Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only. —VICTOR HUGO, LES MISÉRABLES

Some of them are real—I was given four at birth alone—but most are carefully constructed personas to get me through checkpoints and across borders. They are lies scribbled on forged travel documents. Typed neatly in government files. Splashed across wanted posters. My identity is an ever-shifting thing that adapts to the need at hand.

Tonight, I am Hélène and I am going home.

It is February 29. Leap Day. The irony of this is not lost on me, because I am about to jump out of an...

“You don’t look like a witch. Is that really what they call you?” he asks. “Sometimes they put a b in front.”

Unfortunately there is no such thing as sleep when you’re in the belly of a bomber rocking back and forth, trying not to puke. It’s enough for me to swear off booze altogether. Well, maybe I’ll just take a break. This is war, after all, and a girl has to find comfort where she can.

Hubert isn’t the flashy type. He errs on the side of Stoic Brit with a Stiff Upper Lip. But his French is excellent, which is why he’s on this mission.

For once, I’m not concerned about my forged travel documents or the one million French francs neatly stacked inside. Nor do I double-check that I still have the list of targets that must, no matter what, be distributed once the Allied forces land in France. I am frantic to find that slender tube of courage. Victory Red. The color of war and confidence and freedom.

“What on earth are you doing?” the dispatcher shouts. “Putting on my armor.”

Besides, my husband is down there, somewhere, and I cannot get to him unless I leap.

The weapons of warfare are different for women. Rarely do we have the luxury of bullets and bombs. Our tools are benign. Silk stockings and red lipstick. Laughter. Cunning. The ability to curse in foreign languages and make eye contact without trembling. But the most effective weapon by far, I believe, is charm.

Eight Years Earlier THE PONT ROYAL, PARIS 1936

“My name is Henri Tardivat. And I am trying to deliver you to him.” I have room in my life for only one Henri and it’s not this man, so I make a mental note to call him Tardivat

I want to hate the man, but I can’t quite muster the animosity, even when the maquisards leer. The truth is I’ve never met an Henri whom I didn’t like.

Soon enough I can distinguish Gaspard from the others even though I cannot see him. He is loud and brash and domineering. He cuts off his lieutenants constantly, dismissing their ideas and observations. Arrogant. Surly. Self-satisfied. He sounds like a bully and I dislike him immediately.

“Noncee,” he says, trying to pronounce it correctly. “Henri Fiocca.”

“Every girl, except for the one that I want, rings me up.” And then Henri Fiocca, the most notorious heartbreaker in all of France, gives me a meaningful look, daring to lift an eyebrow.

Henri Fiocca looks besotted. I am unsure how I gained the advantage in this situation, but I am determined to make the most of it. “If you want my company, Mr. Fiocca, you will ring me up.”

“Enlighten me, then. What did the great Victor Hugo tell you?” “He said that when a woman is speaking to you, you must listen to what she says with her eyes. And your eyes, Noncee, say that you are attracted to me. That is the difference between this dance and your last.”

“I don’t have your telephone number.” “If you want my number you can find it.” “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 woman who has been possessed, my entire life, by great luck. I was delivered, at home, in the winter of 1912 by a Maori midwife in Wellington, New Zealand. And seconds after peeling the caul from my face, she turned to my mother and said, “The child will be lucky, from this day until the day she dies.”

Hubert and I sit up in bed, hands folded behind our heads, ankles crossed, discussing the various ways in which I might kill Gaspard.

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.

I’ve known Hubert for six months now and he still has no idea what to do with me. He does the only logical thing and changes the subject.

“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.

“You respect me?” “Immensely.” “But you do not like me?” He grins. “Not in the slightest.”

The thing I love most about Brits is that they are not easily perturbed. Certainly not by pompous Frenchmen. Hubert looks at Gaspard as he would a bit of dung stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “We are here to assist with your efforts against the Germans,” Hubert says, “not cavort in the bed linens.”

“What do you think is wrong with the French?” I ask. “A great deal,” Hubert says. “But you must be more specific.” “Not a single one of them can seem to name their sons anything but Henri. Here an Henri, there an Henri, everywhere an Henri, Henri,” I say in singsong voice. “I’ll have to call our new contact Fournier. It’s too confusing otherwise.”

