The Spark of Resistance: Women Spies in WWII

by Sergeant, Kit

  Sardanapalus rubbed his forehead. “So be it. If Armand wants to have a woman as his second-in-command, I suppose he could do worse than hire the likes of you.”

  Mathilde refrained from pointing out that she was actually on equal footing with Armand as head of the network. She leaned forward. “Now, about these secret inks.

  For the next week, Mathilde met every day with Sardanapalus. He taught her the ins and outs of espionage, including the fundamentals of Morse code and the importance of pseudonyms.

  “Mine will be ‘The Cat,’” Mathilde said without hesitation.

  Sardanapalus nodded. “Very fitting.” He picked up an onion and handed it to her. “Peel this while I juice an orange.”

  “This seems like the makings of an extraordinarily distasteful lunch,” she replied.

  He gave her a scornful glance. If I were to give him a new code name, it would be Sardonic-palus, simply from the looks he gives me, Mathilde thought.

  He mixed the onion peel into the orange juice with a paintbrush before handing her the brush and a sheet of paper. “Write something down on this.”

  She did as he bid as he continued, “Instruct your contacts to run an iron over this seemingly blank piece of paper, and voila, everything you’ve written will be revealed.”

  Mathilde stared in wonder at the bare sheet. It was true: her painted words had disappeared.

  Later that night she tried ironing the paper, and it was just as Sardanapalus had said. “Interallié” appeared in her own flowery handwriting, and underneath that, “The Cat + Toto.”

  On her last day of training, before Mathilde was to return to Paris, Sardanapalus cautioned her to never let Armand out of her sight. “One never knows what goes on in the heads of foreigners,” he stated dryly.

  “Oh, I trust Toto—Armand—implicitly.”

  He frowned. “Have you learned nothing? Never trust anyone implicitly, especially not a hot-headed Pole.”

  Her lips curled into a fake smile. “You’re right, of course, Captain. I regret that I am leaving, for I’m sure you have much more knowledge to impart.”

  He waved his hand. “I’ve taught you as much as I can. The rest you will learn on your feet.”

  She practically floated back to the hotel, her steps lightened by the prospect of seeing Armand again in only a few days’ time, and officially beginning their collaboration.

  “Ah, Madame Carré,” the desk clerk proclaimed when she entered the lobby. “You have a visitor.”

  “Is it Monsieur Borni?” she asked, the hope obvious in her voice.

  “No. Monsieur Carré has come to call. Your husband, I believe,” he added unnecessarily.

  In the corner of the lobby, a man, much leaner and harder than she remembered, arose from her favorite chair.

  “Maurice.” Mathilde’s voice was barely above a whisper. “How did you find me?”

  “Your father, of course. You know he always keeps tabs on you.”

  She silently cursed Papa and his old-fashioned sense of chivalry. “I take it you have been given leave.”

  “I have.” Maurice glanced nervously around the lobby. “Shall we adjourn to your private accommodation?”

  The last thing Mathilde wanted was to be alone in a room with her husband, but she acquiesced anyway.

  “France is lost,” Maurice declared once his wife had handed him a whiskey. He sank onto the bed. “You must come back with me to North Africa. We will take up our lives as we did before the war.”

  “You cannot be serious.” She poured herself a generous helping of sherry before seating herself primly in an armchair. “Great Britain will aid us in our fight. France must not give in fully to the Nazis.”

  “No, Lily, you are wrong. The Nazis are the new world-order and Britain will eventually lose. If they were smart, they would conform to Hitler’s regime just the way France has.”

  For the second time that day, Mathilde resorted to her fakest, widest smile. Her husband had never been one to fight, always wanting to take the easy, cowardly way out. So different from Toto. “If you want me to go with you, I must collect my things from Paris.”

  “Of course.” He patted the space beside him on the bed. “I’ve been waiting so long for you.”

  She considered telling him she’d mentally ended their relationship when he went off to war. They had been living in scorching Oran at the time, and as she stood on the pier of the North African port, the sea seemed as infinitely blue as the sky above. She’d hated North Africa—as she’d told Maurice, she was always ‘bored, bored, bored’—and almost even welcomed the thought of war when Hitler began his relentless annexation of Europe. Maurice had been given the choice between shipping off to Syria or the Western Front. The fact that he had chosen Syria, where he would most likely never see any action, made him seem even more spineless in her eyes. She herself had always lived for adventure and unpredictable situations. Maurice had not known it, but Mathilde had decided right then on the pier that she would declare her husband dead and join the fight on the Western Front as a nurse.

  In her mind, their marriage had been over for nearly two years, but there was no sense in getting into it now. “I’m sorry, Maurice, but it is my time of the month. We cannot lay together as husband and wife right now.”

  His face sank, his underdeveloped chin tucking even more into his neck. Mathilde resisted the urge to slap him. “Actually, I suppose I might as well go back to Paris as soon as possible,” she stated casually. “Tonight would be as good as time as any.”

  Maurice choked on his drink. “Now? You know how difficult it is to move past the demarcation line.”

