Wolfsangel

by Perrat, Liza

  As I moved off down the street, preparing my mind for my afternoon mission, a gust of wind hit me. It came from nowhere, and caught me by surprise. The gale tugged at me as I grappled with the coat buttons to fasten them. It jerked at my limbs, my face, and my hair, as if trying to tear out the jumbled puzzle of half-truths and outright lies that cluttered my mind, and organise them into some sort of ordered, coherent structure.

  ***

  There was no time to return to the flat before my afternoon mission, so I ate a hurried lunch of the usual tasteless soup, and dashed off to meet Pierre at the pre-arranged spot.

  Arm in arm, with the casual closeness of young lovers, Pierre and I made our way across the city to Parc de la Tête D’or –– Lyon’s grandest park.

  We strolled past the usual long, hungry-looking queue stretching along the pavement from a grocery shop, slipping our leaflets into their shopping baskets –– news-sheets informing them that our food shortages were not caused, as the Germans would have us believe, by the British blockade, but the consequence of their systematic plundering of our reserves.

  ‘Do you have a K8, madame?’ one woman said. K8s were ration coupons entitling the three youth categories –– J1, 2 and 3 –– to 140 grams of processed meat.

  ‘No, but I have two KCs,’ she replied, which were for pregnant women and hard labourers. ‘But what labour isn’t hard these days?’ she went on. ‘When we’re forced to eat rutabagas instead of potatoes, and when you have to sleep with the fishmonger to get even a carp’s head?’

  ‘It’s shameful, shameful,’ said another. ‘When we have to pay twenty-seven francs for a paltry nub of butter and that you can only get on the black market.’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s fine for people with money, but for the rest of us …’

  Pierre and I entered the park via the enormous gilded wrought iron gate, the scent of fairy floss and crepes filling my nostrils, the clear laughter of children tinkling on the spring air.

  We bent our heads close, smiling at something the other had said, squirrels darting across our paths and up tree trunks as we headed past the deer park towards the puppet theatre. After all what could be more innocent than a young couple enjoying the puppet show in a public park?

  I kept running over Jacqueline’s instructions in my mind: identify the contact –– Jeanine — who would hand me a batch of Michelin maps with notes on reception centres for those evading compulsory labour service. Pierre and I would then make a roundabout circuit along the park’s maze of alleyways and transfer the maps to Antoine, waiting for us beside the pier of the lake. Antoine was then to cycle up north somewhere, to hand the maps over to the next contact.

  At the puppet theatre we purchased a bag of caramelised peanuts and sat at the end of a row, leaving one vacant seat next to me, on which I placed my bag. We didn’t glance across at the group of Germans lounging in the back row smoking and laughing their throaty cackles. And we ignored the militia, cradling their guns and eyeing the crowd suspiciously.

  The contact was late. I kept nudging Pierre, who stole peeks at his watch. Our instructions were clear –– wait five minutes at the rendezvous, then leave. Come back the following day. If the contact still doesn’t turn up, they’ve probably been arrested.

  Four minutes and fifty seconds. We were about to leave when I glimpsed the corner of a pink handkerchief poking from a woman’s jacket pocket.

  ‘Is this seat free?’ she asked me.

  I nodded, making no sign of recognition, and shifted my bag onto my lap.

  The woman placed her bag on her lap as Guignol, the main puppet show character whose courage and generosity always triumphed over evil, bounced onto the scene.

  The audience laughed and clapped as Gnafron, the wine-loving cobbler, started beating the ugly Gendarme Flagéolot over the head. I thought of those Vichy-collaborating gendarmes, certain the irony of that innocent scenario wasn’t lost on the other spectators either.

  My eyes still on the stage, I took the maps from beneath Jeanine’s bag and slid them into the bag of caramelised nuts, which Pierre and I continued to share.

  The audience applauded long and hard as Guignol, his wife Madelon, and the other puppets took a bow. Everybody started getting up and leaving their seats. Without a backward glance, Jeanine vanished into the crowd. That part, at least, had been easy.

  The afternoon sun warming our cheeks, Pierre and I strolled away from the puppet theatre, and on past the zoo, amidst the chatting, smiling public of Lyon. Antoine was due in five minutes.

