La Résistance Chapter 4, a twilight fanfic

There is a new Live Journal entry up for this chapter:

http://resistance-esme(dot)livejournal(dot)com/

Stephenie Meyer owns any Twilight characters that may appear in this story. The remainder is my original work. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without my express written authorization.

June, 1942

Esme is running late. She hurries down the stairs in uncharacteristic haste. For any other appointment, she wouldn't rush. She would arrive on her own schedule and her smile would be enough to dispel any ill feelings her tardiness engendered. But for this, for him, she doesn't ever want to be late.

She pulls on her gloves as she crosses through the kitchen towards the front of the house, and encounters Tati just coming in from the market.

"Oh," Tati cries, startled at Esme's sudden appearance in the kitchen. "I thought you'd gone."

Tati is a tiny thing, young and pale with limp light brown hair and huge pale blue eyes. She isn't particularly bright, Esme has found, but she's good-natured, efficient, and loyal, and she ran away from a small village in the south of France to try her luck in Paris. For that reason alone, Esme is inclined to like her.

"Not quite. I'm going now," Esme says absently, making to move past Tati towards the door.

Tati watches her for just a moment with her huge, limpid eyes before she impulsively blurts out, "Be careful, Madame!"

Esme turns on her heel slowly to look at Tati, for there's something in the tone of her voice that makes Esme think Tati knows exactly what she's up to. Tati is merely looking at her, blinking rapidly. Tati does know. Esme is right about her; she is not bright. But she is perceptive. And she knows Madame Benoit inside and out. She has been able, just from sensing the change in atmosphere around Madame, to tell that something monumental is taking place. She may not grasp all of the finer details, or know that Madame is passing information; nothing as specific as that. But she knows that Nazis come to the house every night. She can tell that, although Madame gives them the same smile she would give to any guest in her home, she secretly detests them. Tati isn't sure what it all means. But she has sensed that Madame is playing at a dangerous game, and Tati would lay down her life to protect Madame.

Esme looks carefully at Tati, but the girl gives nothing away. Once again, Esme is at a loss as to how one proceeds in these situations. She hasn't been a spy long enough to know the protocol. Once someone has guessed at what you're about, do you acknowledge it or deny until your dying breath? Esme chooses a third path; avoid the issue altogether.

"Thank you, Tati. I'll be home in time for dinner. General Dekker is coming," she says, cool and even.

Tati makes no response, and Esme leaves without looking at her again. By the time she's reached the Pont Neuf, Esme has to stop for a moment and lean on the stone wall while she gets herself back in hand. Tati knows, or has guessed that something's going on. It's hardly surprising; the girl lives in her house. Esme's instincts tell her that she can trust Tati completely, but are instincts enough? Can anyone really be trusted in times such as these?

Rather than feeling panic at the thought of someone else knowing, Esme feels an odd sense of relief, as if she doesn't have to bear the weight of the secret alone, even if Tati doesn't necessarily know the details and they can't ever allude to it. And, she reasons, if Tati knows and planned to betray her, she's had several weeks at this point to do it. Esme reasons that Tati, as her instincts insist she is, must be trustworthy. With a sigh, Esme realizes that she has no choice but to trust her at this point anyway.

Esme is still standing on the bridge when a man crosses in front of her, head bowed, hat brim pulled low. He's completely unremarkable except for one glaring detail: the yellow felt six-pointed star crudely stitched to his breast pocket. Esme can hardly believe what she's seeing. She knew the Germans had been forcing the Jews in their country to wear them for quite some time. Last week, there was word that it was now law here in France, too, but she never believed they'd really make them do it. Yet here is this man, a Frenchman, trying to keep his gaze averted from the world, forced to wear that hateful signifier. Esme is revolted and enraged with absolutely no outlet for it anywhere. She can't speak to him to offer sympathy, she can't complain to other pedestrians loitering nearby. To complain or protest would only bring the authorities down on her, which would help no one and keep her from her new mission.

