by Tracy Groot
“Major Kees brought Brigitte the loveliest little soaps. They know each other a few days, he brings her soap. You?” Her lip curled. “At least you brought the others raspberries.”
Claudio could not have been more pathetically found out.
“Flowers even once?” Colette shouted. “And we are supposed to be in love? Not a dandelion!”
Laroche rolled his eyes. “Enough. This matter is closed. Benoit, you will apologize to the men you roused. We will keep an eye out for this Kees, we will confiscate his motorcycle—which he likely stole from a garrison—and we will forget this silly debacle. He is long gone, ready to impress the next credulous oaf. Or—” he looked to Brigitte, smiling thinly—“the next, ah, young lady.”
Colette had revived Brigitte to her role.
“But I am in love,” she said miserably, leaving off the transcript, twisting the bloodstained cloth in her fingers. “You must find him! Please! You must bring him back to me!”
“You are in love,” Laroche softly mocked. “A whore does not know the meaning of the word. Love is . . .” He drew a long, filling breath, eyes misty and distant, and then apparently decided not to throw his pearls before swine. With fatherly kindness, patting her arm with the same hand that had struck her, he said, “I advise you to forget him, mademoiselle.” He glanced at the gendarme standing near the door and gave a motion to go. He left the kitchen, Claudio on his heels, leaving Colette and Brigitte alone.
The soiled piece of paper lay upon the kitchen table. Colette reached for it, slowly folded it. She held it for a moment and then handed it to Brigitte. She walked out of the room.
Brigitte held the paper to her stomach. When she could, she slipped it into her pocket.
She went to the back door to lock it, then opened it wide. In three desperate wrests, she yanked the sign off the door, Nur für Wehrmacht, and winged it into the yard. She shut the door, locked it, and headed for her room.
At the foot of the stairs, she stopped, gasping, a hand on each wall. He was gone. He was gone. She would never see him again. She bowed, until her head touched a step.
He would live. He would live. He was safe.
She lowered her hands. She rose, smoothed her dress, started up the stairs.
It was closing on 5 a.m., and Monsieur Rousseau had fallen into an exhausted sleep, head resting in the wingback. Charlotte fetched her gray wool sweater and covered him, tucking him in. She tenderly caressed his head, something she’d never dare if he were awake.
“So much like his father, don’t you think?” she whispered.
Gerard nodded. She slipped her hand into Gerard’s, and they left.
It was closing on 5 a.m., and Hauptmann Braun was trying to sleep. He liked Rousseau, and the man’s concern for an old woman was commendable. The treatment of the old woman was not.
Rousseau had said it could turn him into a resistant, and though Braun could hardly blame him, he’d not lose his only friend in the country. The woman was dead, and that’s all that really mattered. Wasn’t it? Maybe she did have a heart attack. He turned over and tried to close his eyes. Whenever he did, he saw the empty eyes and the bruised and swollen face of an old woman.
It was closing on 5 a.m., and Tom listened to Rafael slip out the back door.
He heard the halting creak as Madame Bouvier hobbled to her bedroom. He waited until he was sure the woman was asleep and then slipped out of bed.
He pulled on his trousers and tucked in the shirt Madame had said she would wash in the morning. He slipped on his coat. He settled his bulletless gun on his hip and put on the German hat. He looked in the mirror, but could not make out his reflection. He knew it was a German he’d see, and he’d sell every square inch of this German real estate to get Clemmie released. He didn’t know how. He’d figure it out as he went. The truth was, it was now or never. If he stayed, he’d lie to himself just as Rafael had lied, that somehow, someway, the Resistance would figure something out.
Immediate three-part plan: Get a weapon. Get an ally. Get going.
He’d go to Madame Vion at the château. “Century,” he whispered as he slipped out the back door and closed it soundlessly. “Greenland sent me.”
She was head of a Resistance cell; surely she could get him a weapon . . . and perhaps far more. A maternity hospital must have access to a vehicle. He could get to Cabourg, maybe in an ambulance. For now he only had to worry about getting to the château.
