The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  “What is this supposed to mean?” Giselle’s mischievous smile quickly transformed into a deep scowl as she studied the paper. “Order to provide a German officer with lodgings? You have got to be kidding me!”

  “I’m afraid no, Madame.” The young German lowered his eyes apologetically as a slight blush colored his clean-shaven cheeks, obviously in response to Giselle’s reaction. “It’s a high order from the Wehrmacht command which affects all French citizens, prescribing them to provide lodgings and necessary conditions for the Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS officers to fulfill their duties to the full extent—”

  Giselle rather rudely interrupted his obviously very well-rehearsed speech by raising her hand in the air.

  “Please, don’t bore me with your high orders and unnecessary details. Even though I understand your army’s need to accommodate your commanding staff in private residences, I simply cannot provide you with one for one simple reason: I live in the apartment which only has one bedroom; the second one was remodeled into a study by the owner a long time ago, before I even started renting it from him. Your people, who are in charge of providing officers with lodgings, must have had an old plan of the building and made a mistake assuming that there was another room – I assure you, there isn’t. You can go and look for yourself, and then please go and find yourself something more suitable.”

  The German cleared his throat, looking even more embarrassed.

  “I’m afraid there was no mistakes made, Madame. The room is not for me. The matter of the fact is that my commanding officer Herr Sturmbannführer put a special request in for this particular apartment as his future living quarters, for it is the only one which is occupied by a single tenant and which has such a magnificent view of the Champs-Élysées from the top floor.” The German smiled bashfully for the first time. “He’s rather fond of your Parisian architecture, I might add.”

  “Good for him, but where do you suggest I put him? On the sofa in the living room or on the floor? Or would your Herr Sturmbannführer rather sleep in my bed?” Giselle finished sarcastically, arching her brow.

  “Even though I do appreciate the offer, that won’t be necessary, Madame.” A deep voice with a distinctive accent sounded from the stairs.

  Giselle craned her neck to observe the tall, broad-shouldered man entering the staircase. Accompanied by Coco’s incessant barking, his orderly saluted him sharply and froze at attention, while Giselle assessed the newly appeared man, looking rather sour. He was quite tall, almost a head taller than his adjutant (Giselle made her own assumptions concerning the young man’s rank and position), and was somewhat somber looking. Or maybe it was because he had uncharacteristically dark features for a German: raven hair, almost black eyes which, together with slightly hollow cheekbones which were a little too sharply defined and a chiseled jaw, made him resemble an ancient Roman statue rather than that typical wheat-headed German which smiled out from multiple propaganda posters which had recently plastered the streets and every wall in Paris.

  The newcomer also saluted Giselle, threw a glare at Coco who got strangely quiet under his stern look and introduced himself.

  “SS Sturmbannführer Karl Wünsche at your service, Madame. And please, do not be concerned about my sleeping arrangements: I have already ordered my people to assemble a bed for me in your living room. The room is rather spacious as I could conclude from the plans, and I don’t believe I would be of any inconvenience to you there.”

  With those words, he bowed slightly and stood still, calmly waiting for Giselle to let him inside. Realizing that he was going nowhere, she opened her door wider and gestured him inside in an exaggerated manner.

  “Make yourselves at home,” she muttered, as Otto walked past her with his superior’s suitcases, before she slammed the door, purposely startling the young German fellow.

  Kamille wrung her hands while observing how furiously Madame Blanchard was pulling all the linen out of the chestnut armoire and throwing it into open suitcases. Her maid, a frail young woman named Jeanine, with mousy brown hair and an invariably downcast gaze, patiently waited for her mistress to finish sorting out the sheets and moved swiftly away from her path whenever Madame Blanchard stormed to the other corner to yank more towels and table cloths out of the closet.

  “Madame, I beg you, leave at least something—”

  Kamille’s faint objection only sent the already infuriated matriarch into an even bigger frenzy.

