by Gene Wilder
“What will you have to drink, Helena?” Erik Lund said when she joined them. “We were so thirsty that—pardon us—we couldn’t wait. So we all got a scotch and soda. Excuse our manners, please.”
“I’d love a nice, cold glass of Sancerre if they have it,” she said, thinking of Tom and the café and Alfred. Erik signaled to the waiter, who was standing nearby and also dressed in a tuxedo.
“Yes, I heard you, Madam,” the waiter said. “And we do have a good bottle of Sancerre.” As the waiter was leaving, two German officers came out of the dining room, talking to each other and picking their teeth as they walked by Helena and the three men. They nodded to Helena and the men. “Guten Abend eine Dame und mehrer Herren.”
The three “friends” of Helena answered in English, “Good evening.”
The officer spoke again, this time in English. “Good luck, Mademoiselle, and try not to wear these men out,” he said and burst into laughter directed at his partner. Helena didn’t smile.
The officer walked up to her. “May I see your papers, please?”
Helena took out her I.D. card and her passport. As the officer looked, he spoke out loud: “Simonsen … dreiundzwanzig jahr alt … Katholische.” He looked up and said, “Don’t you Catholics ever laugh?”
“I had a dear friend who died yesterday,” Helena said. “I’m not always ready for laughing, the way the Jews are.”
“I see,” said the officer, somewhat awkwardly. “So sorry.”
EIGHTEEN
That same evening, Colonel Hartley and Tom sat in the colonel’s office having tea.
“I’m told that you’re doing very well in your training, but by the look on your face I’d say you disagree.”
“By Captain Pryce’s perception I’m doing well,” Tom said.
“But you don’t like him?”
“It’s not about liking him, sir, it’s just that I don’t care for the rules. I work my ass off in training but Captain Pryce won’t tell me one word about the woman I love. I had to finagle a way to find out that her name is not Rosenkilde now, it’s Simonsen. Helena Simonsen. And I don’t know whether she’s alive or dead or living in Florida or Siberia or is safe or captured by the Nazis or if she’s on our side or theirs. All I know is that it’s against the fucking rules to tell me. Pardon my language, sir, but you swore at me once when you visited me in the hospital.”
“You’re crazy! I don’t swear. What did I say?”
“You said, ‘I’m from Missouri, so don’t fuck around with me.’”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I guess … I guess I don’t blame you for being angry. Now listen to me … I’m going to break the rules. Not even Radar knows the secret life of SOE, so if you tell one living soul I swear I’ll break your bloody neck. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I found out that Helena Simonsen got a new passport and was trained in sabotage techniques at a remote Scottish village before being parachuted back into Denmark. That’s where she is now, teaching the Danish Resistance how to make bombs in order to blow up trains carrying Nazi soldiers and vital machinery, in and out of Norway. As of yesterday, she’s safe. How she is tonight, I don’t know.”
NINETEEN
“Helena” and her three “friends” stayed for another hour, talking and drinking in the Library Room. Helena thought it was safer to talk about bombs and blowing up trains while they were sitting in an elegant hotel drinking cocktails, assuming it would be improbable for such well-dressed guests to be talking about bombs and trains.
Several officers started leaving the dining room. When Helena saw them she said loudly, “Erik, Mathias, Mads—that’s enough about business. I’m tired of talking about bedsheets and pillowcases and female duck feathers—let’s talk about music for a change!”
Her three friends shouted, “Bravo, Helena!” and raised their glasses for a toast. A lady sitting having a drink nearby, with a tall blond gentleman, turned her head to look at the woman who was being called Helena. She got up and walked over to Helena’s table.
“Anna—”
Anna turned quickly and saw her French teacher, Eva Simonsen. “Please,” Anna whispered urgently, “please don’t call me Anna. I’m Helena.”
“That’s not your name. Why are you using my sister’s name? You’re Anna!”
Anna’s three friends stood up. Erik cordially said, “She really is Helena, you know.”
“My sister is dead. This is Anna, not Helena,” she said loudly.
