Giselle took her hands away and hid her face in them, willing herself to stop sobbing. A few moments later she realized that the man under her wasn’t moving anymore. Giselle lowered her hands slowly and looked at his face, still so unbearably handsome even in death, but finally at peace. She wiped the wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand, frustrated at her emotional state and reached inside the pocket for a handkerchief.
She sat on the wooden floor of the terrace, leaning her back on the carved railing, and shifted Karl’s body so that his head rested on her lap. She carefully cleaned the blood, sweat, and foam off his face, combed his tousled hair with her fingers and finally brought herself to close his eyes with their long, delicate eyelashes.
“Sleep well, my handsome prince. One day I’ll write a story about you.”
She had no idea how long she sat there in the same position, staring at the opposite wall with an unblinking gaze, gently stroking the hair of the corpse in her lap. It had been surprisingly easy to do it after all.
“I’m not a louse,” she whispered and chuckled, quietly at first before bursting into loud laughter until the tears started forming in her eyes again.
Consumed by hysterical laughter, she didn’t hear the steps on the wooden floor, and only frowned at Philippe’s panting frame, confused by his sudden appearance.
“What on earth have you done?!” he shouted, after taking in the scene around him.
Giselle looked around as well, pausing with her gaze on Karl’s body as if seeing it for the first time. She brushed the tips of her fingers on his cheek, seemingly at a loss, but at least her manic laughter had ceased for now.
“I did what we writers do the best, I suppose. Concocted a story for him, played on his emotions, developed a plot...” She raised her gaze, still clouded with tears, at the communist leader. “I told him that I was expecting so he would switch his attention from his investigation to the wedding and my fake pregnancy. I contemplated long and hard about the best way to proceed with my plan. I couldn’t shoot him because I would only get arrested right away, and that was not in my plans. Neither could I stab him, for he’s a strong fellow, you see... He would only end up stabbing and killing me instead. So, slipping the poison into his drink was my only option...”
“I meant, what have you done even coming up with something like this?” Philippe glowered at her unexplainable serenity. “Do you realize the consequences that this assassination will have for the French people? For the Resistance? For you? You killed a man, Giselle!”
“I did. I had to protect my friends. And our little Libération. But that was only part of my reasoning, I admit.” Giselle gave him a lopsided grin. “I proved myself right today, Philippe. I’m not a louse. I finally understand everything. I’m not a louse, but I’m not a criminal either. It’s the war. That’s what Raskolnikov’s mistake was. He killed to try himself, not to pursue some noble goal. That’s why he suffered so much. But I won’t suffer, I know it. We’re doing it for all the right reasons.”
Philippe kept staring at her as if questioning her sanity. Giselle shook her head slightly.
“I haven’t gone mad, don’t worry. Just thinking out loud. How did you get here?”
“Last night I read your little manuscript that you left for Michel when you came to pick up the poison from me. Together with your previous request, it was rather easy to put two and two together.”
“How did you like my ending?”
“Your ending? Your ending will be swift and painful unless we get out of here right this instant.” Philippe pushed Karl’s body off her lap and pulled Giselle, who he suspected was shell-shocked from the murder and therefore couldn’t think straight, upwards. “Let’s go. No one is expecting you two to come back until Monday, right? So, we have two days. I’ll put you on a train to the Free Zone today. You said you had an Ausweis, didn’t you?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Giselle spoke, collected and calm, contrary to his previous assumption. She wasn’t stunned; her gruesome deed simply didn’t affect her that much it appeared. “I’m staying here to fight until the last one of them is gone. Before, I was reluctant to physically participate in Resistance activities, but now I know for a fact that my hand won’t falter when it comes to taking another Boche’s life. I can do it, and I will.”
“Are you insane?! Your face will be on every wall Tuesday morning! The Gestapo will turn the city upside down looking for you!”
“I didn’t say I was staying in Paris. I’m going to Dijon, and I’ll join the Resistance there. Michel has his connections there through Etienne. I’ll dye my hair and change my clothes. Giselle Legrand, as they know me now, will cease to exist.” She paused for a moment and grinned again. “Do you want to join me?”
“Join you?”
“Why, yes.” Her smile grew wider. “Couples generally don’t raise suspicion. We can pretend to be husband and wife. What do you say?”
Philippe’s glance slid over the corpse lying motionless at her feet. Apparently, he had been mistaken on her account after all. The communist leader peered into Giselle’s eyes before making the fateful decision. There wasn’t a trace of tears left in their hazel depth, only determination. He nodded slowly as an unfamiliar and exciting sense of anticipation started to take him over.
“Are you proposing to me then?”
“I’m proposing that you be my Resistance husband, yes. Till death do us part.” She was smiling again.
Philippe chuckled, shook his head, but pressed her outstretched palm nevertheless. “I hope the last part will happen later rather than sooner.”
“Don’t fret. I’m a formidable planner and an even better executor.”
“Executioner,” Philippe grumbled, eyeing the dead German again.
“No, Philippe, and that’s the difference.” Giselle regarded Karl’s serene face as well. “He was one. I’m only protecting my land from the likes of him.”
Epilogue
Paris, June 1941
Kamille stood in the hallway, swallowing tears. This was it then. The time to say goodbye had come. Jochen dropped his suitcase on the floor and opened his arms to her again, for the last time. Kamille pressed her wet face into his shoulder, not able to contain the devastating sense of loss tearing her heart apart. It had only been a year, a short twelve months during which she had fallen in love with the best man on earth, who was now leaving for some far away land that she had only heard about from geography lessons. The war with the Soviet Union had been declared a few days ago, and since then the city had become a buzzing beehive of gray-green uniforms, which swarmed around and flooded the streets, marching towards train stations to head eastwards; who knew how soon they would return, and if they would return at all.
