by Clare Harvey
Raoul’s widow moved her arm so that Vera was no longer touching her. Her teacup chattered against her saucer. ‘Where is he now?’ she said.
Vera had prepared for this question. ‘The body was buried in situ. However, I give you my word that after the war every effort will be made to repatriate your husband’s remains.’
‘After the war?’ The woman spoke as if it were an impossibility.
‘Yes. After the war we shall locate and return his body,’ said Vera.
‘And now?’ Raoul’s widow said, her voice rising.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Vera said, not understanding what she meant.
‘What should I do now?’ said Raoul’s widow, her voice sounding quite loud in the small room.
‘I have some paperwork to go through with you,’ Vera said. ‘I will of course ensure that you get your full entitlement, in terms of war pension, and so forth.’ She took out papers and a pen, pointing out the places on the forms where Mrs Neasbrook should sign and fill in her details. As Raoul’s widow wrote, pen scratching on the paper, Vera checked her watch, very discreetly, under the edge of the table. She could smell the scent of boiled vegetables and roast potatoes drifting in from the kitchens. At least the woman wasn’t crying. That would come later, Vera supposed, upon breaking the news to their boy that Daddy wasn’t coming home, or rereading one of Raoul’s postcards.
Vera couldn’t tell Mrs Neasbrook that she had plenty more of Raoul’s cards in her office, stamped and ready to send. She couldn’t tell her that her husband’s work colleagues had no idea his name was Raoul, and that he had a wife and child back home in Apsley. She couldn’t tell her that Raoul was known as Gilbert and that he had been the best wireless operator they had in Paris. She couldn’t tell her that Raoul had been shot in the back and his body tossed into a makeshift grave with another member’s of the French Resistance network. She couldn’t tell her that Raoul had already been replaced, by a young woman codenamed Yvette Colbert.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Vera said as the woman carefully spelled out her name again and again on the form with her curly handwriting: Mrs Raoul Neasbrook. ‘He was a brave man, and very well regarded by all who worked with him.’
Mrs Neasbrook’s tea was left half-drunk in her cup. Vera asked if she’d like a top-up, or a cigarette, but the woman said she should go: the babysitter had a shift in the factory later, so she needed to catch an early train. Vera saw her out of the anteroom and through the dining room, which was just beginning to fill with lunchtime clientele. In the hotel lobby Vera said she’d make sure the paperwork was sorted out as swiftly as practicable, and that if Mrs Neasbrook had any questions in the meantime she shouldn’t hesitate to get in contact. Vera gave her a card, with Inter Services Research Bureau, Norgeby House, Baker Street, London printed in blue ink, and her name and telephone number underneath.
Raoul’s widow took the card and shook Vera’s hand, as before. ‘Thank you for your help, Miss Atkins,’ she said, before turning to leave. It felt like a slap in the face.
Edie
Edie blinked in the sudden daylight as she emerged from the Métro at place de la Madeleine. The Lucas Carton restaurant was round here somewhere. She didn’t dare ask anyone. She sipped on the cold air. It felt as if there was a boulder resting on her chest. Buck up, she told herself. Stop fannying about and get on with it. But get on with what? She still couldn’t see the restaurant, and in any case, how could she show up, without Justine, without the wireless set?
L’Église de la Madeleine dominated the centre of the square, as big as three aircraft hangars, surrounded by the black cars that spun endlessly round, as if trying to cocoon it in petrol fumes. Edie felt the rush of air from the Métro, the nudge of other passengers coming up the stairs behind her, fanning out onto the wide pavement in front, spatters of black, grey and brown, and the occasional startling amber or red, an exclamation of colour. Reflexively she looked down at her wrist to check the time. But she didn’t have a watch. Miss Atkins had taken it from her before the flight.
‘Let’s have a good look at you,’ Miss Atkins had said, gesturing for her to turn and show off her clothes like a marionette. Edie did a slow spin, taking in, as she did so, the vast hangar – an aircraft cathedral. The planes were on the runway, outside, engines revving intermittently with the flight checks. There were voices outside, too, and clunks and thuds as equipment was loaded. Inside, the hangar was almost empty, save for the fire buckets, and a spare plane wheel leant against a far wall. The curved rooftop was far above. Edie turned full circle to face again Miss Atkins’ trestle table, with a lit lamp and Edie’s open suitcase on top.
