PARIS, JUNE 1941
HER FATHER’S PASSION, A DOOMED MISSION
Unable to sleep once Juste had left, Alice pulled her father’s memoirs from under the bed and settled down to read more about him. Though she hadn’t delved far into his life, her sympathy had begun to lie more with him than with her mother. But now, though nothing she read redeemed her mother, doubts about her father’s integrity began to take root. Yes, she could understand a man telling a lie to a mistress he didn’t care about, but from what she’d heard, her father was supposed to be deeply in love with Elsbeth. Her mother’s manipulative ways came to mind. If Louise had known about Ralph having a mistress, she would have been capable of luring him to her bed, even though she hated what occurred there when she did. And so I would have come into being through a loveless union.
It began to look to Alice as if the beginnings of her mother’s illness were in place long before she gave birth to her. This thought comforted her, but she needed to read further to find out more:
Elsbeth and Ralph
10th July 1911: I awoke this morning with a new feeling taking root in me. Is it possible for a man to love two women?
I am obsessed with my mistress. At last I know the glorious pleasure I can expect from a loving, giving woman – my Elsbeth. Yes, she is a prostitute, but she is not meant to be. It is not of her doing, as I will explain later.
I must confess it embarrassed me today to be introduced by a cheery call from one of the other girls inhabiting the brothel: ‘Look who’s here, Elsbeth. It’s lover boy.’
This had me blushing like a schoolboy discovered playing in his trousers, though it was a fitting description, as I have visited Elsbeth seven times in as many days. She fascinates me, and makes me feel as I never thought I would ever feel – like a man, a lover, someone of worth. I had thought myself useless in that department, unable to woo a woman; and this was done to me by Louise, whom I loved beyond measure, but how quickly that had died with her rejection. Louise has nothing but the beauty of her face and body, and she is empty. Empty of love, and empty of feeling for anyone but herself.
Elsbeth is a German immigrant of culture. Her paintings are superb and she has a beauty of a different kind from Louise. Large-boned and tall, like me, she gives the appearance of having been sculpted out of the finest porcelain. Her eyes are deep blue and searching, her hair is blonde, thick and lustrous and reaches to her shoulders in waves that start on her forehead. Her lashes are dark and long. Her body is slim and yet like that of a goddess, strong and honed; not pink and soft like Louise’s. And then there is the Elsbeth inside all this: passionate, loving, talented, and yet, vulnerable.
Her father brought her over from Germany just eight months ago, afraid of the unrest there, and suffering because of the financial climate. They at first worked in a shoe factory. Elsbeth cried when she told me of the conditions they endured: long hours on their feet, no breaks for food, not even toilet breaks were allowed. The factory was cold and damp and the pay pitiful. Then one day her father brought a man to her and told Elsbeth she must go with him; that he had better prospects for her, and so she landed up in a brothel. Her father hasn’t been seen since.
Always pleased to see me, Elsbeth dismissed the other girl and swanned into my arms the moment the door had closed on us. Her words of love and her pleasure at seeing me played like a song in my ears. Stammering, I tried to tell her that I hadn’t come to pleasure myself with her, though I would pay her. I had come just to be with her, as being apart from her was becoming unbearable.
She told me that she knew. She understood because she felt the same way. And then she uttered those immortal words, ‘I love you.’
That was a magical moment, but was soon marred by my discoveries. When I asked her if we could walk out for a while together, she became afraid, saying that she had never been outside since arriving at the brothel and didn’t think it was allowed.
To me this is inhumane. At that moment I vowed to get her out, saying that I would speak to the owner of the brothel. But a deep fear inside her caused Elsbeth to shy away from me. She begged me to help her to get out, without anyone knowing when she went out or where she went. Otherwise, if she was found and brought back, she would be whipped.
It seemed our only chance was to plan her escape and hide her away. But where? I could not consider anywhere near my home or close to my barracks, as she might be seen by those who use this place. Explaining this to her uncovered a shocking revelation. At the mention of the possibility of Philippe seeing her, when he is home from France, if she was hidden near my home, she told me that Philippe is hated by the girls at the brothel, that he is cruel and enjoys beating them, sometimes hurting them badly. She said he had asked for her recently, but she had refused, telling her pimp that they would lose me – a valued and regular customer – for the sake of letting an occasional customer have his own way.