Helena got up quickly and said very softly, “Eva, I’ll tell you why I had to do this if you just wait for a minute.” She took Eva’s hand. “Please, my dear teacher—just wait for a minute and you’ll understand everything.”
Anna put her arm around Eva Simonsen’s waist and walked her to a corner of the room where there were soft chairs and no people. Anna asked Eva to please sit down. Erik, Mathias, and Mads watched them from their table without being able to hear them.
“Eva, I had to come to Copenhagen and couldn’t use my real name or I might have been taken by the Nazis, for sure this time. I knew Helena had died and that she was Catholic, so I used her name to get a passport. Please, dear, please forgive me, but it was terribly important. If they knew I was Anna Rosenkilde they’d know I was Jewish and I’d be in Auschwitz by now.” Eva Simonsen stared without talking, but then suddenly put her arms around Anna.
Anna and Eva walked back to Eva’s table, where her tall blond companion was waiting. He stood up graciously. “Kai,” Eva said, “this is my dear friend Helena, who used to be my pupil. Helena, this is my friend, Kai Brenner.”
“Pleasure,” he said.
Anna kissed Eva’s cheek as she whispered, “Thank you so much, Eva,” and then went back to her friends who got their coats and left. The moment they walked outside, Erik Lund said, “I recognized Eva’s boyfriend right away—he is a Nazi.”
TWENTY
Erik arranged for Helena to stay with his mother that night, since Mrs. Lund lived alone. She lived in a beautiful, almost fairy-tale cottage that rested near a stream that ran down from the Copenhagen Harbor. After watching her husband getting beaten by the Nazis and then dying, along with other people in the factory who refused to stop their slowdown, Mrs. Lund knew exactly what her son was doing now and was proud of him. She greeted “Helena” with open arms that night. She wasn’t told about the name “Anna.”
Early the next morning, Mrs. Lund served Helena breakfast. “I have tea or coffee … whichever you like.”
“Coffee, please.”
“Good. And do you like rye bread?”
“Very much.”
“Good, because I have fresh rye bread with some cheese or jam, and then some Danish pastry. Is that good?”
“Mmm, yes,” Helena said.
They sat down together and started eating breakfast. Helena was about to speak when they heard a soft knock on the door. Helena didn’t know if she should quickly disappear, but Mrs. Lund said, “It must be Erik,” and she got up. But when she opened the door, Eva Simonsen was standing there, next to the tall blond man with whom she’d been at the hotel the night before, but now he was wearing his Nazi uniform. Eva wore an acrid smile. Two Nazi soldiers were standing behind them, just outside the open door. Two other soldiers were standing on each side of a black Mercedes-Benz limousine. All four of the soldiers held their rifles at the ready.
The blond man and Eva Simonsen entered the kitchen, leaving the door wide open.
“I hope we’re not disturbing you, Anna,” Eva said. “You remember Major Brenner, don’t you?”
“I remember his beautiful blond hair,” Anna said. “And I also remember my dear friend, Eva. Do you have any idea what might have happened to her?”
“I think some Jews killed my sister, Helena, when all she wanted was to look inside their fishing boat. So now I would like to kill a Jew. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I doubt if it happened that way to Helena, but you wouldn’t believe me anyway,” A
nna said.
“No, I wouldn’t. Good morning, Mrs. Lund. How nice to see you.”
“Anna, come with us right now,” Major Brenner said.
“Yes, I’ll come. No violence, please. May I say good-bye to Mrs. Lund, who knows nothing of the things we’ve been talking about?”
“Go ahead,” he said as he moved closer to her.
Anna embraced Mrs. Lund, kissed her and then spoke in Danish: “Farvel kaere frue … tak for alt.” (Good-bye, dear … thank you for everything.)
“You didn’t even eat much of your breakfast,” Mrs. Lund said.
“May I wear my jacket, Major? I think it’s rather cold today,” Anna said.
“Where is it?” Major Brenner asked.
“Just over that chair.”
