The Spark of Resistance: Women Spies in WWII

by Sergeant, Kit

  “Does that happen?” Odette inquired.

  “Yes. Two men today, in fact. Started weeping like babies. Don’t bother,” he said as Jackie and Odette searched the room, looking for tell-tale guilty expressions. “They’ve already been sent on.”

  “To France?” Jackie covered her mouth with a giggle. “No, I suppose not.”

  “No,” Roger agreed. “They’ll find places for them in other, less secret areas of F Section. Secretarial or Morse work, most likely.”

  “Not back to their ordinary lives?” Jackie asked.

  He shook his head and Jacqueline murmured something that sounded like, “Good.”

  “You’ll thank us for all this training, eventually,” Roger said. “For setting such a high standard. It means anyone who is in your spy circuit has gone through similar trials, passed with flying colors and is as reliable as you are.” He turned to Jackie. “I received an application just the other day from someone with the same last name as you, and I’m told you’re their next of kin in England.”

  “My sister,” Jackie said. Then, in a halting voice, she begged Roger not to take her on. “She’s too impulsive, too stubborn. She might make it through the training all right, but she wouldn’t last more than a minute out in the field.”

  “Stubborn seems about right: she’s already been rejected twice, though she’ll probably keep applying. And anyway, stubbornness isn’t necessarily a bad thing in this line of work.”

  “Please,” Jackie reached out to touch his sleeve. “Can you tell her that she’s too young?”

  Roger studied her face for a moment before nodding.

  “Hallo, Rog, what do you have here?” The Adonis, looking even more flushed than he’d been on the tennis courts, stumbled his way across the parlor to join them. “Picked out the two loveliest birds in the room to chat up, didn’t you?”

  Roger smiled apologetically at Odette and Jacqueline. “This is Captain Mackintosh. He once trained here as well, but it was determined that the best cover story in the world could never hide his English accent and mannerisms, so we kept him on as an instructor. We call him Mac.”

  Mac took a long sip of his drink. “That’s right, I failed, and here I am now, training damsels in distress.” He raised his finger toward Odette, nearly toppling over from the effort. “This one damn near soiled her knickers this morning.”

  “That’s not true.” Odette forced her voice to remain calm, thinking that this might be yet another test. “Major de Wesselow said I did well.”

  “You did a somewhat adequate job, for a woman.” He pointed at her again, only slightly steadier this time. “But you nearly blew your cover. You do that in front of the Boches, you’re going to get yourself killed. And everyone else in your circuit too. I suppose you’ve heard of Hitler’s newest decree: that anyone caught in an act of sabotage will be handed over to the SS for torture and then death.” He grimaced, his beautiful face contorting grotesquely. “This is the exact reason they shouldn’t allow women in this program. They’re too emotional—that porcelain veneer of yours cracks easily.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Jacqueline said simply before she walked off, clearly believing this repugnant man was not worth her time.

  Odette had also had enough and was not about to stand down this time. She stuck her finger directly into Mac’s chest, forcing him to take a wobbly step backwards. “We women are going to become agents, whether you like it or not. And we will spark the resistance that brings down the Nazis, you’ll see.”

  As Roger led Mac away, Odette’s words echoed in her own head. It was abundantly clear to her now that she did have the strength that Buckmaster, Miss Atkins, and Jepson all believed she did. I will agree to go to France, she decided. Now all they have to do is ask me.

  As if reading her mind, the next day, Major de Wesselow informed Odette that Major Buckmaster had driven out to New Forest to have a talk with her.

  “Well, Céline, I’ve received the final summary of your training,” Buckmaster said by way of greeting.

  “And?” She wiped her hands on her trousers, suddenly nervous that they had deemed her inadequate.

  “It’s not as good as I would have liked.”

  She narrowed her eyes, thinking that the appalling Captain Mackintosh probably had something to do with her report. “What did he—they—say about me?”

  “They said you have determination, but you are temperamental, sometimes without the clarity of mind that is required to get you out of dangerous situations.” His lips turned up into what almost resembled a smile. “They also said your main weakness is ‘a complete unwillingness to admit that she could ever be wrong.’”

  She could feel the blood drain from her face. She’d come so far, and to be declared a failure now, after all of the trials she’d just been through, seemed almost cruel.

  Buckmaster’s expression softened. “Would you be terribly disappointed if I recommend you for coding work here in England?”

  “Coding?” Her hands tightened into fists. “No. I want to go to France.”

  “Do you? Have you officially changed your mind?”

  She sank into a chair. “You knew I was hesitant?”

  “Of course I knew. That’s my job. But I can also see that you have a certain determination about you. You aren’t going to let anyone else tell you that you can’t do something.” He tapped an unlit cigarette on the desk. “Don’t bear too much of a grudge toward Captain Mackintosh—he was only going off the script I gave him.”

  Odette felt slightly duped. Even blockheads like Mac were not who they pretended to be. “Major Buckmaster, I won’t fail you. That I can promise.” She leaned forward. “Who would you rather have in the field, someone who is willing to bow down to the Boches or someone with an unshakeable moral compass, a person who refuses to admit she is wrong because she knows she isn’t? Someone with that ‘certain determination’ you so readily perceived?”