Her head snaps up as she realizes she does have an outlet for her anger, and he's waiting for her at St. Germain l'auxerrois. She continues on across the bridge at a quicker pace, nearly desperate to be in her pew again, whispering her secrets to his waiting ears.

He's not there when she arrives; he never is. But he always slips into the pew behind her and to her left within minutes of her arrival, so she's surmised that he's there somewhere and observing, waiting for her to get settled before he sits. She likes knowing that he's watching her walk in.

Esme slides into the pew she now thinks of as hers and settles in to wait. The scene has become familiar in just the few weeks they've been doing this. The same scattering of pious old women on their knees up front, as a priest busies himself tidying the altar. The faces might change a little, but the tableau is always the same. No one ever chooses to sit in this corner of the church. No one sits in this entire aisle, so they are always completely alone; there is never anyone to observe them. She supposes that's why it was chosen.

The routine is always the same. Every Thursday, just like now, Esme enters and sits and looks at the windows. Sometimes she brings a book, like she did the first day, and reads while she waits. Then her head is bowed like she's praying, which she feels might make her blend in more. Every Thursday, like now, her ears begin to strain, listening for any clue that he's approaching; the scuff of a shoe on the stone floor, the rustle of fabric. Every Thursday, by the time she hears it, she's so tense from waiting that the first tiny noise makes her jump. Every Thursday, Esme chides herself for being so eager and jumpy, and she calms herself back down as he slides into the pew behind her. After a few moments he will clear his throat, which is her cue to start talking, if there's anything to say. Esme talks, telling him every snippet of conversation she can remember, every name she hears, every place mentioned.

Today is no different. Her ears are straining so hard listening for his approach that when she finally hears it, it makes her heart skip a beat in a combination of anxiety and excitement. She closes her eyes and takes a few calming breaths as she listens to him slide into his place behind her. She's only seen his face twice. Once, the first time they met, and once a couple of weeks ago, when he suggested that she leave first, just to mix things up. But she can draw up every tiny detail in her mind, and she does so now, trying to imagine his expression, the set of his mouth, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, as he settles into place.

Imagining his face is lovely, but the next part is what Esme is longing for: hearing his voice. He clears his throat. Some days, he also greets her; other days, all she hears is the throat-clearing. She pauses for just a moment to see if he'll say something today. At first she thinks that's all he'll do today, but then, his low voice, almost a whisper, reaches her ears.

"How are you today, Mrs. Platt?"

A ridiculous grin overtakes her face at his use of her teasing nickname. That name seemed almost insulting when he first said it, but now she adores it, and she treasures the rare occasions when he says it.

"I'm well, thank you, Mr. Stoker. And you?"

"Well enough. Anything to tell this week?"

And just like that, it's on to business. Esme never gets more than that out of him and doesn't really expect to. Although she wishes he would talk to her more, and about more personal subjects, she knows he can't, and knows she shouldn't push him. Just having him here to listen to her makes her feel less hopelessly alone, and that has to suffice. So she talks, recounting her evenings to him, who was there, who talked to whom, who said what. The German officers, Esme has found, like to gossip like schoolgirls, and their ambition makes them catty. They constantly analyze their fellow officers' appointments and promotions, looking for any hint of favoritism or slights. Esme commiserates and sympathizes and agrees with them, while she secretly makes mental notes about who has been sent where and how many men he now commands.

When she's exhausted her week for details, she sits back a bit in her pew, fiddling with the clasp on her handbag.

"Is there anything else you can think of?" he prompts her softly. She wonders if she's imagining that he seems reluctant to end their meeting, too.

"I think my housekeeper suspects," she says. "Not meeting you, but…something."

He's silent for a long moment. "Do you trust her?"

"I have to, don't I?"

"I suppose so," he says with a sigh. "Anything else?"

"They use words I don't understand sometimes. I speak German, of course, but there are words, military terms, I think, that I don't know."

"Of course. You wouldn't know the vocabulary," he says pensively.

"Perhaps there's a book…?"

