minutes.
When I was certain nobody was watching, I pulled the leather-bound volume from my bag, slid it beneath the book I was holding and placed them, one on top of the other, on the table.
I didn’t realise I’d been holding my breath until, as I turned to walk out of the shop, it gushed from me.
I’d almost made it to the door when a German officer stopped me.
‘Bonsoir, mam’zelle. May I see your invitation?’
I groped in my bag, my hands starting to shake as I caught a glimpse of my watch. Three minutes.
‘Oh dear,’ I said with a coy smile. ‘I must have left it at home.’
‘Sorry, mam’zelle, invitation only.’
‘Oh well,’ I said, my voice level, flippant even. ‘I’ll just have to go back and get it.’
‘You do that,’ he said with a leer. ‘And hurry back, I’ll be waiting for you.’
I hurried out of the bookshop, almost stumbling on the high heels to get away, across the street.
Once back in the shadows of the bombed building, I grabbed Ghislaine’s arm. ‘They wanted to see my invitation.’
‘Merde! We didn’t plan on that. But did you get the book on the table?’
‘Of course I did. Now let’s get out of here.’
A minute later, as we turned off rue de la Charité, a great boom and the sound of smashing glass broke the quiet of the night. The sound of sirens soon followed and, in the streetlight, I saw Ghislaine’s blue eyes glazed with excitement, and venom.
As we hurried back to the old district of Lyon, I understood that look on Ghislaine’s face. I saw how the occupation had changed us; how the Resistance had brought together people from every level of society and turned us all –– from the aristocrat to the simple farm-girl –– into counterfeiters, thieves and murderers.
It was a strange thing to realise how effortlessly I had become Gabrielle Fontaine the killer, helping rid my country of its enemy. It felt almost as if some human part of me had disappeared; vanished into the winter air that stiffened my face. Once the war was over, would I still be the same cool killer –– a girl I barely knew, but one of whom I felt proud?
***
Jacqueline opened the door to our coded knocks. ‘Come in and get warm,’ she said, giving us one of her rare smiles.
‘Great job, girls,’ Dr. Laforge said, already seated at Jacqueline’s table, a whole salami, three different goat’s cheeses and a bottle of Juliénas wine in front of him.
‘What a feast,’ Ghislaine said, slotting between Miette and me.
‘Though naturally,’ Dr. Laforge said, filling our glasses with wine, ‘there will be reprisals. And tonight’s success doesn’t mean we can forget those less fortunate –– those arrested, tortured and gunned down.’
‘But all that,’ Ghislaine said, ‘and those hideous cattle trains, where they don’t even allow the people to take their suitcases, only makes me more determined.’
Dr. Laforge swallowed a mouthful of the heavenly wine. ‘Don’t let your emotions cloud your judgement, Lucie.’
‘Still no news of your sister?’ Miette said.
I shook my head. ‘Not a word. And I still don’t know a thing about Ravensbrück.’
‘We never seem to get news of any deportees,’ Ghislaine said. ‘People like Gabrielle’s sister, and her father.’
‘They took Papa for labour service back in February,’ I said. ‘And we’ve not heard a word since July. Six months ago!’
‘It does seem strange that not one person we know of,’ Miette said, ‘has received a single one of those pre-printed postcards listing every possible situation: so and so is in good health/slightly/seriously ill/wounded/deceased.’
‘Apparently a few messages have reached families of Resistance members,’ Dr. Laforge said. ‘But it’s true, the Jews do seem to be shrouded in the strangest silence. We know the police are relentlessly tracking down the last ones in the city.’ He waved an arm upstairs, in the direction of Ellie Kohen’s flat.
‘Why doesn’t she just leave, right now?’ Miette said.
‘I got the feeling she doesn’t have the money for the tickets,’ I said.
‘Why didn’
t you say so?’ Dr. Laforge said. He slapped his napkin onto the table, got up and strode out of the flat.
‘You’d think we’d have heard something on the BBC at least,’ Ghislaine said, as I listened to the thud of the doctor’s feet climbing the stairs to Ellie’s flat. ‘Surely some information would be filtered out of the camps? I mean, a few people have escaped.’