They’d had a good dinner earlier: shoulder of lamb, followed by lemon pudding, with port and Stilton to follow. But Edie hadn’t felt hungry. There were other agents waiting for their turn to drop – some she knew from training – and boxes and boxes of rations and equipment stacked like sandbags beneath every window. Outside, the moon was full and the skies clear. Someone had decided it was her turn tonight, and Miss Atkins had arrived from London, resplendent in violet satin, earrings like twinkling stars. She’d insisted they toast Edie, everyone raising their glasses, pouring the ruby liquid down their throats, everyone joking – a sort of desperate, nervous cheer that seemed the norm in the SOE. Edie hadn’t touched her port.
After dinner they’d come out here to the hangar, Miss Atkins still in full-length evening gown, cigarette waving like a wand in its ivory holder. And Edie had half expected to be told to be home by midnight, or risk her transport turning into a pumpkin, so like a fairy godmother did Miss Atkins appear. ‘You look a little too clean,’ she said as Edie turned back towards her, ‘but I expect the journey will put paid to that. Now, tell me the drill if – heaven forfend – the SD boys get hold of you.’
‘Don’t tell them anything. Stick to your cover story. If they get your code, hold on to the security check as long as you can. Even an encoded message sent without the security check is evidence of agent compromise.’
‘Good,’ Miss Atkins said. ‘Good girl. Now take off your jacket so I can check your pockets one last time.’
Edie slipped off her jacket and passed it over. As she did so, her watch face glinted in the light from the lamp.
‘Ah, your watch. Let me see. We need to make sure it’s set to Continental time.’ Edie held out her wrist for Miss Atkins to see. ‘Oh dear, it’s a Harwood,’ she said. ‘You can’t get these in France. I’m afraid it will have to go.’ Edie undid the clasp and held it out. ‘I would lend you mine, but—’ Miss Atkins stroked the mother-of-pearl face of her own wristwatch with a forefinger. ‘I’m afraid I can’t possibly part with it. You’ll just have to make do. Buy yourself a French make with some of the funds at your earliest opportunity, dear girl.’
Edie knew she couldn’t wait here any longer; it would start to look suspicious. She picked up her suitcase and began to walk across the road, dodging and sidestepping the cars that honked and swerved. Reaching the other side she paused to give her hand a rest, switching the case to her left. She looked up at the church: a huge marble box encased in columns. There was no spire. Above the triangular roof the sky was low and grey, pregnant with rain. Occasional drops touched the back of her hand, her cheek. Soon it would start to tip it down. It’s only Paris, she told herself, the Paris that you’ve visited dozens of times before. Except that it wasn’t. The black cars that scurried like insects around the church contained uniformed Germans. The Métro passengers had sat quietly in the train, not making eye contact, pinched faces slashed with frowns as they stared into the middle distance.
Edie picked up her case and walked towards the church. At the bottom of the steps an old woman in a long black coat and a frayed brown headscarf sat, rocking, a battered tin cup in her shaking hands. The few coins it contained chinked like sleigh bells. She looked up at Edie, muttering something incomprehensible and raising the cup towards her. Edie felt in her pocket for her purse. Miss Atkins had ment
ioned that it was a devil to get hold of small denominations for the agents. All Edie had was notes; she peeled one off from the roll and placed it in the cup. It wasn’t really hers to give: it was government money, for the war effort, for the French Resistance, but she argued that, if Winston were here, he’d give something to this poor unfortunate woman. And she made a silent promise to pay it back from her own funds, once she got back home again (if, the unbidden voice nagged in her head – don’t you mean if you ever get home?). The woman’s face broke into a grin; mouth a jagged cavern of missing teeth. Edie smiled back and continued up the steps and through the huge bronze doors.