  He sighed. “I suppose there is no use in doing things by the book.”

  She sensed that she had hit her mark. “Is there a book?”

  The smile appeared with full force this time. “No. Not yet, anyway.” He reached out his hand. “Congratulations, Agent Céline. You have become a fully-fledged member of the SOE.”

  Odette shook his hand.

  “We will start the process of getting you a new identity and passport. The time is approaching, so make sure to get your arrangements made.”

  She knew he was referring to her family. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 11

  Mathilde

  Interallié obtained intelligence from people in all walks of life—dockmasters reported German submarine and ship arrivals while farmers watched truck convoys driving across the countryside and street-sweepers picked up on which hotels were hosting the Gestapo. All of this information was sent across France to Mathilde’s Parisian network of letter boxes. Each afternoon she would travel to different areas of the city and retrieve the dispatches. She would then cull the most pertinent findings and type them up, always beginning with her signature greeting, “The Cat Reports….” to be communicated to the SOE in London.

  René Aubertin paid a visit to the Colonel Moll apartment soon after they moved in, to inform Mathilde of Uncle Marco’s latest coup. Industrial chemist that he was, Uncle Marco had created an acid solution to remove the bonding from the cement mortars in an underground hangar, resulting in the collapse of the entire airport wing.

  René was just finishing his story when Armand walked in. As Armand had never officially met René, Mathilde gave them a proper introduction over cups of tea. As she filled Armand in on the latest news, René cast his eyes around the living room. “Do you think those are wise?” he asked when she’d finished, nodding toward Armand’s collection of maps pasted all over the walls.

  Armand frowned. “They keep track of the Boches’ every movement, from sea to land to air.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” René held up a hand in co
nciliation. “They are amazingly well kept, but I’m not sure they are exactly discreet.” He nodded toward the door. “Mathilde told me you have Gestapo neighbors. Suppose they take a wayward glance inside? Something like that could get you thrown in Fresnes Prison with no questions asked. Not before you’re arrested, anyway. I hear the Gestapo are quite efficient with their interrogations once you’re their prisoner.”

  Armand seemed agitated by the comment and inched forward in his chair. “You and Mathilde have been friends forever, and—I would imagine—it would be hard to trust a stranger such as myself. If it helps, I will gladly tell you my real name and how I came to work with Mathilde.”

  René nearly spit out his tea. “For God’s sake, don’t do that. The less information you have about the people you’re working for, the better.”

  Just then Marcel, their radio operator, let himself into the apartment using the key Armand had supplied him. After introducing himself to René, Marcel picked up Mathilde’s latest report and then went into the little room he used to transmit.

  René set down his cup. “Forgive me for asking another question, but is it prudent to send out your radio transmissions from the same apartment you are living in?”

  “Transmitting here is better than having Marcel traipse around the city after curfew,” Armand replied tersely.

  “It’s just that the Boches have gotten wind of the Resistance. They’re cognizant of the fact we’re sending out secret messages, and their detection vans are more ubiquitous than ever. I would hate for them to pick up Marcel’s signal.”

  Armand loudly drained his tea before replying. “Rest assured, Marcel is an expert in avoiding detection.”

  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, with Mathilde racking her brain for a neutral subject to discuss, Marcel headed into the kitchen and began searching through the cabinets. “Have you any champagne?”

  “No,” Mathilde said rising, grateful for the disruption. “But I think there is a sparkling white wine somewhere around here.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Armand asked.

  Marcel handed Armand his latest decoded message while Mathilde scrounged up four wine glasses.

  “It’s a congratulations from London,” Marcel stated, the pride obvious in his voice. “They want us to know our intelligence is being received and the RAF is taking action immediately.”

  Armand beamed down at the little square paper. “Well, isn’t that something?”

  Mathilde handed him his wine first, not missing the inquiring glance he shot at René. It was obvious Armand was seeking approbation for his wounded ego.

  René bestowed his characteristic smirk on them as he held up his glass. “To Interallié.”

  “To Interallié,” the other three repeated.

  The next day Mathilde took a break from traveling between letter boxes to have a cup of coffee in the café across from the Montparnasse station. She was warming her cold hands indulgently on the coffee mug when the chair in front of her was abruptly pulled out. “May I join you?” a German officer asked in halting French.

  By the time she removed one hand from her mug to gesture to the chair, the officer had already settled into it. He had no food or drink in front of him. “If you don’t mind, Fräulein, I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Of course,” Mathilde set her cup down. “Only if I can inquire something of you first.”

  “By all means.”

  “You are wearing the uniform of an officer of the Luftwaffe but I don’t seem to recognize the markings on your shoulder. Are you a flier?”

  “No,” he replied proudly. “I’m what you call—how do you say it in French—a Colonel of the Materials section. I’m responsible for the Luftwaffe supplies for the whole of the Bordeaux area.”

  “You are a long way from Bordeaux. What brings you here?” Mathilde tried to take a casual sip of coffee. Was it possible his presence had something to do with Interallié? Was he a member of the Gestapo, come to arrest her?

