Jacques made introductions at a warehouse as Maurice loaded his truck with vegetables. “Keep moving,” he told the sisters. “You need to look like workers while we talk. Help me carry the vegetables out.”
Jacques and Nicolas left for another safehouse.
“Your story for the moment is that you’re my nieces, refugees from the north of France, and need the work to survive. Your parents were killed.” He laughed a full, jocular belly laugh. “I’m helping you from the goodness of my heart.”
The Boulier sisters liked him immediately. The two of them bunched together on the small passenger seat as Maurice made his rounds, and they helped him make deliveries. Chantal could not help wondering who among the people she met were active members of the resistance.
That evening at Maurice’s sprawling farmhouse on the edge of the city, they met his wife, Suzanne, and their three young children, two boys and a girl. The children warmed up to the Boulier sisters, thrilled to learn of cousins that were new to them.
Suzanne was as bulky and gregarious as Maurice. Whether or not she knew anything of their backgrounds she did not indicate or ask, and they did not volunteer. She showed them to a comfortable room, and then brought them down to dinner.
Late that night, after the children had gone to bed and Suzanne had retired for the evening, Maurice sat across from the Bouliers at the kitchen table. Aside from their earlier conversation establishing their initial cover stories, nothing had been said about how to proceed. Now, for the first time all day, Maurice’s expression turned serious. The girls watched him anxiously.
“You’re good girls,” he said, “good people.” His big eyes turned to Chantal with kind intensity. “I’m so sorry about what happened to you.” He shifted his view to Amélie. “And what you had to do about it. No one should have to suffer such brutality. No one should have to remember killing another person. If you wish to talk about it, we can. Suzanne is happy to help too. Otherwise, we won’t mention it again.
“Now, as to what you can do to help.” Once again, he shifted his eyes to Chantal. “I’m thinking that you can go with me on my deliveries. Suzanne could probably use help as well.”
Chantal listened with a noncommittal expression.
“As for you.” Maurice turned his attention to Amélie. “We have positions that will be difficult to fill and are almost always open, but they are very dangerous. In fact, it is the most dangerous position inside the resistance. You’ll have to receive specialized training that will take you away for several months.”
Amélie and Chantal exchanged horrified glances. “We’ve never been away from each other,” Amélie said. “I need to be where I can look after my sister.”
Chantal objected immediately. “You don’t need to worry about me. If we’re going to win this war, we can’t hold back.” She turned to Maurice. “I didn’t come here to be a nanny or somebody’s assistant. I want a real function inside the resistance, or I’ll go somewhere else.”
Surprised at her obstinacy, Maurice gazed at Chantal. “All right,” he said, “I’ll give it some more thought. Maybe you could be a courier. That’s also very dangerous, and most people won’t suspect a child; I mean a young woman.”
“I know the risks. I came to fight,” Chantal said.
Across the table, Amélie sniffed. Maurice and Chantal watched as she rubbed her eyes. “The truth is, I don’t know if I can be away from Chantal.” She gave a small, mirthless laugh, directing a concerned look at her younger sister. “I said you’d be the bravest among us,” she murmured. Reaching across and taking Chantal’s hand, she whispered, “I killed that German so you could live. Please don’t get reckless.”
Maurice cleared his throat with a cough. “I’ll get you both in to see Hérisson,” he said. “She’ll make the final decisions.”
36
Dunkirk, France
Hauptman Bergmann looked up slowly from a document he had been reading, his mind distant. “Approach with care,” he murmured aloud, despite being alone in his office. “This man could do me some damage.”
The document bore the title Oberstleutnant Meier, and markings on it indicated that it was confidential. Bergmann had read it through three times, and now ruminated on how best to handle the commander.
Meier, the dossier revealed, belonged to a centuries-old Prussian aristocratic family with an equally long history of military service. A favorite of General Rommel, he had been at the point of the blitzkrieg into France, executing the battle plan in his sector flawlessly, halting his advance only when having received an inexplicable order to do so ahead of closing in on Dunkirk. For his skill and tenacity, he had gained favorable attention not only from Rommel but also from the führer himself. As a result, Bergmann concluded, Meier enjoyed a degree of immunity.
As the captain saw the larger picture, the dilemma for Hitler in dealing with the German army, the Wehrmacht, had been that its officer corps largely consisted of the sons of aristocracy, raised with the notion of loyalty and duty to the fatherland. That commitment had often set them at odds with the dictator’s own vision of where he wanted to take the country, resulting in mutual distrust and suspicion, but he had no choice but to rely on his officers to meet his military aims. Bergmann understood that alienating the military that possessed the weapons of war and the experience of ground combat ran the risk of inviting a coup.
He hated the aristocracy, seeing its members as privileged without merit and an impediment to his own ambitions. In the Wehrmacht, he could probably never hope to be promoted into senior ranks. That factor had been what led him to seek transfer to the SS, where he saw his opportunities for promotion to be more plentiful.
Under the hands of Hermann Göring and later Heinrich Himmler, the SS had been created initially as an eight-man bodyguard for the führer. Over
