Flame of Resistance

by Tracy Groot

  Rolling in baubles and finery, is that what everyone thinks? She’d take a nice Camembert over francs any day. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a decent Beaujolais.

  Brigitte was just as surprised as the madame at what she had become.

  Madame Vion had snubbed her as had the man at the café, a French politician who had spit on Brigitte in front of his wife and daughter. Did Brigitte not see him with Marie-Josette last week? Did she shout out what he had done? She did not. She could not hurt his daughter; she was only twelve.

  “Brigitte!” Colette called, and when she called like that, there was a customer at the back door.

  Brigitte set aside the books and waited a moment before she lifted the needle from the Vera Lynn record. There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover . . . tomorrow when the world is free . . .

  She did not know the man at the back door. He was either scrounging for food or, despite the sign, didn’t know this brothel was for Germans only—or for occasional French politicians. This man was no politician; he wore the clothing of a day laborer. He certainly wasn’t German.

  He pulled off his hat. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” Brigitte said with a little smile. Such politeness. It reminded her of better days. “Regrettably, we have no food and this establishment is a Germans-only business.” She pointed to the sign nailed to the door: Nur für Wehrmacht. Only for armed forces. “Perhaps you can try Caen.” She started to close the door, but the man put his hand on it.

  “You are Brigitte?” he asked quietly. “You are the grateful patriot?”

  She stared for a moment, speechless, and whatever she did say, Colette mustn’t hear it. She slipped out the door and pulled it shut behind her. She drew her sweater close against the March wind.

  “What do you want?” she asked in a low tone.

  “I’ve been sent to see if you are truly a patriot.”

  “Sent by whom?”

  The man leaned against the house and pulled out a package of cigarettes—Lucky Strikes. American cigarettes. It certainly wasn’t the stuff they smoked around here, and whatever that was, it was likely more rolling paper than anything else. Occupation tobacco, they called it. Same as Occupation coffee or Occupation tea, shabby imitations of the real thing.

  She stared at the package until he pocketed it. He lit a match and cupped his hand around it, lit the cigarette and gratefully pulled it to life. He shook the match dead and tossed it, then offered the cigarette to her. She shook her head, but knew in a moment it was the real thing. It didn’t smell like nasty Occupation cigarettes. He smiled and looked appreciatively at the cigarette.

  “They came from an American. I like them better than Player’s. The British have Player’s. The fellow you saw in the château woods was a British pilot.”

  Brigitte did not answer. The man did not have the same feeling about him that Claudio did. He didn’t feel like Milice. He was likely with the Resistance. She felt an odd little tremor of excitement.

  “Why do you feed them?” he asked.

  She nearly answered with “Because I don’t know how Madame Vion can do it with ration coupons assigned only for maternity patients and workers.” It would have been a stupid mistake. He could be anybody. Instead, she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mademoiselle, if I were going to denounce you, I would have done it already.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Help.”

  “Help from a brothel. I’m sure you realize brothels are state-run.”

  “Not this one.”

  She stared at him. “How would you know that?”

  “I know it is not registered. It is unlicensed.”

  “A matter of paperwork. It is fully licensed by the Germans, and in case you haven’t noticed, the Germans are in charge.” How could this man know her home was not legally registered with the local French government? Brigitte had seen to that. She’d fought to keep it unlicensed. Somehow it kept her unlicensed. “We follow the law. We pay taxes. What business is it of yours?”

  All of the girls had to be free of disease. Any German soldier who turned up with a sexually transmitted disease was sure to be sent to the Russian front, and the prostitute who gave it to him would be jailed. Brigitte found it ironic. Maybe ironic was the wrong word, but even hypocritical was too weak a word for a system that would legitimize a brothel but punish any evidence of its sanctioned acts. As with any licensed Parisian brothel, Brigitte saw to it that she and the other three were checked weekly and prescribed fastidious hygienic treatments and preventions. She found these appointments more humiliating than those first “appointments” with customers; the doctor was a kind man. Kindness sometimes shamed her more than any guilty act.

