10

Gabi glanced over at Eric, his head thrown back in laughter, immersed in revelry. She couldn’t believe they were really here, celebrating Libération—lucky to be part of this, and even luckier to be alive.

Last night, while loading up the Red Cross sedan for their journey to Paris, Gabi contemplated her love for Eric, and how much it had grown. Her days before becoming an OSS agent seemed like a lifetime ago, when her feelings for Eric paled by comparison to what she felt now. Thoughts of almost losing him made her shiver involuntarily.

Her instincts to stand by the man she loved had been tested, more than most would experience. Now, seeing him safe, happy, and basking in the warmth of the moment filled her heart with a peace greater than she had ever felt. She understood better that true commitment meant being together in the good times . . . and the bad.

She entwined her arm with Eric’s as they strode past the medieval hotel’s oversized gate, bent and broken by the Nazi troop carrier. Beyond the entry, hundreds of celebrating Parisians from the surrounding neighborhood had poured into the cobblestoned courtyard, drawn by festive music and news that George Beaumont had opened his wine cellar.

“Isn’t it great that the accordion player brought the party over here?” Gabi clapped in rhythm to “Fleur de Paris” as the setting sun was about to dip below the Paris skyline. Orange light swept their faces one last time on a day that would never be forgotten by history.

“Shall we dance?” Eric placed his left hand on the small of her back and swept his right arm like d’Artagnan of the Four Musketeers. The only thing missing was a cape and feathered hat.

“I’d love to.” Gabi curtsied. “But first I have to change my shoes and put on fresh clothes.”

Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from the house and smiled demurely at Eric.

His eyes scanned her new outfit. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. I was hoping . . .”

“Hoping I’d do this?”

He approached her and opened his arms to her, and then pulled her into a hold. They lost themselves in the throng of revelers. Gabi’s eyes locked with Eric’s, and she leaned into his hand supporting the small of her back. The movement felt safe and secure and made her hope that she would always feel this way in days to come. When he drew her close, she lay her head on his right shoulder. The tension that had bottled up all day evaporated in his embrace.

She closed her eyes and let the soaring music take her to a tranquil place. A thousand flutters—like ripples on the Seine—stirred as he gently led her around the littered cobblestones of the courtyard. It seemed right that she was here, sharing this moment with Eric and those around her. Never before had people opened their hearts as the Parisians did that afternoon. Streets flooded with joy, the people were intoxicated by unsuppressed freedom, hugging and kissing anyone within arm’s length.

Gabi knew this party would not be over anytime soon. Every face was etched with pure delirium—joyous women dancing on their toes, schoolgirls once again—while their laughing partners held hands aloft. Those who weren’t gamboling about were clapping to the lively beat, savoring the moment.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle Mueller?”

Gabi looked over. It was Alain Dubois.

He gestured for her to come closer and motioned for Eric to follow. “You have a telephone call.”

“It must be Mr. Dulles.” Gabi looked to Eric.

Eric steered her away from the music. “I sent him the phone number in my transmission an hour ago.”

Gabi straightened the pleats on her dress, as if the OSS chief were waiting inside the front door. “How’d he get through?” Gabi wondered aloud. “The phone lines must be jammed.”

Eric looked pensive, as carefree feelings faded. “More importantly, why is he calling now?”

They followed Dubois to the second-floor apartment, which earlier that morning had been a Molotov factory. Boxes of empty wine bottles were still stacked in a corner, and strips of clothing—the wicks—were piled in an open box.

A Resistance member held the telephone’s handset. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say—Who wants to take the call?

Eric motioned to Gabi. “Your English is better,” he said in Swiss-German.

“Hello?”

“Gabi, wonderful to hear your voice.”

“And yours as well, Mr. Dulles.”

“I understand the Parisians are painting the town red tonight.”

“I don’t think I heard you correctly—” The connection was garbled.

“Sorry. American slang. What I meant to say is there must be quite a party in Paris. I want to thank you and Eric. You risked your lives for others, and we are proud of you.”

“It has been an interesting day. But we’re safe now.”

The American chief in Switzerland affected a more serious tone. “Thanks for delivering my message to the Underground. We were a day late and a dollar short since Leclerc’s tanks stormed into Paris today. Ike was livid when he heard what happened. He ordered the 4th U.S. Infantry to assist but felt his hand had been forced by the Free French. History will be the judge, but it looks like the Gaullists have won control of Paris, at least for now. How are Rousseau and his Communist pals taking the news?”

Gabi paused. “I haven’t seen Bernard for several hours, so I’m not sure.”

“That’s okay. If you hear anything, let me know.”

“We’ll stay in contact.” Gabi smiled and nodded toward Eric, who was straining to follow her side of the conversation.