"No, nothing that could be found accidentally. I'll teach you. Next week I'll have some terms for you to memorize."

"Alright," she says softly, but inside she's delighted because that means he'll speak, they'll speak. "Is that all?"

He's quiet and she can sense he's thinking about something, perhaps weighing how to say it.

"General der Infanterie Dekker…"

"Yes?"

"He comes often?"

Now it was Esme's turn to pause, just long enough to wonder why he was asking. Was it for the cause or for himself?

"Most nights, yes."

Another long pause from him.

"He's…Being in his position, he's privy to a great deal of information."

"Yes, I sensed that."

"If you could…" He begins, but stops.

"What?"

"I can't ask you to. It's wrong." She might be imagining it, but he sounds upset.

"Yes, you can. What is it?"

He sighs heavily before he continues, "If you can get close to him…"

"I already am," she says shortly, and hopes he will leave it at that. The idea of discussing her flirtations with Dekker with him makes her feel sick. He says nothing, though and now she thinks his deafening silence might be worse.

Finally, he says, "Has he said why they sent him to Paris? Why him, specifically? Do you know his assignment?"

"He said he was here to handle an important project."

"A project?"

"No, wait…that wasn't the word he used. A shipment. No, an export. An important export. He was brought in to oversee it."

"Hmm."

"What does it mean? Does it help?"

He sighs. "I have no idea what it means. I don't know if it's important. I don't know if it will help at all. Chances are, we'll never know if any of this is helpful. Do you want to stop?"

Esme is silent. It's the most emotion he's ever shown. He sounds tired, a little angry. And at the end…desperate?

"No. I don't want to stop."

"You should go," he finally says, his voice back to its impassive whisper. "We've stayed too long as it is."

Esme stands abruptly and slides out of the pew. She allows herself one quick glance at his face as she passes. His head is bowed, he's staring at his hands clasped in his lap. He doesn't look up at her.

Mid-July, 1942

"Now in my day, a woman knew how to make her own cheese," Madame Chernot intones, wagging one shriveled finger in the air to emphasize her point. "But these days, you young girls go out in the world barely able to boil water!"

Esme smiles warmly at her and Madame Chernot's perception of her as a "young girl" when she's nothing of the sort. But Esme supposes that all women seem young to Madame Chernot. Every window in the house is thrown open, but no hint of a breeze makes it into the kitchen to alleviate the stifling heat that's descended on Paris. Esme idly fans herself with an old silk fan she got as a gift years ago, watching Madame Chernot busy herself at the sink.

Madame Chernot is tying up bundles of herbs with twine and hanging them in Esme's kitchen window. She's is doing it with the idea that Esme will use the dried herbs when she cooks, which Esme finds rather laughable. However, she does enjoy the scent and the way they look hanging there.

"Madame Chernot, please don't trouble yourself with that. Come and sit and have a coffee. Maybe some pastry?" Esme asks her, feeling bad that this withered and ancient old woman exerts herself on Esme's account, especially in this oppressive heat.

"Bah! No trouble! And who's to look after you if I don't, Mademoiselle? That silly young housekeeper of yours?"

Esme doesn't bother to correct the "Mademoiselle", because Madame Chernot never remembers when she does. She smiles fondly at the old woman busily working at her sink, and wonders how her life might have turned out if she'd had a woman like this for a mother. Her own mother was nothing like this, all hard edges and ruthless, small-town ambition. She would claw her way up the grubby little social order of their tiny Southern village by any means necessary, even if it meant sacrificing her own daughter to do it. The bitterness Esme felt towards her is long gone; all that's left now is a sort of wistful curiosity for the woman she might have grown into if her start in life had been different, if a woman like this had loved her then.

But, she thinks, she has Madame Chernot now, and for all the misery of her early years, Esme is proud of who she's grown into. She's also proud of how she's choosing to finish her days. Because Esme is sure that the only way her work with the Resistance will end is with her discovery and death. She only hopes to keep it going for as long as possible, to pass as much information as she can before she's found out. And if her life has to end too soon, she's happy that it will be like this.

