“What do you want?”
Apparently, Philippe had already left for some business together with her brother, leaving the boys in charge of the apartment. Giselle thought of putting the little insolent scoundrel in place, reminding him that it was her apartment and that he ate food bought with her money, and that he was lucky in the first place that she hadn’t reported them to the gendarmes yet… Only, that old, haughty Giselle who used to do such things had momentarily disappeared somewhere along the way from the Gestapo headquarters to her old apartment; the apartment in which she grew up and had become the woman she thought she should always strive to be – arrogant, independent and having enough money to buy everything and everyone around her. This new Giselle, in wrinkled clothes and with a look of deadly determination forever emblazed into her green eyes, only cocked her head and whispered quietly, so only the boy behind the door could hear her, “Still want to exact revenge on the Boches?”
The boy’s eyes widened in obvious surprise and, after looking her up and down apprehensively, he closed the door to unbolt it.
Marcel bit into the thick slice of rye bread still smelling seductively of ham. The ham itself had been consumed with envious speed by one of the youngest members of their group – a lanky, pale-faced man named Nicolas. He was only a year younger than Marcel and yet he looked barely seventeen with his patched-up clothes hanging loose on his scrawny frame, his pants held in place only with the help of two strings. With his father gone somewhere in the German stalags, Nicolas was the only one left to feed his ailing mother and three siblings. As soon as Marcel heard from one of his fellow workers that almost all the food he earned went to his family, he and Philippe made it their task to feed the young man while at work, at the least, sharing their lunches with him.
“That’s what the communism is about,” Philippe told him soon after they learned of Nicolas. “Sharing everything within the community.”
Marcel nodded his agreement. He still wasn’t an ardent supporter of the communistic doctrine, but he liked how Philippe always explained everything to him. He made it sound appealing, and not as alien and hostile as his university professors used to present it to him.
“Of course they did,” Philippe scoffed nonchalantly, when Marcel mentioned the attitude of his professors. “The bourgeois class.”
Their group consisted of Philippe’s comrades: old ones, who Marcel had met at the Bussi’s farm and who had moved to the city as well, knowing that they would be of better use to the cause here in Paris; and new ones, recruited just recently from common acquaintances. Now, they all huddled together near the wall of the factory, resting their aching legs during a short thirty minute lunch break. German supervisors didn’t take too kindly to such comradery and always frowned upon any tight-knit group of men sitting together (suspecting some anti-governmental activity, most certainly; however, Marcel couldn’t smirk at the thought that for once they were right). Nonetheless, given the size of the munitions factory and the impossibility to separate each worker during the lunch break, they soon started ignoring them, which suited Philippe and his men just fine.
“My connection said that he could point out the exact location of the wire net on the map.” Philippe, the leader of the group, spoke quietly, all the while watching for movement around them. He had warned Marcel a long time ago that he should be on the alert not only for the Boches but the French as well; nowadays no one could be certain of whom to trust. “He won’t be coming along, but he will explain in detail how to get there.”
Marcel gulped some water from his canteen, hiding a knowing smile from his comrades. Besides Philippe, only he knew that the mysterious “he” was his big sister, but of that Philippe had warned him too. Never reveal your sources, not because you don’t trust your men, but because they might reveal them in turn, in case if caught and interrogated. The less everyone knew, the better.
“We need a group of two, or better, three people. There are two sentries there, and your task is to immobilize them quietly and simultaneously, so no one will hear a peep out of them. Immobilize is the key word, not kill.”
Philippe narrowed his black eyes, shifting them from one man to another, making sure that they all understood the message. Sabotaging the wiring was one thing, killing the occupants was another, and less than anything Philippe wanted the Germans to organize a massive manhunt and executions in retaliation. It was too soon for such actions. They were too weak and unorganized. With time, maybe… But not now.
“The mission is high risk, I understand that. If there aren’t any volunteers, I’ll go myself—”
“I volunteer,” Nicolas interrupted him before he could finish.
Philippe, judging by his look, wasn’t too enthralled with the idea.
“Nicolas, you’re far too young, and maybe—”
“No, please, allow me to do it. I’ll prove myself worthy, I promise.” The young man’s face flushed with emotion. “I couldn’t go into the army because of my weak lungs, so at least now I will serve my country the best I can. So my father will be proud of me when he returns, so the Boches leave sooner, and my family doesn’t starve anymore, together with the rest.”
“Very well then.” Philippe nodded after a moment’s thought. “Who else?”
“I’ll go.” Marcel surprised even himself with how naturally it came out.
Philippe knitted his dark brows together.
“You’re sure?” he asked after a long pause.
“Yes. Haven’t been surer in my entire life.” Marcel smiled brightly.
It was strange how just a few hours ago he was thinking of picking up his father’s torch, just like this boy next to him, and proceeding with fighting for his France – a free France, an independent France – to restore its dignity and to be able to hold his head proudly before the following generation, knowing in his heart that he did everything in his power to rid them of the German plague. And now, when a very real opportunity presented itself, saying this simple “yes” seemed like the most natural thing to do. He had run from the frontline once, and he still bore the shame of his personal defeat in his heart, but now the time had come to prove what he was really made of. If his sister didn’t fear them, he wouldn’t either. He would prove himself, to everyone around him, and what was more important, he would prove to the fearful, young Marcel inside that he could leave him behind, because he had no business in this new country anymore.