  Her eyes narrowed as she thought of the doctor.

  “What kind of help do you need?” She said it with enough frosty indifference that the man would not mistake her. This conversation was dangerous. The tremor of excitement now felt more like fear.

  “The kind that would mean torture and death if you are caught. Whatever you have in mind when I say torture, make it ten times worse.” He pulled on the cigarette, then smiled a rather chilling smile. “I’ll never recruit anybody without putting it all on the table.”

  “It’s a wonder you recruit anyone.”

  “You would be surprised.”

  Brigitte thought again of the doctor. “You never know who is with the Resistance,” Claudio once told her. “Those Communist pigs are everywhere.”

  “Are you a Communist?”

  “Most are not, some are. Do you have a problem with that?”

  She couldn’t believe this conversation was taking place. She couldn’t believe she’d let it go on this long.

  “Are you Jewish?”

  “Most are not. Some are.”

  He’d said enough for her to denounce him herself. He could not be an informant, unless he was trying to trick her into betraying her political views. But who would care about the political views of a prostitute? Prostitutes slept with the enemy; therefore prostitutes were collaborators. “Horizontal” collaborators, the joke went.

  “Well, are you French?”

  The man grinned, and it was a lively grin. “Yes I am, and everyone with us. Whatever else they are, they are French. And they want their country back.”

  “This help you want.” She glanced at the house next door. Anyone could be watching from a curtained window. “Will it make a difference?”

  “If you are not caught—and the last woman was—yes.”

  “Then I’ll help.” The words were out of her mouth before she knew they were there. The tremor became something she hadn’t felt since Jean-Paul was alive.

  “Then you are a resistant.” He took the cigarette from his mouth and made a wry little ceremonial sign of the cross. “The cross of Lorraine, by the way. Our symbol.” He held up the cigarette. “Do you know the Americans smoke them only to here?”

  “Every nation should have a little taste of occupation, yes?” She folded her arms tightly against the chill, inside and out. “What do you want me to do?”

  “On Friday at 2 p.m., you will meet someone at the north café by the Caen Canal Bridge. You will sit at the northeast corner table, closest to the river. You will say not a word of this to anyone—not to your best friend, not to a priest, not to God.”

  “Who will I meet? A man or a woman?”

  “A woman. You may recognize her. Do not act surprised. She will ask if coupon J has been issued for the month. You will say, ‘I have no children, I wouldn’t know.’ When she answers, ‘Lucky you, I have three’ . . . you will know it is safe. If it doesn’t go exactly as I have said, leave the café as quickly as you can, as discreetly as you can. Repeat it to me.”

  “Coupon J. I have no children. Lucky you, I have three.”

  “Good. She will give you your instructions. The operation itself will begin in a few weeks.”
r />   “What happened to her? The woman who was caught?”

  He flicked away the cigarette. “She died.”

  “What is your name?”

  “My nom de guerre is Rafael. Someday, when this is over, I will tell you my real name.” He glanced up at the house. It was a two-story brick home, built by her grandfather. A little smile attended his inspection, and he shook his head. The smile soon left. “We know of Claudio Benoit.”

  “I can handle him.”

  “I do not doubt. But he is Milice. He may as well be SS. Do not change how you act around him. If you treated him with contempt before, continue. If you treated him with respect, continue. One more thing, mademoiselle. I had a friend who served under your fiancé. Jean-Paul Dubois was a good man. He would be proud of you.”

  “No, he would not,” she fired back.

  He caught her hand and kissed it. “Yes, mademoiselle. He would.” A little louder, he declared, “Such a face, such a body—wasted on the Germans!” He kissed his fingertips and tossed the kiss to the sky. “Say good-bye to a real man, m’selle!” He bowed low, replaced his hat, and lifted his chin in affected pride. He gave a quick wink and was gone.

