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  BEHIND THE MASK

  MARIANNE PETIT

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle, WA 2015

  COPYRIGHT 2015 MARIANNE PETIT

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions

  should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover Design by Jennifer Givner

  Previously self-published as Behind the Mask, 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  PRINT ISBN 978-1-5137-0302-2

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-5137-0353-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015916838

  Table of Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DEDICATION

  QUOTE

  NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE May 28, 1940

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR AUGUST 1940

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  BASED ON TRUE STORIES

  REVIEWS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER WORKS BY MS. PETIT

  MORE GREAT READS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to all my team members at Booktrope: Delores, Jennifer, and Gerri

  I dedicate this book to my parents, who lived in France during World War II,

  to the brave men, women and children, who fought for freedom,

  and to those who, despite danger, risked their lives to save others.

  The story you are about to read is fiction, intermingled with true stories remembered by family and friends who managed to survive the terrible ordeal of war.

  Once to every man and nation,

  comes the moment to decide,

  In the strife of truth with falsehood,

  for the good or evil side…

  Some great cause,

  some great decision,

  offering each the bloom or blight,

  And the choice goes by forever,

  'Twixt that darkness and that light.

  Then it is the brave man chooses,

  While the coward stands aside

  Till the multitude make virtue

  Of the faith they had denied.

  AUTHOR: JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (1845)

  Behind the mask of indifference...

  Behind the mask of secrecy and lies...

  A group of resistance fighters grew, of dedicated men, women and children who, despite the dangers of war, refused to give in to defeat.

  This is their story,

  One of Courage,

  Love of country

  and

  Humanitarian heroism.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “MÉMÈRE, TELL ME THE STORY of when you were in France.”

  Yvette settled down into the worn oversized blue chair and glanced at her granddaughter, Marie, who placed an iPhone down on the coffee table between them, then pushed record.

  “We are learning about WWII and I have to write a report.”

  Yvette nodded. Ah, the war… so difficult to talk about; too important not to.

  “It was 1940. Paris was so beautiful in the summer, exotic, exciting. I can still remember the smell of mildew from old books, lining the stalls along the Seine, the smell of ripe cheeses and robust wine fermenting in wooden barrels as I walked through the market place. Did I tell you the story about the cheese and your great grandfather?”

  Marie shook her head.

  “He always ate blue cheese, smelly and ripe. I swore I’d never eat that horrid cheese, said I’d rather starve…” Yvette’s thoughts strayed to her past, her beloved grandpère and the day that changed her life forever. She had been so different then, a spoiled twenty year old who had a lot to learn.

  “Did you?”

  Her granddaughter’s question pulled Yvette from her thoughts. “What? Oh, yes, as I was saying. This was my Paris. The street hawker who tried to entice you to buy their wares, the artists with their easels and paint.” She sighed. “This was the breath of Paris, the pulse attracting visitors to flood the city.”

  Yvette’s gaze settled on the large picture window overlooking her front yard. The warm summer sun, low in the horizon, cast a bright glare as she thought about the day the Germans came to town. Like ants on a crumb, they inundated her village. Their motorcycles gleamed under the sun, big and black. The sound of their polished boots marching in unison, still gave her nightmares.

  Where to start, Yvette thought, suddenly seeing Paris through the eyes of her youth…

  ***

  May 28, 1940

  As an artist, one couldn’t help but admire the massive round windows of Notre Dame. When the sun shone through the stained glass, the vibrant red, blue, purple and green brilliances were breathtaking.

  It was cool inside the massive church, despite the promise of summer’s breath of air. People sat and prayed in the various aisles separated by slender marble columns. Light filtered through multiple stained glass windows softening the cathedral’s long halls and vaulted ceiling.

  The serenity here, so different from the noisy streets, softened the memory that last September, after the Germans invaded Poland, France and Britain declared war on Germany. Other than the navy paint covering the street lamps and black cloth, covering shop windows, this phony war had little impact on Yvette Matikunas’ life. Even though rumors of German advancement was the talk of the town, she refused to dwell on such depressing thoughts.

  Deciding to go shopping, Yvette dipped her finger in the holy water, made the sign of the cross and stepped outside.

  The church bells tolled, echoing throughout the square. The resonant tone reverberated through her body and sent a startled flock of white birds into the air.

  It took her a good thirty minutes to reach the Champs- Élysées. The boulevard and stores were bustling with shoppers and as the sales clerk neatly wrapped two pairs of silk stockings in white paper, a red leather bag caught Yvette’s eye.

  "And this.” She pointed to the large pocketbook with a big brass buckle. She didn't need a new bag, but it was only money, she reasoned. One had to keep up appearances, didn't one?

