“We could have gone to one of the collaborateur cafés,” he replied. “I hear they pay no attention to rationing, serve meat on non-meat days, and charge way beyond the set prices.”
“But then we’d have to eat amongst the Nazis. It’s bad enough they’re all around our new neighborhood.” Mathilde managed to finish her thought before the waiter arrived with their food: watered down, butterless noodles with dried turnips on the side.
“Did you hear of the Hugentoblers?” René whispered once the waiter was out of earshot.
“No.” The Hugentoblers were a couple who let Interallié use their house for gatherings.
Despite its unappetizing appearance, René dug into his meal with gusto. “It seems the Gestapo paid a little visit to their home, searching through their things.”
“Did they find anything?”
“I don’t think so. The couple were obviously shaken up, but they weren’t arrested. Why the Gestapo would set their sights on them, I have no idea, but it’s a disturbing coincidence. That and the arrest of Kiki last week would put anyone on edge.”
“Indeed.” Mathilde paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. “You don’t think Kiki would divulge any information about Interallié, do you?”
René sighed. “Not under usual circumstances, but the Germans have ways of making people talk.”
While she did not think Kiki would bow under pressure, it was, as René said, disturbing. Mathilde set her fork down. What little appetite she managed to conjure up had now disappeared.
The evening did not improve. Everyone at the party knew of both the Gestapo's visit to the Hugentoblers and the arrest of Kiki and the room was filled with awkward pauses in conversation. Mathilde sat helplessly as Viola took over the hostess duties, getting people drinks and refilling the snack table.
“Why is she here?” René hissed.
“I don’t know,” Mathilde replied honestly. “Armand and I have been working together every night and day for the last ten months. And then he suddenly casts me aside for that simpleton.”
Though he’d been moderate with the wine at dinner, René now had a full glass of champagne in his hand. He took a great gulp of it before saying, “Could it be…”
“What?” Mathilde knew René’s brutal honesty might bruise her ego, but she was tired of wondering what had happened to Armand’s affection. And if anyone knew her better than Armand, it was her oldest friend.
René sized the new woman up, his adroit eyes missing nothing. “She has no societal ties, no interest in being a debutante, clearly her education did not even reach secondary level.” He now gazed at his friend in the black beret, her fur coat shed to reveal a fitted dress. “You are her complete opposite: so dynamic, so blazingly direct.” He drained his glass. “Could it be that Armand wanted someone simpler, someone more… uncomplicated?”
While flattered by René’s summation, it did not soothe the ache in Mathilde’s heart. “If that’s what he wants, then he sure got someone… as you said, ‘uncomplicated’.”
“But at the same time, he seems to have made this whole thing that much more complicated.” He put his hand over hers and gave her his customary half-smile. “Don’t let this situation change your work ethic. You are more dedicated to the cause than anyone.”
Mathilde nodded, trying to keep her gaze from wandering to Armand, who had his arm around Viola’s waist.
“I almost forgot!” Armand exclaimed before disappearing into the next room. He came back with a large box and Mathilde watched with narrowed eyes as Viola opened it. She squealed as if she were a calf playing in the field, pulling out a brand-new fur coat.
Mathilde raised her chin, hoping René wouldn’t notice the tears that were forming. “I would never let anything interfere with my work.”
“Shh!” Armand shouted, rushing toward the radio and spilling most of his drink in the process. He turned up the volume as the BBC announcer began with his usual salutation: “Ici Londres.” Mathilde leaned forward in her chair.
“And now,” the voice continued in French, “here are some personal messages.” This was the moment that the BBC sent messages from the SOE in code, rightfully assuming most of the German higher-ups did not speak French. “We wish a happy anniversary to the little family reunion happening in Paris. Happy anniversary!” he repeated.
For a moment all strife was forgotten as the Interallié agents rose from their seats, congratulating each other.
“And a special thanks to my partner, La Chatte!” Armand declared, clinking his glass with Mathilde’s. “This network wouldn’t be what it is without her!”
Mathilde took a sip of dry champagne before casting a triumphant look at the hostess, who crossed her arms over her chest.
“Viola!” Armand shouted, causing the little woman to look up at him, the hopeful look all-too obvious on her face. “Code a little message to send back to London. What should we say?” he asked the room.
Mathilde pasted on a fake smile and held up her glass. “Vive la liberté!”
“Vive la liberté!” the rest of them echoed.
Chapter 16
Didi
With Marcel gone, Didi’s wireless transmitted nothing but static. Rather than assign her to another “Joe,” or on-the-ground agent, Captain Smith told Didi she’d been selected for a different task altogether.
A few days later, she and several other FANY’s, including Yvonne, were bussed back to London. Didi was under the impression that civilians in the area thought the women bunking at Fawley Court were there to train as ambulance operators, but, as the women disembarked, the driver glanced back at the empty bus and asked if there were, “any more spies onboard.”
Yvonne giggled, but Didi worried that perhaps they hadn’t been secretive enough.
They were taken to a basement room with no windows, which was predictably chilly and poorly lit. There were not enough chairs for all the FANYs. Didi stood, keeping her fingers warm by flexing them over an imaginary Morse key while the other girls chatted animatedly.
