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

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.

“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 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.”

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.

“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.

“Ficetole is the tram conductor here in Marseille. We have known one another for…how many years is it now?” Henri says. “Fifteen.”

“Yes,” I tell Henri. He knows what I mean. I’m certain of that because his eyes flash bright. But he is cautious. “Yes…what?” “I love you as well. And I will marry you.”

Gentlemen of the human race, I say to hell with the lot of you. —VICTOR HUGO, LES MISÉRABLES

“I am chef du parachutage. You have no other means of getting weapons, explosives, supplies, or finances. It comes from me or it does not come at all. If you want that to be your legacy, you may take your men—those who are willing to go with you—and leave immediately.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “Otherwise you will consider me your bloody field marshal and you will never argue with me again.”

“I promise you, ma fille qui rit. I will come home.”

I cannot sit here, waiting to deliver another envelope for Antoine, so I return the dogs to Ficetole and begin the long process of driving north.

I begin walking again, the next morning, until I get one lift, and then another, piecemealing my way back to Marseille, only to find that in my absence it had been bombed by Benito Mussolini.

But the Germans do not play by the established rules of warfare. They see. They want. They take. France was the next thing in line.

Occupied Zone and Free Zone. Northern France, with captured Paris as its capital. Southern France, to be administered, henceforth, from Vichy.

“Ian Garrow.” The Scottish redhead extends his hand.

“This is my friend Patrick O’Leary,” Garrow says.

“What are you doing in Marseille?” I ask, looking from one to the other. There is a loud burst of laughter from the lobby where the Germans are gathered. Garrow looks over his shoulder and thinks for a moment. “In order to explain that to you, madame, we will need to go somewhere a great deal more private.”

All I have to go on is my gut. Trust is always an act of faith, and I listen as Garrow and O’Leary explain how they have begun the process of establishing an escape route for captured soldiers and persecuted Jews.

Ian Garrow wants me to smuggle human beings out of France.

Nancy Fiocca—is the kind of woman who conquers the world. Fearless. Ferocious. Nancy is the sort of woman who bathes in a meteor shower.

A week ago the Vichy government signed into law a decree that declares all foreign-born Jews to be illegal immigrants. They are, without warning or chance of appeal, to be sent directly to Germany and housed in concentration camps.

Garrow, O’Leary, and I cannot work fast enough. We cannot procure documents fast enough.

“What’s happened—” I ask, and then add, before he changes the subject, “Yes, I found your wife. Yes, she’s fine. It looks like she’ll have the baby in a week or two. Now tell me what the hell has happened.” “It has happened!” “What has?” “D-Day! The Allies have landed at Normandy.”

We know only the specifics of our own assignment: train, arm, and organize the Maquis for battle. Everything beyond that was a contingency based on the hope of an Allied invasion.

But now that it has happened, the second phase of our mission has gone into effect and I wasn’t here to see it. Overcome by exhaustion, disappointment, and the sense that I have missed the most important night of the war, I cry myself to sleep.

But then it came. That one phrase. ‘I wish I was by the seaside at sunrise.’ And everyone knew.”

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.

Last night I collected Anselm and now our forces can be properly trained.

We hear of the ghastly blood-filled waves at Normandy. The countless bodies lying on the beach. And the tens of thousands of men who are even now pushing inland. Who are fighting back. Who are resisting the great evil that Hitler has unleashed upon the continent. And now the real work begins. This is why we have come to France.

By the time I push my bicycle into the French Resistance camp at Saint-Santin, I have pedaled five hundred kilometers round trip. My friends stare at me, speechless, as I take the last excruciating steps toward the campfire.

“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?”

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.

I say good-bye to Tardivat, Jacques, and Louis on the front steps of the Château de Fragne. I watch as my maquisards drive away, hanging out the windows, whooping and hollering, and I think that I have never loved any group of men more than I do right now.

Henri Fiocca has no idea if those things are possible. He has no idea how this war will end. But he is absolutely certain of three things: his wife is the bravest person he has ever known, his father is a fool, and Marceline is a liar.

“I was chasing devils everywhere else. How could I have missed the one living right beside me?”

I am the same but different, and I greet this new reflection with a nod of acceptance. There is metal in my spine and there are fractures in my soul. I resemble Garrow now. I have been changed by war.

And then I pick through my purse and pull out the tube of red lipstick. With a shaking, unsteady hand I apply my armor.

“This is a bazooka, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher,” he says, stroking its long pipe as though it were a woman’s thigh, “and if the very sight of it doesn’t make your nethers tingle, then you aren’t worth knowing. Because this baby can blow a hole through a building, destroy a vehicle, or, in the right circumstances, puncture a tank.”