Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
PARIS, FRANCE
Marcel had already been sitting on the bench, newspaper open, fifteen minutes before Vivi strolled by, a tote on her arm. She didn’t so much as look his way, and he glanced up only as long as he had at every other passerby, then back down at his newspaper.
A guard stopped her before the doors of the old fortress. “Business?”
“I’m here to get my son’s laundry.”
“His name?”
“Lucien Vallet.” She said it without a hitch, as if that were the name she’d always given when someone asked her son’s name.
“Papers?”
She dug them out—not her real papers, of course, but the ones Zelie’s forger had given her.
“I don’t see your name on the list of relatives.”
They’d known this would be a problem, hence why those papers didn’t list her as Vivianne Vallet, but rather Vivianne Curie.
It gave her a good reason to huff and say, “Can I be blamed if your list is incomplete? All these months my boy has been held in Free France, and could I get a pass to go and see him, make sure he had food and clean clothes? No. Denied, they said every time. Denied, denied, denied. Now finally he is here, and will you deny me now too, when everyone else is let in to clean their family’s clothes? ”
The idea was to overwhelm the guard with her chatter, and given the fellow’s huff, she was succeeding.
“Pardon, madame. I am only doing my job. Your name is not on my list, and you do not even have the same surname.”
“And now I’ll be punished for remarrying after my saint of a first husband, my Lucien’s father, went to the angels?
Is that a crime in your country? Idiocy!
Why would I try to sneak in here to wash a stranger’s underwear, hm?
Is it not enough that I’ve buried two of my five children, a husband, and now my son is arrested and has been held for nearly a year without trial?
For what, I ask you? No one will even tell me that!
I only even know he’s here because a friend of his in the south let me know he was finally, finally coming close to home again. ”
“All right, calm down, madame. Let me check with my superior.”
Good. Marcel pressed his lips against a grin and flipped a sheet of newsprint. Much of the time, individual Germans could be counted on to be decent human beings. Lothar was a perfect example, as was that Luftwaffe officer outside Cannes.
Since a few pedestrians were doing the same, he peeked over his shoulder at Vivi.
She didn’t break character, just stood there with a flush of anger in her cheeks, a wooden-soled shoe tapping in impatience, and her arms crossed in determination.
Perfect. He’d known as soon as Zelie asked him to do this that he was going to need help—he couldn’t claim to be Lucien’s brother, there was too much risk of someone recognizing him from his posters.
When the guard came back, an officer alongside him, Marcel faced forward again, like the others on the street.
“Bonjour, Madame . . . ?” the new voice said.
“Curie.” Again, she didn’t miss a beat. “Lucien Vallet’s mother.”
The officer let out a laugh of disbelief. Marcel went stiff . . . until the man said, “Impossible! You’re far too young to have a son that age.”
Oh, how he wished he could see Vivi’s face.
She huffed, but when she said, “I’m not here for flattery,” it sounded mollified.
“I just want to gather my son’s laundry.
I’ve been told that’s allowed, yes? I have a change of clothes for him here—that’s what I heard we could do, bring a new set, exchange them, launder the old. Here. You need to search them, yes?”
“Of course, of course. I just need you to answer a few questions. Your son’s birthday is . . . ?”
She rattled it off—Zelie had given him everything she knew about Lucien, and since he’d been brought on in the early days, that was quite a bit.
“Born in . . . ?”
Vivi sighed. “Arcachon. Shall I tell you the tale of his birth as well? Twelve hours I labored with that one before—”
“That’s quite all right.” The officer sounded amused, Marcel would grant him that. “One more question. His last employment was what?”
A slight pause, but he had a feeling it was more for effect than anything.
“Last I knew, he was in the army. Radio operator. After your people dismissed our army and left my son without a profession, despite it’s all he’d ever been trained to do?
I don’t honestly know. I scarcely heard from him after the surrender, aside from a postcard at Christmas, and I intend to give him quite an earful about that if you let me see him. ”
A snort of laughter escaped the two guards. “You will not, I’m afraid,” the officer said. “The prisoners aren’t allowed communication. But if you come with me, madame, I’ll show you inside to the room where you’ll wait while we have him change his clothes.”