I decide immediately that I like Fournier.

These maquisards are not formal soldiers. They are citizens, average men driven into the wilderness to escape either the Germans or the relève—the forced conscription of French nationals into the German workforce.

“Not in the least. I told that man, without so much as a blink, that not only had I been to Cairo four times, but that I could read and write in Egyptian. Fluently.”

“Can you read Arabic, Frank? Or hieroglyphics?” His eyes narrow and he hesitates. “No.” “Well, neither could he. So when I read the notes I’d written in Pitman shorthand back to him, without error, he was convinced.”

Hell if I know what Henri Fiocca is exactly. Dead sexy. Intriguing. Wildly impressed with himself. Tall. Strong. Yet gentle in the way that only big men can be. And his voice.

“When may I collect you?” There is an art to setting a time for such a date. Early in the evening tells a man that you have no intention of going to bed with him. Late in the evening declares yourself open to other intentions. There is only one reasonable option in a situation like this.

I wear my favorite armor to Luigi’s: red lipstick. The fact that I’m also wearing a swishy dress and shiny black pumps doesn’t hurt.

“And what are your intentions with our dear Nancy?” he asks Henri. It’s a bold, defiant question and I love Frank all the more for it. He won’t be brushed off quite that easily. I turn my head to look up at Henri. I’d like to know the answer to that as well. His voice and his face are perfectly calm when he says, “I have traveled all the way from Marseille—over six hours by train—to deflower her.”

“Well, if that’s your goal you’ll need to go in search of a different garden,” I say. “That bloom has long since been plucked.”

“Shall we find somewhere to eat?” he says. I consider it a great testament to my character that I do not suggest him as the main course.

“Oh, no. That was just for sport.” I return my revolver to its holster and stretch my arm. “He is a reckless, arrogant brute. A liability to everything we’re doing here.” “Agreed. But what is your plan?” “I will bring him to heel.”

“Starting today, I want you to instruct your men as follows. Let them take whatever they like from the Germans. Food. Clothing. Vehicles. Lifeblood. All of that is fair game. But they are not to steal one more thing from their countrymen.

Yes. I love him. I cannot help it. I realized this at the train station today. He found me and kissed me on the platform, in full view of every person there. And then he dug around in my handbag for Picon and kissed him too, right on the nose. Picon returned his affection with a lick right on the chin and I thought my poor battered heart might explode from the joy of it all.

“Your son is a gentleman and a gentle man. Whereas you, sir, are an arse.”

“Where are we going?” she asks. “To my favorite bar. First, I will sober you up. And then I will try to get you astonishingly drunk. Your job is to thwart me.” “Sounds like a boxing match with my liver.”

She is an Old World city, boasting good bones and expensive taste. Age has refined her, Henri thinks, and her stately buildings do not crack or crumble. Below them is the harbor, ships tucked in for the night, and above them the Basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde, lit up like a beacon on the hill.

“First rule of drinking,” Henri says, “is mind your temperature.”

“It’s a bad combination, drinking too much and being too warm. You’ll go right to sleep. Open a window or take off your coat, but mind your temperature at all times.”

“Drink the water steadily, in several long gulps. It will cool you down and shake the cobwebs from your brain. Once you stop slurring we’ll move on to the brandy.”

“Stay hydrated. For every glass of brandy, drink a tumbler of water. Water will dilute the alcohol in your bloodstream. And it will send you to the bathroom frequently.

“Just out of curiosity, why go with brandy?” “Apart from wine, it’s the most commonly imbibed liquid in France. And it’s mostly what you drank at dinner. Besides, you’re more likely to be offered brandy than anything else.” “So?” “So…no man trying to take advantage of you is going to pour wine down your throat. Brandy is cheaper and works faster.”

We’ve been doing this for three weeks now and my muscles ache. My fingers are dirty and numb. I’d exchange one of my lesser organs—say, an ovary—for a jar of cold cream and a hot bath.