The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel Page 12

  “Those two are still kids, so they obviously couldn’t have been in the army with you. And this… gentleman,” she threw another glare at the dark-haired man, “speaks like a typical Parisian. Unrefined maybe, but native nevertheless.”

  “What makes you think I’m unrefined?” The giant fired back, knitting his brows together. He took offense, Giselle snickered to herself, surprised. “The absence of the fancy suit and pomade on my hair?”

  She glanced him over once again, feeling more and more amused.

  “Precisely.”

  He was dressed in a gray shirt with its sleeves rolled up, and flannel trousers, reaching his worn boots, and not in a “fancy suit,” but his clothes were still well-kept, and his dark hair was also neatly brushed to one side. No “fancy pomade” either, but he was clean shaven and spoke very well for a working class representative, for which Giselle took him, promoting him to that rank from the label of “petty criminal” in her mind.

  “That’s a very superficial idea, to judge a person’s cultural and intellectual abilities by his look, Mademoiselle Legrand.”

  “I didn’t say anything about your intellectual abilities. I said you were unrefined in the sense of lacking higher education, and education and intellect are two very different things, Monsieur..?”

  “Bussi. Philippe Bussi. And you’re very mistaken about him; he’s very smart! He was promoted to a politruk in Moscow, and you have to be educated for that.” Marcel blurted out in his friend’s defense, immediately drawing a wrathful glare from the latter.

  “I told you that to any outsiders we must use aliases,” Philippe growled through gritted teeth. “And we definitely mustn’t, under any circumstances, reveal any personal information.”

  Giselle gasped in theatrical excitement. “Ah! A communist! I should have guessed as soon as I heard the whole anti-capitalistic ‘fancy suit and hair pomade’ agitprop!”

  Philippe narrowed his eyes at the blonde.

  “At least I don’t cuddle with the Boches at night, Mademoiselle.”

  “Something tells me that it was intended to be an offensive jab in my direction.” She sneered, unfazed. “Only, I regret to disappoint you, I, for some reason, don’t feel offended in the slightest.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Philippe snorted with contempt.

  “They’re very cuddly,” she hissed back, taking the last word.

  Philippe only pressed his mouth into a thin line and looked away in disdain.

  Marcel, who kept turning his head from his sister to his comrade and back while they were exchanging retorts, got a hold of his voice at last.

  “What does it mean, cuddle the Boches?”

  “Nothing, Marcel, my little innocent lamb.”

  “Your sister got herself a chief of the local Gestapo as a lover,” Philippe spoke again, trying to somehow get to the arrogant socialite – the embodiment of everything he despised about their class. Most of the likes of her also shamelessly demonstrated their high-ranking Boches in broad daylight, strolling hand in hand with them, when ordinary people had to live on meager rations according to their ration cards. If it wasn’t for Marcel, he would have shot her, and wouldn’t bat an eye. To think of it, he had even liked the feisty blonde at first.

  “Is it true?” Marcel breathed out, looking at his sister in dismay. He always looked up to her, boasted before his university peers of his famous sibling, and she did…this? Betrayed him in the worst way, warming the bed of an enemy, who was shooting at him and his comrades in the front?

  “Why?” Giselle shrugged nonchalantly. “Such connections come in handy nowadays.”

  “How typically capitalistic. Profiteering on the blood of your countrymen,” Philippe threw out the accusation, which again broke against the invisible wall of the blonde’s indifference.

  “He was billeted in my apartment,” she explained to her brother, completely ignoring Philippe’s heavy breathing behind Marcel’s back. “I didn’t invite him if that’s what you want to know. And why didn’t you call me or come to see me as soon as you came back? It must have been months! And how did you come across these people? Please, do tell me that you didn’t fall for their propaganda and didn’t join the Party, or I’ll officially disown you.”

