Father Yves’s contagious laughter pulled Etienne out of his brooding. A couple of the boys started a dog-pile, which began instantly growing in size. The mischief would never go unpunished by any man of the cloth in this sort of establishment, but Father Yves, however, appeared only to encourage it, judging by his reaction. Then again, Father Yves was quite far from being a regular priest, Etienne thought to himself, as he decided to approach the pile of orphans. It still amazed Etienne how fast, under Father Yves’s care, the children forgot the ordeal that had brought them to the Free Zone as they were fleeing the German invasion.
Mirth radiating from his steel-gray eyes, Father Yves finally noticed the figure in the black woolen coat standing not too far away, and quickly brought the boys back to order in a stern (though likely just for show) voice.
“Boys! Monsieur le Sous-Préfet is here. Brush yourselves off and greet him properly.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet!” An enthusiastic greeting followed at once.
“Good day to you too, young men.” Etienne tipped his hat with theatrical seriousness.
The children all knew him from his frequent visits invariably accompanied by a few boxes of pastry and candy, which won the children’s affection immediately.
Father Yves also brushed off his black robe and immediately offered his hand to his guest, which the latter shook firmly.
“May I ask for a few minutes of your time, Father?”
“Of course. It’s time for the children to go back inside anyway.”
The boys trailed after the two men without any command being necessary. Once again Etienne remarked to himself that the relationship between the supervisor and the orphans was built not only on respect but on almost parental love, which many of the children had likely lacked in the past, and which they now found in the face of this unlikely man – a former Great War hero and a current résistant, conveniently hiding his true nature behind the black cloth.
Yves’s office was nearly spartan in its simplicity, with a sturdy desk that had seen better times, three chairs – one for the priest himself and another two for his visitors, a bookshelf, and a file cabinet, in which he kept the orphanage's documentation. There were no rugs on the floor, no panels on the white-washed walls, but only a simple crucifix near the window. Unlike many of his peers, Father Yves didn’t care much for worldly possessions or for making the room into an imposing office. Etienne respected him even more for that. Yves was one of the most uncorrupted souls he’d ever met, despite the demons of his dark past, for which the former war veteran was so desperately trying to atone.
“How was your trip to Paris, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet? Productive, I hope?” Yves asked, offering his guest one of the chairs.
“Very productive indeed, Father.” Etienne placed a leather valise on his lap, tracing its contours with his fingers. “I met with Rex again.”
Yves pulled forward at once upon hearing the name, under which most of the résistants knew the man in charge of the Resistance movement in the Occupied Zone – the legendary Jean Moulin.
“Alone?”
“No, there were a few of us. He proposed quite a fascinating idea; unifying all of the Resistance press into one Bureau d’Information et de Presse, which will help all of the cells immensely. But not only will it help us here in France; he also offered to start distributing all of the underground newspapers outside the country, so that the rest of the world knows of everything that the Nazis are perpetrating here. And that’s one of the reasons I came to visit you today.” Etienne opened his valise and carefully extracted a few clandestine copies from its double bottom. “Would you try and smuggle these for me next time you take the pilots to the mountains? Once they take them back to Britain, their superiors will know how to make more copies and distribute them to the population.”
“If these papers start circulating outside France, our uniformed guests will be mad with rage.”
“They’ll just have to swallow this pill this time. Enough of shoving their propaganda down people’s throats all over the world; now, it’s our turn.”
“You certainly do love playing with fire, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet,” Yves remarked, collecting the papers from Etienne’s hands.
“So do you, Father,” Etienne replied with a grin. “I’ll be back in Paris in two weeks, and I shall bring you more after that.”
“Riding a train in such a manner, with these death sentences in your valise? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to find a reliable courier?”
“We had ‘a reliable courier’.” Etienne pursed his lips into a thin line, a shadow passing over his face. “People died, and the whole cell was nearly compromised. I’d rather smuggle them myself. Besides, who’s going to check my personal belongings? Quite often I share a compartment with senior Nazi officials or the local Vichy ones. Surely, their cronies won’t start patting me down in front of them.”
“Be careful, Etienne.” For once, Yves dropped their pretend form of official address.
“I always am,” Etienne assured him positively. “Any news from Augustine?”
“She’s going to complete her nursing courses in May. She has already made contact with Philippe and will be sending all of the information from him to us in regular telegrams. Coded, bien sûr. She’s also hoping to get some information from some of the Germans who are treated in the hospital. It is said they can be talkative fellows… particularly with pretty nurses.”
Etienne couldn’t read his expression as Yves got busy putting the papers away. He had long suspected that there was more to Yves’s and Augustine’s relationship than that of simple colleagues who used to work together in the orphanage. She had demanded of him, Etienne, to assign her to a more essential position after one of their fellow résistants, Blanche, turned out to be an agent “turned” by the Gestapo. Blanche has gotten hers when her own German superior ordered her execution, yet this fact didn’t lessen the losses their cell carried. Besides, having lost her husband to the Germans, Augustine was more than set on taking her revenge on them.
