“Not long enough.”
“Let’s get you cleaned up.
“No, not until the authorities come.” André dragged Géry to a table. “I need something to tie him up with.”
Although she feared André’s wound was worse than he let on, Yvette ran into her bedroom, grabbed a pair of stockings and a clean cloth for his shoulder. Together, they bound Géry’s wrists to the table legs
Ten long minutes later, Géry, spewing threats was escorted out of the room
Yvette grabbed André’s arm, brought him into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. “When I heard the shot...” her chin quivered.
He leaned his forehead against hers. “I know.”
She pressed a warm hand towel gently against the laceration. “I feel so guilty.”
He covered her hand with his. “For what?”
Yvette closed her eyes and rubbed her brow. “Did I lead him on? Did I--”
“No.” He grabbed her hand, stopping her obsessive massage. “He was delusional.
“But that day when the gendarme… I kissed him.”
André caressed her cheek. “To save his life. Nothing more.”
“Maybe… but if I hadn’t kissed--”
“You did nothing.”
“I guess.” André’s insistence did little to ease her torment, nor ease feelings of violation that threatened to overtake her. She concentrated on cleaning his wound; told herself she he was right, she couldn’t have done anything differently, though her guilty conscience belligerently contradicted rational thought.
“You’re just like her.” Géry’s voice jerked their attention to the door.
André stepped in front of her shielding her body behind his. Yvette latched onto his arm. The hair on her neck rose. How did he escape?
Over his shoulder, she saw Géry wave the gun around in the air. Her thoughts flew to the man who had taken custody of him and she prayed Géry hadn’t killed him.
“First thing you do is run back to that no good drunk. He’ll beat you, you wait and see,” he ranted, and she knew he was regressing to his childhood and lost in some dark place in his mind
“No one is going to lay a hand on her,” André said calmly, despite the impending danger.
“I offered my help. Mother told me to leave.” Géry’s eyes rapidly moved from side to side. “The slut laughed. Told me, I wasn’t man enough to look after her. I wasn’t good enough. You’ll be sorry, just like her. I’m man enough.”
Realizing in his mixed up mind Géry wanted to protect her, something he couldn’t do for his mother, Yvette edged herself from behind André. “Géry…”
André grabbed her wrist, but she refused to move, though she knew she was taking a huge risk. Perhaps she drew strength by the hope that someday someone would help her come to terms with her mother’s inability to show compassion, but she had to make Géry understand his inability to help his mother wasn’t his fault. After all that happened, as muddled as her feelings were and, despite Géry’s misguided onslaught, she pitied him.“Your mother only told you to leave because she loved you--”
“No. No.” He stared, crazy with murder in his eyes. “They had it coming. Both of them.” He dug his fingers into his temple. “They’re in hell where they belong.”
He killed his parents? Yvette’s stomach clenched.
André’s grip tightened.
“I’m asking you please… put down the gun. We’ll talk. I beg you,” she pleaded.
“You’ll be begging alright.” He pointed the pistol directly at them.
André jerked her behind him.
“Begging for my mercy,” Géry said, the confidence in his voice clearly an indication he thought he had the upper hand.
“The only begging done here will be from you,” André clenched his hand tighter around hers.
“No! No more fighting.” Yvette broke from his fisted grip and leapt forward. André was hurt, what chance did he have? His blood would be on her hands.
André seized her arm. He stood at her side, ready to pounce.
“Leave us be,” she screamed. “Nothing here will end well for any of us. André would never hurt me. I don’t need your protection.”
“She’s right. Listen to her.”
“You’re both wrong!” Géry wiped his nose with the back of his wrist.
“André loves me, just like your mother loved you.” Yvette forced her voice to calm lest she antagonize Géry further. “She told you to leave to protect you from your father. André is nothing like him.”
“No.” Géry shook his head. “No. That’s a lie.”
“Géry, put down the gun,” André ordered.
When Géry ignored him, and the weapon began to shake in his hand, Yvette continued. “Think about it. She loved you in the only way she knew how, by giving you up. Knowing you’d be next, she saved you from your father’s beatings.”
“She couldn’t have. She…” Comprehension flashed in Géry’s eyes… then sadness. “Mama…” He raised the gun to his head and fired.
Yvette’s scream split the air.
André turned her around, his body enveloping her like a huge shielding wave.
And through her traumatized mind came the realization that despite all the wrongs Géry had done, that little boy, who wanted nothing more in life than to feel needed, couldn’t live with the fact that his mother had loved him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
FEBRUARY 1941
A letter to my friends…
This is so hard, so very hard for me to write and I am not sure if I will get through this without crying.
Yvette quickly drew a picture of an angel holding flowers.
Bayard…
Yesterday, I forced myself to go to a unit meeting. As I walked down the familiar steps, I heard the sweet sound of the harmonica and I nearly stumbled. With hope in my heart, I entered the cellar wishing against all odds that you, Bayard, had not died, but sat among our comrades playing those songs I looked forward to hearing.