Giselle accepted a piece of ice from Jerome’s hands with a grateful grin.
“From the ice box. For your finger,” he muttered, before disappearing into the living room and leaving her alone with a very cross looking Philippe.
He towered over her with his arms folded on his chest while Giselle sat on the bed in her former bedroom, rolling the ice cube around her forefinger. It didn’t really bother her anymore, but the bruising still looked rather ugly, so the boy’s concern was more than understandable. Giselle spent the night at Kamille’s after having a little chat with Pierre the day before, thinking over her situation. Her sister gasped at the sight of the wound as well and insisted that Giselle should go to the hospital to have her injury inspected. Giselle, however, declined with a smile, reassuring Kamille that it was nothing to worry about and that it was her own fault, being so clumsy and catching her finger in the door. Reluctantly, Kamille decided not to press the matter.
“What’s gotten into you, saying something of this sort to the boys?!” Philippe growled as soon as Jerome left the room and headed to the kitchen to help Marcel and his older brother Pierre with dinner. “Didn’t I tell you just yesterday that they’re very vulnerable right now and as little as someone’s words, spoken unwisely, can encourage them to do something foolish, which will most likely end up with them being shot! And you go ahead and offer them the chance to go on a hunting spree for the Boches! Why not try and assassinate Hitler then?”
“That would be simply impractical, for the Boches’ beloved Führer is in Germany, not in France. Now had he be
en within our reach…” Giselle offered the communist an impish smile, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“You’re insane,” Philippe stated calmly, shaking his head. “I understand that you had a little… falling out with your Nazi lover, but please, be so kind as to leave us out of it. I’m not going to risk the lives of my men, and especially two very young, vulnerable boys in my charge, just to exact revenge on some Boche, who scratched the nail polish off your little finger.”
Giselle lowered her head, suppressing her chuckling. For some time she watched the tiny droplets of water fall onto the faded rug under her feet, before she spoke again, taking on a serious tone this time.
“Who cares about the nail polish? And it’s not about him and me, Philippe, that’s where you’re mistaken. It’s about all of us, the French people, and them – the occupants, who have the right to do anything they like to us without the slightest repercussion. Do you not understand that it’s only going to get worse? Do you not see that the more we submit to them, the more at home they feel? I don’t know about you, but I for one am sick and tired of them being in my personal space, interfering with my work, and following my every step. I want my freedom back. I want my apartment back. I want my nights out back. I want my taxi cabs back. I want my damn country back!”
“And how are you planning to get it back?” Philippe smirked. “Obtain a machine gun in the Marché Noir, walk outside and try to shoot as many Boches as you can before they shoot you?”
“No, of course not. We tried that already, our whole French army I mean, and we failed miserably. No. Blunt force is not going to work with them; they’ll beat us again in no time.” Giselle bit her lower lip for a few moments, deep in thought. “What we need to do is to outsmart them. Outsmart, and strike when they least expect it. Small assassination groups, at night: one, two, three – done and gone.”
“No. It’s a terrible idea. They will retaliate.”
“They won’t if they don’t know who is behind it. How can you execute assassins if you don’t know who they are?”
“Oh, they’ll think of something.”
Giselle played with the ice cube some more, twirling it around her finger, and smiled serenely at Philippe.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to force you into anything. I’ll do it all by myself. The first one will be mine. And then we’ll see how they react.”
“Giselle, don’t do it,” Philippe warned her once again.
“Oh, don’t fret, you. I’m not so stupid to shoot him in the open.” A predatory smirk twitched the corners of her mouth. “No. If I sell my life, I’ll sell it for a high price, and I’ll make sure to take as many Boches with me as I can. Getting executed after the first one isn’t in my plan.”
“Think about your brother…” Philippe lowered his gaze as soon as he heard the words that he had spoken.
It was very unlike him, warning someone off a dangerous undertaking, and even more so to bring up family members to talk them out of it. Only, despite all his contempt for the woman in front of him, he had quickly grown to respect her for her bravery and didn’t wish anything to happen to her. She was a woman after all… And the war, even though it was a partisan one, was men’s business.
“Did my brother think of me when he agreed to go on that assignment?” Giselle raised her brows, grinning, and then waved Philippe off as soon as he tried to interject something. “I’m just saying. I’m actually very proud of him. Good for him, volunteering for such a task. It’ll make a man out of him, a man that he himself will be proud of.”
“What if he…”
“What? Dies?” Giselle shrugged nonchalantly. “We’ll all die one day, won’t we? Why not die standing with a gun in our hands than to wither slowly, starved to death and beaten into submission by the Nazis?”
Philippe’s eyes met hers, and he smiled at the woman in front of him – sincerely, for the first time.
