Wolfsangel

by Perrat, Liza

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well I imagine your father will find the fees somehow … if he ever comes home.’

  ‘He will come back, Maman. But really, you don’t mind me leaving the farm?’

  ‘I suppose you must follow whatever you believe is your path,’ she said, setting a plate of brioche toasts laden with smoky foie gras, on the table.

  My mother poured two glasses of wine that glowed amber in the light of the oil lamp.

  ‘Mmn, delicious,’ I said, swallowing a mouthful of the silky wine.

  ‘I still manage to hide some things from the Boche,’ Maman said, eyeing the bottle. ‘Even if they have taken almost every precious thing from me.’

  ‘I think I’d make a good nurse –– a proper, trained one,’ I said, savouring each delicious forkful of the foie gras. ‘Since I’ve been away I’ve realised women’s eyes are opening, Maman. Modern women want to be independent; we want the same respect as men, and the only way we’ll get that is by getting educated, so we can free ourselves from their money chains.’

  Maman pushed invisible hair strands back into her bun. ‘I can’t imagine whoever gave you such ideas,’ she said. ‘Obviously those types who smoke and drink like men and wear men’s clothes.’ She cast a disapproving stare over my trousers and shirt.

  ‘What’s wrong with wanting independence, a life I choose?’ I said. ‘I can do it. I know now I’m not totally useless. I have skills, training.’

  ‘I never said you were useless, Célestine.’

  ‘Not outright.’ The wine must have loosened my tongue, or perhaps I’d reached the stage where I was simply no longer frightened of my mother. ‘But you’ve always seemed to despise me.’

  My mother banged the tripe gratin and cabbage parcels stuffed with chestnuts onto the table. ‘Who said I despise you?’

  ‘Nobody.’ I swallowed more wine. ‘It’s just, I don’t know, you’ve always been so much harder on me than the others. Félicité said it was because something happened to you. Something terrible.’

  ‘Don’t bring your sister into this, especially at a time like Christmas when she’s in some godforsaken place they call Ravensbrück.’

  Ravensbrück.

  It clanged in my mind like a funeral bell, but I said nothing about what supposedly went on there. I couldn’t believe it myself. Or maybe I was simply afraid that voicing that word –– exterminated –– might make it true.

  We ate in silence and I thought of those who were most likely having only thin, watery soup for Christmas dinner.

  ‘What happened?’ I said. ‘I think I’m old enough now, for you to tell me.’

  ‘When? What are you talking about, Célestine?’

  ‘When you were young,’ I said. ‘What made you like … like you are? Why can’t you tell me?’

  My mother started fidgeting with her apron. ‘Some things are better left unsaid.’

  ‘Why? What things? And why should I have to suffer because of those things? I have a right to know.’

  Her eyes hardened, her lips settling into that dogged line. She placed her knife and fork together on her empty plate, nudging them into neat alignment. ‘Nobody has the right to intrude into the mind of another person.’

  I clattered my cutlery onto the plate. ‘Not even your own daughter?’

  ‘Nobody.’ Her chair scraped on the tiles, as she got up to clear the table.

  35

  ‘Préparez-vous, préparez du ravitaillement pour tous. Un train va passer!’ cried the Stationmaster of Perrache, one of Lyon’s two main train stations.

  On Dr. Laforge’s advice to change jobs, Ghislaine and I had been working for several weeks at the Perrache Welcome Centre, set up by the Red Cross to provision starving train passengers.

  ‘Remember your instructions, girls,’ the Stationmaster went on. ‘Don’t appear to be hiding anything. And only large, easily identifiable gestures so as not to attract the Germans’ suspicion.’

  We were stationed at the Red Cross headquarters on la place Antonin-Poncet, to be ready for the call at any time, day or night, or the passengers would miss out on food and water and any medical help they might require.

  The incoming trains were loaded with returning, wounded or escaped prisoners, while those departing transported people from the prisons like Montluc. Other trains were simply passing through, taking unfortunate deportees to compulsory labour camps in Germany, and yet more –– their wagons normally reserved for cattle –– carted haggard throngs of people to unknown destinations.

  So far, there had been no sighting of my father or my sister.

