There is a new Live Journal entry that covers this chapter and the next, which will be the last chapter. I found such amazing pictures when I was researching this part, so I went a little crazy. Go check it out!
http://resistance-esme(dot)livejournal(dot)com/
Many thanks, as always, to WriteOnTime, for beta'ing and being just awesome in general.
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August, 1944
On Tuesday everything is the same.
On Wednesday, the Gendarmerie goes on strike.
Word reverberates through Paris like a gunshot in a silent hall. The local police force is on strike. In an occupied country. It is a breathtaking show of defiance, and it means that the rumors might be true. Resistance fighters have organized under the banner of the French Forces of the Interior, under the remote command of General Charles de Gaulle, and they are advancing through the south towards Paris.
By Thursday, Parisians are holding their breath and waiting to see what comes next. The streets are quiet as every Parisian stays safely in their homes, avoiding any possible trouble in the streets.
Every Parisian except for Esme Benoit. It's Thursday, and she has an appointment which she intends to keep. She dresses with her usual care, spends perhaps a little longer on her hair than usual since she knows he likes her hair, and she heads downstairs to collect her bag and go. Tati is there at the foot of the stairs, large pale eyes terrified, twisting her fingers together in anxiety.
"What is it, Tati?" Esme says with a hint of impatience.
"You're still going, Madame?"
"Of course, Tati. You know I go out every Thursday morning." They've kept up this silly ruse that Tati doesn't know exactly what she's doing, even after all this time. By now it's just comforting, both of them pretending that everything is alright.
"But I've heard that it's dangerous out there!"
Esme sighs and rest her hand on Tati's arm. "Tati, it's been dangerous for quite some time, at least for me. I can take care of myself."
"Of course, Madame," she whispers. "Just be careful."
"I always am."
Esme makes her way quickly to the church, along the path she's walked once a week for over two years. The streets are quiet, nearly deserted. And yet, even with an almost complete lack of people, the tension in the air is still palpable. The atmosphere in Paris feels nearly flammable, as if all it would take is a spark to set the whole city ablaze. It's an unsettling feeling, and Esme is relieved to finally reach the cool quiet of the church.
But for only the second time in two years, he doesn't come. Like the other time, she waits well over an hour, long past when she's sure he won't be there. Like before, she can't bring herself to go, to abandon hope.
This time is different, though. With the unsettled situation, the complete lack of concrete information, the possibility of chaos and violence breaking out at any moment, his absence hits her so much harder. As she slowly makes her way back home the way she came through the sultry August heat, she thinks he could be anywhere, facing any number of dangers. And how will she ever know? How will she ever find him? The idea that he might be swept away from her forever in the madness that's coming leaves her desolate.
As she walks blindly down Rue St. Germain, a German covered-troop-transport truck speeds past her in the other direction. She cranes around to look and it's filled with German soldiers, but they are not sitting in ordered rows as one would expect. They are crammed in, hanging on at odd angles, as if there are too many of them squeezed in, or they piled in too hastily. Within moments, two jeeps scream past as well. She catches a glimpse of gold braid and insignia. Officers. Also, a gaggle of enlisted men squeezed in the back. The whole thing feels off, frantic, out of character for these disciplined, ordered military men.
Odd, certainly, but in and of itself the incident tells her nothing. Trapped here in this tense, frozen city, there is no way to know anything at all.
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Friday, August 18, 1944
The next morning, Esme is just settling in with her second cup of coffee when Madame Chernot appears at the back door, knocking urgently.
"Come in, come in," Esme urges her as she opens the door to her. "What's the matter?"
"On strike!" Madame Chernot says.
"The Gendarmes? Yes, I know."
"No, the whole city!" Madame Chernot breathes, her withered old face lit up with excitement. "Has Tati not been to the market today?"
"No, not yet."
Madame Chernot waves a hand in annoyance and Esme senses that she wants to launch into a lecture about how lazy Tati is not to have done the shopping already and that Esme is too soft on her, but then she catches herself and remembers the purpose of her visit. "The whole city is shut up tight! Every shop, every office! No one is working! The city is at a standstill!"
