The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel

by Ellie Midwood

  “I am aware of that, Herr Gruppenführer.” Karl cleared his throat. Giselle knew that any possible shortcomings for which he could be reproached unnerved him greatly, even if on the surface he remained absolutely calm.

  “And?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “I know you are. In your latest report you attached that list of newspapers and magazines headquarters, in which your agents have conducted a search. They yielded no results, though?”

  “That’s correct, Herr Gruppenführer. So far they haven’t, but we’ll find the perpetrators, you have my word.”

  “You’d better move along with it then, Wünsche. Heydrich might be coming for an inspection soon; you don’t want to present him no results in your report, do you?”

  “I’ll find them,” Karl said sternly.

  Giselle sipped her champagne, looking as bored as she possibly could. Inside, her stomach was churning.

  On the way home she kept replaying the evening in her mind, strangely sober despite the amount of champagne that she had consumed.

  “What’s the story with the German lover?” She turned to Karl as if just remembering it. “There are no Germans in my manuscript.”

  “There should be,” Karl spoke calmly. “It’s good for business now.”

  “Business?”

  “The publishing business, ja. It’s business, isn’t it? And you have to sell what’s in now. The Germans are in. This way you’ll be selling not only to the French public but the German as well. Maybe the Ministry of Propaganda will even approve it for publication on the territory of the Reich. Wouldn’t it be just grand? You’ll double your profits.”

  Giselle’s face was twisted by a crooked grin. He was talking just like her, a male version of Giselle who thought only about profit. The love for writing was there, yes, but whatever she had written so far was almost all for money. Nothing came out from her pen just because she felt the need to say something about herself. She never spoke about herself in any of her novels. Even her very first one was just to argue with her father, to write his story but in such a way that she would have lived, the way she would have fought in the Great War and the person that she would have become upon her return. It was written out of hunger and defiance, not out of understanding and respect. She was indeed a terrible writer; terrible from a purely moral point of view, and she had just realized what sort of person she had become – she didn’t like her. Giselle didn’t like the famous Giselle Legrand, the novelist, at all.

  “Maybe not everything in this world is about profit,” she muttered quietly, speaking mostly to herself, and not to the man next to her, who looked at her strangely. “Maybe the thinking species aren’t superior after all?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about how maybe life isn’t based on material things. Maybe there’s more to it than money and power.”

  “And what would it be?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never known. God, I sound just like my father, don’t I?” Giselle rubbed her forehead in disbelief. “He was trying to tell me this my whole life, and I never listened.”

  “Are you all right?” This time his voice gave way to a shade of concern.

  Giselle didn’t blame him for it; she didn’t sound like herself and knew it perfectly well, but that sudden revelation struck her with such force that she felt an almost physical need to express it, to put it in words before it would slip through her fingers and disappear without a trace.

  “I am all right, yes.” She nodded slowly. “We are soulless creatures, Karl. You and I. So yes, I’m all right. I would never be if I were anything like him. He is a real man; I see it all so very clearly… His refusal to submit to the new order; his effort to live in a way that acknowledged all the lives he had taken; his desire to lead a good, honest life; his vexation with all that money that started flowing into the country, the bloody money as he had called it…”

  She stopped abruptly, mid-sentence, quickly recomposing herself and smiled brightly at her scowling fiancé.

  “Pardon my ramblings, will you? I’m trying out a monolog that my protagonist would say. How did it sound?”

  “Rather insane. Don’t write it down.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  She turned back to her window and spent the rest of the way with the most serene smile. The world that used to be so gray and useless, so base and disgusting, started suddenly making sense to her. Too bad that it had to turn upside down for it to happen.

