Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

“Long story that takes place in Scotland and involves myself, Denden, and a rubber duckie.”

My fear is gone now. My nausea fading. All I have left is rage. This impotence is an all-consuming fury. I cannot do anything to help. I am useless. But I want revenge.

“I still want you all to myself. But the wanting isn’t the half of it. I love you. With the entirety of my heart.” “I—” “Which is why I would like to know if you will be my wife.”

We laugh at the same things and he pretends to be long-suffering about my outspokenness, but I know it delights him. He is my match and I am his and we are both well aware of this.

He wants me all to himself. He wants me to be his wife. I have never thought of myself as the marrying type. The type to settle down. Or commit. I don’t even own furniture for Pete’s sake.

“Ficetole,”

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

“Her name is Grenadine,” I say.

“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.”

“What about your job?” “The one where I work hard, am paid little, and get no credit?”

“Okay,” he says, finally, “I’ll teach you to curse like a Frenchwoman.” “No.” She shakes the cigarette in his face. “Teach me to curse like a Frenchman.”

“We’ll start with the most common word. Merde. It can be a noun or an exclamation. It just means ‘shit.’ ”

“Fils de pute. It’s the equivalent of your ‘son of a bitch’ but more insulting. It literally means ‘son of a whore’ and is terribly vulgar.

“Enculé,” he says. “It’s really the worst word that I know.”

“It means ‘one who has been…’ Ah…I believe the English word is ‘buggered.’ ” “Oh. I say that all the time.”

Enculé! It’s something you say to the person you hate most.”

Henri set a wedding date of November 30. I think he did this so as not to alarm me. To

we sip, slowly, listening to the British, and then the French, read their declarations of war. Sometime later, King George takes to the airwaves.

Over and over again we have tried to find a peaceful way out of the differences between ourselves and those who are now our enemies. But it has been in vain.”

I am Australian to the bone. And yes, I have taken on a second life as a Parisienne. France is my home now. But there are the moments when a woman returns to her roots, and the voice of my monarch reminds me that I am, and always will be, a member of the British Empire.

“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.”

for the arrest of a man named Patrick O’Leary in Toulouse one year ago.”

“And what happened to this O’Leary?” Gaspard looks at the paper. “He was sent to Dachau.”

“In addition to myself, this Roger had a second target. A female British operative who obtains weapons and supplies from England. A woman known to the Germans as la Souris Blanche and

French as Madame Andrée.

The White Mouse. Roger was after me as well. The Germans have connected the dots.

“You have plotted to murder me in my sleep. You have turned me out of your château when you thought I was useless. You have attempted to steal my weapons at my drop zone. And you have taken a routine interrogation to the most inhuman, barbaric extreme. Say one rash word and you will never receive so much as a pair of toenail clippers from me. I know you are not stupid. I know you understand me. Make your choice and be quick about it because I have work to do.”

You are poorly armed and unorganized, and it will be a slaughter when—not if—they advance upon your château. When you have done these two things, and not a moment sooner, I will begin arming your men.”

Hubert, Tardivat, and I climb into the car and pull away from the château. From the backseat Hubert gives me that universal male grunt, the one that could mean “well done” or possibly “go bugger your cousin.” In this case I prefer to think he’s just congratulated me on my leadership skills.

Our wedding is small and uneventful.

But this longing and need have created two things he has never experienced before: intimacy and trust.

We honeymooned in Cannes. The day after our wedding, Henri checked us into the Hôtel Martinez and we did not leave for two full weeks.

“When do you leave?” “In March. We still have time. Let’s just enjoy it. Please.”

“Haven’t I told you how I won the last war for France? Now I will win it again. Have you no confidence in me?” “Certainly,” I say, giving him a saccharine smile. “But I’m sick of hearing how you won the last one. I will win this one.”

Poor Henri. He does not realize that I am serious, or how determined Germany is to spread its cancer across the face of the earth. I saw what they did in Vienna and Berlin, and I know that Hitler has no intentions of stopping at Belgium. If Henri is going to war, so am I.

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

The thing about lipstick, the reason it’s so powerful, is that it is distracting. Men don’t see the flashes of anger in your eyes or your clenched fists when you wear it. They see a woman, not a warrior, and that gives me the advantage. I cannot throw a decent punch or carry a grown man across a battlefield, but I can wear red lipstick as though my life depends on it. And the truth is, these days, it often does.

“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.

“No. I have an ambulance.” I can see that he wants to laugh but the expression on my face stops him. “We have no women drivers.” “You do now.” Honestly, I’m so tired of this bullshit. I can’t have a byline because I’m a woman. I can’t apply for a marriage license on my own because I’m a woman. I can’t drive an ambulance because I’m a woman. “Tell me where to go and who to collect or I’ll just head off on my own and cause everyone more trouble,” I say.

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.

Despite his best efforts he doubts that she will ever be able to sing a note or clap in time to music, but he can still do something about the bicycle.

“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.

“I believe you can help because you have papers that let you move easily anywhere in the Free Zone. And by your own admission, you are a Nazi-hating loyal subject of the Crown. Pardon me for being blunt, Madame Fiocca, but you are exactly the kind of person we need to know right now.”