Wednesday, July 1, 2020

Vive la Resistance

Short Story Prompt 5: Stale Word count: 1200 words exactly
Deadline: 20 May 2020

Vive la Resistance

 
 
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Giselle glances furtively over her shoulder. She can’t see her assailant, but she knows he’s there. She feels it in her bones as surely as she feels the biting wind. The night is bitterly cold, as cruel as the hunger and the heartache that plagues most of Paris during this winter of 1943.  
 
Has she lost the trail?  The street is empty, save for a parked automobile. She dashes off the main street and into a narrow alleyway. A stray, scrawny cat is scavenging for non-existent scraps. It ignores her as Giselle hides in a dark, recessed doorway.
 
She loosens her scarf in order to listen more clearly, but her breath frosts before her, betraying her presence. Quickly, she secures the fabric in place just as approaching footsteps sound from nearby. Stuffing her left hand deep into the pocket of her threadbare coat, she folds it protectively around the coded message as if her life depends on it. 
 
“Dear Heavenly Father,” the prayer rises silently from her heart, “protect me and shelter me; hide me from enemy eyes.”
 
A silhouette at the mouth of the alley casts an eerie shadow on the wet, cobbled street. Giselle’s pulse races as she presses herself against the hard wall. She fights the urge to squeeze her eyes shut. Instead, she holds her breath, the accelerating beat of her heart pounding in her ears.
 
She takes false comfort in the ausweis she carries in her satchel, issued by the club where she works after curfew. Having the identification card will not be enough to avert suspicion of her behavior. Nor prevent her from being searched, interrogated, or worse, if she is apprehended.
 
 The cat, which had ignored Giselle, now arches its back and emits a low screech before fleeing in the opposite direction from this latest intruder.
 
A moment later the shadow withdraws, the footsteps recede as the man continues down the main street from which she’d come.
 
She waits a few moments longer, then continues on her way. The click of her heels seem to echo with each step she takes, so she slips her shoes off and  runs, barefoot and silent, ignoring the bone chilling cold of the frozen concrete on her feet. Giselle zigzags down streets and alleys in a path meant to confuse; cuts through another alley just ahead and finally into an unlit shopfront where Jean-Pierre meets her. He pulls her inside and closes the door behind them.
 
"You were followed?" Her brother asks, concern written on his gaunt, handsome face, as he leads her into the dim interior of the unused shop.

She nods, catching her breath after the long run. "I can't be sure, but I think I lost him. I didn’t see who it was."
 
They sit in a darkened corner. “I can only stay for a few moments. I brought food.”
 
She removes a worn satchel from under her coat, extracting stale croissants and a round of crusty cheese. Their stomachs rumble in unison at the sight of the feast, easing a moment of laughter as they tear eagerly into the meal.
 
After they’ve finished, she takes the paper from her pocket and hands it to him. The boy unfolds it and Giselle bends her head close to get a better look at what is written there.
 
“What is this?” he scoffs, “it’s a recipe for beef stroganoff!”
 
“It’s a coded message, Jean-Pierre. The man who gave it to me told me it's best not to know the code, so we can't give anything away if we’re captured and tortured. I don’t know what it means, only that it will help the resistance and we must deliver it.” They are both young and naïve, not fully comprehending the danger of their involvement.
 
“Beef stroganoff,” he mutters in disgust, tucking the message into his vest pocket. “Whoever we’re delivering this to must be rich, to be able to afford flank steak, and Marseille wine.”
 
"He’s a doctor," Giselle replies. "He lives at 11 Avenue Foch.”
 
“Avenue Foch? That’s where the Gestapo headquarters is,” Jean-Pierre says, eyes widening with nervous excitement.
 
“Yes. So you must be extremely careful. Wear your best clothes, and do not go too early. Don’t go out tonight, either.” She fixes a stern gaze on the young man. She knows he would rather have joined a resistance force to kills Nazi’s, rather than this subversive group that only passes on seemingly useless information.
 
“There’s a picture in his window, for you to know you’re at the right place. I’m told it’s an unusual drawing, of a baby in a womb.”
 
She smiles at his expression.  “Oh, don’t be embarrassed. It’s just a picture.”
 
When the boy stops fidgeting, she continues. “You are to knock at the door of the apartment where you see this picture and give the note to the boy who answers. His name is Phillip, he’s the doctor's son. He’ll know what to do with the message.”
 
She retrieves her satchel, covers her auburn hair with the scarf, and buttons her coat over her too-thin torso.  "I have to go."
 
Jean-Pierre hugs her fiercely, perhaps fearful of being alone again. He’s only fourteen, after all, and they only have each other. 
 
"Stay here until morning," Giselle warns him again, as he follows her to the door. "Don’t go out looking for your friends. And don't come to the club." She gives him that look again, and he nods in acknowledgement. Fear for each other keeps the smiles from their lips, but the look they share, and the love it embodies, eases their spirits somewhat. 
 
"You'll be safe here," she hugs her brother again, as though it might be their last. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
 
The nightclub is quiet when she arrives; just a few patrons drinking quietly at the bar. She sits at the piano, striking a low, lonely key before signaling the owner for some water.
 
She’s barely removed her coat when the door opens, allowing a bone chilling breeze to sweep in, along with the enemy in Gestapo uniform. He sits at the table directly in front of her, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. He fixes a steely gaze directly upon her, an ominous expression on his scarred, ugly face.
 
Forcing herself to breath slowly, she wills her heart to slow as well. She begins playing Chopin’s Etude Op.10 No3, filling the room with notes of nostalgia and wistfulness. Her stomach churns, thinking of Jean-Pierre, alone at the shop and unprotected. Had she been followed after all?
 
The door opens again and two more German officers enter the club, seating themselves with the Gestapo, drawing attention away from herself.
 
Her city has been occupied for years now, she reminds herself, as she concludes the Etude. She should be used to German officers at the club.
 
But she is not.
 
Their presence saddens and angers her, galvanizing her instead with an unfettered sense of foolish bravado. Giselle launches into the national anthem, La Marseillaise, though it’s been banned by the Vichy Government, and she could be punished for playing it.
 
Viva la Resistance, she thinks defiantly, determined to be brave and resistant to the end.

 

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