“Don’t be afraid of me, Mademoiselle.” He sat across from her, his legs crossed and a coy grin in place. “I don’t bite.”
Blanche willed herself to smile back, even though she was sure her smile resembled a pale, frightened grimace more than anything.
“Standartenführer Jürgen Sievers, at your service, Mademoiselle. Shall I continue calling you ‘Mademoiselle’ or do you have a name, perhaps?”
His soft-spoken manner and the teasing tone completely confused Blanche. She hardly remembered what her alias was in that moment.
“Lucienne. Lucienne Bertin.”
“Lucienne Bertin,” he repeated with intentional slowness as if tasting her name on his tongue. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Bertin.”
“As it is mine to meet you, Monsieur Sievers.”
His grin widened.
“Are you visiting someone in Dijon?”
Against her better judgment, her gaze fell on the bag that the German had placed next to him. He followed it with his eyes, arched a brow inquisitively and before Blanche had a chance to utter a word, he lowered his hand into it and extracted one of the catalogs.
“I sell cosmetics.” She finally found her voice as he flipped through the pages nonchalantly.
“Cosmetics?” Sievers looked up at her, the corners of his eyes creasing as he grinned. “Fascinating. Do you have a lot of customers in Dijon?”
“No, just one. What I sell is rather expensive, and most of my clients demand exclusiveness. So, I travel between cities, thus making up my numbers.”
“Ach, I see.”
Much to her relief, he put the catalog back into the bag and concentrated his attention on Blanche instead. “Does your husband, or some lucky young man, mind that you travel all the time?”
“I’m not married, and nor do I have a ‘young man’, Monsieur Sievers.” Blanche caught herself blushing for some reason. “So, my long absences don’t bother anyone.”
“Schande.” He tsked several times, shaking his head. “Had you been living in the Reich, some young, dashing officer would have long snatched you up, the lovely little thing that you are.”
Blanche caught herself smiling, unexpectedly pleased with the compliment even though it came from such a feared man.
“What about your family?”
“I don’t have anyone. My father died in the war, and my mother died giving birth to me. I’m an orphan and was raised in a church orphanage.” Blanche gave him the full story which she had carefully rehearsed with Margot until it became emblazoned in her mind to the point that she could repeat it without a single stutter even if awakened in the middle of the night.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He sounded almost sincere. “Where do you live now?”
“Lyon, Monsieur.”
“Lyon.” He went silent for a few moments, pondering something. “And how is the mood nowadays in Lyon?”
“It’s good. Maréchal Pétain visited it recently, in November, and there was a grand parade all over the city. People welcomed him with such emotion; you should have seen it! We couldn’t be more grateful to him for everything he has done for France and its people.” She repeated this additional, carefully studied lie with the brightest expression she could possibly muster.
The German snorted softly, suddenly becoming very interested in his nails.
“Interesting. That’s not what I heard.”
“Anti-Vichy propaganda,” Blanche suggested with a slight shrug, offering him another timid smile.
“Nein. I don’t think so. There were too many communists and criminals that ran across the Demarcation Line before we closed it last month. And they all settled in Lyon because it was already infested with liberals, Jews, and even more communists.”
“I don’t see that side of the city, Monsieur. All my friends and neighbors are ardent supporters of the Maréchal and Vichy. And so am I, naturally.”
“Naturally. However, I don’t think you would have told me, had you been a liberal, or a Jew, or a communist.” He chuckled.
“I’m none of those things, Monsieur. I’m just an ordinary girl who makes her living selling cosmetics.”
“I’m sure you are. Ach, here’s our coffee. And I thought that Friedrich had forgotten about us.” He spoke teasingly as his adjutant advanced into the compartment carrying a small tray. “Put it on the table near the window, Friedrich. Danke.”
After the young man disappeared behind the doors, Sievers inquired about how Blanche preferred her coffee, poured some cream into both cups and then added sugar to hers only.
“Have you been to Dijon, Monsieur?” Blanche broke the silence after sipping the hot, steaming Arabica, savoring its taste. She had forgotten when she last tasted real, good quality coffee.
“My office is in Dijon. Some coincidence, eh?” He winked at her playfully, much to her dismay.
“Do you… work for the government?” Blanche asked carefully, trying to figure out who exactly she was dealing with.
The German burst out laughing. “The government? Your government works for us, Mademoiselle Bertin.”
“Pardon.” She felt her skin reddening once again and cursed her fair complexion for instantly giving away the slightest of her emotions. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that I’m not well-versed in politics and not quite sure what all your offices do. Or ours, for that matter.”
He returned her smile before answering.
“No offense taken. I work for the Sicherheitsdienst.”
Blanche’s brow furrowed as she tried to repeat the new word in her mind. She was certain she had never heard it before.
“SD. The Secret Service,” Sievers clarified, obviously amused by the girl’s confusion.
“Is it similar to the Gestapo?” Blanche inquired quietly.
“The Gestapo is subordinate to our organization.”
What could have possibly been worse than the dreadful Gestapo? The mysterious and sinister SD, apparently. Blanche shifted in her seat warily.