  Gently swaying rowboats, filled with couples, or families, spotted the lake. Birds sang from the treetops and small dogs barked, held tightly on leads close to their owner’s heels. Everybody seemed in good spirits, out enjoying a sunny spring day.

  ‘Back in a minute, Pierre.’ I gestured towards the toilet block and left Pierre negotiating a price with the boat rental man.

  As I entered the public toilets, I glimpsed Antoine’s raggedy dark hair as he approached, but took not the slightest notice of him.

  Minutes later, as I went to walk out of the building, a metallic glint in the sun’s reflection stopped me. I caught the flash of dark uniform and the gleam of black boots. Militia. I shrank back out of sight.

  I caught my breath and peered around the entrance. Their guns drawn, four militiamen had surrounded Pierre and Antoine. I clamped a hand over my mouth to stop myself crying out.

  I grasped at the tangle of threads; at each possible, different strand, trying to understand how it had gone wrong; how the militia had known. Had they seen me with Pierre? Why then, hadn’t they arrested me too? Or perhaps they’d only caught the boys at handover, when Antoine picked up the bag of nuts? I was certain nobody had noticed or suspected Pierre and me when I took the maps from the contact, but perhaps Jeanine was the informer. In such a perilous game, no one could be certain of trustworthy players.

  I peered around the doorway again. One of the militiamen was waving the Michelin maps and shouting something at Pierre and Antoine. The others clamped handcuffs about the boys’ wrists and shoved them forwards, the guns trained on their backs. I didn’t dare glance at my friends as the militia led them away.

  I stumbled across to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. Thankfully I was alone and I leaned against the wall, breathing hard to settle my sprinting heart and order my thoughts.

  With damp and quivering hands, I tucked my shirt back into my trousers and turned to walk out. A tall figure, shadowing the doorway, barred my way.

  ‘Martin!’ The blood ran cool in my veins. ‘W-what are you doing here?’

  ‘I have a few days leave, remember? How did you enjoy the puppet show?’

  ‘Pupp … what?’

  ‘You and your boyfriend, did you enjoy the Guignol show? All of us sitting in the back row found it hilarious.’ The soft features of his face hardened like setting concrete, and there was no trace of the usual smile that kinked the corners of his mouth.

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend … I can explain.’ But I couldn’t explain anything and I stood there, unable to utter another word. I stared at Martin, thoughts ricocheting about my brain. Had he tailed me from the hotel and informed the militia? Had Pierre and Antoine been arrested because of him? No, no, then I too, would have been arrested. So many questions and doubts. I couldn’t focus on any one of them, and I felt dizzy, as if I might pass out. I realised that fainting was, perhaps, my only escape.

  ‘There is nothing to explain, Céleste. I know he is not your lover. But do not worry, your act was convincing. Nobody would guess, besides me. The only person who knows your every gesture; every angle of your body language. Intimately.’

  ‘You followed me from the hotel, didn’t you, Martin?

  ‘I knew something was wrong; you were different. I had to find out what.’

  ‘We can’t talk here,’ I said, trying to put him off, to give myself time to think about what I could say.

  He raised a long arm and rested i
t against the doorway above my head, effectively blocking my passage. Not that I was going to make a run for it, I knew that was pointless.

  ‘But we have nothing to talk about, my sweet Céleste.’ He bent down, leaning close to me, his lips almost but not quite touching mine. ‘Now I know what your Red Cross work is really about.’

  I remained speechless as, without another look at me, Martin turned and walked off with his long powerful strides.

  ***

  Hurtling back to Jacqueline’s flat in a panic would only draw attention to me, so I forced myself down to a brisk walk back to the old district. I took a roundabout route to ensure Martin –– or anybody else –– wouldn’t follow me.

  I couldn’t stop shaking, and throwing furtive glances over each shoulder. It was certain Martin knew I was working for the Resistance, but what did he feel about that? With the shock of the arrests, and Martin surprising me, I hadn’t been able to gauge his reaction. Could I trust him to keep my work to himself, or would his patriotic duty overrule his heart and make him turn me in? But even if Martin Diehl did keep his mouth shut, Pierre and Antoine’s arrest had certainly compromised our operation, and perhaps all our lives.

