NEAR PARIS, JUNE 1941
CONTACT MADE, MEMOIRS REVISITED
Radio Londres crackled. Juste turned the dial.
‘Hurry, the messages will begin soon. There must be one for us before long.’ Alice’s anxiety showed in her voice. She needed instructions – an assignment for the group to carry out.
Over the weeks since her landing she had settled in and had taught the group all she could about the techniques of the undercover war they were fighting. They had proved to be quick learners and had many useful skills among them, even an explosives expert – a man who had worked in a mine in Alsace, but had left when the Germans had taken it over. He told of many miners working for the Resistance movement all over France.
Not that the learning had all been one way, for she had picked up a few new tricks, too. But they all knew that until they had carried out a directive from London, and done so successfully, their worth could not be measured.
They listened to the personal messages broadcast every day. All agents had codes that made no sense to anyone other than the one person meant to receive them – a fact that maddened the Germans as they sought to decode them. They’d had great success in the beginning, as well-known poems had been chosen as code-breakers and identification, but now British agents had to make a code up, or have one made up for them. No one, other than HQ, knew the poem. Alice had never shared hers with anyone.
More crackles. Looking around the room at the men, all listening intensely, she thought of their bravery. Juste, young and single, could be at home working on the family farm with his mother, Elsbeth, and leading a comfortable life hardly touched by the war, but instead had chosen to fight. To all intents and purposes he was at university in England, which meant that his visits home had to be done after dark and in secret.
Juste had false papers in the name of Dedrian Handrian, but preferred to be called by his real name when they were in private. She didn’t know the real name of the others in her group, or even whether the names they used were their own – François and Breshna, a Polish lad, and Gerard – just as they didn’t know her real name. She knew François was a lawyer in his ‘other life’, and Gerard was a shopkeeper whose shop had been destroyed. He now traded from a kiosk on a street around the corner, selling cigarettes and newspapers. Breshna had been in his last year of study as an engineer in France when the invasion happened, and had stayed to fight here rather than risk being captured on the way home to his occupied country of Poland. His knowledge was the most practical and, she thought, would prove most useful to them, though all of them brought their own intellect and courage to the group and all of them were invaluable.
These were the main members of the group, but smaller pockets of trusted helpers existed: bakers, business owners, farmers and doctors, like Andreas – all of whom could be called upon at any time and might play useful ongoing roles in communication, storage for equipment and expertise, as well as providing safe hiding places for them, when needed. Each member was highly skilled at moving between safe houses. They had become like cats, able to scale walls of great height and creep along roofs without making a sound.
Their faces held the same gaunt, haunted look as they sipped the coffee that Madame Chappelle had provided. This was her house. She too showed great courage in allowing them to meet here. Madame had influence in the area. Many people came and went from her house, due to the business that she and her husband ran from home. She was a seamstress and her husband a tailor, and they numbered many high-ranking Germans amongst their clientele. They were strange bedfellows for the group to share lodgings with, but in a way this worked for them, as did the Chappelles’ standing with the Germans, because they were trusted, and the last place to look for dissidents would be a place that the Germans themselves frequented.
All Resistance work was carried out in the cellar: not a good place to get a signal and so, though it was a risk, they had brought the radio up into the kitchen for the broadcast. Here they were greeted by the smell of freshly ground coffee – a real luxury, although Madame never disclosed her supply source. The addition of bread proving in the oven gave the sparse but clean room a homely French feel.
At last a voice on the radio broke Alice’s anxiety: ‘Avant de commencer, quelques messages personnels.’
She breathed a sigh of relief; the personal messages were about to begin. Please let there be one for us . . . But first she had to get rid of the others. ‘You must all leave me now. Go on, I will call you if the radio plays up. Hurry, you must not hear any words from my poem.’
Alone, she listened intently.
‘Le chien est noir.’ The dog is black. Not words from my poem.
‘Remplir le cœur du feu.’ Fill the heart of fire. No. Come on, please . . .
