His study (for Kamille refused to call it Charles’s study ever since Jochen came into her life) was also in the same untouched state just as he left it. When she came close enough, Kamille could still recognize a faint smell of tobacco imprinted into the heavy velvet drapes, framing the windows. And the bed… Kamille let out a desperate, ragged breath. How cold and empty it was without him!
Kamille jumped swiftly to her feet, pulled the shawl over her shoulders against the cold of the unheated room – hardly anyone could afford the luxury of wood for their fireplace these days – and paced the room, her steps muffled by the large rug.
“Unbearable. No, it’s impossible to take anymore!” she whispered to herself, casting anxious glances into the hallway’s direction, fearing for Violette to see her in such a distressed state.
She had not told her daughter anything about Jochen going missing. The girl had just found a father in their unlikely uniformed guest a year ago, a father that Charles had never been to her, and Kamille’s heart could not bear the thought of breaking such news to her. It would only break Violette’s heart just as it was breaking hers now.
Kamille suddenly stopped and straightened her back, a look of determination settling over her delicate features. “It’s the unknown that is impossible to bear. I can’t go on like this anymore. I’ll go mad, most certainly. No, I have to search for him until I find him. I will find him. I know I will.”
She could hardly wait for the first rays of sun to seep through the tightly closed shutters of her bedroom the next morning. Within two hours, she was dressed in her smartest attire, twisting the handle of her purse in her nervous fingers as she sat in the anteroom of the Kommandantur. Jochen used to work there before his transfer to the front. Her brave, handsome Jochen, possibly lying abandoned somewhere in the Russian steppe, with ravens circling above his broken body. No. No thinking like that. It’s bad luck. She prayed so hard every day for his return! He simply couldn't die because she waited for him, because she loved him more than she loved herself...
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear at first when a young officer in a gray uniform called her name and showed her into the office of the Wehrmacht official, who now occupied her husband’s old post. Kamille was in a state of such nervous exhaustion that she found it impossible to utter a single word. Instead, she burst into tears, handing the officer the frontline letter with a trembling hand.
“Herr Major, I beg of you, help me find my husband!” she sobbed out, pressing a crumpled handkerchief to her pale lips. “He used to work here before you until he was transferred to the front in Russia. He’s been missing since March…”
Major Decker, a middle-aged man with a high forehead and dull gray eyes, studied the letter carefully after putting the spectacles, in a thin golden frame, on the bridge of his nose.
“Your husband?” He glanced at Kamille over his glasses.
“Yes, Herr Major. We married right before he was set to depart for the front. We wedded in a church; there are no official papers, only a church-book entry. He was afraid that I would find myself in trouble with my fellow countrymen without his protection, once he left.” Kamille dabbed her reddened eyes with a handkerchief, forcing her voice to sound as firm as possible.
“I don’t blame him for taking such precautions. Your countrymen can be most disagreeable at times,” the German remarked coldly, pinching his mouth into a thin line. “Still, he never informed his superiors, did he?”
“No.” Kamille lowered her eyes under his scrutinizing gaze. “He would have to obtain official permission, and… We didn’t have enough time for that. He wanted to leave me as his wife, not as… I also have a young daughter, you see…”
“I understand.” The Major cleared his throat, sensing her embarrassment, and drummed his fingers on top of his desk pondering something. “I will make inquiries about Hauptmann Hartmann through my channels and will inform you immediately as soon as I find out any information. And as for you, Madame… I would strongly recommend you obtain the official new papers with your new German last name on them. It will help you and your daughter immensely with food coupons and many other things, currently available only to Germans. And don’t fret; no one will bother you. I’ll sign all the necessary forms for you.”
A week later, Kamille found herself in the same visitor’s chair across the desk from the Major, inwardly commending the famous German efficiency. Decker laid out two documents before her; her new carte d’identité with the name Hartmann in it, and an official note from the front informing Major Decker that Hauptmann Hartmann had sustained severe injuries in action but had survived and was currently in a hospital in Germany.
