Page 45 of Resistance
‘You will stop seeing Jörg immediately, do you understand, Béatrice? You need to give me your word or I will have no option but to tell Vincent and the rest of the Maquis, and if I do, I cannot guarantee your safety. You will be seen as a collaborator, and sometimes terrible things happen to them. Am I making myself clear?’
But Béatrice wasn’t going to be cowed or blackmailed or shamed, it was clear the moment she opened her mouth. ‘Do your worst, Yvette, go on, run to Vincent, and I will run straight to Jörg and tell him all about the strange woman who appeared one day at the home of her Tante Helene, who speaks very good French but isn’t really one of us. Perhaps she’s an agent, a spy. So off you go, go on, GO ON!’ She was hysterical now. ‘I don’t care what you say or do because I have picked the winning side, not the silly little Maquis men who run around with their guns and hide like mice. At the end of the war, Jörg will take care of me but who will take care of you, Yvette? Who will save you when they have you in their cellars, taking you to pieces bit by bit?’
‘Enough!’ Lucille stepped forward, white with rage, the diminutive figure rising up against her child.
Yvette was immobile, pinned to the spot by Béatrice’s cruel words and not so idle threats.What to do? This is Vincent’s sister; how can I give her up? But she is a traitor, if not yet in deed, then in thought.
As if on cue, Raymonde then appeared at the door, a hammer in one hand, his other fist full of nails. When he strode defiantly across the room and began banging them into the frame, sealing the window shut, Yvette was sure the wail from Béatrice could be heard for miles.
‘He will come for me, tomorrow or the day after, and when I don’t show up, he will march straight to this door and demand to see me and then I will tell him everything… I hate you, I hate you all.’
Ignoring his daughter’s threats, once the job was done, Raymonde left the room, averting his own angry eyes from the hateful ones of his irate child who screamed and swore her defiance. Yvette followed him out on to the landing and watched as Lucille retreated from the room and locked the door in her wake.
Turning to Yvette, her lips set in a thin line, tears of shame in her eyes, she gave a simple instruction. ‘Go now, do what you have to do. Make sure everyone is safe. We will take care of things here.’
Still trembling, Yvette merely nodded and took the stairs quickly, desperate to get away from the sound of Béatrice kicking and pounding the door, the threats she issued through the wood ringing in everyone’s ears.
Two days later, the body of a German soldier was found on the roadside, near to the bridge that led to the track that ran along the Matis property. It looked like a terrible accident. His motorbike had collided with a deer perhaps, his head injuries gruesome, but still, most of the villagers came out to look. Rumours were rife that the soldier had been meeting someone selling black market produce, everyone had their price and the Germans had the money for it, after all. There were cigarettes in his pocket, plenty, and there was a smashed bottle of pastis in the road so maybe he was drunk, that’s what the doctor and the priest thought, anyway.
When the soldiers from the town came to investigate, a Gestapo officer in tow, the villagers reported that they heard and saw nothing. When they left, the rumours took another turn, to the fear of reprisals. What if the Boche suspected foul play, would they come for the villagers like they had in other places, dragging people off to the prison or putting them against a wall? The priest did his best to soothe his parishioners and assured them that the Gestapo had seemed convinced that it was an accident and if someone amongst them did know anything, they should keep it to themselves or share it in the confessional. There were no traitors in the village, he was sure, if they stood together and kept their counsel, everyone would be fine.
26
Zaya
Renazé, 1944
The late afternoon sun warmed Yvette’s face as she sucked in great lungfuls of air, hoping too that the breeze would blow away the troubles in her mind. There had been such a terrible row before Vincent left for Nantes and she wished he’d taken her with him, if only so she could see Estelle and get away from the drama that his sister was creating. They had gone to his parents’ home together to speak with Béatrice who had taken the news of Jörg’s death badly to say the least.
* * *
Lucille had been at her wits’ end and told them it was like living with a devil. A visit from Celeste, who innocently described in great detail the state of the dead soldier, hadn’t helped. The absence of Béatrice was put down to a headache but she must have been listening on the stairs to her friend’s animated description of brains and blood. Once Celeste left, all merry hell broke loose and Béatrice had been inconsolable ever since.
Vincent assured his tearful mother that now the soldier was gone the threat had receded and whatever Béatrice may or may not have let slip, would have died with him. He then left Yvette in the kitchen and went to speak to his sister who he hoped had learned her lesson and if she had, then the matter should be forgotten.
As he made his way upstairs, the clomping of his hobnail boots on the wood, Yvette wasn’t in the least bit hopeful or reassured. She had seen the she-devil in action so hovered in the hallway, followed closely by Lucille who nervously wrung a dishcloth in her hands.
Vincent stepped forward and rapped on the closed bedroom door, then took a step back as he spoke.
‘Béatrice, may I come in? I would like to speak with you. There is nothing to worry about, I just want us to sort this out.’ Silence, a few seconds passed and then Vincent slowly unlocked the door and the banshee appeared.
From where they waited Yvette and Lucille witnessed the monster unleashed as she pounced on her brother, punching and scratching and pulling his face and hair as she screamed obscenities and vented her anger.
‘You murderer, you cowardly murdering scum. You killed him and I hate you and I always will.’ Béatrice kicked out with her feet and words.
Lucille took the stairs as fast as she could while Vincent defended himself and tried to tame his sister as she was prised away by Yvette who clung on tightly to her arms, his mother positioning herself between son and daughter.
‘Stop this, Béatrice, in the name of God what is wrong with you? This is your brother; he is trying to protect you and this is how you treat him?’ Lucille’s voice trembled, a combination of shock and anger.
‘And Jörg was my boyfriend and he killed him, and I will never forgive you, Vincent, ever. I hate you and I hope you die a worse death than him, now get out of my sight or I will kill you with these hands, I swear I will.’ Her eyes were wild; Béatrice was not for taming.
Yvette saw the hurt wash over Vincent’s face, pale against the blood on his cheek where his sister’s nails had torn and gouged his skin. She thought he was going to say more, or maybe he was waiting for her to intervene, make things right, but Yvette knew whatever she said to Béatrice would probably make things even worse.
‘Vincent, go downstairs, there is nothing you can do here, please, go.’
She saw him look at his sister one more time, great sadness etched across his face, or was it disappointment? Yvette couldn’t tell. With a nod he did as she asked and once he was out of sight, footsteps receding, she released Béatrice from her grasp, not wanting to look at a face she fought hard not to slap. It was as she reached the top of the stairs Yvette heard the sound and felt the spit as it landed on the back of her dress.
Reining in every last ounce of self-control, Yvette made her way down the stairs, trying hard to ignore the parting threat from Béatrice.
