The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  Who was she trying to fool with her girlish fantasies about this man who was clearly not interested in her? She shouldn’t have had such fantasies in the first place, because he was a German, an invader, an enemy of her country and therefore her enemy, and yet her heart fluttered in her chest whenever she heard the front door open and his steps, first on the marble floor and then closer, muffled by the carpet in the living room. His slight bow and his soft “Bonjour, Madame,” to which she always replied with an almost inaudible “Bonjour” and an instantly lowered gaze were the brightest moments of her lonely days. If only he didn’t leave her alone with her knitting, feeling even more rejected and lonely than before.

  And what was the use dressing up for him, curling her hair in the hope that he would notice that she was a woman, and not just a faceless host in whose house he happened to lodge? Kamille slammed the door of the oven in uncharacteristic irritation, fighting back bitter tears once again. Now if Giselle were in her place, it would all be different. It would be him who would be following her everywhere with the lovelorn eyes of a puppy dog, striving for her attention, just like Charles did.

  Kamille shook her head in disgust at the memory of her deceased husband. He never even had the decency to hide his longing for Giselle, who, truly speaking, wouldn’t give him the time of day whenever they met, but that didn’t change the fact that it was her older sister whom he so obviously desired and not his own wife. And her mother-in-law had the insolence to accuse her, Kamille, of infidelity and even go so far as to doubt Violette’s parentage, when her son would jump into any woman’s bed given the slightest chance. Charles even went as far as taking some twisted pleasure in comparing the two sisters, an ugly sneer marring his handsome face, while he would hint at Kamille’s multiple “flaws” and suggesting that she should dye her hair blonde like Giselle did, or ask for her tailor’s number because whatever she, Kamille, wore, was too… prudish, yes, that was the word he used for her. A prude. A frigid prude whose place was in a monastery.

  Charles was dead, but his words still gnawed at her. Maybe she should go see her sister and ask her for advice? Kamille turned the stove off and left the fish inside to roast a little, while she prepared dough for her famous layered biscuits. Against those, even Charles couldn’t say a single word of disapproval, and certainly, her guests would be too tempted by the sweet aroma to decline the offer.

  “Violette!” Kamille called out from the kitchen, knowing how much her daughter enjoyed making the dough and even eating bits of it when her mother couldn’t see – a habit that Kamille fought without success for as long as she remembered. Not getting any reply, Kamille stood in the door and looked into the hallway. “Violette! Where are you? I need you to help me with the dough.”

  Even the magic word – dough – didn’t seem to work, and Kamille, with a worry creasing her brow, went from room to room in search of her daughter. Having checked the living room with its musky smell of heavy, dark blue drapes that Madame Blanchard (her mother-in-law, the real Madame Blanchard, unlike her, the usurper of the undeserved title) prohibited Kamille from touching, and the matching furniture, draped in the same gloomy, depressing colors, Kamille looked into the dining room. The long, gilt-rimmed redwood table with a red tablecloth and a candleholder in the middle was undisturbed, just like the eight padded chairs, perfectly aligned and just as untouched. Kamille brushed her fingers on the intricate design on the back of the chair, turning away to leave. All this furniture, and no one to use it. Charles had always dined someplace else, rarely deigning to oblige his wife and daughter with his presence, and the guests? He had never invited any, as if ashamed of her and Violette. And now Jochen, too…

  Instead of going upstairs, where Violette probably played in her room, Kamille turned to enter Hauptmann Hartmann’s study, in which he usually worked on some papers in the evening. Immersed in her melancholy, Kamille didn’t even notice at first that something was out of place – or rather that something was actually in a place where it shouldn’t have been. Her little girl, with the tip of her pink tongue sticking out in concentration, was sitting at Hauptmann Hartmann’s desk and drawing something with a pencil.

  Kamille gasped in horror and pressed her hand to her chest, rushing to take the paper out of Violette’s hands.

