NORMANDY, MARCH 1944
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
Leaving Steve had been painful, but the war was entering its most important phase and everything they did had to contribute to the big push. That was still only in the planning stage now, but was set for May/June, and all agents who could be spared had been briefed on it and deployed to France.
Waiting until the plane that had dropped her – along with some vital equipment – took off, Alice crouched down, wishing she was going with it, instead of being left here in France once more. This time she was to work in the Normandy area. Juste had contacted HQ. He had a new group ready, but needed help. When she’d first asked to join Juste, her plea had fallen on deaf ears. ‘You have emotional ties to him, which might get in the way of duty,’ Bellows had said. She’d reminded him of how she’d never baulked at doing her duty, whether that meant killing one of their own or a German. She had then gone on to persuade Bellows to let her join Juste, by pointing out that they were a good team: she had trained him and, with Alfonse bringing some of his men to join them, it had to be Alice who supported them. These men trusted her, knew her and were loyal to her. Eventually Bellows had given in.
Steve had been devastated when she’d told him she was going into the field once more. He had settled well into his War Office job, and worked on implementing the training on new inventions by the boys at The Frythe farmhouse. He had a particular hand in the training of how to operate one-man submarines. Alice wished she and Steve had had that particular marvel when they had to cross the river that night in France in 1941 and had to swim underwater.
Steve had moved into Alice’s house in north London as soon as he returned from Switzerland. They had made many adjustments to the house, to make moving around easier for him. They married in a registry office with two strangers as witnesses. Not many people knew about it, not even Lil. But they looked upon the ceremony as giving them the right to be together in the same home, and not as a celebration of their love. That would come when war had ended and they could tell all their friends and family about their relationship and love for one another. They would hold a party to rival all parties, and have a blessing in church, too.
For now Alice had to focus on her job, though she still felt the need to prove to the world that her family were not cowards, but courageous people who did not betray their fellow countrymen. One hope beat inside her: that Alfonse had found intact the tin they had buried containing the last book of her father’s memoirs.
‘Alice?’
‘Juste! Oh, Juste, it is good to see you.’ They hugged. She noticed a shadow lurking a little way off in the trees, giving them space for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Juste, so sorr—’
‘I have avenged Gertrude’s death. François is dead.’
There wasn’t anything she could say to this. The man in the shadows stepped forward. ‘Alfonse! Oh, this is perfect, the three of us . . .’
Greeting her, Alfonse asked, ‘How is Steve?’
Surprised that he knew Steve’s name, she told him he was doing well, but had lost his leg. Alfonse expressed his sorrow, but not his surprise.
‘Thank you for saving him for me, Alfonse – thank you.’
‘I have saved something else. Here!’
The tin felt cold in her hands. ‘Is it all right, has it survived?’
‘Yes, all intact. Those boxes are well made.’
She wasn’t surprised, for the tins were frequently used to hold rations and keep them dry and fresh. She thanked Alfonse and held the tin to her breast. She was so happy to have the diary back. But then she remembered his sacrifice – the killing of his parents in their farmhouse. ‘Alfonse, I am so sorry about your parents . . .’
‘Merci. The pain lives in me without release, but I have had many chances of revenge and I have taken them.’
‘I understand. I have been guilty of that myself.’
‘Come, we have to go. We cannot linger here. We always have to take great care. We are glad to have you with us, but afraid too, as we believe there is someone connected to you who is the real traitor.’
‘There is, Juste, or rather there was. He isn’t working in the War Office any longer, for he has disappeared. My boss listened to me and questioned the man – he has not been seen since, and is now a missing person. It is thought he was air-lifted out by the Germans, but no one can be sure. His family say they have had no contact with him, and this is proving to be true, for they are under constant surveillance.’
As they walked across the road and into the field opposite Juste asked, ‘Does this mean that your father is in the clear?’
‘No, nothing has been concluded. I was told that not even the diary would be proof enough – whatever it might contain – as it would be seen as my father simply trying to justify himself after his death.’
‘We will not give up. I will help you. We cannot let it rest. We have to clear Gertrude’s name, too. It seems the same man was responsible for passing on the information that she was accused of delivering.’
‘You’re right, Juste. How we will do it I do not know, but we will find a way. If it takes the rest of our lives, we will find a way.’ Changing the subject, she asked, ‘Is everything set up for us? Do we have safe houses and a network of helpers?’