Two more and then: ‘Lapide-moi, pour une clé couverte de douleur.’ Stone me, for one pain-covered key . . .
‘That’s it! Yes, at last!’ Calling the others back in, she waited for their cheers to die down.
‘Now, bear with me, as I have to decipher the code.’
Every letter in her poem had to be numbered. In this case the ‘one’ in the message meant that she was to start with the first letter of the alphabet. The messages would always indicate which letter she had to start her numbering with. Thinking it through, she remembered that although she had to start with ‘a’, each repeat of the letter had to have a number of its own, which the code-makers had told her would prevent all the letters having sequential numbers. Using this system, she took some time to convert the words from her poem into letters, which would then need sorting into the real message that HQ was sending her.
A full half-hour had passed when François, always the one in a hurry, showed his frustration. ‘How long is this going to take?’
‘I’m sorry – it’s complicated. There! I have all of the letters. I just need to solve the anagram.’
Screwing her working paper up, she threw it into the fire. Not even with trusted people must she be careless with any of the words in her poem. It took the group’s local knowledge and joint effort finally to work out the words of the message: ‘Versanté factory – drop is one a.m. on second, or day after’.
A low whistle from François showed his thoughts on the difficulty of the task. Juste shook his head. ‘This is almost impossible. The Versanté factory makes parts for all manner of warfare equipment. Most of its operation is underground and it is heavily guarded. How are we to destroy it?’
‘And what about the workers? My cousin is one of them. This has to be planned for night-time when the factory is closed, or I will not take part.’
‘Of course it will be night-time, François. This cousin of yours, would he help by giving us inside information?’
‘Yes, he hates working there. It goes against his principles, but he has no choice. He is part of the forced-labour programme the Germans have in place. I am exempt from forced labour, as my court work is valuable, to maintain some stability.’
‘Good. But he must be prepared for some reprisal, for they will know someone helped us. Are we willing to risk that?’
‘We have to be. And I know my cousin will think the same, although it is terrifying to think what they might do. Their atrocities know no bounds – it is as if the Germans are not human.’
‘Don’t think like that, François. Our fight is as much for the German people as it is for France and England and Poland – well, all countries really. There are many Germans who do not want this. Think only of the regime, the Nazis, as the inhuman ones.’
‘Of course, I apologize. I forgot your mother is German, Juste.’
‘I live in dread of others finding out. Where she lives they accept her, but . . .’
Alice hadn’t thought of this before. Elsbeth could be in danger. What if a son of one of the villagers near her was killed in action or . . . Oh God, what if they find out her history! True or not, it wouldn’t look good for her.
Bringing the subject back to the matter in hand she said, ‘You are right, Juste, and we must remember that. But back to the message: the drop of the equipment and so on that we need will take place where I landed. As it is in the country, it is well-known by the night-flyers and has a good landing strip. The message contained a coded number allocated to that location. The exact date will be determined by the weather, but we have two alternatives in July to get a clear night.’ A shudder trembled through her body as she remembered the horror of her near-death at that place; it iced her blood.
‘Are you afraid, Madeline?’
‘Yes, Juste. And I know it’s natural to be scared, but I’m also concerned. We really need a new place for the drop. You all have to think of somewhere, because there’s a danger of the consignment falling into the river.’
‘No, we cannot. Everything is set up there. We have a runway fashioned. Though it is hidden by undergrowth it only takes us half an hour to clear it, when we need it. And there are bunkers that we have dug out, and the false tree trunks sent to us before your arrival are all in place. All are good storage and hiding places for the equipment they send us, and will be safe until we can move it.’
She’d seen those tree trunks, and many other gadgets of disguise and subterfuge, being designed and made at both the Thatched Barn in north London and The Frythe, a secluded house near Welwyn Garden City. Hollowed-out and hinged, the trunks looked realistic enough and could lie undetected in any wood.
‘Right, then we’ll go with it. It’s probably too late to change it anyway. Now, are there any more questions?’
