The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 4

  After the temperature plunged two nights ago, an intricate ornament of frosty designs had spread its shimmering spider-webs over sleet and mud as the winter professed its rights, arriving fashionably late like a typical southern aristocrat at a sophisticated soiree. The glassy film of ice, covering the puddles where the winter had caught the remaining water unawares, crunched and cracked under their feet as they made their way towards the imposing mansion.

  A feeling of abandonment and solitude was becoming more and more evident as they followed the paved road, now barely recognizable under the layers of leaves and mud. They stopped near the fountain, no longer white but covered with greenish moss, cracked and muddied just like everything around, neglected and forgotten, with years of inadvertence deliberately but mercilessly eating away at its formerly grand stance.

  “What do you think?” Etienne’s voice sounded loud despite the softness of his tone. It was strange to think that they were on property bordering the city limits and yet the scenery had changed so drastically. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  Jules nodded, slowly scanning the mansion with his thoughtful gaze.

  “It is. Difficult to believe that no one lives here anymore. It’s a rather vast property.”

  “Yes. But the problems with the law that the banker, who owned it, had, were even greater. He faced up to twenty years in prison for embezzlement and some shady deals with the Americans – in the mid-twenties I believe – so, he decided to make a run for it with the help of the said Americans and now resides somewhere on the Golden Coast from what I heard last. The city seized the mansion as it was the only property that was left after his escape, and after all the legal issues were sorted out, they set it up for an auction about a couple of years ago. And by then everything was already in the condition that you see it now and no one wanted to invest money into fixing it. So, it still stands, cheap as dirt, and yet there is still no buyer.” Etienne shuddered from yet another gust of wind and tightly fastened the collar of his coat while Jules waited unassumingly for him to continue. “I’m thinking to buy it. Put some keeper’s family there, a legit one of course, and use it for our purposes. Maybe set up an orphanage in it and leave the cellar for us… I haven’t decided yet. What do you think? Is it a distant enough location? Do you think the gendarmes will get wind of what we will do in here?”

  “If you indeed decide to set up an orphanage here, I don’t think they will. It’s a perfect ruse if you ask me. And the place is far enough from the city for no one to care what we do here. Excellent location.”

  “Good.” Etienne nodded to himself affirming his own thoughts. “I’ll buy it then.”

  His father had taught him from an early age that the decision-making process must be approached with utmost seriousness, and that hastiness and hot-headed rushing never did anyone any good. And so, Etienne always carefully evaluated everything, looked at the issue from every possible angle and only when he was about ninety-nine percent sure of its correctness would he ask someone their opinion, mostly to confirm his own already-correct one. People that he used for this purpose were also selected with utmost thoroughness, and Jules had already proved himself to be a reliable, level-headed man despite the short period of their knowing each other.

  “Is our Lucienne on her way?” Etienne turned to his friend, switching to a new pressing matter. That was another trait that he had inherited from his father: efficiency.

  “Yes. I watched her board the train on Friday. She seemed to be doing all right considering it is her first time. Not too nervous. I sent her to Marseille and from there to Nîmes. She’s supposed to return in four days with the report.”

  “Did you tell her what exactly she’s carrying?”

  “No. I just told her which catalog to give to our men in each city. I hope she follows the instructions this time.”

  Etienne looked around, brushed the leaves off the edge of the fountain and sat on it gingerly, careful enough not to muddy his coat. “Do you think it’s a good idea? The whole Lucienne persona. Be honest, please.”

  Jules also cleared a small spot for himself and lowered himself next to Etienne, hiding his hands in his pockets to keep them warm.

  “I don’t know. She seemed too antsy to me at first, then fearful, then eager… As if her emotions were all over the place. Not good liaison agent material, to be truthful. But then I remembered myself in my first days in the Resistance and realized that she was doing fine by all measures.” He chuckled. “How I survived to have this conversation with you now is beyond me.”

  Etienne waved him off.

