14.
ON THE EVENING BEFORE Good Friday, Fabienne was sitting in the bistro bar when Müller walked in at a little after eight p.m. Seeing him was enough to stop her mental rehearsal of the mission. Every muscle clenched as she watched him looking around the room. She leaned back behind a pillar and tugged her beret lower. There was always fire in his eyes, but this evening he seemed more edgy, like he was up to something or looking for someone; the keen eye of the hunter searching for his next prey.
The barman served him a brandy and he drank it in one slug. He tapped his glass on the bar, and it was refilled. He snatched the bottle and set it by his glass, dismissing the man with a swift lift of his chin. He glanced towards the four SS soldiers playing cards at one of the tables, then scanned slowly around the room. His gaze lingered on the two Frenchwomen who were sitting at a table entertaining three French Wehrmacht officers. He snarled at the Frenchmen drinking quietly in the corner of the room. They lowered their heads.
Fabienne’s heart pounded, partly because she knew if he saw her, he would come to her and if he came to her, he would want something from her she wasn’t under any circumstances going to give him. She would rather die than allow him to touch her. The other reason was because she wanted more than anything to kill him.
He filled his glass again and again.
With every drink he took, her anger burned hotter. He put on his hat and walked out of the bar without paying.
She waited a few seconds before stepping into the street after him. She pulled her jacket collar up tight around her neck and her beret deep over her head. She could be mistaken for a Frenchman at a distance and in the darkness, which would make her a little less interesting, though the street was empty of people to hide behind, so she was still vulnerable. A truck passed slowly, and she used it for cover to cross the road. She stayed close to the line of the buildings, making her less easy to spot if he turned around suddenly. When he stopped outside the butcher’s shop, she ducked into what was left of the archway that used to lead to the now-destroyed library building and watched him from across the road.
He tried to open the door and when it didn’t open, he stepped back and kicked it with the heel of his boot. A small movement in shadow at the back of the room stilled. He peered through the window, and slammed his hand on the glass. Receiving no response, he hammered repeatedly with a clenched fist. “I know you’re in there.”
Four soldiers walked towards him, heading in the direction of the bar. They raised their arm in salute as they passed. He returned the gesture and watched them move down the street before pounding the door again. “Open up, you fucking whore.”
Madame Guillaume lived alone since her husband had been conscripted into the Wehrmacht and sent to fight on the Eastern front. She was a kind, gentle woman who kept herself to herself. Fabienne now understood where the marks on her face that she’d seen in the church, and the swelling of her belly, had come from. She restrained herself from crossing the road to exact revenge. Hopefully he would get bored and go back to the bar or back to the house.
He kicked the door and cursed, “You’ll fucking pay for this.” He strode back towards the bar and Fabienne breathed a sigh of relief.
He stopped at the black car parked on the street and opened the boot, and her relief was displaced by horror as she watched him take out a bottle of what looked like schnaps. He removed the cork and plugged the glass neck with a rag, took out a metal bar, and slammed the boot shut. He strode back towards the shop.
Fabienne’s heart thundered. He was going to set fire to the place and there was nothing she could do to stop him. Was he going to beat Madame to death with the bar first?
He kicked the door. “One last chance, whore. And it’s more than you deserve. Open the fucking door.”
The shadows remained still.
He smashed the glass window with the bar and pulled out his lighter. The rag took to the flame quickly and he threw the bottle into the shop.
Madame screamed.
He laughed and walked back down the street.
Fabienne watched the flames taking hold. She couldn’t go too soon because he might see her, or he might be intending to return. The flames licked around the window. There was movement in the shadows inside the shop. She prayed Madame would stay inside just a bit longer. If not, he would likely return to finish the job. She watched him walk past his parked car and enter the bar, and ran across the road.
“Madame Guillaume, it’s Mademoiselle Brun. Open the door, please. You need to get out of there.”
The door opened and Fabienne saw the fear in her eyes. Flames crept up the wooden shelves above the shop counter to her left. She tugged Madame into the street and across the road, back into the cover of the archway. The flames licked at the inside of the shop like a hungry wolf, consuming everything in its path. A truck stopped and soldiers climbed out. They started to tackle the fire with blankets and buckets of water from the fire hydrant in the street.
Madame slumped to the ground in tears. Fabienne crouched next to her, caught the smell of burning flesh. “You are hurt.”
Madame shook her head. She drew her arm from behind her, and Fabienne stared at the raw skin and the burnt edges of what was left of her shirtsleeve.
“Maybe a little, but it is nothing.” Madame trembled.
It was more than nothing. She was in shock. “We need to get you to the church, to treat the wounds, then get you to safety.”
“What is the point. He will come again, and again. It is not the first time, Mademoiselle, but I don’t care to live like this.” She punched lamely at her belly and sobbed.
Fabienne took her hand to stop her, calm her. What could she say? Women were being attacked every week. No exchange of words was needed to recognise the pain and suffering of another. They were all hurting. The best they could do was to stand together, fight together, and pick each other up after they had fallen.
“I will kill him,” she said.
Madame touched her arm. The sadness in her expression, like most people’s, wouldn’t change that until the war ended. Even then, Fabienne was sure their grief would haunt them.
“Please be careful, Mademoiselle Brun. He is a very cruel man.”
She helped Madame to stand. “He is the worst kind, and he will be punished. I will make sure of it, Madame, I promise you.” Fabienne glanced across the street to a fire truck that had arrived, and towards the bar to check that Müller wasn’t lurking outside. “Now we must go to the church.”
Madame shook her head as she watched the men trying to extinguish the fire. “And what then? I have no business now. How will I survive?”
Fabienne didn’t have any answers. She led her away. Madame walked shakily, and Fabienne feared she might collapse before they got to safety. “Once you are better, we will find a solution.” She didn’t know what exactly, maybe Madame could work out of the bakery?
“My knives. I cannot work without my tools,” Madame whispered.
More fire trucks passed them, heading towards the butcher’s shop.
The soldiers would put out the fire and leave. She doubted anyone would loot the place before the morning curfew was lifted, and Fabienne had a work permit to be out before five a.m. “I will go back first thing and see what I can recover.”
Madame sniffled. “You are too kind.”
They entered the church. Father Michel walked towards them and took Madame’s arm. He nodded. “Come with me, Madame Guillaume. We will take care of you.”
Fabienne leaned towards her and whispered, “I promise you.”
Madame squeezed Fabienne’s hand but the downcast look she gave Fabienne said she didn’t believe she could be so lucky.
Perhaps it was too much to ask of anyone, but Fabienne had given her word, and she always delivered. Now, she had to get home before curfew.