‘Perhaps the BBC doesn’t have any information,’ Jacqueline said, draining her wine glass. ‘Or maybe those high up in the network have reasons to hide or conceal certain things. This is war and nobody can be trusted.’
‘I’m afraid only God alone really knows what goes on in the camps, Miette said.
‘I’ve never heard of jailers inhuman enough to forbid the sending and receiving of mail,’ I said.
‘And why hasn’t the Red Cross intervened?’ Ghislaine said. ‘Surely they would?’
‘Speaking about the Red Cross —’ Dr. Laforge said, as he came back inside.
‘Did you see Ellie?’ Jacqueline said.
The doctor shook his head. ‘Nobody home.’
‘Maybe she’s already left the city?’ I said. ‘Or … Oh, it’s so unjust. Poor Ellie, and that sweet baby boy.’
The doctor cleared his throat and looked at Ghislaine and me. ‘As I was about to say, you two have been at Montluc for some time now. It’s not safe to stay in a job for too long. If people see the same faces for any length of time they get suspicious; start asking questions and delving deeper into backgrounds … especially after tonight.’
‘But we feel useful there,’ I said.
‘You would also be useful working at Perrache train station,’ the doctor said. ‘Supplying the needy passengers with food. And, of course, distributing news-sheets and delivering messages.’
‘That’s a good idea!’ I said, excited, for a fleeting instant, at the notion of prisoners arriving home for Christmas by train. But even as I blurted the words out, I acknowledged they were simply the naïve dreams of desperation.
Dr. Laforge glanced sharply at his sister. Jacqueline puffed away on her Gauloise, refusing to meet my eyes.
‘I don’t want to dampen your spirits,’ the doctor said. ‘But I doubt any of your family will be home for the festive season.’
‘Oh I know. I know,’ I said with a flick of my hand, tears smarting my eyes. ‘I just hoped … I was only dreaming.’
33
Early on Christmas Eve afternoon, Ghislaine, Miette and I pushed our way onto the train crammed with people not only in the compartments, but also in the corridors and between cars. Even in the toilets.
Hordes of them were traipsing out to the countryside, even more so at Christmas time, to buy black market food from the farmers; commodities that were so scant in Lyon.
We sat on our bags in the corridor as the train rattled out of town, towards Lucie. I was glad I was small, as I observed the man scrunched up beside me, his tall frame bent almost in half, someone else’s head resting on his feet.
Exhausted from the past arduous days at Montluc Infirmary, and the nightmare images of Patrick, Olivier, Félicité and the Wolfs that visited my restless nights on Jacqueline’s sofa bed, I closed my eyes and laid my head against the grimy wall. I’d barely had a moment to think of seeing Martin again, and I patted the spot where the angel necklace usually lay and let him meander about my mind. What would I say to him?
I missed you. No, too ordinary.
I love you. Pfft, that’s what everyone says. I would more likely ask him about Ravensbrück, and what the hell went on there.
Remorse surged through me again. I should not be dreaming of Martin; I should be thinking of the Wolf family and my sister, and Patrick and Olivier freezing on some isolated mountainside, living in constant fear of Boche bullets.
It seemed that when my mind lingered on Martin, the guilt wracked me, but if I pushed him aside and let my loved ones take over, those same barbs of self-reproach still stung me, as if I didn’t love Martin Diehl completely, utterly. Like two distinct parts of my brain were constantly in motion, continually colliding. And it made me giddy.
My eyes flicked open when a passenger stepped on my coat as he clambered over me.
He held up a hand. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle.’
I waved away his apology, and looked at the people around me. By Ghislaine’s side, a child slept, stretched over his mother’s lap, his head lolling from side to side with the movement of the train. A man stared at me with a wide, absent look. I gave him a quick nod, and he nodded back. In the dim light, they all had the look of cadavers, as they kept a wary eye on their luggage.
I closed my eyes again, trying to snatch a few minutes of sleep, but the noise of the train’s whistle at every stop was unbearable, the rattling, squeaking coach grating on my nerves. At each track joint, the clack-clack of the wheels let out a bang. I was hungry, stiff and beyond fatigue, but sleep still eluded me.
The trip became more unbearable when the police started examining everyone’s papers. I could hear them in the corridor, just beyond our carriage. ‘Papers, please. Papers, please.’
