The Spark of Resistance: Women Spies in WWII

by Sergeant, Kit

  Buckmaster called Didi into his office one windless spring day to tell her: “Lucas has been arrested by the Abwehr.”

  “What?” Didi sank into a chair. The hardness of it sprung her back to reality. “It wasn’t The Cat, was it?”

  “No.” He straightened a pile of papers. “The Cat, or rather the SOE, reported to Bleicher that Lucas had been sent to Scotland for training.”

  Didi couldn’t help wondering if it was wise to inform the Abwehr where London trained their agents.

  “We’re working on getting Lucas back,” Buckmaster continued. “But in the meantime, we have to decide what to do about The Cat. To quote Lucas himself when he first met her, she’s either brilliant in her ability to outfox the Krauts, or foolish enough to still be working for them. I think he finally decided on the latter.” He locked eyes with Didi. “What are your thoughts?”

  She spread out her hands. “I’ve been with her practically every hour of every day and I can’t find any evidence of collusion.”

  “At any rate, I’m not sure we can continue feeding them false information via the wireless. If she’s not a triple-agent, then the Abwehr will surely grow suspicious, if they haven’t figured it out already.”

  She shrugged. “With all due respect, sir, I can’t imagine the Germans priding themselves on trusting a former member of the Resistance simply because she was…” Didi could feel her face grow hot but she continued anyway, “sleeping with one of their officers.”

  “Yet, despite their probable mistrust, they sent her to London. And they let Lucas go too.”

  “Indeed.”

  Buck sat back in his chair. “You think they allowed her to come to England because she consented to giving up so many of her colleagues?”

  “Allowed yes, but I’m not sure she’s acting as an agent for Germany now.” Didi shut her eyes, trying not to think of Jackie, Archie, or anyone else in France whom The Cat could have put in danger. “She was a compliant tool in the extermination of Interallié, but I would argue—and I’m afraid the Germans might too—that the ability to betray your friends does not necessarily indicate a willingness to heed their enemies.”

  He rubbed his chin with his thumb. “Yet she’s here. Why?” He closed his eyes, clearly deep in thought. After a few moments, he leaned forward abruptly, startling Didi. “Do you think she’s dangerous?”

  “What?” Didi asked, stalling for time.

  Buck spoke slower. “Do you think she presents a threat to the Allies?”

  “Even if I said no, she is now in possession of valuable information about the inner workings of the SOE and I don’t think she should be allowed out of England.”

  He nodded. “If she were to go back, she’d probably be shot as soon as she stepped foot on French soil.” He gave an ironic chuckle. “Though by whom—the Resistance or the Abwehr—would be anyone’s guess.”

  “Yes, sir.” Didi rose, but Buckmaster stopped her before she got to the door. “Miss Nearne, it has occurred to me that perhaps we are missing an opportunity.”

  “What opportunity would that be, sir?” she asked, not daring to hope.

  “Your sister has done very well for herself, and for the SOE, in France. We are hoping you might follow in her footsteps, especially now that the business with The Cat is about to be concluded.”

  Didi sat back down. “But what about my age? I’m not quite twenty-five still.”

  “And?” Buckmaster’s confusion was obvious. “There’s no minimum age to work for us.”

  “But my sister—” Didi paused. Clearly Jackie had lied to her about the age limit to keep her from pursuing the matter. “When do I leave for training?”

  “Since you’ve already learned Morse and are well versed in our coding system, you would only need to attend a finishing course for field operators.”

  “Wait.” Didi leaned forward. “Am I being sent to France as a wireless operator?”

  “Of course.” Buckmaster folded his arms. “How else would we send you in?”

  As an agent, Didi replied, to herself. But she swallowed her disappointment. She was still going to France, no matter what the role.

  Chapter 52

  Odette

  Odette and Peter were brought to Fresnes Prison, a hulking, red-bricked penitentiary located a few miles south of Paris. Upon arrival, they were taken to different sections of the prison for their respective registrations.