  “You’re too modest, my friend.”

  Jules only nodded, averting his gaze.

  “I brought you here to ask one more thing of you.” Etienne waited for Jules to look him in the eyes once again. “Will you go to England with me? For a few days only, and then we’ll return to work here.”

  “What’s in England?”

  “Général de Gaulle.”

  “You aren’t used to tip-toeing around matters, are you?” A hint of amusement reflected on Jules’ face.

  “I’m just tired of walking and feeling my way around like a blind man. What good is there having one-way communication when the directions that we’re receiving from him cannot be verified, discussed, shared between different cells… I’ve managed to create quite a net of Resistance members on both sides of the Demarcation Line. It would be a shame not to offer him my services. Also, I have a proposition for him, or MI6 or whoever else will agree to listen, but we will discuss that on British soil. So, what do you say? Will you accompany me?”

  “How are we going to get to England?”

  “Through Switzerland and with the help of fake passports, bien sûr.” Etienne grinned.

  Jules started shaking his head at once. “You can’t be serious. With my face plastered on every wall in every préfecture all over the country, showing up at the border will be pure suicide, for both of us.”

  “No, no, no; we won’t cross to Switzerland through an official border,” Etienne rushed to reassure him, laughing. “We’ll cross at night. And from there we’ll travel like the two honest gentlemen that we are. Well? What do you say?”

  Jules’s response came in tow with a one-shoulder shrug and a smile.

  “You saved my life getting me through the Demarcation Line once. I owe it to you now. Of course, I’ll go with you, only…” He faltered.

  “What?” Etienne tried to catch his elusive gaze. “Jules, what is it?”

  “Don’t tell Général de Gaulle that the Gestapo are looking for me. He won’t want to have anything to do with us if you do.”

  “I understand. I won’t say a word, I promise.”

  The monotone cadence of the train slowly lulled Blanche into sleep with its gentle, hypnotic rocking. Using the collar of her new coat (generously supplied by Margot on the day when Blanche went by to receive her new papers and the heavy stack of the catalogs, which had beautiful women smiling cheerfully from their covers) as a kind of pillow behind her head, Blanche allowed herself to relax, at last, to melt into her seat and to close her eyes just for a few moments. The sack of catalogs was snuggled tightly between her calves, and her attention remained focused on her precious cargo despite her reposeful state. Her first meeting in Marseille had gone enviously smoothly, however, Blanche was determined to keep herself on guard until she met with the second man in Nîmes. It was the first task that the Resistance had delegated to her, and she couldn’t afford to fail. Margot hadn’t failed to warn her in her usual nonchalant tone that failure also meant arrest and quite possibly imprisonment and torture.

  “So, staying diligent is in your interests, first and foremost,” Margot concluded while offering Blanche a firm parting handshake. “And in case you do blow your cover and decide to sell us to get a lighter sentence, we’ll deny even knowing you. No one keeps any compromising materials in this atelier, so the gendarmes will come and leave empty-handed. And you’ll end up in jail. Understoo
d?”

  Blanche nodded and hugged the cumbersome sack of catalogs to her chest.

  Only one more catalog needed to be passed to one of their connections’ hands, and then she would officially become a part of their cell. Blanche sighed blissfully and drifted off to sleep, not forgetting to wrap the canvas of the sack’s handles around her wrist. This way if someone touched it, she’d wake up at once.

  The central train station in Nîmes welcomed her with an uncommonly warm breeze and turquoise sky, smeared with whipped butter clouds. Blanche took it as a good sign and headed towards the taxi cabs waiting for their newly arrived clients just near the entrance. Blanche noted to herself, with a healthy dose of cynicism befitting the situation, that it was a blatant mockery to call a bicycle with a small carriage attached to it a proper “taxicab”; only, in the new France, people had stopped laughing at such matters a long time ago.