  Michel’s office at the Rousseau Cimenterie in Caen was a comfortable, paneled room that resembled a library more than an office. It was a haven for a scholar, and that was what Michel’s father had been, when not running the business. On his father’s end of the room, a few comfortable wingback chairs stood on an oval rug by the fireplace. There was a small table for coffee and cognac and cigarettes, a desk layered with maps and articles and magazines, and two walls of bookshelves from ceiling to floor, overflowing with books. There was a whimsical display in the corner consisting of suitcases, safari hats, maps, and a pair of binoculars, as if someone were about to travel the world. The file cabinets and desk for running the business were shunted away on the opposite end of the room, near the windows, as if his father did not want business to intrude on real business.

  The older he got, the more Michel preferred his father’s end of the room, even if the fireplace was always cold, even if his father’s amenities of coffee, cognac, and cigarettes belonged to pre-Occupation days. Even if Father no longer sat in his favorite chair, posture correct even in repose, eyes all-knowing, a smile never far off.

  At the business end of the room, Michel Rousseau, alias Greenland, received the courier with a curt nod and indicated the chair in front of his desk. He nodded at his secretary, who had shown him in, and she withdrew, closing the door. Into the telephone, he said, “Yes, Hauptmann. He is here now. I’ll have him on his way shortly.”

  “German, please, Rousseau, when others are around,” the hauptmann said. “They need to hear you speak it.”

  Switching to German, Michel said, “Of course. It’s hard to go back and forth when you tell me you need to brush up on your French.”

  “How am I doing, by the way?”

  “Not bad. How am I doing?”

  “You’re coming along. Better than when we first met.” The hauptmann’s voice softened. “It may be a hundred years before German becomes your first language, but I say for your own good you need to get used to it. I’ll be honest: I prefer French. I like to speak it. But that’s the way it is.” More briskly, he said, “You are farther ahead than your countrymen.”

  “Than our countrymen,” Michel said with a wink at the courier. Rafael knew a little German, and if he only had half of the conversation, he had enough. Rafael grinned Michel’s favorite grin, the deeply amused one, the one he likely saved for the women; his brown eyes shone with conspiratorial promise.

  The hauptmann laughed, but Michel’s smile drained away at the German’s next words. “Honestly, Rousseau, I never know what to make of you. You could be Resistance for all I know. I could be speaking to the great Greenland himself. I am told he operates in Normandy. I think he goes by ‘G,’ now.”

  Michel never knew what to say when the hauptmann baited him like this. Never knew if he was being baited. He hated these games.

  “I certainly wouldn’t call myself G,” he said lightly, with a glance at Rafael. “These people have no imagination.”

  Rafael’s grin left him so quickly it could have been comical. He gripped the arms of the chair.

  “What would you call yourself?” the German asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Zippy.”

  “Surely not. Surely you would come up with something a revolutionist would be proud of. What is the name from Hugo?”

  Michel rubbed his brows, careful to keep the weariness out of his voice. “Les Misérables? Marius.”

  “Marius! I will call you Marius from now on.”

  “I would be ashamed of such a prosaic name. Zippy has imagination. I heard an American say it once, the one you sent from Brussels. He said, ‘Braun wants this delivered and you’d better be zippy.’”

  “I’ll call you Zippy.” Hauptmann Braun chuckled. “Agent Zippy.”

  “I’d prefer Marius.”

  It made the German laugh harder, and Michel knew it for one of his robust fake laughs. Neither man liked this game once they wandered into it.

  “All right, Marius. Listen, my coffee is here, and I like it hot and in silence, so I will leave you now.”

  “If the rail isn’t out, I’ll have André to your office by early afternoon.”

  “Very good. Bonjour.”

  “Auf Wiedersehen.” He replaced the telephone into the cradle, resting his hand on it.

  Rafael had wilted in his chair. “You are made of granite.”

  “It’s the first time he’s referred to the Resistance since he mentioned Max.” Was there a reason for it?