"Alright, Mademoiselle," Madame Chernot says with a hefty sigh, turning from the sink, "all done for now. Pleas try to use those, now, and cook yourself something. You're too thin."

"You worry about me too much," Esme smiles.

Madame Chernot stops in front of her and lays her wrinkled little hand across Esme's still-smooth cheek. Her eyes are nearly hidden in the wrinkles of her face, but they are bright and perceptive as she looks into Esme's face.

"I have good reason to worry about you. Don't I, my dear?"

Esme can only stare back wordlessly, certain that, like Tati, Madame Chernot has guessed what she is up to. She must be the worst spy in the world if her intentions are so clear on her face. But Madame Chernot just smiles and pats her cheek. "You take care, my dear. And stay cool in this heat! It's sent from the devil himself, I think!"

Then she is shuffling towards the door, her basket slung over her arm again as she heads back to her little house next door.

No sooner does the door close behind her and Esme turns back to making the coffee, than the door slams back open and Tati throws herself inside. Her large pale eyes are rimmed with red. Her face is flushed and mottled, her hair unkempt. She's drawing ragged, stuttering breaths, nearly choking on her sobs.

"Tati! What is it? What's happened to you?"

Esme is across the room, gripping Tati by the arms in moments, trying to get the girl to calm down and look at her. Tati is sobbing so hard that it takes her a moment to get any words out at all.

"Oh, Madame. The Velo d'Hiver!"

Esme's brows draw together in confusion, she's unable to think of anything about a sports arena that would drive Tati to this state.

"The Velo d'Hiver? Where they have the bicycle races? What about it?"

Tati takes a huge shaking breath and it seems to be enough to allow her to speak, which she does in short, gasping snippets, nearly unintelligible.

"After the market, and the shopping…I met Iréne to walk along the Quai….We met her friend, Raoul, and he told us…Oh! He told us what's happening there…what they're doing…"

Tati's eyes well with fresh tears, and she shakes her head hard, nearly frantic.

"Tati! Tell me! What's happened?"

"That's where they're taking them," she finally whispers hoarsely.

"Taking who?"

"The Jews. The police…they've been taking them from their homes and they're all there, in the Velo d'Hiver."

"They're arresting them again? The agitators?"

"No!" Tati nearly shrieks this word. "Not agitators this time! Families, Madame! Whole families! Dragging them out in the middle of the night! Children, too! There are children in there!"

Esme closes her eyes and shakes her head, trying to make sense of Tati's broken information. When she speaks again, she struggles to keep her voice calm and even. "So they're taking these families to the Velo d'Hiver. What are they doing there? What's happening?"

Tati nearly descends into sobs again, but Esme tightens her grip on the girl, trying to keep her focused.

"Thousands, Madame. Raoul said fifteen thousand. All stuffed inside. There is no water and no doctors. They've been there for days, Madame. And Raoul says they're going to…"

"What? What does he say? What are they doing with them?"

Tati shakes her head hard and fights back the weeping, "He says they're bringing in trains. To take them to those camps."

Esme feels the chill, the same, sadly familiar chill, course through her. The one she feels whenever she hears some fresh piece of horror that defies belief. Fifteen thousand people in the Velo d'Hiver, in this heat, with no water. Children, too. All of them about to be shipped out on cattle cars to God knows where. It's happening now, at this very moment on the other side of Paris, as she stands helplessly in her quiet kitchen with a sobbing Tati in her arms.

Later that night, as Esme glides from room to room, smiling softly at her guests, making sure glasses are filled and music is playing, she forces every thought of Velo d'Hiver from her head. She can't…she cannot keep up this charade and do what must be done if she allows the horror in. She separates, and sends the self she knows far away. The self she knows, the real Esme, would have fled the house, run straight to the Velodrome, beat on the walls, screamed at the guards, demanded attention, demanded results until she got them or got herself hauled away and imprisoned, too. But that Esme has no place here. She can't do what needs to be done with that woman screaming her outrage and horror in her ears, so she packs her off and sends her away. All that's left is the shiny glittering shell of herself, smiling and talking and flirting just as she always has.

