The journey to Rethel was completed by rail. Their papers were checked once at the station and once on the train, but caused no comment. At Rethel they went, not to the market, but to the address that Gaby had memorised. It was a disused shop, its broken windows boarded up.
‘Here?’ she murmured dubiously. ‘I think this must be wrong.’
‘No, wait, the door’s ajar.’ He pushed it open and stepped inside.
At once an elderly woman came from the back. ‘Oh, m’sieu, madame ‒ you’re rather late ‒ I had given you up.’
‘Madame?’ Gaby countered. Then the password: ‘The market’s crowded today.’
‘Ah, yes, too crowded for comfort.’
She offered her hand. ‘Glad to see you. My name’s Mili Ladour. You’re Cellier, are you?’
‘I was.’
‘Yes, I heard there had been trouble. Come to the back room, I’ve coffee keeping hot. There’s some bread, but no butter or meat, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh,’ sighed Marc, breathing in the aroma of the chicory-coffee, ‘that’s heaven … I haven’t had a hot drink in six days.’
Their hostess poured the drink into thick mugs. ‘You’re supposed to be looking over this shop to see whether you want to rent it. Take your time over the coffee. I have to go and collect someone ‒ I’ll be back in about half an hour.’
‘Renting a shop?’ Gaby laughed as the door closed behind her. ‘I hope nobody comes and questions us ‒ we don’t look like people who could afford to rent a shop.’
But Marc wasn’t paying any heed. He was gulping the hot coffee though it burned his throat.
The half-hour wait went quickly. They still had a lot of news to exchange. Marc had heard that she had lost members of her family but not that Elinore had been found.
‘Safe and sound,’ he said. ‘Well, thank god for that at least!’
‘I don’t know if she’s as “sound” as all that. She’s with elderly cousins now, who don’t really know how to look after a little girl. They write that she has nightmares all the time.’
‘Who hasn’t,’ he said with a sigh.
Madame Ladour came back with one man, whom she introduced as Danny. ‘Anne can’t get away ‒ she works for the German Kommandantur and they’ve given her a long proclamation to type out that’ll take up her lunch hour. Well now … Did HQ put you in the picture?’
Marc looked at Gaby. Gaby shook her head. ‘My orders were to collect Marc ‒ I mean Cellier ‒ and bring him to this address.’
‘Hm … Which of you knows about Alsace?’
Marc looked mystified. Gaby said: ‘Er … I was asked if I could speak German like a native of Alsace … But I wasn’t given any more details.’
‘Ah,’ said Danny. ‘Then let’s explain. This shop is to be let to a couple from Alsace who are supporters of the Germans. You know the way that goes ‒ they get access to supplies of more or less luxury goods and their customers are German officers or favoured French citizens.’
‘Have you papers for this pair?’ Marc inquired.
‘Papers, family photographs in an album, clothes ‒ though I’m afraid the dresses won’t fit you, madame,’ said Mili, looking at Gaby with some envy. ‘You’re smaller than Madame Bleker, obviously.’
‘You mean … these are real things? Belonging to real people?’ she asked, on an indrawn breath.
‘Yes, it’s quite a haul.’
‘How did you get them?’
‘That, madame, is the kind of question you don’t ask,’ said the leader with a frown at her. ‘The point is, we got this windfall two days ago and we’ve got to use it within the next twenty-four hours, otherwise questions will be asked by the authorities about the non-appearance of the Blekers.’ He hesitated. ‘This has been sprung on you, that’s clear. The point is, are you going to take it on?’
‘What’s the alternative if we don’t?’
‘Well, we’ll pass you on to Mézières and keep you hidden until we can get new papers ‒’
‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ Marc interrupted. ‘I mean, if we don’t take on this Bleker job, what happens to the set-up?’
‘Oh ‒ we’ll have to let it go. We can’t keep it open any longer ‒ the Blekers are supposed to be on their way from Strasbourg but though they could be delayed a day or two, we can’t keep it going beyond tomorrow.’ He looked first at Marc, then at Gaby. ‘It would be a damned shame to lose it. We could get first-rate information. It’s a near-perfect set-up.’
