Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

“That’s the point, ma petite. A Parisienne always does the unexpected.” She puffs for a few seconds and then blows another smoke ring from between perfectly painted red lips. “It levels the playing field. Men don’t know what to do with a woman who can clip her own cigar.”

“No dinner. But you’ll dance with me?” “I dance with anyone who asks, but I only dine with those who call.”

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.

“You use profanity as a weapon. A way to be disarming. To charm or sometimes offend, depending on your audience. It’s how you demand parity and respect with your male coworkers. But you already have my respect. You did from our first day of training. I just wanted you to know that.

Frank did me the honor of showing the others that I am clever, so I return the favor by making sure they know he is brave.

“And who is this?” I say with all seriousness, “The great love of my life.” “Ah, a rival. What is his name?” “Picon.” “And how do

Henri looks as me as though I have single-handedly invented womankind. As though I am Eve herself. He looks at me as if I am sun, moon, and stars all rolled into one. A galaxy. I am terrified of how I might be looking at him, as though all my thoughts are written right there on my face.

The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed. —ERNEST HEMINGWAY

I ignore him and continue looking at her. “It must not pay well.” “Why do you say that?” she asks. I nod at her décolletage. “Apparently you can’t even afford a brassiere.” Marceline goes perfectly still, lips parted slightly, as though surprised.

Rage is an odd thing, not so different from grief in the way it catches you unaware and then explodes in your chest. It crashes against you like a wave and all I can think in this moment is that we are sitting here, watching this happen. Doing nothing.

Love is a choice. It is the active choosing of good for another person. But like? It is a gift and it cannot be forced.

Errant thoughts are dangerous. They can give way to hope. And hope can upheave your entire life if it’s left alone long enough to put down roots. Errant thoughts can make you unreasonable and sappy. But for one startling moment it occurs to me that this is what it must feel like to have a real family.

“You are the only friend I have.” “The Count—” “Is a man,” she interrupts. “It is not the same.” I cannot argue. The friendships of women are strange and wonderful. Fraught and irreplaceable.

“You will give up your own identity?” Her mouth tightens into a straight line. “Not even Henri Fiocca is worth such a sacrifice.” “You are wrong. He is worth it. But honestly, it has nothing to do with identity. Or sacrifice. But it does have everything to do with loyalty.” Her eyes narrow, daring me to defend my position. “Why should I keep my father’s name? He abandoned my family when I was two. I’ve never seen him since and I owe him no loyalty.” She sniffs. “Then take your mother’s maiden name. Anything but a man’s.”

“But why would you even want to help? War isn’t for women.” I lean very close to him and lower my voice to a dangerous pitch. “And yet we suffer most in them.”

I am always a little startled to find my countrymen maintaining any kind of normalcy in the face of war. I respect it. It is one of a thousand courageous ways of thumbing your nose at the enemy.

But girlishness is a luxury I was never afforded as a child or a young woman. I had to grow up quickly. I had to adapt. But the older I get, the more I am brought up short by simple luxuries and basic acts of kindness.

“But you walked right into Vichy headquarters. Do you even understand how risky that was?” Patrick O’Leary stops then, right in the middle of the street. He sticks a finger in my face and shakes it. “And you walked right into Mauzac to free Ian Garrow. Did you think I would do any less for you?”

There is nothing like machine-gun fire being pelted at your arse to prove that your gym teacher was correct. You can run faster than you think.

You who suffer because you love, love still more. To die of love, is to live by it. —VICTOR HUGO, LES MISÉRABLES

“Happy birthday, Duckie,” Denis says, and then he and Hubert walk down the steps and join the others. They turn sharply on their heels and stand at attention. There is one last trumpet blast, then every man before me raises his hand in salute. It is a show of respect. Of honor. Deference. They are acknowledging, one and all, that I am their leader.

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. Marriage is a subject I am perennially fascinated with—particularly good, healthy, lifelong marriages. I wish there were more good marriages portrayed in print. And I believe that all good marriages have one thing in common: sacrificial love.