  Odette gave her name as “Odette Churchill.” Just saying Peter’s last name was enough to make her weep, but she forced herself to stay strong. If her SOE training had instilled anything in her, it was that things could—and would—get much worse.

  She was told to take her clothes off, which she did without reluctance. To her, decency had become a state of mind, and was no longer subject to her lack of clothing.

  The women in gray scrutinized her naked body before digging through her hair and ears, searching for lice. When they did not find any, Odette was commanded to get dressed again and handed a threadbare blanket and bed sheet.

  She was then led down an underground passage, dark in places where the pool of light from the overhead electric lamps did not reach. The putrid smell of the corridor filled Odette’s nostrils, causing her to cough.

  The female guard barked at her to keep walking. Odette obeyed, her legs moving as if not of her own will, through the endless underground maze of darkness and light. Gray doors appeared on either side of the hallway, like tombstones in an abandoned graveyard.

  The woman led her up a flight of stairs, where a familiar, bespectacled figure was waiting. The guard suddenly became a woman again and simpered, “Herr Hauptmann, heir ist Frau Churchill.”

  Bleicher visibly startled at the name as Odette thrust her bags at him. “In France, it is customary for men to carry things for women.” She raised her chin. “I see no reason why the same courtesies should not continue in prison.”

  Bleicher reluctantly accepted her filthy bundle. The guard led them down the hallway, stopping at Cell 108 before digging a large key out of her pocket. Without a word, Bleicher handed Odette her things and then continued on.

  Odette entered her cell, putting her things on the soiled mattress atop the rusted bed frame, before looking around. In the corner was a dirty toilet and brown sink. Next to that was a chair with a broken back and above it, a crooked shelf containing a tin bowl and spoon. Twelve-and-a-half full steps one way took her the length of the cell, and eight the width. Like her guard, everything on the inside was grim and gray, save for the rust on the bed frame and the bright yellow mold decorating the right side of the ceiling. A cobweb-covered vent broke the monotony on the left.

  On the wall next to the door, there were barely discernible scratches in the paint. She walked over and ran her fingers over the scratches. Someone had etched, in French, When I was little, I kept the cows. Now it is they who keep me. It was signed, ‘Suzanne.’

  A few steps further, she found a series of numbers also scrawled into the wall, most of them run through by a diagonal line. After a moment of contemplation, Odette realized she was looking upon a calendar. The last date crossed out was the 11th of November. Did that date represent freedom for the carver, or was Suzanne already in her grave?

  Odette took a hairpin from the one hat she had and made a faint mark. She felt a surge of triumph—keeping track of her days in prison would be one way to pass the time.

  She continued on with the perusal of her new surroundings. The window consisted of a series of frosted glass planes, impossible to see out of, but she could sense that the sun was setting by the deepening shadows inside her cell.

  She spread out her blanket on the mattress and lay down. She could hear absolutely nothing—no activity, no marching of guards, nothing but a daunting stillness throughout the prison.

  She closed her eyes and found the filmy darkness under her lids more soothing than the blackness of her cell. Her body might be in prison, but perhaps she could project her mind to freedom. She
squeezed her eyes tight, willing her daughters to materialize in the imaginary screen behind her eyelids. After what seemed like an eternity, they came, playing and laughing in fictitious sunlight. Odette’s tightened facial muscles relaxed and a smile formed.

  But they disappeared as a blood-curdling scream broke the silence. Odette sat up as another shriek came through the walls. She could hear heavy boots clomping in the hallway. The screams became a raucous cackling, nearly covering up the sound of a key rattling in a lock and then a command barked in German. “Ruhig!” But the voice did not shut up, and soon there came the unmistakable ringing of blows, this time accompanied by heartrending wails of pain.

  Odette reached out and touched the wall, longing for the blows to stop. Eventually they did, and the German voice called out some final insult and then a door slammed shut. The heavy boots came back down the hall at a much slower pace.