‘What if none of the days are suitable, weather-wise?’
‘I will have my field-phone with me and will receive an abort message, Breshna, so don’t worry . . .’
‘But surely you will leave that part of the mission to us? We cannot risk you being present. It is too dangerous.’
‘I need you all to forget that I am a woman. I have demonstrated my skills to you. You know I am capable, and you must trust me in the way you trust each other. Besides, the pilot will contact me to verify that he is in position and there is no ambush, and therefore I must be present.’
‘And if there is an abort?’
‘In that case we will receive another message. One of us has to listen in to Radio Londres every day and, if it’s not me, then whoever it is must jot down all the messages word-for-word.’
‘You’re right, Madeline.’ Alice was glad to hear François say this, for he wasn’t given to listening patiently to women and had been more than a thorn in her side at times. But he had a way – a lawyer’s way, she supposed – of calming situations and making the others understand what was needed. She listened, as they all did, as he continued, ‘Now we must decide who will do what, in the strategy we have to put together. This will be a real achievement for our group. Destroying this factory will greatly hinder the Germans, both in building new equipment and in repairing damaged ones. So, firstly, maps . . . ?’
The mission was taking a great deal of planning, which Alice found both fascinating and exciting. Her first real involvement in sabotage! But as the proceedings drew to a close, tiredness seeped into every part of her and settled in her bones. It became difficult even to think of riding her bicycle home to her small apartment. On top of everything else, she was due to begin her new job tomorrow, as assistant to the stationmaster of the Gare de l’Est.
Juste had secured the position for her. Alice’s ability to speak German had made her a good choice for the job and meant she could assist the many German passengers. Besides this, her duties would be to coordinate timetables each day, as many train services were disrupted at the last moment by the need for German transportation of men, prisoners and supplies. These were never planned in advance, and so some shifting of the schedule was necessary every day. The job held many opportunities for her to gain useful information, not only for her own group, but for others too, about exactly what was moving and where the Resistance could sabotage it. It rankled that no train carrying Jews or dissidents was to be interfered with. But then they had no contingency plans to house, feed and look after such people, if they freed them.
‘Well, I think we have covered everything. Let’s call the meeting closed. Curfew will be imposed soon.’
Thankful to hear Juste say this, Alice asked if she could be the first to go home. Wheeling her bicycle out onto the street, it seemed to her there was an uncanny silence. Nothing moved. Not even a wisp of wind disturbed the scraps of rubbish on the pavement, nor were there the usual hungry dogs scavenging in the bins and the gutter. The Café Romane had its blinds down.
Every part of her tuned into the danger in the air. Had they misjudged the time? Had curfew already begun?
‘Halt!’
The pit of her stomach changed places with her heart. Oh God!
‘Zeigen Sie mir Ihre Papiere.’
The huge soldier stepped out of the shadows. Searching for the papers he’d asked her for, she undid the concealed inner lining of her bag. The cold steel of her knife reassured her. As she handed over her ID card she rehearsed her cover story in her mind, in a bid to ensure that she did not say the wrong thing. His torch blinded her. ‘Blonde – not usual for a French girl! What were you doing in that house – is it where you live?’
‘No. I was visiting a friend, Madame Chappelle, who is making me a new outfit.’
‘Ah, the seamstress, I have heard of her. My wife is looking for one of those outfits. Come, you can introduce me.’
Please let them have seen what is happening and have got away!
A flicker of the curtain told her the others in the group hadn’t yet left, and that the next one to depart was checking to see if it was clear for him to do so. Now she only had one choice. Taking her papers from the soldier, she tucked them into her bag.
The knife felt heavy as she clasped her fingers around it. Putting a caressing tone into her voice as she looked up at him, she said, ‘It is disappointing to hear you have a wife. It seems all the handsome ones amongst you are married.’
‘Being married doesn’t stop us giving you what you whores want.’ He moved closer. Her knife sunk into his breast. His body weight took her down with him, and her bicycle crashed down on top of them. The noise resounded along the empty street.
