Return to the Field

by Return to the Field (retail) (epub)

  He asked her, ‘Were you disturbed by the bombing, last night?’

  She’d been distracted for a moment: thinking about Ben, and her forehead still scarred, maybe her face too, a little…

  If he ever got to see it.

  At least he wouldn’t see her like this, thank heavens.

  ‘Bombing? Here – Morlaix?’

  ‘Everywhere, they say. Major cities all over France. In preparation for landings, they’re saying.’

  ‘Oh, may those come soon!’

  So soon that they would get a chance to take her out of here, please God… Blinking at the doctor’s anxious, tired face: imagining troops pouring ashore, investing coastal towns including this one, British soldiers taking over…

  But – in the cold light of reality – not here. Daydreams and prayers notwithstanding. Not in Brittany, with the long sea-passage. Although after landings elsewhere there might well be a German pull-out – reinforcement of wherever the beachheads were? Then it would be only a matter of time: with Free French paratroops maybe landing inland and taking the Maquis under their wing: that had been the generally anticipated scheme of things.

  Foot of the rainbow, she remembered. Me and Ben. Oh, and Lise and Noally. All of us…

  Could be weeks away yet, though. Even months.

  ‘Doctor – if the Gestapo insisted on taking me—’

  ‘There’s no question of it. I’ve insisted, more than once, that you’re in no condition to be moved. Any jar to your head, for instance, or further stress—’

  ‘Although there’s no fracture?’

  ‘They don’t know it. I can’t be certain. Thanks to them, the paucity of our equipment here—’

  ‘So they’re waiting for me to get stronger, before they—’

  ‘You need weeks of rest. Meanwhile, if there should be landings—’

  ‘If it came to a crunch, though…’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘If they really insisted.’

  ‘But they can’t!’

  ‘The Gestapo? Why, surely. Whatever pleases them. Whatever… But, doctor…’

  He’d just checked his watch. Glancing back at her: ‘H’m?’

  ‘If they interrogate me while I’m still here – that one who was here this morning, for instance.’

  ‘Difficult to prevent altogether, I’m afraid.’ He’d shrugged. ‘I can try to limit the time they spend with you, of course, but—’

  ‘Better still, wouldn’t you agree I’ve lost my memory? I have – and you must know it – don’t you?’

  ‘I know your memory was – impaired. And the period of concussion, period affected by the concussion – yes, those crucial hours—’

  ‘Wouldn’t you agree I’ve simply lost my memory? Give it as your opinion – professionally? I know it – it’s a fact. I don’t remember my own name – let alone anyone else’s, or whatever I’ve been doing?’

  He looked troubled. A hand up to his bald head, stroking it… ‘One could say – after – well, possible fracture of the skull – the fact being only that we can’t be entirely certain—’

  ‘If I’ve lost my memory – as I have – don’t you see, torturing me wouldn’t get them anywhere?’

  ‘Torturing…’

  ‘We’re talking about the Gestapo. They do use torture – didn’t you know?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. But why would—?’

  ‘I was in their hands once before. One of them was on the point of using a pair of pliers on my nipples. They’d already half drowned me – and the scars on my knees you may have noticed, they did that with a shovel. My memory’s good for all of that – you can imagine – but I want to say it isn’t, that I don’t remember anything – or maybe just bits here and there – childhood, so forth, but – nothing recent that makes any sense.’ Her eyes were more challenging than pleading: ‘You’d back me up on that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose… Although a snag is that loss of memory from such injury could be expected to be only a temporary condition. Unless there were more serious injury… Another point occurs to me – Suzanne – you have remembered your name – eh? And told them? Haven’t they been referring to you as Suzanne?’

  ‘They told me. Mentioned a surname too – one I never heard of. Oh, and Zoé – that’s another one. It’s what they call me, that’s all. Where it comes from, God knows – if they said I was Greta Garbo, I couldn’t prove I wasn’t!’

