one

Lyon, France

Wednesday, January 20, 1943

4:00 pm

It was one of those days when an entire city sinks into itself, dead silent. One of those days each drop of rain falls alone, huge drops, plummeting to the cracked, shining cobblestones worn smooth under the feet of Lyon. The kind of day where only a few scurry here and there, soundlessly, clutching the lapels of threadbare, no-color coats. All silent, all lost in their own thoughts.

Already the afternoon was melting into evening. Shadows crawled from their daylight hiding places behind buildings and signs, swallowing the city, masking German propaganda posters and patriotic French graffiti alike.

Dropping the keys into the deep pocket of her overcoat, Elíse “Lise” Monaire turned from the tiny school house, whose layers of white paint were peeling beneath the gnawing dampness of the same winter breeze that chilled Lise’s fingers and tossed wisps of blond hair around her face. A breath of relief escaped her lips. The first part of another day was over—and with it, for a few hours, her identity as Lise Monaire, the elementary grade girl’s-school teacher. The girl stepping out onto the cobblestone street now was Geneviève Montparlieu, the résistant.

Lise stuffed her hands into her pockets, head down, senses alert. As an important contact for her réseau, she knows far too much to ever let down her guard. Even more so since November 11, 1942, merely two months ago, when Hitler himself sent Klaus Barbie, The Butcher, to bring Lyon and her “terrorists” to their knees. Barbie’s very name was enough to strike terror into the heart of any sensible person.

Because Klaus Barbie and “torture” were synonymous.

Barbie was known for picking random civilians off the streets, giving them a free ride to his personal headquarters, Ecole de Santé Militaire—the very building toward which Lise was headed now—or the Lyon SS headquarters in the “Hotel Terminus.” There he tortured them until they said something interesting, he grew tired of them, or both.

His treatment of captured résistants was even worse.

Which was why Lise could never afford to let her guard down. Especially when she had a mission to accomplish.

She saw Barbie, once. He was on one of his semi-regular walks through the center of the city, casually strolling along with his big Alsatian dog, a little smirk on his face.

That one time, Lise had been carrying a .765 caliber revolver, and it had taken every last ounce of her self control not to lift it and send a bullet ripping through Barbie’s skull. Give him a taste of Nackenshuss, as the Germans called it, a bullet in the back of the neck.

Barbie’s own infamous method of personally executing prisoners when he was through with them.

He’d been out of range, that one time, anyway.

Pretending to watch her shoes slough the rainwater from the ground, Lise let her eyes travel her surroundings: a gendarme to her right lounging against an old glass storefront. Two men in Nazi uniform, deceivingly nonchalant, strolling down the wet street, hob-nailed jackboots echoing through the silence. Ahead, an old woman and a small child, trudging towards her. There were a few civilians here and there, but most stayed indoors on days like these. Life was easier when one avoided the Nazis.

And not only the Nazis, Lise thought bitterly, but the Milice as well. The police force of the Vichy Regime—French collaborator Marshall Pétain’s government in the southern half of France—followed quite well their orders to work with the Gestapo. They thought nothing of torturing their own people, and their methods of torture were neither less ingenious nor more humane than the Germans’.

And they were French. Disgust and hate rose like bile in Lise’s throat. Betrayers. They were no different than the Nazis, but her hate for them was deeper, more blinding. Their crime was worse.

As she crossed a deserted bridge spanning the river Rhône, Lise played her fingers over the identification papers folded in her pocket. They documented her full name, nationality, profession, date of birth, physical appearance, and home address. Not her real home address, of course, nor her real name. A sepia-tone photo of her face adorned the upper left corner.

The papers were vital to everyday survival in Occupied France. Anyone caught without them and the hapless individual would be immediately arrested, whether or not he was actually guilty of any crime.

And Lise was guilty. Nonetheless, no one would catch her sans her identification. What a glorious way that would be to botch a mission.

There were two hours left until curfew at six o’clock; two hours until her job should be completed. Not that she abided by the curfew if her resistant duties called her elsewhere. Although, caught after hours and she could be shot. Probably would be shot.

She turned onto the Rue Berthelot, and the Ecole de Santé Militaire came into view. The nineteenth-century building, a heavy, vine-entwined structure, was not ugly in itself, except perhaps for the grime on the walls and the winter-dead plants clinging to the bricks, but what went on inside is enough to make it the most detestable place in the entire city.

Tucking a few wayward strands of her chin-length hair behind an ear, Lise avoided a puddle and smiled at a tall Nazi slouching against a street sign. The wet street gleamed slick under the feeble light. “Guten Abend.” Good evening.

He chuckled at her heavily accented German. “Und dieselben zu Ihnen, Fräulein.”

Her German was too limited to catch his meaning, but she smiled sweetly anyway and stepped around him. There was no need for him to know how much she hated him.

