22
Philippe pulled his cap lower over his eyes, hiding from the inquiring looks of the Germans that kept passing him by. He was sticking out like a sore thumb here, dressed in his ragged attire, so different from the usual habitants of the area. He’d been sitting here long enough to start attracting attention: a factory worker, casually lounging on a bench in the middle of the Champs-Élysées, on a working day, with a day-old newspaper in his hands. But that was the risk that he had to take, for Marcel’s very life depended on him. He’d dragged the boy into all this, after all… Now he had to get him out.
Philippe glanced up from the paper in his hands and finally spotted Giselle, walking on the opposite side of the street with a small leather valise in her gloved hand. She didn’t notice him, of course, looking straight ahead in her black overcoat, hiding her eyes behind the veil net of her exquisite hat. Philippe quickly got up, folded the paper and proceeded to follow her along the street while throwing occasional glances over his shoulder to make sure that no one followed her. Who knew if her Boche lover had her followed?
Sensing no danger, Philippe quickly crossed the street and caught up with the woman in a few short strides. She gasped in surprise when someone caught her shoulder from behind, but Philippe quickly silenced her, pressing his finger to his mouth.
“It’s just me. No need to alarm the authorities.”
His attempts at humor missed the spot, judging by her look.
“You don’t need me to alarm the authorities. You’re doing a perfect job by yourself. My windows oversee the street, and my Boche, seeing you with me, is all I need now.” Without further ceremony, Giselle grabbed his sleeve and almost dragged Philippe into the nearest antique store, favored by the local officers. The Germans took particular pride in strutting inside and, after throwing half-bored, half-appreciative looks around, would leave with some purchase to send back to their families, who in their turn would put the said antique object on the shelf to proudly demonstrate to their guests.
As soon as the two stepped inside the dimly lit shop, a small silver bell above the door announced their presence. Giselle exercised her most gracious smile at the owner, a part-time university professor with a passion for history, who, however, despised her immensely for buying his antiques solely based on how they would look in her living room, and not showing even the slightest interest in their origin. The professor nodded solemnly in response, pressing his mouth into a hard line under his enviously thick mustache, and returned to studying a new catalog, not deeming the strange couple a second look, which suited Giselle just fine.
“Good morning, Monsieur Professeur,” she still uttered in a sweet, sing-song voice, just to disperse any last doubts on their account. “I’m in desperate need of a new clock and a bookcase. If you don’t mind, I’ll take a look around, and if I fancy something I’ll leave my delivery man here to talk details with you.”
“By all means, Mademoiselle Legrand. Take your time.” With that he left them to their devices, ignoring them completely.
Giselle pulled Philippe to the furthest corner and stopped in front of the cherry wood bookcase, admiring the carved details.
“What do you want?”
“Well, I didn’t come because I missed seeing you, obviously,” he threw back sarcastically, a little wounded on account of her “delivery man” remark.
He was dressed like one, and deep inside he understood that it was a clever reply in this scenario, but it still made old feelings stir inside; like back to the times right after the war, when he would ride to Paris with his father to deliver fresh vegetables to the market – he couldn’t stand the haughty, condescending looks that the gentry threw their way.
Those looks, and the inequality in general, propelled his desire to fight for an idealistic state, praised by the communists in their leaflets, where everyone would share everything, and the world would be a much better place, in which no one would suffer from hunger or be homeless while others gorged themselves with food and resided in palaces. Giselle didn’t belong to the gentry, but came from the ordinary middle class, just like Marcel, but she had chosen to become one of those arrogant people, and Philippe didn’t fancy her one bit for that choice. She was a writer on top of it and could have used her talent (all right, she did have talent, he had admitted to himself a long time ago, only he would never share that confession with anyone) to bring some good ideas to the masses, but she chose to write about high class issues, for high class. Philippe reminded himself that it was none of his business anyway, what she did with her life.
“Do you need money?” she whispered back, ignoring his previous remark.
“No, I don’t need your money. Even if I did, I wouldn’t ask you for it. Whatever you gave me before went to buy food for Marcel and the boys.”
“Are we starting the whole class-struggle argument again?” Giselle touched the intricate carving on the small coffee table, pretending to assess it.
“No. I’m sorry.” Philippe quickly collected himself. She unnerved him, and much too often, and these very conflicted feelings didn’t help him think straight, much to his annoyance. He took a deep breath and whispered close to her ear, trying not to notice the smell of her perfume invading his senses, “Marcel is in trouble.”
“How big of a trouble?” Giselle whispered back, her gloved fingers tensing on the polished wood.
“Very big.” He hated breaking the news to Marcel’s sister, who had warned him on the day of their very first meeting not to drag her brother into his Resistance activities. Now, Philippe had not only gotten the boy in trouble, but he also had to ask her for help because…well, frankly, he had no one else to go to. “He never returned from the interrogation yesterday. They dismissed all of us after questioning, but him… They haven’t announced anything yet, but I suspect that the Boches arrested him.”
“On what grounds? Do they have anything in particular on him? Was it the Wehrmacht or the SS that were conducting the interrogation?”
