Wolfsangel (15 page)

I took Patrick’s temperature, the perfect excuse to lean close to him.

‘Ate th-the sw-weets,’ my brother stammered. I reached for his hand, hiding it from the other patients. Though the rest of the sick prisoners, too weak from similar beatings, didn’t look the least bit interested.

I squeezed Patrick’s hand; it was hot and clammy. Good, the typhus was still keeping him feverish. ‘We’re getting you out,’ I whispered. ‘The day after tomorrow hopefully.’

I moved across to Olivier. ‘It will be as if they’re taking you both off for a Gestapo interrogation. Play your part, but don’t overdo it.’

Olivier clutched my hand, a faint light shining from his dark eyes, beyond the patchwork of bruises.

I left the room, my steps brisk to mask my shaking limbs.

The guard checked his watch and nodded at me as he got up and moved off down the corridor. ‘
Au revoir
, mademoiselle.’

‘See you tomorrow,’ I called in the chirpy voice.

I entered the next room, busied myself taking more temperatures, and counting the minutes before the next duty guard took up his post.

A far-off church bell chimed four o’clock. Five minutes. That’s all we’d have to get them out.

25

Dusk had already darkened the city by the time Dr. Laforge and I left Jacqueline’s flat after our debriefing. We almost bumped into a young woman cradling a baby, as she came in the front door.

‘How’s young Samuel doing, Ellie?’ the doctor said, patting the baby on the head.

‘He’s over his cold,’ the woman said. ‘Thanks to your treatment, doctor, which I insist on paying you for, as soon as ––’

Dr. Laforge waved an arm. ‘Don’t worry about that.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I’m more concerned about you and the child, here in Lyon. Have you thought about what I said; about new papers?’

‘Thank you, doctor,’ Ellie said. ‘But Samuel and I are leaving the city shortly. I’m taking him to the countryside.’

‘Well, just let Jacqueline know,’ he said, ‘if you change your mind.’

She nodded and started climbing the stairs. Baby Samuel wriggled a fist from his wrap and it bounced up and down in the air like a little drummer’s baton, in perfect rhythm to his mother’s steps.

 ‘Can you drop me off at the convent please?’ I said as we drove off in Dr. Laforge’s Traction. ‘I need to let my sister know the boys are still all right. I’ll make certain nobody hears us talking.’

Forty minutes later we pulled up at the foot of the slope from which the convent towered like a decrepit haunted mansion.

‘It’ll soon be gone curfew time,’ he said. ‘You’d best stay the night at the convent. I’ll pick you up in the morning for our next shift at the Antiquaille.’

I stepped out of the car. ‘Okay. Goodnight then, doctor.’

‘You did well today, Gabrielle.’

‘Thank you. As I told you, I’ll do whatever it takes.’ I waved goodbye and walked the rest of the way.

The same nun from my first visit opened the door. Without waiting for me to say anything, she ushered me inside, and it struck me that all the nuns were likely aware of the convent’s illicit business of concealing people.

‘Sister Marie-Félicité is in the kitchen,’ she said, a hand on her beads to still them. ‘I’ll take you straight to her.’

I followed the rustle of her skirts down the dank hallway, past the piled-up shoe cubbies where the children stored polish, rags and brushes.

The same pale light bathed the kitchen, drenched in the stink of old cabbage and cooking fat. My sister was sitting at the table with two other nuns, sewing by candlelight. She looked up at me and lay her darning on the waxed red cloth.

She rose in a swish of black and white, and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘Sit, Céleste. You look exhausted. I’ll fix you something to eat and drink.’

‘We’ll leave you to talk with your sister,’ one of the other nuns said. They both gathered up their embroidery and left the room, their coifs glinting in the candlelight.

I sank into a chair as Félicité crossed to the stove, and stood over one of the copper-handled cauldrons, her rosary beads
clack-clacking
softly as she stirred something that smelled of fish.

In hushed tones I told her about my day at the hospital.

‘Nothing can go wrong,’ I said, wringing my hands. ‘It’s our –– the boys’ –– only chance.’

