The Girl in the Blue Beret - Bobbie Ann Mason [44]
“It was hard to believe that a schoolgirl would be a guide for American aviators,” Marshall said.
“Oh, it was normal, Marshall!” said Pierre loudly. “The Germans would never suspect a schoolgirl. Therefore, many young girls were employed.”
“There were many girls in the Résistance,” said Angeline. “My aunt flirted with the Germans to distract them while her friends slipped food from the back of the supply truck! They were sixteen, she has told me, no more.”
“Be thankful, Marshall,” Gisèle said. “Your countrymen have never known such times, when children must become combatants.”
“I was hoping someone here would remember some of the contacts in Paris,” Marshall said. “There was a young man I remember especially. He came several times to the place where I was hiding, bringing messages and supplies, and he went south on the train with me. He was called Robert, but I have no idea what his last name was! I want to say it was Julien, but I don’t know why. Maybe that was his false name, his nom de guerre? I don’t even know if the family I stayed with in Paris was really named Vallon.”
“But you knew our names,” Pierre said. He explained that Vallon was more than likely correct. “The code names were usually a first name, used only for clandestine acts like sabotage. I was Emile.” He laughed. “Gisèle teased me, calling me Emile!”
“Dear Emile!” she said, patting his arm affectionately. “My secret lover!”
Nicolas offered to check with some local sources for information about the regional escape lines. “I will search for records of Vallons in Paris. And I would like to find those women in black for you,” he added.
Pierre said, “The chief contact for the Résistance in this area, the captain, who took his directions from London, is unfortunately disappeared—deceased.”
“His family may have a logbook or something,” Angeline suggested.
“I wrote nothing down,” said Pierre. “The work I did—all was in my head. It was dangerous for people to put names in writing. To put anything in writing.”
“We kept the address book of the aviateurs,” Gisèle reminded him.
Pierre served some homemade cider from an amber bottle with a clamp top. The cider was rich and strong, and Marshall sipped cautiously, remembering a pint of moonshine from his youth.
“We didn’t serve this on the airline,” he said.
Pierre smoked a cigarette and talked on about the war.
“To get a potato for supper was a clandestine act, but here in the country the farmers had more. When we heard the American tanks, and we saw the Germans on the street, standing around, confused, we grew bold. They knew it was all over, and we could not help taunting them even more than usual, asking them if they would eat their potatoes cooked the French way. We said, ‘You must be looking forward to going home! See the wife, the Kinder.’ ” Pierre stopped to laugh heartily, then continued more soberly. “Of course we knew and they knew that they might go to a prison when the Allies prevailed, or they might find conditions at home even worse than here, for us. We knew their country was bombed to hell. But we enjoyed saying, ‘Oh, it will be so grand to see the wife and the Kinder and go to the circus and eat nice strudel.’ We were cruel. We didn’t care. It was a joy. How could we restrain ourselves? But they still could have executed us all!”
He nodded contemplatively. “What causes this? Such barbarity. A war. All these horrors, when men sink lower than beasts. How did it happen? Can it happen again? This is why I encourage Nicolas and Angeline to inform their daughters. I never stopped informing Nicolas. Of course he was there. He saw it. But we must tell. We must tell.”
“I didn’t see everything,” said Nicolas. “But I’ve been thinking about it ever since. I am so fortunate that my parents and I survived.”
“Not Cousin Claude,” Pierre said.
“Oh, the man with the farm, where I hid?” Marshall asked.
“Oh, yes. Maybe I did not mention it when I wrote you—at the end of the war? Claude