"What does it mean?"
"The Resistance!" Madame Chernot trills.
"What about them?"
"They've seized the Hôtel de Ville!"
"What? How?"
"No one knows, but the Germans haven't even tried to take it back. They're all holed up in the Hôtel de Crillon and they aren't coming out. Word is the Resistance has seized buildings all over the city!" Madame Chernot is more energized than Esme has ever seen her. "This is it, Mademoiselle! We are showing those vermin what's what!" In her enthusiasm she has forgotten their carefully crafted charade, that Esme is the consort of the Nazi general and a friend to the occupiers. Esme decides in an instant that she won't remind her. She's done playing this part. And if Madame Chernot's news is true, it doesn't matter anymore anyway.
Esme steps back and considers what's happened. He told her the situation might change quickly, and apparently he's right. The whole thing is beginning to blow up out on the streets. Madame Chernot has said that the Germans are still in their headquarters, but will they stay there? Surely, at some point, they'll take to the streets to fight back against the uprising? That's when things will really become dangerous, even for the innocent bystanders.
The practical woman in Esme immediately begins to assess the situation. Things will undoubtedly deteriorate, and who knows for how long? Will Paris be under seige? They will need food. Will the Germans ransack the city? They might have to secure the house. Her eyes flicker to Madame Chernot, elderly and utterly alone.
"Madame, you should come and stay with me, at least until things quiet back down."
"Oh, nonsense!" the old woman smiles, waving a hand absently. "That house served me just fine through thirty years of marriage with André, and it will serve me just fine now."
Esme takes a moment to reconsider her strategy, because Madame Chernot simply cannot stay there alone. "But Madame," she pleads. "Things may become so difficult. And all I have is Tati. Who knows how long it may be until we can get food at the markets? We'll have to make do with what's in the pantry and you know what a terrible cook Tati is. Won't you come and help me?"
It is exactly the right tack to take with Madame Chernot, for she's on her feet in a flash, headed to the pantry, muttering under her breath about silly little country girls as she takes inventory of what's on hand. Madame Chernot takes charge of the kitchen and by the afternoon, Tati has helped her bring over all the useful food from her house, along with her necessities, and Esme has her ensconced in one of the second floor bedrooms. Esme can breathe a small sigh of relief. At least one problem is solved. Madame Chernot is now safely under her roof.
And not a moment too soon, as by early evening, angry French youths are roaming the empty streets in packs, shouting obscenities about the Nazis, breaking bottles, burning Nazi propaganda posters. It's all just little shows of defiance, but still, they add to the feeling of Paris being stretched taut like a bow, about to snap.
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Saturday, August 19, 1944
Madame Chernot and Tati set out early to see if anything is open, if any food is to be gotten. They come back completely empty-handed, but full of gossip and enthusiasm.
"They're pulling out!" Madame Chernot chortles gleefully.
"Are you sure?" Esme presses, disbelieving. Might this long nightmare finally, finally be ending?
"Well, only some of them, but we saw a few of them in trucks heading for the city gates, didn't we, Tati?"
Tati nods in wide-eyed, speechless agreement.
"The rumor is that they've already turned over parts of Paris to the Resistance. There seems to be a lot of confusion about which parts are to be for the Resistance and which are to be for the Germans, however. No one really knows what's going on, not even the Germans. Everything is all in chaos. But we passed a couple of them packing up their house, didn't we, Tati?" She elbows Tati, who again nods breathlessly.
"You seem to be enjoying this a bit too much, Madame Chernot," Esme scolds her fondly.
"Bah! I had to live long enough to see my country fall into the hands of those vipers. I'm just happy that I've lived long enough to see my countrymen give them the boot and kick them back out."
Esme can't help but laugh, and hopes that in the coming days there's still so much to be excited about.
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Sunday, August 20, 1944
Instead of the bells of St. Germain des Prés that Esme is used to waking to on Sunday mornings, it's the sound of gunshots that shatter the still of the morning. Esme scrambles out of bed and throws her silk floral robe on hastily. She's still tying the sash as she nears the bottom of the stairs. Madame Chernot is already there, a wide wool shawl thrown over her old-fashioned nightdress. Tati is behind her, craning on tip-toe to see out the window over Madame Chernot's shoulder, her light hair still up in pincurls. Madame has one shutter cracked slightly, swiveling her head to see what might be happening.
