“Hardly,” she mused.
“You are strong, fearless and one hell of a partner.” Unable to resist, he planted a quick kiss on her lips. “I couldn’t do any of this without you. You know that right?” He meant it. He needed her more than his mixed up heart would admit.
“Hmm. I think you need to convince me. Kiss me again.”
He grinned. “I’d be more than happy to comply.” André pressed his lips to hers and kissed her, savoring the moment for what it was, all that it could be, a single moment of passion, for he couldn’t see any future for them. Not now. Not in the middle of this mixed up country. He was as sick of this war as she was and, truth be told, the news about the children took a big hit to his resilience. Seeing Yvette, being near her, working beside her was the only highlight of his otherwise miserable day.
Before the war, before his marriage, he'd had many choices, many plans for his future; dreams that hadn’t included being in the military. Choices, it was all about the choices one made in life. Was he making the right choice now?
Her kisses stirred his blood, making it difficult to think of anything else. She was the escape, he desperately needed as wrong as that might be. For now, his need was all he could give her.
The beat of her heart thrumming against him spiked his pulse. The touch of her tongue mingling with his hardened his groin and he knew he should pull away. Lord forgive him. Pull away. He just didn’t have the strength.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DRESSED IN HER WARMEST coat and gloves Yvette walked briskly down the avenue, her thoughts on André’s declaration that he would never marry again. “I care about you” That’s what he said. And what had she said? OK? OK? That she understood? She didn’t!
More disturbed than she cared to admit, she tried to mask her feelings behind a false sense of not caring. She did. She did care. It seemed her love wasn’t strong enough for the both of them. That nagging thought had clung to her, despite his kisses. He saw no future together. The finality of that realization had torn her from his arms. Not sure how much longer she could hold back her tears, she told him she was exhausted and he should leave.
She didn’t want to think of where his statement left them, didn’t know how to convince him their marriage would be different. Problem was… how did she know if their marriage wouldn’t turn sour? All she had as a point of reference was her parents. Yvette shook her head. No that wasn’t true. Madeleine loved her husband and Grandpère loved his wife until the day he died.
André’s broken marriage was just too bitter to overcome; he’d made that clear enough when he said he would never marry again. Yvette pressed her thumb into her throbbing temple as reflections of their talk in the farmhouse washed over her, forcing her to recall his tense face when he spoke about Abigail. She could still hear the relief in his voice when he spoke about her death, even through his guilt. God, she couldn’t stomach having him look at her that way.
Witnessing the love he had toward his parents, she wanted so much to be a part of his family, to be able to experience that closeness for herself. She hoped at some point, if not right away, he could put his past behind him.
A tear slid down her cold wind swept cheek and she quickly brushed it away. I hope he’s as miserable as I am.
As she passed along queue of women standing outside a food market clutching their ration cards, thoughts of René smacked her in the face, catching her off guard. She remembered the day in his father’s store when she told him about her fears and how he swore he’d never tell anyone. He said he loved her. Wanted her. At the time, she thought she loved him too, but the hurt he caused her was nothing like this raw ache, burning in her heart; a hurt that made her want to hurl herself before the enemy and say shoot me! Put me out of my misery!
René’s kisses felt flat. His groping hands made her feel uncomfortable.
André’s touches, kisses, made her feel alive and never in René’s embrace had she felt the strong need that even now coursed through her veins as she thought about André.
The sound of clapping coming over a radio caught her ear. Yvette stopped near an open window as Nelson Eddy introduced Shirley Temple and she began to sing.
Someday, you'll find your bluebird, wait your turn bide your time.
That sweet little American voice brought Yvette right back to New York City and the Macy’s Christmas Parade. It was 1929 and she could still see that larger than life, outdoor float of Captain Nemo making its way down the street. She was about ten and New York at Christmas, she sighed, had been magical. Saks Fifth Avenue had a delightful window display and she used to love walking among the beautiful clothing so artfully arranged.
For when you find your bluebird, life will be so sublime.
Times were sublime then, Yvette mused as she listened to Shirley’s sweet voice and lost herself in past memories.
She missed those stolen moments of pleasure, missed the splendor of the warm rising sun bathing her flower garden in colors, and the morning dew cold beneath her bare feet. Sunday afternoons spent at F.A.O Schwarz picking out a toy had been the highlight of her week.
Then the depression hit, dragging everyone down with it. That had been a turning point in her family life as she recalled. Yvette’s shoulders sagged as emptiness squeezed her heart. Her father was offered a position in France. He packed up the family, and here they were. Things were never the same after that. Then her father abandoned them, killing the child in her forever.
It may be right near you or may be worlds apart; when love comes, you'll find it on the windowsill, of your heart.
Yvette frowned as Shirley Temple’s song began to annoy her.
Love had found her and wasn’t worth a hill of beans. She promised she’d never give her heart away, didn’t want to take the chance history would repeat itself. It did and this time it was worse. This time instead of her heart being crushed beneath the heavy boots of betrayal, it felt like it was bursting into flames that were eating away at her spirit, leaving her drained of life. Infatuation hurt. But love… unreturned love made you want to die, she decided as she rounded a corner.