“So when are you coming back?”

“Eric and I talked about that earlier. We don’t want to be on the road until after the Germans clear out, so not for several days. There’s a problem finding petrol too. Plus, we heard there’s going to be a victory parade down the Champs Élysées tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, but be alert. The war isn’t over, and you might learn something useful. If I need to reach you, I’ll either call or transmit a message at the usual times.”

“We’ll be in touch.” Gabi thanked Dulles for the call and hung up the phone.

Eric pressed closer. “What did he say?”

“He approved of our plan to stay in Paris, to be his eyes and ears. A lot is happening right now.”

“He’s right. Things are very fluid.”

Another raucous cheer rattled the windows overlooking the courtyard. Eric took Gabi’s hand in his and led her over to the view. There, in the corner of the room, was the empty safe, still ajar.

Gabi reflexively felt for the black book that she had slipped into her pocket earlier, but the small volume wasn’t there. In an instant, she realized that she left the black book in the pocket of her soiled skirt upstairs. She’d check into it later.

Outside, the party had picked up intensity. Another accordion player had joined the mix, swelling the ranks of partying Parisians. Celebrants of Libération covered every cobblestone in the courtyard. Gabi pointed to the half-dozen revelers jitterbugging on the Panzer. She couldn’t help but smile at the irony.

“Shall we get back out there?” Eric tilted his head. “I’d like to finish our dance.”

Before Gabi could answer, the musicians broke into “La Marseillaise”—the fifth time she heard the French national anthem since they were pulled out of the Paris sewers. The memory required fresh air. She opened the window a little farther as the opening stanza permeated their thoughts with emotion:

Allons enfants de la Patrie,

Le jour de gloire est arrivé!

Yes, children of the Homeland, your day of glory has arrived: Friday, August 25, 1944, a date that would forever be etched in French history.

Colette turned the corner onto Rue Racine and heard the rhythmic clapping to the patriotic music. Her eyes glistened in happiness. Excitement rose in her throat. She was sure that Bernard, and what sounded like a good part of Paris, awaited her at the Maison Beaumont.

An hour ago at the Louvre, a dozen American troops had rolled into the Cour Napoléon in a half-track troop carrier escorted by two French tanks. For Colette, their arrival signaled the end of a dark era. With the palace secured under Allied guard, there had been a collective sigh of relief as Rambouillet told everyone to go home. She tried three times to call Bernard, but the line had been busy. The Beaumont residence was a Resistance gathering point, and she figured Bernard would be there, or his aunt or uncle would know where he was.

On her way from the Louvre, she saw Parisians bang open their shuttered windows. They’d poured into the streets and threw themselves into the arms of total strangers, howling in happiness. Men and women embraced her, kissing both cheeks. From balconies, windows, and doorways, from plazas, boulevards, and barricades, Paris pulsated with unrestrained jubilation. The sound of church bells, building in depth and intensity, rang over the city.

Colette’s feet glided effortlessly over the cobblestones during the half-hour walk to the Left Bank. She could see the Maison Beaumont in the distance. Neighbors milled around the entrance—still a couple hundred meters away—when the sound of footsteps following her on the sidewalk caught her attention.

A chill crawled down her back. She hesitated. The footsteps were gaining on her, raising the hair on the back of her neck. Something told her not to look back. To pretend she didn’t hear.

She picked up her pace again, remembering the warning from French soldiers at the Louvre. They’d told her to expect German stragglers—snipers and soldiers separated from their units. Was one of them after her now?

She was a mere fifty meters from the Beaumont residence and thought to call for help, but realizing they wouldn’t hear her, she started to run—

Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. A paralyzing scream stuck in her throat while she pushed hard into the man’s chest.

“Colette . . .”

She found herself looking into a face she recognized.

“Bernard!”

He held her to his chest, and their lips met. Never before had a prickly beard felt so good.

She pressed against him, joy replacing fear. “You scared me. I didn’t know who was following me.” Colette touched his cheek, his neck, reminding herself it was really him, awash with relief.

“Sorry. I wanted to surprise you.”

“Mission accomplished.” Colette playfully thumped him on the chest. “I’ve been worried sick about you. It’s been a week since you disappeared. I didn’t know what to think.”

“I answered the call of duty—for France. For our future.” Bernard outstretched both hands and took hers. “I heard about what you did at the Louvre today. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to save you myself, but I’m glad you’re all right.”

Colette looked into his eyes and held them. Something was different; he seemed a bit aloof. She held his gaze, willing to lose herself in the security of his embrace. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

Bernard stroked her cheek. “I’m fine. Just a very long day, and I have many things running through my head.”

He reached into his right pocket. Then he held out a closed hand. “I have something for you. My grandmother gave this to me before she died. She wore it every day. I want you to have it.” He opened his hand, revealing a heart-shaped gold locket.

