Page 36 of Resistance
‘See that house there, number nine, with the balcony, the second one up to the left, that’s where she was, waiting for me to arrive. I can picture her like it was yesterday, waving like crazy. She was so beautiful.’
Maude saw the tears that rolled down Dottie’s cheeks and feeling her own eyes filling, sought to comfort her gran.
‘Come on, let’s sit here and then you can tell me all about her.’ Maude stroked Dottie’s arm and feeling her respond, they seated themselves more or less opposite the house.
While cars drove by and horns honked and city dwellers hurried home, Maude still heard her gran’s intake of breath, perhaps gathering courage to tell her all about the original Maude, someone who had clearly touched Dottie’s heart and soul.
21
Reunited
Nantes, France, 1944
Yvette had never been so terrified but excited in her life. The train from Châteaubriant seemed to have stopped every five minutes at each rural station en route to Nantes. Locals piled on, heading for the city, mostly older passengers and women, some with children. The young men were nearly all gone now, only those who were needed remained, the other able-bodied citizens sent to Germany to slave for the enemy, or sent to prison camps for refusing while the others fled and joined the Resistance.
Suspicion was like an invisible force that lingered in the air, reflected in the eyes of the other passengers who, when they dared to make contact, looked away quickly, perhaps scared of what they would see or give away. This was why Yvette concentrated on the scenery outside. The once green pastures and fields of produce were now muted or barren; frigid, dormant squares of patchwork as far as her eyes could see. How she longed for spring, less than a month away. The winter had been harsh, not so much in temperature, more on the heart.
Their Historian Network still thrived but across the north of France the Nazis were making more raids, homing in on radio signals and capturing operators, dissembling the chain slowly but surely. Many of their comrades had been tortured then shot or sent to prison camps, their fate unknown. News filtered through via underground newspapers, or from one network to the other. Mistrust and paranoia ate at the core of their movement, everyone fearful of infiltrators and the gruesome methods of the Gestapo.
Yvette had thought that winter would be an ally, the darkness providing cover for their activities, yet in some ways, the barren landscape and trees left them more exposed and forced those who lived outdoors to seek out abandoned farm buildings or dig deeper, climb higher and stay out of sight. Life for the Maquis was hard, so she had welcomed the turn of spring. Each day she willed the trees to bud, the forest to blossom and then the verdant branches would provide benevolent protection and allow its human dwellers an easier existence.
Sometimes Vincent would be gone for days and she missed him so much, but she would rather that than he risk capture for the sake of a few hours together. It was enough just to see his face even for a second and she watched for him always, while she cycled to and fro from the village or as she hung the washing on the line, scanning the edge of the woods, listening for a whistle or an unfamiliar bird call.
In the meantime, her and Tante Helene listened to Radio Londres, dissembling the news, listening to the bizarre messages she knew were codes for the Resistance, praying that what else they heard was not just propaganda and jingoism. The tide had to turn soon, but in the meantime, Yvette continued in her role as courier, saboteur, guide, whatever was needed. Throughout they all remained vigilant, wary of newcomers, even the evaders they helped, trusting only their closest comrades.
This was why when Florian arrived with new orders given directly by Vincent, Yvette followed them without question. The detonators he delivered were to be sewn inside the front lining of her coat and taken to Nantes where she would meet with another agent, stay for two nights and only then return to the village. Yvette had no qualms whatsoever and when Florian handed over the package, she was eager to get on with the task.
Yvette listened intently as Florian spoke and smoked at the same time, his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
‘Inside the package there is a map you must study then destroy and money for the return ticket. Once you reach Nantes, proceed directly to 9 Place d’Aristide and the agent there will take care of the rest. You do have a coat? Otherwise you will have to hide them in your luggage, it’s a risk. Or maybe some other garment would do.’ Florian raised an eyebrow and gave Yvette a cheeky smile.
It was a fair enough question because not everyone owned a full wardrobe of clothes. ‘Yes, I have one, don’t worry.’
‘Good. We need you to take them all at once, not in separate journeys, it is too risky and slow otherwise.’
Yvette took the package wrapped in brown paper. ‘But tell me, how is Vincent, are you together, is he close by?’
