Flame of Resistance Read online

  “You are weary of your wicked ways, you are in deep sorrow over the death of your fiancé, and you seek comfort. You’d heard of my famous conversion through the intervention of Father Chaillet, and you are willing to listen. What is that face? Are you going to be serious or not? Did Madame Vion have it wrong?”

  “Do you serve the waiter at your store?” Brigitte ran her eyes over the lines of print on the slip of paper.

  “He doesn’t come in.”

  “You brought him back from Lyon. What’s that about?”

  She glanced up when the madame did not answer, and saw again the falter in her demeanor. In the beautiful blue eyes, cold and high like an unforgiving fortress, she caught again the fluctuation to something . . . remorseful. Brigitte knew guilt when she saw it, but this was far more. It was made of the stuff that could unravel a person, should she let it. It provoked an instinctive, unwanted sympathy. But before she could respond in any way, two things happened: the look again frosted over, and Brigitte caught sight of the soldier beyond Madame Bouvier.

  The Austrian conscript was staring at Brigitte in alarm. He gazed in an alternating triangle from the madame, to the Bible, to Brigitte. She pressed her fingers to her lips to hide a smile.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “The soldier is afraid I’ll convert.” Then her smile vanished completely. “Here he comes. What do I do?”

  “Act naturally, of course. Always act naturally. Always be yourself. It is your best safety.”

  Private Tisknikt came and stood next to the table, his hat in his feverishly working hands. “Hallo, Brigitte.” He nodded at Madame Bouvier nervously. To Brigitte, he said, “Say—what are you reading?”

  “The Bible.”

  “Ja. That is what I thought. Why?”

  “Am I the sort of woman you would take home to Mother?” she asked.

  “Gott im Himmel, no. She would kill me.” His face colored. “I mean—look: maybe you read when war is over?”

  “I protest,” Madame Bouvier said in grand disdain.

  Brigitte winked at him, then beckoned with a curled finger. She whispered in his ear behind her hand, “Let’s make the old bat think she’s doing some good. It’s the generous thing to do. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Ease came back to his honest face, and he smiled broadly. To the madame, he said, “The soup is good, ja?” He bowed to both of them and left. The other soldier got up, and they left for duty. Brigitte watched them go, then glanced out the window to follow them to their posts at the bridge. The one she did not know relieved a sentry at the bridgehead. Private Tisknikt walked across the bridge to the pillbox on the other side.

  “Get to know it. That is your mission.”

  She looked from the bridge to Madame Bouvier. “What do you mean?”

  “Your job is to get any information you can about the Caen Canal Bridge out of your bridge-duty customers.”

  All the anticipation for this meeting, the imagined derring-do . . . an Ally in the coal bin, a typewriter, the thought of placing an explosive on a railroad track . . . of Jean-Paul finally looking her in the face, as he refused to in her dreams . . . it deflated around her like punched-down dough.

  “Then I’m not leaving Bénouville.”

  “Why should you?”

  I thought I had a different fate.

  “Keep doing what you do best. It’s what we all do. Who would have thought your particular talents would be needed by the Resistance, eh?” she said, with a look that reminded Brigitte of Colette.

  What a fool she had been. She was nothing but a prostitute. Why should they handpick her for anything else? She could feel Colette laugh.

  “Courage, my little chou-chou. Look on the bright side: now you’re doing it for your country.” She took out a compact to freshen her lipstick. In that moment, Brigitte knew she despised another person as much as she despised Colette.

  Why did the people she hate fascinate her most?

  “You will pass on any information you get to an American pilot, who will pose as a German soldier. I hear he looks like the son of Hitler’s dreams.” She eyed the rest of her makeup, then snapped the compact shut and replaced it in her purse. “He will become your best customer.”

  “An American,” she said contemptuously. “Of course it would be an American.” This was getting better and better.

  A delicate eyebrow rose. “Do you think the Allies you feed are only British?”

  “If America had acted sooner, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  So much for the land of the free and the home of the brave. They had cared only for their own freedom, not the freedom of an oppressed and brutalized nation.

