***
November 1940
Today is Sunday. Father has insisted we go to church together. I thought about refusing his request, but then thought of André and his father. It is sad to think that I would not be so devastated over the loss of my own father as André was over the thought that he would never see his papa again.
I saw a different side to André, a side I like very much, though I did not relish seeing him so miserable. A man who cares so much about his family, who gets sick at the very thought of life without them, well, that is a man I would like to know better. Finally, the mask shielding his emotions broke. He is not as hard as he pretends to be, especially since I suspect he has seen his share of death and yet manages to mask his emotions. I liked what I saw.
Yvette paused from writing and wondered how André fared. Not the verbal type when it came to his feelings, she wondered, if she asked him, if he would tell her. She envied him; envied the family he had that radiated love. Her parents never showed affection. The coldness between them was enough to frost the inside of an icebox. And the fighting… she put her pen to the page.
The most incredible happenings occurred a few days ago. I helped a desperate family le…
She paused. Perhaps it was not wise to go into details. She did not need to write down this memory, for the look of gratitude on the faces of both mother and father would be remembered forever.
Let us just say I have found a new, exhilarating calling, one I plan on continuing.
***
To Yvette’s surprise, her father pulled up in front of her hotel in a shiny black Citroёn. She recognized the double V-shaped chevron insignia. Citroёn was one of many factories sabotaging German trucks. In one of André’s group talks, he mentioned workers put a notch on the oil dipstick in the wrong place, resulting in engine seizure and how if every man, woman, and child did one small act of defiance, France could overcome tyranny.
Since October, the rationing of petrol made traveling by car nearly impossible and as she settled into the seat beside her father, she wondered how he managed to obtain the precious commodity. When she questioned him, he confessed, on his days off, he chauffeured American diplomats around town and they had no shortage.
They drove in strained silence, neither one wishing to engage the other in mindless conversation. When they drove up to the same church where she had met André a few days earlier, Yvette’s heart picked up its pace.
She adjusted her hat squarely on her head and got out of the car.
Her father, ten steps ahead of her, turned, realizing she wasn’t by his side, “You coming?”
“In a minute.” She tugged on her dress, then flattened the fabric making sure it wasn’t wrinkled.
Her father frowned.
As she walked down the aisle behind him, her gaze searched for André, hoping he would be there; instead, she noticed the redhead who she’d met at her father’s office. The woman smiled as they passed, but her father barely acknowledged her. Yvette wondered if they’d fought or if her father was embarrassed by Marguerite’s presence. One for keeping up decorum, she figured her father had chosen to pretend they did not know each other for appearance sake, and the word disgusting, came to mind.
They sat three rows ahead of her.
Yvette pulled out her small prayer book and began repeating prayers she hoped would keep her family safe. She prayed they would soon be together. Her father assured her he was working on getting them to Marseille, but she doubted he was in a hurry to see them. It was frustrating working in the consulate and seeing visas issued knowing she was not capable of forging that document. Her only bit of solace drew from the thought that she had their safe passage papers ready when they got here.
The hymns began and a male voice resonated from behind her. She knew André’s voice immediately and turned around. He winked and kept on singing. He had a beautiful tenor tone, rich and full,that settled over her like a warm woolen cloak on a winter’s day. She closed her eyes, listening in awe.
“Fierce and wild the storm is raging round a helpless bark... on to doom ‘tis swiftly driving, o’er the waters dark.”
The words drudged up memories of her grandpère, of the death and the destruction she had encountered on the road and of the family she helped who, with luck, were safely crossing the ocean to America. Feeling her spirits sink, she lost herself in André’s calming voice.
“Fierce and wild the storm is raging.”
How could there be any debate over Hitler’s evil plans? She did not understand why some people thought living under a dictator could be good for France. She understood why the government had given up so easily. They thought an “open city” would prevent Hitler from destroying Paris. But how could people be so cowardly as to ignore the injustice they passed by day after day?
Though many voices rang around her, she only heard André.
“I’ll stand by until the morning, I’ve come to save you, do not fear.”
She felt safe in his presence, though given all the mistrust around her she didn’t understand the logic.
“Yes I’ll stand by until the morning, I’ve come to save you, do not fear.”
Would he save her if his life were on the line? In the short moments they’d spent together, she felt like he would protect her, as foolish as that might be. And she was being foolish, she thought, as memories of René’s unfaithfulness pushed to the forefront. Grandpère said trust no one. She would be wise to follow his advice.
She pushed aside thoughts of the man who betrayed her and focused on the man whose voice sent tingles of pleasure down her spine. She heard herself sigh as she lost herself in dreamy thoughts of the two of them.
A sharp elbow in her side jarred her from her reverie and Yvette’s eyes flashed open. Her father scowled at her. Pretending not to care, Yvette focused on the hymnal before her, but her thoughts lay with a man who managed to surprise her at every turn.
***
André sat through the service, his thoughts on the mission that lay ahead.
He felt discouraged after the conversation he’d had with Rogér and his drive for the war felt a little less enthusiastic, but he knew in his heart he wouldn’t give up on the cause and, unless he wanted to be a casualty of the war, he had to gather his strength and concentrate on his new task.
