Читать книгу Sins of the Flesh - Fern Michaels - Страница 11

The sleepy French countryside appeared peaceful and calm in the evening twilight, but to those inhabitants who lived in the tiny villages off the narrow dirt road it was anything but peaceful or calm. Every man, woman, and child in the villages knew that in every church, in every clump of gorse, in every cluster of trees, German soldiers lurked with guns cocked waiting for straggling partisans loyal to France and in need of temporary sanctuary. They also knew that when the loyalists emerged to forage for food and shelter in the darkest part of the night, they would be gunned down like wild animals. Then, within minutes of a shooting, hostages would be dragged from the villages and a second round of machine-gun bullets would rain down upon the peaceful countryside.

There were many who were not afraid—small numbers, to be sure—who would willingly give their lives to help those who might be able to thwart the hateful Germans. What these simple country farmers lacked in weapons they made up for with fierce loyalty and an intense desire to help their mother country drive the Boche back to their own land. Cries of “Vive La France!” were mouthed as often as daily prayers, as a toast with the first glass of wine at dinner, when tucking children into bed, as salutations in the street to friends and neighbors.

It was to one of these small villages that Michelene Fonsard, her son Philippe, and her friend Yvette were headed—on foot now since bicycles had proven dangerous at night on roads deeply rutted by the constant German concourse of armored cars and tanks. They were weary and hungry; their small supply of food had been exhausted days before. Now they were resting, something they had learned to do more often toward the end of the day, in a field of tall grasses that afforded them a suitable hiding place. When they spoke, if they spoke at all, it was in whispers. Quietness and stealth meant survival. So much could be said with one’s eyes or with the flick of a finger or wrist.

But tonight Yvette could hold back no longer. Although at the onset she had agreed to come along with her lifelong friend, her doubts were beginning to overcome her commitment. When she had determined that the young man traveling with them was out of earshot, she spoke. “This is a foolhardy thing we’re doing, Michelene,” she hissed into her friend’s ear. “You yourself said you don’t even know if Daniel heard all of your message when the wireless went out. In your frenzy to protect Philippe you may be taking him to his death. The Germans are everywhere, like lice. How, Michelene…how will your American friend get here? You are dreaming…” Yvette hesitated, then continued in a softer tone, “But I cannot fault you for wanting that dream to come true for your son.”

Michelene had never known motherhood, yet in all her years Yvette had never seen a better example of a good mother than this woman lying beside her in the reeds. And the boy she had mothered, sleeping just a few feet away, wasn’t even her son.

For some reason, Yvette thought grumpily, Mickey looked the same to her tired eyes as she’d always looked. Certainly she was old enough to be the boy’s real mother, but her beauty had a timelessness to it, as though God had created her full blown and forbidden her to age. Her hair was the same dark chestnut, still thick and lustrous, adorning her head like a sable crown. Finely arched natural brows and incredibly dark lashes emphasized her warm, dark eyes—bedroom eyes, Yvette called them. There were no lines on her fair skin, a fact Yvette bemoaned whenever she compared herself with her friend. She truly believed God had created perfection in Michelene Fonsard, whose curvaceous figure was the envy of many a younger woman in Paris.

Once she herself had been beautiful, at least men had thought so, for she’d had her pick many times. During her youth she’d been fashionably thin, but now she was round in all the wrong places, which often caused her to grumble good-naturedly that she was “one size from the neck down.” True, she still possessed a certain sultriness, perhaps because of her rich auburn hair that when she released it from its pins tumbled luxuriantly to her waist. But even though she was skillful with makeup and knew how best to complement and enhance the titian beauty of her hair, her hands gave her away—her hands and the depth of suffering in her eyes, which no amount of makeup could obscure.

Thus she considered herself and Mickey old, perhaps not in appearance but in years. However, age was supposed to bring wisdom and peace, and here they were with neither. Running from the Germans out of fear, never knowing if the day that followed would be their last. Hatred kept them alive, so Yvette nurtured their hatred as she would a fragile seedling. Whatever it took to stay alive she would do. Whatever she had to do for the boy she would do because Mickey was the only person in the world left to her, and whatever Mickey loved was beloved to her as well.