  Odette dropped her hands and laid back down. She shut her eyes, hoping her girls would reappear. But they didn’t and she finally fell into a dreamless sleep.

  She awoke to a strange rattling. Sleepily she realized it was a key in her cell door and she covered herself with the blanket as the door was thrown open. “Gib mir deine Schüssel.”

  Odette shook her head in confusion.

  The woman in gray pointed to the tin bowl on the shelf. “Schnell.” Odette rose and took the bowl, holding it out as the guard filled it with a putrid-smelling broth.

  When the guard left, Odette tasted the brown liquid. It was cold coffee, probably rendered from acorns. She drank it down in one gulp, her face puckering from the bitterness.

  The woman in gray reappeared and this time gestured for Odette to follow her.

  She was led to a small room where Bleicher was waiting for her. “You are now a political prisoner of the Abwehr,” he said, as the guard shut the door behind her. He lit Odette a cigarette. She took one puff before putting it out carefully against the heel of her shoe.

  He watched her. “You aren’t perhaps in love with Peter, are you?”

  She shrugged, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing anything more about her than he already did.

  He leaned forward. “Lise, I’m sorry to see you here. Fresnes Prison is not…” he looked at a spot beyond her shoulder, as if searching for his next words. “Not for women like you.”

  Odette sat as still as she could.

  “I would have preferred to see you again in Saint-Jorioz, your beauty competing with the mountains. But I had to arrest you.”

  “Why?” she demanded, breaking her silence.

  He looked surprised at the vehemence of her tone. “To save you from the Gestapo, of course.”

  “Like you saved Marsac? The number of people you are claiming to have rescued would fill a landing field for a Hudson. Abwehr or Gestapo, steel prison or execution, the end appears to be very much the same.”

  “You may be right for now,” he took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette, “but it doesn’t always have to be so. You don’t have to stay here, Lise.”

  “No?” She smiled involuntarily at the ridiculousness of his statement.

  “Does the possibility of freedom amuse you?”

  “I was wondering what bargain you were going to suggest. Obviously I can’t offer you a radio or a bomber pick-up from here,” she raised her hands, gesturing to her surroundings.

  “You are in many ways a wise, brave woman, Lise, but you can also be very foolish.” He tapped out his cigarette. “I know a great deal about you, far more than you may think. You told the guards you are Mrs. Peter Churchill, but I know that, in fact, you are married to another man, you have three daughters, and you are an agent of the French section of the British War Office, headquartered at Baker Street, London. Your chief is Major Maurice Buckmaster, educated at Eton.”

  “Are you quite done now?” she demanded, still stinging at those words he’d used, married to another man.

  “No. Do you think self-sacrifice is still noble? That mentality went out the window when the tank was invented.”

  She opened her mouth as if to protest, but he ignored her. “Even so, your prospective sacrifice is misdirected.” He tapped a finger on the table. “Your duty is to those girls at home, not to a collection of amateur spies and saboteurs from the War Office. Do you think for one moment that your friend Alec—or your so-called husband Peter Churchill—are prepared to forfeit their own lives for yours?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “But even if they aren’t, I am only responsible for what my own conscience dictates.”

  He lit another cigarette before searching her face. “What would you say if I informed you I am trying to arrange a prisoner exchange for Peter Churchill? What would you say if I also told you that he is more than eager to go… despite knowing that it means leaving you here to rot?”

  She smiled. “I would say you’re a liar, Monsieur Bleicher.”

  If he was disappointed that he’d failed to sow any seed of doubt in her mind, he didn’t show it. He kept his eyes on her as he ashed his cigarette, and, skilled interrogator that he was, he swiftly changed topics. “I told you before about the Mozart concert. They are giving a repeat performance in a fortnight, and it would give me great pleasure to take you to see it. At best, Mozart is exquisite, and even at his laziest, he is lively, delicate, and charming.”

  It was her turn to study him. He was clearly offering her a way out, but one she could never accept. “You are making a mistake if you think I will go anywhere with you.”