He had the feeling he was being watched by a member of the Kriminalpolizei, a branch of the Gestapo. They roamed the streets, dressed in civilian clothes, looking for anti-Nazis intent on, among other things, arson. There were small resistance groups popping up and some men, unaffiliated with a network, who sabotaged German vehicles by dumping sugar in tanks or who derailed locomotives carrying ammunition. Getting caught meant certain death. Thoughts of his parent’s village came to mind. He knew some of those men; grew up with a few of them. He blinked several times to keep his emotions in check and focused on the hymnal. Keeping a normal routine was imperative if he was to succeed.
After mass, he was to meet up with his comrades, Bayard and Géry, and head over to starling fields. The plane was supposed to arrive later, under the cloak of darkness. Enough flares to light up the landing area and mounds of straw and turnips, enough to conceal weapons, had been piled into a truck.
Organ music cut into his thoughts.
He stared at the back of Yvette’s head. When she walked into the church, his body had pulsed to life. Even now, remembering how those silken tresses had tumbled down her back as she stood illumined in the soft glow of his bedroom’s light and how the flimsy nightdress showed off her curvy figure, he felt his body’s response. It seemed even in the Lord’s house he wasn’t immune to her charms. A statute of the Virgin Mother stared down at him with condemning eyes.
André snapped his attention to the elderly man sitting beside her. He didn’t have time to talk to her to confirm his suspicions as to who the man was beside her, and although the thought nagged at the corner of his mind, André quickly slipped out of the pew and into the crisp fall air.<
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His comrades were supposed to meet him here. He glanced at his watch and waited patiently as the church crowd filed out.
Father François stood at the door exchanging pleasantries with his patrons as they said their goodbyes. He looked over and waved and André returned the acknowledgment.
Four young women, dressed in their Sunday best, walked past him. They giggled and stared, then smiled demurely. He tipped his hat, which brought another round of flirtatious laughter.
Bayard hurried over to his side. “Géry broke his leg.”
“When?”
“Early this morning. He’ll do us no good. So now what?
“We do it alone,” André replied with confidence, though he knew their task with just two was nearly impossible.
“Can’t be done.”
“What can’t be done” Yvette walked up from behind him.
Dressed as impeccable as usual, today she looked heavenly. The sun’s radiance added a shine to her hair, as though Midas himself painted the silken strands a rich gold. She wore a cream-colored dress that clung to her body, accenting every curve. A small veiled hat covered her head and ended in a slight V at her forehead. Her full lips were painted a soft rose and he wondered if they would taste as sweetly as he imagined.
Bayard coughed pulling André from his trance.
“What can’t be done,” she asked again.
“Nothing.” André answered, annoyed he’d lost his concentration.
“It’s getting late.” Bayard glanced at his watch. “We need help.”
“No.”
“Help with what?” Yvette stepped over to Bayard. “I can help.”
Bayard shuffled his foot in the dirt.
André rubbed the back of his neck.
It was too late to cancel the operation. And damn it! They counted on those weapons; needed new recruits. And there was no way to get the job done without more help.
“You have to tell her,” Bayard urged with a hopeful shrug. “They’ll be here in the morning.”
“Forget it.”
“André, you need my help. So now who’s being pig- headed?”
His hand clenched, André turned to Yvette. “Do you really want to trek through the woods in the pitch dark and hide in brush wearing those heels? For God’s sake, you colored in the scratches on them with black ink. Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll manage on our own.” He turned to Bayard. “Let’s go,” he growled.
“André stop.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she bent over. Despite his desire not to react to the sight of her raised derrière, his body had other ideas. When she unbuckled her shoe, he dropped his hand shielding his erection. She slipped her foot free and smacked the heel on the edge of a stone wall, lobbing off the heel and then did the same to the other pump.
“It would not be the first time I had to sleep outside.” She slipped on her shoes.
“Who said anything about sleeping?” The minute the words left his mouth, a wild pulse kicked his neck. Hell, he could think of many different ways they could spend the night and sleeping wasn’t one of them.
“Well then, trekking through the wilderness.”
Trekking wasn’t what he had in mind either. André stabbed his fingers through his hair and turned to Bayard, “What about Jacques?”
“Probably with his latest amour.”
“And Luis?”
“I put the word out. Got no response. It’s you and me... and her.”
“You don’t even know what you’re getting yourself into,” André snapped eying the pristine dress that kept calling his attention.
“I want to help,” she insisted.
“You’ll mess up that pretty dress and soil those white gloves.”
Maybe she could wave flares. It wasn’t that difficult, he thought, despite his gut’s instinct to leave her behind.
“What’s a little dirt? Nothing I can’t wash off,” she replied.
Her words conjured up images of her in a sudsy bath; her hair dripping wet, her skin glistening. Once again, his body stirred. After several deep breaths, relieved to find the heat in his loins subsiding, he pulled himself from his reverie. “And what will you tell your father?”
“I will handle my father,” she said, her tone cool.