Philippe looked her over with newfound respect. Instead of breaking into hysterics and starting to accuse him, as he had expected from her, Giselle took on a look of utter concentration, moving straight to resolving the situation with a composed, coolheaded tone. Maybe, he was mistaken about her after all, and she was a much tougher cookie than he had imagined her to be.
“The Wehrmacht. They called us to the Kommandatur and this young officer… What the hell was his name? Hartmann, I think. Yes, Hauptmann Hartmann interrogated us. I don’t think he has anything particular on Marcel, but if he starts interrogating him intensely…” Philippe lowered his eyes, chewing on his lip vigorously. “I’m sorry that I dragged him into all this. I shouldn’t have. You warned me not to.”
Giselle only sighed deeply, and shook her head, surprising him with her reaction once again. Her brows were drawn together under the veil as she pondered something in her mind.
“I also said that it would make a man out of him. Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault. Besides, your remorse is of no use to us now; now we have to figure out how we can help him.”
Philippe nodded eagerly, a little relieved and grateful for her approach to the matter.
“Hartmann, you said?” She turned to him suddenly.
“Yes… I believe his name was Hartmann.”
“A handsome, blond man, right? Wears his hair sleeked to the left side, but his bangs are wavy, and he keeps fixing them from time to time?”
Philippe nodded once again, wondering if the infamous Mademoiselle Legrand knew all the Boches in town.
“And he has an adjutant, a very young man, with dark hair and blue eyes? He has a very nice voice, but his accent is a little stronger than Hartmann’s?”
“That’s him, all right.”
She breathed out in relief as it seemed.
“I know them both. They lodge with my sister, Kamille,” Giselle explained. “I’ll go visit her tonight and talk to this Hartmann.”
“He thinks
that Marcel is my brother! He has my late brother’s papers—”
Giselle interrupted his protests with a simple shake of her head. “He’ll just have to find out the truth then. This way, Marcel has much more chance. Maybe he’ll just agree to send him as a forced laborer to Germany and won’t execute him. Marcel didn’t kill anybody, after all.”
“You think he’ll agree to that?”
“He seems to be very much in love with my sister. So, yes, I’d say he’ll agree to this small concession concerning Marcel’s punishment to please Kamille. Men do such favors for their mistresses, you know.”
She winked at Philippe, catching him off guard again.
“Your brother is in jail, and you’re joking,” he grumbled in response.
“I will joke even standing on the gallows, my friend.” Giselle shrugged off his accusations. “I’m a fatalist, you see. Whatever is destined to happen, will happen. I see no reason to tear my hair and bawl my eyes out, no matter the situation. I learned that from the very early age either I will change the situation, or accept it; there are no other options. It’s much easier to live this way. So, given that Marcel is in jail, I accept that he might never leave it, or even die. But it doesn’t matter, as I will do my utmost to save his life.”
“That’s very… unorthodox thinking, I must say.”
“Suits me just fine.”
“I didn’t say I don’t like it.” Philippe smiled. “It’s just…I didn’t expect it from you.”
Their eyes met for a short moment until Giselle dug into her pocket and produced a small notebook. She wrote something down, tore a page out, folded it in two and put it into Philippe’s pocket.
“Don’t come here anymore,” she whispered, pressing his hand as if apologizing for her words. “It’s very dangerous for the both of us. Next time call this number, and if it’s not me who answers the phone, just say that you’re Philippe from the Demarche Publishing House and that Monsieur Demarche needs to see me urgently. I’ll come and meet you in his building, where we’ll be able to talk discretely. I put the address there as well. And don’t worry, I’ll warn Michel, the owner, about you. He’s in it with us, too.”
After that Giselle gave him another warm smile, nodded at him reassuringly, and spoke with intentional loudness. “Lovely, but too dark for my living room. Monsieur Professeur, will you be so kind to give me a call when you receive anything beige or caramel?”
“Rest assured, Mademoiselle,” followed his curt reply.
Philippe exited the store, following Giselle’s steps, and the two parted ways. He willed himself not to turn around to look at her once again.
Upon her return from the Demarche Publishing House, where she submitted yet another article for Michel, Giselle put her valise, not containing anything compromising anymore, next to her desk and went into the study, shedding her coat along the way.
“Karl.” She knocked on the opened door with a most cordial smile. “Would you mind lending me Otto’s services as a driver tonight? Kamille and I are planning a small family dinner.”
“Of course.”
Giselle had just turned around to take her leave, beaming with success, when he added, “I’ll be coming with you, as a matter of fact.”
Giselle pivoted on her heels, facing her gray-clad tenant, who was grinning coolly.
“She won’t mind you bringing a guest, I’m sure.” Karl slightly tilted his head to one side. “You’d better call her in advance though. It’s rude surprising a host with someone’s appearance like that, after all.”
“But Karl,” Giselle spoke, carefully selecting her words. “It’s to be a family dinner. Not that you’re not welcome to join us, bien sûr, but you’ll be bored out of your mind…”
“You always say that,” he reprimanded her with a somewhat sly grin. He had some ulterior motive for this visit, most certainly. “And besides, aren’t her Wehrmacht guests going to be dining with her as well?”