  The woman behind the counter walked over to the table and picked up the pocketbook.

  Yvette couldn't help but notice the run in her stocking that ran from the back of her knee to her heel. How could anyone walk around in such a state of disarray? Yvette's nose wrinkled. So unkempt. Unbefitting, mother would say. Why didn't
she just purchase new ones? The discount, as a sales person, had to be worthwhile.

  "Good choice mademoiselle, this is one of our finest." The sales clerk smiled.

  Though the income this sale would generate probably put a month’s worth of food on the woman's table, Yvette could tell the smile was forced. Was it her fault money was of no consequence? Was it her fault her apartment was in the best part of Paris and her family owned a large country home? No. So why the attitude she encountered from people who couldn’t hide their jealously? Everyone, including herself, had issues to deal with and she would not apologize or feel guilty for being among the privileged few. Having money was freedom; freedom to do as she pleased. Money got her away from her mother.

  Yvette returned the smile, paid for her purchases and walked outside.

  Bored. She was bored, she thought as she bit into the warm freshly baked baguette. She’d come to Paris to buy a few pieces of art. Since no one was buying, she’d met a few desperate artists willing to sell, all except Picasso, who had refused her. The art and history lectures she had taken at the Sorbonne were over. Perhaps she would go back to Pablo’s studio and try to convince him to sell.

  Maybe she should just go home. Surely, René missed her. After all, they’d spent the entire winter snuggled up together making plans for the future. Yvette sighed. René. The love of her life and the man her mother disapproved of. The butcher’s son, she’d said, and so beneath you. Well, she didn’t need her mother’s approval. Thank God, Grandpère was on her side. A buffer between parent and child, his love, no matter what, fortified and kept her going when kind words never fell from her mother’s lips. Life without her grandpère would prove miserable.

  Pushing thoughts of her mother from her mind, Yvette stopped in front of a bookstore and peeked inside, admiring the leather bound and gold leafed covers. About to step inside, a woman's stifled cry caused Yvette to slowly turn toward the street.

  A plump woman, nicely dressed in a black striped dress and matching hat, clutched a newspaper in her gloved trembling hands. "Our troops are evacuating the harbor at Dunkerque.”

  “What does that mean? I don’t understand.” Yvette muttered, unable to grasp the meaning behind the woman’s words.

  “Belgium's King, Leopold the III, has surrendered to Germany." The woman’s face fell, as though the news sucked the life from her pronounced cheeks. "It has begun,” she mumbled under her breath.

  “What? What has begun?”

  “War,” she replied as she turned and shuffled away, her back hunched in defeat.

  ***

  For five days, Yvette deliberated whether or not to leave the city.

  Standing on the balcony of her apartment, she glanced to the streets below. Chaos ruled the boulevard. The streets were choked with people towing their belongings, animals on leashes, cars piled with people who hoarded bags of food and their belongings and horse drawn wagons exiting the city.

  On June first, the government closed the schools and soldiers, ragged, defeated from the battlefield, poured into the streets. German troops had been seen advancing toward Paris.

  Numb, in disbelief, Yvette stood in silence, staring, but not really comprehending the scene beyond her window. Refugees, vagabonds, thieves flooded the streets and soon German soldiers were said to invade, plunder and burn the city to the ground. Some of her friends were staying put. Rumors suggested Hitler was an avid lover of the arts. Surely, he would not destroy Paris they reasoned. Who knew what horrors one would encounter in the outskirts of the city?

  Distant explosions jerked Yvette back to reality. The bombings were getting closer. She hurried inside, pulling the big glass double doors behind her.

  She sat down at the carved mahogany desk, opened her diary and dipped her pen in the ink well.

  June 1940

  The exodus has begun. My beloved city of Paris is dying. I went to bed last night calm, this morning I have given into my fears. I am going home.

  A tear slipped from her eye and splattered on the page blurring the black ink. Unable to write another word, unable to believe the happenings outside her window, she stood. Her movements forced, she gathered up her diary and aimlessly walked around the room, her fingers trailing the gilt framed artwork she’d so painstakingly purchased. She thought about taking down a few of her favorites, but their size and the time needed to properly pack them would take too long.

  They’re coming. The Germans are coming. The thought rolled around and around in her head. So surreal. So unthinkable. Emotion welling in her throat, she pinched the bridge of her nose, shook her head, then straightened her stance. It was time to go. Her family was probably frantic with worry.