She fingered her silver cross. ‘Patrick and Olivier will be all right,’ she said. ‘I feel it. They’ll survive this war.’

I grappled about my neck, but there was only a great gap where the pendant usually sat –– a space that seemed to penetrate the layers of my skin and, in that instant, I regretted leaving it with Martin.

‘You’re not wearing your angel?’ she said, placing a plate of fish stew before me.

‘I left it with … I left it at L’Auberge. I hoped my sister didn’t detect the timorous crackle in my voice; my guilt at failing my mission with the German officer.

Love for Martin Diehl had come upon me as swiftly, and unexpectedly, as a March snowstorm. My feelings defined, my doubts flushed away, I found it hard to picture myself before, in a time we’d not been in love. I wanted to tell my sister how sweet it was; to explain those moments of petrified joy when I was with him and the aching desperation when we were separated. Not to mention the relief that dreamy love gave me from my hostile days with Maman. I wanted to tell her how, finally, I felt like a human being, in control of my own life.

If only I could share my dark secret –– that whole world beyond the one in which I fought to rid France of that same, hated man.

‘I’m not to wear anything conspicuous; nothing to identify me as Céleste Roussel. You’re to call me Gabrielle now.’

Marie-Félicité nodded. ‘Very prudent.’

‘How are the … the Faviers? Can I see them?’

She shook her head. ‘They went to their room straight after dinner. It’s like that most evenings.’

‘They’re all right, aren’t they?’

‘Bless them,’ Félicité said, the beads slipping mechanically through her fingers. ‘Sabine still puts on her cheery face, and dances to entertain everyone. She was obviously quite the ballerina before all this. But Max is fed up. His paintings tell the story –– wild splashes of colour that don’t make a lot of sense. He’s more and more fearful for his family and, of course, for us. I can tell Sabine is concerned about … about his mental state.’

‘Poor man.’

‘But the children are well,’ she said. ‘They both send you lots of kisses.’

‘I’d love to see them,’ I said, aligning my knife and fork on my empty plate. ‘Just for a minute.’

‘Jacob sleeps with his parents in their room,’ she said. ‘I don’t like disturbing them in the evenings, but Talia sleeps in the dormitory with the other girls.’ She got up. ‘She might be asleep already but come on, let’s see.’

I followed my sister upstairs to one of the girls’ dormitories. The silence made the room seem larger, and the scant light from the single bulb left pockets of shadow over the straight rows of beds, separated by small tables. Behind the windows, between which hung a wooden crucifix, the little girls’ breath floated through the air in frail gusts of vapour.

I gazed down at the sleeping Talia, her hair splayed across the pillow like the wingspan of a blackbird.

‘Keep safe, my Talia,’ I said, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead.

Talia screwed up her nose and turned over, but didn’t wake.

‘Let us all keep safe,’ Félicité said, as we tiptoed from the dormitory.

26

I returned to the hospital the following morning.

‘
Bonjour
, monsieur,’ I said to the same guard sitting outside room 6. ‘Cold out today, isn’t it?’

‘Touch of snow in the air, mademoiselle,’ he said, patting his hip. ‘So the old joints tell me.’

I saw Patrick and Olivier once more, both still feverish and horribly ill looking.

‘This afternoon,’ I murmured, as I took their temperatures. They answered with feeble nods, and closed their swollen eyes.

The morning crawled by. I busied myself pacing corridors and wards, glancing at patients’ charts from time to time, not daring to go near the boys again. I rehearsed my part, over and over.

Afternoon finally came, and my pulse quickened when I saw one of the two stolen Wehrmacht cars enter the courtyard –– a black Traction of the type the French and German police used, complete with fake license plates and German stickers on the windscreen. I recognised Pierre, my male nurse contact from the café, as the driver.

The other stolen car, an ambulance van, drove into the courtyard behind the Traction. Pierre and the three other “Gestapo” agents leapt from the two vehicles and marched into the building.