Alert to all possibilities, she pushed her way free. When she pulled the knife out, it squelched as it tore muscle and caught on a rib. A watery sigh, which was not drawn back in, told her the soldier was dead. Rolling away from him, she stood up. Still nothing stirred in the street, but she knew this could not prevail for long. The Germans patrolled in twos. Maybe they had each taken one end of the street, intending to meet in the middle. Looking in the direction that the other soldier would come from, she saw a small light glow and then fade. How often had they been warned that smoking could give your position away. Grabbing her bike, she rode it in the opposite direction, pedalling for all she was worth.
François flagged her down. He appeared from a narrow alley leading down the side of a row of shops. Looking around, she could see nothing behind her.
‘This way!’ His whisper carried as if it was a shout. ‘Come on, Madeline.’
He took her handlebars as soon as she was in the alley and straddled the bike in front of her.
‘Hold on! We will freewheel to the bottom of the lane, where I can hide your bike in a friend’s yard. Then we will climb the steps leading to his roof and escape across the rooftops.’
She didn’t argue. Once on the roof, she used all the skills she had learned to move like a feline. In silence they manoeuvred around the chimneys and travelled the length of the street behind the one where the incident had taken place. A jeep roared along below, making its way towards the scene. They lay flat out on the apex of the roof until it passed.
It took them a long time to reach her place. After coming down from the roof they clambered through yards, climbed over high fences and sprinted across alleyways. At last they reached the street where she lived – usually just a five-minute bike ride from Madame Chappelle’s.
Crouching behind a wall, they watched the commotion that had erupted. The street had come alive with motorbikes and jeeps. Germans shouted to one another. People hung out of their windows, wanting to see what all the fuss was about, but quickly closed them when they saw what was happening. Soldiers banged on doors.
‘Oh God! Where can we go?’
‘Come.’
Like a graceful lynx, François set off running along a path, then jumped the wall that formed a barrier across the end. Keeping up with him proved difficult, as Alice’s lungs already felt as though they would burst. When she landed she saw they were beside the river. Taking off his jacket and shoes, François waded in, holding his belongings above him. She had no choice but to do the same, lifting her bag high above her head.
The water froze her to the bone, but she would not give up. Ahead, the form of a wooden shed stretched out over the water. It took on a beautiful outline against the moonlit background of the shadowy trees straddling it and making lace-patterns in the water.
‘Stay still a moment!’ François ducked under the water. The doors of the shed opened and a boat emerged. Hauling Alice inside wasn’t easy, for her strength had gone and the cold had paralysed her muscles.
‘Here, wrap my jacket round you – it’s mostly dry.’
Some warmth entered her, and her teeth stopped chattering. Again François whispered to her, ‘I have a farmhouse downriver. It was my grandfather’s. It is in need of repair, but we can get shelter there and food. I can light a fire to get us warm.’
What was it with her and boats? They seemed to figure in her worst moments lately, instead of her happiest, as they had done in her teens with Bren. Oh, Bren – carefree days. As this thought hit her, she found she could not answer François, as vomit threatened to choke her. She leaned over the edge and emptied her stomach. I killed a man . . . God, I killed a man!
‘Your first?’
She nodded. They were sitting on an old and sagging sofa, drinking cocoa that François had made. The cocoa tasted of smoked water and stale chocolate, but she clung to her mug and sipped, as if it was the best drink she’d ever had, blowing the steam away from her eyes. The fire crackled and spat in protest at being loaded with damp logs, and she felt some peace settle inside her. With her naked body snuggled into an old dressing gown, she thought, So, this is war then? One moment full of fear, trying to save lives from an unforgiving sea whilst being shot at; the next being blown up and losing loved ones, and knowing the terror of drowning, unable to move. But, worse, being forced to carry out atrocities, as I did tonight. But between these horrors I have experienced moments like those I have shared with Steve, and like this one, snug and cosy in front of the warming flames.
