The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  “Soldiers are the only true patriots of this country, Madame.” He spoke with the calm confidence of a man who was used to his opinion always being the correct one, or that everyone would accept it even if it wasn’t. “Those worthless terrorists, who call themselves patriots, with that General in exile as their leader, are nothing but the worst that French society has to offer. They are all either communists or ordinary criminals, who are happy to have any reason to do some malice, not only to the new government – that was welcomed with gratitude by all the citizens – but also to those very citizens. I finally received a cable from Gruppenführer Müller’s Berlin office just a couple of hours ago, and he promised me full support in my suggestion of using hostages to seize the fugitive terrorists sooner. This one is in custody, of course, but for future cases, Gruppenführer and I agreed that such a tactic would prove itself most effective.”

  Giselle noticed how Jochen’s gaze shot up, boring into the SS officer sitting directly across from him and smiling at him in the most sinister manner. So, he got what he was after, Giselle sighed. No wonder; Karl could be very persuasive when he wanted to. And she knew how rational and logical he always sounded while presenting his arguments to the other side. Karl always prepared for such conversations with a meticulous obsession with details, and there was not a single matter that he didn’t investigate and take into account before starting to drive his point across. No wonder that his superiors supported him.

  “Most definitely the Gestapo authority will not override the authority of the governing Wehrmacht administration,” Jochen noticed coolly. “And the governing administration will never allow using innocent civilians as human bait for the terrorists.”

  “You’re so idealistic, Hauptmann Hartmann, it’s worth admiration.” Karl raised his glass in a mock toast. “Only, your ideals and faith in humanity don’t mean a thing during the war. And to answer your previous question: yes, it will override the administration’s authority, for we’re talking about ‘extreme circumstances’ here, of which Gruppenführer Heydrich spoke just recently – you still have the memo, I hope – and in any case, such ‘extreme circumstance’ ensure that the authority will come under the SS jurisdiction, and the Gestapo namely. Gruppenführer Müller will also send the cable, which I mentioned earlier, to all the offices, in the course of the next few days.”

  “Cable or no cable, with all due respect, Herr Sturmbannführer, such practice is most condemnable in my eyes, and all of my fellow officers will agree with me.” Jochen’s cheeks reddened slightly from both the wine and emotion.

  Karl remained enviously calm.

  “Condemnable or not, it will prevent the terrorists from their activities. In this case, the end justifies the means.” Karl shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t comprehend why his compatriot couldn’t understand such an obvious thing. To him, everything seemed more than logical and conclusive. “But, I don’t want to discuss such matters in front of the ladies. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about it after dinner. Talking politics during dinner is distasteful, and we don’t want our beautiful hostess to think we are barbarians without manners, do we?”

  “By all means, don’t mind us.” Giselle quickly made use of the situation and got up to help Kamille clear the table before the dessert could be served. “We’ll be in the kitchen, so talk all you want. Only, no longer than ten minutes, please.”

  Karl laughed at her little jest in the most charming manner and kissed her hand gallantly before she reached for his plate. Horst lowered his glass on the table rather loudly and muttered his apologies. Giselle threw him a remorseful glance, but he was too busy studying the pattern on the tablecloth.

  “Violette, would you be so kind as to take Monsieur Jochen and Monsieur Horst’s plates, chéri?” Kamille asked her daughter, so the girl wouldn’t be in the same room with the men when they renewed their discussion. No child needed to hear that, no matter how much the adults thought she understood, and Violette was a very smart girl.

  “Oui, Maman.”

  In the kitchen, Giselle disposed of the dirty dishes by dropping them into the sink in the most careless manner, much to Kamille’s dissatisfaction, and turned to face her sister.

  “Kamille, it’s Marcel,” she whispered, pulling the remaining plates from Kamille hands, despite her protests.

  After the plates had joined the uneven pile in the sink, she clasped her sister’s elbow and pulled her towards the window, away from Violette.

  “What about him? Did you manage to find out where he is?”