“I know that she wanted to be more active, but…” Yves heaved a sigh. “It’s not the same here without her. The children miss her and it’s rather difficult to manage everything without a female supervisor in the girls’ wing. At the same time, I’m afraid of taking someone from the street with all those things – and gentlemen – we hide downstairs. Now, if we could bring someone we knew and knew well… But I’m afraid that will not happen.”
“How’s Marcel doing?” Etienne inquired, changing the subject.
“He’s still not himself after the loss of his… friend,” Yves finished, subtly lowering his gaze. “It was a good idea sending him to the mountains. Exercise is good for him, taking our brave pilots across. Had he stayed here, he would have gone and done something stupid. Shot some official, or worse, crossed the line and went on a killing rampage among the occupying forces in the North.”
“You think?”
“Isn’t that how he started his ‘career’?” Yves shook his head. “No. It was a good decision to send him away. That, and the news his dearest sister is alive and well, calmed him down significantly. Have you met with her, by the way?”
“No. Not this time. I will, next time I go to Paris. In La Libération the article about the summary execution of another twenty hostages is written by her, by the way. You might want to read it before you send it to England. A rather angry article, I should say!”
“I can’t imagine her keeping her tone down on the Nazis’ account after what their Gestapo butchers did to her. It’s a miracle she made it out alive.”
“Indeed. We need more of such miracles.”
“We also need more angry people.”
“We do have those, and getting more and more day by day.” Etienne squinted at something in the distance. “All we have to do now is organize them properly and give them all weapons. And then France will be a free country, once again.”
Near The Pyrenees, April 1942
<
br /> Marcel carefully prodded and shifted the potatoes, slowly roasting them in the coals of the fire, lost in his brooding. Four British airmen, who sat in a circle like lambs clinging to their shepherd – quite a befitting allegory, come to think of it, as their very lives depended on this young man with hazel eyes full of sorrow – watched his movements licking their lips in anticipation as the smell of their simple meal intensified. A fifth one didn’t pay any heed to the roasting potatoes. Instead, with his light brows drawn together in concentration, he was busy perusing one of the Resistance’s clandestine newspapers that Father Yves had entrusted into Marcel’s hands.
It was this fifth Brit who approached Marcel later when the rest of them were already settling down in one of the caves that Marcel had been using as a shelter every time he took another trip across the mountains. With the wind howling angrily outside, the tall pilot lowered himself to the rocky ground next to Marcel, pointing at the article on the front page and clearing his throat before slowly putting together unfamiliar French words as well as he could. “Excuse me, could you explain certain things about this article to me? Is it about the recent bombing of the Renault factory in Paris?”
Marcel quickly scanned the paper and nodded, hiding a grin upon recognizing his sister’s writing. Giselle always sounded unapologetic and direct, making her statements without any excuses and certainly without any regard for anyone’s sentiment. She had written in this manner even during the good old days when France was still a free country, but now, after everything she’d been through under the Germans and their occupation, she sounded even more powerful and unforgiving.
“Were there many civilian casualties?” the British man pressed, genuine concern creasing his brow.
“Not too many. A rather modest number.”
“Your compatriots are mad at us, aren’t they?”
“No, why would you think that?”
“The person who wrote this article sounds quite angry to me,” the Brit noted, chewing on his lip.
“She’s not angry with your fellow countrymen. She’s angry with the Germans, who caused all this. She, just like the rest of the Parisians, understand very well that such measures are needed and it is unavoidable if we are to stop the German war machine from running. A few lost civilian lives are a fair price to pay for millions that such measures will eventually save.”
“She? The author of this article is a woman?” The pilot tilted his head to one side.
“Yes. And a rather feisty one.” Marcel gazed at the paper with a wistful grin, just now feeling a terrible longing to hug his sister once again. At least this was still a possibility; another person, who was so dear to his heart, was far beyond his reach, buried somewhere in an unmarked grave with the other brave men who gave their lives in the name of France Libéré. “Why does our French opinion bother you so much anyway?”
The airman sat quietly for a few moments, after which he confessed in a barely audible voice, “I was one of the RAF pilots who bombed it. My very first mission of this sort. I was a combat pilot before that. I used to fight with German opponents in the sky, not… bomb innocent civilians. The fighting was a fair game – I could get him, or he could get me. We both had guns. But this… this is murder.”
“I understand.” Marcel conceded, much to his surprise. “I understand very well, trust me. I killed an unarmed man once, and his face still stands before my eyes every night before I close them to go to sleep. But you must understand; this is war. Such things are unavoidable. We just have to think of the greater good for everyone. And as for our tainted conscience, well… We’ll just have to deal with it later.”