  “Violette! Who allowed you to… Oh, mon Dieu!” Kamille’s throat went dry as soon as she turned the paper and saw exactly what her daughter had been drawing on.

  It was most definitely some sort of official paper written in German and stamped with a dreadful eagle stamp with a swastika.

  “Do you realize what you’ve done?!” Kamille screamed at the petrified child, who had rarely, if ever, seen her mother in such ire. “Do you understand how important these papers are?! Who allowed you to touch anything here at all, leave alone drawing on some official military order?!”

  “But…” Violette blinked several times while shifting her sight from the drawing in her mother’s hands to Kamille’s face and back. “But… I turned it to the other side, Maman. I didn’t draw anything on the important side…”

  Kamille pulled the girl off the chair a little too forcefully, accidentally hurting her arm in the process. Little Violette burst into loud crying at once, and Kamille felt a pang of guilt for being too harsh in her punishment. She never hit the girl apart from very superficial spanking when occasion called for it and knew deep inside that if she hadn’t been so upset about Jochen’s indifference and the painful memories of Charles’s treatment, she wouldn’t have taken it out on the innocent child. And now, not only would he be indifferent, but angry on top of it for her being a bad mother and not paying attention to her daughter when she should have.

  “You ruined it!” Kamille shouted once again, against her better judgment, almost crying herself. “You ruined everything!”

  “Madame?”

  Startled, Kamille turned to the door, in which Jochen stood, observing the scene in his study with his brows knitted together. Feeling like a criminal that had just been caught red-handed, she lifted the paper in her hand for him to see, struggling with words.

  “She… She drew something on one of your documents. I… I was busy in the kitchen and…” Kamille’s voice trailed off as Jochen approached her and took the paper out of her hand.

  He inspected the official side with a disinterested look, turned it to the side with Violette’s drawing on it and grinned, much to Kamille’s astonishment. Lowering himself on one knee to be on the same eye level with the crying girl, Jochen showed Violette her drawing.

  “Did you draw this?”

  “Yes,” she whimpered, sniffling.

  Jochen reached into his pocket and handed her his handkerchief. Violette looked at the offering curiously, but took it and wiped her tears at the unspoken request.

  “That’s a very nice drawing,” the German continued in the same mild voice. “Is that you?”

  Violette nodded as he pointed at a little girl figure in a dress and wearing her hair in braids, the smallest one of four people in front of the house.

  “And this must be your Maman?” He shifted his finger to a taller figure in a dress.

  Another nod followed in tow with a smile at the recognition of her drawing abilities.

  “And this must be your father?” This time Jochen smiled back, pointing at the figure wearing a uniform. “Was he a soldier?”

  “Yes…” Violette nodded but shook her head right after. “It’s not him, though. It’s you.”

  “Me?” He lifted his brows theatrically, however Kamille noticed that his surprise was more than genuine. No wonder, because she was rather surprised herself at such an unexpected explanation.

  “Yes. See the tall boots?” Violette pressed her little finger to the figure’s footwear. “Our soldiers don’t have boots like yours. And there’s a cross on your neck, too. See?”

  “Oh, now I see.”

  “And this is Monsieur Horst.”

  “Indeed, I certainly see a resemblan
ce.”

  Violette beamed at the compliment and pushed the drawing towards Jochen.

  “You can keep it if you like.”

  “Violette,” Kamille interrupted her daughter’s innocent boldness. “I don’t think Monsieur Jochen would be interested—”

  “Of course I would love to keep it,” he stated firmly, giving Kamille a pointed look. He smiled at Violette once again and nodded in gratitude, accepting her “gift.” “As a matter of fact, I’ll ask Monsieur Horst to find a nice frame for it so that we can hang it on this wall, right next to my desk. What do you think?”

  “I think it would look lovely there,” the girl agreed with enthusiasm.

  “It’s all settled then. And if you like drawing so much, how about we also ask Monsieur Horst to set up a little table for you over there in the corner, where you can draw while I work? I promise to provide you with clean paper and color pencils too, so you don’t have to draw on these documents. They’re no good for drawing anyway; the paper is too thin.”