  27

  The silence was driving Marcel mad. The silence, the same four walls, the same nauseating, moldy air, and what was worst of all – the impotence. Philippe was coming and going, organizing and managing the loyal comrades, to whom he was able to send word to through his contacts in Le Marché Noir, and the new recruits. Willingly or not, Marcel’s example inspired more people to seek more Resistance cells, emboldened by the “Legend of the Ghost.” That was the nickname with which his sister baptized him in her article – he saw it when he was helping Michel Demarche with the printing of new copies of La Libération. In that article, he was presented as something between a modern day Robin Hood and Jean d’Arc, a fearless national hero, the first one to throw a metaphoric glove right in the Germans’ faces and escape their clutches – twice. No wonder the public went wild for him.

  If only they knew that the real Marcel was nothing like a national hero, but an ordinary young man, just consumed by fear which soon became replaced by desperation and eventually absolute numbness; if they knew the reality they wouldn’t be cheering so loudly. Or maybe Giselle was right when she pointed out all too often that he was too hard on himself no matter what he did. But he was just like her – a perfectionist, who simply couldn’t cope if something wasn’t done right…

  Only, while Giselle was a pragmatic perfectionist, Marcel was an idealist, striving for the world to be a better place. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger during his very short-lived battle experience on the front, because the war itself went against his beliefs; maybe that’s why he found himself so drawn to Philippe’s teachings and ideas, because communism was a highly idealistic philosophy and that’s why it found its way into his heart so easily.

  Marcel sighed in irritation at all these thoughts crowding his restless mind, and lifted his head towards the stone ceiling, empathizing with wolves that felt the urge to howl at the moon in their solitude. He felt it in his bones that night, and especially with no Philippe around to talk some sense into him, to talk him out of his suicidal plans that his impaired mind conceived upon learning the news of the boys’ fate. Marcel was slowly surrendering more and more to the grim power of those ideas.

  He didn’t share his plans with Philippe, for he knew all too well that the communist leader would refuse to even listen to them. He had expressed his position on account of such plans a long time ago, together with Général de Gaulle, who tried to manage the dispersed Resistance cells all over France. But Général de Gaulle was too far, and he didn’t just lose two of his comrades, just kids really, those little rascals who got shot for nothing, and to whom Marcel owed his life after they helped to rescue him without thinking twice about putting their lives on the line.

  Maybe the time had come to be a hero, whom everyone considered him to be, then. Maybe the time had come to live up to his own expectations after all, so that if he managed to escape unscathed he would be able to look in the mirror without shame for once.

  Marcel stood up from the thin mattress, thrown on top of simple wooden planks that formed a makeshift temporary cot for Philippe and himself. He unwrapped the layer of blankets that kept him warm in this stone dungeon, pulled the gun from his pocket and inspected it with the resolution of a man who had finally came to terms with his own decision. It was a Boche gun, the one that Philippe had taken from Horst that night and given to Marcel to keep. It only made sense to use it.

  His steps echoed through the endless opp
ressing passage, with its darkness that was only disturbed by the dim light from his flashlight. Marcel’s mind was surprisingly vacant, as if all the poisonous thoughts that had recently plagued him were exorcised, leaving him free and cleansed from self-inflicted shame that seemed to be etched into his very pores.

  He turned the lock with a skeleton key, given to him by Michel Demarche, and put all of his weight against the heavy, unyielding door – the only obstacle separating him from freedom. He stepped into the infamous Catacombs leading to the Cemetery, somewhere far away from the arrondissement in which Demarche Publishing House was situated. He kept walking among its few habitants, who hardly paid any attention to his shadowy figure. They were all either criminals or other rejects of society, and felt safe and at home underground, in a place which the Boches were, so far, too reluctant to show their faces.

  The infamous Parisian Catacombs spread out as far as the outskirts of the city and had so many dead ends, secret exits, and entrances that the whole army could wander around them, potentially ending up getting lost and perishing if they were without proper guidance. And so, the Boches let them be.

