Blockade

Paris, May 1940.

Marchand doesn't know how he survived.

He remembered June 14th, the day the German army entered Paris. He stood by the window of the General Staff building, watching the gray column of troops march past the Invalides square, their tracks crushing the flowerbeds that had once been filled with roses, and the cobblestone paths where officers had once strolled leisurely. He remembered standing there for a long time, so long that someone came to pull him away, saying, "Hurry up, the Germans are coming."

He didn't leave.

It's not that I don't want to leave, it's that I can't.

His leg was ripped deep by a piece of flying glass that morning. It was an ammunition depot that the British had bombed during their retreat, three blocks away from where he was, but the shockwave still shattered the windows, and shards of glass rained down. He lay in a pool of blood, supported by two colleagues, and shoved into a car that was already packed with people.

The car headed south. Bordeaux, then Vichy, then smaller and smaller cities. The road was filled with fleeing people—cars, carriages, bicycles, and pedestrians—a vast, swarming mass like ants carrying food. Some collapsed by the roadside and never rose again. Others handed their babies to passing cars, begging them to take them away, leaving themselves behind.

Marchand lay in the back seat, watching the scenes flash by, unable to utter a single word.

He remembered Felix. The blond young man, the one who secretly passed them intelligence in the gendarmerie, the one who said, "My father died in battle in 1918 for me." The night Felix's body was thrown into the Seine, Marchand was in his office, staring blankly at the telegram. He remembered thinking then that if he ever got out alive, he would make those people pay.

But he didn't go out, and now his hopes for revenge are slim.

He was sent to Vichy, a quiet little town filled with hotels and sanatoriums, now used to house evacuated officers and government personnel. He lay in his hospital bed, the wound on his leg beginning to heal, but the wound in his heart growing ever larger.

He heard footsteps in the hallway. The footsteps were light and careful, as if afraid of disturbing something. He heard someone crying in the next room. Not the kind of loud crying, but the muffled sobbing with their face buried in the pillow.

He heard the news on the radio: the armistice had been signed. The Germans occupied half of France. Pétain became head of state. Wei Gang said, "This is to preserve the flame of France."

He overheard people talking outside the ward: "Have you heard? There's a general in London named de Gaulle who's saying on the radio to keep fighting."

"De Gaulle? That colonel? What right does he have to speak?"

"I don't know. But the British made him say."

"The British? Humph."

Marchand listened to the discussions without moving.

He thought of Lorraine. The man who told him in the café, "They will come from the impossible," the man who was awestruck by a group of veterans' tanks on the reviewing stand, the man who later went to Sedan and disappeared in Stoney.

Is Lorraine still alive?

he does not know.

All he knew was that one night, someone quietly entered his hospital room and stuffed a crumpled piece of paper under his pillow.

He waited until the person left before opening the crumpled paper.

The crumpled paper contained only one line of text:

"Someone has come from London. They're looking for you."

Marchand stared at the line of text for a long time.

His hands began to tremble.

He was discharged from the hospital the next day.

No one stopped him. No one asked him where he was going. He simply put on his faded military uniform, leaned on a cane, and walked out of the sanatorium step by step.

The sun was shining brightly outside. It shone on his face and onto the empty street. He stood there, unsure which way to go.

Then he saw a person.

The man stood across the street, dressed casually, wearing a hat pulled low over his shoulders. But Marchand recognized him.

That was the person Jean Lorraine had met in London.

Let him come over and stand in front of him.

"Lieutenant Marchand?" Rang asked.

Marchand nodded.

Let him look at her and remain silent for a few seconds.

"Someone asked me to pass on a message," he said. "The flame of French resistance should not be extinguished."

Marchand's hands began to tremble again.

"Who?" he asked softly.

There was no answer. He simply said, "Come with me."

They walked into a small alley, into an old apartment building, up to the third floor, and into a small room.

There was a person sitting in the room.

Marchand stared at the man, stunned.

That's Loran.

Lorraine had lost a lot of weight. His face was covered in stubble, and he had deep dark circles under his eyes. The wound on his shoulder hadn't fully healed, and a corner of the bandage was peeking out from under his shirt. But he was still alive. He sat there, looking at Marchand, his eyes bloodshot, but also holding something Marchand had never seen before—a deep, calm quality.

"You..." Marchand began, but could not utter a word.

Loran stood up and walked over to him.

"I am alive," he said. "One of the living people in Stoney is me."

Marchand looked at him and remained silent for a long time.

Then he suddenly laughed. It was a very strange laugh, and on his pale face it looked almost like a cry.

"You're alive," he said. "You're actually alive."

Loran looked at him, and something flickered in her eyes.

