I still had my fist raised when the door cracked open, ready to pound upon it again. I dropped my hand quickly, gazing at the only sliver of face I could see. The man behind the door glared at us for a second, and then pulled the door open wider to reveal a tall man with messy brown hair, and dark brown eyes. He was thin, but had muscles on his frame, and he was definitely the kind of man who caught my eye, despite being unconventionally attractive, at best. He had dark rings under his eyes, and he looked exhausted. He was also pointing a gun at us.
-Yaahoooo-
"Who the fuck are you?" he said, harshly.
"Fleur and Desiré," I said, already tired of handing out our horrible code names to people, "Are you... Taupe?"
"Oh for fuck's sake, get in here," he said, stowing his gun in his belt and grabbing our arms, "Don't fucking say that name where people can hear you, ok?"
"Ok," I agreed, looking uneasily at Kenny, "But that is you, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, come on," he said, starting up the stairs, "My name is Christophe, and you shouldn't say 'Taupe' unless we're out on a mission, cause I don't need people knowing that's me, idiot."
I followed him, afraid to speak. He certainly was ruder than I had anticipated. I glanced back at Kenny, who simply seemed amused by the whole thing, as usual.
"Well, um, I'm Gregory, and that's Kenny," I told him, once we reached the top of the stairs.
"Uh huh," was his only response, as he led us into a brightly lit room. There was a large, comfortable-looking sofa against one wall, next to the fireplace, and a round table in the center of the room. It was neater than I might have expected from a man living alone, and showed no signs of being a Resistance base.
"Alright," Christophe said, "This is where I live. You'll be staying with me indefinitely, though hopefully not permanently."
He showed us the surprisingly modern kitchen, the bathroom, and his bedroom, which was small, but had two full-sized beds lined up against the walls.
"Other Maquis stay here sometimes," he explained, "but you two can share the spare bed."
"Couldn't one of us sleep on the sofa?" I asked, uncomfortable with the thought of sharing a bed with someone with whom I wasn't romantically involved.
"No," he replied, angrily, "You must stay in this room at night, you got that? I can't have you wandering around my apartment as you please, snooping through my things."
I pursed my lips, but said nothing, not wanting to offend our host. He led us back into the main room.
"That there is a closet," he said, pointing to the door next to his bedroom, "but don't go messing around in there. I don't want either of you touching my shit."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Kenny said cheekily, speaking for the first time.
Christophe stared at him for a minute, before sitting down at the table, motioning for us to join him.
"So, I've been told your plan is to pretend to sympathize with the Bosche, and work at my bar?"
"We never heard anything about working at the bar. And it's not our plan, it was made up by a commanding officer," I corrected.
"Hm. Well. I think it's a pretty stupid plan, personally, but you might be able to pull it off. Have either of you ever worked at a bar before?"
"Certainly not," I said, slightly offended.
"I have," said Kenny, "I did for a few years, in Dublin."
Christophe looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, drumming his fingers upon the table. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it up.
"Why do we need to work at the bar?" I asked, quickly feeling like I was losing control of this situation, if I had ever had it.
"It's a good way to pass information along," Christophe answered, his eyes boring into mine, "If it's noisy, you can talk about plans, and if not, 'patrons' can slide notes to you when they pay you. Things like that. Also it makes it less suspicious to have people coming and going all the time. That door there leads down to the bar," he said, pointing to a door behind me, "So people can pretend to be going out for a drink, and then slip up here for a meeting."
I had to admit, it was a pretty smart set up. I nodded at him.
"Here's what I'm thinking," he said, turning back to Kenny, "You work in the bar first, and then later this one," he pointed at me, "can join you. It would look funny if I had two foreigners start work with me together, even if they are brothers."
"My French isn't very good, though," Kenny admitted.
"It's good enough. You understand what I am saying, and I have no problems understanding you. You'll pick more up as you're here longer, anyway," Christophe said, putting his cigarette out in an ash tray in front of him.
"What will I do, in the meantime?" I asked.