The look that flashed across Florian’s face quickly made Yvette feel stupid and regret her question. If Vincent was close by then he would have come himself, she was sure of it, and the fact he hadn’t meant he could be anywhere, not that Florian would tell her.
Changing the subject as her cheeks flushed, Yvette focused on her orders. ‘Is it a man or a woman I’m meeting?’
‘A woman, code name Simone. She goes by the name of Estelle but make sure you confirm both before you hand these over. Now I have to go.Bon chance, Yvette, and take care in the city. We will see you again soon.’ And then he was gone, leaving the room filled with smoke and hope.
Yvette was sure his parting words held a deeper meaning, but it was hearing the name of the agent she was to meet in Nantes that made her heart soar and her fingers sew faster.
The giant driving wheels of the steam train could not have turned quick enough for Yvette because soon she would be with her best friend again. It had been too much to imagine that somehow they would be thrown together. When they said goodbye that misty morning on a deserted road and went their separate ways, Yvette had hoped but never expected to be reunited, not in France anyway. It was like a dream come true, a reward, the most wonderful surprise.
Slightly nervous about her arrival in the city which she knew would be a world away from the deserted lanes where she lived, Yvette appraised her rather shabby appearance. Maude,no Estelle, wouldn’t care, not one bit but she would definitely tease, that’s why she loved her. Still, Yvette was so fed up of looking like she did; she was a young woman and longed to dress up and feel pretty again, despite what was going on around her.
She glanced down at her lace-up shoes, scuffed but clean, then at her bare and very goosebumpy legs, covered as much as possible by her coat, a hand-me-down from Polo’s aunt and one that Yvette swore had never, ever been in fashion. She cringed. It was made from heavy cotton, a murky green colour that reminded Yvette of a mechanic’s overall minus the grease and oil. The unnecessarily wide lapels were trimmed in black binding, as were the cuffs and it hung straight and shapeless, not quite a sack but it would have held a lot of potatoes.
It was of course made even more uncomfortable by the six detonators that were very tightly sewn on the inside – Yvette had been determined that none of them would fall off and give her away. For some reason, when she imagined what Estelle would think of her when they met, it made Yvette smile and hold down a giggle despite her feeling a complete frump; an enemy of fashion, never mind the Boche.
Passengers were beginning to gather their belongings, obviously used to the journey and familiar with their surroundings and once again, nerves fluttered inside. She’d already had her papers checked twice. Her mouth went dry both times and she’d felt perspiration in the pits of her arms as she stepped onto the platform to have her small handbag and basket searched by a clumsy-handed soldier. And then again by the steely-eyed Gestapo on board and now as the train neared Nantes, Yvette knew she’d have to endure the process once more. But she would stick to her story and try not to show nerves, because innocent people had nothing to fear, did they?
She was visiting her cousin who was expecting a baby, hence the knitted garments in her basket, along with the pomander of herbs and flowers from her aunt’s garden, a gift. There were also two jars of home-made rabbit rillette. Amidst the mild panic, the sight of them had emboldened and amused Yvette, seeing the temptation and deliberation in the eyes of the soldiers. What would the jar really contain, was it worth removing black market goods so they could share them in the mess, or would the rillette be mixed with dog shit, or worse? It was a favourite trick of women resistors and the Boche had probably learned the hard way.
The queue was interminably long but Yvette waited as patiently as she could, keeping her eyes fixed ahead where she surreptitiously watched the three Gestapo who in turn, were scrutinising the passengers as they shuffled along. When it was her turn to show her tickets and identity papers, Yvette handed them over, looking at them and not into the eyes of the soldier. Defiance was not wise, it was best to act demure and appear respectful but never friendly, after all, the Boche were still the enemy, invaders. Only someone hoping to distract them would take this tack. This time the soldier merely flicked the cloth and quickly peered inside the basket before tapping Yvette’s handbag, signalling that he wished to see inside. It was almost empty apart from her lipstick, a flattened stub of rouge and a compact that now contained a mirror and sponge, the powder long gone. With a dismissive wave of his hand the soldier allowed her through and Yvette slowly exhaled, her breath leaving her body gradually.