  If America had acted sooner, Jean-Paul would be alive.

  The base of her throat seemed to close, but she refused tears. What had she gotten herself into? Why did she say yes to that Rafael?

  Madame Bouvier shrugged. “Who’s to say? So many ifs. We deal with things as they are, not as they should be.” Her face softened. She looked at Brigitte with interest. “Why do you do it?”

  “I don’t have to answer that,” Brigitte said acidly. She took a sip of cold tea.

  “I’m not talking about that. One year ago, Madame Vion from the château told me of a mysterious young woman who would sneak in and stroll the grounds as if they were her own. Every time, she left something on the steps of the chapel for the Allies. From a grateful patriot.”

  Brigitte’s first feeling was mild alarm. All that time, she had been watched.

  With less rancor, she said, “I don’t have to answer that either.” She looked out the window at the bridge. She was no good with measurements. How long did the thing measure across? “What kind of information do they want?”

  “Anything. Everything. The Allies need intelligence on all bridges close to the coast. They’ll need to know if the Germans rigged this one with explosives in case of attack; they’ll need to know how it is guarded; they’ll need to know when there are changes, if personnel increases or decreases, if there are any defensive changes around the bridgeheads. Any scrap you can get out of your bridge customers, even if you think it is useless. And they need the information now.”

  “The invasion is really coming . . .” A tiny flutter of hope rustled. One hardly dared hope for something that monumental, something that frightening, something with freedom attached.

  “It’s just a matter of when. Any information the Resistance can provide on coastal defenses will save lives. It already has.”

  Brigitte studied the bridge. It was an odd-looking contraption, a hulking swing bridge that lowered a huge counterweight on the east side to lever the entire bridge straight up in the air for boat passage. Must have been the talk of the town, all neighboring towns, when the thing was put in. “When do I meet the American?”

  “His training should start any time, but he’s still healing from a head injury. He was shot down near Cabourg. He is another reason you were chosen for this—you speak English.”

  Bitterness rose. What a day. She couldn’t believe her lot. Not only did her Resistance involvement fall far short of her imaginings, but she had to work with an American. An American was only one step removed from a Milice, in her opinion, a Milice being one step removed from a Nazi. The Milice were nothing but French Gestapo. They had the spirit of Colette, some weird anti-French streak, some weird, jeering collaboration of bullies allied with bigger bullies. And the Americans . . . well, they didn’t seem to care about bullies.

  “How do you know I speak English?”

  “You worked at the American embassy in Paris. You were a file clerk, but because you knew English, you were brought in occasionally to help translate, especially in ’39 when things got busy and smart Jews were leaving the country. You had a great deal of respect for Ambassador Bullitt.”

  Respect. You could call it that. It was more of a crush, until she met Jean-Paul. “He was the only American who knew what was going on.”

  Had Roosevelt o
nly listened to Bullitt’s warnings of the rise of Nazi power, of the terrible things that were happening in Germany to the Jews . . . It was Bullitt who raised the alarm when Jews who had fled Germany brought him their accounts of persecution. While others chose not to believe the incredible accounts, or chose to look away, Ambassador William Bullitt listened, and did his best to act.

  But Hitler rose, and countries fell in his rising. When the Netherlands fell—just one day after Hitler told them they had no worries of invasion, out of respect for their neutrality during the Great War—then the German army marched on France. The French government fled to Bordeaux, leaving behind what could barely be called a provisional government; and so it was that the lone man in charge of Paris the day France fell was an American, Ambassador William C. Bullitt.

  “He did not leave his post,” Brigitte murmured. Her tone gained strength. “Why didn’t Roosevelt listen? What is an ambassador for?”

  “You were in Paris the day France fell. What was it like?”

  It was the sort of question a true Frenchman would ask. Paris connected every French citizen, no matter if the citizen had ever been to Paris, no matter his or her station in life—rich or poor, prostitute or shop owner, Paris belonged to every citizen of France.