I was appalled. And as I write this I can feel the bile rising in me with my anger. I vowed to Elsbeth that I would cut Philippe out of my life. And see to it that his allowance is stopped!
She counselled me as to the foolishness of this idea, as we do not need an enemy – especially Philippe, who is a particular friend of her pimp, a fact that I am disgusted to hear of.
An idea occurred to me then. I have a trusted friend, a fellow officer called Westlin. He will help us; he has a lot of connections and he owns properties in the streets around where he lives. Good properties. I am sure he will rent one to me for Elsbeth to live in. And he has never been to the brothel, so will not know of this one and its rules. He is a man of honour and of the Church – he is very religious. Not that I am not, but I have lapsed some of late. I am ashamed about this, and yet elated at the same time, as my sin is my greatest love and the source of my happiness.
Somehow nothing I am doing feels wrong. I don’t even consider myself to be being unfaithful to my wife, as I have ceased trying to have a relationship with her. She seems a lot happier for it. It is funny, but we get along well in all other ways now, just as we did at the beginning when we first met. It is a pity really. But I am accepting of it.
It does seem as if a solution to our problems may be found. And Elsbeth and I found ourselves making love, despite my promise to myself that I would visit and not take anything from her. But she is my nectar, and I cannot deny myself her.
Alice felt she was gaining a deeper understanding of her father with every detail she read. In his writings she could feel his love for Elsbeth, and how it troubled him that Mother was so frigid. But in the end this was a journal – an intimate friend of her father’s. In it he had put some of his deepest thoughts. She didn’t want to read all the details: what he and Elsbeth did together, how her father found a place for Elsbeth and so on . . . Besides, what she had read so far had told her that Westlin knew everything, and that her father had put store by him. From that it was safe to assume that Westlin, under the guise of being a good religious man, had continued his friendship with them, providing alibis even. Oh, Father, how trusting we are of our friends, but then who can we trust, if not them?
Reading on in this fashion, a snippet here and there, Alice pieced together what had happened. Her father and Elsbeth had planned to be together for eternity, and had even dreamed of getting married one day, if it ever became possible for Ralph to do so and keep a certain correctness towards her mother. Louise seemed to be satisfied with her life, but was innocent of her husband’s second life until she found out about his affair. What followed were tears, tantrums and what Alice’s father described as a beautiful woman turning into a malicious cat. He tried to appease her, tried to make her see that it was the only way the marriage could work, as he could not live a celibate existence or take what she gave so grudgingly. The former was impossible for him, the latter made him feel dirty and guilty.
Then came the war . . .
Not up to reading any further at the moment, Alice wrapped the ribbon back around the journals and lay back. Confusion made her restless, and though she could empathize with all the emotions her father was feeling about how difficult her mother was, she also felt a moment of sympathy for her mother. But then her thoughts turned to Westlin. Did Father know that Westlin had told Mother? Did Mother know how Westlin felt about her? And what about her not being with child? Didn’t Louise’s own mother – the maternal grandmother Alice had never known – wonder about her daughter not having children? Still, maybe Mother couldn’t have them easily, as her father had talked about them lying together a few times before he met Elsbeth.
Alice had been concerned that she herself could be pregnant. Though very glad it had turned out not to be the case, she had worried for a time, as she and Steve hadn’t taken care that second time, or any time after that. But it hadn’t happened. Maybe it didn’t always happen. Funny, she’d never thought about that; she’d always thought that if you went with a man, you had a baby.
It seemed everything she did and thought brought Steve to mind and awoke longings inside her. Now her night would be further disturbed. There was a lot to do and she needed her sleep, but telling herself this didn’t help or stop her thinking about Steve. Without warning, the tears came. She let them flow. Maybe they would release this agonizing knot of pain and fear that she held inside her, though she wondered if anything ever could.