  Upon arriving at her destination point – Boulevard Victor Hugo – Blanche paid the cabby and moved along the sidewalk with deliberate slowness, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings and searching for the name of the place that Margo had indicated she should go to: Salon Chez Louis. A man strolling on the sidewalk looked her over appreciatively and tipped his hat when passing her by. Blanche willed herself to erase yet another silly grin from plastering her rouged face; she still hadn’t gotten used to all the attention that she, as Lucienne, was getting.

  Salon Chez Louis hid under a bright yellow striped awning, advertising the best perm and highest quality peroxide in the whole of Southern France. Apparently, even though the Germans were kept behind the Demarcation Line (by some miracle, no doubt), the fashion for bleached blonde hair had somehow slipped through the Line, as if local women expected that the miracle wouldn’t last long and that the appearance of new uniformed masters of the Free Zone was merely a question of time. So, everyone readied themselves the best they could: women by dyeing their hair and men by handling highly criminal affairs for the Resistance – all under the same roof.

  Blanche stepped through the door, displaying the brightest smile she had learned to muster as she practiced in front of the small mirror in her room in the church.

  “Bonjour!” she chirped, directing her charms at the first man she saw – a short, pudgy hairdresser with a permanent look of disdain imprinted on his pasty face and scissors which seemed to never leave his unexpectedly delicate hands. “My name is Lucienne Bertin, and I’m looking for the owner, Monsieur Louis Colas.”

  “What do you need him for, Mademoiselle?” He scrunched his nose slightly at her northern accent.

  “I sell cosmetics and have the newest catalogs just delivered from Paris. I’m sure he would like to see them.”

  “Paris?” The hairdresser arched his brow, expressing in this simple manner his scorn towards the French capital. “What are they offering this season, I wonder? Camouflage face paint?”

  The young patron in his chair with thin cylinders of bigoudis in her hair giggled readily.

  Blanche responded with a tight-lipped smile and shifted from one foot to another. “Is Monsieur Colas in or shall I come back later?”

  “Why, you’re a persistent one, aren’t you?” The hairdresser smirked but at least motioned his head toward the row of chairs lined up alongside the window. “Wait there. I’ll get him for you in a few minutes.”

  He took his time finishing the thorough arrangement of narrow rows of bigoudis on his patron’s head and only then headed to the back of the salon, with an audible sigh and visible reluctance. Blanche decided that judging by his attitude, he wasn’t involved in his boss’ affairs and took her for what she tried to pass for; a pestering sales girl and not a secret liaison agent delivering something of great importance.

  What was it that she was delivering though? This thought had crossed Blanche’s mind many times since she had begun her journey, but then a tall and elegantly dressed man appeared from the back, and Blanche’s attention switched to him.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Colas. My name is Lucienne Bertin. Madame Toussaint from Lyon sends her regards.” Blanche stopped after saying the exact words that Margot had taught her.

  “How is her business doing nowadays?” The man offered his reply.

  “Thriving.”

  “Always good to hear. What does she recommend this time?”

  “A new mascara is a true wonder. She swears by it. I will supply it exclusively to your salon, of course.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” The elegant man grinned and held his hand out, expecting a catalog.

  Blanche lowered her hand into her canvas bag, counted the fifth one without looking and handed it to the handsome salon owner. He put it under his arm without looking through the pages and asked the last question.

  “What is it called, this miracle-working mascara of yours?”

  “Midnight in Paris. Page forty-seven,” Blanche supplied, and, with that, the two parted ways, until their next meeting.

  Blanche walked briskly towards a sunlit square, elated at her recent success. Only one thought wouldn’t leave her mind: what exactly was encased into those catalogs in between the pages that she wasn’t allowed to see?

  “If you don’t know what you’re carrying, you won’t speak during the interrogation in case you get caught,” Margot’s voice sounded in her head.

  “Always follow the rules. We need obedience and compliance from you,” Jules’s voice joined Margot’s.

  Blanche took a deep breath and decided to listen to them. For now.