But, reality being what it is, you were not there. A stranger had your instrument pressed against his lips.
I could not control the anger that welled within my heart and stormed over to him. Then a realization hit me. You had left your harmonica behind. Why? Did you have a sense of your death? When the time comes do we know that our demise is imminent?
I wanted to tell this stranger he had no right to play what did not belong to him, but I know you believed music made the ugliness of this war go away, if only for a few short moments. I knew you wanted someone to carry on your songs, so I sat, silent, held back my tears and listened as he played La Marseillaise.
A man of few words, your music spoke volumes and I am finding it difficult to express how much I am going to miss you. Your music touched my heart, for I saw in every song your soul, the soul of a good man, loyal to those around him, ready to stand up and die for a cause greater than life. You leave behind my broken heart and the wish that I could have told you how grateful I am to call you friend.
Luis…
How I long to hear just one more negative remark from your lips. You hid your fears behind words meant to disillusion and rebuff, but somehow I know your statements were a way to guard your heart against disappointment. If one of our plots failed, you predicted that, so no loss, right? But your face always gave away your disappointments because your heart was soft and contradicted your words. Dear friend, I understand.
Jacques…
How shall I go on without your arms, twirling me around the room? Your smile, your jovial, childlike manner made me forget there was a war going on beyond the cellar walls. Dancing with you brought back memories of years past when my biggest worry was whether or not my art would be appreciated. Thank you for making time stop and bringing joy back into my heart. Do a quick step up there for me.
A tear fell and Yvette pressed her finger against the paper blotting the page. She sniffled, wiped her eyes and continued jotting down her thoughts
.
To all of you, my friends who fought so valiantly with courage and pride, you shall forever be etched in my heart. When I feel like giving up I shall recall your faces and find the strength to continue to fight for this country. I shall remember that we, that you, believed in freedom and the right to live our lives without dictatorship. Your sacrifice shall not be in vain.
Yvette closed her diary, turned off the lights and let her pillow absorb her silent tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MARCH 23 1941
Spring has decided to grace us with her presence early this year showcasing March in splendid colors. As I sit in the garden, shaded by the white petals of apple blossoms, the scent of magnolias fills my breath.
After the incident, André went to Varian Fry, who insisted we stay with him at Air-Bel, a beautiful mansion on the outskirts of the city.
Yvette glanced over to André and Varian, who stood by a patch of earth debating where and what to plant in the garden.
She tried not to dwell on Géry but spent many a restless night in the crook of André’s comforting arms, talking about that day, talking about her feelings, her fears and wishing she had been more forceful in her attempt to escape. André, God bless his soul, did his best to comfort her and placed all the blame on Géry. He speculated, the deaths of their comrades and Géry’s part in their demise, as well as murdering his parents, especially his mother, had pushed him over the edge of insanity.
André barely left her side and she knew he worried about her well-being. His attentiveness, though she guessed was for his benefit as well, filled their days with tenderness and hours spent making love. They embraced along garden paths, under the stars and beneath a big oak tree. They laid on Persian rugs amid fluffy pillows with moonlight spilling over them, or made love in a closet near the back of the kitchen where her giggles were stifled by the clatter of dishes being brought to the table. And they lie entwined beneath a downy coverlet, content in each other’s arms.
But despite living in paradise, despite their conversations about what happened that day in her hotel room, she still felt a little responsible. Did seeing her love for André contribute to Géry taking his own life? Had she misled him somehow? Had that been the contributing factor?
Yvette continued in her diary.
I feel sorry for the little boy in Géry who only wanted acceptance and love. I realize now, father just didn’t love mother enough to stay and his leaving us had nothing to do with his love for me.
It’s strange how two people took different paths in life. I chose to lose myself in my painting, found love in each stroke that created something tangible, beautiful. Géry chose a life of crime and fed on hatred.
And speaking of art… I am in my glory. The house is full of artists who, I am sad to say, hide from the authorities.
Hans Bellmer, being one of our residents, takes black and white photos of sculpted doll and body parts. Monsieur Chagall’s paintings remind me of some of Picasso’s work.
Yesterday, we had an art auction outside, and to my delight, my boss visited us. It was rather fun bidding as if we were in a real auction house and I have secured one of Monsieur Chagall’s paintings. He has promised to show me a few new techniques and my excitement must have sounded like a small child at the sight of Christmas presents.
Even André is learning a thing or two and has taken to the art world with a fervor that makes me love him even more.
***
Thursday~ April 10th.
Word has come that the United States fired on German U-boats violating the US security zone. My place of work is tense. Many have returned to the States and the footsteps of a skeletal crew echo in the eerie stillness of the halls.
André and I have been fighting. I refuse to leave France. He insists staying here is too dangerous and it is only a matter of time before the US enters on the side of the allies. He stormed out of the villa today with harsh words of how I would become an enemy alien in France should America take that hesitant step; like I am not already aware of this. His refusal to listen has made for cold shoulders and hot tempers.