  Not many asked because not many knew she had been there. So many friends were gone. Her Jewish friends, to God knew where. Most of the people she had worked with at the embassy had left the country. She had no one to talk to about Paris, no one who would understand . . . except for Alex Tisknikt, the conscript from Austria. He told her what it felt like the day Vienna fell.

  She put her hands around her now-cool teacup. “You walked around in a nightmare, and you didn’t wake up. She was dying. She was empty. You cannot imagine Paris empty, but she was, not only of people but of her soul. You could feel the absence. The distant fighting you heard was frightening, it was surreal, but it was nothing compared to the emptiness. Someone had slit her veins, and her life drained out.”

  Tens of thousands had fled when news came that the Reich had breached the Maginot Line, overrunning it like a mere inconvenience in their surging bloodlust for the beating heart of France. It happened with dizzying speed. No one really believed Germany would overrun the line—it was impossible. No one believed they would march on Paris. Paris? Unthinkable! Who could believe the Nazis would march around the Arc de Triomphe? Who could believe a swastika would hang from the Eiffel Tower? Who could believe France would bow the knee to the foe she had bested not thirty years earlier? But bow she did.

  “I hated America. I hated England. We were abandoned. No hope of anyone coming to our aid. You should have seen the people. So few were left, but those who were looked and looked for someone to bring order, give direction—lead. I would have done it myself had I known what to do. There was no one. Ambassador Bullitt did what he could, but he wasn’t French. All the misery that followed . . . If Roosevelt had only listened, if—”

  “If, if, if,” Madame Bouvier cut in sharply. “If Roosevelt had listened, if America had acted, if Britain had—Grow up, Brigitte. Look who dies for us, now.”

  “They do not die for us,” Brigitte all but shouted. “They die because they finally know the Nazis are a bigger threat to their own countries than they imagined. There is nothing humanitarian about their deaths.”

  “Then why do you feed them?”

  When Brigitte did not answer, the woman gave a sour little smile. “So we are back to the beginning.” She gathered the Bible and the newspaper and rose. “We will not meet again. Good luck, and be ready. You will know your soldier by this: he will look more German than any you’ve met, and will say he was referred to you by a Lieutenant Kirsch. Understand? Kirsch. Until then, observe what you can. Don’t be obvious. And whatever you do, write nothing down.” She nodded at the piece of paper on the table. “Read those verses. Might actually do you some good.” Her tone softened. “I chose a few of my favorites, the ones Father Chaillet gave to me after—”

  “Yes, yes, after your ‘famous conversion.’ Is there a place for one like me?”

  Contempt rose high on the cold woman fortress. She glared down at Brigitte. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of—”

  “Just as I thought! At least you are more honest than the priest!”

  Without taking her eyes from the ice-blue ones, Brigitte crumpled the paper, rolled it between her palms, and tossed it over her shoulder.

  “Very good.” Madame Bouvier nodded.

  “I wasn’t acting.”

  “I know. We play our part best when we play ourselves. But don’t ever spit on me again.” She smiled tightly. “Makeup is dear.” She opened her purse, laid some coins on the table, and walked away without another glance at Brigitte.

  Madame Bouvier shook her head as she left the café. The little tart wouldn’t let her finish, and she almost deserved it. Of course there was room for one like Brigitte. If there wasn’t room for Brigitte, what hope did Gisèlle Bouvier have? As Father Chaillet had told her when she arrived on his doorstep a mess of a human being, deserving of and desperate for any punishment that could scour away the smallest edge of her guilt . . . yet in holy terror that she would be turned away . . .

  “What have you to fear, my child? All are welcomed.”

  “Then tell me what to do, Father! I do not deserve to live.”

  And she told him what she had done.

  “Tell me now that I am welcomed!” she had sobbed. “Tell me how to make this right!”

  He had laid his hand upon her head. “Acts of repentance will not lead to the mercy you seek, but mercy will lead to acts of repentance. God has mercy on you, child. Look at me. I give you one thing to do: only believe. Redemption will follow.”