  He winked at Violette and stood up, straightening his uniform. Kamille took it as a clue and gently placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  “Violette, why don’t you go to the kitchen and wait for me there? I need you to help me with baking.”

  The girl nodded, beamed at Jochen once again and ran out of the study. Jochen’s smile vanished at once, replaced by a stern look as he turned to face Kamille.

  “Please, don’t hurt the child again, and especially for such petty reasons.”

  She swallowed hard at the unusually harsh tone of his voice. “I didn’t… I would never hurt her… I just thought that it was something important and that you would get in trouble with your superiors because of us…”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Well, maybe I do worry about you!” Kamille blurted out before she realized what she was saying.

  Jochen’s face softened a little. They stood silently for some time before he spoke quietly, “You have a wonderful daughter, you know.”

  “I know.” Kamille sighed, lowering her eyes, full of tears that were threatening to overflow.

  “I’m sorry about her father,” he said after another pause.

  Kamille snorted softly. “I’m not. He never loved us. She didn’t even draw him in her picture. Didn’t you notice?”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  “Me too.” Kamille sighed again.

  No, Violette didn’t ruin anything. She, Kamille, had. She always did.

  Just as she turned to walk out of the room, Jochen caught her wrist unexpectedly. He cleared his throat as if trying to conceal his embarrassment and silently handed her a box wrapped in paper, which he had extracted from his pocket.

  “I doubt they can replace the original, but…” He stumbled over his words and lowered his eyes.

  Kamille unwrapped the paper and opened the box, instantly gasping at its contents. Two of the most beautiful tortoiseshell hair clips lay there, the most precious present he could possibly give her, and not only because of their monetary value but simply because he didn’t want her to cry over the old ones any longer.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have…” Kamille pressed her hand to her heart, which fluttered ceaselessly in her chest. “They must have cost you a fortune.”

  “They made you smile. So, they were more than worth it.”

  6

  “You had to see the Boches’ faces when they saw our French tricolor, flying from the bridge!” Pierre, a sixteen-year-old miller’s son, the youngest of their group, sniggered with unabashed excitement. “They stood there with their mouths open as our feldgendarmes were scrambling to remove it as fast as they could!”

  Marcel chuckled as well, picturing the astounded Germans, who must have been white with fury as soon as they witnessed such an audacious crime right in the heart of the conquered capital (as displaying any kind of national symbol had been strictly prohibited by the occupying forces). However, Philippe’s hard glare silenced everyone in the spacious kitchen of his farmhouse.

  There were only four of them, including Philippe and Marcel, sharing a Sunday lunch before setting back off to the field. The other two men were the tall, lanky Pierre with his still somewhat childish look on his healthy, young face and bright blue eyes under the tangled, wheat-colored bangs, and Philippe’s father. Monsieur Bussi, a sturdy, imposing man with the same deep brown eyes as his son’s, radiated the same air of unspoken authority as Philippe, and the deep-seated, profound lines of his face, hardened with weather, sun, and age, only enhanced that impression. Marcel caught himself thinking that he hardly ever heard the old farmer speak, which only asserted his previous assumption that Monsieur Bussi didn’t take too well to his son’s political views and his most recent partisan activities, which ran rather contrary to the Vichy policy of the collaboration.

  “Why would you do something of the sort?” Philippe grumbled at last, pressing his stubborn mouth into a hard line and busying himself with smearing a thick layer of butter onto the freshly baked bread roll instead of looking at the boy.

  Pierre even dropped his spoon, his enthusiasm seemingly deflated by his oldest comrade’s reproachful remark.

  “But… You said it yourself that we have to fight… You said that we have to show those Boches that we won’t stand for their occupation, for the humiliation of France!” A former zeal was coming back to Pierre’s voice as he spoke, until Philippe shushed him rather sharply.

