Noor’s room had begun to feel like a cell. She’d been out only to attend the small wedding of Henri Garry and Marguerite, and to buy food. She still hadn’t received her own radio set, and she was desperate to bring London up to date.
She leapt to her feet. Decision made. She was going to Grignon to transmit – despite what the Prof had said about not coming back. She’d dig up Norman’s set on her own if necessary. After all, she had a job to do.
Noor moved quickly, happy to get out in the warm sunshine. Germaine had lent her a bicycle, which she collected from the rack at the back of the building.
Wheeling it along the pavement, Noor stopped outside a grocery shop. There was a shortage of fresh fruit and vegetables in Paris; a queue of mainly women and old men straggled out of the shop and on to the pavement. Noor pretended to inspect the boxes of wizened turnips. Antelme had told her not to draw attention to herself, to look as normal as possible to anyone who might be watching her, and she hoped she looked like any housewife going about her business.
After a moment or two, she walked on, the bicycle wheels ticking like a speeding-up clock. A troupe of German soldiers approached, their grey-green uniforms ugly against the buildings she loved so much. Despite her thudding heart, Noor forced herself to slow down.
‘Schönes mädchen!’ one of them called out to her. ‘Belle!’
He was telling her she was beautiful. Noor smiled and tossed her head, trying to play the part of a carefree Parisienne, all the while hoping her shaking hands wouldn’t betray her, and willing the soldiers to move on.
The soldier waved and leaned in towards his friends, their heads together as they whispered and laughed.
Noor kept smiling until they’d passed. Still trying to look casual, she stopped at a bakery, and joined the queue to buy a couple of dusty rolls. She threw the bag into her basket, furtively checking that she wasn’t being watched, or followed.
She turned the corner. The street was empty apart from a very old lady polishing a brass door handle. Noor leapt on to the bike, and cycled as fast as possible towards Grignon.
The gates to the College were wide open. Nothing unusual in that. But the gravel drive was deeply rutted: heavy vehicles had driven in. The grounds looked empty, with no sign of any of the gardeners. No sign of any students either. A wheelbarrow lay tipped over on its side, plants spilled out in a messy heap. Was that the brim of Maillard’s straw hat sticking out beneath them?
Something wasn’t right. Noor got off the bike and wheeled it on to the path in the shade of the shrubbery beside the drive.
She emerged near to the main College buildings.
It took her a few seconds to take in what she was seeing: a fleet of shiny black Nazi cars in front of the College.
A guttural German voice barked from inside the building. Two heavy-set men strode out of the front door, dragging Maillard between them.
Noor flung the bike to the ground, and darted back into the shadows, hardly breathing. She made for the gates. Trying desperately not to draw attention to herself by running, she left the College and headed out on to the pavement. A bus drew up and she leapt on board, wheezing with panic.