Sins of the Flesh (7 page)

Bebe slept on the floor that night just as she was—the pillow on her chest, the bottle clutched in one hand, and the half-smoked cigarette dangling from her limp fingers.

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.