  It was close to midday but the station was dark, the bleak January cold hacking through the air like a scythe. Snow fell onto the railway tracks, and its weight had snapped and dragged to the ground some of the telegraph wires. The snow fell on the almond-green uniforms of the German soldiers guarding the entrance to their barracks too, and on the red flags with their swastikas that they’d draped over our monuments. The black mourning veils of widows also gathered snowflakes, all of it casting a mournful pallor which made everything feel much colder and more inhospitable.

  Ghislaine and I stamped our frozen feet as the train approached in a stream of cold wind.

  ‘Ugly pigs,’ Ghislaine hissed, nodding towards the stern, heavily-armed SS watchmen perched on the carriage roofs and hanging from the wagon steps.

  The train squealed to a halt and several German women searched all the Red Cross workers for hidden messages.

  We moved from carriage to carriage, distributing water from buckets, hot soup in aluminium plates and dressings and bandages for the more seriously wounded. We dared not utter a word; speaking to passengers was forbidden, the sub-officer and two armed soldiers watching our every move.

  ‘No speaking. Hurry up!’ they kept saying in bad French, as we made our way through the throng of thin, exhausted humanity.

  In one carriage, an old man was wearing only underpants. His chest seemed to have caved in on his protruding ribs, his lined jowls hanging from his face like hollow bags. His arms and legs were bound to the seat. I had to stop myself crying out.

  ‘I’m a priest,’ the man whispered. ‘Look how they treat me.’

  I opened my mouth to reply, but his watery eyes widened. ‘Say nothing, they might do the same to you.’

  I turned to one of the German soldiers. ‘How do you suppose this man can eat, tied up like that?’

  The soldier shrugged.

  ‘Please, just release him long enough for his soup,’ I said. ‘He’s an exhausted old man; he’s hardly going to run off.’

  The soldier shrugged again but he did untie the bindings, and the priest rewarded me with a warm smile as I handed him his bowl of soup.

  Once the passengers finished their food, the Germans examined the aluminium plates to make sure nobody had engraved a message on the bottom, and the women searched us once again.

  When the whole operation was over, a whistle blew, steam choked the misty air and the train slid away.

  ‘Au revoir, au revoir,’ we chimed, as we always did, because, what else was there to say? And when the train disappeared, we hid our teary eyes from the Germans.

  ***

  Ghislaine and I chatted with the other girls as we walked away from the platform, relieved to be free of the tension whenever a train came through. As usual, war and the occupation were the main topics.

  ‘People are saying that when the Germans retreat,’ a girl called Margot said, ‘they’ll take all of us with them.’

  ‘Surely the Boche wouldn’t have enough trains for all those people,’ Ghislaine said.

  ‘Trains?’ Margot said, wide-eyed. ‘They won’t bother with trains. We’ll all have to walk!’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ another girl said. ‘Why would they take all the civilians with them?’

  ‘The Germans’ excuse is,’ Margot said. ‘If we go under, we drag everyone else down with us.’

  ‘But you don’t know a
nything for sure, Margot,’ Ghislaine said. ‘You’re just guessing.’

  ‘Ah, it’s always the same,’ Margot went on. ‘Everyone ignores danger until it’s staring them in the face.’

  ‘Shush,’ I said, nodding up ahead, to where a squad of German soldiers was lining up on the roadbed alongside a cattle train. A column of people straggled along behind them. They clutched suitcases in one hand and bewildered-looking children in the other.

  On pain of instant death, civilians were never allowed near these sorts of trains. Red Cross workers were prohibited from approaching them and the passengers were never permitted water, soup or medical treatment.

  ‘Schnell, schnell!’ the soldiers barked as the men, women and children of all ages started to climb up into the train, dragging their cases behind them.

  ‘Schnell, schnell!’

  ‘Look,’ I hissed to Ghislaine. ‘Isn’t that Ellie Kohen –– Jacqueline’s upstairs neighbour?’ I nodded at a young woman holding her baby in one arm and a suitcase in the other. ‘And little Samuel?’

  We strayed a few steps closer.

  ‘Yes, it’s her,’ Ghislaine said. ‘But I thought –– assumed –– our doc was going to give her the train fare to get out of Lyon?’

