by Tracy Groot
It was the last time Tom cooked.
Rousseau’s face, this evening, was placid. The fellas would say he was a man who kept his cards close to the vest. It had been so for two weeks. Now he seemed like a man ready to put a few cards on the table. But before Tom could ask a question, and he had many, Rousseau beat him to it.
He glanced at the three booklets Tom shuffled in his hands. “I have found that before a mission, there comes a calm in which everything that can be done has been done. Perhaps this is similar with battles. I wouldn’t know. I have not served in the military.”
“It’s like that.” Tom shrugged, thinking of the bunk room in the big house where his squad was quartered. No one would ever talk of the mission the next day, especially if it was a big one.
“The more I get to know you, the more I do not believe what you told me at the first, that this is a chance to do something for the Cause.”
Tom paused in shuffling the booklets. “Why is that important?”
“Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it is. What is your motive for taking on this very dangerous job?” He took a cigarette from a metal case and lit up.
“My motive?” Tom said, starting to get annoyed. “I’m doing what you want me to do. Why should you care?”
“Oh, I will tell you why.” He shook out the match and tossed it in the ashtray. “A mission can depend upon what started it. If my motive is not strong enough, then later I get confused, and I drift; I need to find my way back to the beginning and remember why I got involved in the first place. I need to go back to motive, and find it strong. If it is not strong, then I lose . . . oh . . . what is a good English word. My follow-through.” He made a pushing motion. “I lose that which pushes me from behind to follow through.”
“Your power.”
Rousseau waved his hand, as if that wasn’t quite the word but would do. “Oui. My power. You must not lose yours. What is the source of your power for this mission? Where does it begin?” When Tom did not answer, he added, “What is your story?”
Tom shuffled the booklets more slowly and finally stopped. “Once upon a time there was a mother. A good mother. And Germany bombed Rotterdam. And the mother’s sister died. The end.” He resumed shuffling.
“Revenge,” Rousseau said, as if he hadn’t expected it.
“Sure.”
“I hope you find something else.”
“She’s some mother.”
“I do not doubt. Maybe she is enough. Revenge is not. It does not have enough in it.”
That seemed a ridiculous thing to say. Not enough in revenge? What about Hitler’s revenge? This war was supposed to be payback for the first, and so far the world had paid in spades. But, he thought sourly, how could he argue? He was younger, he hadn’t lived in an occupied country for four years—to Rousseau, he couldn’t possibly have enough credibility for a viable point. He cast about to change the subject.
“I’ve been thinking about the prostitute. What do you know of her?” Tom looked from the booklets to Michel. He was smoking contentedly. He wasn’t used to Rousseau content. “Why does she do what she does?”
Michel breathed out a column of smoke. He gave the little shrug Tom was beginning to associate with all Frenchmen. “You will have to ask her.”
“How can a girl—?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s degrading, isn’t it? Here or in America. I keep thinking about what Rafael said, if Canada invaded Michigan. What if one of the girls I knew from high school did that?”
“You would be disgusted?”
“You bet I would! If Canada’s the enemy, and they occupy us like the Germans, and then a girl from Jenison High sleeps with an enemy Canadian . . . that’s treason. In my eyes, it is. How is it for you?”
Michel nodded slowly. “About the same.”
“At the very least, it’s a bad thing to do. Here is what I don’t understand: this Brigitte is doing something bad, and now she’s doing something good, and brave, something that could save a lot of Allied lives and get her arrested and killed. How do you figure that?”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you explain it? It’s suspicious to me. Maybe she’s a double agent. Have you thought about that?”
Michel shook his head. “She has been doing something to get herself arrested for over a year. We learned of Brigitte through a woman who runs another cell. Brigitte had discovered that this woman hid downed Allied airmen. Instead of denouncing Madame Vion, she’s been bringing the Allies food—once or twice a week.” Rousseau smiled wryly. “All the while, running her brothel. Now try to figure her out.”