"Help train my men, for one thing," he said, "You are an expert in explosives, right?"
"Well, expert might be a bit too far, but I am very knowledgeable, yes."
"I've been trying to plan out an attack on the rail yards for a while, but we've been lacking in supplies and ability," he said, staring at me once more, "You had plenty of supplies dropped in with you, yes? And you can train the men who don't know how to make bombs, I assume?"
I nodded.
"Good, ok. That's what we'll do. You'll have to hide up here for a while though, so no one knows you're here. In a few weeks you can start working at the bar, with some excuse about your brother finding a job for you, ok?"
I nodded again, transfixed by his intense stare. Rude though he was, there was something about him I found mesmerizing. He broke eye contact with me, and glanced over at the clock on the wall. The walk into town must have taken longer than I had thought, because it was nearly noon.
"Ok, well, I have to start getting the bar ready to open. Some of my staff will be arriving soon. I can show you down there, if you're interested."
We followed him down the stairs, which led into the back room of the establishment. Christophe led us into the bar, which was much larger than I had expected, with the bar itself along one wall, and cafe chairs and tables by the front windows. A rather curvy girl with meticulously styled blonde hair was standing outside one of the windows, and waved at us when she saw us enter the room.
"Ah, good, Bebe is here," Christophe said, unlocking the front door and ushering her inside, locking the door once more once she was through.
"Hi," she said cheerily, "Who are these guys?"
"Gregory and Kenny. They're going to be working with us," he said, giving her a significant look.
I was surprised that he'd remembered our names. I glanced at Kenny, who seemed to be eyeing the girl with great interest.
"Nice to meet you," he said, taking her hand a placing a kiss upon it. She blushed and smiled coyly at him, before looking away.
I merely nodded at her in acknowledgment, not wanting to place my lips upon any part of a woman, no matter how lovely she might be. She went about her business, and Christophe showed us around the bar, and the small kitchen behind it. Then he shooed us back upstairs so he could get ready to open.
"What do you think?" I asked Kenny when we were alone upstairs.
"That girl is gorgeous," was his response.
I rolled my eyes at him and inspected the books upon Christophe's shelf. He had a rather impressive collection, with classic literature in both English and French, as well as some modern selections. I found myself pleasantly surprised.
"Did you know Gustave Flaubert was born here in Rouen?" I asked Kenny, after noticing one of his books on the shelf.
"I don't even know who that is," he replied.
I sighed in exasperation, and turned to look at him. He was making himself comfortable on the sofa, curling up with his back to me, apparently settling in for a nap. I pulled a copy of Le Rouge et le Noir off the shelf, and made myself comfortable in the bedroom. The pillow I laid against had a particular scent to it, one that I couldn't quite identify. Sort of clean and manly, with a sort of earthy base, which I normally might find repulsive, but it mixed well with the other scents. I found it rather calming, and before I'd gotten too far into the book, I fell asleep.
I awoke some time later when someone shook me violently. Christophe was standing over me, smoking a cigarette and glaring.
"I thought I told you not to touch my shit," he said, angrily, blowing smoke at me before putting the cigarette out in an ash tray on the bedside table.
"It's just a book," I snapped back at him, irritated because I'd be awoken so rudely, "I was bored. What else was I supposed to do?"
"Huh. Well. You're on my bed. Move."
I moved off the bed quickly, embarrassed, though I had no way of knowing which bed was which. Christophe threw himself upon it almost immediately, burying his face in the pillows and sighing.
"Your hair smells like a woman's, apparently," he said, rolling onto his side. I glared at him, but said nothing.
"Speaking of women," Kenny said, appearing in the doorway, "is your barmaid single?"
"I have no idea," said Christophe, lying with his eyes closed.
"How do you not know? She works for you!"
"Ugh, because I'm not interested in women," Christophe mumbled grumpily, "so I have no interest in their personal relationships."
"You like men, then?" Kenny asked, nosily.
