The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  “What happened?” Kamille mouthed to the teacher.

  Madame Marceau took her gently by the elbow and moved several steps away from Violette.

  “We had an unpleasant incident today in the drawing class,” she started to explain in a soft voice. “You are aware, of course, that we had to combine three groups in one because we lack staff; well, apparently one third-grader decided that it was acceptable to taunt a little girl over… nothing, really.”

  “Why would he taunt her?” Kamille inquired, astounded. “My Violette is a darling. She’s never had any problems with children before.”

  “I know that, Madame Blanchard. And you know that Violette is one of my favorite students, even though I’m not supposed to single anyone out.” Madame Marceau pressed her hand to her chest to emphasize her sincerity. “Apparently what happened was that Violette completed the assignment that I gave them last week better than anyone in the class. As a matter of fact, her drawing was so well-done that I felt compelled to ask her whether she made it herself. Violette confirmed that she did, but she also admitted that… a certain gentleman showed her some techniques that he learned in his art school.”

  Madame Marceau paused, biting on her lip as if embarrassed to continue. Kamille shrugged her shoulders slightly with a confused look. She didn’t know anyone who could possibly show her Violette any art techniques.

  “Monsieur Horst taught me, Maman,” Violette, who hadn’t been oblivious to their hushed conversation as it turned out, went on to explain. “All the trees in my forest, when I started painting them green, all morphed one into another, and when Monsieur Horst saw me taking my painting to the waste bin, he told me not to throw it away but to change the shades of the green instead. He showed me how to move the brush to create an illusion of the leaves, and how to mix the green with water so that some trees would look darker, and some lighter. It came out beautiful after I finished it.”

  Violette finished her sentence with a shaky voice and a trembling lip and hid her face in her lap again, overcome with a new wave of grief. Kamille rushed to hug her daughter, lowering to the stairs next to her and rubbing her hair and back.

  “Violette was kind enough to explain to the class how to do it, and even offered to show some students on their drawings,” Madame Marceau spoke again. “And then during the recess, Jacque, that third-grader who I mentioned – he’s always up to no good – took Violette’s painting off the wall to which I pinned it, and tore it in front of her, saying that no one needed her ‘Nazi art’ in the school. It was such a despicable thing to do… I punished him, of course, but Violette was devastated. It was indeed a beautiful painting.”

  Madame Marceau lowered her eyes apologetically, seeming sincerely upset over the situation.

  “I graded it excellent, of course,” she rushed to add. “I was trying to tell her that she will make many more beautiful paintings like this one in the future because she has already learned how to make them, but she was distressed over that particular one. I’m sorry that I couldn’t prevent this from happening.”

  “No need to apologize,” Kamille reassured the guilty looking woman, even though everything was boiling inside of her from a purely maternal, instinctual desire to punish the ruffian who had dared upset her sweet little girl. “I understand it perfectly that it’s impossible for you to watch over every single child at school. You’re overworked as it is.”

  “I still am sorry.”

  Kamille pressed her hand standing up, picked up her bag and pulled Violette’s hand. “Come, chéri. No need to cry over it; I’m sure that Monsieur Horst will help you make many more drawings, even better than this one.”

  Violette stood up reluctantly, wiped her face with her sleeve and bid her goodbyes to her teacher, who smiled at her warmly.

  “I wasn’t crying over the painting that much,” Violette said as she took her mother by the hand and the two started making their way home across the sunlit square. “I know that I can make more, I’m not stupid.”

  “No one would dare call you stupid, chéri.” Kamille smiled, relieved that her daughter’s tears had dried, at last, to be replaced only by the occasional sniffle.

  “I was more upset over what he said about Monsieur Horst.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He called him a Nazi and all sorts of things that I don’t want to repeat. He said that Hitler was a failed artist too, and most likely that was the reason why both of them ended up in the army because they both couldn’t draw. And then he added that Monsieur Horst was probably Hitler’s bastard child from some… lowly woman.” Violette changed the expression that her offender used to a more decent one, having been taught by her mother from an early age not to repeat any word that was ‘unladylike.’