Eyes opened. People shifted position and I could almost smell the collective fear rising from the suffocating air.
The man who’d nodded earlier leaned across to the woman beside Ghislaine who was holding the child. He tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Madame, please can I hold the child?’
Everyone looked at the woman, who hesitated for a moment, then handed the sleeping child over to the man. Nobody said a word.
‘My boy’s only just dropped off to sleep,’ the man said, as the police asked for his papers. ‘Maybe you could finish checking this carriage while I wake him gently, then I can get my papers out to show you.’
The two policemen loomed over him, saying nothing. In the end one of them said, ‘All right,’ and they moved on, clambering over the bags and people sitting on the floor.
They eventually reached the end of the carriage, finished checking the papers and turned back to the man holding the child. He still hadn’t woken the small boy, but was waving his wallet at them at arm’s length.
The policemen hesitated at the coupling between the cars. The first one mumbled something to the other, who shrugged his shoulders. They both walked on to the next carriage.
In our crowded compartment, shoulders relaxed and a few quick smiles passed between strangers.
‘God bless you, madame,’ the man said, handing the woman back her child. They would probably never speak again; would never exchange names or know a thing about each other but that small human gesture marked the greatest sense of closeness. Another tiny victory in our collective fight against the hated occupier.
The train reached Lucie-sur-Vionne and I stepped out into an almost arctic cold with Ghislaine and Miette.
The Monts du Lyonnais, the fields and trees, had vanished beneath the slate grey sky, and the countryside had become an endless white mass, save for a few crows wheeling above us.
As we walked towards la place de l’Eglise a slant of sun eased through the cloud cover, painting the cobblestones in a yellow hue. Beside the church, the thin trunks of the lime trees stood tall –– spectral sentinels guarding the Great War monument and its withered wreaths.
I caught the scent of wood smoke and heard the boom of the hunters’ guns followed by the short, expectant barking of hounds which broke the frigid silence descending from the hills.
Village housewives hurried about, clutching shopping baskets and whatever version of bread Yvon Monbeau had managed to conjure up. Hunched against the cold, they gripped coat fronts and the mittened hands of their children as they scuttled to the warmth of their homes.
From his woodcarving shop, old Monsieur Thimmonier lifted his arm in a wave.
‘Merry Christmas!’ we called in unison.
‘Be a darn sight merrier if those Boche were gone,’ he said, flinging an arm at the group of soldiers marching towards their barracks in Ecole de Filles Jeanne d’Arc. I
spotted Karl Gottlob and Fritz Frankenheimer amongst them, but not Martin, and acknowledged I’d come to yearn for the briefest furtive glimpse of him between our meetings.
They’d all left on leave at the same time so I was certain he too, would be back in Lucie. I skipped a few trepid steps at the thought of seeing him again.
‘Merry Christmas to you all,’ Simon Laforge said, as he strode out of the chemist. ‘Looks like we’ll have a lot of snow this year,’ he said with a glance at the sky.
‘As every year,’ Ghislaine said, with a smile.
Amandine and Séverine rushed from Monsieur Dubois’ carpenter shop to greet their older sister. ‘Did you bring us presents?’ Amandine said, throwing her arms around Miette.
Little Séverine frowned. ‘She doesn’t bring the presents, silly, that’s Père Noël’s job.’
We all smiled, but I wondered if Father Christmas would have much at all for the children of France that year.
‘Girls!’ Miette’s mother called. ‘Come back inside, you’ll catch your deaths without your coats.’
‘Have a nice Christmas,’ I said to Miette.
‘See you the day after tomorrow.’ Miette kissed our cheeks and disappeared inside with her family.
It seemed nothing had changed in Lucie. Everyone was waiting –– waiting for the rations to be lifted, for the Germans to leave, for the prisoners to come home, and for the war to end.
Although I had almost lost hope of hearing from Papa and Félicité, Ghislaine and I called into the post office.
‘Well, well, I wondered where you two and Juliette Dubois had disappeared.’ Denise said, eyeing us as if we were errant children. ‘And before you ask, there’s no mail for either of you,’ she added with a smug look.
‘We’re doing nursing work for the Red Cross,’ I said.
The post office was no longer heated and Denise sat with a camel-hair coat wrapped around her ample body.