‘Best to just forget it. And if you do think about it, tell yourself you saved lives – and the group from being caught – by doing it. Don’t ever think of the man in a personal way, or about his life.’
‘I know. We trained for this, but the reality is different. I will get used to it.’
‘The main thing is that you know when to act quickly and don’t baulk at doing so, and because of your actions the rest of our group got away. Madame Chappelle’s attic leads into all the houses in the row. After being alerted by what you were doing, we all crawled along the rafters. Each person got out through a different skylight and disappeared over the rooftops. I was the last one, and saw you riding for all you were worth towards me. But I am sure the others are all safe.’
She hoped so, but couldn’t speak to answer him. Tiredness closed in on her. François rose and pushed her head down, then lifted her feet onto the sofa. ‘Stay as long as you need. My advice would be to have a rest, then root around in my grandmother’s things. Burn your own as they are blood-stained. My grandmother was about your size and, from what I remember of her clothes, they could be adapted to wear as if they are the fashion of today. As you are taller than Grandmama, what was long on her will be the length that women wear now, on you. And her jackets were of a good cut, so will pass, I am sure.’
‘Thank you. Can I get a train nearby? I need to get to the Gare de l’Est station. I begin work there tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I remember. When you leave, walk for about ten minutes in a westerly direction and that will bring you to the village. They have a station there, and regular trains pass through that go to most stations. Juste told me about your job. Good luck with it, and keep a low profile. Mind your own business, no matter what you see. What you find out from there is going to be very helpful. We will know exactly when to grease the track, and which track to grease. Goodnight, Madeline.’
After he’d gone she closed her eyes. Trying to block out the horror of earlier on, she thought about her mother and father. She had her father’s diary with her, tucked into a side pocket of her shoulder bag, which she had managed to keep dry. Taking it out, she snuggled back down to read:
Sunday 6th September 1910: it has been three weeks now, and still Louise is refusing to have me in her bed. I have given her an ultimatum. I have told her that I can have the marriage annulled, and have her tested to prove she has not allowed the consummation of our marriage.
This distressed her greatly and, as a consequence, I felt like a cad of the worst order. But although she begged me not to annul our marriage, I told her that her behaviour was ridiculous, and no man should have to suffer what I am suffering.
She pleaded with me, telling me she was afraid about what would happen in the bedroom, but would allow me to come to her tonight. This nearly undid my resolve, and I told her as tenderly as I could that there really was no need to be afraid, saying, ‘I love you and will be very gentle. Everything will be all right, I promise, darling.’
At that moment the tree above us rustled, filling the quiet between us with a peaceful sound. The hustle and bustle just a street away continued as normal, with businessmen and shoppers thronging along the busy London street. Yet none of it intruded on us. I could already feel a stirring of anticipation inside me.
I had been looking at the magnificent garden with its views over Danson Park. My hammock swayed gently, lulling me as I lazed idly. Louise sat in the garden chair next to me. A contentment came over me. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine the delights of the evening ahead, until a movement disturbed me. Louise had risen and, when I asked her where she was going, she said a sickness and a headache plagued her. She said she needed to lie down and would see me at dinner.
Disappointment coursed through me at this. Louise seemed to be resorting to the same old trick, which Philippe had warned me about. This was her way of planting the idea within me that maybe I should leave her alone. I watched her go, wondering how someone so beautiful could reject what would make her into an even more self-assured and beautiful woman?
The gentle sway of her layered skirt played on my senses. Turning away, I tried to get myself under control, but it didn’t work. I made up my mind to go to her now. Headache or not, she must see to her husband’s needs!
Alice ceased reading and turned a few pages. She knew she wasn’t giving herself a chance to learn properly about her father – his thoughts, his feelings and what led him to Elsbeth – but her own knowledge of her mother told her that Louise would have manipulated him, had him begging for morsels, and would have given very little of herself to him. This was confirmed by a passage a few pages further on:
23rd October 1910: Today was a pleasant day in the garden, unusually warm for the time of year. The dead leaves had been swept from the lawn and a game of croquet had got under way. The women giggled and skipped around like children, distracting the men from their conversation. Ferdinand remarked to me that he thought me the luckiest of fellows, as Louise is a stunning woman.