Christophe cracked an eye open, staring at Kenny in silence, and then glancing at me before he spoke.
"I don't think with my dick, Desiré," he said, "But yes, I do prefer the company of men."
Kenny aimed a devilish smirk in my direction, and my stomach dropped when I heard the next words he said.
"Oh, good. Then you and Gregory have something in common."
And then he left the room, which was good, since I felt like throwing my book at his head at the moment. I looked nervously over at Christophe, who watched me for a moment, before rolling over with a groan and falling asleep.
Apparently Christophe's routine was as follows: Get up, set the bar up, take a nap, and then work late into the night. He was always out later than I would have expected, often getting to bed only an hour or two before the sun came up, but when I asked him about this he only said he was doing Resistance work, and refused to elaborate, declining all my offers to help. La Pelle was allowed to stay open later than many of the other bars in town, apparently because it was a favorite with the Germans. I found great irony in this.
Kenny was working with Christophe at the bar in the evenings, and seemed to be enjoying himself, but I was bored out of my wits. Most days I spent alone in the apartment, reading for pleasure, or going over documents and maps of troop movements, if someone had sent those our way. A few of the other Maquis stopped by on occasion, to drop things off for us, or get a lesson about bomb manufacturing from me, but I spent most of my time alone. I had only been in France a few days, but I was quickly settling back into my familiar depression, feeling antsy and useless. I was rather relieved when late one night, the routine was broken.
Sleeping in a bed with Kenny was rather uncomfortable, because, I'm embarrassed to admit, I have a habit of cuddling, and I would awake several times each night to find myself pressed against him. He didn't seem to mind in the slightest, when he was aware of it, but I found it mortifying. He also had a habit of kicking me in his sleep, and so I was never able to get fully comfortable with this arrangement.
After being there for a week, I awoke one night to the sound of voices in the kitchen. Tired of being kicked, I decided I'd get myself a glass of water, and see what the noise was all about.
I opened the bedroom door, and slowly made my way into the kitchen. I only caught the slightest glimpse of what I assumed was a visitor before I saw Christophe coming at me, a ferocious look upon his face.
"I thought I told you to stay in my room at night!" he snarled, grabbing me by the front of my shirt and throwing me violently against the wall.
"Jesus Christ!" I gasped, the wind knocked out of me, "I was just getting a glass of water!"
"Sure you were, you fucking liar!"
"Christophe, really, it's ok!" called the young man in the kitchen.
He had an accent similar to the young man who showed us into Rouen, that I still was unable to place, especially since I was too busy gasping for air and uselessly trying to push Christophe off me. He was alarmingly strong.
"It's not ok!" Christophe growled, gripping my shoulders tighter and knocking me against the wall once more, "If he exposes you then I also get killed! You're not the only one in danger here, Kyle!"
"What's going on?" Kenny asked sleepily, coming out of the bedroom.
"Oh, fucking great," Christophe said, glaring at him before turning his attention back to me.
I was too distracted by Christophe's intense stare, and the way he was pressed against me, to pay too much attention to Kenny. I had always enjoyed being handled rather roughly, and was in danger of becoming aroused by the feeling of his chest rubbing against mine as he took heaving breaths, the air from them skittering across my face in warm waves. He smelled fantastic, on top of all that. I was both relieved and disappointed when the young man called Kyle stepped up to us and tried to pry Christophe's fingers off me.
"Really, Christophe, it's alright," he said, gently, "These men are British, aren't they?"
"I'm Irish," Kenny called.
"Well, whatever," Kyle said, "If they expose us, they're risking themselves as well. They won't tell anyone."
Christophe finally let go of me, shoving me against the wall one last time for good measure.
"You're such a brute," Kyle said.
"Can someone please explain to us what the hell is going on here?" I said.
I studied Kyle, confused as to what all the fuss was. He was of average height, but seemed painfully thin. He had a sharp nose, with glasses perched upon it, and his curly, badly cropped hair was the most brilliant shade of auburn I had ever seen.
"I'm a refugee," he said, "from Poland."