  5

  Father Yves’s unblinking gaze, impenetrable and morose, was transfixed on the worn-out floorboards, completely devoid of any movement, unlike his long, skillful fingers which were doing their work with effortless gracefulness. Practiced movements, well-learned and performed too many times in the years, long forgotten, needed no supervision. Disassembling the gun and cleaning and polishing every part of it equaled the same form of meditation to him as counting his rosary beads. God forgive his sinful soul, it probably even pacified him more.

  Having finished polishing the gun – his loyal friend which had given him protection and taken others’ lives with even more zeal – Father Yves sat motionless for some time, contemplating his life. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried to bury the faceless ghosts of his past they still found their way back to him, to taunt him with the painful memories from which he thought he had escaped, no matter how well he disguised his true self in his black cassock. Who was he trying to fool with this masquerade? He had too much blood on his hands that no years of service to the Lord, nor humility, nor repentance, nor any amount of good deeds would ever wash off.

  Father Yves had breathed out in relief when the short war was over in mere weeks, and the Germans “graciously” granted the Southern half of France their so-called independence. It still bothered him, of course, their invisible yet looming presence. However, he was satisfied that even with such concessions from the occupying forces, he at least didn’t have to see them daily… Because God only knew if such proximity would awaken the old demons that were still slumbering inside him, controlled by an almost inhuman willpower, but vigilant as ever and ready to be unleashed.

  He thought he had found his comfort and relative peace, and yet with the appearance of this girl his whole life threatened to be turned upside down once again. Father Yves didn’t mind her living in the church quarters while she sorted herself out and her helping Madame Freneau while attempting to engage him in superficial chatter whenever he happened to be around. But when she almost crashed into him while trying to sneak into her room unnoticed, and turned a shade of beet red that rivaled the rouge covering her pale cheeks, Father Yves almost regretted his hospitality. He suspected what was going on even before she opened her mouth, and regrettably proved himself right after her hasty explanation had followed.

  “Father…” Blanche muttered, stepping away and clenching the collar of her new coat on her chest. “This is not what it looks like, I s
wear!”

  He stood silent and motionless, observing the new fiery red locks and the shocking amount of cosmetics that had turned her face into a mask.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” she mumbled again, lowering her eyes. “I’m not supposed to say ‘swear’, right? The Bible says something against it, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, I don’t remember the verse.”

  Father Yves only shook his head slightly and stepped aside, allowing her to walk away; she didn’t.

  “I know what I look like, but I promise you that it has nothing to do with anything immoral.”

  “It depends on what you consider immoral, Blanche,” Father Yves responded calmly and started walking away.

  Blanche hurried after him, much to his annoyance.

  “I’m not one of those women, Father!” She caught up with his long strides and tried peering into his eyes. He stubbornly kept his gaze forward. “It’s a disguise…”

  He stopped and looked at the girl, silently imploring her not to say anything else. The priest in him softly asked him to stay and to not abandon her, but the Yves from ten years ago wanted nothing to do with her confessions, which would only drag him into all this business again; he knew it right away, he sensed it in his gut.

  “I can trust you, right?” She tilted her red head to one side with a pleading expression on her face.

  “Of course, you can, Blanche. I’m a priest after all,” he spoke somewhat tiredly.

  “I joined the Resistance, Father!” Blanche whispered, her eyes shining with excitement.

  Father Yves caught himself thinking with detached curiosity that he had probably looked the same when he was exactly her age: inspired and with high hopes, setting off on the road to a metaphorical hell which would change his whole life with no chance of redemption.

  “I want to help France, Father,” Blanche went on, seemingly surprised by the lack of reaction from his side, as if he had known already what exactly she was going to say. “But for them to accept me I needed a new identity, and so… Here I am. Lucienne Bertin, a cosmetics catalog girl. I’ll be their liaison agent they told me. I’ll travel from city to city and pass their messages to others. I just wanted you to know that I had to change my looks to help France, and not to do anything… immoral.”