The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  “Don’t move.”

  The words, spoken with deadly calmness, and the soft click of a cocked gun right next to his ear, were more than enough to convince Horst to follow the instructions. Giselle saw a silent question in his blue eyes, and she shook her head slowly, replying it in the same silent way.

  Someone’s arm was already opening his holster to relive Horst of his personal weapon. Alarm flashed in his gaze, but the man behind his back had already turned the young officer by the scruff of his neck to face him.

  All Horst could see were the eyes of the man, deep, black eyes burning with determination, as the rest of the man’s face, who was at least a head taller than him, was wrapped in a thick scarf, completely concealing his features. Two other terrorists – and Horst had already abandoned all illusion as to what they were – also stood behind the tall man’s back, and also had their faces disguised in the same manner: under multiple layers of scarves and caps, pulled onto their eyes.

  “Now, if you and your lady friend want to survive this night, you’ll do exactly what I say,” the terrorist leader spoke in a low, menacing voice. The gun was now pressing directly into Horst’s chest. Horst noticed that his gun had already made its way into one of the accomplice’s hands, and was aimed at Giselle.

  “Let the woman go,” Horst demanded quietly. “She’s your compatriot. Surely you don’t want to hurt her.”

  “I don’t care for that pute à Boche,” the man in front of him said dismissively. “I’d shoot her right now if I didn’t have need for the both of you. And enough of this empty talk. You’re not in a position to negotiate as you have probably realized by now. So just do as I say, and I’ll let you both live.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to stop asking questions and dragging time. Now, be a good fellow, take your lady friend by the hand and walk to the Kommandatur like the two sweet doves you are. Walk slowly, and don’t even think of attracting any sort of attention or giving any kind of signal to your military brethren, if you happen to encounter them on your way. Don’t forget that my comrades and I will be walking ten steps behind you, and that’s more than enough to shoot you both before you can even think of running for cover. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want your little lady friend to die, do you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Bien. I suppose, we have an understanding then. Now, walk.”

  Giselle noticed how Philippe stepped back and put his gun into his pocket so that its muzzle was still aiming at his victim, only now it was carefully concealed from curious eyes. Jerome also had his gun hidden in the same manner. Horst sighed, turned around, and, with a helpless look on his face, took Giselle by the hand.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered to her, trying to sound reassuring. “They won’t hurt you.”

  “I’m not,” Giselle whispered in response.

  No, she wasn’t afraid of the men behind their backs; she was much more afraid of the one who would decide their fate very soon.

  The street, leading to the Kommandatur, was never crowded. Few ordinary citizens wanted to stroll around these quarters, preferring to stay away from the Germans as far as possible. Even the Germans themselves were missing from the scene at this hour, as most of them were already enjoying their first glass of wine in the restaurants after a long working day, wine which the French could hardly afford nowadays.

  Night had already ascended on the city despite the early hour, and the small procession soon came to a halt at Philippe’s demand, spoken quietly so that only Giselle and Horst could hear him.

  “Walk over to that lamppost across from the entrance and stand next to it, facing each other. It would be nice if you keep your hands on your lady friend’s waist, so your comrades think that you brought her here to impress her with your working quarters.”

  Horst obediently walked towards the tall, three-light lamppost, and glanced at a single private, smoking in his booth next to the entrance. No one expected the Kommandatur to be attacked, so the Germans didn’t really bother with tight security.

  Philippe followed Horst and Giselle and spoke softly, before heading towards the wide stone balustrade of the Metro entrance to sit on top of it right behind the couple. “Remember: behave, and nobody suffers. You try something stupid – I start shooting.”

  Jerome joined Philippe on top of the balustrade. Pierre meanwhile walked straight to the entrance and showed some note to the sentry. The German read it under the light of the lamp, scowled, read it again and looked at the young man in front of him and then at the couple standing near the lamppost. Horst glanced at him and turned away. Who knew what was in that note, and he most definitely didn’t want to provoke the terrorist, who – he was sure of it – meant business when he said that he would shoot them both. He looked like he would, like one of those fanatical patriots who didn’t care about dying as long as they could take a few of their enemies with them. He was probably a communist, too…

  The sentry shifted his rifle on his shoulder, but, noticing Philippe shaking his head deliberately, only motioned for Pierre to go inside.

  “I wonder what’s in that note,” Horst whispered to Giselle, holding her waist firmly. He had intentionally turned his back on the terrorists, even though he would rather see what they were doing. But this way if they indeed started shooting, he would be able to protect her from their bullets.

  “They’re probably that terrorist’s friends,” Giselle whispered back with a small wry grin.

  She knew perfectly well what was in the note, for she and Philippe had composed it together.

  Do not raise the alarm. We are holding the Boche and the woman at gunpoint. You blow the whistle – they die. Let our messenger inside so he can show the note to the night guard.

  You have five minutes to release Claude Bussi from jail. If he’s not out in precisely five minutes after our messenger walks inside – your Boche and the woman die.

  The woman’s name is Giselle Legrand, and she’s the mistress of Gestapo Chief Wünsche. Contact him immediately so he can grant you the release of the prisoner. In case he refuses – the Boche and the woman die.