"Oh. Ok?" I said, still confused.
He sighed, and gave me a very patronizing look.
"Christophe has been hiding me for six months," he continued, looking as though I was supposed to know what he was alluding to. I didn't.
"And, what, the Bosche would deport you back to Poland if they found you here?" Kenny asked, apparently just as confused as I was.
"Yes, deport," he said, looking upset, "That's one word for it."
Christophe cut in, apparently tired of dancing around the subject, "He escaped from one of the Bosche death 'camps', you idiot, and I've been hiding him. And the last thing I need is for one of you to go blabbing about him to someone, so keep your fucking mouths shut."
"What, are you queer, too? Are you two lovers?" Kenny asked.
"No!" Kyle snapped, but the deep red flush on his face told me some part of that statement was a lie, "I was put in the camp because I'm Jewish! And Christophe is just a friend!"
Kenny made an incredulous sound in the back of his throat, but said nothing.
"No one else knows you're here?" I asked Kyle, feeling a blush working its way across my own face, and wanting to change the subject.
"Well, my brother does. He's been working with Christophe for a few years, which is how I ended up hiding here. I think you've met him already?"
I wracked my brains, and suddenly a vague statement someone said to me on our first night here popped into my head.
"Isaac?" I asked, realizing why they might have the same accent.
Kyle looked confused for a moment, and then started to laugh.
"Ike," he said, "His name is Ike. He only introduces himself as Isaac when he's trying to impress someone."
"Oh," I said, feeling humiliated when Christophe started to laugh, too.
He hardly ever smiled, and his laugh had a profound effect on me. He caught me staring at him, and I tore my eyes away.
"Where have you been hiding, anyway?" I asked Kyle.
"In the closet," he said, pointing to the closet door I had never once opened, for fear of Christophe's wrath, "Here. I'll show you."
The door was wide open, and the long coats hung in there were pushed aside to reveal that a large section of the wall was missing. We climbed through the hole, with Kenny following close behind. On the other side was a tiny room, with no window. Its walls were lined with shelves, which were absolutely packed with weapons, as well as piles of neatly organized papers. There was a desk against one wall, and a small cot against the other, with another cot folded in the corner.
"Sometimes he hides other people," Kyle said, "like airmen who were shot down, or escaped POWs. But usually it's just me in here, and it gets very lonely."
He looked at me, smiling shyly.
"I hear you shuffling around the apartment during the day," he continued, "so, I was thinking, maybe if you're bored too, you might come keep me company? I can't leave the room during the day, in case anyone comes upstairs, but you could come in here."
"Sure," I said, "but how do you know it's me in the apartment, and not Kenny?"
"Christophe talks about you a lot, actually," he said, leaning in close so his voice wouldn't travel out of the room, "I immediately knew which one of you was which."
I felt my face flush with pleasure, even though I had no guarantee that the things Christophe had told me about him were nice.
We arranged an appropriate signal for me to let Kyle know of my presence should I want to visit him, and then Kenny and I slipped back out into the main room, both tired and longing to return to bed. Christophe was sitting at the table, and said nothing to us as we went back into the bedroom, simply glaring at us with his arms crossed as we passed.
I awoke the next morning, my cheek against Kenny's chest once more. His arm was around my back, and I heard Christophe grumbling in the bed next to ours, pulling himself out of the bedclothes. I had yet to open my eyes, wanting to feign sleep until I moved away from Kenny, and was about to make my move when I heard Christophe speak up.
"So, are you two lovers, then?" he asked quietly, his voice scratchy from sleep.
I felt Kenny turn his head to look at him, scoffing.
"No, of course not. He's my brother, after all," he said, a grin in his voice.
"Bullshit," was Christophe's response.
"Well, even so, no. I prefer women, anyway... you should have figured that out by now, since you've seen me and Bebe work together."
I heard Christophe sigh, and shift on his mattress, and I wondered what the hell Kenny was talking about.