My family has arrived in Marseille and now resides with Father, whose quiet home has been taken over with the commotion only children can bring.
He has resigned himself to the fact that he will be leaving his mistress behind and will travel to the States with mother, although I do not see that happening quickly. The Spanish and Portuguese Consulates, in Geneva, have yet to supply them with the appropriate visas allowing train travel through France and Spain to Portugal.
I have not mentioned I do not plan to accompany them, having not the strength, nor the inclination to face the storm of emotions what will follow.
***
May 14th
Marseille has become a city erupting. A city soon to destroy itself like Pompeii, though it is the fires of dictatorship and the hate of a madman that will destroy us all. Everyday rumors grow and spread the fire of fear.
Yvette looked up from her writing. An unfinished painting of the seaport sat on an easel and, for a moment, she lost herself in the intricate detail, the swirly strong strokes. Then she put her pen back to her diary.
The harbor taunts us with dreams of escape it cannot fulfill. Fishing boats bob in the waters, listening to the call of freedom but go nowhere.
A door closed, echoing through the vast halls and she turned her attention back to her writing, as the sound of footsteps grew closer.
Yesterday, trucks roamed the streets hunting for all foreigners and I fear André was right to warn me of the dangers. Not only refugees, gypsies and homosexuals, but all French and foreign Jews have been included in these round-ups. They are swept from the streets like dirt. I hear some are sent to Drancy, an internment camp near Paris. I see the terror on their faces and wish there was something I could do. This city will soon find breath from the old and feeble, women and children…
Yvette looked up as André entered the library and by the look on his face, the news he carried would not be pleasant.
***
Daylight appeared pale and dismal, like André’s mood.
Despite the lack of sun, July’s oppressive heat added to his misery as he stood on the train platform amidst hoards of people. Wistful teary goodbyes contorted faces. The deep blast of the train’s whistle thundered, but all André could hear was the breaking of his heart—all he could feel was the misery and loneliness threatening to suffocate him.
He held Yvette in his arms, not wanting to let her go. “Promise me you’ll wait for me.” It was an inconsiderate request he knew that. But he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t stop this day from coming, couldn’t stop the scheduled train that, at any minute, would tear across those tracks and take the woman he loved away from him. “Tell me,” he insisted. He had to make her say it, knew she would keep her word and against all odds she would wait for him.
“I promise.”
It was unfair of him to insist when he knew time was the enemy. He had no choice. He had to stay. She had to leave. Though he’d applied, at the persuasive pressure of Yvette, for an exit visa, it had been denied. Truth was, he wouldn’t have left. This war was far from over. Hiram Bingham, having been relieved of his post had been transferred to Lisbon and Fry had been yanked back to New York. He had to stay. Finish what they had started.
“I love you. We’ll get married--”
“Oh André,” A burst of happiness pushed past the misery in her eyes. “That’s a wonderful idea. Today, let’s marry today and then we can go underground… we are good at that--”
“No. You can’t stay.”
All the liveliness of moments ago left her face. “But you just said--”
“We will marry when I see you again. When this is over.” He hated the pain he saw in her eyes, hated feeling life, once again, cheated him from what he wanted most—her. He sacrificed so much of himself for the cause, but he didn’t have a choice he could live with. Letting her go, knowing she would be
safe, was a sacrifice he had to make, as hard and as miserable as that decision made him feel.
Needing to make her recognize her value and to steer the conversation toward the cause and away from the misery burning in his chest, he forced his voice to remain light and said, “France will send her regards. The resistance spreads like a wildfire with fingers reaching all over France. The Communist party has formed one group and stands with us. We did good. You did good.” She needed closure. He needed to ease away the emptiness in her eyes.
He held her hand wishing they were glued together and studied her slender fingers that fit so perfectly intertwined between his.
“Thanks to Rogér, the Brits are supplying us with much-needed equipment and trained agents. Under pressure from de Gaulle, he feels the British Special Operations does little to help us, so he struck up a deal with the organization.” He didn’t give a damn. Didn’t want to talk about the war. But if he gave into his emotions he’d fall apart.
She didn’t seem to care either. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying. There was nothing he could do. Nothing. He had to put on a brave face. Mask his emotions. He was good at that.
“The agents will serve as circuit organizers, liaison officers and sabotage instructors. We, in return, will supply valuable Intel. Everything is moving along smoothly.” He smiled. “I am getting well versed in Morse code.”
“That’s good,” she said flatly, staring over his shoulder.
At eighteen hundred hours, he was to rendezvous with a group of agents, who were being dropped by parachute into a nearby field. He didn’t want to go.
André planted yet another kiss on her lips. “You didn’t sleep well.”
“How could I? I’m leaving you.” She laid her cheek against his chest. “André. Please don’t make me go.”
She couldn’t stay, even though his heart wished for nothing more. “It’s not safe. You…” he kissed the top of her head and forced out the next words, “must go. If anything should happen to you--to me…” she’d be alone…
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