Hedges lined the stone wall circling the property. She wrapped her fingers around the black wrought iron gate and stared, holding on to the solid reassurance that she wasn’t dreaming. Home, she never thought she’d see her house again. In the courtyard, amid a bed of yellow roses, four stone lions held up a three-tiered fountain spouting water. A tower, where her mother’s chambers lay, rose over the house, its black slate a startling contrast against the sky. The setting sun bathed the manor’s tan stone exterior in various shades of gold, and regal columns stood under filigreed arches like giant soldiers at attention.
Welcoming light shone through two of the eight ornately domed windows. Her brother’s room, she thought. Perhaps her mother found time to read to Mathew. Sadness tugged at Yvette’s heart by the realization that Rosa, the nanny would be rocking him, her soft voice lulling her brother to sleep as she had done many times at her own bedside. Mother busied herself with… since everything was done for her, who knows what.
Véro, her sister would squeal with delight when she saw her, that she knew for certain and Grandpère… dear Grandpère, she missed him the most.
With renewed stamina, Yvette pushed open the heavy black gate. Her footsteps crunching gravel, she eased open the massive carved wooden door and entered the foyer. The familiar scent of polished, oiled wood and fragrant flowers, from the huge blue and white vase sitting in the center of the hall, filled her being. Filtered light snuck past the heavy gold drapes covering the parlor windows.
Tears of relief burst forth.
“Ma mère. Vèro. Grandpère,” she called out, dying to throw her arms around a familiar face. “I’m home!”
“For crying out loud.” Her mother stood on the top stair looking down on her. “Keep your voice down. Your brother just fell asleep.”
“Ma mère I--”
“Good lord. You are getting mud on the floor. Rosa abandoned us so you will be cleaning that mess up, certainly not I.”
“But--”
“Go get cleaned up. You look like you’ve slept in a barn.” Her mother turned and walked away.
The cold attitude slapped Yvette’s face and kicked her heart. That was it? No, “glad you’re home safely?” She didn’t expect a warm reception from her… well, she did, a little.
Yvette stared into the gilded mirror. Wisps of hair hung loosely from a bun that held particles of hay and God knew what else. Her elegant black suit was wrinkled and soiled with dirt, and all the perfume in her possession couldn’t mask the scent of days without a bath. Did mother have to remind her of her disheveled appearance, as if she wasn’t completely aware of how she looked or how disgusting she felt? Things never changed, no matter how hard one clung to hope.
Feeling unwanted and invisible, Yvette turned away from the mirror and stared at a streak of sun slithering down a wall. Dust partials floated in the light.
Rosa left. Rosa, who was like a member of the family and more like a mother than her own mother. Yvette swallowed a lump of emotion. Now that she noticed it, a fine layer of dust covered the center table. Since when was it Rosa’s job to clean? Were all of the servants gone? Was that why mother was in such a state?
The sound of shuffling feet approaching her, Yvette averted her gaze just as the welcoming, comforting arms of her grandpère enveloped her in a big bear hug, a hug that always made everything all right. She sighed, filled with love and thankful for the man who, as far as she was concerned, was the real parent in her life.
“Ah, ma petite fille, you are a sight for these old tired eyes.” He kissed her forehead and her shriveling heart filled with warmth.
Home, it was so good to be finally home.
***
July 1940
There is fear in the eyes of those around me. Fear gnaws at me though I try to push it away. The exodus has begun, even here in my little village so far from Paris.
Though we try to go on as though nothing has changed, chaos now rules our lives, though few would admit it. To say it aloud makes it real. Even now, I cannot say the word war without shuddering.
Grandpère, on the other hand, has strong opinions about the war, about Hitler and about our government, which has taken a passive “wait and see” attitude. His words only add to my anxiety for I fear someone will overhear him. We are a country divided and one wrong word could lead to disaster.
A warm breeze ruffled Yvette’s blonde hair tossing a few loose strands across her face. She tucked the wisps behind her ear and continued writing in her diary.