  “Some children just have foul mouths, Violette. You know better than to listen to the mean things that they say.” Kamille tried to sound level, but deep inside she promised herself to get to the bottom of this with the boy’s mother the following day.

  “I know, but what I don’t understand is why he was saying such nasty things about Monsieur Horst when he doesn’t even know him. Not all Germans are like Hitler. Monsieur Horst is very nice,” the girl finished somewhat defensively.

  “Yes, he is,” Kamille agreed pensively, her thoughts trailing back to the first days of the occupation when her opinion of the invading army wasn’t much different from that of Jacque’s.

  “He was saying bad things about you, too.”

  Lost in her musings, Kamille didn’t catch her daughter’s words at first.

  “He said that we are collaborators for taking in the Nazis and that we should be ashamed of ourselves. He said that we have food and all the ration cards we want just because you’re…” Violette paused, trying to recall the unfamiliar phrase which Kamille had already heard spoken on account of other women and dreaded to hear it now from her own daughter. “A horizontal collaborator. What does it even mean, a horizontal collaborator?”

  “Nothing, ma petite, nothing at all,” Kamille muttered, not noticing how her grip tightened on her daughter’s hand. “Just silly, meaningless words, that’s all.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Violette nodded, reassured.

  Kamille silently fought the tears that were ready to overflow from her eyes. She did hear women spit the term while squinting at some of the young girls with curled hair and painted lips, strolling hand in hand with a German; she heard mothers scorning their daughters for throwing appraising glances at the soldiers, playing ball only in their breeches and boots, their muscular, tanned torsos glistening with sweat in the sun. “Horizontal collaboration” was as much a crime in her fellow peoples’ eyes as any regular crime, such as when a neighbor sold out a neighbor fearing reprisal; or when a merchant pointed an accusing finger at a competitor across the street, whispering “Un Juif” – a Jew – to the plain clothed men with piercing eyes – one of the characteristic features of their kind, the Gestapo. And now Kamille was branded to be one, even though she was most innocent despite what everyone around thought.

  Or was she, really? Shame colored her porcelain cheeks as she recalled her less than innocent longing for one of the occupants who was currently sharing a house with her. The only reason why he didn’t share her bed was his decision not to, that much Kamille admitted to herself bitterly. It wouldn’t be so sad to be accused of the deed if it was done indeed. But it seemed that even Germans who weren’t too picky around local women didn’t want her. Maybe Charles was right after all, and she was indeed unattractive and uninteresting… And all I want is to be loved, Kamille thought gloomily to herself. Am I asking too much? Is it too much of a sin, my desire to be loved? Ah, how I would give everything in the world to just be loved once, like in a romance novel, madly and deeply, and after that, come what may!

  Kamille jolted at the sound of the church’s bells striking seven as if she’d just made a deal with the devil that would turn her whole life upside down. She shook her head slightly
, clearing it from the premonition, and winked at her daughter, who had all but forgot about her recent ordeal, in the way that children do.

  “Taunte Giselle!”

  Those were the first words that Kamille heard as soon as she stepped through the doors of her house. It looked like Violette had some sixth sense trained on her favorite aunt’s presence, or maybe she’d heard her joyful laughter, coming from the living room. Whatever it was, Violette rushed past her mother and disappeared into the living room. Kamille took a deep breath and followed her daughter inside, still clenching the bag with unpacked products in her gloved hands.

  As soon as she stopped over the threshold of the living room, Kamille felt like an intruder in her own house, for the jovial banter and occasional bursts of laughter ceased at once as if her very presence had killed the joy in the room. Giselle, her scarlet dress and lips to match, beamed at her first, exchanging mischievous glances with the two men next to her. Kamille caught herself thinking that she had never before seen Jochen nor Horst in such a relaxed state and, more than that, drinking before dinner. Each time Kamille tried to offer her tenants refreshments, they only bowed politely and refused, explaining that they either couldn’t drink during service hours or offering her some other senseless excuse.