After almost an hour, the door was flung open and a short man with wild black hair entered. He didn’t look that much older than Didi, but he carried himself with maturity. He flicked the switch next to the wall and the room was suddenly flooded with bright light.
He nodded at a uniformed officer, who held up a small speaker. After another nod from the young man, the officer pressed a button. Although by this time the FANYs had all ceased their gossip, the tinny sounds of their voices could still be heard.
“He recorded us,” Yvonne’s voice was hushed. Even in the dim light, Didi could see Yvonne’s face redden as she heard her taped voice say, “What’s with the lack of chairs? Do they think us FANYs have no fannies?”
Another girl’s voice postulated that reason for their instructor’s tardiness was because “he must be having it off with Phyllis Bingham herself.”
By this time the girls were too embarrassed to look either at their instructor or each other. Thankfully the officer switched off the recorder.
The young man cleared his voice before he addressed the room. “You’ve been kept waiting in a freezing room so you will become tired and irritable. Tired and irritable people grow careless, and when you’re careless, you’re inclined to be talkative. This is something we are going to need to fix. Next time you feel like talking, remember that the Nazis have recorders too, stored in places where most of you ladies wouldn’t think of putting them.”
Didi glanced at the originator of the Phyllis Bingham remark, who stared at the floor.
The young man continued, “The Gestapo is hoping you’re green enough to want to brag about your position. I know what it is like to be young, to be suddenly hired into an organization such as the SOE, thinking that you’ve made it. You’re going to be told about things most people don’t know and should never be allowed to know. We are trusting you to keep these things secret, maybe forever. If you ever talk about any of them, men will die. It’s as simple as th
at.”
He began to pace the perimeter of the room. “You might think you’re tired, you who’ve had yourselves a decent night’s rest last night. Imagine the field agent who has not found time to sleep for more than a few hours, three nights in a row. The Germans are all around his so-called safe house, but he has to keep his sked in order to send an important message to London. Now, I’m going to ask you a question: Doesn’t that agent have an excuse for making mistakes in his coding?”
The girls who’d gotten past their initial embarrassment nodded vigorously.
“There’s an indecipherable upstairs with your names on it. It’s from a Belgian agent whose cover is completely blown. He’s sent us a message telling us his coordinates. A Lysander is ready to pick him up and bring him home, but the message is unreadable. In his panic, he’s made too many mistakes. At ten o’clock this evening he’s due to come on air and repeat his message, but if he does, the German signal-detectors will close in and we will lose him, just as we lost another agent last week. The SS shot him while he was retransmitting an indecipherable message.”
A few girls murmured, and he waited for the room to get silent again. “If any one of you finds the key to break this message, you all will have broken it. You’re part of a team now, an indispensable part.”
Didi’s chest swelled with a sense of importance—she might not be in the field, but she was still doing a crucial task for the war. Despite his pretentious attitude, there was something endearing about the young man’s dedication to his work.
“Before I leave you to it, I want to apologize about the recording. If you girls can think of a better way of reminding you to never talk about your work, please mention it to me. I’m going to end now by wishing you good luck—good coding, and remember, you are the only hope an agent has got!” He gave them an unofficial salute and then darted from the room.
“What a strange man,” Yvonne declared loudly.
“Hush!” another girl stated. “They could still be recording us.”
Didi used her voice for the first time since she entered the room. “How ‘indecipherable’ can it be?”
“I don’t know,” Yvonne replied. “But something tells me we are about to find out.”
Didi and the rest of the girls filed into a small room, where the young man was waiting. The young man, who finally introduced himself as Leo Marks, had been given permission to train groups of FANYs to decode indecipherables.
Because the agents were using famous quotes in their heads, and were coding under duress, they often made mistakes. A small slip, such as a spelling error in one of the poem words, could result in the whole message becoming unreadable, or, as Marks called it, an indecipherable.
“As much as 20% of SOE traffic ends up as gibberish. The powers-that-be think it best that the agents recode it the next night,” Marks told them.
“Well, if it’s the agent’s mistake, I suppose he is the best person to correct it,” one of the other girls said.
“No,” he replied, pointing a bony finger at her. “That’s the last thing they need to do. A wireless operator is the most dangerous position there is. Why should they have to resend a message and risk being found by the German detecting vans probing the area?”
The girl who asked, her face bright red, was too busy taking notes to answer.
“It’s our job to solve their puzzle, to figure out what they are trying to say. To break the indecipherable. Or else they might end up in the hands of the Nazis.” He kept his eyes on Didi as he spit out his next statement. “If we do our job well, it means we save lives.”
Didi nodded. “No more indecipherables.”
“Right,” Marks sounded pleased. “No more indecipherables.”
Chapter 17
Mathilde
The morning after the anniversary party, Mathilde went to meet Michel, one of their agents, at a café near the Lamarck metro station. She ordered a cup of coffee and read the morning paper, but, after almost an hour with no sign of Michel, decided to go home.
“Madame la Chatte?” Mathilde was startled to hear her code name on the street.