He pressed himself against the door. Two ways to get to the château: take the main road, or follow the Caen Canal. Both were rotten options. On the road he’d have to pass Brigitte’s, and who knew if the Milice were still there or if he’d encounter them on their way back to the Mairie. If he followed the Caen Canal, he’d pass too closely to the Caen Canal Bridge, heavily guarded and garrisoned.
What if he crossed the street and took backyards to the château? A straight crow-fly shot? He glanced at the sky. Though dawn was fast approaching, at least there was no moon to betray—And a sudden thought came. He’d take Clemmie with him. To Le Vey, to the airstrip where the Lysander was due in just a few days’ time. He’d take Clemmie with him to England. He grinned.
At least you gotta plan for after Cabourg, Oswald said snidely.
He squeezed his eyes shut. The Mairie was in eyeshot of Madame Bouvier’s. Crossing the road was the first and worst part. He’d have to do it for either route. He’d cross the street and get a feel for which route once there.
“Come on, Cabby. Now or never.”
He unpeeled himself from the door, crouched low, and made his way around the house to the front.
Laroche paused on the first step of the Mairie. Something wasn’t right. He turned and faced the street.
“What is it?” Paget said, a few steps ahead.
“I saw something.” Laroche peered across the road. Something did not belong. What was it? He half turned and almost retraced his last few steps. He was coming around the corner of the Mairie . . . he’d swept a cursory look across the street . . .
“There—in the hedge by the gate across the road.” False dawn had given the streets the barest gray illumination. Yet he wasn’t sure. He could see a shadow on the periphery, but not if he looked straight on.
“Paget, go out back and circle around. Take Janvier and Russo. One of you come from the right, one from the left, and put a man at the back in case he gets through that gate. Be careful; whoever it is may be armed.”
There was no reason a shadow should freeze in a hedgerow. Unless of course that shadow was a lunatic braggart whose best friend was Rommel.
When Brigitte awoke, it was only quarter past ten. She usually slept until noon, like the others. What had woken her?
A soft knocking at the door downstairs, that’s what.
She rose and grabbed her dressing gown, pulled it on as she hurried downstairs. She opened the door, and on the step was a small, homely young woman with large, fearful eyes. She clutched her coat beneath her throat.
“I have never been to a house of sin,” she squeaked.
Brigitte opened her mouth to answer, unsure what to say, but the girl blurted, “Madame Bouvier has a message for you. She regrets that she cannot meet for your spiritual journey at eleven. She will meet you at noon.” Despite the girl’s apprehension, she glanced past Brigitte, large eyes flitting for hints of sin. “She says to bring the verses.” Her eyes went to Brigitte. “If I were you, I would have them memorized. She is in a temper, mademoiselle.”
Something had gone wrong. Had she refused to take Tom in? Yet Brigitte had felt sure . . .
“Tell her I’ll be there,” Brigitte said.
Though it was only a fifteen-minute walk to the café, Brigitte left the house earlier, while the other three were still sleeping. She didn’t want to explain. She walked past the Mairie and kept walking to Le Port. She came to the church and stood in front, staring up at the bell tower. What could have gone wrong?
Someone informed.
So
meone denounced.
Madame Bouvier had not taken him in. She had called for Brigitte to tell her off.
Tom never made it there. He was shot along the way. Only Rafael made it to tell the story.
Tom made another mistake. They were beating a man and—
“Tom,” she whispered.
He came from the sky and brought the sky with him.
The patch of freedom in her room, this entity, this marvel—he came from a place where there was still free will, and of his free will, he came.
“Mademoiselle?” said a kindly voice at her side. “May I—? Why, hello again, Mademoiselle Durand.”
She stared into the face of Father Eppinette.
“Father? Pray for my friend Tom. He is in trouble.”
Father Eppinette inclined his head. “I will pray, child.” He looked at her, concerned. “Is there anything else I can—?”
She hurried away.
He was safe. He had to be safe. The sight of the Caen Canal Bridge gave comfort. He was like that steel bridge. He was strong, he was resilient. She would not fear unless given reason. She would act like the resistant she was, and the core of the word was resist. She would resist bad thoughts. She would resist fear.