I could hardly believe it was really happening, and was thankful there wasn’t a second to dwell on what we were doing; the danger we were courting. I hurried back along the corridor to the prisoners’ section.

‘Must be nearly home time for you?’ I said to the guard. ‘I bet you’ll be glad to be out of that chair?’

He checked his watch. ‘Another minute and I’ll be a free man, mademoiselle.’ He sighed and tapped his fingertips against the barrel of his gun.

I thought of two others who, with luck, would also soon be free men.

A minute passed. The guard checked his watch again, got up and moved off down the corridor, his boots squeaking on the waxed floor.

The guard had not quite reached the exit when the fake Gestapo agents appeared in the corridor.

God help us, the rescuers had arrived a few vital seconds too soon.

The guard stopped. ‘Can I help you?’ he said to the “Gestapo” agents.

‘The presence of two prisoners is required immediately at Montluc Prison,’ one of them demanded in a German accent.

‘You’ll need permission from the hospital director to take any of the patients away,’ the guard said.

The “Gestapo” men remained motionless, as if they didn’t know what to say or do next.

‘You can’t just march in and take them like that,’ the guard went on.

‘We have orders from SS Obersturmführer Barbie,’ the agent with the German accent said. ‘To take two prisoners from room 6 for interrogation.’

‘I told you, the hospital director must give his authorisation,’ the guard repeated. ‘You can’t ––’

Before he could finish speaking one of the “Gestapo” struck him across the head with his gun. The man crumpled to the floor.

I felt a queasy jab of pity for him, thankful to see his chest was still rising and falling.

But there wasn’t a second to worry about an unconscious guard, as the agents pushed past me into room 6 and began sliding Patrick and Olivier onto the stretchers.

I stayed in the corridor keeping watch, my legs quivering so much I thought they’d give out on me. People would surely come running any second. The guard still lay on the floor, unmoving.

The agents moved out of room 6 with Patrick and Olivier on the stretchers and started hurrying back along the corridor. I ripped my hospital gown off, stuffed it into my bag and tore after them.

The agents were almost out of the entrance when the hospital director appeared, flanked by two new guards. Other staff members were also gathering around.

‘
Arrêtez-vous!
’ the director shouted. ‘Where are you taking those prisoners?’ His eyes flickered to the guard sprawled across the floor.

The new guards gripped me by the arms and sandwiched me between them. ‘What’s going on here, mademoiselle?’

I couldn’t speak, or move. All I could do was shake my head. I couldn’t stop shaking it. I could hear the director in room 6 on the telephone, signalling the breakout.

The guards kept a firm grip on me. ‘Well, mademoiselle?’ It felt as if my heart had stopped beating, but I remained wordless as the German-accented “Gestapo” man, with one of the others, reappeared in front of us.

A coldness froze me as, with steady hands, they raised their guns and shot both the guards in the face.

Their grips on me slackened. I shook their clinging fingers off and raced after the two fake agents, out of the building. Behind me, the shouts of the hospital director beat against my eardrums.

The ambulance van containing Patrick, Olivier, Pierre and another “agent” had already sped off. I dived into the Traction with the other two “Gestapo”, the driver hurtling off before we’d shut the doors.

I barely breathed, gripping the door-handle as the car screeched out of the courtyard and onto the street. As we careened away from the hospital, I let my breath out, but my heart still banged so hard against my chest it hurt.

‘Hold tight,’ the driver said, as I heard the roar behind us. ‘Motorcycle on our tail.’

27

The police motorcycle caught up with us in less than a minute. I kept my head bent low, not daring to glance through the rear window.

Our driver sped up as we left the narrow streets of the old district of Lyon and reached the wider road that headed westward. The motorcycle clung to our tail.

‘Oh God, oh God,’ I kept saying in a panicked kind of whimper.

The two “Gestapo” agents didn’t say a word but the driver’s knuckles blanched as he gripped the steering wheel.

I stole a quick glance behind. The motorcycle was pulling out into the middle of the road to overtake us. So close it was, I could see the determination in the rider’s eyes. He drew level with us, then his eyes widened for less than a second as an oncoming van slammed head-on into the motorcycle.