‘Absolutely,’ Marc said. He waited.
‘I agree,’ said Gaby.
‘You’ll do it? Thank God for that! Mili said she was sure the man would go along, but you, madame … You’re an unknown quantity to us.’
‘Do you want to know my real name?’
‘For the love of heaven! Nothing I want less! Well, let’s get this thing going. This is the shop you’re to have. You have to report at the Kommandantur and claim it as soon as you can, and you’d better invent an excuse for being late ‒ you were supposed to arrive yesterday. We’ve got the luggage and papers in a safe place …’
He gave them directions, then repeated them so that they would remember it. ‘I’ll go first, then you two. Mili will lock up and so forth, while you make your way ahead of her. She works for the Accommodation Bureau which is how we knew this chance was coming up. You can change and make yourselves presentable. Mili will help. Then you’ll go as soon as you can to the Kommandantur ‒ clear?’
‘Quite clear. How will we make contact with you?’
‘Leave it a week or so. You’ll be busy opening the shop and so on. I’ll come in ‒ I can’t come as a customer, of course, but I’m a rail clerk, I could bring information about deliveries.’
‘Deliveries of what?’ Gaby put in as Danny headed for the door. ‘What are we going to sell in this shop once we rent it?’
‘Oh yes … That’s important, you want to be able to make sense when you claim it. It’s going to be a wine shop ‒ I hope you know something about wine?’
Gaby looked at Marc. Marc looked at Gaby. Then they began to laugh with genuine amusement.
Adele and Thomas Bleker were, it ensued, a childless couple in their middle thirties. Thomas was the son of a family who wholeheartedly accepted the Germanisation of their region in 1870 and had grown up believing himself to be German. For this loyalty he was now being rewarded by a chance to better himself, to start up his own business instead of being a mere shop assistant. This was quite common in the occupied areas ‒ empty shops and abandoned businesses were given to those whom the conquerors wished to reward.
The luggage and papers were in a cellar in the Rue de Givance. There were two suitcases and a trunk. As Mili had foretold, the dresses were too big for Gaby but with the use of pins and some hasty stitching while Marc shaved and changed she provided herself with an outfit which would pass muster. In due course she could alter the clothes, and with the help of a friendly photographer they could replace the photos in the family album with others showing themselves.
‘What happens if anyone from Strasbourg drops in at the shop?’ Marc murmured after he had hefted the luggage aboard the porter’s handcart which Danny had sent.
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t happen.’ Mili surveyed him, in his good suit of brown broadcloth and high starched collar. ‘You look quite convincing. Madame isn’t so well-turned-out, but after a long and difficult journey perhaps she’s not feeling too good. By the way, what’s your excuse for being so late?’
Gaby fanned her face with Adele Bleker’s gloves. ‘Oh, mercy, I felt so bad,’ she moaned. ‘Long train journeys always upset my stomach …’
It had been uttered in the thickened French of the Alsacienne. Mili stared at her. ‘Good for you!’ she cried. ‘You know, I think this is really going to work!’
And it did. Their perfectly genuine travel documents and property claim were examined and accepted by the Kommandantur. They were given an escort to show them the premises they were to
rent. A fat envelope was handed to them with details of how to apply for supplies of wine and cigars. Paint to refurbish the shop could be obtained from the Civilian Supplies Depot by special permit. New ration cards and clothing permits would come from the Mayor’s office. Shop fittings and house furniture could be requisitioned from the Stapelplatz.
It was evening by the time they had been through all the formalities and signed all the papers. The last official wished them well and went out of the shop, closing the door with a friendly wave.
All at once Gaby began to shake. She felt blindly for a support, and felt Marc’s arms come around her.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m frightened, Marc, I’m so frightened!’
‘It’s all right, it’s just reaction ‒’
‘What am I doing here? I told my father I’d be back in two days!’
