Jean Grainger Box Set: So Much Owed, Shadow of a Century, Under Heaven's Shining Stars

by Jean Grainger

  The car slowed down and Juliet cycled on, glancing sideways to note the swastika flying merrily on the bonnet.

  ‘Can we give you a lift? It’s a nasty day for uphill cycling.’

  The German officer was smiling at her exertions. He was dark and looked more Spanish than German with his tanned skin and brown eyes. He had an infectious smile.

  Juliet tried to appear calm. ‘No, thank you, I’m almost there.’

  ‘Please, I insist. Where are you going? My sergeant can put your bicycle in the back.’ His French was accented but correct.

  Juliet knew to resist further would draw suspicion. Why would someone not accept a lift in a car on such a miserable day? Anyway, when a German officer said, ‘I insist’, that’s exactly what it meant, however charming the delivery.

  ‘I’m going to Chauvigney.’ She had just passed a signpost for the medieval village ‘Delivering a prescription for a patient of my employer. He is quite ill, so I would be glad to get it to him sooner. Thank you.’

  Settled into the car, she remained composed. She was conscious of the water dripping from her hair and clothes all over the plush upholstery of the car. She had been trained in Beaulieu for such eventualities. Calm down, she told herself. Her cover story had held up before, and it would again. She had all the necessary papers to say she was a ‘dame de compagnie’ for a doctor in Poitiers, helping in his surgery and taking care of his young sons. Her papers were regularly checked as she made her way around the city, possibly even more so than if she were in Paris since Poitiers was so close to the ‘unoccupied zone’ of Vichy France. The division of the country into two – one area ruled directly by the Germans and the other ostensibly by the Vichy French parliament in exile, but in reality by the Germans also – meant tensions ran high. The Germans were vigilant as they saw it as a hotbed of resistance.

  Dr Blain’s wife had died when the children were young. Juliet’s story was that she was Marie-Louise Berniere from Amiens and had been educated in Belgium, which would account for any discrepancies in her accent. Just as the Italians were expert at spotting any inconsistencies in clothing, so could the French spot the tiniest nuance of accent. Often, it was not the Germans that were the real threat but the French themselves, some of whom were informers. The trouble was that one never knew, so she had to be convincing at all times and never drop her guard. She was twenty-two years of age and an orphan. Her parents had been killed in a car accident in 1925, which explained why she was educated in a Belgian convent. Her papers were faux faux, which meant they were produced in London, but they had been scrutinised many times, and so she was confident of them. Lise de Chambray, her contact in the city, explained that some agents used vrais faux papers, preferring them as they were real papers belonging to an actual person but which contained no photograph, so checking back with the Gestapo was impossible. Once London became adept at producing authentic papers however, faux faux were deemed safer. Before she left, her clothes were checked to ensure they were French – even the way the French sew on buttons was different to the English, so it was imperative to give nothing away. A kind lady from the Special Operations Executive went through everything on Juliet’s last night in London. Nothing she wore or carried could mark her out as an enemy agent. She was parachuted in on the night of the fourteenth of February, 1942. She recalled the last words she heard in English, from the flight lieutenant of the Lysander that dropped her: ‘Happy Valentine’s.’

  Dr Blain, her employer, was a jolly man and was kind to Juliet. The Special Operations executive had set her up in the Blain home but warned her never to deviate from her cover story, even with the doctor. If Hervé Blain suspected anything was unusual about his new assistant, he never remarked upon it. He asked her little about herself but constantly chatted about the weather and the perfect cheese to go with different wines. His children, Jean-Marc and Luc, were aged eight and six, and Juliet had come to love them. Juliet was a feature of the Rue de la Vincenderie surgery as the patients of Dr Blain came and went. Each day, she prepared breakfast, took the boys to school, and then did the paperwork for the medical practice.

  Several times a week, a patient would pass her a note along with his or her prescription, containing instructions for a drop. She couriered information all over the city in her brassiere. She relayed messages between her circuit leader, Hercule, and an unnamed wireless operator who, Lise had told her, worked out of the attic of a shoe shop on Boulevard Chasseligne. She tried never to take the children with her on these missions, fearing she might implicate them or their father if she was caught, though once or twice she’d been forced to take them when the message was urgent.

  Initially, it was terrifying; she was convinced she looked guilty. Now she was much more relaxed. Still wary, of course – her training taught her that – but she had confidence now. The first time she saw a German soldier, she was walking the boys to school. He brushed past her on the street, and she was sure he could hear the pounding of her heart. The Germans were so much a feature of city life now that people just adapted to them being there. The locals did not engage with them except when absolutely necessary, and people were very guarded in their conversations, but amazingly, for Juliet, life just went on.

