Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

The delicate scent of fresh bread, fine cheese, and cured meat wafts up from the table. This is a thing, I have found, that is present only in France. The food smells different here.

I am a devoted fan of the male species. They are brave, brilliant, offer endless entertainment, are good for moving heavy objects, and make the act of procreation a great deal more enjoyable. I’d hate to see a world in which they did not exist. But sometimes they can be spectacular idiots.

The friendships of women are strange and wonderful. Fraught and irreplaceable.

“We and France are today, in fulfillment of our obligations, going to the aid of Poland, who is so bravely resisting this wicked and unprovoked attack on her people. We have a clear conscience. We have done all that any country could do to establish peace. The situation in which no word given by Germany’s ruler could be trusted and no people or country could feel themselves safe has become intolerable. And now that we have resolved to finish it, I know that you will all play your part with calmness and courage.” Antoine returns to his place behind the bar and shifts from one foot to another. Every time his weight goes to his left leg he winces slightly. Like Henri, he fought in the Great War, and I wonder if he is thinking of fighting again. For the next few moments, Neville Chamberlain gives instructions to those who have joined the Civil Defense. He encourages his countrymen to carry on with their jobs.

“Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against—brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution—and against them I am certain that the right will prevail.”

“What does this mean?” I ask Henri. His gaze goes soft as he stares at the table. “It means, ma chère, that one day we will remember our friends and count the dead.”

Three and a half months we’ve been waiting for that very phrase. Gathering weapons. Organizing troops. Waiting to strike. The moment it went out over the airwaves, hundreds of Resistance leaders and Allied operatives, scattered from Marseille to Dunkirk, knew that the time had come to destroy whatever targets they had been assigned. Bridges. Towers. Tunnels. Trains or railways or ships. We have never been given exact numbers—that information is classified—but Hubert believes it to be hundreds of German-held targets.

It is terrible of me, but I am jealous of my colleagues. I so badly wanted to participate in these acts of sabotage. I wanted to light fuses and throw grenades, to watch buildings, bridges, and tunnels crumble. I wanted the pure satisfaction of seeing our plan unfold. Because the next phase of our mission will go into effect the moment they are done.

Terror is a strong thing. It comes upon you instantly and consumes all thought and reason.

It is one thing to study war and another to live the warrior’s life. —TELAMON OF ARCADIA, MERCENARY OF THE FIFTH CENTURY

The point is not to get the correct answer, but to determine the kind of person one is dealing with.” “And what did he determine?” “That you are . . . spirited.”

This is a novel about marriage. Yes, of course it’s also about war and friendship and bravery and tragedy and one of the most important conflicts of the twentieth century. Yes, to all of that. Particularly the friendship. But to me, at its heart, this is a novel about a woman and her husband and the sacrifices made by both in the midst of extraordinary circumstances.