And then you'll hear your bluebird sing a song of happiness to you…
Ha! Hearing words of love coming from André was highly unlikely.
Her fingers numb, her feet frozen, her mood as bleak as the weather, Yvette wandered down the street.
She wasn’t going to meet him at the church like she planned. In fact, the more she stayed away from him the better it would be for both of them. Determined not to wallow in self-pity, nor allow anyone to break her heart again, she came to the painful realization that a future together was out of the question. She’d been a fool to think if André knew how she felt, he’d embrace her into his life. As much as she loved him, she wanted the whole package, ring and all.
A bitter quarrel yanked Yvette from her thoughts and she realized she had walked in circles and was back at the same store she’d passed hours ago. The argument was coming from a dark-haired woman standing at the store’s entrance. From what she gathered, the woman’s yelling had something to do with having her ration card and demanding to be served.
The man, barring her entrance, called her a Jew and said her kind wasn’t wanted in his store. He blamed her and her kind for bringing the Nazis to his doorsteps. His words led to more shouts of agreement from some of the other women on line. A shoving match erupted between the two at the door, followed by a momentous push from the others in line as they squeezed their way into the store.
The shrill cry of a police whistle pierced the air.
Yvette picked up her pace and headed back to her hotel.
This city was going to hell, feeding off hostility, blind hatred, fear of being without and jealousy for those who had. Denunciations were becoming more prevalent. She’d heard talk of women shutting their windows and doors at dinnertime because they were afraid someone would smell that piece of black market meat sizzling on their stoves and turn them into the authorities. As far
as she was concerned, this wasn’t her country anymore. The war had seen to that.
Back at her room, Yvette sat at her desk and made a notation in her diary.
Bayard was arrested today for distributing the Resistance and I think on Louise and how she is faring. Determined to go back with her unit with the hope Victorio would return. Though I tried, she would not stay with me.
It’s so cold and coal so scarce. I sit here and write this in my coat.
Supplies of food and clothing squeezed by Pétain’s ruthless régime and German demand leave stores empty. I have grown to despise the taste of chicory that serves as coffee and I have dropped some ten pounds.
I have come to the realization André’s fear of commitment will not now, or ever, allow him to give of himself fully. I am determined to keep my distance, for my heart cannot bear the strain of seeing him and knowing there can be no future for us. I am ready to go home.
***
André tried not the think on last night’s conversation. But thorny musing and images of Yvette’s painful expression when she broke from his embrace, kept him awake all night and continued to haunt him.
He felt guilty not repeating her declaration of love. A small part of him echoed her thoughts, but he couldn’t force them through the wall in his brain; a wall built on hurt, disillusion and fear of entrapment. He knew his words hurt her. When she asked him to kiss her he had thought maybe, just maybe he misread her emotions and she was satisfied with their current relationship.
Hell, she told him she wanted the life of a bohemian, free spirited, no attachments. He thought telling her he needed her was enough. He was way off. He should have known a woman like Yvette wanted the white house, picket fence and a load of kids. Hell, he did know that. But it wasn’t his dream anymore and leading her on was wrong.
Why was his life, such a damn struggle? Conflicting emotions drained his energy, made it harder to focus and, if he didn’t start concentrating, things could go bad quicker than the snap of a mouse trap. And thinking about rats… There was the small matter of finding the bastards who had beaten him and learning who was leaking Intel. He wanted— no -- needed answers, and the sooner he locked away his guilt and forgot about Yvette’s declaration, the sooner he could start setting out some crumbs of cheese…
André glanced at his watch. Zero-eight-thirty hours. He promised his mother, he would take her to the store, but first he had to contact Rogér, who waited for a response from him regarding Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, the head of the Abwehr. Canaris, at increasing risk, plotted to overthrow Hitler. The thought that one of Hitler’s trusted men was on their side, and was bringing other Wehrmacht officers to his way of thinking, boosted André’s conviction that his struggle to unite the resistance was worth his effort. He grabbed his hat and shut the door behind him.
Four hours after his meeting with Rogér, then having finished shopping with his mother and seeing her safely home, André was on his way to the wharf, to find his attacker. A commotion caught his attention. A group of boys, about fifteen of age, shoved a boy around in the street.
His fists clenched, André marched over to them just as one of the boys spit into the face of the confined youth. André seized the two boys by the collar and yanked them off the boy, whose hands were up protecting his face from further onslaught.
“Enough!” he yelled and abruptly released the two boys, who cast him a disapproving glare. “What’s the meaning of this?”André stared directly into the eyes of one youth who wore a furrowed brow and tight-lipped mouth.
“He’s a filthy Kraut,” the boy snapped, with a shake of his head.
“Yeah,” added another voice, “we don’t want his kind here.”
“Go home; all of you,” André ordered.
No one moved.
André slid open his jacket, revealing his pistol. “Now!”
The group scattered in different directions.
“You…” he pointed to the blond-haired boy who looked like he was going to pee himself. “Stay.”