The traffic sounds were muted and for a while everything was a blur as her eyes adjusted to the semi-dark. She waited just inside the doorway, looking at Jesus carved in marble far away beyond the altar, hearing the echoing seashell sound of the cavernous church. A line of votive candles erased the gloom on one wall. Huge columns were like giant versions of the German grenades they’d been shown in training – the ones with the handles – lined up as if the whole place were ready to blow. Edie walked down the aisle of the empty church, hearing her footfalls on the marble slabs as she went. She slipped into a pew, clasped her hands, shut her eyes and lowered her head.
Her only French contact had disappeared at the Gare du Nord, along with the wireless transmission set. Edie felt the hem of her jacket for the two pebble-sized bumps. Yes, they were still there. At least if the SD had Justine and the wireless set, they didn’t have the crystals – they couldn’t use the set on her frequency without the crystals, that was something. She’d been due to meet the rest of the cell in a room above the Lucas Carton restaurant at midday, with Justine. What to do? Could it be a trap?
There was the sound of steps on the marble floor. Edie looked up, convinced that someone had followed her, that she’d feel the heavy hand of a uniformed guard on her shoulder – but no, it was just two women, smartly dressed in suits and coloured turbans, holding hands and walking slowly up the aisle towards the sculpture of Christ. One of them began to cry. Edie thought she ought to look as if she belonged. ‘Our father,’ she muttered, clutching her fingers together in prayer as they passed. The woman who wasn’t crying turned to look at her, face ghost-pale in the heavy air. Horrified, Edie realised she’d spoken the words in English. She quickly made the sign of the cross and got up from her seat. Silly girl: speaking English, carrying a suitcase. She may as well have been waving a Union Jack. Ready or not, it was time to leave.
As she emerged from the church the rain hit her with full force: fat gobbets of icy sleet. The beggar woman had disappeared. A black Citroën sped through a puddle, splashing her legs. She decided to walk purposefully ahead, and hope. The restaurant must be here somewhere. In any case, where else could she go? She walked away from the Métro stop. The church wall was a grey blankness to one side, like a denial. More cars shot past. She could hear some of them coming to a halt around the corner. Perhaps it was the sound of skidding brakes that meant she didn’t hear the footsteps striding ever closer behind her, catching her up.
There it was: she saw it as she rounded the corner, a mass of
cars parked outside, clustered like flies. There were two bay trees by the doorway, and ironwork knotted over the opaque glass frontage, like fishnet stockings. Beside the restaurant there was an archway to a passage, a black shout in the milk-and-honey stonework. Justine had said to meet in a room above the restaurant, but the entrance was up some steps to the side, down the passage. If it’s safe to go inside, there’ll be flowers in the window, she’d said. Edie looked up, past the silver lettering saying Lucas Carton, past the curled metal balconettes on the first floor, up – up. In a high window she could see what looked like lilies, and behind them, the faint, pale blot of a waiting face. She took a breath in and switched her suitcase to her other hand, ready to go. But just then she felt a touch on her shoulder; there was a masculine voice in her ear: ‘Wohin gehen Sie, Fräulein?’
Vera
Vera hailed a number 36 outside the hotel, and stepped on. As the bus pulled away, someone swung in behind her. She glanced back and saw a long dark coat. There was a slice of blue lining as the bus’s slipstream caught the hem and flicked it upwards. Vera nudged past the ticket collector and up the spiral stairway, hanging on to the metal rail as the bus swerved and jolted through the potholes. Don’t look back, she told herself, but as she reached the top step she couldn’t help herself, half turning to glance downstairs. The man with the blue-lined coat was hanging on to the pole near the open back end of the bus. He had on a brown fedora, and a carried a folded newspaper. She couldn’t see his face. She climbed the stairs to the top deck.
Vera swayed down the aisle, staggering to keep her footing, and fell into an empty seat. The old woman next to her was crocheting a toddler-sized pullover in French-navy wool. ‘Turned out nice,’ she said, nodding out of the grimy bus window to where a portion of sky appeared above the rooftops. Vera thought of the blue flash of the man’s coat lining. She thought of the face half hidden under the fedora.