“Unfortunately, they don’t know which one, Madame. The last they saw of your husband was when they put his stretcher on the train with all the wounded, headed to Germany.”
“But why wouldn’t he write to me then?”
The Major fell silent, mulling over his next words.
“There could have been a bombardment, Madame. Our trains with wounded always bear a sign of the Red Cross, but the Russians don’t pay much heed to such trifles.” The bitter emotion in his voice was obvious.
“Mon Dieu!” Kamille’s voice trembled against her will, her blue eyes wide open in horror.
The German pulled forward and covered her hand with his in a sympathetic gesture that was rare for him. “Don’t worry yourself over something that is not certain yet. He may already be in Germany, in too bad of a condition to write to you. Wait a little; it is my sincere belief that after a few weeks we’ll find out more.”
“No, I can’t bear anymore waiting!” Kamille rubbed her eyes with her hand once again, seemingly forgetting all her manners.
Much to her surprise, such devotion to his fellow countryman endeared the stern Major to the point where a warm smile passed over his face. “Well, you can always travel to Germany to look for your husband. You will need a special pass, of course.”
“What kind of a pass?” Kamille’s eyes lit up with renewed hope.
“A Red Cross Nurse’s pass would be best, I’d say. It should do just fine. And the courses last only a couple of months. If you don’t mind the sight of blood, of course.”
Out of three siblings in her family, Kamille had never been a brave child. Neither was Marcel, who preferred walking around with his nose glued to a book since he was seven. Her sister Giselle, now she was brave, and she certainly didn’t mind the sight of blood. But, Giselle had died a hero’s death, at the hands of the ruthless Gestapo, and Kamille still wore black, mourning her death. Giselle wouldn’t think twice before jumping on the first train to Germany. Kamille was the quiet, middle child, too shy to speak her mind and too fearful to stand up for herself. Giselle always protected her. But Giselle was dead, and now it was only Kamille and the war-ravaged, hostile world against her. And it was up to her to make a decision.
“I’m not afraid, Herr Major,” she spoke, at last, the image of her wounded, helpless husband giving her unexpected determination. “I’ll finish those courses, and I’ll go to Germany.”
I’ll go to the end of the world for him if needed, she finished inside her mind and smiled.
Paris, May 1942
Etienne patiently waited while Michele Demarche prepared the papers for him. This time Etienne would smuggle through the Demarcation Line not only the rebellious Libération but also various notes, collected by the highly organized owner of the publishing house – underground leaflets and newly decoded reports from London.
With heavy blackout drapes tightly drawn, dim light was provided only by the green-shaded lamp on Monsieur Demarche’s imposing desk. Etienne studied the spines of various books on the bookshelf, which occupied the entire opposite wall of the publisher’s office. He raised his brows curiously as his fingers grazed the golden letters of the first edition of a book, which he by no means expected to find here, or in any bookstore of France. Etienne carefully pulled it out and turned it towards the light, studying
the author’s portrait on the front page.
Either it was the deceiving light of the room, or she was indeed smirking slightly, her blonde hair short and curled according to the early-thirties fashion. Her devious eyes, narrowed ever so slightly, appeared to be mocking him. Her delicate hand, with painted nails, was holding a pen above paper. The woman who had sacrificed herself to save their cell. Not only the cell but his life as well. For some inexplicable reason, for the first time in his life, Etienne felt the heat coloring his immaculately shaven cheeks with shame. Coward; he averted his gaze from the portrait. He, the invincible Chief who managed the whole of the Resistance in the Free Zone, had sent a defenseless woman into the clutches of the Nazis while he sat safe and sound at a table with the worst of the collabos, sharing a glass of cognac with them, toasting to the Germans’ generosity.
Deep in his brooding, he didn’t even notice when Michel approached him, smiling fondly at the book in the young man’s hands.