  “I’m here on leave, and I was hoping you could instruct me on where to buy a box of tennis balls.”

  “Oh.” She shot him a genuine smile. “Of course.”

  The German flagged down a waiter and requested a coffee, obviously not planning on leaving any time soon. As he waited for his order, he told Mathilde his life story: that he was the son of an important businessman in Stuttgart and, ever since he was a student in Paris, greatly admired the French culture.

  “Yes, but what will happen to that Parisian culture now that your country has annexed our city?”

  “Don’t you see?” he leaned forward. “Paris is going to become part of the new and glorious Europe the Führer is creating. Thus far, his master plan has proceeded flawlessly.”

  Mathilde, who had no use for Nazi propaganda, noticed her coffee had gone cold. “I apologize, but I have just realized I am late for an appointment.” She stood and gathered her fur coat. As she started for the door, she heard a man across from their table whisper, “Collaborateur.”

  The German gave Mathilde a sympathetic smile before shooting a warning look at the Frenchman and touching the gun at his holster for emphasis.

  The Frenchman’s hate-filled eyes occupied her thoughts as Mathilde left the restaurant. He had obviously thought she was one of those native traitors who abetted the Boches in order to save their own hides. If only you knew what I’ve been up to, she silently chastised him. You wouldn’t be so quick with your judgment.

  Mathilde discovered that Armand was in another one of his moods when she returned to the apartment. He'd been in a highly agitated state for the past few days, which she had originally chalked up to him working too much.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded. “I have friends coming over and there is nothing on the stove.”

  Not for the first time she wondered how someone as brilliant as Armand could so easily take on the demeanor of a spoiled child. “I’ve been out.”

  “Just out? I heard you were in deep conversation with a Boche officer at a café.”

  How quickly information travelled these days, especially through a spy network. “Only to gain intelligence.” She told him about the Luftwaffe supply officer as she opened the refrigerator and took stock of its contents. “Why are you having friends over? I thought we were going to have a quiet evening together.”

  “My mother is dead.”

  “What?” Mathilde shut the refrigerator. She knew how close Armand had been to his parents, how he regretted leaving them behind in Poland. “I’m sorry.”

  She moved to wrap her arms around him, but he shrugged her off. “Lucien and Bernard will be here any moment.”

  Both Poles. Mathilde refused to be put out, musing that Armand invited them because he wanted some hint of his homeland tonight. Besides, she liked Lucien de Roquigny, a slim, gray-haired Polish aristocrat, not least because he was always attentive to her.

  She couldn’t say the same of Bernard Krutki, however. The former lieutenant who’d been Armand’s aide in the Polish Air Force—and who was now heading one of Interallié’s sectors—usually acted stand-offish, almost to the point of suspicion, around Mathilde.

  “Did you hear about the arrest of Raoul Kiffer?” Bernard demanded to know, before Mathilde had even taken his coat.

  “Kiki?” Mathilde’s mouth dropped open as she glanced at Armand. “He’s one of our couriers.”

  Armand shrugged. “You have to break a few eggs to make an omelet.”

  Mathilde was not so sure she was willing to sacrifice anyone’s life for the network, but she thought it wise not to say that aloud.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Mathilde,” Lucien said, taking her hands between his thin ones. His normally amiable expression had taken on a pinched look, as if he were more worried about Kiki’s arrest than he let on.

  Between the tragic news of Armand’s mother and Kiki, the dinner was as miserable as to be expected. Mathilde sat next to Armand, occasionally touching
his arm to reassure him of her presence, but he acted as though she wasn’t even there. All through the main course he was silent, as if in another world, perhaps back in Poland with his parents, while Bernard and Lucien talked business.

  Mathilde was too distracted over worrying about Armand to notice how much wine he had consumed. The other two men matched him glass for glass until all three of them were drunk. As Mathilde made tea, Armand thought it would be a great game to hurl their empty wine glasses at the fireplace. None of them made it in, and they crashed into varying lengths of shards on the wood floor.

  After that display, Mathilde declared it was time for Bernard and Lucien to leave. She retrieved their coats and escorted them out, Lucien whispering that she could call on him at any time. She shut the door behind them and then cornered Armand on his way to the kitchen for more wine. “I realize you are upset about what happened back in Poland, but don’t forget, Interallié—and I—am your family now.”

  “Family?” he scoffed. “How can I be sure they—or you,” his voice had taken on a mocking tone, “won’t betray me at a moment’s notice?”

  She thought back to what he had said the day he was almost arrested. “Well, I guess you don’t. You never know how a person might act when threatened by the Gestapo. But,” she reached out to rub his arm, “you can have faith in me, at least. I would never betray you.”

  Once again he shrugged her off. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

  “What?” Mathilde had the mind to shake him. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Well, you were seen this morning talking to a Boche. And Bernard says—”

  It was her turn to imitate his tone; she slurred her words and exaggerated the vowels as she retorted, “I don’t care what Ber-nard says.” She picked up the dinner plates, stepping carefully over the broken glass. “And I told you why I was talking to that Luftwaffe officer.”