by Amy Stewart
But Norma convinced me that something had to be done about him. We don’t know how much longer this war will last, she argued, or what other schools or offices or hospitals might be established here. Is he to be allowed to steal from all of them? Who will catch him next time, and what might the punishment be?
If I turn him in, she said, I can make a plea for mercy. There might be no one to make such a plea next time.
It was only this possibility—that he might someday do far greater harm to others, and come to far greater harm himself—that convinced me to do what I did. I had to act quickly, as word of Norma’s run-in with Madame Bertrand was circulating around the village, and he would soon find out that his co-conspirator had been caught.
Here, then, is what happened: Norma, after her tussle with Madame Bertrand, picked herself up, dusted herself off, and went straight to Fernand Luverne to tell him that the American hospital would be in need of a bread delivery in the morning, as Madame Bertrand had been arrested. Fernand was delighted to hear it. Having worked in the bakery for so many years, he knew exactly how to step in and get the hospital’s order ready. Although Madame Bertrand had changed the locks when she took over the bakery, the village locksmith was a friend of Monsieur Bertrand’s and of Fernand’s, and didn’t hesitate to open the bakery for him.
The very next morning, after sitting up most of the night talking it over with Norma, I arrived early to intercept the bread delivery. I asked Mrs. Clayton to come with me, as our thief was about to be unmasked. I had no way of knowing what Gilbert knew about the events of the previous day, but this was my only chance, so I took it.
Mrs. Clayton and I were lingering nearby when Fernand arrived with the bread delivery, to be met by a panic-stricken young Gilbert who had only just begun, a few moments earlier, to hear conflicting rumors about what had befallen Madame Bertrand. He was standing with his pile of dirty linens, empty baskets, and pilfered bottles, turning this way and that, not sure what to do.
Fernand walked in and made ready to accept the little bundle. Gilbert started to back away, mumbling excuses. I knew then that we had him. (I must stop at this point and tell you that in the seconds just before his capture, a remarkable feeling of calm came over me, and I felt somehow able to see all sides of the situation at once and my role in it, as if I were a bird gliding overhead. You must know that sensation.)
I nodded at Mrs. Clayton—we’d been lurking in a corner, pretending to sort through a bin of potatoes, which no nurse would ever have reason to do but somehow we didn’t attract notice—and the two of us moved in on him at once. The poor creature was so terrified that he just crumbled. The armload of contraband fell to the floor.
There was a great deal of yelling and scuffling after that, but I wasn’t a part of it. I just clutched those stolen supplies to my chest and took the first tranquil breath I’d enjoyed in weeks. At last, this matter could be put entirely to rest.
Nothing’s been put to rest for Madame Bertrand, however, as you’ll see from the attached.
I wasn’t as brief as I meant to be. There’s such a great deal to tell!
Tendrement—
Aggie
(enclosed)
Scuffle in the Plaza Leads to Arrest
september 26—It appeared to be an ordinary trip to the post office for Madame Bertrand, who last year assumed ownership of Patisserie Confiserie following the death of her brother, Monsieur Bertrand.
She crossed the plaza carrying an armful of packages and was unsteady on her feet as a result. An American woman stationed here with the United States Army dashed across and collided with Madame Bertrand, sending both the baker and her packages to the ground.
It was soon discovered that the packages contained medical supplies stolen from the American hospital, secreted within the hollow centers of cakes whose ingredients must have been themselves smuggled or stolen, for no one in the village has been able to purchase such confections in months.
The American, who refused to give her name but was identified by others as Mademoiselle Norma Kopp, held aloft the vials and confronted Madame Bertrand. Soon American and French officers gathered about, and were joined by Constable DeCamps.
“I know these to be stolen,” declared Mademoiselle Kopp. “A nurse at the hospital has been wrongfully accused, but here is the culprit.”
Madame Bertrand, having fainted, gave no reply.
A doctor from the American hospital was summoned and revived the baker. She insisted on being escorted home, but Constable DeCamps would not have it. The postmaster, who was also by now on hand, told those gathered that Madame Bertrand had regularly been in the habit of sending packages to the same address in Belgium.
“There exists the possibility,” Postmaster Simond said, “that Madame Bertrand has engaged for some time in the practice of smuggling stolen medicines out of the hospital, and using the French post to do it, while simultaneously depriving the people of this village of such confections and baked goods as might otherwise have been available to them, and were available, prior to the death of her brother.”
Following his pronouncement, there ensued a disagreement between the constable, the American officers, and the doctor over who ought to take custody of Madame Bertrand. The constable won, having agreed (after some urging by the doctor) to bring in a nurse to sit with her all night.
She was taken immediately to jail, requiring the assistance of two American soldiers to walk upright, and remains there still.
The American officers have sent telegrams to their counterparts in Belgium to investigate the identity of the sister who received the packages. The French officers, preferring to conduct their own investigation, have done the same.
What is known at this time is that Monsieur Bertrand never mentioned a sister in Belgium. For that matter, he never mentioned a sister in Toulouse, where Madame Bertrand is said to have lived before she was summoned here following her brother’s death.