"You're alive too," he said.

Marchand nodded.

He sat down in the only chair, buried himself in the backrest, and closed his eyes. After a long time, he opened his eyes and looked at Loran.

"Felix is ​​dead," he said.

Loran did not speak.

"They killed him on the banks of the Seine. They said he encountered resistance fighters while on patrol. I know that's a lie. He was killed by his own people."

Lorraine remained silent.

Marchand continued, "Gaston is still here. He found a position in the Vichy government. What was it again? Something like law enforcement. He's still working for those people. Pétain, Laval, and those who signed the armistice. They're all still here."

After he finished speaking, he looked at Loran.

Lorraine sat down opposite him.

"I know," Lorraine said. "I came here for them."

Marchand was stunned.

"General de Gaulle is in London," Lorraine said. "He's organizing Free France. We need people. We need to know who's still around, who's willing to continue fighting, and who's still working for the enemy."

He looked at Marchand.

"Are you willing?"

Marchand remained silent for a long time.

He looked up at Loran.

"I do."

That night, they talked for a long time in that small room.

Lorrain tells Marchand about the situation in London: De Gaulle's declaration, the BBC broadcast, the first people contacted, and those still waiting. Marchand tells Lorrain about the situation in Paris: who fled, who stayed, who was still operating in secret, and who had already sided with the Germans.

They talked about Gaston. The man who was helping Pétain and Laval pass messages before the armistice, the man who was now in charge of security in the Vichy government.

"He's in Paris," Marchand said. "He has a house in the 16th arrondissement. Germans go there often. His wife and children have been sent to Switzerland."

Loran nodded.

"We need to keep an eye on him," he said. "We need to write down everything he does. It will be useful in the future."

Marchand looked at him.

"The future?" he asked. "Do we even have a future?"

Lorraine didn't answer directly. He took the cloth bag out of his pocket, opened it, and showed Marchand its contents: photographs, a pipe, letters home, and small items brought back from Stoney, left behind by those who had died in battle.

“These men,” Loran said, “died in Stoney. But before they died, they held out for three days. They kept the Germans at bay for three days.”

He looked at Marchand.

"They knew there was no future. But they still persevered."

Marchand looked at those things and remained silent for a long time.

Then he nodded.

The next morning, Loren left Vichy.

He didn't go back to London. He had other things to do.

Marchand stood by the window of the small room, watching Lorraine's figure disappear around the street corner. He couldn't help but sigh, "He's become this kind of person."

That afternoon, Marchand returned to Paris.

Paris has changed.

German military vehicles and grey uniforms filled the streets. Familiar shops displayed German signs, and German soldiers sat in cafes, laughing and talking loudly in a language they couldn't understand. The Seine still flowed, Notre Dame was still there, the Eiffel Tower was still there, but everything had changed.

Marchand walked down those familiar streets, feeling like a stranger.

He walked to the entrance of the "Bayonets and Roses" tavern.

The tavern was still open. Old Remy stood behind the bar, wiping glasses. When he saw Marchand come in, his hand paused for a moment, then he continued wiping.

"You've come," old Remy said. His voice was calm, as if Marchand had simply gone out to buy a pack of cigarettes.

Marchand sat down at the bar.

Old Remy poured him a glass of Calvados.

Marchand picked up his glass and took a sip. The scalding liquid slid down his throat, carrying the sweet aroma of apples and the burning sensation of spirit. Just like the first time he came.

"Did he come looking for you?" Marchand asked.

Old Remy didn't answer. He just continued wiping the cups.

Marchand asked no more questions.

He knew old Remy wouldn't tell. Old Remy wasn't the kind of person who would betray others. But he also knew that if Lorraine had been there, old Remy would definitely know.

They sat in silence for a long time.

Finally, Marchand stood up and put the money for the drinks on the bar.

"I'm leaving," he said.

Old Remy nodded.

As he reached the door, Marchand paused and looked back.

"Remy," he said, "if one day someone needs help, would you help them?"

Old Remy looked up at him. Something flickered in those cloudy eyes.

"Yes," he said.

Marchand nodded, pushed open the door, and stepped into the Parisian night.

In July 1940, the Parisian night was just like any other. The Seine shimmered darkly in the moonlight, streetlights twinkled, and indistinct music drifted from cafes.

But there were fewer people on the street. Even those who were there walked quickly, heads down, not daring to look at anyone.

Marchand walked slowly through those streets. His legs still ached, but he didn't stop.

He walked across the Pont Saint-Michel, past the café where Lorraine had once sat, past the walls plastered with German and French decrees, and past the empty shops.

He walked to a crossroads and stopped.