Guillemot, the waiter, recognized Brigitte and favored her with a smile as he approached her table, same as before, in the northeast corner.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. How pleasant to see you. Will the madame be joining you?”
“Yes. Any minute.”
He sighed. “Alas, Adèle did not make the soup today. That brawler, Rondeau, did.”
“Rondeau uses too much salt?”
He sniffed. “Rondeau uses too much everything. He has the subtlety of a jackhammer. The soup should be finessed—but no. Rondeau assaults the soup. You will taste it to believe it, no charge, just enough to taste. You seem a sensible young woman. I collect witnesses to verify the violence done upon the soup.” He started to leave.
“How long have you known Madame Bouvier?” Brigitte said.
He paused and sent a swift glance about the café. It had only four or five other customers, all seated at the front.
“I know who you are,” Brigitte said softly. “What I don’t know is why she did it.”
The waiter wore a crisp, spotless white apron, out of place in folksy Bénouville. His black hair was perfectly oiled and groomed, his thin mustache precision trimmed. He stood for a moment, gazing out the window at the café across the street, whether in the grip of a distant memory or simply trying to decide how to answer, Brigitte could not guess.
“I do not know her story, mademoiselle, and I have not asked. I only know she saved my life.” He started away, then hesitated. “War does strange things, does it not? People come forward to show who they are in war.” He left for the kitchen.
Brigitte looked out the window at the bridge, and fell into a sort of daze, keeping her thoughts blank. Before she knew it, a small bowl appeared on the table.
“Voilà,” Guillemot said. “Taste, and be objective.”
Brigitte hardly dared to be objective. She could not bear to let him down. Tentatively, she took a sip of the red slurry with a swirl of orange froth and frowned in concentration. She looked up in surprise.
“Salt,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Yes!” Guillemot cried. “Go on.”
She took another taste, shuddered. “Garlic.”
“I weep. Continue.”
“Enough tarragon to flavor two pots, and an unwelcome presence of . . .” She tasted another sip and said, perplexed, “Fennel.” When he did not comment, she looked up.
Guillemot clasped his hands over his heart, held them out to her, pressed them on his heart again. When he found his voice, he said, “I am surprised you do not smash the bowl and denounce Rondeau a heretic. You gladden my heart.” To Madame Bouvier, who had appeared unnoticed, he said, “She gladdens my heart. Her sensitivities are your own, madame. ‘Unwelcome presence of fennel . . .’”
Madame Bouvier looked at the soup and said grimly, “Rondeau. Why can you not chain Adèle to the stove?”
Guillemot shook his head in dark agreement. “We have tried.” He then said briskly, “Tea?”
“Coffee?”
“No.”
The madame sighed. “Tea.”
With a last admiring look at Brigitte, Guillemot whisked the offensive bowl from her sight, then went to the kitchen.
Madame pulled out a chair, propped her cane against the wall, and sat. The blue eyes glanced at Brigitte as she settled in, arranging her lavender Bible and pocketbook. She wore the makeup of their first encounter, but beneath it was the pale, taut weariness of the last.
Brigitte said, “What happened?”
“The gladiator went to rescue the Christian. He was gone this morning.”
They were beating a man today . . .
“How very like him.” A swell of relief replaced dread, and she briefly closed her eyes. But when she opened them, nothing had changed on Madame Bouvier’s face. “Tell me,” she breathed.
“This morning a man came to my shop to bring a book for the book drive,” Madame said quietly. “He is stationed at the Mairie, Resistance posing as Milice. Brigitte . . . the gladiator has been taken.”
. . . Mayday, this is Angel three. I’m hit.
“I wish I could tell you he is in French custody. Vile as they are, as little faith as we owe them, the Milice are still French and one cannot but hope they will remember it. But I am afraid he was turned over to the Gestapo. He has been transferred to headquarters in Caen. I am very . . . Brigitte?”
Guillemot!
The poor creature! How white!
Get some water. Brigitte, look at me. Take hold of yourself. She has had bad news, Guillemot.