Tom whistled. Rousseau stiffened, and Tom winced. “Sorry.”
“Do not whistle, Cabby. Ever, ever, ever.” He muttered something in French, then adjusted his shoulders, and said more mildly, “So. How do you feel about meeting her? How do you feel about dealing with a prostitute?”
“I’m not sure. It’s not like Jenison has—and I’ve never—I mean, I was seventeen, I quit school to join up, and . . .” He scratched his jaw and chuckled nervously, glad for a moment that the guys weren’t around. “I guess that’s beside the point, right?” He felt his face begin to warm. He’d had plenty of time to think about meeting her. Since she was a prostitute, what if she expected . . . ? She wouldn’t, would she? Of course not, why would she? And would he . . . ? No! He shifted in his seat. Not the first time, with a prostitute. What she’s doing is treason twice—treason to her country and treason to her gender.
What if she’s pretty?
What if she’s got a great figure?
What if I’m tempted?
His face flamed. He cleared his throat and said roughly, “So what about you? Have you met her?”
Rousseau shook his head. “No. And I am glad.”
Tom nodded grimly. “Because, as a Frenchman, what she does disgusts you.”
The contentedness finally drifted from Rousseau’s face. He leaned forward to press out the cigarette. “Because I cannot hold in my arms one more woman who has died for freedom. I do not have it in me.”
Tom began to shuffle the booklets.
“I guess you’ll have to go back to your beginning,” Tom presently said.
“Nothing there is strong enough.”
Brigitte raised her head at the kitchen sink. She did her best to keep cool. Anything that came out of Colette’s mouth could set her off. But this . . .
She turned to Colette at the kitchen entry. “This is my home, Colette.” This couldn’t be happening. She suppressed a wave of panic. “I say who moves in. Not you.”
“Well, what can I do about it?” Colette said angrily. She rummaged in her purse for a cigarette, threw it down when she found none. “I can’t tell him no. Neither can you.”
Colette didn’t look any more pleased about Claudio Benoit moving into her room than Brigitte did. Brigitte wondered why. They were to marry, one day.
“Why should he move into my home? They have no other place to put their people?”
“It’s closer to the bridges. They believe the Resistance is planning something.”
“Then why can’t he stay in the Bénouville Mairie?” The town hall was much closer to the bridge.
“Not enough room. Too many soldiers, he said.”
“When is he moving in?”
“I don’t know!” Colette snapped. “Soon! Ask him yourself.”
She couldn’t stop it. If she tried, they would take away her home. They could do anything they wanted. French ownership of anything was a farce. Property deeds meant only as much as the capricious whim of whoever inspected them.
The operation had to be called off. It was far too dangerous now. Wasn’t it? Brigitte began to pace the small kitchen.
From the moment she met Rafael, she had a chance to do something for her country—no, if she was being honest, that wasn’t true. She had a chance to hold her head up when the war was over. A chance for personal redemption that no one else had a part of; it was for her, and
her alone. She made fists; her nails bit into her palms. That turncoat Milice pig was not going to keep her from it!
She stopped pacing. No. No, it wasn’t for her alone.
It was for her stupid, sleepy, whore-hating village. It was for the boys who threw fish guts. For Guillemot, the waiter. It was for her country. She was now a part of something far bigger than personal pride, and with it came an unexpected burden of responsibility. It was not an unpleasant feeling. In fact, it was the opposite, something she wanted to hold tight to her chest. But it was unfamiliar.
It was only fair to send out a warning about Benoit moving in. If they had to shut everything down, if she lost her chance to hold up her head, so be it—but if she didn’t warn them, she could never hold up her head again.
She stood very still, then went to the peg and took her coat.
“Where are you going?” Colette demanded. Brigitte paused in pulling on her coat. Colette’s disheveled sandy-brown curls framed an irritated face.
She shouldered into her coat, then went over to Colette. What was it about this girl that provoked as much compassion as anger? “I don’t know why you run with Claudio. You hate him.”