"What is it? What's happened?" Esme asks as she rushes into the front parlor behind them.
"I can't tell yet. I can't see anything," Madame Chernot throws over her shoulder. "But I can hear the shouting. They must be out on Boulevard Saint Germain, or perhaps over on Rue Danton."
Another volley of shots ring out, sounding closer this time, and all three women jump. There is a moment of silence after as they all breathe heavily, glancing around apprehensively. Esme is the first one to pull herself together.
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she snaps, "If they're about to have a gun fight on my front steps, I'd prefer not to be caught in my nightclothes. Let's get dressed."
Her words snap the other two out of it, and all three women scramble for the stairs. An hour later, all are dressed, and Madame Chernot is in the kitchen harassing Tati over breakfast. Esme stands guard at the front parlor windows, peering through the shutters, listening to the gunshots. Sometimes they sound farther away, sometimes startlingly close. She still can see nothing, but with her house situated at the bottom of a cul-de-sac, this is not surprising. The not-knowing is eating her alive, however, and shortly after breakfast, she determines to go out.
Madame Chernot wants to accompany her, but Esme begs her to stay and keep Tati calm, as the girl is on the knife-edge of hysteria all the time. Once again, appealing to the practical problems does the trick with Madame Chernot, and she agrees to stay in and keep an eye on the house. Before Esme leaves, she retrieves the pistol Hans brought her several months ago. He told her it made him uneasy, her living alone with only Tati in the house. At the time, Esme thought bitterly that he was the only person she really had to fear, but she only smiled and nodded and tucked the offending object away on a high shelf in the pantry. Now, however, she's grateful to have it, and hands it over to Madame Chernot and Tati, in case of the worst.
Rue de Jardinier is absolutely deserted and still when she finally steps outside. It's rather chilling, and leaves her feeling as if she's the last person on earth until another round of gunshots ring out. Now that she's outside, she can pinpoint their direction; to the east, and only a few blocks, if she's not mistaken.
Esme walks out to Boulevard Saint Germaine and looks east towards Boulevard Saint Michel. And now she sees the source of the gunshots. A large German troop transport vehicle lies on its side right in the intersection of St. Michel and St. Germaine. It's been upended there on purpose, she surmises, as a group of men are using it as a barricade, crouched low behind it, each holding rifles. They are not in uniform, and from the looks of them, they are all French. There are perhaps ten of them, mostly young men in their twenties, but two are considerably older. They are…ordinary. When Esme imagined the fighters of the Resistance that were rumored to be advancing on Paris, she imagined an army. But these just look like men off the streets. And that's what they are, she realizes. This is no army marching into Paris to free them. This is the citizens of Paris, rising up to kick out the invaders. Paris has taken to the streets to reclaim its own.
The men behind the truck are shouting, both to each other and to others she can't see…hiding in nearby buildings, perhaps? As she watches, shots ring out and the men behind the truck duck down, making themselves as small as possible. The shots seem to come from further down Boulevard St. Michel, towards the Sorbonne. The men stay huddled behind their makeshift roadblock, but answering shots ring out from a building across the intersection. Resistance snipers are there, helping to hold off the Nazis, defending the blockade. Boulevard St. Michel, the road they have blocked, leads to the St. Michel bridge. On the other side of the bridge, on the Île de la Cité, is the Prefecture of the Police. Has the Resistance taken the Prefecture? Esme's mind spins with the possibilities. This is really happening.
As she watches, spellbound, there are angry shouts from the sniper's lair in the building. A banner is unfurled from an upper window, black with a symbol hastily painted in white. It's a large V with a croix de Lorraine nestled into the middle.
"Madame, get yourself inside to safety!"
A voice behind Esme makes her jump. He's young, dark-haired and dark-eyed, his face sweaty and lined with dirt. His shirt is hanging half-opened. He's clutching a rifle and he has a belt full of spare bullets slung across his chest.
