Chapter 15
The Turning Point
The control we believe we have is purely
illusory, and ... every moment we teeter
on chaos and oblivion.
- Clive Barker
Police Captain Charest looked her over carefully. She is thirteen, he made mental notes to himself. Hair, brilliant red. Long and well kempt. A slight figure, not yet fully developed, but promising, nonetheless. Green eyes, a very pretty face. Yes, she will do, I am sure.
“Elle est acceptable pour moi, Docteur - she will do fine,” he said in perfect French. He signed a form that the orderly handed him, and barked an order to the common German soldier that accompanied him. With that, AriŽle was led out of the sanitarium and was placed in the back seat of a waiting car. The soldier closed the door, then took the driver’s seat. The police captain took the back seat next to her. AriŽle was frightened and panicking.
“Do not fear, mademoiselle. You will not be harmed.”
“Where is my mother? What have you done with her?”
The captain refused to answer her, and simply stared out at the countryside passing by.
R
AriŽle awoke hours later when the car was brought to a stop in front of a nondescript warehouse. She was roughly dragged into a small holding room, bare with a simple light bulb hanging from a wire in the center, and a small barred window looking out to the alley below. She could hear unfamiliar noises - the noises of a city. The door was slammed behind her, and the light went out. It was cold, and she curled up in the corner, drawing her knees up to her chest to maintain as much warmth as she could. AriŽle began to rock back and forth, quietly crying, fearing for her life, and fearing for her mother. It was late at night before she slept again out of sheer exhaustion.
AriŽle was wakened in the morning by another German soldier. They barked at her in German, which she did not understand, and was rudely dragged to her feet. Again, she was pushed into a car, and they drove off through the streets. She had never seen such a place - each street was like a tunnel with buildings reaching uniformly high on each side, a turn, then more streets the same. The streets were busy with people, and German soldiers were everywhere. She could only guess this strange place was Paris. There was no green grass anywhere, no smell of the sea, and the streets were dirty with trash. It was a frightening place.
The car came to a stop in front of a building that looked on the outside like all the others. The street in front was busy with soldiers and what looked like solder’s vehicles parked all around. She was escorted into the entrance. When the soldier-driver displayed a paper document, she was ushered through a side elevator past a German sentry, through a private guarded entrance, and into an office where she was told to stand and wait.
AriŽle stood alone in the office, an ornate suite above what appeared to be some sort of German army command in the center of Paris. She had never seen such a room. It could only be described as opulent, although the finery displayed everywhere bewildered her. Where was she? What was she doing here? She had been warned by the captain who transported her not to ask about her mother again, or she and her mother would be severely punished. So AriŽle kept quiet, and kept her fear to herself. Her mother would want her to be brave, despite how hard it was.
She was alone in the room for several minutes when a side door opened and a German officer, obviously of a high rank, briskly strode in followed by a beautiful, well dressed woman. The woman walked with a fine graceful movement, AriŽle noticed, and appeared to dote over the officer. They both approached her.
“So, this is the one,” he smiled at her. “Yes, very pretty - very pretty, indeed!” he commented as he walked slowly around AriŽle, looking her up and down. His gaze alarmed and frightened her. The woman followed closely behind, and she too looked at her closely, although AriŽle felt almost drawn to her gaze, almost comforted by it, a feeling quite different from the officer.
“Get her cleaned up, and into something ... suitable,” he added, with a disdained stare at the rough garment she was still wearing from the convent.
The woman spoke for the first time.
“Oh, Colonel, she will do very well, I am certain. So young, and fresh. Just ready to be properly taught,” she added as she took his arm and steered him away toward the entrance, almost pushing him away from her, AriŽle thought. “I will take very good care of her.”
“I will be away in Berlin for the next several weeks. I expect some results when I return,” he said as he turned back to look at AriŽle again.
The woman gave him a studied, beguiling look, and then, turning him around once more, almost like managing a puppet, AriŽle thought, walked him back through the door and down the hallway. She could no longer see them, but could hear more conversation, which the woman clearly controlled.
Shortly, she returned.
