By Claire Erasmus
My name is Gaspard Jerome Masson, and I have one regret.
The last word smudged beneath the old man’s trembling hand. He drew a breath, then continued writing.
Her name was Marie.
***
June 6, 1944
Rennes, France
“Gaspard! They’re coming!”
Gaspard shot up from his seat. Marie burst through the door of his small apartment on Rue Bigarre, dark hair flying uncontrolled and coat unbuttoned. She stumbled to the table and slammed her hands onto it, drawing trembling breaths.
He reached her in two steps and rubbed her shoulders.
“Gestapo. On Rue Legraverend.” A sob tore free from her throat. “They have Jean-Paul.”
Her brother. His best friend.
Marie slumped against his chest. “They’re coming for you.”
He tried to clear the lump in his throat. “We’ve rehearsed what we’ll do. Where we’ll go.” He kept his voice quiet, keenly aware of the neighbors’ nearness. “Your papers. Do you have them?”
Desperate breaths shivered through her lips. His heart ached for her even as it pounded with urgency. He longed to be her lover, to comfort her and kiss her fears away.
But he needed to be a fellow resistance fighter first.
He pushed her to arms’ length. “Marie! Your papers!”
She blinked several times, pupils dilated. Then she took a deep breath. “Oui.”
“You remember where we’ll go?”
“Oui.” She squared her shoulders. “We’re not done yet.”
Gaspard smiled and gently tapped her nose. “There’s ma chérie. Let’s go.”
Marie tamed her wild hair and pulled a hat on. Gaspard adjusted his coat, ensuring it concealed his Colt M1911. Then they left and hurried into the streets.
An old lady watched them as they took the corner, and Gaspard swallowed. Rushing would draw attention. After asking a few questions, the Gestapo would track them like bloodhounds on a fresh scent.
Gaspard grasped Marie’s arm and slowed her. “We need to relax,” he whispered.
“But they—”
“We’re standing out.”
Marie cast a nervous look about them, as though expecting the Gestapo to appear any moment. “We should stroll along the river, then.”
The river? The waterway cutting through Rennes separated them from the train station, their gateway to escape. If they were pursued, it would be difficult to get across unnoticed.
“We’ve done it before,” Marie added. “As lovers.”
She was right. Strolling along the riverside would help them be less conspicuous. And they could always cross one of the bridges first.
Gaspard looped his arm comfortably through hers, then adjusted his hat to a more casual angle. Heavy footsteps—many of them—echoed ahead, accompanied by scraps of German conversation. A gate stood ajar up ahead, and Gaspard guided Marie into it, leaning against the wall with his back to the street like a lover saying goodbye to his sweetheart.
The footsteps neared. Gaspard glanced back, then returned his attention to Marie, hoping he looked like a disinterested Frenchman. She toyed with the lapels of his coat.
“There are ten,” she whispered. “No Gestapo.”
Ten. His Colt had only eight rounds. He brushed her cheek, straining to hear any scrap of conversation he could. “Do you have your gift?”
Marie favored the British Welrod, a pistol meant to be silent, sent by the British to France’s underground. She nodded, gaze flicking to his face.
“Good.” He gently kissed her forehead.
The squad was just starting to pass them. Gaspard’s ear caught a couple of spoken lines above the tramp of boots.
“Sie wollen die Frau.”
“Der Kerzenhalter?”
Gaspard froze, face inches from Marie’s, the meaning crashing over him like a thunderclap.
“They want the woman.”
“The candleholder?”
Marie.
The Gestapo weren’t after him.
Along with her brother, Marie had been active in the resistance since the start of the war, carrying numerous messages and writing for the underground newspapers.
Gaspard met Marie’s wide eyes, saw her paling cheeks.
She had also heard. And understood.
The squad passed.
“We need to go,” he whispered, throat tight. He guided her down the street, now taking the most direct route to the train station and catching the watchful gaze of a few soldiers. Finding cover in a crowd, they crossed the river on Rue Saint-Malo’s bridge. Pierre Leon, another resistance fighter, pressed close halfway across.
“You’ve heard the news?” Suppressed excitement colored his voice.
Anger sparked through Gaspard. “If you are happy the Gestapo want Marie, then—”
“The Allies. This morning. In Normandy.”
Gaspard stopped and stared at Pierre, who nodded excitedly.
“They’re coming.”
Marie fidgeted. Passersby glanced at them. Gaspard forced himself to keep moving, tenuous hope pounding through his veins. A fluttering swastika on the far side of the bridge caught his eye. For four years, he had seen it in his beloved homeland. Four years, he had resisted the Nazis however he could.
He had almost stopped believing they could fall.
Now the Allies were in France. The push that could topple the Third Reich had begun.
And he was running away.
He halted at the end of the bridge. “Marie, you must still leave.”
“What?”
He grasped her arms, gazing deep into her beautiful eyes. “The Gestapo want you, not me. You can continue your work outside France. I can continue here.”
Her mouth fell open. “You want me to go on… alone?”
“You’re strong,” he urged, hoping to squelch the guilt rising within him. “Smart. You know what to do, where to go.”
“Gaspard, please. Don’t leave me.”
He swallowed and kissed her. Then he released Marie, turned, and hurried away without looking back.
***
The pen rested on the table. A tear trailed down the old man’s cheek as he gazed out of the window.
“You were strong, mon amour, but I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed with you, protected you. That was my place.” Gaspard wiped the tear. The droplet clung to his finger for a tenuous moment, then slipped and fell to the floor.
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