"It's not safe out here! Go back in!" he repeats urgently.
"Are you with the Resistance?" she asks.
He snorts a humorless laugh. "I suppose you could say that. On this day, every true Frenchman is, don't you think?"
Esme nods, then reaches out to grasp his forearm.
"Look," she says quickly, "My house is there, just at the end of Rue de Jardinier. I don't have much, but there is a little food and it's safe. If you need shelter, come and I will help."
He looks into her face long and hard. He seems so young, maybe no older than twenty, but his eyes are hard and tired, years older than the rest of him. Finally he nods.
"Thank you, Madame…?"
"Benoit. Esme Benoit."
His surprise shows on his face and he leans back nearly imperceptibly. Ah, she thinks, he's heard of me. General Dekker's whore.
"But I thought you were…"
"No," Esme shakes her head firmly. "It's all been a lie." And this is it; for the first time since she's started, she's about to confess the truth to this stranger on the street. It's the beginning of the end, of letting go of the whole long, hateful nightmare. "I've been meeting with a contact, passing on information."
His eyes widen in shock. "You're a spy?"
It's Esme's turn to laugh without humor now. "A spy. How very glamorous that sounds. They came to my house, I listened carefully, I passed on everything I heard. Not so very much in the scheme of things."
"It was brave," he says, his face gentler now. "But Madame Benoit," he continues, "It's very dangerous out here. Please go back in. The lads are holding the blockade while the men across the bridge try to take the Prefecture, but they're low on ammunition. The Germans might overtake us at any moment."
Esme nods and steps aside to let him go, but then halts him once more. "Please, can you tell me…the flag there, what does it stand for?"
He looks back over his shoulder towards the building, and for the first time a small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "It's the flag of the French Forces of the Interior. The Resistance army. They've taken that building."
Another round of gunshots ring out, making them both flinch. A fine spray of dust erupts from the building next to them and Esme realizes a bullet has hit it, sending concrete powder everywhere.
"Go!" the boy shouts to her, "And good luck, Madame Benoit!"
"Good luck to you, too," she calls before racing away, back down Rue de Jardiner towards her house.
Once she hits the door, she slams it behind her, leaning on it, breathing heavily. Madame Chernot and Tati hear the noise and come racing from the kitchen in the back of the house.
"What is it?" Madame Chernot calls, "What's happening?"
"An uprising," Esme breathes. "The Resistance, taking back the city. They're blockading streets, fighting off the Germans."
"Oh, thank heavens!" Madame Chernot cries, clapping her hands together.
"We need a flag!" Esme says urgently.
"A flag, Madame?" Tati asks, confused.
"Yes! Something to hang out of the window. See what you can find, Tati!"
Tati comes back from the kitchen waving a dish towel, but Esme shakes her head.
"Too small," she states. "It needs to make a statement."
She strides into the parlor and seizes one of the heavy dark drapes over the parlor windows. With one firm yank she rips it free of the rod, and it falls in a heap on the floor.
"Here, help me, Madame Chernot! I want everyone in Paris to know just where the residents of this house stand. Tati, do we have any paint?"
"There is a bit of whitewash the handyman left in the cellar. I'll get it!"
They are energized by the project at hand, and within minutes, the curtain is stretched out on the parlor floor and Esme has painted it with the symbol she saw on the banner outside, explaining to Madame Chernot and Tati as she goes. Once it's done, the three of them hoist it out of the dining room window, securing it on the inside of the sill. Esme steps out front for just a moment, to examine their handiwork and how they've marked the house, but gunshots are still ringing out from Boulevard St. Michel, so she doesn't linger.
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Monday, August 21, 1944
It is nearly nine at night when the sharp banging on the front door shatters the tense silence in the house, causing Esme, Madame Chernot and Tati to all jump out of their chairs. It has been another long day of tense idleness. Late the night before, a rag-tag little group of Resistance fighters made their way to the front door, sent by the boy from the street. They were hungry and exhausted after finally outlasting the Germans they were fighting. Madame Chernot made them dinner, and Esme poured the wine. They ate gratefully, but were unable to tell them much about anything outside of their own little street-corner war.