Jochen had been in the same state of distress for the past two days, until yesterday morning when he woke Kamille up and demanded her immediate answer to if she would agree to marry him before he had to leave to the front. Confused and still not completely awoken from her sleep, she didn’t understand what he was saying at first.
“Well, my former fiancé left me after I went away last time. So, I figured if I make you my wife, you will wait for me,” he explained with a hopeful grin.
“I will wait for you no matter what!” Kamille threw her arms around his neck, trying to stop the merciless time from reaching their inevitable separation.
They walked into a small church nearby, where Jochen almost threatened the priest into performing the rite that was prohibited both by German law and was more than frowned upon by the church for obvious reasons. Jochen wasn’t afraid of breaking the law; the Wehrmacht was picking him up within twenty-four hours, and the priest would hardly head to the Kommandatur to report them without even knowing their last names. He would get arrested himself for agreeing to this, so Jochen didn’t have to worry for Kamille’s well-being either.
“Be strong, my love,” he told her, holding his new wife by the shoulders to take one last look at her beautiful fac
e, which was stained with tears. “I’ll come back in no time.”
“Swear that you will!” Kamille implored, clinging onto his uniform. It was a good thing, at least, that Violette was at school, having said her farewells to her newly adopted Papa earlier that morning. Kamille wouldn’t be able to bear her crying; her own she could hardly stand. “Swear that you’ll come back! Swear that you won’t get yourself hurt.”
Jochen gave her a long look but then nodded solemnly. “I swear.”
With that, he was gone, after only twelve months of bringing the very reason of existence into her life. Kamille slid down onto the floor and cried until there were no tears left. After that, she rose to her feet, walked a little unsteadily into the living room and noticed the time starting a new countdown: a countdown to the day when he would return. She knew he would; he swore to it after all.
Dijon, June 1941
Horst stood on the platform, waiting to board the train together with his men. His superior, Hauptmann Hartmann, had given him a promotion before they had set off to the front, putting him in charge of a small group of soldiers, also heading to the East. His hands were itching to take his drawing album out and outline a quick sketch of the madness surrounding him. This was the last day before he would leave for the front. His desire to imprint it on paper before it would disappear from his memory, washed out and discolored by the new memories, was almost unmanageable, but he was a lieutenant now, and lieutenants didn’t draw sketches in front of their men.
“Often we follow conventions that don’t suit us personally, and slowly lose ourselves in the rotten swamp of public opinion, dissolving, falling apart until nothing is left of us.”
He remembered her saying that on Sunday morning, in the forest, on one of the happiest days of his life. But, what had happened to her? The Gestapo were strangely quiet on her account after she had vanished, having disappeared without a trace as if she had never existed at all; a former socialite turned Resistance fighter. They only acknowledged that, and only during the first month while they still searched for her frantically all over the city. And then the new chief arrived from Germany, and soon the posters with her face on them and the bright red Wanted in both French and German were painted over, and new posters appeared, celebrating May First and praising Goebbels for something that he couldn’t even recall now. But, a picture of her thoughtful face that he had drawn that Sunday while she sat there, next to him, contemplating something that he couldn’t guess, reminded Horst that she did indeed exist and that he didn’t dream her up like he often thought he did.
“Always stay true to yourself, Horst,” she told him then with an unusually serious expression on her face. “And always remember to act according to your heart, not to what your commanders tell you. They’re only men, and they make mistakes. Be a good man, and a good soldier. And after the war is over, go back home and draw your beautiful paintings. The world needs more artists, not soldiers.”
She wasn’t here so Horst could promise her that he was going to be a good soldier and that he would fight honorably, and, therefore, Horst promised it to himself instead, so she would be proud of him no matter where she was.
After ensuring that all of the men under his command were seated inside, he climbed into the train himself and stood on the step in the doors, his new adjutant taking his usual position behind his back. A tall man with a cap pulled onto his face caught his attention, due to the sheer height of him, and then suddenly Horst’s eyes widened as he saw the woman who stood next to him. He recognized her instantly, even though she looked anything but the portrait that he reverently carried in his pocket, right next to his heart. Dark hair reached down her shoulders, loose waves framing her face, which was completely devoid of any makeup. Her attire was that of a typical factory worker, with baggy corduroy pants and a shirt, also made of rough grayish cotton. Her lips curled upwards in an impish grin, and she winked at him, before turning around and disappearing together with her mysterious friend. Giselle Legrand, the former socialite turned Resistance fighter. Horst grinned too, pressing his hand on top of the portrait, carefully concealed under his uniform. So, she had decided to stay true to herself, too.
“Saw someone you know, Herr Unterfeldwebel?” his adjutant chimed, noticing Horst’s beaming expression.
“Just an old friend saying goodbye.”
“Maybe you’ll meet someday?”
“Maybe. Someday. When the war is over.”
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my gratitude to the people who helped me with creating “The Indigo Rebels”: to my fiancé for his encouragement and support throughout the process; to my amazing friend Audrey who helped me immensely with the research and who also made sure that my characters sounded authentic; to my wonderful and irreplaceable editor Alexandra whose suggestions, corrections and insights turn my manuscripts into novels; to my amazingly talented cover designer Melody who makes my books look so pretty; to my little “historical society” on Tumblr, who always have an answer to every question that even some history books can’t provide – I can’t thank you enough for your support, encouragement, humor and knowledge of your history. To all of my fellow authors who became my dearest friends: your talent and your stories always inspire me, and your support is truly invaluable. And finally, to my wonderful readers, who are the very reason why I write. Thank you for your continuous love and support!
Find Ellie online:
http://elliemidwood.com
http://www.goodreads.com/EllieMidwood
https://www.facebook.com/Ellie-Midwood-651390641631204/
The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel Page 30