I shrieked, the blood pulsing hard in my head, as our vehicle swerved to avoid the van. I snatched only a glimpse of the horrific smash littering the road behind.

‘That got rid of him, at least,’ the German-accented agent said with a smirk.

As we continued west, towards the Monts du Lyonnais, passing through familiar villages, I took in great gulps of air. I was still unable to utter a single word. We were soon driving through the autumn golds and crimsons of the foothills, violet fringes of heather lapping the slopes. We passed the Julien-sur-Vionne turn-off, then the road that led to Lucie, and when we’d climbed the hill to the village of Saint Martin-en-Haut, the driver veered off onto a dirt track.

‘You know why this is a good place to hide people?’ the driver said to me.

I shook my head. ‘No idea.’

‘Because the Boche absolutely hate driving up hills. They avoid coming here at all costs. Stupid pigs.’

The men laughed as the Traction bumped along the rutted track and I thought of how Marie-Félicité’s convent, too, stood on a hill.

We stopped in front of a small, tumbledown farm at the end of the stony, isolated track. I recognised Dr. Laforge’s car parked beside a chestnut tree. The ambulance van was there too, Pierre and the other fake agents unloading the stretchers and carrying Patrick and Olivier inside.

I leapt from the Traction as Père Emmanuel, Dr. Laforge and Jacqueline appeared from the cottage with a man and a woman. From the man’s blue overalls, and the woman’s apron, it was obvious they were the farmer and his wife.

‘Well done, Gabrielle,’ Dr. Laforge said. ‘Good work, everybody.’

‘This is my brother, Georges,’ Père Emmanuel said, introducing the farmer. ‘And his wife, Perrine.’

‘Come in, quickly,’ Perrine said, taking my arm and ushering me up the crumbling porch steps. ‘You look fagged out. What a time you must’ve had.’

‘I’m all right, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’d just like to see the boys … to take care of them.’

I followed the woman into a dim hallway, leaving the others murmuring outside with the agents.

Perrine lit a candle and I saw we were in the kitchen, the stove set into a blackened hearth, the pots and skillets dangling from racks above the low cupboards, much like Maman’s at L’Auberge.

‘They’re in the living room,’ Perrine said as she added a shovelful of charcoal to the stove and placed a wide cauldron on top. ‘Why don’t you go through and bring me their clothes? I’ll put them in to soak while you tend their wounds.’ She started filling the cauldron with water.

My brother’s smile revealed a mouthful of broken teeth as he turned his face to Olivier. ‘Can you believe it … what my sister just did?’

‘Best resistor around these parts,’ Olivier said.

‘Oh I know that.’ My casual shrug masked the surge of pride I felt as I began cleansing their wounds. ‘And you’re to call me Gabrielle Fontaine now.’

Olivier smiled. ‘Gabrielle. It suits you … very heroine-ish.’

I could tell the boys were trying not to wince or cry out as I peeled away their grimy, bloodstained garments and for the next few minutes I filled them in on the news. I told them about Maman and her release from prison. Reluctant to worry them more than necessary, I didn’t voice my suspicions as to why she was released so easily, and how she was carrying on the angel-making as usual, with real soap. I could hardly believe it myself. The very thought of my mother with a German was vulgar.

‘The Boche took Maman’s pig and some hens,’ I said. ‘So there’ll be no pork next year. And someone from Lucie is giving the Germans information about the villagers, who they then blackmail. Ghislaine, Miette and I have our suspicions, but no proof … yet.’

‘So much for patriotism,’ Patrick said. ‘While we’re risking our lives, all some people think about is what they can get out of this occupation; taking their cut from those Nazi bastards.’

Nazi bastards.

It struck me then, was Martin a Nazi? I’d never thought about it. I only knew that, kneeling beside my heroes, Patrick and Olivier, I wanted to beat Martin’s image from my mind; to snap the threads of those two conflicting strands that stretched my nerves so tightly I feared something inside me would snap. How could I truly dedicate myself to our Resistance while Martin Diehl was hanging off every one of my thoughts? How could I be certain never to reveal the tiniest morsel of confidential information –– unconsciously perhaps –– in a moment of unthinking desire?