The kid stood frozen, all except his eyes that kept darting around him as though he was afraid the boogieman was going to pop out at him.
“What’s your name boy?”
“Franz.”
“That’s a fine name. Want to tell me what just happened.”
Franz shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t do anything.”
André figured that about summed it up. “Why don’t you go on and run home.”
“I don’t want to.”
André rubbed his chin, trying to decide what to do with the kid who was obviously shaken up. His disheveled hair had been pulled one too many times, his shirt was ripped and by tomorrow he’d been wearing a shiner to go with what he figured would be a few more black and blues.
“Why don’t I walk you home?” André put his hand on Franz’s shoulder. The boy jerked away.
“I said, I do not want to go home.”
A woman came running toward them calling Franz’s name. Reprimanding him in German, Franz’s face heated with embarrassment as he glanced at André wondering if he understood the exchange. After a few minutes of banter Franz turned, thanked him and shoulders hunched in defeat, he walked away.
Franz’s mother turned to André. “I do apologize if my son caused you any trouble,” she said as she wrung her hands with a nervous gesture. “Like his father, at times, he can be a bit outspoken.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. Believe him; he did not provoke the others.”
She nodded and began to turn from him, then she pivoted back. “Since they took his father away...” she sighed. “I do my best to keep him out of trouble.”
Franz probably feared the police would come looking for him next, André figured, recalling the boy’s reluctance to go home. His father, no doubt, was taken away to work in a factory, or labor camp, or if he was a scientist, to work for Hitler’s cause. Or, like so many who voiced banned opinions, he’d been arrested.
“These are difficult times for all of us,” André said.
It disgusted him to think how many families had been torn apart, not only the Jews, but Germans, Polish and French. He thought about the little Polish girl he tried to save, who lost her brother when the Nazis took him away to “Germanize” him because he had blue eyes and blond hair. André frowned.
The woman’s eyes watered and she glanced at her feet. “Thank you for not looking at me with hatred,” she mumbled.
“I do not lump all people into one category because of nationality, or religious beliefs, nor do I place blame, because one madman is running loose among us.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few francs. “Here, take this.” He placed the money into her hand.
She looked up at him with gratitude, a despairing smile curling her lips. And as her unshed tears began to fall, André silently cursed the Nazi bastard whose crushing presence instilled hatred and divided the heart of his countrymen.
***
Géry whistled as he strolled down the dock at the wharf.
Gulls cawed. Metal from the ships masts clanked in the breeze and cold misty dew wafted against his face, bringing with it the salty sea air.
Familiar with every nook and cranny, he’d searched the alleyways and tunnels looking for the street rat he’d hired to beat up André. He decided, after the less than fulfilling tryst with that whore, he needed every coin he could get his hands on.
That bum was now lying face down in a gutter, where he belonged, with a bullet in his head. Hell, not that he liked killing a man, but André was looking at him funny, like he was thinking a little too hard. No, it wouldn’t do to have loose ends. Unfortunately, the other guys he hired were missing, which meant blackmail money for information.
Géry brushed off the smell of garbage that permeated his new jacket. The stench reminded him of where he came from and vowed never again. No. If he wanted Eva, he had to look good, be respectable-like. That meant money.
Thanks to his dea
lings in the underground, he was gathering up plenty, selling information to the police. Hell, he only joined the resistance to get Intel for the government. You had to be on the right side of this war to come out the victor and as far as he was concerned, André and his merry band were on the wrong side.
Géry rounded the corner and stopped short.
André stood talking to an old seaman.
What the F is he doing here? Géry pressed his back against the building and drew out his pistol. Had the bastard followed him? He peeked around the corner and raised his weapon. The bastard had to be stopped. He was getting too close. His finger on the trigger, he was about to release when a woman hawking her wares blocked his shot. Damn it! Géry eased back on the trigger.
As though sensing his presence André glanced in his direction and Géry slammed back against the building, out of eyeshot. When he glanced back André was walking in his direction.
Son of… Géry shoved his weapon into his coat pocket. Now was not the time. No. He had a better plan. Quickly he darted down the alleyway and hid in a doorway.
Another time, my old friend. Another time…
***
“Father, forgive me. I have sinned.”André knelt in the confessional before Father Francois.
All day, the need to be with Yvette, to hold her, to talk to her and clear the air between them was driving him crazy.
“My thoughts are tainted.” In the gutter was more like it. “I seek revenge.”
He’d followed Géry down to the docks, then lost him, but had gathered some interesting information on a man he thought he knew. Now he just wasn’t sure if he should proceed, or if his gut’s instincts were right.
And Yvette… damn. He was so confused. He needed to spill his guts and have someone tell him he was making the right decision, that his feelings were justified, that he shouldn’t feel guilty for not saying he loved her, even though he knew she expected him to say as much.
“Seeking vengeance will only blemish your soul and will do little to make you feel better. The Lord says turn the other cheek even if it is black and blue. My words, of course,” Father Francois added, as if to clarify the interpretation of the Bible.
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