  All this time Giselle had played along with Kamille’s version that Marcel was missing in action and that no one knew what happened to him. For some reason, Giselle thought it unwise to reveal to her vulnerable sibling about her and Marcel’s recent highly criminal activities. Only, now she didn’t have a choice but to tell her the truth.

  “Marcel has been living in Paris all this time. In our old apartment.”

  Kamille gasped softly, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “What are you saying, Giselle?”

  “I’m saying that he didn’t go missing; he deserted. He ran and stumbled across one man who offered him his late brother’s papers to conceal his identity because he would have been arrested by the Germans if he were caught with his real ones. The man who helped him turned out to be a communist, and Marcel…” Giselle waved her hand impatiently, deciding to come right to the point. “Making the story short, the terrorist in Jochen’s custody is our Marcel. We need to intervene to prevent Jochen from handing him over to Karl. Because if he does…”

  Giselle shook her head, pressing her mouth into a firm line. She had never told Kamille about Karl and his methods of interrogation, and when he had almost broken her finger, even though she was nowhere near the same charge that Marcel currently faced.

  “You knew all this time? You knew, and you didn’t tell me?" Kamille asked, sounding wounded with such a betrayal.

  “It was for your own good, Kamille.” Giselle put both hands on her sister’s shoulders, but Kamille stepped away.

  “You knew all along. You knew about him and some communist, and you never did anything? You didn’t help him? How could you, Giselle? He’s our only brother. He’s your little brother, and you allowed him to get involved with communists? What’s gotten into you?”

  “Kamille, I promise, I’ll answer all of your questions when the time is right. And when the time is right, you can hurl all the accusations you like at me. Now, please, pull yourself together and let’s think about how to get him out of this.”

  “No. You’re always like this, Giselle. You dive head first into any new adventure that comes your way, and your drag everyone else after you. You should have looked after him, not encouraged him to do something of this sort! What is it, is your new fad with communism? Are you that bored?”

  Giselle hushed her and smiled encouragingly at Violette, who was busy bringing Limoges china from the kitchen to the dining room.

  “No. Don’t try to silence me when we both know that it’s your fault,” Kamille hissed crossly in resignation, very rare for her usual mild demeanor. “You’ve always been like this, thinking only about yourself. And now look where it’s got poor Marcel! You don’t care about anyone at all… Not even poor Horst! Nothing even stirred in you to bring your lover here and have him sit at one table with the man who obviously has feelings for you. How can you be such a callous, cruel person, Giselle?”

  Giselle squinted her eyes slightly, processing a new thought that had just flashed through her mind. Accusations and shaming, frankly speaking, had never bothered her that much, for she saw her share of it while growing up. Kamille didn’t call her anything she hadn’t already been called before.

  “Horst. It might actually work… Yes, Horst. Quickly, go fetch him for me. Tell him that I need some help in the kitchen. Karl is probably so deep in argument with Jochen now that he won’t even notice that he’s gone.”

  “Giselle, what do you—�
�

  “Do you want Marcel to survive, or not?”

  Kamille left in a huff, but at least she did as she was told. Giselle winked at Violette, who moved a little stool next to the sink and busied herself with the dishes.

  Her unexpected guest’s presence still lingered in the room long after the Gestapo chief had left with Giselle. Kamille finished clearing the table and paused in the doorway. Jochen stood with his back to her, pouring himself a glass of brandy. Judging by the fact that he hardly ever drank, he was obviously in the same morose mood as she was. Kamille watched him nurse the amber liquid in his glass and thought of what possible words she could say to him.

  How could she possibly tell him, her lover and yet a representative of the occupying forces nevertheless, that the terrorist in his custody was her little brother? Could she count on his loyalty and support in the most desperate of moments, or would she ruin the only relationship she cherished, one which had blossomed against all odds? What reaction would prevail in him: a sense of loyalty to his country, something instilled in him long ago, or compassion and a desire to help someone, even if he was not supposed to help by any means, for such “help” would not only go against army policy but even land him somewhere on the frontline in Africa?