The talk of collaboration reminded me of Gaspard Bénédict but when I told Patrick and Olivier about his beating and how he lay, brain-dead, in his mother’s back room, they barely flinched.

‘Traitors get what they deserve,’ Patrick said, his words a bitter whisper.

‘Many of the prisoners talked,’ Olivier said. ‘Couldn’t cope with the torture, and told the barbarians what they wanted. But we never did.’

‘Because we knew they’d shoot us whether we spoke or not,’ Patrick said.

My brother and Olivier may not have revealed their secrets to the Gestapo, but as I continued dabbing their wounds with warm water, I sensed those brutes had broken something inside them. They’d stolen their youth; their
joie de vivre
.

‘How’s Ghislaine … and her father?’ Olivier said.

‘Not good,’ I said. ‘Père Emmanuel says Bernard Dutrottier’s a broken man. He doesn’t speak anymore. And he’s had to close the shop. Two of the Boche found out he was selling his meat on the black market, so now he has to sell it all to them. There’s none left over for the villagers, or for his family.’

‘Bastard pigs,’ Olivier said with a groan as he shifted to his other side. I tried not to flinch at the whip marks criss-crossing his back.

‘And the family?’ he said. ‘They’re in a safe place?’

‘As safe as possible.’

‘Nowhere is safe these days,’ Patrick said.

‘There’s more and more talk of this Allied invasion coming to save us,’ Olivier said.

‘Well I wish they’d hurry,’ I said as I continued cleaning the wounds. ‘Now don’t speak too much. Save your energy to recover.’

‘Yeah, so we can go back out and shoot their ugly Boche arses,’ Patrick said.

‘Go back out?’ I said. ‘You’re surely not …?’

‘You know we can’t return to Lucie,’ Patrick said. ‘Or L’Auberge. Besides do you want to live the rest of your life under the rule of those pigs?’

‘Of course I don’t, Patrick. That’s what I was trying to tell you both from the beginning. I need to fight too.’

‘I thought your job was finding out if the Boche officer knows about us?’

‘He doesn’t know a thing,’ I said, swivelling about to hide my flushed cheeks. ‘I’m sure of that.’

‘We’re joining the Maquis,’ Olivier said. ‘Père Emmanuel’s brother –– Georges’ group. We’ll be staying on here in Saint Martin-en-Haut.’

‘The Maquis,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’ve heard about them.’

‘At first,’ Olivier said, ‘they were just men running off into the hills to avoid compulsory labour serv ––’

‘Unlike our father,’ Patrick said, with a bitter twist of his lip.

‘But now they’re highly-organised Resistance groups,’ Olivier went on.

‘That’s dangerous work.’ I dabbed their wounds with antiseptic. ‘Living out in the hills … the cold, the threat of informants. Not to mention the Nazi reprisals –– punishing the villagers –– for Maquis sabotages.’

‘Georges and Perrine will watch out for us,’ Olivier said. ‘Three of their five boys are prisoners-of-war; they’re dedicated to helping the Maquisards.’

‘They seem lovely,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know Père Emmanuel had a brother. It’s strange to imagine him with a real family, you know …’

‘You understand we won’t be able to have any contact with you, Maman or anyone else,’ Patrick said.

‘No contact at all?’

‘We’ll send messages when we can,’ Olivier said, pressing a palm to my arm. ‘Through our contacts. You understand why we have to keep fighting?’

‘Yes … yes I do, but it seems I’ve only just got you both back. Back from the dead!’

The SS might have beaten the boyish, carefree joy from Patrick and Olivier, but something entirely different had awoken from the darkness of those savage beatings –– a passionate, almost feral urge to fight for us; to risk their lives for what they believed in. It was a strength I realised, that Martin Diehl no longer possessed –– a quality he’d perhaps never had, even before he became disillusioned with the war. For a fleeting instant the German officer struck me as a weakling who lacked the fierce dedication of Patrick and Olivier.