Tati has recovered enough to resume her position by the door, and it's this night that proves to Esme exactly where Tati's loyalties lie. Tati hates them, every bit as much as Esme does. But she will play her own role just as seamlessly as Esme does, knowing that they are coming here for a good reason.

And so Tati is there as always to answer the door when General der Infanterie Dekker arrives. She would offer to take his coat, but the heat remains oppressive and no one is wearing a coat. Instead, she takes his hat as Esme steps forward to greet him.

"General Dekker! How delightful! I was just remarking that I hoped we'd see you before the night was out. And now here you are."

"Madame Benoit. You know I've told you to call me Hans," his pale blue eyes are glittering, and his smile tight and feline as he sizes her up.

Esme inclines her head with a smile. "Hans. Of course. What's kept you so late tonight, Hans?"

"Oh, details. Many details to wrap up on my project."

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Please."

Esme motions him to follow her to the parlor, which he does. He cocks his head a bit as they leave the entryway, as if he's listening to the music playing softly in the background.

"Wagner?" he asks.

Esme smiles and inclines her head. "So many of the younger officers like it. I play it for them."

Hans gives her a sly, conspiratorial smile. "I know he's a Party favorite, but personally I prefer Puccini. Wagner just doesn't stir my soul in the same way. Do you know what I mean?"

Esme can only stare at him, because she knows exactly what he means. The idea that Hans Dekker has had his soul stirred by Puccini is surprising to her, almost shocking.

"I prefer Puccini, too," she finally murmurs.

"I knew you would. You know I thought of you today," he says, still looking intently at her.

"Really?"

"Yes, I was passing by the Quai d'Orsay and saw a painter down there painting the water. The colors he was using, all orange and pink and firey….I don't know," he says with a faint smile and a shrug. "They made me think of you."

"Oh, that's so…"

"And it was lovely, of course," he continues. "Just like you."

"You flatter me, Hans."

"It's hardly flattery when it's the truth, Esme."

"So your project is finishing then?" Esme strives to inject her voice with a note of sadness as she tries to re-direct him. "You'll be leaving us soon?"

Hans smiles slowly at her. "Ah, no. The first phase, you might say, is wrapping up. But it's only the start of the project. I'll be here for some time to oversee it."

"I'm so delighted to hear that, Hans."

Esme leans back against the bar as she hands him his drink- brandy. She no longer needs to ask what he'd like. She reaches into a silver filigree box on the bar to retrieve a cigarette. Hans quickly pulls his matches from his pocket and lights one for her. Esme bends to light her cigarette, her hand wrapping around his to hold it steady, their heads close together. Once lit, Esme straightens and exhales, smiling slowly at Hans through the smoke. Hans never takes his pale, sharp eyes from her face as he steps closer and leans on the bar next to her, his hip just a few inches from hers.

"I'm delighted, too. I would hate to leave…Paris so soon."

"Well, it seems your project may keep you here for some time."

"Yes, I believe so. There is much to accomplish, and we've only just begun."

His tone is distracted and his eyes are averted, skimming over Esme's neck, exposed where she's worn her hair up, and her bare shoulders. He doesn't see the look of horror wash through her eyes momentarily as the pieces slot into place in her mind.

Exports.

He said he came to Paris to oversee an important export.

Only the first of many.

A/N: The Velo d'Hiver round-up is commonly referred to in French as Rafle du Vel' d'Hiv, and it really occurred. Reported numbers of victims vary, but it accounted for nearly a quarter of the Jews sent from France to Auschwitz in 1942. Only 811 survived. There is quite a bit of information online, I'm including only a link to the Wikipedia entry, as it's fairly concise.

http://en(dot)wikipedia(dot)org/wiki/Vel%27_d%27Hiv_Roundup