“Come my dear,” she said gently. “We need to get you a bath, and some decent clothing. Do not speak, child. We will talk when we are in private.”
And with that, the woman guided her down the hall and up some stairs to the apartments on the top floor of the suite. She was taken into a private area at the far end of the complex, and into what appeared to be the woman’s bedroom. A maid was waiting in attendance for orders from the woman.
“Draw her a bath, get her cleaned up, and I will find some suitable clothing. And bring some bread and cheese. I am certain those German dogs did not feed her,” she said quietly, almost under her breath.
“Oui, madame,” the maid answered, and with a soft and reassuring smile led AriŽle into the bathing area.
R
“Child, please sit here. Share the bread and cheese with me, and let’s get acquainted.”
“Where is my mother?” AriŽle asked, and tears quickly filled her eyes, the pent up emotions finally loosening in a flood of tears and terror.
“Oh, child, I do not know. I am so sorry. I know you are frightened,” and she stood and walked over to AriŽle, giving her a reassuring embrace. Her gentle nature disarmed AriŽle, and she let her emotions go.
“That’s OK, child. Let it out. It is OK to cry here. You are safe here with me.”
When she regained her composure, the woman directed her to eat.
“You need your strength, child. Please, tell me your name.”
“Je m’appelle AriŽle, madame,” she responded politely. It had been yesterday morning since she had eaten, and she felt weak, her hands shaking.
“I am Madame Bourait, the mistress of the house. I am also your governess from now on.”
“What am I doing here, madame?” she asked, choking back tears as she tried to eat a little.
“AriŽle, my poor child. You are a prisoner here, as we all are. It is a prison without bars, with good food, and fine clothes, but a prison nonetheless. Do not be afraid, child. I will protect you, and soon you will learn to trust me. Now, I know how frightened you are, and that is understandable. Together, we will last out the German occupation, you will see. For now, you need to eat, and get some sleep. We will talk more tomorrow.”
R
AriŽle soon learned the routine of the house, as Madame Bourait called it. The suite was the home of the commander of the Pigalle district of Paris, Colonel Reiniger, and was located on the top two floors of the command center which had requisitioned the rest of the building. The command headquarters were near the center of the old city at Place des Victoires.
The Colonel had lavish tastes, and kept fine food, wine, and brandy on hand. He excelled at throwing lavish parties for Nazi dignitaries and army officers, and used his command staff to requisition whatever was necessary from “cooperative” local shops and businesses that could use the protection of the area commandant. He kept a mistress, Madame Bourait, who served as his hostess at these parties and managed the household servants.
AriŽle also learned soon enough why she was here. AriŽle had been purchased by the Colonel from the French police who were known to kidnap young French girls and provide them as mistresses to German officers. His orders had been quite specific - he wanted a very young girl, a country maiden - fresh and virgin - that he could “train” in the proper way to serve a German officer. This would be the task that fell to Madame Bourait. He had several women who served as his sexual partners when he had need, or needed to provide entertainment for one of his guests, including Madame Bourait. This new one, he boasted to one of the officers in his command, he would keep to himself - and save for when she was just ripe enough.
In the meantime, she was to have training in manners, etiquette, and schooling so that when he was ready for her, she could assume the role of the head of the house - and replace Madame Bourait at his pleasure.
When Madame Bourait revealed all of this to AriŽle, she was despondent, and wanted to run away.
“No, child, that would be suicide. I cannot allow you to do that. Believe me, AriŽle, I will keep you safe from that German pig. The Colonel is fond - too fond - of his brandy, and his ready women. He is like putty in my hands. I will keep him from you, I promise.”
She took AriŽle under her guidance, and trained her in the manners and arts of a woman of the city. True to her word, she kept her away from Colonel Reiniger.
R
The priest stepped through the doorway first. He had not been inside this old stone cottage for years, ever since its owner had died during the influenza outbreak following the Great War. The cottage had become the property of the church as was the custom, but it was in such disrepair now it was difficult to find an occupant. Many of the rural poor believed the pandemic was a curse from God and refused to enter any cottage where someone had died of the influenza.