  As soon as Claude Bussi walks free, we’ll take the Boche and Mademoiselle Legrand with us and will release them at a location of our choosing. You have our word they will be unharmed. But in case if you try to pursue us – they both die.

  Vive le Parti Communiste! Vive la Résistance!

  “You’re probably right,” Horst muttered. “Do you think they want to get him out?”

  “I don’t see any other reason why they would drag us here.”

  “They will never succeed. Whoever stands on guard with prisoners tonight would never agree to release him. They’ll just hold that other one with the note hostage, and refuse to cooperate.”

  “So you’re saying that your compatriots would rather see us get shot? Because I’m rather convinced that those two behind us will do it without blinking an eye.”

  “Don’t worry.” Horst pulled her a little closer, warming her face with his breath. “I’m in their way. They won’t get you.”

  What a horrible person I am, doing this to you, Giselle thought, looking into his trusting eyes. Kamille was right. This is plain heartless. I’m risking his life for my own goals, and here he is, ready to shelter me from the bullets with his body. If I believed in hell, I would be dreading death, because that’s exactly where I will be heading.

  Just as she opened her mouth to speak some soft words of reassurance, Pierre walked out with Marcel and another German in tow. The sentry and the other officer stopped in the entrance, looking very tense, but remained motionless, while Pierre and Marcel quickly walked in Horst and Giselle’s direction.

  “Come,” Pierre commanded to Horst and headed briskly towards Philippe and his brother, who were already getting up from the top of the balustrade.

  As the small procession turned the corner, Giselle expected to hear w
histles or gun shots, however only their rushed steps and heavy breathing disturbed the silence. They changed from one street to another, Philippe following behind them to make sure that they weren’t being pursued. Finally, as Giselle noticed the bright light of the letter “M” at the other end of yet another narrow street, Philippe suddenly pounced on Horst, hitting him on the back of the head with his gun.

  He caught the young officer, who started falling to the ground with a soft moan, in his arms, and carefully lowered him onto the cobbled street.

  “We’re going. Give us a few minutes and start screaming bloody murder right after.”

  Marcel rushed to hug his sister before Philippe pulled his sleeve with force. “Come, there’s no time for it now!”

  “Be careful. I’ll meet you Friday at Michel’s, just as we agreed,” Giselle said to Philippe.

  He nodded and before leaving he threw over his shoulder, “Good luck with your Boche.”

  “Thank you.” They disappeared from sight, as Giselle sighed and lowered to the ground to put Horst’s head on her lap. “I’ll need it.”

  Giselle sat in the chair with her shoulders hunched and studied the pattern of the carpet inside the Kommandatur building. Horst sat next to her with his hand on the back of his head holding an ice pack that the medic had given him after inspecting his rather superficial wound.

  “Just a bump really,” the doctor, who was wearing a uniform under his white gown, proclaimed with a smile. “You’re very lucky they didn’t shoot you.”

  “I thought they would,” Horst admitted, replacing the hand with the ice pack back to the swelling.

  “At least they had the decency not to hurt the lady,” the doctor noticed.

  “They just told me to shut up and to not to make any noise until they leave.” Giselle shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

  The adrenaline rush had passed, and she felt extremely exhausted, even though she was yet to face the main battle of the evening, and this time all by herself. The Wehrmacht officer who had released Marcel, according to Karl’s orders (Giselle was still surprised that he valued her life slightly higher than the opportunity to torture or execute the terrorist in custody), lowered his hand gently on her shoulder and promised that Herr Sturmbannführer was on his way. Giselle would have preferred it better if he wasn’t. So far, all the Wehrmacht staff were more than sympathetic to her, but she knew Karl all too well to suspect that he was most likely seething with fury and would give her a dressing down which she wouldn’t forget for a very long time. After all, technically it was because of her that he had lost a prisoner who he couldn’t wait to get his hands on.

  Karl walked in, immediately sending all the officers in the room scrambling to salute him and stand at attention. He hardly deigned to nod his acknowledgment and stopped in front of Giselle, and Horst, who also rushed to get up, but had to lower back onto his chair, fighting a dizzy spell.

  Karl noticed the ice pack that the young man was holding and waved dismissively at his apologies, already turning to Giselle. She sighed, not even bothering to fake a guilty smile.

  “Did they hurt you?” was his first question.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “Let’s go.” He offered her his hand to help her get up, and barely glanced at the officer in charge, already turning to leave. “I’ll deal with all of you tomorrow.”

  “Heil Hitler!” The men shouted behind his back, but he didn’t bother replying.

  25

  Kamille kept wringing her hands, opening her mouth to say something, and then just ending up saying nothing at all. The tea had long gone cold in their cups, both Jochen and Kamille hardly touching it. He sat opposite from her at the small, bare kitchen table, with his gaze transfixed blankly on something in the distance. His hair was disheveled from him raking his fingers through it too many times in the past few hours, and subtle growth had already started shadowing his face, for he had spent the past night and day with his men and hadn’t had the chance to shave. Even his uniform, always immaculately cleaned and pressed, was now wrinkled and didn’t look as smart as Kamille was used to seeing it.