  Perhaps Brigitte had to figure it out for herself. Clearly there was no reasoning with that girl. Madame Bouvier allowed a tiny smile. She rather liked the little hothead.

  The smile broadened when she saw anxious little Cherise awaiting her arrival on the steps of La Broderie. How they would gasp when she told of Brigitte crumpling up sacred Scriptures. She relished the thought.

  The lovely V dove toward the boxcars, and he saw his target on the left, a brick-colored boxcar with a gray top. Bomber boys had nothing on the death stick with the little red button. The power in his grip made his eyes glow. He zeroed in, his hand began to squeeze—

  The boxcar roof throws off like a tarp, the train opens a barrage of hellfire.

  “Tommy!” his mother called. “Get Ronnie out of the smoke! He can’t breathe!”

  He snatched the picture, jumped out of the plane. Flak hung like a stairway to the ground. He started down the flak trail, but it led to the Germans. He turned to run up to his plane but his girl is gone, she’s gone, blown out of the sky . . .

  His own yell woke him.

  He was sitting straight up in bed, hand gripping the air to fire the death stream he never did. He never squeezed off a single round.

  The flak belonged to another mission, when it was so thick, they later joked that flak protected them from antiaircraft fire. There was no flak the day they approached the rail yard. It was still as Christmas. Looked like a milk run.

  The stairs creaked. It was Clemmie, coming to tell him to dream more quietly. He rubbed the back of his sweat-soaked neck. They shot him down without a single bullet of return fire; she wondered why he woke up yelling?

  The door creaked open, and in came Clemmie. She went to the dresser to the decanter of whiskey. She poured the amber liquid into a tiny, delicate crystal glass from a set she’d gotten as a wedding present. She came to the bed and handed the glass to Tom.

  She nodded at the whiskey and, in heavily accented English, which she thought was much better than it actually was, said, “I could sell for twenty francs that shot alone. Most of my boys would have the bottle gone by now.”

  “I’m not used to it. It’s been warm beer since America.” He took a tentative sip, then swallowed the rest down, trying so hard not to cough
it made his eyes water. Clearing his throat in a long rumble, he handed the glass back to Clemmie.

  “Why ‘Clemmie’?” he asked, surprised he hadn’t until now.

  “Churchill’s wife. Behind every great man is a greater woman to put up with him.” She reached to smooth his damp hair. “I deserve the name.” She lifted an edge of the bandage on the left side of his head, and after inspection gave a grunt of dubious approval. Then she went to the window and pulled back an inch of shade to peek out.

  “Another yell like that and I will have explaining,” she murmured. “I will tell Old Man Renard I have a young lover; he calls out in his passion.” She chuckled, the act gently shaking her frame.

  Tom’s cheeks flamed at such talk, even as he firmed his lips to keep from laughing. He’d never heard a grandmother joke like that.

  “Do you know what renard means, in French?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “It means ‘fox.’ Old Man Fox. That is what he is.”

  Clemmie wore a neat but worn black dress, loose, as if there had once been more to fill it. She had black-framed glasses, black hair infused with gray, done up in a wispy bun like his mother’s, and a mustache you could see in the right angle of light. She had a hairy mole he tried not to notice, not far from a corner of her mouth. Her eyes were large behind the thick glasses. They crinkled with amusement as she watched the neighboring house.

  Renard’s house was not close enough for him to have heard Tom, even if the window had been opened. But Tom had learned that Clemmie’s caution, which he had first thought extreme, had housed a stream of downed Allied airmen without getting caught for three years. She also housed three “residents,” which prevented the billeting of any German soldiers. The residents were Jewish, strangers four years ago, now passed off as distant relations dispossessed from an eastern village near Alsace when the Germans invaded France. They were actually from the southeast, Vichy territory, rescued from deportation to the frightening unknown by the Resistance. “Uncle” Anton, “Aunt” Marie, and “Aunt” Tatia.

  Clemmie let go the shade, then came to the bed. She pulled up a caned chair and settled in, hands clasped over her stomach.