Antoine Bouchard had benefitted from this reluctance once before, after his release from custody in 1920, and sought out such a place intentionally. He would have no visitors here.
“It is a humble cottage, my son. Humble as our Lord, Jesus,” he declared. The priest had negotiated well, however, and Antoine had agreed to provide the parish with scrap bottom fish and unsold shellfish as his payment for rent. This suited him fine. Payment by SIS for the Atlantic Wall map would provide a nice cushion, and the British would pay for even more information.
“Thank you, Father. It will serve me fine,” he assured the old priest, and he escorted him to the door.
“Those in need will give their thanks in ways known only to God, my son,” he concluded, and slowly began the long walk back to town.
Antoine surveyed his surroundings. The cottage had a single room with a stone fireplace and a metal hook for hanging a steel pot. The room had no stove, and the fireplace was the only source of heating or cooking. Along the far side was a crude wooden bed - smaller than the bunk on the St. Marianne. He inspected the mattress. The ticking was coarse but sound, the stuffing old and worn. It had molded out years ago and he immediately emptied it in the truck garden out behind the cottage. He could get new straw easily enough.
There was a heavy coating of dust and fine dirt on everything. He began to sweep the dirt off of the rough interior walls, and he thought how Marianne could turn such a pig sty into a warm and comfortable home. As he thought of Marianne, his knees felt weak and he had to sit on the empty bed frame for support. Since he arrived in Courseulles he had thought of her often, wondering how she would do this, take care of that, wondering if she were still alive, and what had become of their little AriŽle.
The terrors at night returned. Antoine was wracked by guilt for sending his family away to what turned out to be an uncertain fate. Was he wrong to help the British escape from Pont-Aven? How could Marianne be betrayed by her own father? Was her father’s hatred of him so deep it meant she was now lost to him? Was he wrong to play the Lorient police for fools? Did this lead to Marianne and AriŽle’s arrest? The sequence of events became confused, the facts distorted by fear for their safety. He slept little, and grew increasingly angry and bitter.
He finally turned to his friend Andy for help, knowing he could not send his letters, but took comfort in writing out his fears, as if in confession. He trusted no one else, not even the priest.
14 Oct 1942
Dear Andy,
I cannot post this letter, I am certain of that. But it helps me to write to you.
I have to take extraordinary measures to protect myself here, although I cannot tell you where I am.
I fear my own foolish actions have endangered Marianne and AriŽle. I cannot sleep, and my anger towards the Germans and their French puppets grows every day. I feel it consuming me.
I think of you and our talks, and it helps calm my terrors. But they return every night.
Pray for me, Andy. This world is collapsing into chaos.
Antoine
R
In the corner of his small cottage, Antoine began to dig what would normally be a small root cellar. He stole boards from the back of the dockyard at night, and shored up the sides to prevent them from caving in. He cut the floor boards to make a trap door. It was barely deep enough to stand upright in. He chiseled out several stone bricks that formed the bottom of the foundation and cut a space just large enough to hold a tin box he confiscated from the chandlery garbage pile. It was this box that held the letters, paper, and pen that he used to write to Andy Anderson. He intended to someday send these letters when they could be safely posted. For now, once he replaced the bricks the box was safely away from prying eyes.
Antoine kept to himself. The men in the commune would stare at him from their tables at the cafŽ, mistrusting this stranger. The women would gossip among themselves. Where once not so long ago the port was filled in the summer with rich Parisians on holiday, now under the occupation strangers were scrutinized and mistrusted.
The Todt Organization commandeered a building at the end of the harbor to serve as a staging and design headquarters when they began to build the series of hard fortifications along the beach frontage to repel any possible attack. Normandy was one of the main potential landing areas, and with the port of Le Havre to the east and Cherbourg to the west, and Carpiquet airfield just outside of Caen, there were major strategic objectives the Germans rightfully knew the Allies coveted.
Construction of the Atlantic Wall began in earnest in 1943, and Antoine Bouchard was in a perfect position to monitor and report on its construction in Normandy. At the same time, forced labor conscription drove many otherwise neutral French citizens to form loosely organized and independent resistance cells. The battle for France was beginning, again.
R