It is also not known, at this time, who wrote to Madame Bertrand to tell her that her brother had died. Every man interviewed thus far could name another man who must’ve been the one to notify her, but in actual matter of fact, none of them did.
Miss Kopp was to receive commendation from the hospital for her heroism in unmasking the scheme, but she has refused it, claiming that she merely stumbled over a cobblestone and doesn’t merit an award for that.
Constance to Norma
September 28, 1918
Dear Norma,
We haven’t had a letter from you in ages, but it’s the same for everyone here. As the fighting grows worse, the mail slows down. Our men seem to be taking the upper hand—is it possible? Dare I to hope that we’ll prevail in the Argonne?
We’re desperate for news from either of you, and particularly eager to hear that Aggie has been cleared of wrongdoing. As long as there are no urgent telegrams from either of you, we’ll hope for the best.
The enclosed is from Fleurette, who wanted to put together a package of whatever pretty and perfumed items she could come by. I hope Aggie can make good use of them. I can only imagine what a day in her hospital must be like now, with wounded men coming in droves. We just read about a train loaded with injured soldiers that had to be off-loaded during a rainstorm, the men in their stretchers simply dropped into the mud, face-up to the rain, because of a switching problem and a need to change trains. I shudder to think what condition they must be in when they arrive.
I don’t know how a bit of hand cream makes up for any of that, but we’re happy to send what we can. I hope this goes through—I hear they’re limiting packages to the soldiers, and I don’t know if the same restrictions apply to you. You’ll see that Bessie baked another trench cake, this one with apple preserves. Do you remember last year, when we picked them at the farm? You can tell Aggie all about our gnarled old apple tree, and the apples that are too tart to eat and must practically be drowned in sugar and cinnamon. We’ve told the girls at the dairy that they can have this year’s
crop, if they can figure out what to do with them. I suspect they’ll get fed to the pigs.
Did you hear that they’ve opened the draft to men aged forty-one to forty-five? You can be sure that Francis ran down to the draft board the minute it opened. He was not the only one: it was a little heart-breaking, really, to see so many eager men, most of them fathers and husbands, practically climbing all over themselves to get to France.
We don’t think there’s any possibility that Francis will be sent—you know he wheezes when he climbs a flight of stairs now, and I doubt he’s run a mile in twenty years—so Bessie only smiled and encouraged him. She saw it as a harmless fantasy and baked a particularly good Saturday pie to celebrate his enrollment. She makes the crust out of broken crackers, fills it with scraps of this and that, covers the whole in beaten eggs (from our own hens, who continue to thrive in her backyard) and any cheese she can put her hands on. It’s a far cry from our old Sunday dinners—do you remember the breasts of duck? The roasted goose?—but we devour it. It’s hard to imagine that we’ll ever go back to eating the way we used to before the war. Everything’s so plain and simple now.
Yours,
Constance
Norma to Constance
September 30, 1918
Dear Constance,
I’ve strictly forbidden Aggie from writing another word about her situation, as it is no longer a matter of petty theft, and might well be pertinent to war-time activity. I’d be surprised if the censors have allowed any of it to go through, but I cannot risk another word falling into German hands. Suffice it to say that Aggie has been reinstated in her position and the matter resolved to everyone’s satisfaction.
Now we go back to work. You must see the same news from the front that we do. Our men are advancing, but the effort is punishing and the casualties high. It isn’t unusual for Aggie to work all day and all night, then take four hours to sleep, only to return for another shift.
The wounded who reach Aggie’s hospital are the ones considered gravely injured but likely to survive. (The men who are certain to die are left at the hopeless wards near the front, as there is no use in transporting them this far.) Aggie’s patients are generally expected to pull through, but at a cost: an alarming number of them are coming back not just blind, but missing most of their faces. We now have a rope strung up around the hospital and down the main street so that they might hold on to it and walk a bit when they are able. We’ve grown accustomed to the sight of strong, young men with heads wrapped entirely in bandages. Some of them are learning to be masseurs for the mutilated men.
My work is a picnic in comparison. I’m at the fort from dawn to dusk, hovering over the incubators. We can’t hatch pigeons fast enough these days. It has only just now occurred to my commanders that it’s a waste of the Army’s resources for me to walk three miles each way to work. I won’t be run around in an auto, but I’ve been given a trap and a good horse, which I keep at the stables behind the hospital.
As ever,
Norma
Aggie to Constance and Fleurette (unsent)
October 4, 1918
Dear Constance and Fleurette,
Norma has once again refused to let me write to you and tell of all she’s done, because it concerns a military matter. I’m putting it down on paper anyway, but at her insistence I won’t mail it. I’ve made her promise to put this letter in your hands herself when she returns home. I only wish I could be there to see your faces when you find out!
Constance, Fleurette, Bessie, Francis: Your sister has caught a spy! A real spy, a dangerous criminal, a woman sought by the French authorities for two years.