  “I couldn’t come see you, Giselle. I wasn’t released from the army; I deserted. I must stay as far away from the Boches as possible for now because even the papers I have aren’t my own. I was in hiding this whole time, and it’s only thanks to Philippe that I’m alive now. Offering him and these two boys this apartment was the least I could do. Philippe and I are going to work in a munitions factory here in Paris, and we—”

  “Oh no.” She raised her hand, shaking her head. “No, no, no. I won’t hear a word of it. You? Living and working with these people? No. I’ll find some other apartment for them, and I’ll provide you with food, and maybe I’ll even persuade Karl to do something concerning your situation. But you won’t be playing around with these criminals.”

  “They aren’t criminals, Giselle!”

  “They’re communists, and therefore criminals. I won’t have you arrested and jailed because you fell for their propaganda.”

  “I appreciate that you care for your brother so much, Mademoiselle Legrand, but he’s a grown man and can make his own decisions,” Philippe interjected.

  “And I appreciate your efforts to get a new member into your Party, but I won’t allow it, and that’s the end of it!” Giselle fought back.

  “It’s not about the Party.” Marcel frowned, feeling like a child whose parents were fighting over what was better for him. Despite what Philippe said, he still didn’t consider himself a grown man, regrettably. “And they aren’t criminals. They’re patriots. And we’re all Resistance fighters, whether you like it or not. We all swore!”

  Philippe pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained expression on his face. The boy was so smart when he wanted to be, but so unbelievably dense in the simplest of the situations.

  “You dragged my brother into the Resistance?” Giselle spoke in a menacingly quiet tone, stepping close to the communist leader.

  “I didn’t drag him anywhere. I offered him a choice, and he chose us. Why, are you going to sell us out to your Boche now?” He growled, also pulling forward.

  Only, Giselle didn’t move away, and the two stood nose to nose with each other, like two army generals, refusing to concede even the smallest piece of gained territory to the opponent. He noticed that she had hazel eyes, and not brown as he had thought at first, and that she would have been pretty if she washed off all that powder and blush accenting her high cheekbones. The bright red lipstick was also horribly distasteful. He wondered if her Boche liked her red lips and if he kissed her often on her full mouth. Hussy.

  Giselle thought that he smelled surprisingly good for a communist, of soap and his own masculine scent, strangely pleasant even without any expensive colognes and aftershaves. He had the same dark features as Karl, only while the German looked impenetrably cold, this one’s eyes burned with passion, and his facial expressions changed every second, as if the energy, brewing inside, had to find its outlet somewhere. Shame he’s a communist.

  Suddenly, Giselle tilted her head to one side, an impish light illuminating her eyes. Philippe felt that he was losing ground again, unable to figure out his opponent and therefore counter her next move before she made it.

  “Of course not,” she spoke finally, and her mint-scented breath caressed his mouth. He pulled back again. Her grin became wider. “Exactly how serious are you about that Resistance idea?”

  “Pardon me?” Philippe cleared his throat, keeping on guard.

  “How important are you? Do you have many people? Are you organized at all? Do you have access to the channels in London? How close are you to Général de Gaulle? What exactly are your plans? Who’s in charge?”

  Philippe opened and closed his mouth while Marcel and the boys’ eyes shone with admiration at their new guest’s kno
wledge of their cause and their leaders.

  “Why are you asking?”

  Giselle rolled her eyes. “Because if I decide to deal with you and supply you with information from my Boche, I want to know how exactly you will be able to use it.”

  13

  Kamille woke up to Jochen’s soft lips covering her bare back with gentle, feathery kisses. She didn’t want to open her eyes at first, fearing that it all would disappear like a dream: the warmth of his body next to her, his hair tingling her skin and, what would be the most devastating, the feeling of being loved, even if it was for a few nights only.

  “I have to go before Horst wakes up,” he whispered in her ear, as he found the corner of her mouth to kiss her once again before sliding out of bed.