‘Here are the personal messages for today.’
Feeling tired, Alice found that her hand shook as she sat the next day, pencil ready, listening to the radio and hoping. She, Juste and François were in a shed at the back of a house they had not used before. Juste had only been told this morning that somewhere new had been found. He had informed Alice how to get there and had brought the radio with him in readiness.
The house belonged to a cousin of one of the group and had been derelict since before the war, when his grandmother had died. The family had never been able to afford to repair its roof, which leaked, and had tried to sell it as it was, but the war had stopped those plans. Very few houses changed hands now. Alice hoped this could be a more permanent hideout, as it stood on the outskirts of Paris and had no neighbours to see or report on their comings and goings, as they believed had happened at Madame Chappelle’s.
As before, the others left the shed, so as not to hear her message. Swallowing, she waited. The radio crackled. Please, please don’t lose the signal now. Then it came. Scribbling it down word for word, she was surprised by how long it was. After switching the radio off she went into the kitchen to decipher the message.
The heat of the kitchen oppressed her. Somehow they had managed to light the old gas cooker and had the oven open for warmth. Steam from a kettle on the hob misted the windows. Juste and François stood near her. François had gathered up the radio and taken it down to the cellar, where they had earlier dug up a slab and made a hole big enough for it to fit into. Neither man spoke. Juste crossed over and opened the door. The crisp morning air still had a cold bite, but she welcomed it. Putting her pencil down, she let her head flop forward.
‘Ma chérie, what is the matter? Are you ill? Is it the message? Did it come through? But no! You are crying, are you not?’
‘No, it is the cold coming through the door making my eyes run. Leave it – don’t close it, I like the fresh air. Yes, the message did come through. I can hardly believe how quickly they have sorted everything. It told me that the drop is tonight, as the weather forecast is good. It also said that another agent is to join us and help us.’ She wouldn’t tell him it was Steve, the love of her life. Steve will be on the plane, I can’t believe it . . . The message had simply said, ‘Henderson will join you, code name Giles’.
‘We need to prepare the landing strip as they have said the plane has to come in. It cannot drop the explosives and weapons from the air.’ At least my darling won’t have to face his worst fear of parachuting in.
‘Is it a man? Do you know him? Why are we being sent another agent? Does this agent have skills that we don’t have?’
‘I do know him. He is known as Giles. And yes, he has skills.’ More than I dare think about at this moment . . . ‘He is a lawyer, like François, and not only has experience in everything we agents are taught, but he designed many of these things. He is exceptional at planning and designing. There may be something we have missed, or haven’t seen as important. If so, he will know how to get round it. HQ must think I will need him.’ Though if only they knew how much I need him, they would be sending someone else! The thought cheered her that HQ didn’t know. She and Steve had not shown their love for each other until the night before they parted, and no one had discovered them. Liaisons between agents were highly dangerous, and left each agent even more vulnerable.
‘Aah, you are smiling again. Good. Is there something about this man that makes you smile?’
‘No . . . I – I didn’t mean to.’ Juste’s expression made her laugh. ‘Well, stop being nosy. What you don’t know, you can’t tell . . . Oh, I didn’t mean that. It’s an old English saying – something mothers say to their children.’
‘I know. Stop worrying. You are like that other old saying of your country: a cat on a hot tin hat. What? What is it that makes you laugh like that?’
‘It’s “roof”, not “hat”! Sorry. Happiness – just happiness.’
‘Who’s happy, and why? And what is it that anyone has to be happy about?’
‘Gerard! I haven’t seen you in weeks.’
‘That is because you don’t smoke. I only see smokers.’
This had her giggling even more. Juste and François, and now Gerard, looked at her as if she had gone mad. Perhaps she had. Mad as a hatter on a tin hat, with a cat on it smoking a cigarette . . .
Her sides ached before she got herself under control. It was the sight of François coming for her with his hand raised that did it. Taking a deep breath she said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m all right. Not hysterical, I promise. Just very happy that my friend is coming, and laughing at the “lost in translation” bits. I’ll be serious now.’