‘It is. We told British HQ that we could manage and did not need an agent, but communication is difficult without one, and we were told there is new equipment that will help us, but we need to be shown how to use it.’
‘I’m glad you contacted HQ. I needed to come back.’
The second field they went through led to a barn where a van waited for them. Its lettering indicated that it was a butcher’s delivery van. Alfonse put on a white coat and a striped apron that lay on the front seat. ‘I am working as a butcher and deliver to the Germans in the next town every night. But I could not go off my route, so I had to leave the van here. You will have to lie on the floor and I will cover you with these muslins.’ The thought of this repulsed her. Though she couldn’t see the meat properly, she imagined bits of animal flesh clinging to the muslin. Alfonse laughed at their expressions. ‘They are clean muslins. Come on – get down.’
The next hour of the journey bumped and jolted her until her insides felt bruised. But her surprise when Alfonse finally dropped them off made her forget the discomfort, as she asked, ‘Is this wise, Juste?’
‘No. But for my mother I have taken the chance. She needs to see that you and the diary are safe, for she has worried about you, and the diary is very precious to her. We are based forty kilometres north of here and I visit often, though always at night and I come across the fields.’
Despite the risk, Alice was thrilled to be going to see Elsbeth. She liked her – she was a link to her father, someone who had loved him. She hurried towards the house. ‘How is she, Juste? How has she been coping since Gertrude’s death?’
They reached the door of the farmhouse, where a strange atmosphere engulfed them. There were no lights on, and the darkness of the place unnerved her. She didn’t want to enter. Peering at Juste, she tried to scrutinize his expression. He too looked fearful.
Motioning for her to follow him, he went into the barn attached to the house. ‘Come – I do not like this. Mama always leaves a light on.’
‘What are you thinking has happened? Oh God, Juste.’
‘Stay here. I will have a scout around. I know every nook and cranny of this place. I will be better on my own.’
She nodded. Darkness, cold and fear seeped into her bones. All kinds of awful scenarios went through her mind. Had the locals become afraid of Elsbeth because of her German ancestry? Had the Germans found out about her connections to the Resistance? Had she had an accident and lay helpless inside, or had she died suddenly? Speculation threatened to drive her mad until a noise alerted her.
‘It’s only me . . .’
Relief at hearing Juste’s whisper made her release the breath she’d been holding. ‘What is it? What has happened?’
‘I do not know. I have been in the house, and everything is in order. Nothing has been disturbed, but there is no sign of Mama. It is a mystery. And I cannot approach the farm workers, for I am supposed still to be in England.’
‘Well, at least it isn’t looking as if Elsbeth has been taken away or driven out. She must have left willingly. I will go to that cottage down the road where the herdsman lives. I met him before, when I came as Madeline, the university friend of Gertrude. I’ll tell him I called in, on the off-chance of stopping for a couple of days, as I have time off work.’
‘Yes, that is a good idea. I will wait in the house as it is warmer, though I cannot light a fire or the lamps, for fear that the house is being watched. What if they invite you to stay?’
‘I will tell them that I have a key and was told I am welcome any time, and have left clothes and things here. But, of course, that depends on the reason Elsbeth isn’t here. If I find out there is something wrong, I will take their hospitality and try to sneak out later, or come to you in the morning . . . Oh, I don’t know. Leave it with me. I will do what I can.’
Pulling her jacket around her didn’t do anything to shield Alice from the cold. She wasn’t able to wear much under her flying suit and, once she’d discarded that, the momentum of getting to safety had kept her warm. Now, with worry seeping through her, the cold took hold of her body and she shivered uncontrollably. As she walked to the cottage down the road her boots squelched in the mud, stirring up unpleasant smells from the dozens of cows that trod this way morning and night on their way to the milking shed. Her stomach churned.
A small light from the cottage ahead guided her. Her knock on the door echoed as if the place was empty, but through a crack in the shutter a light – no bigger than that from a candle – brightened, as if being brought towards the door where she stood.
The latch clattered in the quiet night, disturbing an owl somewhere above her. It hooted and flapped its wings, making her feel tense and increasing her trepidation. The appearance of a white face shadowed by the flickering light added to her fear, even though she knew it was the herdsman. ‘It’s me, Madeline. Do you remember me? I visited a few years back. I came to visit Elsbeth again, but nobody is in. Do you know where she is?’
‘Oui, I remember, there are not many visitors to this part of France. We do not forget those who come. Elsbeth has gone – hounded out. The villagers thought she was spying on them.’