  ‘She wasn’t home, remember?’ I said. ‘He probably didn’t find time to go back. You know how busy he is.’

  We walked slowly, watching Ellie climb aboard. The first step was high above the rocky roadbed. She placed her suitcase on the step and held onto the door handle with one hand, but she couldn’t seem to hoist herself up.

  ‘Oh no, poor Ellie.’ On impulse, I moved forward to go and help her.

  Ghislaine gripped my arm. ‘Don’t.’

  Ellie still couldn’t manage to board the train. The sergeant major came marching over, yelled something at her in German and gave her a hard kick in the bottom. Wide-eyed, Ellie lost her balance. She shrieked a scream that marbled my blood, and I watched in horror as her swaddled baby fell to the ground and lay there in a wailing heap.

  ‘Oh my God, the monsters!’ Ghislaine said.

  ‘Poor Ellie,’ I said. ‘I hope Samuel is all right.’

  But we didn’t find out if Ellie’s baby was badly hurt, as the sergeant-major grabbed the screaming bundle, threw it into the train after its mother and rammed the door home.

  In that instant, struggling to control the hot and cold waves of sweat swamping me, I knew what hate was. Real hate.

  The whistle blew. As the train rumbled off, obscured by grey smoke, we heard the desperate shouts from those inside –– names, addresses, messages called out to us. But in the din of voices and the departing train, we couldn’t make out a single thing.

  ‘They’ll pay for this,’ I said, breathing deeply to stop myself throwing up. ‘Some day they’ll pay.’

  36

  The March sun warming our cheeks, Ghislaine and I walked from Perrache station, alongside the Saône River, towards the centre of Lyon.

  We crossed la place Bellecour, site of Pierre and Antoine’s recent bomb attack that had destroyed the business premises of a known Nazi collaborator. Someone had painted vive de Gaulle across the equestrian statue of Louis XIV in the middle of the square.

  The weather had changed over the last week. The pink snow clouds had slunk away to the west, the first rays of spring sun piercing the cool air, and the last snow had merged with the first flowers –– an uncertain sort of inter-season. In grim, war-ravaged Lyon however, everything was still one drab, brownish mass. The ground was grey and hard as iron, and there was none of the brightness of new spring growth. Even the birds seemed to have abandoned the occupied city.

  We stopped on rue de la Barre, checking the restaurant across the road. There was no “Daily Specials” sign on the pavement; it was safe to enter Franck-the-forger’s shop.

  ‘See you in five minutes,’ I said, leaving Ghislaine to wait outside for her contact, to deliver Jacqueline’s latest message. ‘Remember, we’re meeting Miette for a drink afterwards.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see her again,’ Ghislaine said. ‘I miss not having her with us at the flat.’

  With her angelic face, and her German language skills, Miette had infiltrated the circle of economic intelligence, working as an interpreter for the Boche as her cover. Wherever the Germans were, in all the fancy bars and hotels, Miette would be present –– a fly on the wall –– listening, gathering information. Since it was likely she’d be followed home one day, Jacqueline had moved Miette from her flat.

  I walked into the shop and greeted the forger with a loud, ‘Salut, Franck. Nice day, isn’t it?’ and continued through to the back room, where Franck was scrutinising a batch of papers.

  ‘Ah, Gabrielle, there you are,’ he said, holding up the papers. ‘I’ve got everything ready for you.’

  It was not advised amongst group members, but Franck and I had become friends over the past few months, and I sensed he was not his usual cheery self.

  ‘Is everything all right, Franck?’

  ‘My brother’s been arrested,’ he said, rubbing at his brow. ‘The militia tracked him down, along with three other resistors on their way back from monitoring operations among the Maquis. Apparently some are badly wounded, maybe even dead. That’s all I know.’

  The Maquis. I burned with anguish, at the mention of them.

  I laid a hand on Franck’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry, I know how you must feel.’

  ‘Things like that are happening more and more,’ he said, ‘which only soothes my conscience about all this.’ He waved an arm around the cramped but tidy space filled with the usual drawers of engraving tools and paraphernalia. What the authorities didn’t know was that those same drawers also contained a collection of models of official identity cards, passes and permits, certificates, Town Hall and rubber stamps from the local police. From these originals, with the patience and accuracy of an expert engraver, Franck would make fake documents that, everyone agreed, looked perfectly legitimate.