Hopeful one minute, terrified the next, my life is like a teetering rock on the top of a mountain. I fear one hard shove will push me over the edge. Grandpѐre puts on a brave face, but I can see the strain of defeat in the heavy creases of his brow and the effort it takes for him to smile.
She remembered the shock and bewilderment on Grandpère’s face, when they read that on June fourteen the German’s marched down the Champs Élysées. “There was no gunfire,” one reporter wrote, “no bombs to mark the fall of Paris, just the drone of Wehrmacht tanks and planes. Defeat was unexpected, inconceivable. The city of lights has dimmed.”
Yvette tucked her diary in her pocket and quietly walked through the village square, past the stone church whose bells no longer rang in joyous song. In front of a boarded up shop, a group of old women sat jabbing their needles into their embroidery, while a chess game went on beside them. Like so many others had done, a family piled a cart with their possessions, making ready to abandon their home and adding another empty dwelling to the eerie silence of her deserted village.
Her family decided to stay as did a few of her neighbors. They believed, and there was no arguing with them, that their town was insignificant and the Germans were too far up north to bother with them. Yvette prayed they were right.
Dust swirled around her ankles as she continued down the dirt road past a field of bright yellow sunflowers and wheat. She’d painted that tranquil scene many a time, basking beneath the warm sun and studying the way the light played with the golden grain. A few cows chomped on grass and a horse, from a neighbor’s yard, nickered. She rounded the corner and glanced to the pond. A group of men were lowering bottles of wine into the water with the hope that, should the Germans invade, their stash would be well hidden. How ridiculous, she mused. Saving wine should be the least of their concerns.
The sound of male voices behind her caught her attention. She glanced over her shoulder and picked up her pace. Seven or so men, ragged and dirty, some with uniforms torn and disheveled, lumbered toward her. A few of the men she recognized. The others, she figured were evacuees caught up as she had been in the exodus.
In the distance, the sky rumbled demanding her attention. She didn’t wait to see if the plane approaching at a fast and furious pace was German, instinct screamed run. Frantic, she darted through the wrought iron gates of the cemetery, threw herself flat on the ground under a tree and covered her head with her hands.
The first attack pelted the street right outside the gates. Dirt, mixed with brightly colored bullet fire, shot up from the ground like exploding firecrackers.
Amid slamming doors and frantic screams, someone cried out in agony.
Yvette’s body shook. Her teeth chattered. A fear greater than she’d ever known gripped her body like a knotted rope being wound by both ends. This attack was personal. Dear lord, don’t let them see me. Please don’t’ see me… This attack threatened those she loved. They were wrong, her grandpère and her stubborn neighbors who insisted their town was safe.
The ferocity of pinging and tatting from all directions curled her into a ball. Her eyes squeezed shut. Please… make them bypass my home. She lay curled in a fetal position listening to the hailstorm of gunfire and plane engines tearing through her town. It had to be the soldiers, she thought; they were after the soldiers, just like when she left Paris. Dear lord… please…
The loud humming drone of a plane flying overhead brought her shaky hands to her ears and she tucked her head de
eper into her body. Keep my family safe.
A barrage of bullets pelted rooftops and she prayed when this was all over her home stood intact. The nightmare continued and the horror of being trapped under the bombardment seemed to draw her further and further into a stunned state of being, with only her prayers to console her.
After what seemed like an eternity, she became aware of a stillness enveloping her. The eerie silence drew her from her prayers. Her breathing easing back to normal, Yvette opened her eyes. Afraid of the death and destruction she knew she would have to confront, she drew herself up slowly on numb limbs.
Doors edged open and her hesitant neighbors came out into the street, their gazes fixed on the sky. A few embraced each other in comfort. Others were huddled in a circle.
Her legs unsteady, her knees quivering, she willed her legs to move, even though they felt detached from her body.
A young man, she didn’t recognize laid in the street. Blood soaked his blue and white military uniform and his shoulder dangled at an odd angle where bullets had torn away his skin. The expression on his face, in his eyes, was one of shock.