“It’s you I hate,” Colette hissed, her face contorting to deeper, ugly lines of contempt.
“Yes, and I don’t know why. We were friends once. But you do hate him. You hate everybody. Yourself most of all. And I am sorry for it. And I am sorry for you. I remember who you used to be. I miss that you.”
Colette slapped her face.
Brigitte stood motionless until the pain passed.
Colette wanted a catfight in the worst way. So the only way to win was not to fight at all. She went to the door.
“You’re going to the château!” Colette shouted, a sob catching her voice. “You always do, when you’re upset! What do you do, imagine it’s a garden in England? Does that cursed imagination get you out of France? Does it bring back your Jean-Paul?”
“I am going to La Broderie to talk to the witch who wants to convert me.” She took out the list of Bible verses she had carefully smoothed out and showed it to Colette. “If I convert, won’t it settle a lot of things? You can have the house all to yourself. Claudio can even have my room. Cross your fingers, Colette; let’s see how good the witch is at conversion. I could be out of your life for good.”
She slipped out. She had not gone three steps before she heard the crash of a teacup against the door.
It was quiet in the shop. Madame Bouvier sat behind the counter, sorting through a basket. There was only one customer, a thin young woman, barefoot, with greasy, unkempt hair and a stained and threadbare dress. The dress was tight and far too short. It looked like a child’s dress. Looked as if she’d worn it since the beginning of the Occupation. She fingered the edge of a bolt of fabric, looked at the cloth as hungrily as she would doubtless have looked at a loaf of bread. Brigitte studied cards of buttons on a rack near the back of the store. She occasionally glanced at Madame Bouvier, who took no notice; her disapproving glare was for the scruffy young woman.
“Look,” she finally said to her, “are you going to buy anything?”
The girl snatched her fingers from the fabric. Madame Bouvier jerked her head at the door. The girl slowly made her way to the door, touching items as she went, a bit of lace, a packet of thread.
“Shall I make you empty your pockets?” Madame said.
The girl trailed her fingers along the top of a lovely old Hurtu sewing machine for sale. She finally left.
“She had no coat. She only wanted to get warm. Still, I’m glad she’s gone.” Brigitte went to the counter with several cards of buttons. She took out the uncrumpled sheet of Bible verses and laid it next to them. She glanced at a canister on the counter labeled, “One and a half million Frenchmen in POW camps. They are hungrier than we. Put your change here and make a difference.” A card next to the canister said, “Book Drive for the POWs—Bring in a book and receive 10% off your purchase.”
“What are you doing here?” Madame said in a low tone.
“Yes, I shouldn’t be here, right? There isn’t a place for one like me.” She continued to study the cards of buttons, in case someone outside was watching. “We have a problem.”
“Whatever it is, it’s yours, not mine.”
“Do you know who Claudio Benoit is?”
“No.”
“Rafael does. He is about to move into my home. He is Milice. He told Colette he is to keep an eye on the bridges. Now he can keep an eye on my home. He says the Resistance is up to something.”
“The Resistance is always up to something.”
“What do I do?”
“Figure it out,” Madame Bouvier snapped.
For the first time, Brigitte noticed the makeup wasn’t perfect. In fact, she wore hardly any. It made her look older.
“What’s with you?”
“Do you know who paid me a visit the other day? A soldier from the bridge.” She reached for a pair of crutches that Brigitte had not noticed and used them to walk carefully around the counter. Her foot was bound in cloth. She propped the crutches against the counter, then bent to unwind the cloth. It fell away to reveal the shocking sight of a foot deeply bruised and swollen. The toes were puffy, and a few toenails had turned black.
“He wondered why I had not yet put the word slut on my sign. Then he stomped on my foot with the heel of his boot and said if I did, he would break the other one.”
Brigitte’s hand went to her mouth. Marie-Josette’s German. The one Brigitte didn’t think was so bad, for a German.