  “I have papers. Remember, I used to work as a nurse.” She forced her voice to take on a soothing tone. “And you should stay here. Relax. Take in the waters tomorrow, and the next day, while you wait for me to return.”

  Maurice nodded, his eyes heavy from exhaustion. “Yes, and then we will continue our lives the way we did before the war.”

  After she’d hastily packed her bag, Mathilde left her sleeping husband for the last time. She planned to contact a lawyer to draw up divorce papers as soon as she returned to Paris.

  Chapter 5

  Odette

  Odette hurried through the London streets, late as usual, wishing she had more time to enjoy the bustle of the city, which was so different from quiet Somerset. The skyline was familiar enough, after all, she’d lived there for almost five years, but she was unaccustomed to the multiple bombed-out basements and scarcely-standing buildings still bearing their Blitz scars.

  The address she was given was the Victoria Hotel, a once opulent building which had clearly been requisitioned for the Ministry of War; its intricately tiled floors were now scuffed and the brocade wallpaper faded.

  The man behind the desk in Room 238 looked to be in his early 40s, with graying hair and soft brown eyes. His impeccably-cut suit contrasted with the surroundings: a small dusty room, empty apart from his desk and chair and another hard-backed chair placed across from him.

  He gestured for her to sit and, after introducing himself as Captain Selwyn Jepson, stated in French, “At Major Guthrie’s request, we’ve made some inquiries into your past, and we are quite sure that you will make a good fit for our new program.”

  “Inquiries?” Odette plopped into the rickety chair. “What do you mean? I wanted to help out, so I sent some photographs to the War Office, and here you are, digging into my deepest secrets.” She meant the comment to come off lightly but Jepson bristled anyway.

  His face was stern as he replied, “I assure you, we’ve only uncovered enough information to establish that you are exactly what we need.”

  “Captain,” Odette’s eyes traveled around the sparse room but there was nothing on the bare walls to indicate what she was getting into. She settled her gaze back on Jepson. “Who do you think I am? It sounds as though you are recruiting me to be some kind of secret agent. I can do no such thing: I’m a war wife and a mother of th
ree.”

  He lifted a pen out of an inkwell only to set it back down. “Our biggest obstacle thus far has been the language barrier. There are not many Britons that can speak fluent French—and those that attempt to go over without a proper accent often don’t come back. What we really need is someone who was born in France, who knows the territory, the customs, all the little subtleties that only a native would.”

  She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. “I’m sure there are plenty of French men who found themselves in England before the invasion happened.”

  “Yes, that is so. But women can move about France far more freely than men at this point in time.”

  “You mean with the Nazis occupying Paris, I take it?”

  He nodded. “How do you feel about Nazis?”

  “I hate them. Doesn’t everyone?”

  He steepled his hands. “Do you hate all Germans?”

  “I suppose not. Just those that sympathize with Hitler. The other Germans are to be pitied.”

  “But some of those very same Germans killed your father.”

  She paused before answering in a quiet voice, “You’ve done your research quite well, Captain. Yes, my father was killed at Verdun.” She pinched the palm of her hand, trying to suppress the tears that were threatening.

  Jepson must have sensed that a change in subject was needed. He picked up a sheet of paper. “I have your files from the convent school you attended. The nuns said you were intelligent and respectful, with the exception of occasionally demonstrating a rebellious spirit.”

  Odette couldn’t figure Jepson out. Was this an official interview or not? At any rate, it was a simple enough task to provide him with the information he seemed to be seeking. “I had polio at seven, where I temporarily lost both the use of my legs and my eyesight. When I finally was whole again, I promised myself I would live life to the fullest.” She nodded at the file. “Occasionally that meant disobeying the nuns.”

  “How long were you blind?”

  “Almost three years. The doctors told Mother I would never see again, but she refused to give in to that diagnosis. She took me to what our neighbors in provincial France would call a ‘witch doctor,’ but, sure enough, he eventually cured me.”

  “You must have developed incredible senses to compensate for your lack of eyesight during that time.”

  “If you say so.” She gave him a hesitant smile. “What exactly would you have me do, Captain Jepson?”

  “How would you like to go to France and take on the Nazis?”

  “You cannot be serious. I can’t just jump on a boat and travel across the Channel.”

  “No, but we have other ways of inserting our agents into occupied zones. If such a thought interests you.”

  “It does not interest me at all, Captain. As I’ve mentioned and as you’ve probably read, I have three young daughters.”

  “Françoise, Lily, and…” he picked up the file. “Marianne.”

  “Yes. And, seeing as their father has already gone off to fight the Nazis, they need me more than ever.” He did not reply, so she continued, “It’s not that I don’t love France—I do—but my home is here now.”

  He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “So you are content to just stand by and watch your native country succumb to terrorists?”

  “I am more than willing to do my part, as long as that does not include marching straight into enemy territory, and leaving my girls without a mother. Despite what that might say,” she gestured toward the file, “I am not the right person for that type of work.”