Yvette stifled her gag and tore her gaze away to the group crowding around him. Was he dead? She glanced from one gaunt face to the other. Why didn’t someone help him? Why were they just standing there?
Across the way, an elderly man she knew as Monsieur Simone, shook his head. Sorrowful eyes looked up at her and she knew the boy was dead. Yvette wrung her hands together. It was all so unfair. He was too young to die. He had to be eighteen or nineteen, a few years younger than she was.
René pushed his way through the crowd and Yvette’s spirit lifted. He walked toward her and she opened her arms, needing his comforting embrace. When he passed her, with a quick glance in her direction, she felt her heart kick her ribs. He knelt in front of the soldier and began to riffle through his pocket. Horrified no one stopped him, embarrassed she hurried over and knelt beside him. “What are you doing?”
“Checking for money.” His dark eyes held no shame.
“Stop.” She slammed a hand over his. “Why would you do that?
“He won’t need it anymore.”
“That’s not the point.”
He slipped a photograph from the stranger’s pocket and tossed it aside. One of René’s friends knelt and slipped off a ring. Disgusted, Yvette picked up the faded photo and walked away.
Theresa, her mother’s good friend and the village matriarch, made her way gingerly through the circle.
René and his friend shot to their feet. He hurried over and took Yvette’s hand. His touch left her cold.
Theresa knelt on feeble limbs. Her face masked with empathy, she placed a kiss on the stranger’s forehead. “A kiss from one mother to another mother’s son.” Gnarled fingers closed the young man’s eyes. She made the sign of the cross. “Rest in peace dear child.”
Yvette looked down at the photograph in her hand. A young woman with curly hair and dark eyes stared up her. A sad smile curved her lips, a smile Yvette felt in her own heart. She turned the photo over. In a neat hand were the words, to the man of my dreams. The tender, heartfelt sentiment crumbled Yvette’s resistance. Her tears fell for the two women in the young man’s life who waited on his return, and for the realization that the man standing beside her, a man she idealized, just slipped a notch in her heart.
CHAPTER FOUR
AUGUST 1940
“COLONEL RINALDO, I HEAR you’re quite a hero,” the hoarse voice commented from somewhere in the dark hotel room.
“One could argue that point.”
Lost in his own reverie, André barely paid attention to de Gaulle’s personal representative who had been sent to get him to volunteer for the Service de Renseignements, an intelligence service organization created by de Gaulle, who was in exile in London.
Jean Bonaventure stepped under the lone light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He cleared his scarf covered throat.
André admired Bonaventure, who refused to sign a German document wrongly blaming French troops for a civilian massacre. Sent to prison, an attempted suicide had left a vicious scar on his neck. But as far as André was concerned, he thought he should wear his scar proudly. They all had weak moments.
“You were laid up for…” Bonaventure held his pen to his pad waiting for an answer.
“Three months.” Three months of hell. Not so much from the pain, though it had been excruciating, but from the guilt.
“Right.” Bonaventure made a note in his pad. “Mercy Hospital. You’re a survivor, André Rinaldo. Any less of a man wouldn’t have managed to drag the poor boy out of that trench after being hit. Especially with the damage you sustained.”
“I was just doing what they pay me for.” His sarcasm earned him a sharp glare.
“You’re being modest. A young amputee lives because you gave him your blood, despite your weakened condition.”
“He needed it more than me.”
Bonaventure shook his head. “How do you feel?”
“It depends on the day.” There were times when he felt no pain and days when the shrapnel worked its way to the surface of his skin like splinters.
“You come highly recommended.”
André leaned forward in his chair. “You’re wasting your breath, Bonaventure.”
“Look. This is war. Men die--”
“Not on my watch,” André insisted. His body slumped, weighted by guilt-ridden memories that sapped the life from his soul.