  ‘Well.’ He tried to smile, didn’t get far with it. ‘I’ll – do my best, Suzanne. As a matter of fact, I have been – as far as I’m able…’

  ‘But please, one other thing.’

  He glanced at his watch again: ‘I really must—’

  ‘I had two capsules of potassium cyanide in special pockets in my blouse. Did the sister tell you?’

  ‘I heard about it.’ He’d nodded, frowning. ‘I may say, with some degree of – shock. The pharmacist identified the poison and was told to put it down the drain.’

  ‘You knew that, but you were surprised when I said I might be tortured? What did you think the capsules might be for?’

  He spread his hands. ‘One doesn’t want to think about it – or know about it, possess information of a kind one might be – obligated to divulge… Suzanne – I haven’t asked you about yourself, have I – for instance why the Gestapo should have such interest—?’

  ‘D’you want me to tell you – the little I do remember?’

  ‘No. Please. That’s what I’m saying… Suzanne – leave it like this. If we can keep you here, and the English and Americans land soon—’

  ‘I’m praying for that too. And – thank you. But listen – isn’t there a chance the pharmacist might have used only one capsule for analysis, and kept the other?’

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘As a curiosity?’

  ‘If he had, he wouldn’t admit to it. Or surrender it. Nor would I ask for it – if that’s what you were going to suggest. Look, I’m sorry, I have to leave you now…’

  He was doing his best for her. He was also overworked and had to contend with dire shortages even of such basic things as bandages and aspirin tablets. Bandages were laundered and used over and over again. But he was a decent man, she knew it. In fact needed to know it, to have people – him and the ward sister – whom one could trust, regard as friends.

  Because otherwise she was lost, here. That was how it felt. Barely knowing herself: knowing also very little of what was happening or might be about to happen, only that she was as much in the Gestapo’s hands as she would have been in one of their prisons – which was where she would be in any case when eventually they took her out of here. The cyanide had been one hope, and making as much as possible of her loss of memory was another: but that was about as slender as a hope could be. All right for now, today, tomorrow maybe, but sooner or later she’d either give herself away or they’d simply lose patience.

  Catching her mind slipping then again. Loss of memory was the straw to cling to until Allied forces landed and the whole picture changed. That was the hope, the combination of those two things. Getting it straight in her thinking – as she had again now – made things a lot better. It made sense, truly was a viable hope, an answer to what at other times felt like a dead-end situation: you had to hold on to it, and say your prayers.

  And talk to Ben, quite often. Promising to be with him soon. Or at least, eventually. She dreamt about him sometimes, actually tried to, tried to fall asleep with him in her mind.

  * * *

  It was three days before the one called Hammerling came back. That morning early she’d told the sister when she’d still been half asleep, ‘Everything’s going to be all right in the end, it really is.’ This was part of her routine, waking-up procedure, searching her mind for that solution to her problems – loss of memory plus invasion soon – but she’d happened to say it aloud, and the little nun had taken one of her hands in her own two smaller ones, murmured, ‘Of course it is. It wil
l be. God does hear our prayers, Suzanne. Now, let me help you to sit up…’

  Because moving still hurt her head and neck.

  Hammerling came in mid-morning, and brought a younger Gestapo colleague with him, a lieutenant by name of Greber. She’d heard his name mentioned before but was fairly sure this was the first time she’d seen him. At a distance he looked quite normal – for a German – with close-cropped fair hair, regular features and a slim, athletic build – but in close-up any such impression was let down by his eyes. If she’d had to describe them she’d have said they were like a snake’s: an absolute frigidity, reptilian, icy hardness. Nothing they saw would affect them or the brain behind them to any degree at all.

  He was at the foot of the bed, with a notebook and pencil ready. Hammerling opening the interview – straddling a chair beside her – by asking her whether she knew what day it was, and she told him – with some effort of concentration – ‘Yes. The fifth of June.’