The men stayed just long enough to wash up before they left again, off to find another fight where they might do some good.
The women barely slept that night, choosing to sit up in the parlor and just listen to the cacophonous night. They each dozed off in turn, waking after a fitful hour or two of sleep. Monday passes in the same edgy silence, and they are settling in for another anxious night of listening when the pounding begins.
Esme stands and crosses to the door, leaving Madame Chernot and Tati clutching each other's hands.
"Who is it?" Esme calls through the door.
"It's Hans," comes back the disconnected voice. Esme's eyes fall closed and she rests her forehead on the door for a minute, trying to gather her strength. She had hoped he would never reappear, that he would be so caught up with the war being waged on the streets that he'd never be able to get away to come find her. She should have known better. She should have known that he would find a way to get to her no matter what. He is too persistent to just walk away from her.
"Madame Chernot, I need a moment, please?" Esme murmurs.
"Are you sure it's safe?"
"He means no harm. But it's better if I do this alone."
Madame Chernot nods tightly and pulls Tati after her into the kitchen. Once they are gone, Esme takes one more bracing breath and opens the door. Hans is standing there, completely unkempt. He's still in his uniform, but the top three buttons are undone, and she can see his sweat-stained undershirt beneath it. His black boots, usually shining and hard, are scuffed and coated with dust. He's hatless, and his ordinarily fastidiously-groomed blonde hair is a mess. He's got a smudge of dirt across one high cheekbone, and his eyes look as if he's aged ten years since she last saw him. Her flag, painted haphazardly on the parlor curtain, hangs clutched in his fist.
His eyes cut into hers as she opens the door to face him, and he raises the ripped flag.
"What is the meaning of this?" his voice is low, but so full of menace that Esme has a momentary attack of nerves. But swallowing it down, she squares her shoulders and raises her chin. This is it, she thinks, time to drive in the knife.
"I wanted to be perfectly clear about where my allegiance lies."
They simply stare at each other for a long time as Hans works through what she's said. In spite of everything, Esme feels a flash of pity for what she's about to do to him. But then she reminds herself that this frantic, desperate man who is in love with her has a hidden side, one that has killed tens of thousands of people. And that man deserves everything she's about to do to him and more.
"I thought your allegiance was to me, Esme," he finally says softly.
"My allegiance is to France. A free France. It has always been to France," she says evenly, with no emotion.
Hans rakes his hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic display of confusion. "Do you mean to tell me…"
"Everything you said, Hans. Every word, dutifully passed on to my contact, to be used to plot against you. Yes."
His mouth opens as if to say something, but nothing comes out. It hangs open as the shock and disbelief fill his eyes. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving.
"How could you do this to me?" he finally whispers hoarsely.
Now it's Esme's turn to be stunned into disbelief. "How could I do this to you? How could you do it to them?"
"Do what to whom?"
"The fifteen thousand Parisians you locked into the Velo d'Hiver before packing them into trains and sending them to die in your camps!" Esme can't control her emotions any more, two years of her repressed anger and hatred beginning to bubble up and spill out. "And God only knows what other atrocities you've committed that I've never heard about!"
Hans sputters momentarily in disbelief. "But…that was…Esme, you must understand, I was just following orders, doing my job. You must see that."
"Orders? You were just following orders? Well, I'm sure those people you slaughtered will understand once you explain that you were just doing your job. Except that they can't be made to understand, can they, Hans? Because they're all dead. Dead by your hand."
"You make it sound as if I murdered people in the streets, Esme. Those people were not…"
"Those people were free French citizens, just the same as me! And yes! Your hands are every bit as bloody as if you slit their throats with your bare hands!"
"I suppose it's too complex for a woman like you to grasp, but there are serious philosophies at work here, Esme. Our mission will make for a better world and..."
The look of pure revulsion twisting Esme's face stops Hans in his tracks.
"You disgust me, you and your vile philosophies. We're talking about people. People with lives and families and futures."
"So because of your soft little sympathetic heart, you betrayed me," he growls, his voice turning hard and bitter.