‘We’ll get word to him, don’t worry.’
‘No, you don’t understand! I don’t want to be here! I’m too scared to go through with it!’
‘Now, now,’ he soothed. ‘I’ve always admired you, ever since that night at your coming-out ball …’
She jerked her head up to look at him, through her panicky tears.
‘You were there? I don’t remember that.’
For a moment there was a hurt look, but it was gone instantly. ‘Why should you? That was the night you fell in love.’
‘Oh … With Lucas Vourville … You know about that?’
‘You forget, I was with your father’s lawyers. I took part in the negotiations.’
She wiped her tears with the palms of her hands. ‘I wasted half a year of my life on him … How strange it seems now.’
‘Yes,’ Marc said, setting her steady on her feet a few paces away. ‘You see being scared out of your wits for a few minutes does you a lot of good. It cuts trivialities down to size.’
Despite herself she laughed ‒ unsteadily, but it was a real laugh. ‘And what’s the next triviality we have to deal with?’
‘Since we can’t select our household furniture until tomorrow, we’ve got to go and get a room for the night.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I see. Come along then, Monsieur Bleker.’
‘Very well, Madame Bleker.’
The innkeeper looked sour when they handed him their papers with the approval of the German authorities stamped all over them. He gave them the very worst accommodation on offer ‒ an attic room full of draughts, bitterly cold in the May frost.
Since they were a married couple, there was a double bed. There was no pretence that Marc, a true gallant, would sleep on the floor while she took the bed. He was too exhausted after days and nights on the run, and for her part Gaby was too weary herself to worry about the decencies.
In the night she was woken by little starts of movement. She raised herself on her elbow. Marc was lying with his back to her, making little stabbing motions in the air in front of his face, as if he were fighting off an attack. He was muttering and protesting. But he was still asleep.
She turned, put her arms about him, laid her cheek against the nape of his neck. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered, ‘it’s just a dream, Marc, you’re all right.’
And that was the closest to physical embrace they came on that first night.
The German officers at the barracks in Rethel soon grew fond of the couple who had opened the wine shop in the Rue de la Chappelle. The man was respectful yet friendly, always ready to lend a sympathetic ear if one had been passed over for promotion or been given orders for the front. The woman, though, was something special ‒ mysterious dark eyes that betokened Latin blood, perhaps, and a golden smile like a madonna.
Not that it was much use trying to flirt with her. She and her husband were clearly head over heels in love with each other, for all that they appeared to have been married upwards of ten years.
Gaby and Marc turned to each other inevitably. Apart from the fact that they were physically attracted, they had no one else. They were isolated, vulnerable, with no friends apart from the few underground fighters who knew their secret. The neighbours disliked and distrusted them ‒ dirty toadies of the Germans, taking some other man’s home and livelihood, making a living off the goods the Germans ‘requisitioned’ for their own benefit.
In July came news of the French and British first offensive on the Somme. Marc sent back word that the German officers seemed unperturbed, expecting to hold their own against it at least and probably turn it back. There was certainly consternation among them in September, when a new weapon by the British was reported ‒ the Germans called it Ein Tank but what it could be Marc couldn’t fathom. In October Marc sent an urgent message ‒ that the proposed French attack at Verdun was already expected, was spoken of as a matter of course almost, by the officers who came into the wine shop.
Christmas of that year was full of hope for the Blekers. It was said Germany had sent a peace note to the Allies, and there was a new French offensive on the Meuse which seemed to be doing some good.
‘Do you remember, darling,’ Gaby said as they came indoors from the midnight mass, ‘that when the war first began, everyone said it would be over by Christmas?’
Marc sighed. ‘What nobody mentioned was, which Christmas.’
‘Perhaps it really is going to end soon. Perhaps this peace note …’
‘Perhaps.’
But in the night they clung to each other in desperation. Time was going by, they were trapped here in enemy territory, there seemed almost nothing to hope for.