“Daniel will come,” Mickey said now with more confidence than she felt. “He knows about war, remember? He will not let me down, I know this, Yvette, in here.” She thumped her breast.

Yvette snorted. “Then he is as stupid as we are. We, at least, know our own country. What does he know of traveling as we have for the past five days? And if he does come, he could be shot for his efforts. Then how will you feel, knowing you brought an old friend here to have him killed?” she said sourly. “You should have called the boy’s father instead of Daniel. Daniel has nothing at stake here. Reuben would move heaven and earth to reach his son—if you had only told him he had a son. Bah!”

Mickey Fonsard felt only love for the woman by her side. Her crankiness, she knew, was merely the way she chose to express her frustration at their situation. There was no better friend on earth than Yvette. Mickey smiled and embraced her tenderly. “He will come, Yvette. He will come. He will head to the château, not Paris. Daniel is a powerful man in Washington,” she said proudly.

“And that is going to do us a lot of good here…. Chérie, you are dreaming. No one can help us but ourselves and other loyal Frenchmen. Forget Daniel,” she said wearily.

“No. You must believe with me, Yvette. You must. In any case,” Mickey continued in a firm whisper, holding Yvette’s reluctant gaze, “you pledged to help me get Philippe to America, and part of that pledge is believing that Daniel will come.”

Yvette let out a frustrated sigh. “Old friend, I want to believe, but this is my concern. If he does manage to get here, his chances are not what ours are. What will we do about Philippe if something happens to Daniel?”

Mickey had thought of nothing else over the past three days. She was as worried as Yvette but by sheer will had managed to hide her fear. “Then we will head south and try to cross into Spain.”

Mickey’s heart beat furiously in anticipation as she awaited her friend’s response to her proposal. Yvette’s next words were a surprise.

“You should have told him your intentions when we started out. It will be such a shock.” Both women looked over at the sleeping young man.

Yvette explained herself to Mickey before she could protest. “I know, I know. In your heart you were not sure Daniel would come. Why stir things up, eh? You are so much a mother, chérie. It matters not if that young man is of your flesh or not. You are his mother, and I for one applaud you. I am proud you chose me for his godmother.” Tears burned Mickey’s eyes as she kissed Yvette on both cheeks.

Across the meadow and to their left, a long, low whistle echoed across the fields. Instantly they were alert. In the next few moments they waited, hushed and expectant, but nothing further happened to alarm them. The night became quiet again with only the familiar sounds of summer filling the warm evening. Soon it would be totally dark and they would move from their hiding place. Mickey looked up at the sky, hoping for the clouds to move in from the west, but they did not. The light of the quarter moon was bright and silvery, ribboning through the tall grasses like brilliant threads.

The boy had been watching the women without their knowledge. They thought he was asleep, and he allowed them to think so, hoping to catch a few of their whispered words. But they spoke too softly for him to hear. Although he wanted to view himself as his mother and godmother’s protector, in reality he knew they were protecting him. He should be in the army fighting the damn Germans. Someday his heart would burst at the knowledge that he was a disloyal Frenchman.

Every day for the past year, from the moment France fell to the Germans, he had grieved for his old life. It had made him want to lash out at something, anything, to rid himself of the anger that was flooding through him—anger that had been simmering within him from the moment Paris was confiscated by the Germans. Never would he forget the sound of the hammer securing the filthy sign to their neighbors’ doors. When the Germans were two doors away, they’d slipped out the back door, and with the help of friends his mother had secured forged travel warrants to aid them in traveling south to the château where he was born.

It happened so quickly, there’d been virtually no warning, and suddenly Paris was overrun—a conquered city. Overnight hundreds of huge swastikas blazed from buildings. Food disappeared from the markets to feed the German Army, and gasoline vanished as if by magic, commandeered for the German war machine. His mother had looked so helpless at first, and then anger had set in, and for weeks now he hadn’t seen the shadow of a smile on her face. Thank God for the timely visit a few months before of Yvette and Henri…. He would not, could not, think about the last time he had seen Henri…not now…perhaps not ever.