"No, Hans, you've betrayed mankind. I just did what I could to make sure you paid for it. I just hope it helped, that everything I endured was for some good."
"Endured?" he spits angrily. "So every time I touched you…every time you smiled at me, encouraged me, every bit was a lie?"
"Yes," she says with a tired sigh, unwilling to exert the energy it would take to soften the blow. She doesn't really want to soften it anyway. He doesn't deserve it. Just in case she might have forgotten, his vile words tonight have starkly underlined for her exactly what all of this was for. "I did whatever it took to keep you coming back and talking."
Hans takes a sudden large stride forward, across the threshold and into the entryway. He throws her flag to the ground and his hands snake out, clamping down around her upper arms. Esme takes a step back, but she's moved too late and she can't wrench free of his grip.
"Hans…" she begins.
"You lying little bitch!" he growls, shaking her hard.
"Let me go," she says as calmly as she can. Fear is coursing through her now, and her mind is racing, trying to determine the best way to handle him to get herself out of what's rapidly become a very dangerous situation. She always thought what she was doing would get her killed, but she has always imagined it would be in front of a firing squad or at the end of a noose. It has never occurred to her that she might die like this, at the hands of Hans, furious and betrayed. But suddenly it seems like a real possibility. And in that flash of fearing for her own mortality, she finds she only regrets one thing, and that's not being able to see him one more time. His face flickers in her mind, blotting out Hans for a moment.
"I came here to rescue you, to get you out of here. I was going to take you home with me. I was going to marry you, and this is what I get from you? This is how you repay my devotion? All this time, holding me off at arms' length, blaming your husband for your frigidity...are you even married?"
He's becoming unhinged, his already-messy hair falling across his forehead, his eyes wide and crazed. He's still shaking her, and his grip on her arms is painfully tight. Esme twists again and he only grips her harder, bruising her. She looks into his face, which is at once so familiar and now also that of a stranger.
"Madame?"
Tati's quiet, timid voice cuts through the tension in the room like a knife. In surprise, Hans leans back away from her, although he doesn't let her go. Esme turns her head to look, and sees Tati standing in the doorway, pale eyes wide with fear, arm raised, hand shaking wildly where she's clutching the pistol.
"Put that gun down, you stupid girl," Hans snarls.
Tati merely shakes her head slightly. Her hand is still shaking, but the gun remains pointed right at Hans. Esme gives one more hard twist and finally breaks his hold on her arms. She stumbles back towards Tati.
"Give it to me, Tati," she murmurs. Esme pulls the gun from the girl's hand, and Tati nearly collapses as the tension leaves her. Esme pushes Tati behind her, re-training the gun on Hans. He takes a step towards her.
"She couldn't do it," he sneers.
"No, she couldn't," Esme acknowledges. "But I can. And I will. I think I've proven at this point that I will do whatever I have to do. Don't make me do this."
"You think I'm just going to walk away with a shrug? After what you've done, you filthy, lying whore?"
Esme bristles at his use of that word, the one that cuts right to the heart of her fears, but she makes herself stand up straighter and she extends her arm further. "Walk away or be carried out, Hans. It's up to you. Leave now, while you still can. I'm giving you a chance, which is more than you did for them."
They stand frozen, eyes locked for a long time. Esme's hand does not shake like Tati's did, and the barrel of the gun stays trained on his chest. Without a word, Esme slowly cocks the safety off with her thumb and the click echoes in the silent room louder that a gunshot would.
Slowly, as he realizes that she really intends to do it, the light of fury in his eyes fades. His shoulders sag as the weight of the last several days seems to overtake him all at once. He doesn't say a word. He just turns his face away as he moves towards the door. He kicks her homemade flag out of the way, then strides wordlessly through the door and out into the night.
Esme is still standing there, pointing the gun at the open front door, several moments later when Madame Chernot steps up behind her. The old woman's wrinkled little fingers close over Esme's hand, gently prying the gun free. Esme finally lets it go and closes her eyes. Tati pulls her back by the shoulders and she falls into the nearby chair. It's only then that she lets the sobs overtake her.