  Kamille felt cold at once and sat up, pulling the blankets over herself. Jochen gathered his military identification tag with its chain from the bedside table, collected his clothes from the chair and kissed Kamille one last time, before heading to the door.

  “I’ll take a shower and help you with breakfast.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ll get up right away, and everything will be ready before you know it.” Kamille made a motion to reach for her robe, but Jochen stopped her, placing his hand on top of her arm gently.

  “No need to rush. Sleep some more. We’ll fix something together later.” He grinned, giving Kamille’s arm a playful squeeze. “I like doing things together in the kitchen with you. It appears that your sister comes up with good ideas.”

  “No, she doesn’t. She just has to do what no one else would even think of, and she has a tendency to involve everyone around her in her ‘activities.’” Kamille chuckled. “Giselle has always been an instigator. She’s one of the few women who graduated from the Sorbonne, too. She probably told the dean that she would burn the place down if they refused to award her with the degree.”

  Holding the door ajar, Kamille ensured that the hallway was empty and motioned Jochen outside. The two exchanged another quick kiss, chortling like two mischievous children before Jochen darted to the door of his bedroom. Kamille closed hers and leaned on it, almost painful bliss filling her lungs with every new breath.

  “A German…” she whispered, noticing how different her intonation was from just three months ago when she uttered the same word with fear and overwhelming anxiety. Now the same word tasted sweet and dreamy, rolling off her tongue. She frowned, recalling the recent incident in Violette’s school, but then shrugged, all of a sudden not caring one bit about anyone’s opinion on her account. “A German. So what?”

  “I’m not a German,” Jochen declared later in the kitchen, confusing her.

  The two stood next to each other, Jochen stirring oatmeal for Violette, and Kamille flipping the eggs over.

  “What do you mean, not a German?”

  “I’m an Austrian.” He smiled. “Just like Horst. He’s from Austria, too. That’s why I picked him to be my adjutant. Only I’m from Salzburg, and he’s from Vienna. He went to the Academy of Fine Arts there, too; before the war, that is.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Kamille caught herself blushing with embarrassment.

  “How would you know?” Jochen grinned. “We all sound alike to you. We wear the same uniforms. We serve the same country.”

  Kamille bit her lip reluctantly for some time, before gathering enough courage to ask him a question that she had never thought she would dare ask.

  “Why did you join the army?”

  Jochen gave her a one shoulder shrug, pondering his response. “All of my family members were in the military. I followed my father’s footsteps and joined the academy for future officers to later join the Austrian army. Only, Austria ceased to exist after the Anschluss, and so did the sovereign army. We became a part of the Reich. We were offered two choices: join the Wehrmacht, or pursue a civil career. Given that I only had a military education, I had no other choice than join the German army. And so, here I am.”

  “Do you like it?” Kamille pressed further, a little emboldened by his openness.

  “It’s all right, I suppose. Better than civil service. I would make a lousy civil servant. Horst, on the contrary, he doesn’t belong in the army.”

  “No?”

  “Not at all.” Jochen shook his head, laughing. “He’s too much of a hopeless romantic for that. He only went into the army because he fell in love with all the outer beauty of the parades, uniforms, wreaths and flags that flew all over Austria after the Anschluss. I bet he regrets it now.”

  “You think?”

  “Not that he would admit it to me. But I can tell that he’s… unhappy.”

  “And you?”

  “Not anymore, I’m not.” He pecked Kamille on her cheek with a playful wink.

  “But you were?”

  “I was, a few months ago. My fiancé left me in March. Naturally, I was rather upset over it.”

  Kamille bit her tongue inside her mouth, instantly regretting her nosiness.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “You weren’t prying. And besides, I’m over it now. I don’t blame her either,” he added quietly. “We got engaged in February 1938, and after that, I got deployed to Germany before we could get married; then to Poland, then to Finland, then all over Europe. With only a week-long leave once every six months it doesn’t leave much room for any family life, you see. So, I can’t really reproach her for not waiting for me.”