  Jepson sat back in his chair. “I think you are. And before we send you ‘marching into enemy territory,’ we would have you undergo a rigorous training, where we would certainly determine whether I am right… or you are.”

  She stood. “Thank you for your confidence, but I am afraid I have to decline your offer.”

  Jepson escorted her to the door before handing her a piece of paper. “That’s my direct number, should you change your mind. And God help the Nazis if you do.”

  His final statement echoed in Odette’s head as she walked toward the train station. How could Jepson think a woman like her could do anything to the Nazis? She didn’t possess any extraordinary abilities; she wasn’t an athlete or a genius, and she was definitely not capable of the brute strength it would take to do the sort of things he suggested.

  Travel to France, Odette thought, an amused smile forming. Me. But the smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. What if everyone thought as she did? What if Churchill or de Gaulle decided they couldn’t defeat Germany and let Hitler roll over the rest of Europe as Marshal Petain did in France? The train arrived, cutting off her thoughts, and she stepped aboard.

  She stared out the window as the train passed her favorite park. It was barely recognizable: the ornate iron fence had been removed, probably in order to forge more Allied weapons, and most of the green lawn had been turned into vegetable gardens to grow food for the soldiers. She forced away all of the questions that were dancing through her mind, determined to only focus on what she would make her girls for dinner that night.

  For the next few weeks, the mail brought more bad news: the Nazis had officially confiscated her mother’s home, her wounded brother had developed an infection, and her husband Roy had been shipped to the North African front. When Mother phoned to tell her that some of Odette’s childhood friends had been captured and sent to internment camps, it was the last straw.

  As Odette hung up the phone, tears formed in her eyes. She went to the kitchen window to watch her girls play tag underneath the large willow tree in the front yard. Here she was, cowering in the safety of Somerset while the Allies were fighting to keep her children—and the rest of the world—free. Could she really be content with watching other people sacrifice everything while she herself did not even lift a pinky for the war?

  But I’m not that courageous. Not like my father. Her mind flashed to another willow tree, this one in France, next to where Father was buried. Her grandfather used to take Odette and her brother to visit their unknown father’s grave every Sunday and tell them stories about how he was as a child. One day Odette finally worked up the courage to ask how he had died.

  “He survived the Battle of Verdun, unlike most,” Papi replied in his strong voice. “But after your father had returned to camp, he found out that two men in his squadron were missing. He went back to the front line to search for them, only to be slain by a German machine gun.”

  Louis had begun whimpering and Odette’s face crumpled as she stared at the dirt beneath Father’s gravestone.

  “Don’t you cry. That was the type of man your father was… willing to sacrifice himself to save others.” He dug out a medal from his pocket. “Look here. This is the Croix de Guerre. They gave it to me after he died. Only France’s bravest receive medals like this.”

  Louis, his tears forgotten, reached out to touch the medal.

  Papi hung it around Louis’s neck. “Someday there will be another world war, an even bigger one, and it will be your duty, and yours too, Odette,” he paused until she met his eyes, “to be as fearless as your father was.”

  Papi’s words echoed through her head now as she walked to the telephone. She knew what she had to do: contact Jepson and let him know she was willing to do the training. In her mind, failure was inevitable. Once they realized she was no spy, she could return home satisfied that she had at least tried.

  A few days later Odette left the girls with family before once again boarding a train to London. Jepson had instructed her to meet with the head of SOE’s French section, Major Maurice Buckmaster.

  This time she made her way to 6 Orchard Court in the West End. The large limestone building with Greek columns was just off Baker Street, behind Selfridges, and looked nothing like what she had pictured.

  A tall man in a dark gray suit answered the door. He stepped aside and gestured for Odette to come in, though he never asked for her name. He le
d her down the art deco style hallway, the sweeping ferns nearly touching the parquet floors, to an equally ornate apartment door. After unlocking it, he ushered her inside. “Please wait here,” he told her in a deep voice.

  “In the bathroom?”

  He nodded as he shut the door, locking her in. Odette walked across the plush pink carpeting and sat gingerly on the side of the bathtub, an enormous onyx one, in the most unusual waiting room she’d ever encountered.

  A few minutes the butler returned and guided her to the office, where a trim, clean-shaven man was seated. He rose as the butler left and came over to pump her hand as though she were his mate about to engage in a game of squash. “Mrs. Sansom, I’m delighted you’ve come.”

  Odette tried not to show how taken aback she was at his casual manner. “Thank you, Major Buckmaster.”

  “You can call me Buck.” Introductions concluded, he sat on the corner of the large desk, his thin legs dangling in front of her. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “I’m sure you’ve been informed that I have three children.”

  “Children? My God, you do not look old enough to have children.”

  Odette smiled sheepishly. “I may appear young, but in my thirty years on this Earth, I’ve been through a lot.” She told him of overcoming polio and rheumatic fever as a child.

  “There are even more risks as an agent of the SOE,” Buckmaster cautioned her. “It takes a toll on both your body and your mind. You will have to live a double life, lying to the majority of people you will meet. And if you get caught, there is not much we can do to save you, for doing so could compromise the entire operation.”