  He noticed her at last, turned to face her, and smiled with such habitual gentleness that Kamille was suddenly overcome with the feeling of guilt, as if it was her who committed the crime, and not Marcel. She was feeling guilty for the words she hadn’t pronounced yet, for they would decide not only Marcel’s future but her own as well; her future with this man, whose smile in the course of the short six months that they have known each other seemed to have become as essential for her as the air she breathed.

  “You look upset,” Jochen noticed as he approached her. “Don’t be. I don’t want you to worry about Wünsche. I’ll deal with him, I promise.”

  He cupped her cheek. Kamille pressed into his warm palm and whispered, closing her eyes because she simply couldn’t bring herself to look into his, “Don’t hand your prisoner over to him, please.”

  “I don’t want to, but Kamille… He left me no choice,” Jochen explained in a soft voice.

  “He’ll kill him, just to set an example for the rest. I know he will.”

  “I know it too.” Jochen let out a sigh and added after a pause, “I didn’t want to tell you, but he gave me an ultimatum: I surrender my prisoner to him or he makes a report to the Kommandant of Paris that a certain Hauptmann Hartmann is involved in an indecent – and illegal – relationship with a Frenchwoman. The Kommandant will take his side, too; they’re longtime friends from what I’ve heard. It’s very unfortunate of course. The ‘terrorist’ is just a young boy whose only crime was trying to protect his country… I’ve even come to like him during our interrogations. He seems like a very nice fellow.”

  “He is. He’s a very, very nice boy and such a gentle soul!” Kamille clasped Jochen’s hands in hers. “He’s my brother, Jochen. Giselle told me tonight. My little brother Marcel. I’ve told you about him so many times, remember?”

  “But…” He seemed to be caught completely off guard, just like Kamille was when her sister had announced the news. “How is it possible? You said Marcel was missing in action. I was looking for him through my channels…”

  “My little Marcel was never cut out for fighting. He deserted apparently. Was afraid to go back home. Stumbled across some communists who dragged him into their cell, provided him with papers and coerced him to participate in their criminal activities. I don’t even know what the story is, I only know what Giselle told me.” Kamille gestured desperately. “But one thing I can vouch for: Marcel would never harm a soul. He’s not a criminal, nor is he a terrorist… And if you hand him over to Wünsche, he’ll die. My little brother will die.”

  “Gott im Himmel, Kamille, what can I possibly do?” Jochen muttered, stroking her hair and back as she cried quietly on his chest, pressing her cheek to the cool metal of his medals.

  The old clock was counting the minutes.

  “I can give him two days for now. And I’ll try to make some calls tomorrow. I can’t promise you that I’ll be able to save him because it would be dishonest, but what I can promise is that I’ll apply all my efforts to do so. Will that do?”

  Kamille looked up at the sound of his voice, a faint smile barely touching her lips.

  “Yes. That is more than I ever hoped.”

  The first snow covered the ground during the night, the first signs of winter biting into Giselle’s cheeks, rosy from the frosty weather, as she braved the cold, heading towards her old apartment. Philippe let her in, anxiously awaiting the news.

  “It’s not good,” Giselle declared right away, unraveling the scarf from around her neck. “I spoke to Kamille this morning. Jochen agreed to hold him in the Kommandatur prison for a couple more days, but Karl apparently threatened him last night, when they spoke alone, that if Jochen doesn’t agree to hand over his prisoner, he will report Jochen’s ‘indecent relationship’ with a Frenchwoman to the city Kommandant. And the Kommandant eats from Karl’s hand.”

  “Putain,” Philippe cursed under his breath.

  Pierre and his brother were also there, chewing on their nails, concentration creasing their foreheads.

  “We only have today and tomorrow, as that’s how long Jochen can milk the story that he’s supposedly trying to interrogate Marcel before he has to transfer him into Karl’s custody. So, we have to act fast,” Giselle stated with determination.