  They put away their cognac glasses awkwardly at once and jumped to their feet to greet her, but Kamille found herself even more upset over the sudden demeanor change that it seemed she’d provoked; she would prefer them lounging on their sofa and laughing like they had been, exchanging jests with Giselle. At least Kamille now knew that they could laugh if they actually wanted to.

  “We were just talking about you,” Giselle said instead of a greeting and, to Kamille’s horror, winked shamelessly at Jochen. Kamille’s handsome tenant only lowered his gaze in response.

  She really couldn’t have been here more than half an hour, and they’re both all over her already, Kamille thought, but she bit back her temper and forced a smile back at her sister, who was bouncing Violette on her knee playfully.

  “You were?” she muttered, feigning interest. Most likely Giselle was telling her new admirers some embarrassing stories from their childhood, and, heavens knew, Kamille was the most timid and awkward child in the whole of France. Thank goodness, Violette didn’t take after her.

  “Why, yes.” Giselle flashed an even row of white teeth at her, scheming gleam not leaving her eyes. “And as a matter of fact, I almost talked Jochen here into taking us out on a double date this Saturday. If Horst agrees to escort me, of course.”

  Another playful wink followed, only in Jochen’s adjutant’s direction. She was certainly no expert in amorous affairs, but even Kamille could tell that the young man was already smitten with Giselle.

  “It will be my utmost honor to escort you, Mademoiselle Giselle,” Horst breathed out, his eyes not leaving Giselle for a second.

  “If you aren’t going to ditch that Mademoiselle thing, I refuse to go anywhere with you,” she reprimanded Horst playfully, this time making him blush in the most adorable way.

  Kamille fought the desire to leave the joyful company to their own devices and head to the kitchen, where she belonged, as Charles had pointed out so many times. He used to always send her away on the rare occasion when guests visited them, not hiding the fact that he was positively ashamed of his wife. ‘Don’t you have anything in the kitchen to check?’ – it was his signature remark signaling that she should disappear out of sight and not to ‘embarrass him’ for being such an ‘utterly useless hostess.’

  “Don’t worry, Madame Kamille.” Jochen’s soft voice distracted her from her unhappy musings. “I have absolutely no intention of putting you in such a compromising position. Your lovely sister was only joking, of course, so please rest assured that you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Joking?” Giselle had turned to her victim before Kamille had a chance to interject anything. “I was most certainly not joking, my dear friend. And, as far as I remember, I told you that if you try to back your way out of this, I’ll bring some communist propaganda, stuff it all over your room and call the Gestapo on you. They’ll come fast, too; their chief is billeted in my apartment.”

  Violette together with Horst burst into hardly suppressed chuckles while Giselle addressed her sister once again.

  “It turns out that the Wehrmacht,” she started with a nod in the direction to the two men, theatrically covering her mouth and whispering like a conspirator, “fancy those Staatspolizei no more than we do. Did you know that?”

  “Speaking of Staatspolizei,” Kamille spoke with a shy smile, trying to help Hauptmann Hartmann out of the uncomfortable situation. He clearly didn’t want to go anywhere, with her as his company at least, but her stubborn sister would force him, of course, like she did with everyone, and everything would become even worse and more awkward between them. Jochen tried to avoid Kamille as it was and less than anything she didn’t want to deal with straightforward rejection. “I doubt that your… tenant will be pleased with such arrangements.”

  “What arrangements?”

  “Your plans for Saturday evening,” Kamille clarified in response to her sister’s genuinely confused look.

  “But ma chéri, nobody’s going to notify him in written form about our plans.” Giselle chuckled.

  “There’s still a chance that he’ll find out,” Kamille muttered, already sensing her defeat. It was impossible to argue with Giselle and win.