She’d passed the test—good. They had only Anne’s account to go on, and it hadn’t been difficult for her to prove she was Gabriel’s sister given that, well, she was. Marcel had known bluster would be their best shot at getting in, and Vivi was the queen of bluster.
Anne had warned him that they’d keep her waiting as they meticulously searched the clothing she’d brought with her, so Marcel folded his paper, rose, and strolled to their agreed rendezvous spot—a café a few blocks away.
He wasn’t all that concerned about them finding the cloth-like paper Vivi had sewn into the trousers yesterday while Marcel was meeting with Nicholy.
It didn’t crinkle and was so thin it was impossible to detect as “extra” fabric in the cuff.
And since she’d taken out both cuffs and rehemmed them, one with their note for him, the other with a blank section of the cloth-paper for him to write on, they wouldn’t note anything odd about the stitches or thread.
According to Anne, they were allowed pens and paper inside, so the writing itself wouldn’t be a problem. But the Nazis confiscated all paper after they’d written on it.
Marcel selected an outdoor table and sat, opening his newspaper again.
Their next question had been how to signal Lucien to look for a message.
They’d gone for the obvious—Vivi had hemmed the trousers deliberately too short, to encourage him to rip out the seam and lower the cuffs.
In addition to the paper, he’d find thread in them—enough to sew his own message back in.
They’d put a small needle into the zipper which he would hopefully find and the Nazis wouldn’t.
Not a bad piece of work, and he prayed it was successful.
They wouldn’t know for a week, though, when she would be allowed to come back.
So Marcel had hinted to Nicholy that he needed to be called to another meeting, and of course he had to bring his assistant to join him.
Nicholy had gotten the idea right away and prepared the official request he’d have to present at the demarcation line.
That was all for later. For now, he prayed as he sipped the coffee he’d ordered that Vivi wouldn’t be found out, that she’d come sashaying up the boulevard any moment.
After an excruciating forty minutes, she did just that, slipping into one of the little chairs with a hint of a smile. She put a cigarette between her lips and lit up. “I should have been in film.”
Marcel strode out of Durand Editions, feeling as though his limbs weighed twice as much as usual. Vivi’s victory last week had been the only thing worth crowing about in the seven days since. He’d failed to roust Blanchet, and worry for the man gnawed at him.
Marcel had sent a message to London while he was in Rouen, checking to see if perhaps the agent was traveling. He could still see their response in his mind.
PINE MARTEN STILL IN PLACE STOP CONFIRMED MESSAGES RECEIVED BY MI6 ON SCHEDULE STOP
But he wasn’t. He wasn’t in Rouen, and none of their agents had seen him anywhere else in Normandy. Had the fellow been compromised? What if . . . what if he’d been arrested, and the Nazis were using his equipment to feed Alliance false information?
Worry that paired, now, with the weight of dread turned certain.
The orchestra’s exemption had been revoked, effective in a few short weeks.
All those talented young men he’d been working with for over a year would have to either flee or face the very real possibility of being sent to a German farm or factory after they finished their October schedule.
This was what France had come to—sending their most talented young artists to serve as laborers abroad, little more than slaves. His fingers curled into his palms.
“Marcel! Hold up.”
He paused at Lothar’s voice, the weight compounding.
He had to admit that the Nazi had fought for him, for them.
His official pleas were on file and had been included in the report Nicholy read to him.
But apparently SS-Sturmbannführer Lothar Von Eberstein was not so high up the chain of command that his opinion on this mattered.
The frown the German wore said he felt the burden too. Strange, that. He jogged up to Marcel, expression taut as he nodded. “I’m sorry, mon ami. I did all I could.”
“I know.”
Lothar motioned in the direction Marcel had been headed, and he turned, though slowly.
He was going back to his hotel, which would look innocent enough.
And would be awaiting Vivi . . . which might look innocent enough, except that she’d be coming from the prison again.
He could always pause at a café, though, if Lothar stayed with him that far.
“You, at least, will be all right, yes?” Lothar glanced over at him before looking forward again so he could sidestep two young boys. “You can surely get back on at the Paris Opera. Or in Marseille, if you wish to remain close to family.”
