Behind The Mask

by Marianne Petit

  Three flashlight beams scanned the cemetery and when they stepped in front of the fresh burial site, Yvette’s knees trembled. She felt André grip her arm tighter.

  “Dig it up.”

  André let go and Yvette thought her legs would give way. Her heart galloped as she watched the man she loved digging what could be his grave.

  “This is preposterous!” Father Francois ground the tip of his shovel into the dirt. “Sacrilegious.”

  “Continue.” The officer waved his gun from the hole to André.

  Bile rose in Yvette’s throat. She knotted her arms across her chest, tucking her fists tight against her body in an attempt to hide her shaky hands.

  Once again, three bright beams scanned the big hole and as the commander’s light skimmed over the coffin and then up and down its side, Yvette held her breath. She tried not to look at the spot where they had buried the package but couldn’t help herself.

  Father Francois stood over the grave and made the sign of the cross. “May the souls of the faithful departed…”

  Yvette felt faint. She dared not look at the officer fearful her frightened gaze and unsteady stance would betray them.

  “… through the mercy of God, rest in peace.” Again, the father blessed the coffin. “Amen.”

  With an angry scowl, the officer pivoted, snapped his fingers and the three men paraded past rows of weathered stones, through the big black wrought iron gates and, for the moment, out of their lives.

  ***

  “That was close,” André said as they recovered the grave. “Better leave the radio where it is for now in case they come back.”

  “Good idea.” Father Francois wiped his palms on his black robe.

  André walked over to Yvette and slipped his fingers between hers. “Thank you.”

  Her hands felt numb and he rubbed them together in an attempt to get the blood flowing again.

  “Are the documents safe?” she asked.

  “How did you know?” André exchanged a questioning glance with Father Francois, who shook his head.

  “Your mother told me.”

  “My mother?” How the hell did she get involved?

  “I’ll explain everything.” Yvette tugged his hands. “She is waiting for us at my hotel.”

  “Go,” Father Francois, pointed to the courtyard. “I will straighten up.”

  André nodded. “I will dig up those papers tomorrow and bring them to my contact. We will get to the bottom of this.”

  They left the church with the Father’s words, “may the Lord shelter you from evil,” ringing in André’s ears.

  He noticed the look of surprise in Yvette’s eyes as he led a workhorse out from the side of the church. “My car without petrol does me no good. My friend here, on the other hand,” he tossed the reins over the big black’s head, “sometimes gets me where I need to be. Can you ride?”

  “My grandpère had a plow horse I rode when I was younger, but,” she shook her head. “I’ve never ridden bareback.”

  “Well, then,” he grinned, “you’ll just have to hold on tight.” Eagerness built within him as he held onto the horse’s mane, jumped and swung his leg over the other side. “Grab a hold of my right arm.” He leaned toward her and, when she had a firm grip, he swung her up behind him. The horse snorted a puff of white against the cold, air, then shifted its position. Yvette threw her arms around Andre’s waist.

  “Whoa girl,” he said to the horse, but thought about Yvette’s tight embrace and the feel of her soft curves pressing into his body.

  André slapped the reins and the horse took off.

  Yvette’s breasts rode his back as they trotted down the street toward the city.

  André smiled.

  God bless the shortage of petrol.

  ***

  She felt like she was in an American western.

  They weren’t riding off into a sunset like in a movie, but the dark clouds opened to a bright full moon and the stars blossomed. It was so romantic; just the two of them meandering down the path to the sound of horse hooves and the creaking of tree limbs. The brisk winter air chilled her breath and cheeks and she hugged André tighter, taking in the heat of his back against her. Stars twinkled in the sky like welcoming beacons, conjuring up memories of carefree nights where anything was possible in the days to come, where her biggest decision had been whether to paint the red poppy field or the old man and his goats.

  Tired, she rested her face on his shoulder. If she had her druthers, she’d lose herself in this fantasy and keep on riding far away from all the drama of this war.

  When André had swung her up onto the horse like a hero from a movie, she felt like the heroine being rescued from the villain. Only, the villain in this movie had propaganda plastered all over the buildings and reels in cinemas. No riding off, sunset or not, allowed for an escape.

  As they meandered down the thoroughfare, they caught the eyes of a few people who sat at their window or at a café.

  It felt strange riding through the streets of a modern city on a horse where cars once busied the streets. Now vehicles lay abandoned where they had died from lack of petrol. Sometimes it felt like the city was dying bit by bit and dragging her spirit with it.

  ***

  “André.” His mother threw her arms around his neck and planted kisses on both cheeks. “You had me worried.”

  “Ah.” He released her hold. “I’m like a cat with nine lives. No need to worry.”

  She gave Yvette a big hug. “Thank you for saving my boy.” Tears ran down her cheeks.

  Yvette too looked like she was about to spill.

  André dragged his fingers through his hair. Women! He’d rather stand in front of a room full of Germans holding Berettas aimed at him than two crying women. At least the Germans, he could handle!