Across the street stood two German soldiers. They were smoking and speaking to a vendor in broken French. The vendor, head bowed, handed them a pack of cigarettes, took the money, and turned to leave.

Marchand looked at the vendor. The man's back looked somewhat familiar, but he couldn't place him.

He didn't look again. He turned, walked into an alley, and disappeared into the darkness.

That night, Marchand returned to his apartment.

The apartment was still there. There were no signs of forced entry, and everything inside was still there. He went in, closed the door, leaned against it, and stood there for a long time.

The next day, Marchand began his operation.

He was no longer a lieutenant in the General Staff. That title was useless now. He was just an ordinary Parisian, a quiet, middle-aged man who ran a small grocery store.

The grocery store opened with old Remy's help, in a small alley next to the tavern. It was a tiny shop, selling things like cigarettes, matches, and canned goods. German soldiers would occasionally come in, buy a pack of cigarettes, and leave.

No one noticed the silent grocery store owner.

No one knew that a radio was hidden under his counter.

Every evening, he would close the shop door, draw the blinds, take out the radio, and tune it to the BBC. The sound would come from a great distance, intermittent, but he could hear every word clearly.

"...The flame of French resistance should not be extinguished..."

As he listened to that voice, something burned within him.

He began to record. He recorded the names of everyone willing to continue fighting, every place where they could hide, every road leading south, and the whereabouts of everyone still working for the Germans.

Those records were hidden one by one in a secret compartment in the wall.

One day, a young woman walked into his grocery store.

She wore a simple dress, her hair pulled back, and her face bore the weary expression often seen on the streets of Paris. She ordered a pack of cigarettes, paid, and then stood in front of the counter without leaving.

Marchand looked at her.

She lowered her head, took a note out of her pocket, placed it on the counter, and then turned and left.

Marchand picked up the note and opened it.

There is only one line of text above:

"I am Charlotte Durand, Lorraine's fiancée. I need to see him."

Marchand's hands began to tremble as he looked at the words.

He carefully put the note away and hid it under the counter.

That night, he didn't turn on the radio. He just sat in the dark and thought for a long time.

He didn't know where Lorraine was now.

In August 1940, it was a hot summer in Paris.

There were fewer people on the streets. New decrees were posted every day, and more people were taken away every day. Those gray military trucks drove by every night, taking people away and taking them somewhere unknown.

Marchand's grocery store was still open. German soldiers still came to buy cigarettes, and occasionally other things. He learned to say "good morning" and "goodbye" in German, and learned to control his emotions in front of them, keeping a silent face.

But every night, he would turn on the radio and listen to the voice coming from London.

One night, he heard a familiar name.

"...Lieutenant Marc Lorrain, former staff officer of the 55th Division, a survivor of the Battle of Stoney, has now joined the Free French Army..."

Marchand sat there, listening to the voice, without moving.

Lorraine is still alive. He's still in London. He's still fighting.

Marchand stood up, walked to the wall, opened the hidden compartment, and took out the note that had been hidden for a long time.

He looked at the words: I am Charlotte Durand. Lorraine's fiancée. I need to see him.

The next day, he found Charlotte.

She lived in a small apartment in the seventh arrondissement, not far from her parents' house. When Marchand knocked on the door, she stood there, looking at him, her emerald eyes holding something deep—not fear, not despair, but the light of someone who had finally seen something after waiting for a long time.

"Lieutenant Marchand," she asked.

Marchand nodded.

She let him in.

The room was small, but very clean. An open book sat on the table, next to a photograph of Lorraine and her standing by the Seine. They were both smiling happily; back then, there was no war, no Stoney, no of this.

"He's still alive," Marchand said.

Charlotte stood there, looking at him. Something in those eyes was shattered, and something else was piecing itself back together.

"I know," she said softly. "I heard it on the radio."

Marchand looked at her.

"He's still in London," he said, "in Free France."

Charlotte nodded. Her hands gripped the hem of her skirt tightly, her knuckles turning white.

"I'm going," she said. "I'm going to France. The Germans are demanding that I provide medical care for their soldiers, work more than sixteen hours a day, and sometimes get beaten up."

"Also, the underground organization's activities may be exposed soon, and all of Sharon's people are going to die."

As she spoke, her face turned deathly pale.

Marchand remained silent for a few seconds.

"It's difficult," he said. "The Germans have blocked the borders. The south is supposed to be a free zone, but there are checkpoints everywhere. Getting to London is even more difficult."

Charlotte looked at him.

"Do you have a solution?" she asked.

"There's no way," Marchand shook his head.

Sometimes life is really hard; the German army would never let any Frenchman go to England.