Blowing her nose with a sound like a trumpet nearly set her off again, but she swallowed hard and then gave them the details of the message, except for Steve’s real name, before setting fire to her scribblings by throwing the paper into the empty grate to burn.
Getting the runway ready didn’t take long. The men were all practised at clearing it of debris and setting the torches. All was ready, but then they had to abort the drop, as Gerard, their lookout, sent a runner to tell them a convoy of Germans was headed their way.
The drone of the plane in the distance made Alice tense every part of her. Grabbing her field phone, she tried again to make contact with the pilot: ‘Abort. Abort.’ But still it came nearer.
François extinguished the last of the torches.
God! Please let the darkness make them turn around!
‘We have to go. The Germans cannot be more than five kilometres away. Gerard said they have passed his lookout. Come, Madeline, come.’
‘No, Juste. I have to find a way of turning the aircraft round. Help me to gather the torches. We will light a message on the ground. They are nearly above us – they will see it.’
‘But, ma chérie, that will take too long. And what will we write?’
‘We can do it. “SOS” will be enough. Help me, Juste . . . François, help me.’ Racing away from them, she grabbed the nearest torches from the ground. Looking back into the darkness she couldn’t see the others – they must have retreated to the trees. Well, I will do it on my own, if I have to.
Taking the torches into the widest part of the clearing, she jumped as two figures joined her.
‘How many do we need?’
‘Nine for each letter will do. Hurry!’
‘I have nine.’ Handing them to her, François said, ‘You stay here and begin to place them.’
The noise of the aircraft descending made her body sweat with fear. She put the last one in place and whispered, ‘Have you all got a torch?’ On their ‘Oui’, she lit the first one. ‘Right, light yours from mine, and run round lighting the others. Hurry!’
With the last torch lit and spelling out the distress message, they ran, each in a different direction, taking their own planned escape route.
Alice ran towards the river. Once there, she kept to the edge of the rippling water, ready to dive in and stay under, with just a pipe to give her air, if the need arose. But she hoped against hope to make it to the little boat – her emergency transport, hidden in the bushes. If she made it, she dare not start the engine, but she was a strong rower and could slip away under cover of the weeping willows.
When she was almost at the boat she stopped. The sound of the aircraft swerving back into the sky gave her a great feeling of relief, but it vied with a deep sadness. I was so near to Steve and yet so far. And what of the aborted mission? A sudden noise took her mind from this thought and struck her with fear. Flak . . . No! Climb, climb – get out of their range, please!
Voices coming towards her made her crouch down. Her eyes couldn’t penetrate the darkness. Were the Germans on the bank? On the road? Stepping back, she fell. Unable to stop sliding down the bank, she clamped her teeth together to stop herself calling out. She landed with a bump and bit her tongue, tasting blood. Not knowing where she was, she lay still. A darkness more intense than that on the bank of the river enclosed her. This must mean she had cover. The voices became clearer. They were just above her now and belonged to two men. Her hand touched the gun on her belt.
But the men didn’t stop walking. They hadn’t seen her. A light showed through some brambles above her, then swung away again. From what she could work out, one man had said to the other, ‘The bastards have got away!’ The other one replied, ‘That will mean we will be out here all night. They won’t let us give up. They know the dissidents who were trying to help the plane land will be hiding somewhere. But they will have to come out sometime, so let us hope it is sooner rather than later.’
As their voices faded, Alice relaxed a little. Now she knew for sure that the aircraft was safe! The breath she’d held released itself with this knowledge. But at a cry of ‘Halt!’ fresh fear clutched at her chest.
The voice that answered stopped her heart. ‘Es ist Kamerad, nicht Feind.’
Steve – telling them he was a comrade, not an enemy! He must have parachuted in . . . Christ, what do I do? Holding everything tensed and still, she listened, interpreting their German as best she could, as one of the men asked Steve, ‘Why are you here?’
‘I have come to find you, for we have apprehended the dissidents. We need a shooting party.’
‘Keep your hands up. I do not recognize you.’
Oh God! Clutching at the grass, Alice pulled herself up. Brambles ripped her face, but she didn’t care.