  “If that is the way you wish to keep it.” He stood up. “Though it grieves me to see you here, I will pay you another visit… soon.”

  The gray woman reappeared and escorted her back to Cell 108. Odette sat on the edge of the bed for a while, mulling over all Bleicher had said to her.

  Chapter 53

  Didi

  Unlike sprawling Fawley Court, The Drokes, where Didi was to complete her wireless field training, was a modern brick house located on the Beaulieu Estate in New Forest. Like Buckmaster’s London office, The Drokes dripped with art-deco flooring and furniture.

  Upon arrival, a woman with graying hair introduced herself in perfect French as Adele. “I’ve just returned from my final mission in France,” she told the group of new recruits sitting primly in the parlor. “Come, let’s show you to your rooms,” she called as she walked toward the hallway staircase.

  This time Didi wasn’t sleeping in the attic but a second-floor bedroom, though she still had the requisite several roommates. Adele gave the women some time to unpack before reappearing half an hour later. This time she announced it was time for their first lesson.

  Didi was the last to leave the room, and found Adele waiting in the hall. “You’re Jackie’s sister.” It wasn’t a question.

  “How did you know?” Buckmaster had instructed Didi not to tell anyone her real name; her codename for training was ‘Alice.’

  Adele started down the stairs. “I saw the name on your chart and put two and two together. I trained with Jackie here at Beaulieu over a year ago, though we were at the main house.”

  Training to be real agents, Didi bitterly surmised.

  “We weren’t supposed to talk about anything personal,” Adele continued, “but Jackie did mention her determined little sister.”

  Didi figured that Jackie had used a less-kindly word than ‘determined.’ Maybe Adele could explain why Jackie had lied to her about the minimum age for the SOE. “Do you know if my sister…” She paused, struggling to find the right words. But they’d reached the bottom of the stairs, and she could hear the women gossiping in the parlor. She shot Adele a sheepish grin. “Never mind.”

  Didi sat down in an armchair just moments before a uniformed man entered the room. He greeted them and introduced himself as their propaganda instructor, Kim Philby, before warning them that, from there on out, everything would be spoken in French.

  “Why do we need a propaganda instructor?” a pretty, exotic looking
woman asked.

  Philby pointed a surprisingly manicured finger at the speaker. “I’m not sure if you know this, but France has been invaded by the Boches. Some of the natives have become complacent with the German intruders. Part of your job will be to convince them to stop being so complacent and join the Resistance. And likewise, Vichy and the Nazis have their own propaganda, the kind that can threaten your very existence and that of others in your network.” He dug a red poster out of his briefcase and put it on the table.

  Didi leaned forward to examine it. The headline across the top read, in German, ‘Liberation… by crime.’ Below that were photos of blown-up tracks, derailed trains, and dead bodies, and at the bottom were several pictures of men in civilian clothes.

  Philby picked up the poster and walked over to show the woman behind Didi. “The Gestapo referred to these men as ‘Judeo-Communist terrorists.’ To our knowledge, they are all dead.”

  “But I thought we were going to be wireless operators,” the same woman from earlier said in a hushed voice.

  “That doesn’t mean the Gestapo can’t capture you.” He waved at a well-dressed man standing in the hallway. The scent of his cologne entered the room before he did.

  “Speaking of ways to avoid capture, this is Monsieur Bisset,” Philby informed them. “He’s come all the way from Max Factor in London.”

  “Max Factor? Are we getting a lesson in make-up?” someone called.

  “Not the way you think,” Philby replied.

  For the next hour, Monsieur Bisset taught the new recruits how to alter the jawlines by inserting pieces of sponge into their cheeks, how to change their hair color by lightening it with lemon juice or darkening it with charcoal, and how to emphasize minimal wrinkles with eyeshadow.

  The exotic woman turned to Didi. “And here I thought all this time we wanted to hide our age lines.”

  “Not that you have any,” Didi replied, thinking that the woman was one of the most beautiful she had ever seen.