‘Was she hurt?’
‘No. She has gone to Paris. I am managing the farm. I have a key for the house, Mademoiselle. I know she won’t mind you staying. I’ll come and light a fire for you. Wait there, I’ll fetch some bread and milk for you.’
‘No, there is no need. I have a key . . .’
‘Mais oui – I must. There is nothing in the house.’
Unable to get out of this, she prayed Juste would keep an eye out for her from one of the windows and would see them coming, so that he knew to keep out of sight. Talking loudly as they went into the house, she asked, ‘Have you had any contact with Elsbeth since she left?’
‘No. I do not know where she is – only where she was heading. She said she would visit Gertrude and stay with her.’
Oh God, did Juste not tell Elsbeth? He said he’d visited recently, but he didn’t answer when I asked him how Elsbeth was coping . . .
‘But you, Mademoiselle, how did you get here? Where is your car?’
‘A friend dropped me off. He was coming this way, and he is the reason why I came. I am so sorry about Elsbeth. Why, oh why, did the villagers turn on her?’
‘A young man was hiding from conscription; he did not want to fight for the Germans. His family needed the money he could earn, but he was arrested. I do not believe Elsbeth had anything to do with it. I heard a rumour they thought it was her, and so I got her out.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It is nothing. I am loyal to Elsbeth, for she has seen that I and my family are well taken care of over the years. I do not look on her as a German.’
Thankful when the herdsman left, Alice called out to Juste. He’d been waiting in his bedroom. As he shook the cold from him in front of the blazing fire the herdsman had lit, Alice could wait no longer to tackle him. ‘Why, Juste? Why have you not told Elsbeth? For God’s sake, she has gone to Paris to see Gertrude!’
‘I have. Mama knows. I don’t know why she told Monsieur Fellena that.’
‘Oh. Well, maybe she hasn’t accepted it.’
‘Yes, she has. It broke her heart, but she did not know how to tell others, in case they asked too many questions and began to suspect there was more to it. I will find Mama. I know she has her favourite places in Paris, and I think she may want to be where Gertrude was last. I just don’t know if she realizes how much Paris has changed.’
‘Maybe she left a note for you somewhere?’
‘That is possible. But for now I am happy that she is safe. We should have something to eat and get to bed. We will have to leave before it is light.’
Huddled up in Gertrude’s bed, Alice once more felt the pain of her sister’s unjust death. She told herself she would not let herself give way to it. Next to her father’s photo there was now one of Gertrude. Lighting a candle near the photos had helped ease some of the pain, as had saying a prayer for them both and trying to imagine them together. ‘I will clear your names, I promise,’ she’d told the pictures. She opened the last journal and thanked God again for Alfonse having found it. Letting it take her back to a place she did not relish visiting the time leading up to her father’s arrest – she took a deep breath and turned the fragile pages:
Ralph, London, 1915
2nd November 1915: I am extremely worried as I travel home from the terrible debacle of the battle of Loos. Fifty thousand men lost and no victory to report. Even Field Marshal Haig’s plan to use gas went wrong, and ended in many casualties and seven deaths amongst our own men. Delays in the arrival of reinforcements didn’t help, and blame and suspicion are being bandied about. I have been amongst those questioned about giving information to the Germans, which has frightened me, though no one is even certain that information has been passed on. I am convinced it has, as the Germans always seem one step ahead of us and we have no way of explaining this.
The day before I left to go home they asked me to hand over all of the letters I have received whilst in France. Many were from Elsbeth. This development is giving me grave concern. I cannot wait to visit her, to warn her that she must leave Britain. As a German, she is naturally under suspicion and is being watched.
9th November 1915: I am elated, as at last I can go and see Elsbeth. It has been six months since I saw her last, just before my posting to France. Louise has been very clingy since my return – I fear she knows I have a mistress. Her distress has surprised me, and I have had to offer more comfort and reassurance than I want to. I hate lying, but then Louise has no business questioning me. It is not the place of a wife to do so. Arrangements of the nature we have are unspoken and should remain that way. I am very discreet where Elsbeth is concerned, and that is all Louise should concern herself with. She doesn’t want me, or love me. We have long since agreed that I should satisfy my needs elsewhere.
30th November 1915: I have not written for many days as I have been on the run. I will make this last entry and then put this journal into the envelope I have ready. It is addressed to my brother. Please God that Elsbeth will reach him soon. She has all my other journals, and I will instruct Philippe in a separate letter to give her this one. I will also include my last will and testament, which I am of sound mind to make.