  After the big hullabaloo was over, they sat on the sofa and André finally got some information out of his mother.

  “Gèrald has a friend who works for the Vichy-- oh André don’t give me that look, we can’t choose who our friends align themselves with. Anyway, he overheard a conversation about a church in Marseille, a resistance group and planted false documents. Knowing Gérald’s involvement with the underground, his friend mentioned the conversation. Your brother knew it was your church and feared it was you they spoke of. As I told Yvette, your brother is sick, so I came in his place.”

  “How sick,” André asked.

  “Bed-bound, but not threatening. Your father’s bad knee is acting up so they are commiserating, wallowing in their sorrows.” She smiled.

  “Send them my love.”

  His mother nodded, her blue eyes turning serious. “I am afraid I have some rather bad news.”

  Mentally, he braced himself.

  “Gèrald told me to tell you that they, the children, didn’t make it.”

  Yvette’s stifled cry sliced his gut.

  Damn it. What went wrong? He knew not every save went according to plan, but this was HIS save. He glanced at Yvette. HER save.

  “Do you know how far they got?”

  Tears were flowing down Yvette’s face. He wanted to gather her to his chest and comfort her. He watched his mother draw her into arms, he wished were his.

  Damn it. This one was personal. He knew better than to let a job get personal. “Do you know...,” he dragged in a breath, “where they have taken them?”

  His mother flattened Yvette’s hair as she cried against her. “No. I am sorry.”

  André leapt from the sofa and paced. Without information, there was nothing he could do. Damn. He kicked the sofa leg. Moisture stung his eyes. His neck felt hot, red.

  His mother gave him that stern, ‘calm down or I’ll make you’ look.

  Yvette’s breathless sobs attacked his gut like thunderbolts hitting a tin roof.

  Wanting to punch a wall, he clenched his hands, dropped into a nearby chair and covered his eyes with his hands.

  ***

  Yvette struggled ou
t of bed and walked into the living room.

  Madeleine, after planting a kiss on her forehead, had left early to stay with a friend for a few days. Against his mother’s displeasure, André insisted on staying and slept on the sofa. Looking at him squeezed her heart.

  “Good morning.” André sat up. He looked troubled and she knew he sensed her underlying thoughts, depressing thoughts that kept her awake most of the night.

  “Oh André.” The sob in her voice had him up at her side. He wrapped his arms around her and she sank into his chest needing to feel comforted by the strong beat of his heart and the familiar warmth of his protective body. They stood silent, drawing on each other’s strength, needing the support only two people could offer when words gave little solace.

  André stepped back, took her hand and brought her to the sofa. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She nodded. “It’s just that…” She sighed. “I feel so disillusioned. We run around getting the necessary exit papers, risk our lives and those of others, then we fail and all is for nothing.”

  He picked up a strand of her hair and toyed with the wave between his fingers. “You once told me I couldn’t save everyone. No one can. We did our best.”

  “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” Her eyes began to cloud with tears. She turned her head away from him feeling guilty by the admission.

  A finger on her jaw brought her gaze back to his and she noticed his sad tired eyes. The children’s arrest weighted both their shoulders.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There is no need to apologize,” André said softly beside her. “There are many days I feel the same. You must focus on all those you did save.” A weary expression heaved his face. “I have contacts. I will do everything in my power to find out where they are.”

  “How do I know we did any good and others made it?” She hated listening to her cynical words, hated that she felt like giving up, especially since she knew she would continue working for the cause; but she felt so drained.

  “We may never know.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head, then he searched her eyes looking for a sign that she understood.

  She nodded, then leaned into him and tucked her head under his chin.

  They sat in silence, finding solace in each other’s arms, drawing upon each other’s strength. As his thumb drew lazy circles in her palm, she let go of her sadness. It felt so right in his arms, so right cradled against his body with his breath breezing against her neck. Their bodies fit like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, a puzzle scattered, each day by war, broken hopes and unanswered prayers, but brought together by love.

  His kiss, at first tender, escalated with unleashed passion that made her heart skip like stones upon water and sent tingling awareness through her limbs. The minute his lips met hers, nothing mattered; not the war or what the future held. Nothing mattered, but this moment, filling her senses. She wanted to hold on to him forever. In his arms, the world seemed right. In his arms, nothing bad could happen. She leaned against him, her breasts pressing into his chest. The feel of his body, strong and solid against hers, the scent of his soap-cleaned hair and the feel of his unshaven face leaning against her cheek pushed all thoughts aside.

  He moaned deep in his throat. The heady sound sent a wave of pleasure to the center of her being. Their kisses hungry and, desperate they clung to each other, pushing away despondency and gloom that, if they let it, would kill their spirit. She wanted this euphoria to last forever. She needed to tell him how she felt. Breathless they broke apart.

  “André don’t stop.”

  “If I don’t, I may not be able to--”

  “Please,” she pleaded. “I need to feel life, to feel like there is more than just a war consuming me. I need you.”

  He eased himself up. “I should leave.”

  She grabbed his arm. “Don’t.”