‘Show us your papers.’
Now she could see the three men, lit by strong torches. Steve hesitated. Alice unclipped her gun from her belt. Steve’s knife glinted in the torchlight and there was a split-second flash before he lunged forward. Death came in an instant to his victim. Shock held his comrade a moment too long. Her bullet took him into the river.
Shouting came from all directions. Steve answered, his German accented with a Berlin slant. ‘False alarm – a rabbit. I’ll bring it to the car, we can have it for supper.’ Someone laughed. Another German shouted, ‘If we get supper tonight. We need to catch the bastard dissidents first.’ And a third voice, ‘We will. Where can they go? We have the roads blocked – there is no exit.’ Then another, ‘There is the river. They could try to escape that way. We need strong lighting to scan it. Turn the trucks towards it.’
While this had been going on, Steve held her. His lips found her brow, then her cheek. Alice’s body shivered with shock. Hateful, terrifying shock at what had just happened, mixed with wonderful, unbelievable shock at having Steve here, when she thought he’d returned to England.
Without uttering a word, Steve pulled out a roll of cloth from his jacket. Placing her hand on it, she felt the pipe that was used to breathe underwater. Taking her cue from this, she took out of the long pocket of her trousers her own pipe, curved like a walking stick and with a mouthpiece. Holding hands, they waded into the water. Just before she went under, she heard a voice ask, ‘What was that? Listen!’
The cold iced the blood in her veins. Opening her eyes made them sting, and was futile as she couldn’t see anything. Keeping her breathing steady, she clung to Steve’s hand. His strength was enough for both of them. On and on they swam, staying close, using one arm only, with leg movements to propel them forward. She prayed they were going in the direction of the other side of the river, but knew they couldn’t make it like this. At some point they would have to lift their heads and swim in earnest, or they would die of hyperthermia. On the other side of the river lay the outskirts of Paris, about ten miles from François’s farmhouse, where once before she’d taken refuge after that dreadful incident at Madame Chappelle’s, which had been the scene of her first killing. The farmhouse was now their rendezvous point, it had been prepared by the Resistance workers who had built dugouts for storage and had made use of the imitation logs and tree trunks to store their weapons. So far it had proved a perfect hideout.
As long as they turned towards Paris they would come across it. She prayed that Juste and François would get there safely. They were crossing fields and had several safe houses on the way. They had gone on foot, abandoning the van they had all driven in. Please let us all survive! As she thought this she wondered who had betrayed them : Someone must have . . .
A squeeze of her hand told her that Steve intended to do something. He let go of her. Panic gripped her. Forcing herself to remain calm, she waited. She felt his hand grasp hers again and pull her to the surface. Taking the pipe from her mouth, she gasped for air. His voice, weak with cold, came to her. ‘We are in the middle of the river – look how far away their lights are. Come on, darling, swim. Swim as fast as you can, for we need to get our circulation going.’
‘I – I can’t . . .’
She didn’t know where he found the strength, but he turned her body over and, with his arms under hers, swam, pulling her along. Hearing his breath labouring instilled a strength in her that she didn’t know she had. ‘I’m all right, I can do it.’ With this she turned over and began to swim.
They lay on the embankment, shivering and crying. After a moment Steve coughed – a watery-sounding cough that made Alice stand up and turn him over. Vomit projected from his mouth. When the bout passed she held him. ‘We have to move. We will die if we don’t. Look, there’s a light shining from a window just along the towpath.’
They crawled at first, moving closer to the light. But as they got nearer they stood. The smell of wood-smoke tinged her nostrils. With it came the realization that this was François’s farmhouse, as she saw the building come into view. They must have drifted further along the river than they had thought. Wanting to check that she was right, she looked behind her. She could see the same view she had seen when she’d looked back from the boat when François had taken her to it. The river, with the lights of Paris sparkling on its distant surface, appeared like a moving ribbon with jewels sewn on the end; and the huge willow tree, just a few hundred yards along the towpath, bent as if in homage towards the water. Please, God, let François and Juste have made it here and be safe . . . Please, God.