  ‘And what day of the week?’

  ‘Is it – Monday?’

  ‘Very good. Memory’s on the mend, eh?’

  ‘The sister told me – just before you came.’

  Best to give a correct answer sometimes. Having no memory one might have no awareness of the extreme danger of recovering it. Therefore one would want to recover it. And it had been the ward sister who’d told her the day and date: she’d also whispered to her that Allied forces had taken Rome yesterday, and that during the night there’d been exceptionally heavy bombing of German coastal defences around Boulogne.

  This fish-eyed bastard didn’t know she knew that.

  He’d just told her, ‘Blowing a gale, outside. No attempt at invasion this week, eh?’

  Blinking at him. It was a fact that the wind was rattling the windows. The hospital was on high ground here, someone had told her, and particularly exposed to blows from the northwest. She glanced at the other German: and beyond him to where the head and shoulders of the soldier on duty on the landing were framed for a moment in the glass top of the swing doors, peering in at them. The guard was changed every two hours, she’d noted. She asked Hammerling, ‘Was there reason to expect an invasion this week, then?’

  ‘Oh, not necessarily. They’ll try it some time soon, though. When they do, they’ll be repulsed, we’re more than ready for them. We have a few surprises in store for them, too. But I’m not here to gossip, I’ve some questions for you, that’s all. First of all—’ he was delving in a patch-pocket – ‘tell me who this is, please.’

  Photograph in a scuffed leather frame: Daniel Miossec. So they’d ransacked Peucat’s house. Obviously they would have. A crucial point which might emerge now was whether they’d found her transceiver and codes.

  She’d shut her eyes. ‘His name was – Daniel. He was my fiancé.’

  You had to remember some things. That was the right kind – she hoped. Fairly distant, and with emotional aspects, deeply embedded…

  ‘Are you saying the engagement was broken off?’

  ‘He was killed in a bombing attack on Brest. Long time ago.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know. Remember. Years, though. Two, maybe.’

  ‘And his surname?’

  Eyes shut. Squeezing out a tear. The difficulty and pain she’d had in believing in her father’s death. That frightful, irrevocable loss and emptiness, total finality: and her mother’s immediate, even brisk preparations for their return to England. It had obviously been a contingency for which she’d been ready, despite Papa having been still quite young.

  ‘Began with “M”.’ Sniffing. ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘You’ve been working for a doctor by name of Henri Peucat – in the village of St Michel-du-Faou. Is that correct?’

  Still damp-eyed, blinking. She sniffed again. ‘Have I?’

  ‘You’re a British agent, employed by what they call Special Operations Executive, and you’re a wireless operator or pianist. Where did you hide your radio apparatus?’

  Good old Henri. If it had been under that attic floorboard still they’d have found it. She glanced – frowning – at the one with snake’s eyes. Back at Hammerling.

  ‘If I ever had such apparatus—’

  ‘D’you take me for a fool?’

  ‘But I don’t know!’

  He didn’t either, she thought. That shout had been a symptom of frustration, baffled fury, the fact he couldn’t be sure about her memory – whether or not she was lying, acting, whether he was being made a fool of.

  The other one had made some notes. Hammerling let out a noisy sigh.

  ‘Let’s see what you do remember. And let me advise you that it’s very much in your own interests to cooperate with us to the best of your ability. We have no wish to harm you, none whatsoever. In fact I’d prefer to leave you to make a full recovery before questioning you at all. It happens to be urgent, unfortunately, we need answers now… D’you understand me?’

  ‘Not exactly. I hear what you’re telling me, but—’

  ‘How did you come to be working as an assistant to Dr Peucat?’

  ‘I – I’ve no recollection of any such—’

  ‘Oh, God damn it!’

  ‘– of anyone of that name or – of working for him. Or with this – any of this—’

  ‘You went by the name of Suzanne Tanguy, and a man whom you duped into working for you as an informer knew you as “Zoé”. Remember his name?’