  “Yes, I did say that. I said that we need to organize and fight for the cause, Pierre. Organize.” Philippe bore his eyes into the blond young farmer, who had to lower his gaze, reddening to the roots of his hair. “What you did was moronic and reckless. What were you even thinking, going along with your brother’s rabid idea? Do you not understand that you endangered not only yourselves but all of us here?”

  “But no one saw us, Philippe!” Pierre protested, shaking his head vigorously. “I swear to you! We took our father’s flag that he always flew from the windmill on Bastille and Armistice Day, as he hadn’t brought it to the post office as the gendarmes had demanded – neither had he given them his rifle – then we folded it, and I hid it under my shirt. We rode our bicycles at night, all the way to Paris, and left them in the field near the haystack before we entered the city. And from there we darted right to the nearest bridge, and there weren’t even any Boches or gendarmes guarding it, imagine that! So, Jerome was holding me, and I tied the flag to the iron railings. We waited till the sunrise in someone’s backyard, and then came out together with the crowd once the feldgendarmes discovered our little present for their precious Nazis! Even the sub-prefect came in his car almost at once, with Boches on his heels! It was grand, Philippe!”

  Philippe was chewing his bread slowly without interrupting the boy. For some reason, Marcel thought that silence to be the quiet before the storm. Monsieur Bussi snorted loudly and called for his wife to bring them more coffee. Philippe only prolonged the heavy, pregnant pause while his mother poured more steaming black liquid into their respective mugs.

  “So let me get this straight,” he spoke at last, concentrating on stirring his coffee instead of looking at Pierre. Marcel realized that he did it on purpose, so as to keep his emotions under control and not to break into an angry tirade. “Not only did you ride into the city during the curfew, you didn’t have any common sense to leave as soon as you committed your crime, which is punishable by imprisonment in case you didn’t know. You actually waited until the Boches showed up together with our gendarmes, and – who knows? – maybe their infamous secret police in tow, and just like any stereotypical criminal stood in the crime scene and basked in your glory. On top of it, you flew not just any tricolor, but your father’s. I don’t even want to ask if you had any brains to check if that cursed tricolor was marked with your father’s name sewn on it, like most of the flags are on any farm to prevent them from being stolen, because I assume that you dug it out of its hideout also at night, and there
fore couldn’t possibly do so.”

  Pierre gasped inaudibly, his blue eyes flying wide open as he had realized his mistake. Multiple mistakes, as Philippe had correctly pointed out. Marcel shifted in his seat, while the old Monsieur Bussi only snorted once again, picking up his mug.

  “Grand is right,” he muttered under his black mustache with obvious amusement.

  “Father, please.” Philippe waved his sarcastic remark away without any attempts to conceal his annoyance.

  “What? Didn’t I warn you that your propaganda, especially the one that you’re spreading amongst the young, easily impressed minds, would get you in jail one day?” Monsieur Bussi arched his brow, giving his son a sharp glare. “And now the gendarmes or, even worse, the Nazis will come for the boy and throw him in jail, and all because of you and your ideals. A lot of good they did you. Should’ve just minded your business on the farm like I’ve been doing my whole life, and not run around the globe, first to Moscow and then to Spain!”

  “I was sworn as a politruk in Moscow! And in Spain I was fighting for the cause, together with my comrades,” Philippe retorted defiantly.

  “You fought in the civil war in Spain?” Marcel inquired incredulously. So far he had assumed that among their small group he was the only one who had held a gun in his hands; yet it turned out that Philippe had also seen his share of fighting, and probably for a far longer period of time than Marcel had.

  “Sure, he did,” Monsieur Bussi smirked in reply instead of his son. “You heard him yourself: he fought for the cause.”

  “Nobody will arrest Pierre.” Philippe changed the subject, dismissing his father’s remark. Marcel wisely decided not to pry as the communist leader turned to him once again. “You’ll take him to Paris today. Him and his brother.”

  “What?” Marcel thought that he had misheard him at first.