  “He’s not as high and mighty as he tries to seem.” The blonde rolled her eyes in mock contempt, which drew more chuckles from her receptive audience. “Besides, let me worry about him. I like Horst much better, anyway.”

  The young officer beamed such a radiant smile at her that Kamille felt sorry for him that very instant. The poor thing, he was too young to understand that Giselle was only toying with him; not out of malice of course. She was just… being Giselle.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go make dinner.” Kamille had just turned to make her leave when Giselle jumped to her feet at once.

  “We’ll all help you then, won’t we gentlemen?”

  “No, no, I really can manage by myself—”

  Kamille’s protesting was cut off by Giselle’s categorical raise of a hand.

  “We will. No need to worry.” She turned to the startled Germans, who seemed to be partly surprised and partly amused by such a suggestion. “I have as much of an idea of how to make dinner as you do, but Kamille will be giving us instructions. Right, Kamille? And I know that my dear niece knows her way around a pastry like no other pastry chef around. Together we’ll make such a feast, that you’ll be writing home about it, trust me.”

  With those words, she marched resolutely in the direction to the kitchen with both men in tow, just like little geese following the piper in that fairy tale that she used to read to Violette. Kamille only shook her head in admiration of Giselle’s commanding abilities and regretted that it wasn’t her sister who had led the troops against the Germans just a couple of months ago. With such a leader, their enemies wouldn’t stand a chance, that’s for sure.

  Giselle had left long ago, escorted by Otto, who she had simply introduced as her ‘personal driver’ and her high and mighty tenant’s adjutant to the company at the table, almost dragging the young man in the SS uniform to meet her new friends from the Wehrmacht. All three men exchanged crisp salutes, not forgetting to look each other over apprehensively however. After Otto had, for the third time, refused the bubbly blonde’s offer to a drink, explaining that Herr Sturmbannführer would shoot him personally if he caught even the slightest whiff of alcohol on his breath, Giselle departed, blowing a last kiss to her sister.

  Kamille was busy with the dishes in the kitchen and almost dropped a plate into the aluminum sink, startled by the voice behind her back.

  “The dinner came out lovely, Madame Kamille. You truly are a great instructor.”

  She cast a bashful gaze over her shoulder in Jochen’s direction. He had
placed the cheese platter with what was left of their small feast next to her, but lingered in the kitchen instead of retiring to his room like he always did.

  “It seems that my poor Horst is utterly and madly in love with your sister,” he spoke again, chuckling softly. “He left me as soon as you cleared the table. Most likely he is busy drawing his new beloved’s portrait in his room.”

  “It’s difficult not to fall in love with Giselle,” Kamille admitted, smiling, trying her best not to become affected by his presence so near to her.

  “You think?”

  Kamille turned to him, tilting her head to one side curiously. Jochen’s cheeks had acquired a faint rosy glow from the wine, which Giselle had made them all drink in adamancy, raising her glass in one toast after another. At one point they even drank to the Führer, as Kamille recalled correctly; that was Giselle’s latest trick that she used after the men refused to drink. Now, Hauptmann Hartmann resembled an ordinary young man much more than a feared occupant, especially now after he had shed his uniform jacket and casually rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt.

  “Of course. You saw her. She’s beautiful, vivacious, intelligent, funny, successful… She’s everything I’ll never be,” Kamille finished quietly.

  “Why would you want to be like your sister?” Jochen sounded genuinely surprised.

  Kamille gestured helplessly. “Come, now. I saw how different you acted around her! You are always so distant and cold and standoffish with me, and if Giselle didn’t appear today, I would probably have never learnt what the sound of your laughter is like! And you don’t have to go anywhere with me out of pity, or just because she coerced you into it. I’ll tell her that you’re not feeling well, or that something came up with your…work, and she’ll just go with Monsieur Horst.”

  With those words, Kamille turned back to the sink to hide her eyes from him, which were glistening with unshed tears, and started lathering a plate ferociously.