“No need to be alarmed.” He caught onto her apprehension at once. “You said it yourself; you’re just an ordinary girl who sells cosmetics. Therefore, you have nothing to hide and nothing to be afraid of. Right?”
That last word of his, or actually the intonation with which he pronounced it, made Blanche spend the rest of the way on pins and needles, wondering if it was indeed a simple coincidence, or if he had toyed with her intentionally, playing some sick game with his defenseless victim before announcing to her at last that he knew everything about their cell, that she’d better give him names before he made her, that… But he only helped her off the train, tipped his cap and handed her a small card after scratching something on it.
“Give me a call next time you’re in Dijon. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t work yourself to death without any breaks. I’ll take you to the opera. Do you like opera?”
Blanche only nodded absentmindedly and muttered something in response to his goodbye, barely stopping herself from running away as far from the man as she could.
9
Etienne exited his car, checked his watch, and took out his cigarette case while squinting slightly into the light pouring out through the French windows of the Bouillon mansion. Raimond Bouillon, the owner of the estate, had already left the mark of the typical nouveau-riche while redecorating his recently acquired property, Etienne noticed with a sad smirk, observing the gaudy marble lion that appeared right in the middle of the stairs, and an oversized gilded lamp above the front door. With a shake of his head Etienne expressed his disappointment at how the once elegant mansion had now been adorned, pondered taking out a cigarette and having a quick smoke, but changed his mind at the last second, hid the case in the pocket of his cashmere coat and ascended the stairs, throwing yet another disapproving glance at the offending lion.
A butler with a most impassionate face ushered him inside, and Etienne tried not to grimace when he observed how even more gilding had ap
peared on the panels (and even the ceiling! Etienne grunted inwardly) than had been there the last time he visited the mansion with his father. Yes, he was alive back then, and the host, his father’s dear friend, was still alive even though a little frail, but still carrying himself with the grace and poise of a true aristocrat. Etienne remembered his kind smile that seemed to light up his tan, weather-worn face, due to his love for the outdoors, gardening and hunting; his brown cardigan and almost snow-white hair; his mild voice and the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes; and how his foot shuffled slightly on the mosaic floor after his first stroke…
At least Bouillon didn’t touch the mosaic, Etienne noticed with relief when walking through the familiar hallway towards the dining room, in which Monsieur Bouillon awaited him, according to the butler.
Was there really a need for a butler, in times such as these? Etienne’s family had never had one, even in times of peace, his father always welcoming the guests himself.
Etienne took a deep breath and stepped into the brightly-lit room, putting on the mask that seemed to have become his second face. It was certainly no time to show his emotions to those whose help he needed, so no matter how much he despised the man, he would smile, shake his hand and be his most respectful and polite self. After all, Bouillon was the newly appointed Prefect of Lyon, and therefore the man who could help Etienne with his recent project. If he wanted this to work, he would just have to swallow his pride.
The room was the embodiment of opulence, with a new crystal and bronze chandelier, hanging above the dining table that could seat at least twenty persons. An enormous bouquet overflowed onto the silk tablecloth in the middle of the table, and new silver cutlery, no doubt someone else’s heirloom bought from some auction, seemed to glare at him just like the oversized portraits of people the new owner probably didn’t even know, that now proudly hung on both walls.
Raimond Bouillon, an imposing man in his late thirties, put away his brandy and opened his welcoming embrace to his guest, smiling a gleeful smile. Etienne shook his wet palm with the same enthusiasm and complimented the host on his excellent taste, surprising himself with how sincere his words sounded. It seemed that day after day he was mastering the art of deception so necessary for all diplomats… or Résistance leaders.
“This German invasion is the best thing that could have possibly happened to France, I tell you!” Bouillon was already fawning over his guest, gesturing him towards the immense table set only for two, and motioning the butler to get on with the aperitifs. “All of my factories in Paris and Bretagne have tripled their profit in just a few months! I wish they had invaded us earlier, ha-ha! To think about it, the ridiculous money they’re paying, eh? My government never paid me this much!”
Etienne chuckled politely and smoothed out a napkin over his lap. A maid in a black uniform and a starched apron appeared, pushing a tray with appetizers in front of her.
“I didn’t have a chance to congratulate you on your recent appointment.” Etienne lifted his flute of champagne that the butler had just filled.
“What can I say? Having German friends comes in handy nowadays, doesn’t it?” Bouillon toasted his glass with his guest, his small brown eyes glimmering under heavy eyelids. “They removed all of the liberals from the administrative posts, and rightfully so if you ask me. The old Prefect was an idealistic fool, who allowed all this riff-raff into the city. And for what? They don’t bring anything except for their rabid communist propaganda and trouble following it. And the Jews? Do we really need more Jewish refugees here? Why he allowed them into the city in the first place is beyond me.”
“Anyway. Congratulations, Monsieur le Préfet.”
Bouillon, visibly pleased with how his new title sounded coming from an acquaintance who belonged to a circle of members who wouldn’t give him the time of day several years ago, straightened a little more in his chair and smoothed out his prematurely receding hairline.