It was Mireille Lejeune, one of the couriers Mathilde had recruited, who had also become a friend. She was sitting on the stairs outside of her apartment building.
“Yes?” Mathilde asked.
“The German police have been along the Avenue Junot all morning.” Junot was the street into which the little cul-de-sac of Rue Villa Léandre fed. The street Armand lived on. “You’d better not go to that area today,” Mireille continued. “It might be dangerous.”
Mathilde’s face grew hot as she recalled the thick file René had given her after the party. It now sat on the counter in her Rue Cortot apartment. She sighed. “I’ve got to get back home and hide all of the maps and intelligence stored there.” Mathilde looked at Mireille. “If you don’t hear from me later today, make sure to burn all the papers you find.”
Mireille reached for her hand. “Don’t go, Madame la Chatte. It’s too dangerous.”
Mathilde shrugged her off. “Don’t you worry about me,” she said, starting toward the Rue Cortot. “And see if you can find out what happened to our mutual friend!”
Mathilde climbed the many steps of the Rue des Saules, her heart heavy, her eyes darting around the brick walls surrounding the stairs. The steep avenue would normally be deserted at this hour on such a cold November morning, but, as she reached the Rue Cortet, she saw with dismay that there were many men on the street. They stood on the corner, seemingly uncomfortable in their civilian suits and ties, and their air of forced idleness indicated they were clearly waiting for someone. Mathilde passed by her street, continuing to the Place du Tertre like a tourist on a shopping mission. The stores were closed, and, as she glanced over her shoulder, she noted that the men in the suits were following her.
She stopped in front of a print shop, as if to gaze in the window, but really she was sizing up the reflection of the man behind her.
“You’re up quite early this morning,” the man said, his accent heavily German.
“I’m just looking around.” She pointed at something in the display window. “That etching would make a perfect present for my lunch companion.”
“Why don’t you have lunch with me instead?”
She turned to look at him. He looked no less sinister than his reflection, his yellow-toothed grin even larger in real life.
Despite her fur coat, Mathilde felt her veins run cold. She shook her head before turning back the way she came. She could hear him trailing her but did not know where else to go besides her flat. She cursed herself for not heading in the other direction, toward the Sacrè Coeur. She was no longer La Chatte; she had become La Souris, the mouse, the prey.
As soon as she arrived at the gate outside her apartment building, her arms were seized from behind by someone with a forceful grip. “We’ve been waiting for you all morning,” another man said.
As Mathilde was hustled into a van, her landlady appeared, stepping over the outside door, which had been torn off its hinges and cast aside. Betrayal was written all over the elderly woman’s wrinkled face. “Don’t hurt her!” the landlady called, looking as defeated as the door. “She’s done nothing wrong!”
“I’m not sure that’s strictly true,” the driver replied.
“Where are you taking me?” Mathilde demanded, her voice strangely confident despite her panic.
Though there were at least two other uniformed men in the van besides the driver and her handler, no one answered her. She stared out the window as the car turned down Rue d’Amsterdam, noting that the leaves had fallen off the vines. The glorious Parisian foliage had all but disappeared in anticipation of a long winter.
The van pulled to a stop in front of the Hotel Édouard VII. The driver turned off the car before nodding to the man in the passenger seat, who got out and opened the door. He extended his arm toward Mathilde to help her out, but she swept past him, only to feel his hand on her back as
she walked toward the hotel.
Mathilde’s eyes narrowed as she caught sight of Viola smoking outside. “That’s her!” Viola cried, pointing. “That’s The Cat!”
Mathilde refrained from spitting on her as the man poked her in the back, urging her along. She complied, thinking that whatever the Germans had in store, it had to be better than the way Armand had treated her.
She was wrong. After a few hours of interrogation at the hotel where they asked her the same simple questions over and over: what was her name, where was she from, was she of 100% Aryan descent, etc., she was taken to La Santé prison. On the way out of the hotel, Mathilde caught sight of Michel, the agent she’d been supposed to meet that morning, sitting in a corner of the lobby, his hands cuffed behind his back.
It wasn’t until Mathilde was shoved into her cell that her hopeful outlook came crashing down. It was pitch-black, the stale air frigidly cold.
Though still armed with her fur, she spent a restless, freezing night in prison. It finally occurred to her that all she had worked for—and everything she and Armand had achieved—had been destroyed. If the Germans had captured Viola, they must also have Armand. Her face crumpled and she could feel the tears coming, but then she remembered how Armand had treated her. Maybe it was time he and Viola got what they deserved. But how could she make that happen when she was stuck here in this hellhole?
The tears subsided, she closed her eyes, only to have them fly open with a start as the prison clock chimed the hour. It was followed by the hospital’s clock, the asylum’s, and then those of the various buildings in the Santé district. The process repeated itself every half hour. Mathilde focused her mind on the incompetence of the clock-makers—couldn’t the usually efficient Boches have synchronized them all?—instead of her possible fate. For one terrifying minute she allowed herself to imagine the unimaginable: what it would be like to stand in front of a firing squad, before another clock began its relentless clanging.
The Spark of Resistance: Women Spies in WWII Page 11