  My heart rapped in time with my three-knock door code, and when Jacqueline opened it, I fell inside, my words rushing out in a gibberish stream.

  ‘… militia … Pi-Pierre and Antoine … arrested …’

  Jacqueline took my arm and almost pushed me into the sofa.

  ‘Sit, Gabrielle.’ She lit two cigarettes and handed me one. ‘Calm down and tell me the whole story.’

  My knees knocked together as Jacqueline set a cup of café Pétain before me, my trembling hand spilling rivulets of coffee down my front as I told her about the failed mission.

  I did not mention Martin, who only knew me as Céleste Roussel, unaware that Gabrielle Fontaine even existed. Even if he did turn in Céleste Roussel from Lucie-sur-Vionne, they could not connect her with Gabrielle, residing at Jacqueline Laforge’s flat. The very best I could do –– my only option if I wanted to cling onto the barest fibre of pride –– was flee Jacqueline’s flat as quickly as possible, and avoid endangering the others. I would have to return to L’Auberge and take all the flak myself.

  Without a word, Jacqueline ground out her cigarette, picked up the phone and called her brother.

  ***

  Dr. Laforge arrived with the news that the authorities were holding Pierre and Antoine in Saint Paul prison. I remained silent, trying not to think of our friends being tortured, perhaps even shot.

  ‘I know you’re certain you weren’t followed home,’ the doctor said. ‘But we’ll disband operations here. Jacqueline will start organising a new place immediately.’

  ‘The militia must not have seen or known about you, Gabrielle,’ Jacqueline said. ‘Otherwise they’d have arrested you too, but it would be safer if you disappeared for a while. Gabrielle Fontaine will go back to Lucie-sur-Vionne and assume her true identity,’ she said. ‘For the moment.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, thankful she had come to the same conclusion as me, albeit for a different reason. ‘I understand, but I feel terrible about Pierre and Antoine. Maybe I should’ve done something differently?’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ the doctor said. ‘Sadly, arrests like this are becoming more and more frequent.’

  ‘And sometimes we never even discover who the informer is,’ Jacqueline said. ‘I’m thankful you were able to warn us, so we can take precautions.’

  I stuffed my few clothes into my bag and left Jacqueline’s flat with the doctor. My head hanging low, I felt closed up, tighter than a drum, trying to battle the war that raged between my heart and my head.

  39

  After several weeks as Céleste Roussel, away from the thrill and tension of city life, I felt bored, defeated and discouraged. I yearned for a friend, someone to rake over my fears about Martin’s knowledge, and what part he might have played in Pierre and Antoine’s arrest. I needed to talk to someone about how the whole thing with Martin might have been one great mistake from the beginning. But there was no one. I was totally alone.

  When Maman asked me to cycle to the bakery or run an errand in the village, where I might run into Martin, I invented some excuse about feeling tired or ill. At least I knew he would never venture up here to the farm to ask where I was.

  But it seemed Martin had kept his mouth shut, because the Gestapo did not barge into L’Auberge to arrest me, or to interrogate my mother as to my whereabouts.

  My mother hadn’t questioned my return and I didn’t offer any explanation. On the evening of Pierre and Antoine’s arrest when I arrived back at the farm, she simply ordered me to sit at the kitchen table, placed a plate of lentils before me, with a few anchovies from her secret stocks, and muttered something about being glad I was safe.

  I milked the goats, fed the few hens left after the German roundups, collected their eggs, carted water up to the kitchen, and lead Gingembre out into her pasture –– all those chores that passed the time but did nothing to ease my anguished mind.

  I longed for Dr. Laforge to come to L’Auberge and take me back to Lyon, but the only people who came were sick villagers, for Maman’s cures, or girls for her services. My fascination with the angel-making process had waned to a kind of resigned acceptance though, and I no longer crept upstairs to stare through the keyhole.

  ***

  One morning early in May, I was pacing the kitchen with my usual frustration, watching through the window as Maman turned the soil of her kitchen garden and spread manure around the bases of the fruit trees. The early breeze had strengthened to a gusty wind, whipping the grey-streaked hair across her pleated brow.