I have seen an increased number of military police milling around Dover, where I am now holed up in a small hotel. I have done all I can to disguise myself: shaved off my hair, donned a pair of spectacles, and I will walk with a limping gait when I go out to post this.
Once that is done, I will try to get a passage to France. I will meet up with Elsbeth and we will somehow make our way down to the south of France where it is safer. But I assume the port is heavily guarded, and don’t give much for my chances.
It had been a shock to Elsbeth, as I expected it would be, to know I am under suspicion, but it fitted with some strange happenings that occurred with Captain Westlin, whom I now believe is the real traitor. She is convinced he has something to do with the net of conspiracy that I feel tightening around me. How easily such a net could be woven, as I have given myself an ally in Elsbeth.
It appears that Westlin asked Elsbeth to paint him a specific picture. At first I was mystified as to why this was significant, but she explained that all artists are being watched and some have been arrested. It is suspected, or believed, that spies are getting information to the Germans through their art; a picture can hold many clues and codes.
After Elsbeth finished painting the first picture for Westlin, she heard of two other artists who had worked for him and had then disappeared. She was afraid, especially as he had commissioned her to paint a second painting. Every detail was given specifically to her: place, angle, colour; even objects that weren’t in the actual scene were added. I am convinced that this is how Westlin is passing on information to the Germans, whilst at the same time working to uncover anyone thought to be a spy.
When I arrived at Elsbeth’s, on my return from the Somme, she took me through to her front room, where her easel stood in the window to enable her to get the best light she could. As we were looking at the commissioned picture, a flash went off outside, just as I pointed out an error that I had spotted concerning the positioning of the Tower in the scene of London Bridge. Shocked by the sudden flash, I went to look out of the window. Another flash blinded me for a moment. Once the imprint of the blue light faded from my vision, I saw a boy holding a torch and a man whom I immediately knew to be Westlin, as the light from the gas lamp caught him withdrawing from beneath the curtain over his camera. He grabbed the camera and equipment under his arm and ran off.
Running outside, I was just in time to see him round the corner from Elsbeth’s road onto another road, which I knew led to Westlin’s home. I ran with the greatest of speed and saw him take the steps in front of his house, two at a time. Despite arriving seconds later, I was told by his butler that Westlin had been in bed all day, indisposed with a heavy cold. But what worried me most – especially for my own and Elsbeth’s safety – was the presence of Brentworth in Westlin’s house.
An expert at developing pictures, Brentworth must have been ready and waiting for Westlin to get back, to start processing the film. Making an excuse, I hurried away, called in on my good friend Monsieur Alberto and begged him, with the aid of a very handsome bribe, to take Elsbeth out of the country.
I hurried back to Elsbeth and we had a swift parting. I had no time to lose. Taking the clothes I had kept at Elsbeth’s, I hailed a cab and started on the long criss-cross journey to where I find myself today.
It is with a sorry heart that I close this journal on my life. I feel there is no hope for me now. Many days ago I worked out the damning evidence against me: I keep a German mistress. I have been photographed with her and the picture must contain clues, and in my haste I did not think to destroy it. And my final act of absconding must have sealed the suspicion into a truth. I have been stupid. No one will listen to me, I am sure of that. I have loaded the gun that will execute me – but, I am innocent . . . Innocent.
Alice stared at those last words from her father. Inside she held a pain that clenched the muscles of her heart, but she dared not release it, for fear of losing her strength. Instead she reaffirmed her resolve to make her father’s story known and to tell the world that her father was innocent.
Attached to the last page was a letter, which had been opened. It was to Elsbeth. Alice hesitated, but knew Elsbeth had intended her to read it and had left it there so that she would do so:
Elsbeth, my darling,
If you receive this one day, I give you my heart forever. I have lived my happiest moments since we met. Though my dream of us being together does not now look as though it will come true, know that it is what I wanted. Know that you were the only one I loved, and that my continued life with Louise was only a ploy to keep her from a scandal she did not deserve. I hope that one day, if the worst happens, you can use this journal along with your own testament to clear my name, as I fear my capture is imminent and no one will believe me or you, at this moment in time.