“I’ll get it,” the major said as he went to the chair and took Anna’s jacket. “Now we go,” he said as he took hold of Anna’s arm and walked her to the doorway.
When Eva, Anna, and Major Brenner walked out of the house the major saw that one of his soldiers was kneeling on the side of the Mercedes-Benz. “Was zum Teufel machst du da?” (What the hell are you doing there?)
“Reifenpanne. Ich werde es sofort beheben, Herr Major.” (Flat tire, sir. I’ll fix it quickly, Major.)
Submachine guns suddenly blasted Eva, Major Brenner, and the four Nazi soldiers. Erik, Mathias, and Mads came rushing out from behind separate bushes. Erik knelt down quickly to feel the pulses. “Dead!” he said with a smile. Then he got up and looked at Anna.
“Hello, there! I thought that rotten Nazi might do something like this,” Erik shouted as he began taking off Major Brenner’s uniform.
“How nice to see the three of you again,” Anna said. “Erik, what are you doing with him?”
“I’m taking all of the uniforms from these swine; they might come in handy one day. Then we dump their naked bodies into the Copenhagen Harbor for a nice, cold swim. I even told young Mathias here that he has to be a gentleman and not look at the dead lady when she’s naked, so now he’s fixing the flat tire that he stuck his knife into.”
Mrs. Lund came out of the house with a smile on her face. “I knew my son would save you,” she said. “I knew it. Now come into the house Anna, or Helena, or whatever name you want, and eat your breakfast. I made that Danish pastry especially for you.”
“Hey, Mama Lund!” Erik hollered. “When we come back would you also make a little breakfast for Mathias and Mads and your son, Erik, if you happen to remember me? We are also cold and hungry.”
TWENTY-ONE
Tom and the three men who were in training with him sat in Captain Pryce’s office repeating their fake German and French names.
“Cole, I’m told you speak French.”
“Yes, sir,” Tom answered.
“How well?” Captain Pryce asked.
“Je ne veux pas vous insulter, mais je parle français aussi bien que vous parlez anglais, sir.”
“Hmm. I think I was just insulted, but in this case I’m glad. Where did you learn it?”
“My mother was French.”
“I see. The rest of you fellows can go home now. I want to talk to Lieutenant Cole alone for awhile.”
The three other men picked up their jackets and headed for the door. Alex, the fellow with whom Tom was closest, whispered “Good luck, old bean,” as he passed Tom.
Captain Pryce and Tom were alone in the old manor house and the wood fire was still burning in the fireplace. “Would you like some tea, Cole, or would you prefer something a little stronger?”
“Tea would be fine, sir. I’m guessing I’d better have a clear head for whatever you’re about to tell me.”
Captain Pryce picked up the phone. “Terry, would you please bring us one tea and one double brandy.” Then he turned back to Tom. “You’ve resented my holding back information from you for quite awhile,” Pryce said.
“Only because I didn’t care for the rules, sir.”
“I’ll tell you now what I wasn’t allowed to say before. Anna Rosenkilde was able to get out of Denmark and go to Sweden, with a little help from her Danish friends. I couldn’t use her real name before.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Wait, before thanking me. Have you heard of a group called the Maquis?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It comes from a word that means ‘bushes that grow along country roads.’”
“Sounds nice,” Tom said.
“Several of the French POWs escaped from prison and joined the Maquis, which distinguished itself by committing atrocities against German soldiers. They hid in the bushes and darted out to kidnap officers and then executed them.”
“I’m not crying,” Tom said.
“Up till now four female SOE agents were executed at Dachau. Four of our other women agents were captured and taken to a concentration camp in France, known as Natzweiler.”
Tom’s heart began beating faster as Corporal Johnson entered the room with a tray holding the tea service and a small glass of brandy. “Here you are, sir,” he said as he placed the tray on the table next to Pryce.
“Here’s your tea, Lieutenant.”
“No thank you, sir. I’m trying to wait patiently.”
Pryce took a deep swig of his brandy, then looked at Tom. “Most of these women aided the escape of downed Allied airmen and Jews. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a shot of brandy, Cole?”