  Marcel eventually made his way back into the city, exiting through one of the tunnels leading up to the Seine. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. It was a chilly but windless evening, with delicate snowflakes leisurely caressing his immobile face, invisible in the complete darkness. The blacked-out city was immersed in the moonless night, people cowering in their homes, herded into hiding by the uniform-clad men, who were the only ones who walked around in the dark after the curfew took its effect at nine. That suited Marcel just fine.

  He allowed his eyes to get accustomed to the darkness, pulled the collar of his overcoat closer to his face and started to make his way soundlessly away from the bridge, just visible in the light of the glistening serpent of the river. Invisible and non-existent to the officers, whose boisterous laughter he could hear from the restaurant on the opposite side of the street, he merged with the wall, becoming what he was thought to be: a bodiless ghost, patiently awaiting his unfortunate victim.

  Marcel noticed him first, a tall and slender figure in a naval overcoat, lighting a cigarette outside, his young and noble face illuminated by the glow from his match for a few short seconds. The ray of bright light that spilled onto the street upon his arrival disappeared just as fast, as someone pulled the door to the bar closed behind him, in which the Germans were enjoying their pre-Christmas celebrations. Oblivious to Marcel’s scrutinizing gaze, even though he stood barely within ten steps from him, the German took a long drag on his cigarette, peered into the distance for some time, and slowly turned in the direction of the bridge, from under which Marcel had appeared not that long ago.

  As soon as he made the fateful decision to turn to the left, and not to the right, Marcel knew that this was his man, selected for his plan by providence itself. He wasn’t looking for anyone in particular; the very first one who would take the road in front of him would do. It was only fair to rely on fate so it would be easier to blame it later, Marcel persuaded himself, as he noiselessly stepped behind the German, following him like a shadow in the deserted street. Otherwise, he would start peering into each face, scrutinizing every feature of every single Boche, trying to use crude selection to weed out the good ones from the bad ones just by studying them from his hideout.

  And yet, a treacherous thought had already wormed its way into the back of Marcel’s mind, which had been so resolute and serene in its determination just minutes ago, to begin gnawing on his conscience, quietly whispering its doubts: what if he had just raised a toast to his newborn? What if he was a naval hero, who saved drowning men from the icy waters? What if he was getting ready for his leave to marry some girl who had been waiting for him for two long years? What if he was one of the good ones?

  Marcel cocked his gun before he could give in to the voice, which was becoming louder and louder in his mind, and called out to the German. As soon as he turned around, an expression of mild curiosity just visible on his young, handsome face, for he stood so very close to him, Marcel aimed steadily and shot several times.

  “Please, forgive me,” he breathed out on the verge of tears, dropping the gun next to his victim, and whispered, before taking off back to the tunnel, “the boys were innocent, too.”

  Kamille stepped through the doors of Augustine Marceau’s house, Violette’s former teacher, and for the first time didn’t feel the relief of the warmth after the biting cold of the street. Augustine, wrapped in several layers of clothing and a blanket on top of her frail frame, seemed to have grown even paler and more exhausted than a week ago, with blackish shadows underlying her eyes. She managed a weak, apologetic smile at her guest, inviting Kamille inside with a gesture of her hand.

  “Don’t take your coat off,” Augustine warned her and went to take the basket with food out of Kamille’s strained hands. “We’re out of wood, I’m afraid. Sorry it’s so cold. The gas burner is all we have now, but that’s for cooking only. Kerosene is so expensive nowadays…”

  Her voice faltered after those last words.

  “You should have told me last time, Augustine! I would have brought you some kerosene.”

  “No, no, I don’t want to be an imposition. You’re sparing me so much food as it is,” Augustine pressed Kamille’s hands, managing to smile with dry lips that had completely lost their color. “I wouldn’t dare ask you for anything more.”

  “Ah, Augustine, you’re saying such nonsense, really. You’re not an imposition at all; you’re my friend, and I can’t imagine not helping you out. You’re a mother like me… I know how hard it must be for you to feel so helpless around Lili…” Kamille looked around, just now noticing that Lili hadn’t run out to greet her like she always did. “Where is she, by the way?”