I could not stop myself from agreeing that she is, but – with gross disloyalty – went on to tell him that she is as cold as ice. I confessed that I no longer knew what to do. That I had been very patient with her, but nothing worked.
His shock showed in his question, ‘You mean it hasn’t happened yet? Good Lord!’
Shame reddened my cheeks as I admitted that it had, but it was nothing like it should be, and I was left feeling like a rake every time. Not that there had been many occasions.
The feeling was compounded when he told how he saw Louise as the opposite of what I described. He saw only her charm and her flirtatious ways. In fact he envied me. He even suggested that I was at fault and that, were he so inclined, he felt sure he could seduce her perfectly well!
His guffaw had me cringing and made me question whether I lacked the ability to arouse my wife. To prove I didn’t I was almost tempted to encourage him to try, as I didn’t see anyone managing to get through the self-centredness that Louise possesses. If they did, I would say they deserved a medal. But no, he might succeed, and I couldn’t bear thinking of another man having her.
Why I was surprised at his suggestion then, I do not know, but he implied that I should take my need elsewhere, even telling me that he knew of a place, if I was interested. When I replied that Philippe had told me he was visiting such a place that very evening, Ferdinand surprised me further by saying he often saw Philippe there, and asked how Philippe had got out of that spot of bother up in the north.
Unbeknown to us both, Philippe had by now come up behind us and asked, in his stupid way, ‘What spot of bother up in the north?’
Ferdinand laughed at this, which drew the boast from Philippe that the girl had given birth to a son and that he’d neither recognize the boy nor pay her a penny. I hadn’t realized the girl’s pregnancy was so far advanced when Philippe told me about her!
It appears the girl is already taking in lodgers – all of them male and so, in Philippe’s opinion, all seeing to her, no doubt. He even had the audacity to say it had been a blasted shame, as she had been good to lie with, but for him life has improved. He now has a mistress in France.
But I have to confess to feeling a certain admiration for Philippe, when he answered Ferdinand’s enquiry as to whether it was tiring living in France and having his business here, saying, ‘The only tiring thing is keeping all my women happy. I was just going to say that I also have another up north, an Irish girl who lets me have what I want and makes no demands. And then there is the brothel you were just discussing.’
To this I sharply counselled him to be quiet, for the sake of the family name! To which he declared that he was perpetuating it, as he happened to know that Father did his share of putting himself about, too. Then he speculated that we had many a sister and brother, from here to France. My toes curled in embarrassment as Philippe and Ferdinand laughed, only to have the conversation worsened by Philippe saying, ‘Besides, haven’t I just heard that you are leaning towards finding extra pleasures elsewhere yourself, dear brother?’
I must confess that I have given much thought of late to the needs of the male species and how those needs can gnaw away at you, making you do things against your honour. Inside I feel I have done that to Louise – lost my honour in pursuit of satisfaction with her. Oh, damn it! The brothel it is . . .
Something in Alice didn’t blame her father. Her thoughts went back to Steve; her own longings burned a desire into her and she understood her father’s actions. Maybe Father had learned from Elsbeth that many women had these desires, and wanted to please their men and receive the pleasure they gave. She imagined that Elsbeth was one of these women, and this was the reason Father had fallen in love with her.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she wondered what had become of the boy that her Uncle Philippe had fathered. Was he still alive? Did he and his mother still live in the north of England?
For some reason Corporal Moisley came into her mind. She supposed it was because he was the only northerner she’d ever met. And, thinking about it, he was about the right age. Funny how he knew of her father. But then Father was notorious, so she shouldn’t wonder at it really. Then again, why should that make Moisley hate her with such venom? It was strange . . .