  “What is it?!” Fists butting her wide hips and thin lips pinched into a contemptuous line, Madame Blanchard’s bleak blue eyes shone with anger at her daughter-in-law. “You dare ask me to leave something?! Have you completely gone off your head? Or have you no shame left at all to insult me in such a manner? For whom are you asking me to leave the sheets – my sheets, finest Egyptian cotton – which I was generous enough to present them to you on your wedding because your parents had no dowry for their daughter; for whom, I ask you, do you want them? For one of those cursed Boches! I’ll rather die than allow such an atrocity to happen – to let one of their kind sleep on the sheets on which my Charles was supposed to rest his head, God rest his soul! If you loved your late husband one bit or at least had some respect for his memory, you wouldn’t dare even think of such a request! What if that very officer who they send to lodge with you was the one who killed our poor Charlie? Eh? Well, why are you silent now? Has that idea even occurred to you? Or do you, in fact, look forward to meeting your new tenant? How convenient it is, when the ground is still wet on your husband’s grave, and you already turn to some Boche, like the shameless wenches who ogle at them through the windows and even dare to speak and laugh with them, as if it’s not their fathers, brothers and husbands that are in their captivity now!”

  Kamille did her best to blink away the hot tears clouding her vision which blurred Madame Blanchard’s distorted lines, and spoke through the shame coloring her cheeks with a rosy blush. “Pardon me, Madame. I would never disrespect Charles’s memory in any way. I merely fear that the officer who they’re sending our way will get angry when I’m not able to provide him with at least the basic needs such as sheets and towels…”

  “Nobody invited them here.” Madame Blanchard softened her tone a little, observing her daughter-in-law’s unnerved state with a certain degree of satisfaction. “Let him get his own sheets and towels.”

  Having stated her verdict, the black-clad woman turned on her heels and marched out of the room, Jeanine barely catching up with her, weighed down with two bursting suitcases. Kamille was more than assured that her mother-in-law would order to commandeer the furniture as well if she only had the place to put it in her house.

  Kamille helped Jeanine bring one of the suitcases down and, minding the steps in front of her so as not to lose her grip of the heavy burden or to fall, she almost ran into Madame Blanchard, who had come to a sudden halt at the bottom of the steps. Kamille lifted her head and couldn’t catch her gasp in time, allowing it to escape her parted lips. He was already here, the German whose arrival she feared so and who she prayed hadn’t heard her relative’s scornful rebuke on his account. However, he seemed to be too immersed in an amicable chat with Violette and at first failed to even notice the small procession descending the stairs.

  He stood on one knee in front of the little girl, who seemed to be quite taken by her new guest, judging by how willingly she showed him and another uniformed man behind his back her favorite doll.

  “Violette!” Kamille found her voice at last and called out to the girl, more fearing her mother-in-law’s reaction to such fraternizing than the possibility of the German actually harming her.

  Violette turned her head with her neat braids swinging to her mother and ran towards her, catching Kamille by her hand. The German swiftly, and rather gracefully, straightened, beamed at the women in front of him and clicked his heels, following the greeting by a salute of his gloved hand.

  “Mesdames, allow me to present myself. Hauptmann Jochen Hartmann, at y
our service. This is my adjutant, Unteroffizier Horst Sommer. The office told us that you have enough room to accommodate us both, however if it’s of any inconvenience to you, please, do tell me and I’ll arrange something for him elsewhere.”

  Hauptmann Hartmann’s flawless French and soft smile was met with dead silence. Kamille fought the urge to welcome him to her house as any hospitable mistress of the household would, but Madame Blanchard’s heavy breathing made the words stick in her throat.

  Madame Blanchard stood for quite some time without uttering a word, only observing the two uniform-clad men with obvious hostility. Jeanine shuffled behind her back quietly. Kamille hadn’t even noticed at first that the maid was trying to pull the suitcase out of her hand. Apparently, she’d guessed her mistress’s mood correctly after being in her servitude for many years: Madame Blanchard, as if snapping out of her rigid state, thrust her pointed chin forward defiantly and proceeded to the exit, completely ignoring the two men, who politely moved out of her way.