  Jean Moulin, alias Max, had died a death not so different from Jasmine’s. Moulin was General Charles de Gaulle’s right-hand man for the organization of the Resistance in France. He had done his best to unite the scattered groups, which had cropped up in varying degrees of well-meant but ragtag organization since Paris fell. The Gestapo had finally caught up with him. The aftershock of Moulin’s death nearly a year ago still trembled throughout the underground. Once Braun had made a comment—whether offhand or not, Michel was not sure—that things could rest a little easier now that the great Max had “retired.”

  “Do you think he suspects you?”

  Michel gave a dismissive little shrug, as if it were not even worth discussing. In truth, Braun had given him a jolt he’d not felt since the early days. But he was long used to concealing reaction, and especially from his Flame agents. “Why do you call yourself Rafael? I’ve always wondered.”

  “I thought it sounded virile.” He raised his arm. “Look, I can move again. Why do you call yourself Greenland? Zippy is nice. We could call you Z. Sounds more virile than G.”

  “If you ever call me Zippy . . . ,” Michel warned. Then he shrugged. “It’s Greenland because I’d like to go there someday.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” Michel smiled. Then he glanced at the door. It was closed all the way. Charlotte liked to keep Michel’s business Michel’s. “How did it go in Bénouville?”

  “She’s in.”

  It felt like a follow-up punch. Yet he nodded as if all was proceeding well. “Then the madame’s intuition was correct.”

  “She is different.” Rafael picked up his favorite paperweight from Michel’s desk and tossed it hand to hand. “Not like the other whores I’ve known.”

  “Do not use that word. I detest that word. What does she look like?”

  Rafael put the glass orb to his eye. He looked through it at the window. “She is determined, she is ashamed of what she does, and she is French to the core. That’s what she looks like. I’d marry her if it didn’t bother me where she’s been.”

  Brigitte Durand was the key to the entire operation. She owned the brothel the bridge guards frequented, and if she said no, François’s plans came to nothing. With all his heart, Michel had hoped she’d say no. Did he show himself in this?
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br />   He was tired. He felt old. A year ago, a plan like this would have intrigued him to distraction. He rose from his desk in pretense of giving a last careful inspection to the new set of designs on his desk, the designs Rafael would soon deliver to Braun.

  “And the American?” he asked casually.

  “He’s in, too. Of course, I didn’t give him details. I only asked if he was game for a little job to help out the Cause before we get him back to England. Some guys have all the luck. He doesn’t know he’s about to become the customer of a brothel.” He inspected the office through the paperweight.

  “He’s about to impersonate a German officer.” Michel riffled through the papers. Rafael examined his thumb with the paperweight, zeroing in and out.

  Michel’s hands stilled. It was happening too fast. Barely had François brought it up, and it was falling into place. This woman he’d never met, this young American pilot. They had no idea.

  “This is ludicrous,” he suddenly snapped. “She’s a prostitute. He’s a pilot. They’re not trained for this. They’re not agents. They’re not spies. We should move him down the line, get him back in the air to fight where he belongs. It’s criminal what we’re doing. They’re babies. This whole thing—” He broke off. He’d never lost composure with Rafael before, or with any of the Flame agents.

  Staring, Rafael lowered the paperweight. “This is a good risk, Monsieur Rousseau,” he said, bewilderment in his voice. “The man who recruited me would not hesitate to take a good risk.”

  Michel went to the windows. He gazed at the courtyard below. It was a cheerless March day, still cold and gray and damp. The cobbled pavement glistened with morning chill. He wasn’t strong anymore. He had been compromised through Jasmine’s torture and death; he knew it as well as François. The moment a man hesitated in this business, it was time to hand operations over to someone else. Hesitation led to indecision, and indecision was not only no way to lead, it cost lives.

  “I had a conversation with Braun a while back,” he said quietly. “He noticed my father’s copy of Mein Kampf on the mantel. He said in a jocular fashion, ‘A little light reading, Rousseau?’ And I said, ‘I used to think my father was an alarmist.’ My meaning was unmistakable. I spoke my first self around him, Rafael, the one I am before I am Greenland. I’d never done that.”