La Vie en Bleu
Chapter 4
The air in the depot smelled of wet wool. It was a provincial town in the heart of France where the rain seemed to have soaked permanently into the cobblestones. Every house along the street stood with its shutters drawn, as if the buildings themselves were holding their breath, waiting anxiously. There were no pedestrians. No cackle of gossiping neighbors. No life. Just gray sky and monotonous dripping of rain water from the eaves, and the distant, forlorn echo of a train whistle.
Gertie stood by the edge of the platform, her baggage at her feet. It was a small valise, the one which she had never used before, perfect for a trip such as the one she was taking. She pulled her coat tighter. Such weather. She felt exposed, although she was alone. The silence of the town was not tranquil; it was watchful.
Every window felt like an eye. Every shadow, a potential trap.
She knew the risks. The town was a notorious labyrinth of informants. The Milice, the Vichy militia, were everywhere, hunting for Republicans, Jews, and anyone who dared to think for themselves. Jean Zay had been killed just miles away, by men who wore the same uniform as the one she feared. Men who believed that loyalty to a cause was more important than the life of a single soul.
A figure emerged from the gloom of the station master's office.
He was tall, dressed in a fine wool suit that seemed out of place in the grimy depot. He wore a fedora pulled low over his eyes, and his posture was rigid, aristocratic. He moved with the confidence of a man who expected the world to come to him.
"Fräulein Gertrud?" he asked, his voice high, almost lyrical.
Gertie nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Yes."
The man removed his hat, revealing a face that was both handsome and weary. His eyes were a striking blue, sharp and assessing. "I am Count Henri de Valois. Your father’s old friend. He entrusted me with your safety."
Gertie felt a flicker of relief, quickly followed by a surge of suspicion. "My father," she whispered, the word feeling strange on her tongue. "He is dead."
"I know," Henri said, his voice dropping. "And I know what you bear." He glanced at her, reading her reaction. "It is a dangerous thing to be alone in this part of France. The Milice would ransom you. The Maquis would kill you. Here, you are like a ghost, Mademoiselle. And ghosts should not be seen in the daylight."
"Then we must move quickly," Gertie said, her voice steadying. "I must reach North Africa."
Henri smiled, a thin, humorless expression. "North Africa. A long way for a young woman with no money and no papers. But your father was a man of honor. And I am a man of honor. I will help you."
He gestured toward the exit, where a sleek, black and yellow sports car waited. It was a two-seater, a Bugatti, low to the ground and fast. "Get in. We have a long drive ahead of us. And we are not alone."
Gertie looked at the car, then back at the dark windows of the depot. She thought she saw movement in the shadows. A figure, stalking. A spy.
"Who is there?" she asked.
Henri’s smile vanished. "The Maquis. They know you are here. They know who you are. They believe you are a spy for the Vichy regime. They are waiting for us to leave the open so they can strike."
Gertie remembered the iron cross under her raincoat. It was not a good luck charm. It was a mark of her father’s legacy. A legacy of honor, of courage, and of the battlefield. And in war, honors went to the victor.
"Let them strike," she said, her voice cold. "I am not afraid."
Henri looked at her, a glint of admiration in his eyes. "Good. Then let us go."
He opened the car door for her. Gertie sat in the passenger seat. The leather upholstery fit her like a glove. Henri started the engine, the sound of a high-performance racing car that seemed ready to burst at the seams with power.
"Hold on," he said. "This won't take long."
The car surged forward with a quick fishtail, the tires slipping on the wet pavement. Gertie gripped the arm rest, her knuckles white. The world passed in a streak of gray and green. They were leaving the depot, leaving the town, leaving the peril behind.
Gertie looked back, fearing pursuit. Seeing nobody, she then feared it would be waiting. Waiting for them to slow down. Waiting for them to make a mistake.
Gertie covered her eyes with her hand, recalling her mission. She thought of her father, of the desert, of the key. Would it save her, next time? She thought of the road ahead, the danger, the unknown.
We shall see, she thought.
The car sped on, into the night, into the unknown.