“Bernard—I couldn’t.”

“Today is special in many ways, but it is mostly a new beginning—the freedom to live and to love again. My grandmother would approve.” He unclasped the necklace and fastened it around the nape of her neck.

“It’s lovely.” Colette fingered the pendant and opened the small ornamental case, revealing a snippet of black hair.

“I didn’t have a photo, so I included a lock of hair. I hope you don’t find it too sentimental.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “No, not at all. It’s perfect. I’m seeing a different side of you. Thank you, Bernard.” She tipped on her toes and their lips met again. Stepping back, she admired the locket, then looked to him.

Studying him skeptically and noting his fresh olive shirt and dungarees, she said, “You look so . . . what I mean is . . . you don’t look like you’ve been fighting Nazis.”

“Believe me, I was a couple of hours ago. You have no idea.”

She chuckled. “So what happened?”

“Not now. Maybe later. Tonight, we celebrate.”

Colette noted the evasive tone but let it go. He was right. Tonight was a time to celebrate and forget. He’d always hidden his involvement in the Resistance, but then again, she had her secrets too.

The sight of a couple hundred revelers, swaying to the music and draining dust-covered bottles of Bordeaux, greeted Bernard and Colette.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked. “It seems Uncle George is emptying the wine cellar tonight.”

“A glass of red would be fantastic.”

He returned with the drink and then took her hand. “Let’s go upstairs. Maybe my aunt will have something to eat besides boiled rutabaga.”

Bernard grasped Colette’s hand as they threaded their way through the crowd. He was grateful for the break to gather his thoughts. His emotions were torn, and he wasn’t sure what to believe after seeing Colette’s name on the list of informants. They were lovers, but a horrific war had forced them to hold back parts of their lives from each other. Presently, nothing made sense. If she had been talking to the Germans, why had he never been picked up and taken to the Gestapo prison at Fresnes? It didn’t make sense, but now was not the time to bring up the subject.

They climbed the stairs and turned into the dining room. Several members of the Resistance had gathered around the long wooden table, sharing boisterous exploits.

Seeing them, Aunt Irene stepped out of the kitchen and dusted her hands on her apron. She greeted Colette with two kisses and a hug. “One of the neighbors brought over some Camembert and three loaves of pain rustique.” She reached for a wooden board with wedges of the soft, creamy cheese and chunks of dark rye bread.

“Thank you, I’m quite famished.” Colette spread a sliver of Camembert on a slice of bread and handed it to Bernard.

“No, after you. Please, eat.”

Colette crunched into her first bite, pausing as the creamy delicacy melted into her taste buds. “This is so good! I haven’t had cheese in a month.”

“Then have another.” Madame Beaumont passed the wooden board to Colette. She accepted the offer without hesitation.

Irene Beaumont, her gray hair gathered in a bun, turned toward her nephew. “Do you want to ask the Swiss over there if they would like some?” She tilted her head toward the couple gathered at the window overlooking the courtyard.

“Good idea.”

Bernard stood, but Colette motioned to him, drawing him closer. “Who is she talking about?”

“Eric Hofstadler and Gabi Mueller.” Bernard nodded toward the couple on the other side of the living room. “They’re with the Red Cross. Arrived today with medical supplies from Switzerland.”

“So that was their car I saw parked next to the tank. Why would they come here?”

Bernard smiled—and shrugged. He reached for the wooden board of cheese and bread from his aunt. “You can ask them yourself, but to be honest, I’m not really sure.”

Bernard and Colette crossed into the living room, hand in hand. Eric spotted them first, and introductions were made as cheese and bread were passed around.

Gabi waited until she finished chewing her first morsel. “Nice to meet you, Colette. We saw you walk in together. How did you two meet?”

“We both work at the Louvre.” Colette’s cheeks flushed. “We’ve known each other a couple of years.”

“Bernard told us he worked with the maintenance crew. I know the Louvre’s a big place. So what do you do?” Gabi asked.

“I’m a curator, but really, in title only. The extent of my work and our exhibitions were quite rudimentary after the German Ministry of Culture was in control.”

“What was that like, having the—?”

The phone next to the kitchen entrance rang. The four turned. Bernard watched his aunt answer the phone and then wave him over.

“Excuse me,” Bernard said. “I should only be a moment.”

Grateful to escape the small talk, Bernard held the telephone to his right ear.

“Rousseau?”

“Oui,” he replied.

“Twenty-two hours, Meeting Point B,” the deep voice said, followed by a click.

He’d been expecting the phone call after the liberation of Paris. The message meant the war wasn’t over for the Communists in the Resistance.

The battle lines had merely shifted.