  “It doesn’t excuse her,” Kamille muttered somewhat defensively, as if hurting the man whom she cared for that other woman had hurt her as well. “I would have waited for you.”

  Jochen stopped his stirring for a moment and beamed at her.

  “You would?”

  She nodded.

  “If I get deployed somewhere else tomorrow, you will wait for me?”

  “I will. Only if you promise to write.”

  “I promise.”

  “Then I promise, too.”

  Giselle lingered in the door of her former study, where Karl was perusing some papers with a look of deep concentration creasing his dark brow. Giselle sometimes found guilty pleasure in scrutinizing him without him noticing it; he was a dashing man after all, in his always immaculate uniform, with his raven-black hair always neatly parted and sleeked to one side, and the profound eyes of a scientist.

  Giselle had only recently found out what that mysterious “Dr.” stood for, preceding his signature, written in exquisite cursive on multiple papers, neatly stacked on the side of his desk: SS Sturmbannführer Dr. Karl Wünsche.

  “Are you a lawyer?” she teased him on one of those rare occasions when he didn’t force her out of his study, politely as always, but in a tone that didn’t leave any room for discussion. Giselle rested her head on his shoulder, pointing her manicured finger to the “Dr.” part of his signature under some order, which she couldn’t possibly understand, for it was written in German. “Or are you indeed a literary critic? Doctor of German Literature and Fine Arts?”

  She sniggered at her own joke.

  “Do I give you such an impression?” He indulged her with a tight smile.

  “No.” Giselle gave up her attempt at playfulness and straightened, studying his face closely. He was enviously handsome, but at the same time emanated almost graveyard coldness. Giselle traced her finger from his chiseled chin to his high cheekbone, almost surprised that his skin felt warm, and not stony and lifeless, like that of a marble statue that he reminded her of. “I will go with my first guess. You’re a lawyer.”

  “And why do you assume that I’m a lawyer?” His smile reflected interest this time.

  “You have a phenomenal memory. You always analyze everything. You’re very organized.” Giselle kept count on her fingers. “And you always keep talking about this law, or that law, or this order, or that one. A typical lawyer.”

  He snorted softly, shaking his head.

  “I’m not a lawyer. I talk about laws so you will be the first one
to know about what is illegal and so you won’t get in trouble. I talk about them because I care about your well-being.”

  Giselle’s brows shot up, but she decided to refrain from her usual sarcastic remarks. She doubted that he would take too kindly to her saying something like ‘That’s an interesting way to care about someone, threatening them with a firing squad if they walk around past curfew time.’ It seemed that he didn’t understand irony whatsoever.

  “So what are you then?”

  “I’m an actual doctor. A neurosurgeon, to be precise.”

  Well, that explained his aristocratic hands with long fingers, which he had a habit of washing every half an hour. Giselle tilted her head to one side curiously.

  “What on earth are you doing in the Gestapo then? It’s a rather rare and noble profession, being a surgeon. I don’t understand why you would forsake it for something so... petty.”

  Karl gave her a long, pointed look before replying. “An in-depth knowledge of the human body’s anatomy, brain functions and nerve endings, in particular, allows me to be much more efficient in the course of an interrogation than my colleagues who are not educated in a medical field.”

  Giselle fell silent, for the first time in her life not finding something with which to reply.

  “You mean… You studied neurology so you could… torture people more efficiently?”

  “Ja.”

  A pregnant pause followed, the grave silence in the room interrupted only by the clock counting seconds next to the wall, under the portrait of the Führer. Karl’s lips slowly moved into a grin.

  “Don’t look so terrified, my beautiful Gisela. I’m only joking with you. I got my medical degree long before I became a member of the Party.”

  “You still didn’t answer my question. What are you doing in the Gestapo?” Giselle didn’t laugh with him and only cringed when he called her by the German version of her name – one of his recently adopted habits which irritated her to no end.