Not having the strength to look Bonaventure in the eyes, he averted his gaze to a picture of a lone small boat bobbing in calm waters. Chaos. He saw chaos in the serene scene. Memories. Nightmares. Men bloodied, charred black by fire, sinking ships slipping to its death, dragging those trapped inside to their watery grave; nurses, their whites soiled red; doctors overwhelmed, scalpels shaking in their hands… and Marc… André dug his thumb into his temple.
“His death is not your fault.”
It was. He should have paid more attention instead of noticing little old ladies’ aprons. He should have heard the plane coming.
“The boy saved your life.”
“What?” André snapped his attention back to Bonaventure.
“The old lady…” Bonaventure gestured nonchalantly, “she saw the whole thing. The boy--”
“His name was Marc.”
“After you got hit and came to, you dragged him out of the trench. Marc,” Bonaventure emphasized, “threw himself on top of you during sniper fire.”
“I don’t remember.” He should have died that day. Not the kid. Marc had been his responsibility and he’d failed him. Achievements and accolades did not warm a bed or fill a sad heart and, despite Bonaventure’s determination, André wanted nothing more than to disappear into oblivion.
“You’re the type we need,” Bonaventure continued. “Respected by your men. A born leader. A hell of a pilot. Graduated university before your time. Oxford educated. You speak English, French, Italian and German, and you’ve proved you can face danger head-on. You’re the perfect candidate to work underground and build up the resistance. So?”
What could he say? He felt like an old man, tired and worn. He didn't recognize the twenty-eight year old, he saw in the mirror. The face staring back at him had lost all the vigor and patriotism he'd had at the beginning of the war. The picture Bonaventure painted was of a man long gone.
André rubbed the scar on his chest. “What are we fighting for?” He had to ask. “Despite our best effort, Hitler’s army advanced into Dunkerque. They hoisted their swastika over the docks. Hell, at the battle of Mers el-Kébir the British Navy turned on us, destroying our fleets. Over one thousand men were killed.”
It seemed useless. All those deaths. Death, destruction and a lack of faith in France that had beaten him down.
“Were we supposed to just destroy our ships because Churchill didn’t think we could protect our own? Then he turns around and begs the U.S. for help. Do the Brits think us so
weak that we will not stand up to that Nazi bastard? There seems to be no stopping the son of a bitch,” André added, disgusted.
Bonaventure nodded. “You’ve earned a pass out of this mess. That’s for sure. But hell, do it for Marc. Do it for all those men who gave up their lives. If that’s what it takes to motivate you, make them your cause.”
He understood what Bonaventure was trying to do. A small part of him wanted to fight in honor of Marc, but he didn’t feel worthy.
André shook his head.
“In a few days, RAF Spitfires are heading toward Berlin. Once those bombs are dropped, Hitler will retaliate. When he is done with England, you are right, there will be no stopping that son of a bitch. You cannot tell me you will sit back and let that bastard take over. No. Your country needs you.” Bonaventure insisted.
“Je suis désolé,” he was sorry, but…“no.”
“I thought you’d say that.” Bonaventure knocked on the wall of the small hotel room, and the door opened, letting in light from the hall.
André stared and a tear formed in the corner of his eye. Three of his men stood at attention before him. He noted Henri, once a robust lad, appeared drawn and thin.
“Glad to see you, Colonel Rin.” Henri’s smile brought life to his blue eyes.
“You’re looking good.” Étienne leaned on a crutch and saluted.
“Sir, we’re pleased to see you’re alive.” André noticed Laurent, still wore his lucky rabbit’s foot around his neck. It seemed that talisman had brought him luck, after all.
“These men would argue the point that you are not a failure.” Bonaventure looked pleased with himself. “It’s because of you, they stand here today.”
Too choked up to reply, André stood, and with a slight limp, walked over and shook their hands. Gratitude and genuine smiles lit their faces as they thanked him several times and spoke of their family and stressed their loved one’s heartfelt appreciation. Perhaps he had done some good. Maybe with his help France could beat the Nazis back to Germany.
Behind The Mask Page 3