“They wanted to know why I couldn’t get the lace,” she said faintly. “I told them. You said to be myself . . .”
Madame Bouvier bent to rewrap the foot, but Brigitte swooped to do it. When she finished, she looked up at the madame. “Is it too tight?”
“It’s fine,” she mumbled.
Brigitte stood. “Claudio moves in soon. The American has not yet come.”
The woman’s face was pasty gray with pain and lack of makeup. “You want to call it off? Is that why you’re here? You want to quit?”
“No! But things are far more dangerous for that pilot.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“It is only fair to—Can’t you tell them—?”
“I won’t risk a message just because things got hard.” Then the rancor lessened. “What’s new? Nothing ever goes as planned. That’s the only thing you can plan on.” She fit the crutches under her arms. “Do not waste my time with things like that. I’m watched more than ever. Don’t you know the Gestapo is in the next building?” She slowly hobbled around the corner of the counter. She settled onto her stool with a sigh of relief, propping the crutches against the shelves.
“I am sorry about your foot.”
Madame pulled the basket to her lap and went back to sorting. Brigitte started for the door, remembered a few centimes in her pocket, and slipped them into the canister.
She had her hand on the door to leave when Madame Bouvier said, “I asked myself how the two of us were alike, once I knew I would be working with you.”
Brigitte stopped. She did not turn around.
“It is not easy to work with others in the Resistance. There are many with whom I would never ordinarily associate. If I have to work with someone I do not like, or with someone who has a job like yours, one of which I do not approve, I ask myself: what do I have in common with this person? If I find something in common, it is easier.”
Brigitte did not move, wondering if there was more, wondering if she wanted to stay around and hear it.
“Your home is unlicensed,” Madame continued. “When Madame Vion told me you refused to register your establishment as a brothel with the French government, I thought, Here is a girl I understand. She doesn’t want to be pushed around. She wants to be in control. But know this, if you don’t already: your control is an illusion.” Her tone dropped to a low mutter. “Nothing but an illusion.”
> Brigitte waited, but she said no more.
She left the store, turning right to go home. But she stopped and turned to face the Caen Canal Bridge. She started walking.
She stopped at the end of the street, at the bridgehead, between the two cafés. The café on the right was run by a couple who didn’t seem to like to wait on prostitutes any more than they did Germans. She had been there, once, with Marie-Josette. The café on the left employed a Jew rescued by a Jew hater, whose foot had been broken because Brigitte had opened her big mouth.
She looked at the hulking steel bridge. Just past it, situated on the southeast side of the riverbank, was a permanent gun emplacement with a large gun built on a swivel, a gun that was not a machine gun but an antitank gun. On the northeast side was the house of the bridge keeper. Only yesterday Private Tisknikt told her it was due for demolition in a few weeks. When she asked why, he said it would clear the way to see anything coming from the sea.
A salty breeze stirred her hair, and she smoothed a lock behind her ear. The invasion was coming. The Germans prepared, the Resistance prepared, the Allies prepared. She had been in Caen when the Allies had bombed a factory, but it was hard to imagine bullets and explosions in this sleepy little town. Hard to imagine German tanks. Would it come to that? War, right where she stood, in this street, at that bridge?
A sentry at the south end of the bridge paused in his strolling patrol to peer at her. She was standing still, after all, while others passed by. Who stood still these days? The act was as suspicious as running. If you ran, you were guilty. If you stood, you were guilty. She turned and started for home.
She was passing La Broderie when she heard a scream. She froze, staring at the storefront. She took a step toward it and heard it again, an agonized sound to clutch at her stomach. But it didn’t come from Madame Bouvier’s shop. Somewhere to the right, the pub or the room above it.
The Gestapo is in the next building . . .
The anguished scream came again, then stopped abruptly. A passerby heard, too; he glanced at Brigitte with a heavy, grim look. Had they heard it in civilized times, both would have rushed to aid.