  Kamille cleared her throat and shifted in her seat, still afraid to talk. It was her fault after all, that the man whom she had grown to love so dearly was now facing the consequences of her brother’s escape. After learning about the true identity of the man in his custody, Jochen had agreed not to hand him over to the Gestapo for at least a few days. He even promised to try and reach out to one of his contacts in Vienna – his father’s old friend, who was not only a decorated hero of the Great War but also a highly skilled diplomat. He will think of something, Jochen had promised Kamille two days ago, before planting a gentle kiss on top of her wet eyelashes. Now, Marcel was gone, and Kamille was not entirely sure that her sister was a mere victim of the circumstances related to his daringly orchestrated escape.

  “Now what?” she finally breathed out in such a soft voice that for a few long moments he didn’t respond. Kamille thought that he didn’t hear her.

  Jochen shifted his position at last, rubbing his eyes, red from lack of sleep.

  “Now what?” he repeated, sounding terribly enervated. Kamille’s heart ached for him, but she still didn’t dare to outstretch her arms to take his hands in hers. “Now – nothing. If we fail to find him in the next twenty-four hours, he’s long gone from the city by now. Maybe even from the Occupied Zone altogether. My office cabled his description to all the posts of course, but there are hundreds of young men out there fitting that description. He doesn’t have anything remarkable about him for them to look for. Just an ordinary young man, with ordinary papers. His comrades had them ready for him, I suppose. They aren’t stupid enough to hide him here.”

  “No. I meant, what’s going to happen with you.” Kamille bit her lip, fearing his answer. “Are they going to… reprimand you in any way? They shouldn’t, I mean. It’s not your fault that he escaped after all! And you didn’t even authorize his release – Giselle’s Karl did.”

  “That’s what bothers me the most,” he pronounced, thoughtful. “How easily he agreed to it.”

  “She’s his mistress.” Kamille lowered her eyes, feeling her cheeks blush at the word that she was always so ashamed to utter. “He didn’t want to risk her life, most certainly.”

  “Him?” Jochen smirked cynically. “No. Men like him are cold, calculated and completely devoid of any human emotion. Wünsche authorized your brother’s release because he can profit from it somehow, not because some terrorists were holding his mistress at gunpoint. He had some other motive in mind, trust me.”

  “But he can’t possibly harm you, can he?” Kamille inquired with genuine alarm in her voice.

  She had naively assumed that Karl, despite the fact that he terrified her without any obvious reason, had at least something human about him when he had chosen Giselle’s safety over keeping a terrorist jailed. That should have accounted for something… Only, now Jochen had shattered all of her illusions with one single, no-nonsense statement.

  “I don’t know,” Jochen replied honestly. “I don’t know if he wants to, that is. But if he does – yes, he can, and easily.”

  Hiding her cheeks, rosy from the brisk walking and the frost biting into them, into the thick, blue fox collar of her coat, Giselle soon switched to running after she ascended the stairs of the somewhat warm Metro to the brightly lit square outside.

  She flew up the stairs of the Demarche Publishing House, stomped her feet on the thick red carpet, smiling at the doorman, and dove into the buzz of the familiar atmosphere that excited her just as much as on the very first day she had stepped through the doors. Today, instead of holding a new manuscript, she carried a new article in her valise, an article in which she had written a story about a brave young man – a true French patriot – and his several comrades, who refused to bow to the conquerors and who had outsmarted them in the most daring manner.

  For the first time, the French people would be
able to see for themselves that the Germans weren’t as tough and impenetrable as their carefully created image suggested they were, an image concocted by the propaganda that was being shoved down the population’s throat on a daily basis. Instead of food, as Pascal Thierry, another writer from their group, noted in one of his articles.

  Giselle had typed it as fast as she could, not paying any attention to typos and misspellings (Michel would correct them all later) before Karl could appear for lunch and she would miss her chance to deliver it to Michel in time; a new issue was supposed to be printed that evening.

  Having checked with his secretary that Michel was alone in his office, Giselle rapped on the heavy door and pushed it open, not waiting for permission to enter. Michel Demarche lifted his coiffured head from the manuscript he was reading and removed his tortoise shell glasses, a welcoming smile appearing on his lips at the sight of his l’enfant rebelle.

  “Good afternoon, Giselle.” He rose from his chair to greet her properly. “I didn’t expect you today.”

  “I know. I have something for you.” Giselle opened her valise and extracted a single sheet of paper, which was carefully concealed in between the pages of her manuscript. “You still have time to put it in today’s issue, don’t you?”

  Michel replaced the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and started reading instead of responding. As his eyes followed the lines of the text, he began nodding to his thoughts. Giselle’s grin was growing as well, as she had learned by now that nodding meant one thing: Michel liked what he was reading.

  “I’ll have to rearrange the layout, but…” He nodded several more times, before quickly hiding the paper in the top drawer of his desk, which had a double bottom in it. “I’ll put it on the front page. First Strike of the Resistance. The public will love it. It’ll inspire more people to join the underground.”