And yet, as 1917 began, such news as they could get from the Allied side sounded good. The Germans were withdrawing on the Western Front, the American President Woodrow Wilson was expressing indignation with German actions. The weight of events might yet force the Kaiser to negotiate a peace.
But then a jubilant Kavallerie-Offizier shattered all their hopes. ‘Champagne!’ he called, banging on the counter with a gloved fist. ‘Champagne to drink the health of the Tsar!’
‘Of the Tsar, captain?’ queried Gaby, half-smiling, half-puzzled ‒ for Russia was the enemy of Germany, the ally of the French.
‘Yes, yes, to the health of the Tsar! He’s abdicated, and the government of All the Russias is in a hell of a mess, and if they can go on fighting on the Eastern Front I’m the Sultan of Baghdad! My dear madame, it means the war in the east is over! Germany will be able to concentrate all her forces on those bastards the French and the British!’
‘Oh, I see,’ she said, turning away with her eyes suddenly flooding with tears. She spent a long time selecting two good bottles of champagne for the captain, ensuring that when she faced him again she was unperturbed and smiling.
‘Damn them all!’ cried Marc when she went into the cellar where he was stacking crates. ‘Just when it looked as if it might be starting to turn our way …’
‘I can’t bear to think of it, Marc! Will the Russians really stop fighting?’
‘I don’t know … I hope not … Oh, God, when will it ever be over?’
Their misery was lightened only a month later. Danny came late at night in great excitement. ‘President Wilson has declared war on Germany,’ he announced.
‘A new rumour?’ Marc said cynically.
‘No, it’s true ‒ we got it on our network ‒ the peace-lover declared war.’
‘There’s been nothing in the papers …’
‘You don’t think the Germans are going to let us know? They’ll have to, eventually ‒ but they’ll play it down. But I can tell you, it happened a week ago and America has promised a huge amount of ammunition and weapons to the Allies.’
‘Munitions and weapons … What we need is fighting men, Danny.’
Gaby had listened in silence. Now she said, ‘Danny, can we go home soon?’
‘What?’ he blurted, taken aback.
‘Can we pack up and go? I … I don’t think I can bear much more of this.’
‘Oh, look here, madame, that’s not the kind of t
hing I like to hear.’
‘I know, I’m sorry, but I have this feeling … It’s time to go … We’ve been amazingly lucky so far, we’ve passed on a lot of useful gossip and a few bits of good information. But our luck is going to run out, Danny. I feel it in my bones.’
Marc took her hand. ‘You must forgive her,’ he said in apology to Danny. ‘She’s been a bit edgy recently.’
‘I suppose it’s no wonder. I understand, of course … But hang on a bit longer. We hear rumours of trouble with the civilian population in Germany. HQ would like to know if it affects the Army, they want to hear anything you can pick up.’
‘But let them know at HQ ‒ Danny, promise you’ll pass back the word ‒ I want us to leave soon ‒ do you understand, Danny, soon!’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. But she could see it had a low priority in his scheme of things.
In July a pretty French girl came into the shop one afternoon on the arm of a German officer. During the discussion about a good bottle of wine to go with the pigeons for the main meal, she managed to slip a tiny fold of paper to Gaby.
‘Meet 2 am Ecu d’Or very urgent,’ the message ran.
‘It’s a trap,’ Gaby cried.
‘No, I’m sure it’s genuine.’
‘She’s hired by the Germans to ‒’
‘I think she’s Julie Delahaie ‒ Danny’s mentioned her. She’s all right. Gaby, I’m sure she is.’
Despite her fears, he went out at ten minutes to two. There was a curfew, and Gaby sat for almost two hours imagining Marc arrested, dragged before the military authorities, tortured to make him talk, made ready to be shot as the dawn came up …
He came back about four. He gave his usual tap on the door before using his key. She flew to open it in the dark. He came in, but someone came just behind at his heels.
‘Marc ‒ who ‒?’
The Champagne Girls Page 27