  ‘I can’t say I—’

  ‘Never mind.’ A glance at the lieutenant. ‘What was it?’

  ‘François le Guen.’

  ‘But you don’t remember him, eh?’

  She shook her head. ‘The doctor told me loss of memory should be only temporary. If I did know such a person – well, I don’t now, that’s all. You know more than—’

  ‘How did you come to be in the car that crashed?’

  She shut her eyes.

  ‘The man driving it was an enemy agent – like you. Name of—’

  ‘Michel Prigent.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Prigent met you at a farm outside Quimper, where you were expecting to meet this other person – le Guen. The background to your flight with Prigent however was that le Guen had told our colleagues in Quimper the whole story – your plot to arrange for the murder of very senior naval officers. That failed – completely, let me tell you. Although other lives were lost – thanks to you and to your accomplices – whose names you’ll give us, by and by. Can you remember any of them now?’

  She moved her head slowly from side to side. There was relief in their sticking to the Quimper scenario. Nothing about the photograph – as yet. Drawn blank in their researches, maybe. Please God, drawn blank…

  ‘Lannuzel, for instance?’

  Greber had asked that. She opened her eyes: ‘None of it makes any sense. Nothing you’ve said.’

  ‘The man driving the car – Prigent – he left you for dead. Ran away, saved his own skin. D’you think you owe him anything?’

  ‘I don’t think – or know – or – know him.’

  ‘You knew where you and he were going, though. Where he would have made for when he left you there. That’s another thing you’ll tell me. Where do you think you and he might have been heading for?’

  She was limp. Eyes shut. Hammerling leant forward, shouted down at her: ‘D’you hear me, damn you?’

  ‘Messieurs.’ The doctor’s voice: quiet, but steady. ‘This patient is still a long way from full possession of her mental faculties. If you want her to be able to help you with your investigations later – well, I appreciate that your enquiries may be urgent, but—’

  ‘Extremely urgent, doctor!’

  ‘Well, I’m sure… But – excuse me, Herr Major.’ He was beside the bed, the other side from Hammerling. ‘If I might show you – what I suspect is the case?’

  Rosie felt his fingers close on her wrist and raise it, lifting the arm. She stayed limp, let its weight hang. Breathing lightly, evenly. Th
e doctor let go, let the arm fall: like a dead person’s might, a deadweight flopping down.

  ‘D’you see?’ He glanced up, at both of them. ‘It’s more a return to coma, than sleep. I’m frankly concerned…’

  * * *

  They were back next morning much earlier than they’d been before. Rosie had had her morning wash, assisted by one of the young trainee nurses, and was waiting for the ward sister to come and renew the dressings on her head. Head fairly spinning meanwhile: the girl had whispered to her that rumours were flying about intensive Allied air activity over the whole northern coast during the night, also – if one could let oneself believe it – that there’d been parachute-drops in various places. Places all unspecified – of course… But seeing the Germans arrive then, so early, she had a sickening thought that there might be a connection, that they might have come to take her.

  Although why they should – even if those rumours were true…

  They were both in uniform – the sickening Gestapo black. Hammerling holding one of the pair of doors open, talking to the guard. Uniformed perhaps because it was so early: maybe they got up like that – for parade, or something?

  He was coming on into the ward now. Greber following, catching the door as it swung back. Hammerling swaggering: felt more like his heroic self in uniform, no doubt. Boots. Swastika insignia. Bastard…

  Staring at her with an air of triumph, as he halted beside the bed.

  ‘We have more names for you now!’

  Glancing down the ward – where the sister had poked her head between the curtains. She’d have heard them – the clash of the doors, and the men’s boots loud on the wood floor, Hammerling’s voice; she was approaching in her own entirely different manner, quick little steps in soft, almost soundless slippers. Like a little mouse… Hammerling turned as Greber arrived beside him, snatched a cardboard file from him and waved it at her…