  Sitting on the back seat beside the man who wore the insignia of a Hauptsturmführer, which she recognised as being equivalent to a captain, she tried to appear relaxed. He was chatting happily, and she thought he looked very young to hold such an elevated rank; she guessed him to be no more than thirty. The Scharführer loaded the bicycle in the back and drove off in the direction of the village. Juliet would have to insist he let her out in the square as she had no appointment set up to deliver medicine – though she always carried a bottle of important-looking pills in her pocket in case she needed a cover story. The training at Beaulieu had drilled into her that it was vital at all times to have a plausible reason for being anywhere and doing anything.

  ‘So, does your employer not have petrol for his car? It seems somehow cruel to have such a lovely young lady cycling in such weather.’ The German officer seemed friendly, but Juliet knew not to relax her guard.

  ‘As yes, but it is in short supply, so he saves it for emergencies. I don’t mind really, I enjoy cycling – but yes, it is particularly chilly today.’

  Reaching into a bag, he pulled out a hip flask and offered it to her.

  ‘Non, merci.’ She shook her head demurely. Though the warming whiskey or brandy would have been welcome, nicely brought-up French girls wouldn’t accept a drink from a German like that.

  ‘So, what is your name?’ he asked pleasantly.

  ‘Marie-Louise Berniere.’

  ‘A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. I am Dieter Friedman, it is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Berniere.’ Juliet noticed he didn’t use his rank to introduce himself. ‘And are you from Poitiers?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I am from Amiens, originally. I was educated in Belgium as a child. I’m working in Poitiers for Dr Blain, a general practitioner on Rue de la Vincenderie, helping in the surgery and taking care of his sons. He is a widower.’ She felt she was chatty enough so as not to alert him. Also, she was anxious to steer the conversation to her current situation. While her cover story was good, and she had been drilled on it a thousand times before leaving England, she did not feel totally confident discussing Belgian convents or Picardy, considering she’d never set foot in either.

  ‘A busy lady then. Do you ever have a day off? I hear the countryside of the Haute-Vienne is beautiful even in winter, but I have had no time to explore it. I am from Bavaria so the landscape is very different to what is here. Would you care to join me someday?’

  Juliet knew that to refuse outright might offend him and cause him to question her further. The safest option seemed to be generally positive about the suggestion but to be non-specific.

  ‘Oh, the scenery of the Haute-Vienne is really beautiful. You really should try to see it. Unfortunately, Dr Blain i
s very busy at the moment because his locum is away in Paris visiting his mother, and there is a nasty bug going around, so I will be working every day until he returns.’ Juliet hoped she sounded genuinely disappointed. This was her first conversation of any length with a German, and she was anxious not to arouse his suspicion. She mustn’t seem too enthusiastic – after all, a nice French girl should feel resentment of the occupying enemy – but she didn’t want to antagonise him, either. Calm politeness was what was suggested when the question was raised during training.

  ‘And when does he return, this other doctor?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘I’m not sure. Probably not until after Christmas. His mother’s health is failing.’ They were approaching the village square. She needed to get out here without saying or doing anything that would make him think she was anything other than what she said she was.

  ‘Does your patient live here in the village? Can we drop you to their door?’

  Thinking quickly, Juliet said, ‘The place is very hard to find, so I have been told to wait here in the square and one of the man’s daughters is to collect the prescription from me. I can wait under that shelter. I am a little early, thanks to your generosity. Thank you so much for the lift.’ She was praying he wouldn’t insist she avoid the rain and wait in the car until the fictitious daughter arrived.

  The driver pulled over to the kerb beside a makeshift shelter used during the weekly market. She made to open the door, but the officer leaned over her, covering the handle.

  ‘Goodbye, Marie-Louise. We shall meet again, I hope.’ He was very close to her, though not touching. He was clean-shaven and smelled of spice. She was terrified but maintained her composure. Checkpoints staffed by bored soldiers were one thing, but this was something very different. The sergeant opened the door for her and retrieved her bicycle. As the car turned into the square and drove back in the direction it had come, the captain waved from the back seat.

  An old woman walked past her at the moment Juliet was returning his wave. She was hunched over and covered in a black cloak. She had several gaps where teeth should have been. ‘Traîtresse,’ she spat.

  When she was sure the Germans were gone, Juliet once again mounted her bicycle and pedalled out into the countryside to meet her circuit leader. Hercule lived in a remote, tumbledown farmhouse perched on a hill, where he was surrounded by loyal volunteers who acted as his sentries. They were able to warn him of any unwelcome visitors long before they got there, by virtue of the building’s vantage point over the surrounding farmland. There was a dense forest behind the farm, where several underground bunkers had already been dug for safety in the event of any Germans coming sniffing round.

  Hercule was extremely grumpy – never a word of thanks, only sarcastic remarks and barking instructions. He seemed to regard Juliet as a silly little girl, who was utterly unsuited to this kind of work and was therefore a serious safety risk, though she’d never made a mistake in the ten months she’d worked for him. Once, on a previous visit, she had remarked about the weather, and he had looked at her as if she were simple in the head. Juliet was only slightly less terrified of him than she was of the Germans. Yet she was sure Hercule would be pleased with the message she was bringing him now. It was from the circuit’s wireless operator and confirmed that there would be a drop of supplies the following night, providing the full moon was not obscured by cloud cover.