Walking up to the Ecole de Santé, she offered another smile to both sentries, who recognized her with a nod and let her into the courtyard. Eyes fixed straight ahead, Lise avoided the hostile stares of two handcuffed women being unloaded from a truck. Another armed soldier by the door of the building let her in.

She was on an effortless mission, but she loathed this place. Rooms lined the dimly-lit hallways, the soft, endless clacking of typewriter keys emanating from them as if this were just another business complex.

She could almost feel the agony of the men and women who are tortured here.

Lise stood aside as two soldiers escorted a man towards the door. He was stumbling, using both of the other men to hold himself up. His face shone with blood.

His eyes met Lise’s for a fraction of an instant as she stood there obviously not arrested, and the hate she saw in their pain-filled depths drove agony through her own heart.

He knew what she was doing—or what he thought she was doing—collaborating. Receiving pay from the Gestapo for turning in résistants. Too many French sided with Pétain and obeyed his call for cooperation with the Germans. Too many French were more than willing to tip off a neighbor to Klaus Barbie and his men. He paid well.

Elíse would rather sell her soul than knowingly send a human to this hell.

After the man passed, Lise found her way further down the hall to the open door of Room 47. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes, absently bit her fingernail, and made the mental charge from Lise Monaire to Genevieve Montparlieu. Opened her eyes again with another deep breath. Then she peeked inside, a little smile playing on her lips.

The young Frenchman at the desk, a slender, freckled redhead, was busy typing. Raul. Collaborator, betrayer. At first, he didn’t see her.

“Hey,” Lise whispered, “Tell me you’re not busy.”

At that, he glanced up. “Darling!” He stood. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“We-ell…I could leave…” she took a step back, teasing him.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Maneuvering around his desk, Raul stole her hand and drew her inside the room, shutting the door quietly behind them.

“I just might.” Lise offered him a light kiss, then pulled away. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, just working out some records.”

She tugged him towards her again, kissing him long and hard. “There.”

“Wow…what was that for?”

“I heard you were promoted…congratulations!”

He grinned down at her. “So you did get my letter? Yes…I’m promoted. I start tomorrow.”

“That’s wonderful, darling! They’re trusting you more and more.”

“Yes. Let me take your coat.”

She shrugged off the heavy wool and he hung it on the single hook by the door, then turned back to his desk, sliding onto his chair. “I wish I could take you somewhere to celebrate. This damned rain…”

Lise dragged the chair by the door over to the desk, then lowered herself onto it, opposite him. She dropped her elbows onto the desk with a wistful sigh. “I haven’t celebrated anything for…oh, a long time. There’s this place on Rue Cavillon, a little café that used to make the best little savarin chantillies of anywhere for miles around. The Café Soleil.” She paused. “But I don’t know if …I don’t think it’s still in business.”

“Did I tell you Kapitan Weifflander has invited me back to Germany with him on his leave this spring? His tales of what his wife cooks….mmmm. I’ll take you with me. They have real chocolate, and pastries to make your mouth melt.” He glanced up at her with a wink. “Although, your mouth is pretty melting as it is.”

Lise blew him a kiss. Swung her legs. “I’m sure they’re delicious.” She wasn’t going anywhere with him this spring—but she could make up some excuse when the time came…if he’d even been invited. Raul’s credibility was a tad questionable at times.

They fell silent for awhile, the only sound the rhythmic clicking of the typewriter.

Suddenly Raul pushed to his feet, a freshly-typed page in hand. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” Finally!

As the sound of his feet faded down the hallway, Lise straightened, reached over, and flipped quickly through the papers on Raul’s desk, practiced eye scanning the forms, notes, and diagrams. Wait…right there.

She found what she was looking for: a new shipment of black Bren machine guns recently sent from Germany. The crates were stashed in an apartment, number 5231, near the Montluc Prison. Number 5231.

Lise memorized it quickly. As it always was, the resistance was in need of weapons.

Suddenly footsteps sounded in the hall and Lise slipped the paper back beneath the stack. Number 5231. Mission accomplished.

Raul re-entered the room and sat back down at his desk. He looked up and stared at her, as if he saw her fingerprints in red all over his papers.

For one sickening moment she thought he must know.

But then he just grinned at her, a faint dimple appearing on his left cheek.

Lise smiled back.

And Raul began typing again, unsuspecting. They lapsed into silence.

Okay, I’ve had enough. Only so long can I stand to be around him. “Do you have the time?”

“A few minutes after five.”

“I really must go,” Lise sighed. “Father insists I be home by six. Old fool.” Standing, she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, revulsion curling in her stomach. “Bye.”

Raul gripped her hand, frowning. “Do you need an escort?”

“Oh, no.” Definitely not.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Well, alright. Au revoir.”

With a dip of her eyelashes, she was gone.