Thoughtfully he fingered his student enrollment card in his pocket. It was the only document his mother allowed him to carry. It said he was French, Philippe Bouchet. When he’d told her he wanted to stay and fight the filthy Boche as any good Frenchman, she had refused even to discuss it. “That is the very last thing you will ever do,” she had said with staunch determination. But he was sure it was not because she was being over-protective—she had told him too many stories with pride of the bravery of his father and uncle Daniel and how they had fought in the Great War and been injured. They hadn’t balked or turned tail and run; they’d been boys much like himself when they went to war, and they had survived. And Yvette was not the only one to tell him of his mother’s seemingly boundless generosity and energy during that war. No, it was something else. Perhaps his mother had some plan other than the agreed-upon one that they would head for Spain via Marseilles.

Now Tante Yvette and his mother were always whispering together, sharing secrets that left him feeling cheated. Why wouldn’t they take him into their confidence? He was twenty years old, for God’s sake! He couldn’t understand his mother’s relentless determination to return to Marseilles, but when he had insisted upon knowing, she had answered him in a voice she’d used only in times of crisis—a voice that warned and convinced at the same time. “It is for your own safety, Philippe,” she had stated. “Soon enough you will be told, and now not another word!”

His thoughts grew dark and angry. Why wasn’t his father here helping them to safety? Because he was in America making films and money, so much money that it made Philippe sick. Recently he’d learned that except for their American holdings, they were virtually paupers. The Banque de Paris, where his mother had been doing business since before he was born, had informed them that the Germans had helped themselves thoroughly. And now most of his mother’s jewelry was gone, used for bribes, food, and shelter.

Slowly his anger intensified, overpowering whatever tender feelings he felt for the American father he had never seen. His mother, his aunt, and he were running for their lives like hunted criminals while his father was free and safe and unconcerned. Such diabolical unfairness almost stopped his breathing. Now he was beginning to see things in a light other than the rosy ideal his mother had consistently offered throughout his life. Lifelong promises that when he finished his education he would go to America vanished from his mind. Surviving was more important at the moment—surviving and preserving a particular way of life, hanging on to the things that he was familiar with, things that made him feel as though he belonged. The loss of his personal possessions, his education, his home. The possibility that he would never walk down the Champs-Élysées nor see the Étoile. That they might become only bittersweet memories—as had the Sorbonne and the sidewalk cafés he’d frequented with his school chums—was too painful to contemplate. Avenue Foch was now home to the Gestapo and the SS. The clatter and specter of goose-stepping troops and armored tanks rattled ominously through his brain. All information pointed to one distinct, terrifying reality: The Germans had the upper hand. Filthy Boches! They would rot in hell if he had anything to do with it. Tears of frustration gathered in Philippe’s eyes, and he wiped at them with the sleeve of his cotton shirt. His life as he knew it was over. What lay in store for him? All he knew was that he was terrified—not for himself so much as for his mother and his aunt Yvette. But if a decision had to be made, he would die for his mother. Of that he was sure.

Philippe jerked to sudden awareness as the cloud cover his mother prayed for suddenly slid across the bright quarter moon. As one they surged to their feet, moving silently through the tall grass toward the edge of the road. Another kilometer or two and they would be in the village where, hopefully, there would be food and water. His stomach growled rebelliously, a reminder that he had had no food for three days except for what they’d been able to forage in the woods.

An hour later the weary travelers arrived at the village and were stunned to find it deserted, the occupants undoubtedly having moved south.

“We should keep on going,” Yvette said fretfully. “If everyone is gone, that means the Germans are close. I want to go on. I don’t care how hungry I am. I’d rather starve than be caught by those bastards.” She spat on the ground as she cursed the murderers of her husband.

Mickey shivered. Yvette was correct in her assumptions, she knew, yet she wanted to stop, to gather food for…Philippe. When she looked toward him in the darkness, he nodded his head to show he agreed with Yvette. With a sigh Mickey moved forward, keeping to the shadows of the village street. “We’ll find food tomorrow, perhaps something left behind in someone’s abandoned root cellar. Perhaps a fat frog or two as we get closer to the water.”

“How much farther to the château, Maman?” Philippe whispered.

“Another day and a half if we haven’t lost our way,” Mickey whispered back. “Possibly sooner if we can travel by daylight. It is difficult to see familiar landmarks in the darkness. Are you tiring, Philippe?”