“I’m sure, sir. Please go on.”
“There was one French woman, by the name of Madame Lauro, who poured hydrochloric acid and nitric acid on German food supplies in freight cars that were running on French railroads. Anna worked with her in France for two weeks and idolized her. Madame Lauro was just captured and sent to Natzweiler. When Anna was in Sweden she found this out and asked the head of SOE, by radio, for permission to be sent to Alsace to help Madame Lauro escape before they sent her to a camp in Germany.”
As he listened, Tom stared out of a window, watching a house martin that kept flying back and forth to feed its newborns.
“Would you tell me what you’re thinking, Tom?”
“Where is Natzweiler?”
“It’s in Alsace-Lorraine, which is in France, but it’s on the border of Germany.”
“Would you send me there? Please.”
“I don’t have the authority to do that. I can pass your request on to the top if you wish.”
“I do wish, sir.”
TWENTY-TWO
Maj. Gen. Colin Gubbins was the director of the SOE. Colonel Hartley was the general’s chief of staff and Captain Pryce was the colonel’s training officer. They all sat in Colonel Hartley’s office, along with Tom, who sat in a straight-backed chair listening to Major General Gubbins who was looking straight at Tom, as the scents of tea, half-eaten biscuits, and cigarette smoke filled the air.
“Our agent in Alsace, Brian Lewis, radioed me yesterday. I’m going to tell you what he told me:
“First of all, he said that four women entered Natzweiler, escorted by SS officers. The first woman was of middle height, maybe twenty-three or four, with a gray bow in her short blonde hair.
“He thought the second woman was a little older and taller than the first woman, maybe Jewish. She wore a black coat and had very dark hair.
“The third woman also had dark hair, maybe twenty-eight. She carried a ratty fur coat and wore a flannel suit. Brian thought she was obviously English and looked like she had been in jail. Just a guess, he said. The others wore lipstick, she didn’t.
“He said the fourth woman was tall, he thought she was maybe thirty and—get a load of this—she was wearing an elegant dress.
“Now my guess is that Diana Rowden was the third woman, the one who looked English. Actually, her mother was Jewish. As far as that second woman, who Brian thought looked Jewish, well she was. I’m sure it was Yolanda Beekman. Her father was a Russian Jew I met in Brussels in 1939. When Germany invaded France, Yolanda joined the French Resistance and spent most of her t
ime carrying messages for us between our agents in France. As for the first and fourth women, I haven’t got a clue. What do you think, Pryce?”
“I would guess that the fourth woman is Madame Lauro.”
“Tell me why,” the general said.
“Well, we have no idea what she looks like, sir. All we know is that she poured acid on German soldiers’ food supplies in freight trains that were running on French railroads. She always worked alone and at night. Then she gets captured and is sent to Natzweiler wearing an elegant dress while an SS man escorts her in. I’d say she must be a strong French woman who is proud to wear her elegant dress to prison, a little like spitting in the Nazis’ eyes. I think only a French woman would do that.”
“Tom?” Colonel Hartley asked.
“I agree with Captain Pryce, that the fourth woman is Madame Lauro. Does Natzweiler have a crematorium, sir?”
“Pryce?” the colonel asked.
“They do have a crematorium now. A few weeks ago Brian told me that there used to be a small hotel about a mile above the concentration camp—probably for skiers—but it was reconstructed into a small gas chamber. That was recently, sir.”
“So what are you getting at, Cole?” the general asked.
“Do you know if Madame Lauro is Jewish, sir?” Tom asked.
“Let’s say that she is,” the general said.
“Well if she is Jewish, why didn’t they send Yolanda Beekman, Diana Rowden, and Madame Lauro to Dachau? They send most Jews to Auschwitz or Dachau. Why send them to Natzweiler, which is near the top of a mountain?”
“Why do you think?” the general asked.
“I think because of the gas chamber. But it seems crazy, because if they wanted to kill them, why there? I also think that the first woman you mentioned—the short blonde with a gray bow in her hair—is Anna Rosenkilde.”