  “We both know where this will lead.”

  She stood. “I love you André Rinaldo.” There, she said it aloud; there was no taking it back, no eraser to retract the words.

  The realization that he said nothing sent a pang to her stomach.

  “I need you to love me now.” She meant to say, “I need you to make love to me now,” but the truth was, she needed him to love her and she knew in his heart he did. She could feel his love in every tender touch, every loving gaze. He just needed time to realize what she already knew.

  She hugged him, then felt the sting of disappointment when his arms hung loosely at this side.

  “You’re distraught. Not thinking clearly,” he said.

  “I know exactly what I want.” She ran her hand against is thigh.

  He grabbed her hand. “Yvette. Not now. Not like this.”

  “But…”

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drew her into the crook of his arm and ushered her back to the sofa. “Tell me about your family, your home.”

  Disappointed and hurt, not wishing to think on his reaction, she sighed and settled into his embrace. “I won’t take it back. What I said.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  She looked at him. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

  He raked his hand through his hair, which spoke volumes.

  “I have a brother,” she started, not wanting to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was; not wanting to confront that little voice in the back of her mind shouting he doesn’t return your feelings. “He was born a week before my grandpère’s death.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She wanted to ask him if his heartfelt words were for not telling her he loved her or for the death of Grandpère, but she kept her mouth shut hoping he would say something. He didn’t.

  “My sister, Vero, is ten. André toyed with a strand of her hair.“My father, well, it is complicated.” His eyes had a faraway look in them and she wondered if he was even listening to her.“I killed my grandpère.”

  “Hmm.” His fingers playing with her hair went still. “What?” Shock registered on his face. “No. I’m sorry I wasn’t listening. I--”

  Right he was thinking about her declaration of love. It was probably eating him up inside.

  “It’s true,” she said.

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I put my trust in someone I thought cared for me and he betrayed me by sending the police to our home.”

  “I’m so sorry.” He ran his finger gently against her cheek.

  There is was again. Sorry—sorry—sorry.

  Seemed they were both full of regrets.

  ***

  André couldn’t find the words he knew she wanted to hear.

  She loved him. Hell. He hadn’t been prepared for that—couldn’t wrap his head around her declaration. All he could manage was an empty apology he knew did little to ease her mind.

  “They shot him when he wouldn’t give up the names of those who worked with him on tracks, but it might as well have been me pulling that trigger.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, wishing he could ease away her guilt—wishing his guilt would stop gnawing at his chest like a ravished dog to a bone.

  How could he tell her he loved her when he didn’t know how he felt? Love was such a strong word. He wasn’t ready. He just wasn’t ready. Hell, part of him wanted to commit, but the other half… the nagging voice that kept reminding him of his past… that held his heart captive… no he wasn’t ready. The finality of saying he loved her was just too heavy for him to shoulder right now.

  “In these dark times it is difficult to know who to trust.” His words brought a strange look to her eyes and he wondered who broke her heart. The thought of some creep stringing her along, then wounding her trust clenched his hand. Another pang of guilt sliced through him when he realized, if he didn’t set things straight between them, he would be right up there with the bastard who’d hurt her.

  Hesitant, he found the courage to say the words he knew
she wouldn’t like, but needed to be said. “Yvette, you mean a lot to me.” He closed his eyes briefly and forced himself to continue, “but I have no plans to get married.”

  His words had the effect he knew they would. Her posture stiffened. Her expression hardened. “Who said anything about getting married? I may go down that path in the future, but--”

  “You know I already went down that path.” He knew after the first six months he’d made a mistake. Separation hadn’t been an option and the marriage chains weighted him down until he felt like he was locked in a box with no way out. What if he made the same mistake again? No, he was better off single, unattached. “I--”

  She put her finger against his lips. “It’s ok. I understand.”

  Were those tears in her eyes? Dear God. He felt like a heel. She’s fighting back tears.

  He gathered her into his arms and held her against his chest.

  Awkward. Uncomfortable. Itching to leave. Wanting to stay. Those were the thoughts running through his head in the silence that followed.

  Yvette eased herself back. “You’d love my town. In the summer, there are fields of sunflowers that blanket the earth in bright yellow. In my church, there is a statue of the Blessed Mother holding a child. She wears a large heart around her neck. I believe it symbolizes her copious love for her worshipers.”

  André inwardly groaned. There was that word again. LOVE.

  “It’s said that in the 15th century, when the plague ran rampant through every village, the people in my town brought her statue into the street and the plague bypassed our village. It was a miracle.”

  “Indeed. Tell me more.”

  Relieved, she spoke about her home and stopped looking at him as though he had the plague. He leaned back against the couch and stretched out his legs.

  “There is a plaque on the wall in tribute to my uncle who died a hero in WWI.”

  “That is a great honor. You must be proud.” His gaze settled on her intoxicating lips.

  “I am.”

  He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “You must take after him.”

  She furrowed her brow. “I don’t follow you.”

  “Your courage in the face of opposition.”