“I’ve had several offers.” He knew he didn’t sound any more enthused than he felt. He didn’t want to just go back to performing, not yet. Someday, yes, when they’d won their country back.
But not yet. Not today. Their work wasn’t over, his work wasn’t over. It couldn’t be . . . could it? Noble as music-for-the-sake-of-music was . . . this was still necessary.
The list of things he had to do before he left Paris, all the contacts he had to meet and give new instructions to, since this would be his last trip across the demarcation line, marched through his mind.
Lothar gave him a small smile. “You are worried for your boys. I understand that.” He breathed a little laugh.
“Do you realize that we’ve known each other a year and a half now, and I’ve still not heard you play again?
It seems my only hope of doing so now is to buy a ticket wherever you take the stage once more. ”
Smile, Marcel told himself. Chuckle. He managed it, barely. “Sorry about that. You always seem to happen by when we’re both short on time.”
“Mm.” Lothar paused at the next street corner, and though there was no oncoming traffic, he made no move to cross the street. “Marcel.”
Marcel halted too, and turned to face him. “Yes?”
For once, no smile carved lines into the man’s face. In fact, his countenance was so serious, Marcel scarcely recognized him. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Marcel figured the frown that overtook him always would have overtaken him, even if he hadn’t already been doing what Lothar would surely call stupid. “I beg your pardon?”
Lothar leaned a bit closer. “You were friends with Gabriel Proust, weren’t you? Wasn’t that his sister you’ve been seeing?”
Father, help me. What reaction to give? What was he giving, without even meaning to?
He shrugged, praying it looked however it needed to.
“We were at conservatory together, yes. We’d been friendly before the war, and that’s how I met Anne.
Though I’ve only run into him once since I enlisted.
” True. And yet a lie that carved him out.
Forgive me, Gabriel. You know you were my brother, my best friend.
He added a sad shake of his head. “I was sorry to hear about him. Anne told me, of course. I could scarcely believe it—neither of us could.”
Lothar said nothing, just studied him. Blinked.
Marcel lifted his brows. Blinked back. And then scoffed. “Wait—you don’t think . . .” He gave a low, incredulous laugh. “I wouldn’t even know how to go about such things. Music is all I know.”
Another long moment, and then finally, Lothar nodded.
“Good. Rejoin your orchestra, Marcel. It will keep you exempt from the work order. And . . .” He paused, shook his head, and angled away.
“Be careful what company you keep. I realize lovely young women must flock to you, but there are some bad actors in Marseille. Don’t get snagged in their net. ”
He forced a crooked smile. “I’m neither a fish nor a lady’s man, Lothar. You needn’t worry about me.”
Lothar hummed, eased away a step. “I’ll keep an eye on the newspapers, to tell me where you’re playing. I hope our paths cross again.”
“Thank you for all you’ve done for us.” The words came out soft. And he found he meant them, strange as it seemed.
Lothar lifted a hand in farewell and strode back the way they’d just come. Marcel dragged a long, slow breath in and continued toward his hotel.
He’d barely been in his room five minutes when Vivi knocked on the door, her tote bag full of Lucien’s laundry on her shoulder. He let her in, closed the door swiftly behind her. “Please, Lord,” he whispered, crossing himself. “Let there be a message here.”
Vivi handed him one of the two seam-rippers she’d brought with her, and they each began on a cuff.
“This is encouraging,” she said, holding hers up to the light. “Far neater than my stitches were. Lucien the meticulous sort?”
“Given his stint in the army, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Marcel got to work on his, pulling back the cloth as soon as he could and finding the white of the cloth-paper inside. He worked a little more of the cuff open, enough to pull out the strip of paper. “Yes! This is Lucien’s handwriting.”
“On mine too.”
Not surprising that he’d need both strips, if he had much to say. They were only ribbons in width.
Marcel sucked in a breath as he read.
Transferred here when “new evidence” was found against me. They had my radio with initials that I gave to Blanchet. Fear he’s been captured. Encouraged to hear from you, but don’t worry for me. I’ve told them nothing and will die before I do. Vive la France!
Vivi hissed. “That’s it then, isn’t it? Your answer about Blanchet? He’s been taken.”
Marcel sat back with a frown. He wasn’t sure that was the answer—but the other possibility was far, far worse.