I swatted those unsettling thoughts aside as Perrine appeared with bowls of vegetable soup. She handed one to me, knelt beside my brother and began spoon-feeding him.

‘Be a good boy now,’ I said, holding the spoon to Olivier’s swollen lips. ‘Drink up your soup.’

‘
Oui
, Maman Gabrielle,’ he said with a small grin, and swallowed the warm liquid.

Sitting by Olivier’s side, gripped with the same kind of maternal protection I felt for Talia and Jacob Wolf, I sensed the change that had come over us both. The gleeful children who’d jibed, teased and swum together were gone. Age, war and the occupation had transformed us, and I knew things could never be the same.

***

I left Patrick and Olivier sleeping and took the soup bowls back to the kitchen. Our “Gestapo” agents finished their coffee and, with nods all round, they got up and drove away into the bruised dusk light. Apart from Pierre, I hadn’t learned their names, and suspected I never would.

‘Coffee, Gabrielle?’ Perrine said. She pushed aside the already long scarf she was knitting and crossed to the stove.

I sat at the table with the others.
‘Who were they, the fake agents?’

‘Members of our group,’ Jacqueline said, lighting a Gauloise. ‘The one with the German accent is from Luxembourg. He ran away from forced German military service; deserted the beloved Führer. As you can imagine, he’s quite useful to us.’

‘And the one who looks like Pierre,’ Dr. Laforge said. ‘Is codenamed Antoine. He and Pierre are law students at the Université Lyon 2. They work there as cleaners in return for free lectures.’

‘The Boche killed three of Pierre’s brothers and two of Antoine’s,’ Jacqueline said, cigarette smoke streaming from her nostrils.

‘We need to let my mother and my sister know the boys are safe,’ I said to Dr. Laforge.

‘Père Emmanuel and I are going back to Lucie now,’ the doctor said. ‘I’ll call in at L’Auberge …
on the pretext of a medical visit.’

‘I’ll telephone your sister,’ Père Emmanuel said. ‘Best you stay away from L’Auberge for a while. The police will be like ants, crawling all over the farm looking for Patrick and Olivier. And while they can’t connect the girl who lives there to Gabrielle Fontaine, it’s better to be safe.’

Dr. Laforge and Père Emmanuel drove off too, and Georges plugged the cork into his wine bottle.

‘
Bonne nuit
, ladies.’ The old farmer lifted his arm in a wave and turned to climb the stairs. ‘Sleep in peace.’

I was weary beyond exhaustion but knew I was too charged up to sleep, so I left Jacqueline in the kitchen with Perrine, and the scarves and socks she was knitting for her prisoner-of-war sons.

I slipped outside and stood on the porch, my arms clamped across my chest against the cold. I couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride. The boys were safe. Despite the Martin Diehl dilemma, I’d proved myself a worthy Resistance fighter. Nobody could treat me as silly, rash or hot-tempered.

The door creaked open and Jacqueline came to stand beside me. She pulled her pack of Gauloise from her pocket, lit two cigarettes and handed one to me. She took a few deep drags and laid a large masculine hand on my shoulder.

‘What would you think about coming to stay at my flat in Lyon?’ she said. ‘To continue working with our group?’

I couldn’t resist a smile. ‘I’d like that very much, Jacqueline.’

‘Right,’ she said, in her no-nonsense tone, ‘it’s settled then. You should get some sleep now. It’s been a long day.’ She patted my shoulder, the manly hand lingering, then slipping away.

‘I’ll be in soon,’ I said, breathing in the sweet night air. ‘It’s just so peaceful out here, after … after today.’

Jacqueline nodded and flicked her cigarette butt into the frosty darkness. It fizzed on the damp ground and she disappeared inside. I stared out into the quiet night, and up at the amber cloud obscuring the moon. The sky was clearer, away from the city, the stars blinking at me like the eyes of a thousand, protective gods. The scent of cow dung, rotting leaves and moist earth filled my nostrils. Familiar, safe smells.