Elsbeth, you looked very beautiful and quite rounded, which surprised me, as you have never put weight on before. You told me you had taken to eating more to give you comfort. It suited you, and in my arms you felt wonderful – soft, loving and sort of cushioning. But I must not continue to evoke these memories, for they give me great pain, knowing that I may never have a chance to see you again. Cherish the love I give you, but don’t mourn me forever. Rather, let me become a beautiful memory, and find – and give – happiness again.
I love you, my darling,
Yours,
Ralph x
Alice folded the letter and read the entry underneath it, which had been written by Elsbeth:
31st January 1916: I could not tell my darling Ralph that I carried his child. As there was so much danger, I did not want him distracted by knowing. I hoped never to receive this journal unless it lay in the hands of my darling Ralph as he stood in front of me, safely back together with me in France. But that was not to be. After his last entry he somehow managed to get this – his last journal – to the post office. Philippe, in an act that was out of character for him, was kind enough to bring it to me, as I wasn’t at his house by the time it arrived. I did not feel comfortable staying with him and his family, and have been staying in the farmhouse of Monsieur Alberto’s parents.
Along with the journal, Philippe brought the terrible news that ripped my heart into shreds. My darling Ralph was found guilty of treason and was shot at dawn on 20th January. His body was disposed of by fire.
Alice drew in a deep breath, swallowing the grief that threatened to engulf her. She closed her eyes. After a moment she allowed her mind to work things through.
When her father said he’d had to offer more comfort to Mother than he wanted to, did he mean he’d been forced to sleep with her? Was that when I was conceived? It must have been, because I was born at the beginning of August 1916! But why – why did Mother want Father to go to her bed, when she’d never wanted him before? Besides, she knew he was having an affair.
Thinking about it, the letter that Alice had handed over to Westlin was dated around the same time. My God! Were they having an affair – Mother and Westlin? That must be it, though Westlin did not say so; all he’d said was that he’d been in love with Mother. Maybe Mother was afraid he’d made her pregnant . . . But no, I am not Westlin’s daughter – I can’t be. I resemble the D’Oliviers too much; and Gertrude, dear Gertrude: she and I were so alike to look at, with the same-coloured eyes and hair. Our height was the same and many of our mannerisms.
Father hadn’t said in his journal that he had slept with her mother, but Alice felt sure that was what he meant – but then he wouldn’t write that, would he? Elsbeth was going to read the journal, and he’d want to protect her. Although the way he put it, it was as if he was almost repulsed at having to be with her mother. This realization sent a pang through her heart. Gertrude, as unlucky as she was in life, had been begotten out of love, whereas she had been begotten as a result of her mother’s cunning ways.
This thought threatened to overwhelm Alice. Shaking the feeling away, she concentrated on finishing the journal. There were a few more entries by Elsbeth, amongst them details of the two painters whom Westlin had asked to draw landscapes for him and who had since disappeared. Her last diary entry was:
My darling Ralph, I have given birth to our daughter, without you ever knowing that she was conceived. I had hoped to tell you when you came to me, but that never happened.
I have named her Gertrude, meaning ‘spear of strength’, as that is what our daughter will be. She will know what a good person you were and will love you, as I do. I always believed in you, my darling. Westlin is the traitor, I am sure of it. He conspired to put the blame onto you by commissioning me to paint that picture. I, being your mistress and of German birth, gave him the perfect motive to discredit you, and my paintings pulled the trigger. I am so sorry, my darling.
In a quiet moment after this it struck Alice that there was nothing of Elsbeth’s talent as an artist around this farmhouse not a single picture or any artist’s working tools. Nor was there anything in the house to reflect the presence of an artist; it was just a typical French farmhouse.
Staring at the page, Alice started to feel another sadness for Elsbeth. She too had been lost, packed away and reborn as a dutiful wife to Monsieur Alberto.
She looked over at the photo of Gertrude on the dresser. The candlelight flickering in front of it projected life onto it. ‘Gertrude, my sister, you truly were a “spear of strength” throughout your life, from the time you were a young girl, keeping strong through all that you endured – bringing yourself back from the brink of degradation and your days as a prostitute, to your time working courageously for us and your country in Herr Eberhardt’s residence. Only to suffer the worst injustice: to die the death of a traitor, just as our father did.’
Despite these words breaking her heart, Alice’s eyes remained dry as her grief was eclipsed by the sheer hatred that she felt for Westlin and the lives he had terminated or ruined. Her anger reassured her that she would never let Westlin get away with the crimes he had committed. If she couldn’t prove his guilt, she would kill him. She had the skills and the passion to enable her to take another’s life – war had given her both.