“But there are better ways of destroying the German-allied infrastructure and of keeping civilian deaths to a minimum. Or, even better, avoiding them altogether.”
Marcel pulled forward, turning all his attention to the pilot. “And what exactly do you propose?”
“Instead of bombing the factories, we could drop the plastic explosives to you in a crate. Those are of very high impact.”
“I know. I still bear the marks of one of your crates blowing up near me and my—” Marcel stopped abruptly and waved the pilot off as soon as the latter opened his mouth for a question. “And what do you suggest we do with the crates?”
“You bring the explosives into the factory, small package after small package. You can easily conceal them under your workers’ jackets. In the course of two-three weeks, even if it’s only one man who brings them inside, you’ll gather enough material to blow up a turbine or a few central engines, without which the production will stop. You can store them there in a safe place, set up a pencil detonator and the explosion will occur at night, virtually bringing the civilian casualties to zero.”
Marcel pondered the proposition for a few moments and slowly nodded his agreement.
“It is a grand idea. But will your superiors agree to it?”
“If I run it by my superiors and you run it by yours, and if your superiors send a few messages to my superiors in London, I’m quite certain we can work something out together.” The Brit smiled, reminding Marcel briefly of another Englishman, who had the most beautiful smile in the world, and who was lost to him forever.
“I will,” Marcel promised quietly and enclosed the pilot’s hand in his, holding it a bit longer than he wanted, tormenting himself with long-forgotten memories.
3
Paris, May 1942
Kamille only noticed that the sun had gone down when Violette, her ten-year-old daughter, turned the lights on in the living room, making a passing remark that it was hardly possible for Maman to do her embroidery in the twilight. Kamille blinked several times, emerging out of the state of oblivion in which she had spent the entire day, smiled weakly at the girl, and lowered a somewhat helpless gaze to the embroidery laying on her lap in her limp hands.
“I haven’t even noticed the time; fancy that.” She cast Violette another guilty look.
Violette looked at her mother with eyes far too wise for a child her age, walked over to her and kissed her temple. “I managed to get some pork at the butcher’s today. You stay here and rest, and I’ll start dinner.”
Kamille had just made a motion to go after the girl, but then lowered herself wearily back onto the stiff chair, in which she spent most of her days now, inert and restless at the same time. This occupation was a blessing in one respect; her mother-in-law, Madame Blanchard, now lived somewhere on the Riviera, in the Free Zone. Had she stayed here, she would have never missed a chance to scoff at Kamille, most certainly saying something incredibly cruel in its calculation, something of the sort of; ‘she was never a good wife to my late son Charles, and now is a horrible mother to their only daughter, Violette. To think of it, a little girl forced to stand in line to obtain something to eat while her no-good mother lounges in her chair, too preoccupied with her devastated state to pay any heed to the outside world and her only child. No wonder Violette didn’t want her anywhere near the kitchen – last time she nearly burned the house down, completely forgetting about the food cooking on the stove! Had poor Charles been alive, he would have long ago kicked her out of the house for such negligence.’
Kamille shook her head to clear it of Madame Blanchard’s voice, which sounded far too real in her mind. She would have left Charles herself; their marriage had been a mere sham anyway. He had never loved her. The only man who did might never return to her.
“Jochen,” she whispered into the empty room as though summoning the ghost of her beloved one, who made her the happiest woman on earth, and recently the most miserable one when a small note from the front had arrived.
“Dearest Madame Blanchard!
I beg your pardon for delivering you the news in such a rushed manner, but I only have a few minutes to write this note before we’re thrown into the battle again. It is with my utmost regret that I inform you that your husband, Hauptmann Joachim Hartmann, has been missing since last night’s offensive. The battle is still raging, an
d the front is true mayhem as of now, and I’m afraid that it’s nearly impossible to get any more information at this point. You have my word that as soon as we have any news concerning his fate, I will inform you immediately.
P.S. Jochen was my dearest friend and the most loyal comrade to serve with, and always spoke of you and your daughter Violette with such fondness! I also pray for his safe return.
Yours truly, Hauptmann Erich Graf.”
Kamille had received the letter, stained and torn at the corners, three weeks ago. Since then – nothing. The days dragged on unmercifully, filled with an anguish that tore her heart to shreds; the sleepless nights were even worse, and her pillows were invariably wet in the morning from all the tears she cried into them.
Everything in the cold, empty house reminded Kamille of him, an officer, who came to her as a lodger and left as her husband after they secretly wed a day before him leaving for the Eastern Front. She rubbed the narrow wedding band on her finger and looked around the room, which seemed devoid of life itself after his departure. This was his favorite chair; he loved smoking in it, right here by the window, his legs, in tall black jackboots, crossed, as he perused a newspaper with a pensive expression on his handsome face. It had been almost a year since he had gone, and yet Kamille still refused to move the heavy crystal ashtray from the small redwood table near his chair.
Liberation Page 2