18
The doorman appeared to breathe out in relief when he noticed Giselle walking wearily towards the steps of the building. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped outside, grinning widely. The day before, when the Boche had led her outside, the man was convinced he wouldn’t see one of his favorite tenants anymore. He didn’t care so much about all the generous tips she always snuck into his gloved hand, discretely and with taste during a gentle handshake, and only when they were alone, unlike the suit-and-tie wearing snobs, who only did so to impress their ladies. He didn’t care about the presents that she always handed him, wrapped in shiny wrapping paper (for little Olivier’s birthday. You did tell me he liked trains, didn’t you?). He didn’t care for the material things, no. He cared more for the small talk she always shared with him on her way in or out, for her kind smiles and reassurances that she would be more than happy to write a recommendation letter for his youngest son, Alphonse, when he announced his desire to study in the prestigious Sorbonne. And lastly, for treating him almost like a most intimate friend, and not a blank face, which many of the tenants living here, considered him to be.
“Mademoiselle Legrand.” He bowed his graying head respectfully, holding the door for her. “It’s good to see you back.”
Even though he pronounced the last words as softly as possible, breaking protocol with speaking more than just a necessary greeting, Giselle beamed at him and pressed his hand with both of hers for a second, before sliding into the cool marble hallway of the building.
“It’s good to see you too, Didier.”
“Ça va?” he whispered, with barely concealed concern.
“Couldn’t be better,” she whispered back, giving him the wink of a conspirator.
He sighed in relief, following her resolute steps with his gaze as she headed towards the carpeted steps.
Giselle paused at the door of her apartment like an artist before stepping onto the stage before an audience. She smoothed her hair with her hands, pinched her cheeks to add some rosy blush to her complexion, carefully faked innocence and compliance on her face, redid the bow on the collar of her dress and put on her most charming smile before rapping on the door.
Karl opened it himself, even paler and more somber than usual, and stepped aside to click his heels in his military greeting.
“Bonjour, Charlie,” Giselle murmured, walking inside. She helped him close the door when he hesitated to do so, and stood in front of him calmly, while he was thinking of what words to say.
“Bonjour.” His gaze traveled to her hand, and he faltered before taking it into his to look at the wound which he had inflicted. “I was afraid that you wouldn’t return.”
“Now, don’t be silly. Where would I go, and why? My home is here.”
In a gesture that she never anticipated from him, he brought her sore finger to his mouth and kissed it with infinite gentleness. Giselle barely restrained herself from yanking her hand away.
“Please, forgive me. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“It’s all long forgiven and forgotten, Charlie. It was my fault after all, as you pointed out correctly. I know that you did it only in my best interests, so next time I wouldn’t do something as careless and irresponsible as putting my nose where it doesn’t belong. You were right all along: I do have a terribly rebellious side, and I don’t like it any better than you do. It always lands me in trouble, and I suppose I failed to realize that now is not the right time to show defiance just to prove something to myself or the people around me. I am actually grateful for the lesson – it is well-learned, I assure you – and I promise that you won’t see any problems from me from this day on. You were right: you have given me a wonderful life. You care about me and my well-being even though you are under no obligations to do so, and yet I treated you so unfairly and disrespectfully in return. I was mad at you earlier, I’m not going to lie. But then I realized how fortunate I am for having you in my life, and how you did what you did only to save me from my reckless self in the future. I should thank you, but taking into consideration that you bruised my fi
nger, I decided against it. Or you might take it the wrong way,” she finished with a carefully played-out, coy smile.
The German stood silently, scrutinizing her every facial muscle as it seemed, but Giselle didn’t even flinch. He breathed out at last, after several long, agonizing moments during which she was awaiting his “verdict,” and wrapped his arms around her.
“I’m so glad to hear that, my dearest Giselle…”
Her hand rested on top of his holster as she embraced him in return. Giselle inhaled deeply, to smell the woolen, almost sterile fragrance of his neatly cleaned and pressed uniform which always carried the faint remnant of alcohol or some other disinfectant. The hard, well-oiled leather with a gun hidden in it tingled her careful fingertips, and she slid them back onto his back, pressing him tighter.
“I was mistaken about you after all,” he said with a relieved smile, after placing a soft kiss on her temple.
“Yes, you were, mon chéri. You have no idea how mistaken you were.”
The autumn came to Paris without warning, just like the Germans a few months earlier, and set up its own occupation, only adding to everyone’s misery. Gusts of wind tore into wet swastika flags – the only bright spots, dotted in bloody sputters throughout the faded, bleak city. A permanent foggy haze traveled along the river, its murky waters splashing against the cold concrete. The lines along the walls of stores grew even longer, with despondent, scowling Parisians waiting for their daily rations, their heads pulled into their shoulders and rubber galoshes stomping in rhythm with their fogged breathing in a futile attempt to keep warm.
Giselle passed them by daily, grateful for the rainproof, black cloak that helped conceal her face, not so much from the weather as from her fellow countrymen. She had heard their disapproving murmurs even before the occupation, for Giselle had always been quite far from embodying the exemplary citizen in their eyes. Now the whispers were becoming louder and bolder, fueled by the very fact that she passed them by instead of sharing their plight to get their scanty rations, clothed and fed – “a Boche’s whore” whom they were slowly growing to hate.
The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel Page 17