  Yvette stopped at the long gold framed mirror and checked to make sure the seam, running up the back of her silk stockings, was straight. Heaven forbid she left the house in any sort of untidiness. She could just hear her mother’s disapproval. She slipped on her navy coat, then gathered up her two suitcases. With a final glance at the mirror to assess her appearance, satisfied her navy and white brimmed hat sat perfectly on her coiffured blonde hair, and her makeup was perfect, she locked the apartment behind her.

  At the curb, Yvette glanced up and down the noisy street looking for a taxicab and waved her hand to get their attention as they whizzed past her.

  People on bicycles, their shoulders burdened with sacks of food and clothing, pedaled in between bottle-necked cars. Horse drawn wagons brimming with supplies left little room for the stunned men, women and frightened children. An old truck, filled with people and household items, stopped. Yvette noticed the sales clerk she'd made her purchases from days before among the riders.

  “Come on,” gestured the driver, waving down toward her. “There's room for one more.”

  She eyed the cramped truck, where a dog sat on its owner’s lap. A child, with a runny nose, wailed about as loud as the air raid now screeching through the streets. The boy’s mother, oblivious to his discomfort, stared over his head, her expression haunted.

  “Where are you headed?” Once again, Yvette glanced up and down the street, hoping a cab would stop and whisk her away.

  “As far away from here as we can get,” someone mumbled.

  "South,” the driver answered.

  South was closer to her family, who were probably in a panic thinking about her.

  “Well?” the driver asked.

  Yvette stepped up behind the truck trying to figure out how she was going to climb in. A scruffy bearded man held out his hand. His fingernails were black, his hands cracked from too much sun and hard work. Not wishing to dirty her white gloves, she grasped the wagon’s side.

  “You leaving your bags, mademoiselle?” the driver asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your bags, I am not your chauffeur.”

  Despite the pitiful looks on the faces of those above her, chuckles erupted from the truck.

  Yvette lugged her suitcases and with difficulty shoved them in a sliver of space between some pots and pans and an old woman whose gray hair looked like it hadn’t met a brush in days.

  No one offered her a hand as she struggled to hoist herself onto the truck and as the vehicle jerked to a start, she nearly fell out.

  Indignant, she settled next to the store clerk and pressed her skirt neatly against her legs. That was when Yvette noticed the large hole in her own newly purchased stocking.

  ***

  The congested streets hindered their movements. It took hours before Paris faded into the distance; a city forgotten.

  Shrouds of black smoke, from distant fires, stung Yvette’s eyes and nose.

  A fine drizzle fell and water dripped from her hat like tears splattering on her dusty jacket.

  Casual conversation grew to a staccato chatter as the realization of the severity of their plight began to sink in. Others, like herself, stared into the distance, silent, and numb. Yvette was unable to comprehend anything, but that she felt cold and wet.

  Behind them,
broken down trucks were pulled by horses, people walked, shuffled in silence, while others too tired to continue gave up and sat weeping on the side of the dirt road. Young and old, struggling to stay a foot amid the pressing crowds and motorcars. Abandoned overturned cars, their wheels still spinning, and some vehicles burnt from previous bombs, lay in adjacent fields. Suitcases, pots, and clothing littered the ground. French and British soldiers covered in sweat, blood and mud, but with resolve and pride in their eyes, marched against the massive tide, impeding passage.

  Her mind muddled, scarcely comprehending the gravity of her plight, she heard someone whisper, “the military is retreating; they have given in.”

  “No,” a man argued, “they are heading toward Paris. Vive la France,” he shouted. Men, women and children echoed his enthusiastic cry till the last row of men marched past their wagon.

  Dazed, she watched a woman frantically pushed her way through the slow moving crowd. “My boy,” she screamed. “My boy…” tears flooded her cheeks, “has anyone seen my boy?” Some people shook their head and stared with grim despair, others, lost in oblivion, ignored her.

  A man with two children in his arms tried to grab the end of their truck and was met by a foot pushing him away. The cries of children separated from their family, the wails of women, men arguing and the fierce claps of thunder or gunfire, she wasn’t sure which, attacked her nerves from every direction. Her body shaking by the sobering nightmare, Yvette brought her hand to her mouth to keep down the swell of vomit and panic. How can this be happening? This just can’t be happening. Numbness overtook her body as she stared over the heads of people too numerous to count.

  Daylight gave way to night and as they fought their way deeper into the country, the atmosphere grew tenser. The headlights of the truck, blacked-out with navy paint, barely penetrated the darkness. Fires lit the sky, casting eerie shadows over the herded mass. High-pitched air raids whined, warning nearby villages. They pushed on, the driver feverishly slapping the reins in an effort to move the nervous horses forward.