“I don’t know,” Giselle replied honestly. “I suppose they will.”
“Gut. It’s all decided then. I need to speak to Hartmann anyway. He owes me a prisoner.”
“A prisoner?” Giselle caught onto how her voice faltered slightly, and quickly composed herself. “How intriguing. Anyone I know?”
“Perhaps.” He was already deep into studying some papers in front of him. “A terrorist who attacked one of our posts a couple of weeks ago. They finally found him; he’s been in their custody for two days, but they didn’t get anywhere with him. That Wehrmacht are utterly useless when it comes to interrogations. They just sit and talk to their prisoners, like good old friends. And when they don’t give them any names, they simply reprimand them for mischief and send them to jail, or even worse, to work in Germany. And who guarantees that from there they won’t run and start their terrorist activities once again?”
“No one, you’re right,” Giselle agreed with a carefully faked smile. Her mind, contrary to her perfectly calm demeanor, was a buzzing beehive as she feverishly thought what could possibly be done to save Marcel from Karl’s clutches. “So what is the deal between you two?”
“High command in Berlin was infuriated not only with the act of sabotage itself but with how the Wehrmacht handled the case. It took them two bloody weeks to just catch the terrorist when the idea that I suggested – taking twenty civilian hostages and threatening the population with their execution if the terrorist doesn’t come forward – would get him into our hands in just two days. But it was rejected for its ‘severity.’” Karl snorted with contempt, shaking his head. “Pathetic weaklings, all of them, the Wehrmacht. Can’t stand that.”
“You’re right,” Giselle repeated, her hands squeezing into fists under the coat that she was still holding.
“And now on top of everything, Hartmann refuses to hand over the terrorist for interrogation, even though it’s clear as day that he will never get a single name out of him. I called him yesterday, but he rejected my request for a transfer, citing that ‘the Staatspolizei would only torture him to death.’” Another snort followed. “The Staatspolizei at least gets the job done. One day and I would have a full list of names of all his accomplices. But Hauptmann Hartmann obviously has some humanitarian qualms on this account. Very well then. I’ll address all of his qualms tonight.” Karl lifted his black eyes towards Giselle. “Make sure he’ll be there when you call Madame Blanchard, please.”
Giselle nodded, smiled once again and headed to her bedroom. There she lowered herself tiredly on her bed, deep in thought, for the first time in many years doubting her strength.
23
The tension at the table was palpable. Karl was all smiles and charm as soon as he stepped through the doors, handing the mistress of the household a bottle of wine and even a bouquet of roses, which were almost impossible to get for ordinary citizens. He kissed Kamille’s hand ceremoniously under Jochen’s hard glare, exchanged sharp salutes with two Wehrmacht officers, and even lifted little Violette’s chin and, after studying her face with the detached interest of a scientist, complimented Kamille on her beautiful daughter.
“I see good genes run in all of your family members,” he noted, grinning mysteriously at Giselle for some reason.
She forced a smile in response and tried to ignore the fact that her little Coco, who she was very much looking forward to seeing, had retreated from the hallway at the first sight of her date.
Now, they all sat at the long, redwood dining table thoroughly pretending that it wasn’t the most awkward gathering that each of them had ever encountered in their lives. Kamille sat unnaturally straight and looked both alarmed and guilty – a habit that all law-abiding citizens shared, Giselle had noticed a long time ago. The criminals always managed to keep the most impenetrable poker face whenever they encountered an authority figure of Karl’s rank, while people like Kamille sported the most guilt-ridden air even when they didn’t do anything that could be considered even remotely criminal.
Violette ate her f
ood silently, from time to time checking under the table in hope of seeing her little four-legged friend; Giselle did too, but the Pekinese was nowhere to be found.
Horst barely touched his plate, looking flushed, and pushing the food around, refusing to even look at the man who was sitting next to Giselle. Jochen drank a little too much wine, obviously in an attempt to fuel much needed courage when the time came to face the Gestapo chief face-to-face. He knew all too well what it was all about, even though not a word had been spoken about anyone’s work or politics.
“The chicken is delicious, Madame.” Karl finally interrupted the uncomfortable silence, even though he seemed to be the one who reveled in it, enjoying his meal in the most relaxed manner.
This man makes himself at home no matter where he goes, Giselle thought sulkily, cutting her chicken breast without any desire to eat.
“Merci, Herr Sturmbannführer.” Kamille nodded embarrassingly, using the German form of address for he detested the French one, and Giselle had wisely warned her about it.
There was no need to rub him the wrong way with what Giselle had in mind. Well, truth be told, so far she didn’t have anything particular in mind, but hoped to conceive some quick plan along the way, as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Keeping her options open was one of the qualities which had helped her immensely in her life.
Karl inquired about Kamille’s late husband and offered his almost sincere condolences concerning the “brave death of a true French patriot.”
The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel Page 21