  Franck knew all the towns in which the records office had been destroyed during the war, and had built up a genuine file of people who’d gone abroad or were prisoners of war. He’d also found some accomplices inside the administrative bureaucracy and was able to tell us places we could raid for blank identity cards, even German passes.

  ‘You’re doing a great job,’ I said, slipping the papers into my bag.

  ‘As long as it pays off one day, Gabrielle.’

  It was then I heard the chilling sound of a series of gunshots from outside, and people screaming. I started to rush from the back room.

  ‘Wait,’ Franck said, snagging my arm. ‘It might be dangerous.’

  Bent over so we couldn’t be seen from the window, Franck and I crept into the front of the shop and crouched down behind the counter. I peeked over the top, out onto the street.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he hissed. ‘Can you see anything?’

  ‘Militia. Four of them. And three people on the ground. My hand flew to my mouth as I recognised Ghislaine’s coat. ‘Oh God! My friend, they’ve shot my friend!’ I stood up.

  ‘No, wait till the militia go,’ Franck said, yanking me back down.

  We must have waited only minutes, but it seemed like hours. As soon as the militia jeep roared off I dashed outside, Franck close behind me.

  People had started milling around the three bodies.

  ‘Those two … robbing the jeweller over there …’

  ‘… girl … trying … stop militia shooting those lads.’

  ‘… should’ve kept … mouth shut.’

  ‘… the price … pay … protect others. Poor, brave girl.’

  ‘Militia monsters … not even staying to see what they’d done.’

  The force of the bullets had thrown the two boys, no older than Patrick and Olivier, flat on their backs, a single dark hole puncturing each forehead. Their faces wore stunned expressions, as if in surprise of death. Or perhaps surprised they’d been caught with
their jewellery shop booty, which seemed to have vanished along with the militiamen who’d gunned them down.

  Ghislaine was sprawled sideways, her legs bent up as they’d buckled when she fell. Blood leaked from an unseen wound, staining the pavement around her a dirty crimson.

  I bent over Ghislaine. With my practised –– though shaky –– nurse’s fingers, I found a feeble pulse.

  ‘She’s alive!’ I moved her slightly, trying to locate the bullet wound. I tore my coat off and clamped it against the hole in her left side. ‘Keep pressing on the wound, Franck and don’t let go.’

  I hurtled back inside and called Dr. Laforge, who said he’d meet me at the hospital. ‘Ensure everything is … all is in order, Gabrielle. And be brave.’

  I checked Ghislaine’s pockets for incriminating messages, and took over from Franck. Blood still seeped from the wound. Ghislaine’s face was white as milk. She opened her eyes to slits.

  ‘Wh-what happened?’

  ‘You were being brave,’ I said, ‘trying to save two boys from the militia’s bullets. They shot you too but don’t worry, I’m taking care of you. The ambulance is on its way.’

  Her eyes closed again. A new spurt of blood gushed over my hand. She was losing too much.

  ‘Stay with me,’ I said. I gripped her hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t you dare leave me, Ghislaine.’

  ***

  Miette, Dr. Laforge, Jacqueline and I stayed by Ghislaine’s bedside through the night. Pierre and Antoine came too for a time, as “cousins” of the patient.

  ‘I’ll go and see her father tomorrow,’ Dr. Laforge said. ‘The man is in no state to hear about this now, let alone make a trip into the city. The bullet wound itself,’ he went on, pacing up and down alongside the bed, ‘is not that serious, but she’s lost a lot of blood. And with all the war wounded, there aren’t nearly enough donors.’

  Miette and I exchanged desperate glances and I vowed I would go and donate my blood the next day.

  ‘She’s young and strong,’ Jacqueline said. ‘She’ll pull through.’

  ‘She has to,’ I said.

  We took turns sleeping in the one visitor’s chair. Around two o’clock a church bell woke me. Miette was shaking my arm, and I bolted upright. ‘What is it? Is she all right?’