  Philippe nodded. “Any ideas?”

  “I did think of something last night, when I was still at Kamille’s,” Giselle admitted and then paused, wondering if she should voice the idea. “It’s a very daring plan though, and I’m only fifty percent sure that it will work.”

  “Your plan is already better than mine because I have none.”

  She motioned her head towards the boys. “Can we use them? We won’t be able to pull it off with just the two of us.”

  “Yes, you can,” Pierre replied before Philippe had a chance to open his mouth. “Just tell us what to do, and we’ll do it.”

  “There’s a catch, as I’ve already said,” Giselle warned, looking Pierre intently in the eye. “We can either get Marcel out, or we can all die. I honestly don’t know how everything will turn out.”

  “So? Won’t we all die one day anyway?” Jerome shrugged, seconding his brother, too nonchalantly for a boy his age. “I’d rather die young and doing something remarkable than old and helpless in my bed.”

  “Can’t argue with that logic,” Giselle joked grimly. “Here’s the plan. You tell me what you think.”

  24

  Horst rose from his seat as soon as he noticed Giselle, standing outside the small café and waving at him. They had agreed to meet a day ago, in Kamille’s kitchen. Giselle had pressed his hand to her chest, swearing her undying love for him and throwing miserable glances in the direction of the dining room, where sat the man “who made their happiness impossible.” She spoke so convincingly about how despotic and controlling Karl was, and how he had her followed and almost held her prisoner in her own apartment. And after that night, when we were so happy together… Ah, how badly he treated me! He threatened to kill me if I ran away in that manner again… I dream of you, my dearest Horst, every single night I do, and he is a tyrant, I tell you, a tyrant!

  Well, she might have embellished the story a little, but her final goal had been reached: she was back in Horst’s good graces, and, even though she did feel a slight pinch of conscience for distorting the truth, Horst was her only chance at getting her brother out of jail. He promised to meet her at the place she indicated, kissed her greedily and hurried back to the table, to prevent “the tyrant” from going to look for her.

  Horst threw money on the table absentmindedly, without even asking for the bill, and rushed to put on his overcoat, all along eyeing Giselle through the window, who was beaming at him from under her veil. They had a
greed that they had to meet discretely, and the further from any place that the SS favored the better. And what was a better place than a small café not too far from the Wehrmacht Kommandatur, and a better time than the sunset?

  Horst walked outside and made a motion to embrace the woman, who had occupied his mind and heart for the past few months, but Giselle shook her head in warning, taking him by the crook of his arm instead.

  “Just in case that despot has his people following me, let him think we met by accident,” she explained, her voice intentionally low. Horst nodded solemnly and looked over his shoulder, just in case. “Walk with me, please.”

  “Giselle, how I wish I could hold you again in my arms,” he whispered to her, and caressed her fingers discretely with his gloved hand before moving his hand right away.

  “I know.” She sighed. “I keep thinking about our night…”

  “Me, too! Not a day passes by that I don’t think of you.”

  They kept exchanging hopeless expressions of desperate and impossible love, like two heroes of some romance belonging to the nineteenth century. Eighteenth even, Giselle noted to herself with the bored mind of a novelist. Such a cliché, Michel would say. Antoine would love it, though. Two lovers, separated by an oppressive husband. But Antoine’s characters would both die in the end if he scripted this story. He loves drama a little too much, my sweet Antoine with his sad, caramel eyes. I hope for my characters to live a bit longer though…

  She threw a wary glance around, before pulling Horst into a narrow side street, approaching the spot which she had marked on a map with Philippe a day ago. Now, if only everything went as they planned.

  Making sure that they were alone in the deserted narrow alleyway, sheltered by two high stone walls, Giselle stepped in front of Horst and threw her arms around his neck. Delighted that he could kiss her at last – just as she had expected he would – the young man pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers, completely oblivious to the quiet steps behind his back.