"Be careful with that, yeah? She and Clyde used to be involved, and the last thing I need is for two of my men to be fighting with each other."
"Yeah, you're a real peacekeeper," Kenny said, sarcastically.
There was silence for a moment, and I thought perhaps Kenny had fallen back asleep, but then he spoke up again.
"So, is Kyle the reason you're always up so late?" he asked.
"Sometimes. I often have real work to do, but he helps me with that, if it's something analytical. But a lot of the time I just keep him company. It's not healthy for him to sit in that room all the time, alone."
"You're a real saint, Christophe," Kenny said.
Strained silence was the only response Kenny received.
"Are you two lovers?" he pried.
Christophe laughed at this, and I felt jealous of Kenny's ability to elicit that response from him.
"Of course not," he said, "I don't have time for romance. And anyway, Kyle is not my type."
"What is your type, then?"
There was yet another long pause, that Christophe filled by lighting a cigarette. My heart was racing, and I was sure Kenny could tell I was awake.
"None of your fucking business," Christophe said, finally, and then got up and left the room.
Kenny just laid there, quietly, and began to pet my hair. I was lulled back into sleep, completely forgetting my intent to move away from him.
It was a week or so later that things finally changed for me. I spent a great deal of time harassing Christophe about letting me do some work outside of the apartment, but he kept telling me it wasn't time yet. I felt he was being excessively cautious, but I trusted him, since he knew the situation in Rouen better than I did. I knew there was a great difference between bravery and stupidity, and that I must wait until the time was right to make my move.
In the meantime, I'd been occupying myself with keeping Kyle company, holed up in that tiny little room of his. Our personalities mixed well, though he was much quicker to anger than I was. As he told me of the horrors he and his family had endured at the hands of the Bosche, I was that much more determined to go out and fight them.
He had been studying medicine in Warsaw when the war broke out. He told me of the terrible laws made against the Jews, that destroyed their way of life. He told me about living in the Warsaw Ghetto, crammed into a tiny apartment with four other starving families. His father died of Typhoid. His mother was shot in the street for simply being there. And every day he heard terrifying rumors of what happened to the people who were shipped to Treblinka, which made it that much more terrifying when he ended up being sent there himself. He was one of the luckier ones... if one could say that. Those who were sent to the left were immediately murdered. He was sent to the right. He spent a year disposing of bodies from the gas chambers. Occasionally he would come across someone he knew... a cousin, an aunt or uncle, sometimes even classmates from school. He told me he'd become immune to it eventually, but the look upon his face when he made that claim told me it wasn't true.
He was saved when some of his fellow inmates staged a revolt. It was largely unsuccessful, but nearly 300 prisoners managed to escape. Kyle was one of them.
After stealing some food and clothing from a local farmhouse, he decided he should try to get into France, to seek out his brother, who had been placed with a Christian family for his safety before the war had broken out.
"He's adopted, see," Kyle said, "He doesn't 'look Jewish' like I do, and so with fake identification papers, he was perfectly safe."
But apparently Ike hadn't been content to be "perfectly safe," and when he met Christophe he saw his opportunity to fight back. He'd been working with the Resistance for two years when Kyle finally found him.
"He almost didn't recognize me," he said, "Because I was half starved to death, and filthy. I had been traveling by night for several months, eating only what I could earn by begging or theft, and wearing only the set of clothes I had stolen at the farmhouse."
I was very impressed by his resilience. Most of the soldiers I had known in the army wouldn't have survived such an ordeal, but here this skinny intellectual boy, who was more suited for a library than combat, had come through all that alive, and still bore a fierce glint in his eye when he spoke of the injustices he had survived. I admired him a great deal.
On this particular evening we had somehow arrived upon the subject of our host.
"I know Christophe can be a little... gruff," Kyle said, "but he's a really good guy."
"I suppose," I said, not agreeing completely because I wanted to hear more.
"Well, I mean, he took a great personal risk by hiding me, for example. I mean, even a lot of Resistance members wouldn't have taken in a Jew. That's why me being here is such a secret. None of his men know I'm here, because you never know who might betray you."