It took a bit of time and a great deal of detective work on the part of the local constables and the various British, French, and American officers who got involved, but here’s what we have learned: Madame Bertrand—which is not her real name, but only one of many names by which she was known—has been carrying out her treasonous scheme by turning up in one town after another where some Allied military unit established its home, be it British, American, Canadian, Australian, and so forth. She would look for an opportunity to insinuate herself, and would then take advantage of the foreigners’ naivete to secure some kind of position, even though she was a newcomer with no sort of reputation or references. She has variously posed as a nurse, a seamstress, a baker (as you know), and she even once dressed as a man and pretended to be a chaplain. She would then proceed to steal what she could for the enemy: valuable information, medical supplies, ammunition, and even fuel.
The authorities have been looking for her for two years, but she always managed to slip away and turn up in the next town under a new name, with a new disguise. This is the first time she’s appeared more or less as herself, not bothering with a wig, glasses, or any other contrivance that might hide her identity. Perhaps she thought that her last, best disguise was to simply wear none at all, and to stay on here until the end of the war.
It was a stroke of luck on her part that Monsieur Bertrand had only just passed away and his shop was there for the taking. It’s a testament to her skill in deception that she was so readily accepted as his sister.
None of the local authorities had any idea that a lady spy was on the loose and that they ought to watch out for her. This is not a slight against the police in this village: you must understand that even here, so safely removed from the front, war can be awfully chaotic. We’re practically swimming in paperwork, much of it outdated, damaged, or simply unintelligible. It’s easy for official alerts of any kind to go unnoticed.
You must be wondering where, exactly, those pills and vials were going, and for what purpose. I’m afraid we aren’t being told much, but this is quite a small village and rumors do travel. The most credible idea is that she’s been shipping supplies to a handler in Ypres, it being the only city in Belgium not occupied by the Germans, and that from there they’d be handed over to Fritz quite easily.
Imagine: our medicines were being stolen to keep German troops alive, just as our soldiers are being deployed to kill them! Of course, I wouldn’t deny an aspirin or a clean bandage to some poor German boy who wants nothing more than to see the fighting end and to return home, just as we do. Nonetheless, it’s the worst sort of betrayal, and everyone in the village is outraged.
Norma is seen as a mastermind around town for uncovering the scheme. She can hardly walk down the street, for all the outstretched hands waiting to shake hers, and the endless expressions of gratitude. Everyone wants to hear her tell the story, although they know every word of it by heart.
Now you know the truth. When you see her again, I hope that you’ll greet her as the returning war heroine that she has become. None of us will return home just as we were before we left. This will be truer for Norma, I believe, than for the rest of us.
Tendrement—
Aggie
Aggie to Constance and Fleurette (unsent)
October 12, 1918
Dear Constance and Fleurette,
I’ve had to resort once more to writing a letter I cannot send, having received only a grunt from Norma in response to my entreaties to pass these pages on to her family upon her return.
Nonetheless—the entire village can talk of little else!
Here is what transpired.
Norma was never satisfied that we’d heard the end of Madame Bertrand’s case. After she was arrested and sent away (to some French dungeon or another, we haven’t been told), Norma kept puzzling over one question: How is it that Madame Bertrand came to arrive in our village just as Monsieur Bertrand died, and how did she know enough about him to convince the villagers that she was his sister? A spy has ways of finding things out, but—what were her ways?
Norma said very little to me about this. She ruminated over it—your sister is quite a ruminator—and from time to time I caught her muttering to herself and scribbling something down in a little note-book. She would disappear in the evenings, offering no explanation, and come home hours later, wit
h her brow furrowed, her lips pursed, and an even more exasperated air about her than before.
Unbeknownst even to me, her closest confidante, Norma was conducting her own investigation.
She was going around to the hotels and looking—sometimes with the proprietor’s permission, and sometimes without it—for Madame Bertrand’s signature in the guest registration book. Her idea was that Madame Bertrand must’ve stayed in a hotel for at least a few nights before taking possession of Monsieur Bertrand’s apartment, and perhaps someone else at that hotel might’ve remembered something.
It took Norma all week, given the reluctance of hotel desk clerks to open their registers, but eventually she examined every page of every register, starting the day Monsieur Bertrand died, and continuing for three weeks thereafter, well past the date Madame Bertrand took over the bakery.
Not a single register in town had her signature in its pages.
Norma inquired of every widow with a spare room for rent, or anyone at all who might be known to take in boarders. Everyone, of course, knows Madame Bertrand, and no one recalls renting a room to her.
Did Norma give up? You know your sister! Of course she didn’t.
After stewing over it for several nights (remember, I had no idea any of this was going on), she went back to the hotels and looked again at their registers. This time, she looked at the weeks prior to Monsieur Bertrand’s death. And this time she found Madame Bertrand—under an assumed name and disguised as a man.
She recognized the signature only because she recalled the handwriting on those packages bound for Belgium. Can you imagine, remembering a thing like that?
While you’re holding your breath—because surely by now you’ve guessed at the truth—let me quickly tell you that the constable had saved the ruined packages from that fateful day when Norma and Madame Bertrand collided on the square. However, they’d been sent off as evidence when Madame Bertrand herself was taken away. Norma therefore had no way to prove, with absolute certainty, that the writing matched.