Here—she must put her head between her knees.
It is undignified . . .
It works, madame, when one is faint. There you are, my dear. Breathe deeply, mademoiselle.
I will not let him die.
Of course you won’t, my dear.
I will get him released.
Of course you will. A woman with such a palate can do anything. Breathe deeply. There you are, my dear . . .
Brigitte set out her best navy-blue dress with the silvery sash. It was no Coco Chanel, but it was classically cut, stylish, and fit perfectly. She set out blue pumps, pearl earrings, a pearl necklace, and an original—if worn—Elsa Schiaparelli jacket. She’d worn this on her last day at the American embassy. She had no stockings—silk, nylon, or otherwise. No matter. She had dyed her legs last week, and it had not yet faded. Marie-Josette had penciled in a seam on the back of her legs. The faded line was enough to trace over.
Wearing her slip, she went to work in front of the mirror. Light makeup soon hid most of the pallor and the bruise at the corner of her mouth. She styled her hair, coaxing dark curls into place, and dabbed her wrists, temples, and neck with rose water. She slipped into her clothing and surveyed the effect.
Colette appeared in the reflection of the mirror, at the bedroom door. “Marie-Josette told me of his arrest. Where are you going?”
Brigitte applied lipstick, rubbed her lips together, and tucked the tube into her pocketbook. She went to the top drawer of her dresser, rummaged beneath lingerie, and found Grandfather’s old, black leather purse with the clasp. It was all the money she had: 277 francs and some change. She put the purse in her pocketbook.
“I am going to Caen. I will not be back. Not unless I come back with him.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. I will start at the Rousseau Cimenterie.”
She picked up the small suitcase she had packed, tucked her pocketbook under her arm, and passed Colette as she left the room.
Marie-Josette waited at the back door. She wrapped her arms around Brigitte. “Be safe,” she whispered. “Tell the Matterhorn we said hello.”
Simone stood with arms folded in the kitchen doorway, looking on wit
h a half smile. “Good luck, Brigitte.”
“I love you all,” Brigitte suddenly said. “Go to Father Eppinette for me, will you? Have him light candles. Have him say prayers.”
Colette appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “I will go. Good luck.”
Thin strips of cable were surely not as comfortable as standard-issue handcuffs. He shouldn’t complain; at least his wrists were bound in front. The vehicle pulled up to a tall building draped with an immense swastika. Tom had passed this building with Michel early yesterday morning on the very walk that might have bought this trouble.
You shoulda kept going.
Shut up, Ozzie.
But Oz was right. He’d stepped into the open and was halfway across the street when the Milice hit squad came around the corner. He froze right in the middle of the street, then dashed back toward Madame Bouvier’s, diverting left at the last second when he realized that if he was caught there, he’d draw attention to her. He had some idea to ditch into a hedgerow only to find that there was no ditching into a hedgerow. The thing was impenetrable, and he was in the wide blaring open. So he pressed himself in as far as he could, then held very, very still.
It almost worked. Nearly the entire squad had emptied into the building, when the last man paused.
A guard opened the door, pulled him from the car, and that’s when he heard it. His heart jumped. He looked up, he looked around. No mistaking that sound—it was the radial engine of a P-47.
And there they were, like some beautiful soaring miracle in the noon-blue sky, a formation of three gorgeous Jugs on the way back to Ringwood or Stoney Cross or—
“Beweg dich,” the soldier said, then shoved him forward.
“Neem gemakkelijk, joch,” he muttered in Dutch. Take it easy, buddy.
They had passed Rousseau’s house, a few streets over, but Tom was careful to let his eyes run over it as impassively as the rest of Caen. He’d had time on the way from Bénouville to come up with a plan on how he would conduct himself during the interrogations. He’d tell lies based on facts. They knew he was Cabby, and they knew he was Tom, though how they knew he could not fathom. But it didn’t mean they knew he was an American pilot, or that Rousseau was Greenland, or that André Besson, the courier for the Rousseau Cimenterie, was Rafael. He’d keep them away from Rousseau and Rafael and Brigitte.