"But how did you know you could trust him?" I asked.
"Well, Ike knows him pretty well. And anyway-"
He was cut off by the sound of the closet door opening. We heard the coats being pushed aside, and soon the section of wall was removed, revealing the enigmatic Frenchman himself.
"You two ought to be more quiet," he said as he climbed through the hole, scowling deeply, "I could hear your voices in the kitchen."
"You were eavesdropping, you mean." I accused, nervous that he had heard us talking about him.
"No, I wouldn't want to listen to your ladies' gossip anyway. But I could tell someone was talking in here. If anyone other than me or Kenny came up here, you'd be caught."
He sat down on Kyle's bed, sighing and rubbing his hands over his face. He looked exhausted, as usual.
"Your brother is sick, Kyle," he said.
"What?!" Kyle exclaimed, panicked, "Is he ok?!"
"I think so. Seems like it's just a flu, but he's been in bed for a few days."
He watched as Kyle paced the room a few times, chewing his lip.
"Can I go see him?" he asked, finally.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Christophe said, "His parents are taking care of him."
"His parents are dead! Our parents are dead, Christophe! Those people aren't his family, I am! Please let me go, I'm a doctor, I can help him."
Kyle seemed very close to tears, and I wished I wasn't in the room for this.
"No, Kyle. You can't leave the apartment. If you do, I won't let you back in. You'd be risking all of our lives," Christophe threatened.
That was when Kyle started to cry. I walked to him and placed my hand on his shoulder, but he didn't even seem to notice it.
"He's all I have," he sobbed, "I want to take care of him."
"He'll be ok," I said, looking over at Christophe, who looked genuinely regretful.
"He's not that sick," he said, "just a bit of a fever and he's sleeping a lot."
Kyle seemed unconvinced, and continued to cry, despite my efforts to comfort him.
"Would you both please just leave me alone?" he said, finally.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yes, go, please. I want to be alone."
I released his shoulder, and reluctantly followed Christophe back into the main room, closing up the wall and shutting the closet door behind me.
"Will he be alright?" I asked, still able to hear Kyle crying through the walls.
"Kyle, or Ike?"
"Both, I suppose."
"Ah, well. Ike's fine. I went to see him earlier and he's got a fever, but we spoke for a bit, and he seemed ok. As for Kyle... he's been cooped up here too long, and I don't think he's really been dealing with all the shit he's gone through. He's never cried in front of me before, actually. Even when he told me about his parents, he was just sort of... stone-faced. The best thing for him would be to get back to a normal life, but that's not possible. Even going outside is too much of a risk for him. So all I can do is hope we defeat the Bosche soon, so his mere existence will no longer be a crime."
I nodded at this, feeling very sorry for Kyle indeed. An intense silence fell between us, and Christophe stared at me thoughtfully, and I stared right back, once again captivated by him.
"I normally wouldn't get you involved in Kyle's business, but this concerns you as well," he said, finally.
"It does? How?"
"Ike and I were supposed to attack the rail yards tomorrow night. Obviously he won't be making it. I'd like you to go in his place."
"Why?" I asked, though my heart was already racing in excitement. This was exactly what I had been waiting for.
"Well, obviously I need someone to fill in for him, and I'd like to see how you work," he said, a small smirk forming on his lips.
"I wouldn't know what to do," I said, "That is to say, I don't know what the plan is."
"Don't worry about that," he said, "All you have to do is follow my orders. And I don't expect that to be the norm on missions, before you get defensive. This one's special, though, so I'll need you to do what I say. If I think you're capable, I'll have you lead missions in the future. That is what you're here for, isn't it?"
"Yes, of course," I answered, offended that he seemed to be implying that staying in his apartment for three weeks was somehow my idea, when he was the one responsible for that decision.
"Well, I can't in good conscience let you do that until I see how you do in the field. So, I suppose, consider it a test."
I sincerely hoped I would pass.