“No, of course not. It is you and Tante Yvette I am worried about. She showed me her blisters last evening. I don’t know how she can walk.”

“She’s walking because she has to. One does what one must do, Philippe. Always remember that. Neither I nor Yvette have any desire to be sliced to pieces by some dirty German’s cursed bayonet. Nor do I want to see you marched off to some camp. We walk,” she said briskly.

They moved on steadily after that, so Mickey did not see the expression on Philippe’s face at her last statement. At last he had a clue to his mother’s innermost fears for him, he mused—she didn’t want him to be marched off to some camp. There had been rumors, ugly, disquieting rumors, of some type of labor camps believed to be located inside Germany, established for the imprisonment of enemies to their country’s ideals.

Suddenly, from nowhere, a thought surfaced that made his skin crawl. It was no secret that the Germans considered Jews a threat to their basic ideals—and he was a Jew. He stumbled and almost fell, then reassured Yvette with a wave of his hand as she looked back at him. In that instant he understood his mother’s concern, if not her actions. He hoped she knew what she was doing.

They continued on for the next two days, stopping to rest, greedily picking at the sparse berries that lined the roadside. When they reached the crest of their village, Mickey held her hand up to slow Philippe and Yvette.

The town was strangely quiet, the streets empty of people. From her position at the top of the hill Mickey could see no sign of activity, French or German. Where were the people, the neighbors she knew by name and had shared meals with, sat next to in the village church? Had they left or were they hiding? The church—she looked to the end of the small town square where the old white church loomed, alone and solemn, its spire stretching upward as though in supplication. Where was the curé? Where were the children, the laughter, the dogs and cats that roamed? The silence was eerie and so total that she felt as though she could reach out to it. Philippe and Yvette joined her, looking down at the village.

“We’re home, but I fear our friends and neighbors are gone. Listen to the stillness. Even the birds are quiet today.”

“A bad omen,” Yvette said tartly. “When the birds and small animals leave, it is a bad omen. Pay attention, Michelene.”

“I am, old friend. We have seen no Germans for three days. I think we are safe for the moment. Come,” she said, “we are going home.”

Mickey looked neither to the right nor to the left as she led her son and friend through the small main street. The sight of the boarded-up shops made her want to weep. She could smell the fear, probably because it was her own. Suddenly she turned, startled, when she heard her name called. She backed up a few steps to the boulangerie when she saw Monsieur LeForge waving to her. She walked over and embraced him. “It is good to see you again, old friend,” she said warmly. “Tell me, what has happened here? Where is everyone?”

“The men and the boys…most of them are gone. I was too old to…join the fight with them…. The others, they stay in their houses waiting for the sound of boots to come marching in. They said the soldiers will be here in another week or ten days. How did you get here, madame?”

“With the help of our countrymen. Thank you for being brave enough to greet us. You remember my friend Yvette and my son, Philippe?”

LeForge tipped his cap and smiled at Yvette. He looked long and silently at Philippe. “The boy is a man now.”

And he should be fighting with his countrymen, Mickey added silently, reading the old man’s thoughts. Philippe began to speak, but Mickey stopped him. “We will wait…for word…. He will do what he can, as I will,” she said sharply. “We are patriots the same as every Frenchman.”

“Not all are patriots,” the old man snarled. “There are those among us who…Never mind, go. Go to your château and don’t talk to anyone, that is the best advice I can give you.”

“And I will take it, old friend. Au revoir.”

It was less than a mile to the château. No word had been spoken as they approached their destination. Mickey felt the tension emanating from her son and was torn between the wonderful sight of her beloved estate, nestled in its ancient foliage and welcoming her home, and Philippe’s obvious torment.

At the door Philippe uttered his first words through clenched teeth. “How long will we stay, Maman?”

“We shall see,” Mickey whispered.

The heavy doors creaked as Philippe shouldered them open. To Mickey’s ears it was the loveliest sound in the world. She was home, safe at last to wait for Daniel. Surely God was on her side now, making sure they all stayed alive until her American friend came. And he would come. He had to come. Then and only then could she deal with Philippe.

Everything in the château was miraculously intact. Obviously no German had crossed this threshold.