  Horst made a motion to help Jeanine with the suitcases, but the officer quickly stopped him with a slight shaking of his head and a knowing glance, which was, Kamille noticed, more amused than hostile. After the two women made their way out of the house, the German closed the door behind them and turned back to Kamille breaking into soft, barely contained chuckles.

  “Please, do tell me she left for good, Madame!”

  Violette was the first one to break into giggles, covering her mouth with one hand and sharing a look of conspiracy with the young officer.

  “I doubt she will step through this door as long as you’re here, Monsieur Hartmann,” Kamille replied, trying not to smile as well. “I apologize for not introducing myself properly. You see, we have just lost Charles, my husband and her son, to the war, and she’s still distressed seeing the men who… well…”

  “No need to explain, Madame.” He rushed to reassure her that he wasn’t offended in the slightest. “I understand completely. And please, accept my sincerest condolences.”

  Kamille nodded and touched her wedding band out of habit.

  “My name is Kamille,” she said when realizing that she still hadn’t offered him her name. “Kamille Blanchard. And this is Violette, my daughter. I believe you’ve already made your acquaintance with her.”

  “Yes, I did have the pleasure.”

  Violette broke into another fit of giggles after the officer winked at her.

  “I have a niece about her age,” Hauptmann Hartmann explained to Kamille. “Your daughter will remind me of the home which I haven’t seen in far too long.”

  Niece, not a daughter Kamille noticed, and chastised herself at once for such unacceptable interest in his private life. What did it matter if he did have a daughter? Or a wife for that matter? He was handsome enough for any lucky girl to wed him, with his bright blue eyes and blond hair, neatly combed to one side and smoothed with brilliantine. He had removed his gloves, and Kamille threw a quick side glance at his hands. There were no rings on his fingers that had neatly manicured nails.

  “Welcome to Paris, Monsieur Hartmann.”

  “Please, call me Jochen, Madame Kamille.”

  Only after showing him his room and closing the door leaving the two men to sort out their clothes did Kamille lean against it and allowed a smile play on her lips, tasting the new name in an inaudible whisper.

  “Jochen.”

  4

  Marcel sat motionless in the furthest corner of the small hunters’ lodge so as not to attract any unwanted attention from the shouting men who had filled the cabin an hour ago, right after sunset. It was the fourth meeting he had attended, and yet he still felt rather awkward and out of place amongst the men with eyes which burned with determination. Most of them were of his age or even younger but had much more spirit and fearlessness in them than a sheltered “city boy,” as they had mockingly baptized him at the first meeting. Maybe they were right in a sense, when alleging that life on a farm made them into adults much sooner than those who enjoyed the “lavishness of capitalistic civilization” in Paris – the words had also been spoken with obvious contempt.

  Had he not made the acquaintance of these farmers, to whom Marxist ideas were much closer to their heart than to those residing in the city, Marcel probably would not have even considered what they had to offer. And in their eyes, it was nothing less but the salvation of their beloved France: from the Boches, from the rotten Vichy government imposed on the country by the same Boches, and the complete denunciation of capitalism and all the evil that it had brought with it.

  “We must resist not only the Boches but the system itself,” Philippe stated sternly during the very first meeting that he took Marcel to.

  Not counting himself and Philippe, there were four other men gathered around a candle in a hunter’s lodge, hidden deep inside the forest, its gray planks covered in strings of ivy, making it almost invisible to the eye until one stood right in front of it. Marcel caught himself thinking that if Philippe had left him there alone, he would never find his way back to the farm even if his life depended on it.