‘It’ll be icy later,’ Vera replied. She looked round the top deck of the bus, clotted with the grey-brown huddle of weary passengers, and her gaze returned to rest on the half-made blue jumper in the woman’s lap. Vera thought of Raoul’s boy, who must have been about the size to fit into it. She shuddered, turned away, looking outside, past the woman’s profile, to where the bus passed the British Museum, that big box of stolen booty. As they passed the dark stone walls she caught her reflection in the glass bus window: pale face, eyes dark shadows – and then the bus moved on and she was gone.
At each stop she watched the passengers getting off, but she didn’t notice the man with the fedora get off. He must still be downstairs, she thought. She checked her watch. The bus swung round the corner and the woman next to her shuffled and asked if she wouldn’t mind terribly letting her pass, as this was her stop. Outside a film poster emblazoned a hoarding: Air Force – a blue rectangle on a red background, with images of square-jawed US airmen looking heroically into the middle distance. And Vera remembered the letter from her own airman, Dick, still unopened in her pocket. She hadn’t wanted to open it at work, couldn’t bear any sense of her private life slipping into the office. But here was a chance: there were still a few minutes before they’d reach Portman Square.
She pulled it out of her bag and slipped a long fingernail underneath the gummed edge so it ripped open. It had been so long since she’d heard from Dick; one couldn’t help but worry. But here it was at last, and amongst all the scrambled curls of his extravagant script, one phrase leapt out straight away: Of course we should get married, darling, what a wonderful idea!
She read the rest of the letter in a rush, in her excitement not really taking in the details as the bus jolted along and the chipped and blackened shop fronts edged past her periphery. He ended the letter, as usual: My sweet, my darling, my love. Vera refolded it carefully and put it back in her handbag, inside the zipped pocket, separated from Mrs Neasbrook’s forms.
She had to get off at Portman Square because Buckmaster wanted her to meet some new agent he was taking on: Henry someone or other – Buckie could be so vague. But that wasn’t important. Dick had agreed to get married; that was all that mattered. She rang the bell to request a stop. She was still smiling as she walked down to the lower deck. She noticed the man who’d followed her on board. He was sitting down now, with an open newspaper, his whole upper half obscured by newsprint. His coat fell open, the blue silk lining parenthesising black trousers and black shoes. And Vera could feel her smile slip as she hurried past him and stepped off the lower deck onto the pavement opposite Orchard Court.
Gerhardt
‘Adieu,’ Gerhardt said – that was ‘goodbye’ in French, wasn’t it? But the door had already closed. He would have been offended, back home, if he’d carried a girl’s heavy suitcase across a busy road and up a steep stairwell and received not one word of thanks. ‘Merci�
�� was French for ‘thank you’ – he knew that one, at least. He walked back down the stone steps towards the side alley. She was probably just scared though, he thought, pausing under the archway to brush any stray dust off the sleeves of his jacket. She’d looked scared: white-faced and wide-eyed, wet hair grazing a cheek when he put a hand on her shoulder and asked where she was going. But his mother had taught him manners; you should always offer to carry a lady’s bag, she said. (Mother – how pleased she’d been when she’d found out about the Count arranging his interview with the security services in Paris: Thank God you’re not going to Russia – her face looking twisted and old.) He noticed a stray strand of hair on his sleeve – long and auburn – it must be that girl’s. He plucked it off and let the damp breeze take it. Red hair: he wasn’t sure if he found redheads attractive or not. Lisel’s hair was blonde, pale as moonlight. But if he got this job with the Sicherheitsdienst he might not see Lisel again for months. He tugged his jacket down at the hem on both sides to straighten it out. The Count had said he needed to make sure he was as smart as possible. Apparently Boemelburg was a stickler for such things.
Gerhardt slipped out through the arch; the rain hit him full in the face. He broke into a run, cursing himself for leaving his coat at the hotel. As he pushed through the glass doors and into the Lucas Carton, he could see the Count sitting at a table in the window. The waiter offered to take his sodden jacket, but an interview in his shirtsleeves would be unthinkable. The Count was drumming his fingers on the table top, glowering out into the rain. He turned as Gerhardt approached.