“Philippe, see to the beds for us while Yvette and I find out if we have anything to eat. Come and join us in the kitchen as soon as you have done so.”

In the root cellar Mickey and Yvette gathered turnips and potatoes and boiled them with a large bunch of onions into a hearty, nourishing soup. As the fire warmed the kitchen, the two women bustled about chatting amiably. Ten minutes later Philippe joined them, carrying a second armful of fresh wood for the fire. There was no bread, but a vintage wine from the wine cellar accompanied the hasty meal and brought a sigh of contentment to their lips.

Mickey reached across the table and enclosed her son’s hand with her own. “Philippe, you look exhausted, why don’t you try to get some rest now. We can all think more clearly with food and rest. Go.”

“All right, Maman. Do you need anything else?”

“No. Yvette and I will be fine.”

“Bonsoir, Maman, Tante.” Philippe rose heavily to his feet. The two women watched as he left the warmth of the kitchen. They looked at each other, eyes full of unspoken words when he was gone.

They sat side by side, soaking their blistered feet in a smelly concoction of water, oil, and herbs. An equally vile-smelling ointment would be applied once their feet were dried. “I don’t know which is worse, the pain or the remedy,” Mickey said flatly.

Yvette grimaced. “What will we do if Philippe refuses to leave with Daniel? You must decide what will be said at that time, my friend.”

Yvette’s words bolstered Mickey momentarily. Her friend was speaking positively about Daniel’s arrival. “We’ll deal with that if and when it happens,” she said quietly.

Yvette watched her friend’s eyes fill with tears. “Do you see how he looks like his father?” Mickey murmured. “We’ve not been here for two years, and in just that amount of time the resemblance has settled onto him as if carved in granite.”

Yvette knew exactly what Mickey was saying. When they had all filed into the great room dominated by the portrait that had hung over the mantel for so many years, the fact was unmistakable. Philippe had stood in front of the painting, presented to his mother by his father and Uncle Daniel on Christmas Day 1918, and the likeness was uncanny.

“Yes, but did you see the way he turned his back on it? He won’t leave you now. He believes you are his mother. That boy will never…Mickey, you will have to tell him the truth. Only then will he go.” Yvette’s voice broke. “Then we will have only each other.”

Mickey swallowed past the lump in her throat. “It will be enough. What more can I ask than a loyal, lifelong friend? Together you and I will see France free again. I believe this, and so must you.

“Have you noticed something, Yvette?” Mickey continued thoughtfully. “Philippe has not been questioning us. I find that strange. He’s always been obedient, but he does have a mind of his own. Do you suppose in some way he knows what is happening?”

“No, I don’t think so. I think it was seeing Henri killed that made him so withdrawn. He’s never seen death—and to witness his godfather slaughtered…” Yvette could barely speak as the tears flowed from her eyes. “Oh, Mickey, I saw his knees begin to give way under him. They…just kept shooting and shooting…for no reason. He was already gone.”

Mickey comforted her friend. “He walked in front of the commandant…he didn’t know…they smashed his glasses and he couldn’t see without them…He’s in heaven, Yvette. He is watching over us with God. I think you’re right about Philippe. I wanted to hide his eyes, to take him to my bosom, but he had to see what these animals are capable of.

“Yvette, I must make a confession. I know I said we would head south and try to cross the border to Spain, but once Philippe is gone…I cannot. I will head north again and join the underground. I’ll go as far as the border with you and then I will go back. Chérie…tell me you understand.”

Yvette’s eyes shone through her tears. “What I understand is that you are not going without me. How could you think, after what happened to Henri…and did you think for one moment that I believed your sorry story! I will fight as you fight. France will rise again and so will we. Vive La France!” she cried passionately, embracing Mickey.

“It’s settled, then,” Mickey said. “As soon as…as soon as Philippe leaves…we’ll go north. I have a map with a number of safe houses marked which contain wireless equipment.”

“How soon do you…when do you expect Daniel?”

“If he can get here, any day now. I had hoped he would be here waiting for us. He won’t go to Paris, he’ll find his way here…I know he will. I feel this in my heart.”

“We will wait for your friend.”

“Yes. It is all we can do.”