  “Oh, Kamille.” Augustine’s voice trembled. “She’s sick. It’s all this damned cold. She started coughing a few days ago, and then her fever started climbing higher and higher, and now she just lays in her bed moaning when she’s not sleeping… She doesn’t even recognize me, just whimpers something… I thought of taking her to the hospital, but they will just chase us away because the hospital is for gentiles only, and I don’t know any Jewish doctors. I thought of going out and looking for one, but how can I leave her all alone here?”

  “You should have found the phone booth and called me!”

  “I was afraid that one of your lodgers might pick up the phone,” Augustine admitted. “I didn’t want to cause you any trouble.”

  “How silly you are! I told you they’re good people.”

  “With you maybe.”

  Kamille thought of saying something in the two officers’ defense but then realized that Augustine most likely had quite a different opinion on their account, and rightfully so. It was the Germans who had taken her job away and put her and her daughter onto such strict rationing, together with the rest of the Jewish population of Paris, so that they both would have been starving if Kamille didn’t bring them baskets with food weekly. It was because of the Germans that they had no money to buy wood to warm their house, and it was because of the Germans that little Lili had become sick.

  “Can I see her?” Kamille asked quietly instead.

  Augustine nodded and led the way, the blanket dragging behind her. She opened the door to Lili’s room, where the two girls loved to play dolls whenever Kamille brought Violette for a playdate. Kamille covered her mouth at the pitiful sight of Augustine’s daughter. Her dark hair was wet where it touched her forehead, glistening with sweat despite the low temperature in the room, her skin was visibly burning, and she was breathing heavily in her sleep, her chest rising and falling with sounds that Kamille didn’t like at all.

  “I’ll go get help,” she merely whispered to the girl’s mother, who stood at the head of Lili’s bed with a dejected look on her face.

  Augustine nodded faintly, but Kamille wasn’t sure if she had heard her. Or maybe she simply didn’
t believe that Kamille would think of something to save her child.

  Stepping outside, Kamille turned on her heels and headed resolutely towards the Metro. She bought a token, noting with condemnation that even the subway was warmer than Augustine’s house, and rode the train, full of somber Parisians, straight to the Opera station – the nearest to the Kommandatur. Inside, before she reached the third floor where Jochen’s office was situated, Kamille had to unwrap the scarf from her neck and unbutton her coat for her back had started to sweat. No wonder that people of Paris had no wood: the Germans needed it more, as it seemed.

  Upon reaching the doors of Jochen’s anteroom, Kamille had to stop in front of the table behind which a secretary was working. The woman, who was also dressed in a uniform, was too busy chatting with a fellow co-worker to acknowledge her arrival, or they both intentionally ignored the visitor or simply didn’t care enough to pay her any attention. It was only when Kamille cleared her throat and said a loud Pardon did they turn and gave her a somewhat annoyed glare.

  “How can I help you?” the secretary inquired in a strong German accent.

  “I need to see Hauptmann Hartmann, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment with him?” The blonde woman reached for her notebook to check her notes.

  “No, I don’t. It’s a personal matter and I—”

  “Herr Hauptmann doesn’t do personal matters,” the secretary interrupted her rather rudely, slamming the notebook shut. “Go to the second floor and ask for Hauptmann Bonn. He deals with civilians.”

  With those words, she turned back to her uniform-clad colleague, losing all interest in the woman in front of her table. Kamille felt her cheeks flare with anger at the dismissive manner of the secretary. It was Giselle, who always knew how to stand her ground, but she, quiet, meek Kamille, always tried to avoid confrontation, having adopted her mother’s wisdom from an early age that no meant no, and arguing and behaving like a market woman was not worthy of a lady. But today she couldn’t care less for manners or etiquette; a little girl, her daughter’s best friend, was dying, and she wouldn’t leave until she had spoken with Jochen about it.