“My treasure, I always called her. I discovered her; well, to be exact, she discovered me herself. Burst into my office, drove my secretary to distraction demanding a meeting with me and nearly forced her manuscript into my hands. Imagine that? A feisty little thing she was. Scrawny like a crow, pale like a ghost but the fire! The fire she had in her eyes! I knew that a girl with such fire in her eyes would write something worthy. I read her manuscript in a few hours and couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. Paced my bedroom like a man possessed for it wouldn’t let me sleep! ‘A Good Man’s Bayonet’ the title was. She wrote about the war, that little birdie of a girl. Fancy that? A girl writing about the war… She wrote it like a veteran who went through it; that’s what wouldn’t let me sleep. I even doubted that it was her who authored it at first. But then I invited her into my office – right there she sat, in that very chair – she started speaking, and I was lost to her. Not in any indecent way, I assure you – I’m far too old of a man for that – but as a man who cherishes the written word. That is a first edition that you’re holding. She changed her appearance quickly soon after. She already knew what Paris wanted from her. And naturally, Paris fell in love with her as well.”
Etienne closed the book and returned it to its place, carefully moving the books apart for it to fit into the space between them.
“I’m glad she survived,” he murmured, giving the spine of the book a last subtle stroke. “And this copy, too. I thought they have all been destroyed after…”
“They were,” Michel Demarche conceded, fixing his tortoiseshell glasses, the lenses of which gleamed in the amber light of the room. “I kept it despite the orders. She was, still is, one of my best authors, and I have every intention of keeping her works where they belong, on this very shelf. Just like Adam Levy’s, my poor boy, who the Nazis are also harassing. He’s Jewish, you see. They were good friends, Giselle and him. She would be devastated to find out that his apartment was confiscated. You should see the room he’s been forced to rent! I haven’t told her anything. I don’t want to upset her even further. She feels helpless as it is, the poor child…”
Etienne moved his lips as though he wished to speak, then fell silent for a few moments before raising his eyes back to his late father’s friend.
“May I see her?” he asked quietly, before clearing his throat as if the words shattered his always perfectly kept composure.
Michel Demarche inclined his head slightly, smiled at some thought of his and nodded at last. “Bien sûr. Follow me. She’ll be happy to see a new face.”
Etienne trailed after the publisher in the meager light of the electric torch through the deserted building all the way to the cellar, which smelled of dampness, earth, and mold-ridden wood, their steps echoing faintly on the concrete steps. The long corridor below snaked like a veritable labyrinth, and Etienne wondered at how far exactly it went under the ground.
“The Demarche Publishing House was built on top of the former catacombs,” Michel broke the silence as if reading his thoughts. “This maze goes all the way to the old cemetery. The Huguenots used it as an escape route in the middle ages. And now – the résistants. Incredible, isn’t it?”
Michel stopped in front of a door, which Etienne probably wouldn’t even have noticed had the publisher not paused in front of it, and knocked in a particular pattern. The door opened after a few moments, and Etienne, still invisible to the woman who opened it due to his standing in the shadows, observed with a smile how warmly she greeted Monsieur Demarche, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“Good God, Michel! I thought you all forgot about my existence!”
However, the warm light in her eyes turned into a steely hardness at once as they met Etienne’s, who advanced into the room after Michel. Not only did her smile drop, but her hand found its way into the pocket of her pants, grabbing the handle of a weapon, most likely.
“No, no! Giselle, it’s a friend,” Michel rushed to reassure her, placing both hands on top of her arm, still hidden in her pocket, while she observed the newcomer with mistrust in her eyes. “You’ve never met him, but you know Etienne, don’t you? Etienne Delattre, my late friend’s son, the Sub-Prefect of Lyon, who’s been helping us greatly.”
“Of course!” Her expression brightened immediately as recognition came to her, and she offered Etienne her hand, which she finally pulled out of her trousers – free of any weapon, much to Etienne’s relief. “The infamous Chief, whom the Gestapo are hell-bent on catching! It’s an honor, Monsieur Delattre.”
