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PARIS, 1942
When the restaurant had been open for six months, Gilbert joined his local Resistance chapter, held in the Batignolles library under the guise of a student art group. He’d been a natural choice for recruitment, so their leader, a young Jewish woman named Sara, had said, as he was so well-placed in the shadows of the most popular restaurant in the area, barely acknowledged by the officers who attended the restaurant, dismissed as too young and inexperienced.
It was this more than anything that spurred Gilbert on to join the fight against them. He hated how powerless he felt. It wasn’t even so much how the soldiers ordered him around, and treated him as if he was nothing more than a general dogsbody, it was the fact that they treated him as if he had no feelings at all. Particularly Busch, who felt that it was his right each night to come inside their kitchen to ogle Marianne, and casually touch her arm or her hair uninvited, while he watched, helplessly. Busch seemed to know it made him uncomfortable; in fact, he seemed to enjoy that just as much as he enjoyed casually assaulting Marianne.
Marianne, of course, made light of it. ‘He’s just an affectionate type, that’s all.’
But he wasn’t, not that Gilbert noticed. Busch didn’t seem to make casual moves, only calculated ones.
‘Just be careful, madame. Try not to be around him alone if you can help it.’
‘Gilbert, you worry too much. But I promise to be careful.’
For the time being that was all he could hope for. That and doing something with the restless, angsty feeling that gnawed at his insides, which had led him to join the Resistance when Sara invited him to.
He hadn’t told Henri, his little brother, who was far too keen to join. Henri said worrying things like that he wanted to knock German officers off their bicycles, or throw stones at them, which his mother and Gilbert had warned him within an inch of his life not to go through with.
Still, even Gilbert wasn’t satisfied with just delivering pamphlets, which had been his main role for a while now. It was something the other members agreed upon, thinking that the more senior Resistance organisation would be very interested in him – considering he had a direct line to some of the biggest officers in the city, many of whom were visiting Luberon a few times a week. Every so often he was able to glean important information that might be useful. Unfortunately, as most of it was in German and he couldn’t yet speak it, one of his first tasks was to begin studying the language.
‘We’ve got to be careful, Gilbert,’ Sara said. ‘The place is crawling with Nazis, take it slow – they can’t suspect you or it will all be over.’
Sara was Jewish and it wasn’t easy for her; Gilbert could see the frustration on her face at being treated like a second-class citizen. It was scary too, as the rules for her kept changing, and her freedoms kept dwindling – this was the main reason she had started this particular Resistance chapter. But her cautious approach, which often ensured their safety, was a source of frustration for another of her early recruits, a young, sharp-faced woman with dark hair, named Louisa.
‘So what, he’s just supposed to sit on information if he finds it? He’s right there, gift-wrapped and you want to do nothing. None of us can get that close to them without suspicion and yet here you want probably your best asset to continue delivering pamphlets. It’s bloody ridiculous.’
‘No it’s not. Gilbert is young, and untrained – these are deadly soldiers from one of the most ruthless armies in the world. Tell me, are you just impulsive or eye-wateringly stupid, because right now I genuinely can’t tell.’
The two started arguing, and the others shifted uncomfortably waiting for the blow-up. No one liked to go toe to toe with Sara, who was razor smart and methodical. But with Louisa, it was a regular occurrence. It wasn’t just a clash of wills. It was a question of trust too. Sara didn’t trust Louisa. Not since she’d seen her out one night with a Nazi. Sara told the others that she’d spied Louisa walking past curfew with a handsome officer, her hand on his arm, saying that it looked like she was getting romantic with him. But Louisa vehemently denied it, stating that she’d run out of time while she was playing lookout for a mission in which the Resistance was preparing to bomb a power line, but had to withdraw and scatter when a group of Nazis appeared quite suddenly. She’d used her wits to talk herself out of being caught out past curfew.
Most of the others just thought Sara had had enough of Louisa’s undermining. Louisa, however, wasn’t easily pushed around and she made no move to leave.
When the other members left, Sara was standing next to an older student named Guillaume, who Gilbert liked. She pulled Gilbert aside and told him that she was worried there was an informant, and to be cautious. ‘It’s one of the reasons I don’t want you to do anything just yet, alright? I have my suspicions about Louisa. I think she’s pushing you in order to expose us. Last night I was almost caught. I swear it was like they there waiting for me. I heard one of them say “the Jewish girl”, but luckily I managed to slip away.’ In the paraffin light she showed them her arms, which were covered in deep scratches from where – in order to escape being seen – she’d slipped down an embankment, and had to lie quietly in the mud for hours, till they’d moved on.
Gilbert didn’t know what to say. Privately he just thought that Sara and Louisa’s fight was a struggle for power. He didn’t really think Louisa was actually going against them, it didn’t make sense.
But he nodded anyway, because Sara was in charge.
Guillaume looked at Gilbert and said, ‘Louisa’s right about one thing, though, Gilbert. You are an asset, but trust Sara on this, take it very carefully, don’t draw any attention to yourself, all right?’
Sara nodded.
Guillaume fixed a cigarette between his teeth, which he didn’t light, just in case any of the officers were walking past and decided to investigate. They had put black card on the windows to block out the light, but scents would be hard to miss. ‘How’s your German coming along?’ he asked him.
‘Better,’ lied Gilbert. It was a damnably hard language to learn, especially when you couldn’t really advertise what you were doing and he was relying on teaching himself from stolen library phrasebooks which he kept beneath a loose floorboard in his bedroom. A bedroom he shared with his little brother.
‘Good.’
The next morning, in the restaurant, Marianne was run off her feet. There were purple patches beneath her blue eyes and her quick smile was slower than usual. They had been getting busier as word spread about the restaurant, despite the fact that they only served two options a day – one for the lunch and another for the evening crowds. Still, they both didn’t stop from eight in the morning till well past midnight.
‘I think it’s time we think about hiring another person,’ said Marianne.
‘Really? Can you afford it?’
‘I think so. Someone local, though – I was thinking, what about your brother, Henri?’
Gilbert frowned. ‘I don’t know, Marianne. He’s a bit… wild. My mother and I worry about him saying something stupid, risking his silly neck.’
‘Mmm, why don’t you ask him for a trial? We can keep him in the kitchen while you serve. The thing with people who run hot like that is that you need to make sure you don’t give them too much time to burn. Work helps letting off steam.’