  The dim night light provided by the single candle (for according to Philippe’s directives flashlights and lanterns were strictly prohibited to avoid detection and capture) threw intricate shadows on the young partisans’ faces. From the start, Marcel decided not to delude himself as to what they were: not only communists, but very real partisans, who expressed ideas which Marcel had found not only frightening but downright dangerous at first. But either it was due to Philippe’s inspiring speeches and the audacious suggestions that followed them, or to their enthusiasm to stand up for what was right, but by the end of the first meeting Marcel had firmly decided to join their small group. However, as it is well known, an idea and a deed are two quite different things, and, therefore, Marcel still tried to find his voice in the ocean of others, much more intrepid than he had ever dreamed of being.

  “The Vichy government is as much an enemy to us and to the people of France as the ones who imposed it,” Philippe continued, as the other four men listened to him attentively. By now Marcel had already learned that the fifth one was always sent outside to stand on guard. “The so-called ‘collaboration’ is nothing but a deception, a lie fed to the regular citizens by Maréchal Pétain, who will do anything to be in good graces of his new German masters. The first thing they did was to shut up our press and appoint their mouthpieces, who speak in favor of collaboration, to the top positions. Listen to the radio, read a newspaper! They got rid of any free-thinking journalist, who was reporting the truth according to his conscience, and put their puppets in their place, which do the only thing they know: praise the new order and the Maréchal! Next thing they’ll do is replace all the politicians and judges who still try to resist them. And when that happens, no one will be left in France to stand up for the truth. No one, except for us. The people. There are few of us as of now, but the tighter the noose becomes on the nation’s throat, the more likeminded people, people just like us, will find their way to us. And together we will rise. And together we will march. They thought they had beat us. No, comrades. I say the war has just begun. And we, the people, will be the ones to win it. Vive la France! Vive la Résistance!”

  “Vive la Résistance,” Marcel whispered excitedly, for the first time in his life overcome with the feeling of belonging; belonging to a cause that was bigger than his life, belonging to a group of daredevils who refused to conform and submit, belonging to this time and place, set for him by destiny itself.

  “I fixed you the papers,” Philippe announced nonchalantly as they made their way back to his parents’ farm. The giant was treading confidently through the pitch-black forest in the moonless night while Marcel tried his best not to lose sight (or, more rightly, the sound) of him, as he stumbled and tripped over unearthed tree roots.

  “I won’t be needing them,” Marcel replied, out of breath after trying to catch up with his comrade’s long strides. “I’m staying with
you, aren’t I?”

  “Of course, you are. I wouldn’t allow you to get to know us and our hideouts and ways for the whole month if you weren’t,” Philippe stated calmly. “But you’ll still need them in case the Boches show up. Or if some business comes up in Paris. After all, you’re the only one of us who knows the city fairly well and won’t raise any suspicion, unlike us uncouth farm fellows.”

  Marcel for some reason imagined a teasing smirk tugging a corner of Philippe’s mouth upwards as he said it. They all taunted him about his “refined upbringing” as they called it, even though he tried (each time in vain) to persuade them that he was just an ordinary student from an average middle-class family.

  “If you need someone refined for your ‘business,’ you should seek my sister, not me.” Marcel chuckled, recalling Giselle’s remark that she had once thrown in response to their father, after he had all but refused to cover an opening of a new hotel near the Champs-Élysées because “it reeked of snooty, stuck-up people”: I’ll cover it for you, Papa. I happen to like snooty, stuck-up people. She was barely twenty-one then, and that one phrase, which soon defined her whole lifestyle, somehow stuck in Marcel’s mind. “If anyone knows high-class society, it’s her.”

  “Why, is she a big fish, your sister?” Philippe inquired with interest.

  “In certain circles,” Marcel replied evasively, but then, as a conceited little worm of pride at Giselle’s social standing and achievements started to gnaw him more and more, as if fed by Philippe’s silence, he revealed the truth at last. “My sister is Giselle Legrand.”

  “Giselle Legrand? The infamous Mademoiselle Legrand?”

  At the mention of such an unexpected attribute next to her name, Marcel scowled involuntarily, even though Philippe, of course, couldn’t possibly see his reaction.

  “Why infamous?”