So he’d been right. Satisfaction overruled the quick sense of relief he refused to believe was jealousy. Now that he thought about it, he sensed an underlying tug and pull between father and daughter. It had been obvious by the way she kept her distance from him and her rod-straight posture.
André marched to his truck and pulled out a pair of green overalls. “Put these on. And for God’s sake, don’t let anyone see you.”
By the time he had changed into camouflage and she came out of the church, André berated himself some twenty times, convincing himself he made a mistake, that he had no choice, the network needed the ammo and the plane needed their guidance.
She looked adorable in the baggy jumpsuit that did little to hide her curvy frame. An image of her dressed in a pair of pants and snug shirt of the legionnaire’s uniform came to mind. He recalled the gaps in her shirt that showed off a glimpse of her bra and how sexy she looked when she walked in those tight pants. Heat shot to his groin.
He had to be insane agreeing to this.
André picked up a wad of mud and smeared it over her face.
Her eyes widened. She bit her lip, holding back a barbed word or two, if he guessed right.
Damn! He was doing the right thing, wasn’t he? He couldn’t let his men down because he was too stubborn to accept help from a woman.
He plopped a big floppy brown hat on her head.
A woman who looked damn cute, dirt and all.
***
Three hours later, taking a lesser traveled route and backtracking several times, they covered the truck with branches and made their way toward a hill where they would wait under cover until the designated time.
André watched the sun sink behind the hill, his eyes focused on the horizon. Occasionally his gaze darted, assessing their surroundings, making sure no one had followed them.
Bayard kept glancing at one of Yvette’s exposed ankles, sometimes a shapely calf as she continually shifted her position in an effort to make herself comfortable.
André wondered, for the umpteenth time, if bringing her was a mistake. Women like her weren’t cut out for this kind of assignment. He’d bet a week’s salary she lived a sheltered life away from the dirty side of reality. Hell, if the war hadn’t interrupted her life she’d be on a shopping spree right now.
He glanced at her. She sat quietly, her back against a tree, in the dirt as though it was a daily occurrence. Damned if she didn’t keep proving him wrong.
When Bayard pulled out his harmonica, André opened his mouth in protest.
“Just holding on to my good luck charm,” Bayard said before André had a chance. “No worries, she ain’t singing tonight.”
André nodded. Everyone needed a vice, something that anchored them in this crazy war. Music kept Bayard sane, calm. For him, it was thoughts of Marc’s death that kept him going when on nights like tonight he’d rather be sitting by a warm fire drinking a fine glass of Brandy.
Darkness fell almost immediately, and with it, November’s biting cold. Lighting a fire had been out of the question. Only the glowing red butt of Bayard’s cigarette and the constant twirling of the harmonica between his fingers gave away their position. When the moon finally appeared from behind a dense cloud, André noticed Yvette rubbed her chilled arms. He scooted over to her and dropped his coat over her shoulders.
“Thank you.” Yvette snuggled closer to a warmth, his arms itched to bring her.
“How are your parents?” she asked quietly.
“Dealing with the loss of friends.” He settled down beside her, telling himself it was for the best —safer for her he stay close, “thankful to be alive. And your father?”
“My father and I barely talk.�
��
“And your mother? Any news?”
“Father says he is working on bringing my family down to Marseille, but I doubt he is ready to give up his Mistress; so I wonder just how hard he is trying. I cannot understand why it is commonplace for Frenchmen to have mistresses. It is not so in America. Do you?”
André scratched his neck. “I am sure your father is doing his best. It takes time to gather the right documents. You know how difficult it has become to get them.”
“Do you?” she whispered.
“Do I what?” He knew exactly what she hinted at.
“Have a mistress.”
Ill at ease with the conversation, André shifted his position. “To keep a woman on the side means I’d have to be married. Speaking of the States, I hear Roosevelt was reelected for a third term.”
Yvette shrugged. “Is that a good thing?”
“Well… last month they instituted a draft lottery, so they are fortifying their military. He is sympathetic to our cause and word has it he has taken all steps short of declaring war.”
“So there’s hope.” She brushed some dirt off her pant leg. “What about a special girl?”
God, she was relentless.
He crossed and uncrossed his legs trying to make himself more comfortable. “One woman at a time is more than I can handle. Try to get some rest. I’ll wake you when the plane comes.”
“I am not tired.” She didn’t look satisfied with his answer.
Too bad, he thought. His personal life was not open for discussion.
They sat for hours in the cold without a word. Occasionally he felt her probing gaze on him and knew she was dying to know if he was seeing anyone. He wasn’t. He didn’t have the time or the desire. There had been a few women after his wife’s death, but no one special, which suited him just fine. Marriage was not for him, not anymore and a woman like Yvette would expect nothing less.
He glanced at her. Her eyes closed, her breathing shallow, for the moment, she slept. Moonlight spilled over her face and her skin appeared luminous. Even dressed in overalls and sitting in the dirt she was a damn lovely sight and a contradiction to the woman he first thought wouldn’t soil her pristine suit or dirty her hands.
Behind The Mask Page 14