“Please, it’s Etienne to you, Mademoiselle Legrand.” Etienne enclosed her hand in his and he held his breath for an instant as she gave his palm a steady, confident shake.
“In that case, it would only be fair if you call me Giselle, Etienne.” She motioned the men inside and bolted the door after them. “Please, do forgive my first impression of you. You’re dressed far too nice for a résistant, and the only men in Paris who are dressed as smartly as you are all Gestapo agents or the collabos. Needless to say, I’m not keen on receiving either into my modest living quarters, and they do have a terrible habit of bursting into our hideouts using one of our lot as bait for us to drop our guard.”
Etienne nodded his understanding, taking in the woman who stood in front of him. He would never recognize her after that fancy portrait of hers. Her lustrous blonde curls had been dyed brown, had grown out and been now pulled back into a French braid. Her face, with angular features, was devoid of any trace of cosmetic just like her lips, which weren’t outlined by her signature scarlet lipstick. Only the barely perceptible smirk was in its place, and the eyes looked just as hard and steady as in the portrait, fearless and daring. Etienne suddenly understood why Paris fell in love with her with such ease.
“I would have offered for you to sit,” Giselle spoke in the meantime, “but I’m afraid you’ll only make your beautiful coat dirty.”
In confirmation of her words, she made a somewhat mocking gesture toward the two overturned crates that stood next to the crude table and arched her brow as though inviting Etienne to laugh with her for being such an unaccommodating host.
The cellar room was dingy, depressing and terribly small, the only other furniture was a narrow cot standing next to the moldy wall. Etienne felt another wave of guilt washing over him from seeing the brave résistante living in such conditions while he could go back to his bright and airy mansion in Lyon and take his morning coffee from a porcelain cup. He didn’t deserve the title of Chief while all these people, the true heroes of the Resistance, had to live underground like rodents.
“Don’t worry yourself about me, please,” he said and proceeded, without hesitation, to one of the crates to sit on it.
Giselle pulled up another one for Michel and sat on the cot so that she could face both men.
“I tried to bring some furniture that would be more suitable—” Michel started, but Giselle interrupted him at once with a gesture of her hand.
“We’ve already spoken about it, my dear Michel. It
would be too suspicious if you suddenly started dragging upholstered couches and dining chairs down to the cellar, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but still…”
“It’s all right. It’s not the furniture that bothers me; it’s the absence of the air and sunlight.” She shifted the steady gaze of her eyes, which seemed brown in the barely lit room, back to Etienne. “I haven’t seen the outside world for a few months now. I know that Michel and Philippe are keeping me here out of concern for my safety, but I swear to all the Gods, I’m getting this close to smashing my own brain in with a hammer. You have no idea how difficult it is, being confined in a closed space, without windows, for months. The dripping water, the air that never changes, the same room – it drives me to madness! How I envy you; people who work outside! What I wouldn’t give to be back with you all. Please, do tell me some stories from the outside! How are things in the South?”
“Aren’t you afraid of being caught by the Gestapo again?” Etienne inquired, ignoring her question, his brows knitted together, working something out in his mind.
The woman in front of him only snorted with contempt, undid the buttons on her shirt one by one and opened it, demonstrating her chest to the men. All around her simple white bra hideous burn wounds formed an intricate mosaic, each resembling the shape of a flower with painful, red petals spreading all over her skin. Several cuts crossed her ribs and lined her stomach, perfectly parallel and carved with a sadistic, calculated precision by the hand of the men who had tortured her; men who only stopped when their victims started talking. Judging by the number of scars, it took them a long time before their superior had finally ordered them to let her be. Etienne swallowed with obvious difficulty, yet refused to avert his gaze unlike Monsieur Demarche, for whom such a display of the Nazis’ atrocities was too painful to witness.
“They have already done their worst to me,” Giselle spoke, with a strange calmness in her voice. “So, the answer to your question is no. I’m not afraid of anyone or anything anymore.”
Liberation Page 3