“I have to admit, and this is just between the two of us,” he muttered, lowering his voice and leaning closer to Etienne, “I know nothing about politics or governing a city. Business, yes, that I know very well. But when it comes to anything concerning administration, I’m afraid I slightly lack in qualification.”
Etienne didn’t acknowledge Raimond’s words, looking more interested in his seafood soup that the maid placed in front of him. Bouillon needed something from him, and it made his task asking for a favor in return even easier. Now he just had to wait patiently for the new Prefect to show his cards.
“You’re a diplomat’s son, Etienne. And a highly-esteemed one at that.”
Straight to the business then. Etienne concealed a grin and stirred his soup some more.
“Would you do me a favor and help me out?”
The man definitely didn’t shy away from the real reason Etienne was here.
“Don’t get me wrong, it will be an official, paid position on the payroll of the Sous-Préfet, with a very generous salary – not that you need it, but why not take the Germans’ money, right? – And you will have all the freedom you like on top of it. I won’t even meddle in your affairs; I don’t have the slightest interest in them, to be honest. But the Kommandant of the Gross-Paris recommended me for the post, and I didn’t have the heart to refuse him. We became rather good friends, you see, haha! I even tried to decline his offer, told him that I’m a businessman, not a politician, but he wouldn’t listen to my arguments. He thinks that if they, military men, can be good administrators, so can businessmen. Who am I to argue?”
Bouillon finished his thought with his signature, artificial laugh, which Etienne guessed to be a nervous habit.
“I am flattered by your proposition, Raimond, and by your trust in my abilities. However, I’m afraid I must decline,” Etienne stated with his usual politeness. “I am actually planning to start a rather big philanthropic project that will take up all of my time and attention, and I simply won’t be able to supervise matters of politics.”
“What kind of a project?”
“I want to buy out that old, abandoned mansion near the city, the one that the bank seized after its owner ran away with his money to America.”
“I know exactly which one you’re talking about. I was looking at that place myself, but it’s falling apart! What are you planning to do with it?”
“I want to house all of those orphans from the Alsace area over there. The Germans expelled all the French population from there and are putting their people there now. Those children live with nuns now, but even the nuns will soon have nowhere to go. So, I wanted to ask if you could sign the release papers for the mansion so I could buy it out.”
“It’s a brilliant idea!” Bouillon exclaimed, much to Etienne’s amazement. “But you can easily combine both things. Be a sub-prefect and watch over your little orphans. Why, it will be a perfect reflection of Lyon’s new image under the new administration! A new Prefect and sub-prefect who do more for French children under the German administration than their liberal predecessors did! And you don’t have to buy anything out. Think of it as the city’s gift to you, ha-ha! Only accept my proposal, please. I could really use your help, Etienne.”
Etienne sipped more of his champagne and pondered Bouillon’s proposal. He would have to deal not only with the businessman, but most likely with his new German partners as well, a matter that he tried to escape by all means possible, and especially after his recent activities. Being on their radar was the last thing he needed.
On the other hand, the position would allow him access to information that in any other case would be far beyond his reach. That would help their cause tremendously. But what if they get wind of his involvement not only with the Resistance but with the British MI6 as well? That would become his ticket straight to the gallows, with no questions asked. Not that he was afraid to die, no. His father gave his life for France, and so would he; that wasn’t what bothered Etienne. What was truly the issue was that without him holding all the ends of the l
ittle strings between all the cells, that he managed and organized, they would simply fall apart like a house of cards.
Etienne carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin and smiled at Bouillon.
“Absolute freedom, you say?”
“Absolute freedom!” Raimond’s eyes glistened as a wide grin spread across his face. “I travel a lot to supervise the production of my factories. You won’t even see me most of the time.”
“And the mansion is mine?”
“I’ll send my secretary with the notarized papers tomorrow morning.”
Etienne outstretched his hand and allowed Bouillon to enclose it in his sweaty grip. For some reason, his father’s words surfaced in his mind, deepening a sense of foreboding that had nestled somewhere in the pit of his gut: diplomats and lawyers shake hands with the devil so often that they become the most intimate friends on first name terms.
“I really can’t thank you enough, Etienne.”
“It’s nothing, Raimond.”
Blanche paused at the entrance of the photo atelier, trying to collect herself. All the way from Dijon to Marseille, and then to Nîmes and back to Lyon she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was being watched. She turned around on every corner and had almost got lost a few times simply because she had purposefully taken unfamiliar streets to shake off her invisible pursuers. Or was it just nerves and paranoia, and there were no pursuers at all? No matter how many times she glimpsed in her mirror or tried to catch her “shadow’s” reflection in a glass window of yet another store, she saw no one suspicious. Yet, she decided that it would still be wise to warn her superiors of her suspicions, and so, straight from the train, Blanche headed to their cell’s “headquarters”.
A little brass bell chimed its usual tune announcing her arrival. Margot, with her usual cigarette billowing its fumes from the corner of her mouth, hardly looked up from the paper she was reading.
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 8