  I could have gone out and helped her but I was far too agitated to be around my mother. On impulse I climbed the ladder to the attic, crossed the dusty space and slipped into the alcove where the Wolf family had hidden the morning of the Gestapo arrest.

  I took the small wooden box from the place I’d stashed Max’s paintings and the toy soldier with its red coat, opened it and picked up the photo. With a fingertip, I traced across the high brow, down the slant of a chiselled cheek and around the curve of his lips. As I stared into his eyes, pale on the photograph but violet-blue in my mind’s eye, I thought I’d go mad if I didn’t see him soon; if I couldn’t know what was happening between us.

  I replaced the box, took the roll of Max’s artwork and sat cross-legged on the floor. I unravelled the paintings, anchoring the stubborn corners with volumes of some rodent-gnawed book.

  In the pale light slanting from the dormer windows, I studied Max’s image of L’Auberge, and its Lyonnais-style wooden gateway. My eye followed the slope leading down to Lucie –– the village that had stood unchanged for centuries, even under the stamp of the German enemy.

  At the foot of the slope behind the farmhouse, the silvery spine of river wove through an early pink mist. The sun slanted gold across the water and, beyond the Vionne, the Monts du Lyonnais rose in a moss-green backdrop.

  The next painting –– a view from the opposite window –– portrayed Mont Blanc and its eternal crown of snow away in the distance, fringing the once great silk city of Lyon.

  I flattened out several more sheets, in stronger, bolder colours: scarlet cherries, milky winter snow, and brilliant yellow, crimson and orange autumn leaves.

  There was one of Sabine in a ballerina’s pose. She wore a tutu and ballet shoes, her hair a dark smooth spiral atop her head. Her creamy face, tilted upwards, looked even paler against the black background. The light from the window bathing her face looked so warm it seemed the sun was truly shining on her. In the attic silence, I saw her dancing again. I heard Max humming the tunes and the children’s proud applause.

  The rest of the paintings were later scenes, from the Wolfs’ time at the convent. The difference was astounding. The long, fluid strokes of when they’d first come to L’Auberge were replaced with savage dabs and slashes.

&n
bsp; I remembered Félicité saying how, towards the end, they’d barely been able to coax Max away from his art to eat. He’d said there was no time to waste on eating and drinking.

  His final works echoed the torment that had consumed him; the mania forced upon him: terrified children, gleaming Citroëns and black-uniformed men rounding up groups of bedraggled people.

  Outside, great white mushrooms of cloud obscured the sun. The sky was darkening to the hue of an old bruise and throwing the attic into a mustard-coloured shadow.

  The first gusts of wind rattled the open window, and a chill scurried up my arms as I stared at Max’s final, unfinished painting –– a truck loaded with a blur of bewildered faces. I rubbed my arms, almost smelling those fumes that would have lingered on the road after the truck screeched away.

  It was as if those bursts of wind were carrying the stink of it all to me; the stench of the whole awful mess, and it snagged in my throat as I battled to hold the paper down flat. The gusts snarled in through the window, stubbornly curling the edges of the painting as if trying to hide the images from me; to mask what I suddenly knew in the miserable but proper light of responsibility, was most important.

  As I rolled the artwork back up, careful to replace the sheet of cooking paper between each painting, I knew I couldn’t skulk away at L’Auberge a moment longer, avoiding Martin; skirting the painful issue.

  I hurried down the steps, leapt on the bicycle and sped down to the village.

  ***

  It was a normal day in Lucie. Despite the wind, housewives stood chatting around the fountain, the artisans were hard at work and the old men played cards in their usual spot at Au Cochon Tué.

  Martin was not amongst the Germans on the square. Sunlight pierced the cloud cover, glinting off the silver stripes on their uniforms and metal belt buckles, and the energetic, joyful air they gave la place de l’Eglise seemed horribly ironic.

  Some of the older women –– mothers of prisoners, or war widows –– had as usual drawn their curtains so they wouldn’t have to look at the Germans, but the young children still crowded around them, fascinated by the uniforms and horses. Justin and Gervais and Paulette and Anne-Sophie pawed at the soldiers’ jackets with grubby little fingers. The Germans smiled, and when they started filling their hands with sweets, it seemed every child in Lucie gathered around them.