  She knew the operator received many of his messages through the medium of the BBC, delivered in code. But even listening to the BBC had become incredibly dangerous as the Germans now had mobile equipment that could intercept radio waves. Sometimes, operators had been captured and forced under torture to transmit messages that ultimately led to the capture of agents, so even within one’s own circuit, safety was a very tenuous thing.

  She debated telling Hercule about the encounter with the captain in the car. He might explode and berate her for even speaking to a German even though there had been no choice. Still, she had to tell him; it was too significant. She waited until he escorted her to the gate, handed her a message for London on a tiny scrap of paper, and turned to leave without saying goodbye.

  ‘Hercule, there is something else you should know.’ Her voice was halting. He paused and looked back at her impatiently. She felt tongue-tied and nervous. He really was a most unpleasant man even if his organisational skills made him invaluable to the Resistance. Lise had said he was English and that London trusted him implicitly. Juliet had no idea of his real name.

  ‘What?’ His French accent was Parisian.

  ‘On the way here, I was given a lift by a German captain in his car. He insisted on putting my bike in the back and driving me to Chavigney. Well, actually, his sergeant drove – he sat in the back with me. I know how dangerous that was, but I had no choice. To refuse would have been suspicious. He asked me to go out with him. Of course, I said I was too busy…’

  ‘What was his name, this German?’ Hercule asked wearily, interrupting her explanation as if bored by her long-windedness.

  ‘Dieter Friedman, and he had the insignia of a Hauptsturmfürher – so he was a captain,’ said Juliet, pleased with her knowledge of insignia.

  ‘Yes, clever you, a captain.’ His voice dripped sarcasm. ‘So, you’ve caught the eye of our local Nazi have you? You may not be as useless as you look.’

  LATER THAT EVENING, JULIET railed against Hercule in Lise’s dining room. Lise was second in command to Hercule in their circuit. She was gentle, quiet-spoken, and impossible to imagine as a secret agent. Her delicate features with pale blue eyes and blond hair made her look vulnerable and in need of protection, but Juliet knew that Lise was one of the toughest women she’d ever known. Her background was aristocratic yet she blended perfectly into all types of company. Despite the deprivations of occupied France, she always looked chic and smelled of freesias. She was cultured and well-read and had taken a liking to Juliet. Her cover story was that she was a Parisian widow, Madame Lise Chevalier, who was seeking refuge from the tension of life in the city. With a nonchalance that was her trademark, she lived in a ground floor apartment beside the Gestapo headquarters in the city.

  ‘Marie-Louise, I know he can be a little condescending, but he really is very good at his job. I’m not sure he agrees with women in the military. But to give him his due, things are going very well in this region, and it’s mainly due to him. Just bite your tongue if he says anything to rile you. He’s all right really.’ Lise soothed her, pouring each of them a glass of red wine, which she always seemed able to procure despite the restrictions.

  ‘Now, tell me more about your German captain. What did you talk about?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing much more to tell, really,’ Juliet explained. ‘He asked me out, I was noncommittal. I thought that was best. I think I handled it fairly well, to be honest. If you’d told me I was going to have to go through that in advance, I’d have been terrified but actually I was calm. He seemed nice enough, and it wasn’t too hard just to chat with him.’ Fearing she had made it sound like she enjoyed his company, she added, ‘Of course, he’s a German, I just meant…’

  ‘I know exactly what you meant,’ Lise interrupted. ‘Not all of them are animals like our neighbour Klinker, that sadistic Gestapo pig. He is truly vile but at least you know what you’re dealing with. The civilised ones are more dangerous in lots of ways. It’s easier to forget who they are and why they’re here.’

  She spoke quietly, with the gramophone playing Schubert gently in the background. SOE had trained them to always obscure the sound when discussing matters of importance, in case of eavesdroppers.

  ‘Perhaps, you should go on a date with your Captain Friedman. It would be very useful to have someone close to him. We know a recently arrived British agent was picked up in Poitiers a few days ago. We hope it was by an unlucky chance, but of course, there is always the worry that she was betrayed. Plus, we don’t know exactly what she knew and might have tol
d them. The fact that the captain sought you out creates the perfect opportunity for us – they are instantly suspicious of girls who flirt with them.’

  Juliet was so shocked she couldn’t speak. Was Lise serious? It could have been Juliet herself picked up just as easily. Not for the first time, the reality of what she was doing crashed over her like an icy wave. What had happened to that agent? Had she been tortured? Was she dead? And now Lise was suggesting that she put herself into an even more dangerous situation. Working as a courier was terrifying enough, but living a double life to deliberately get close to the enemy was a whole other level.

  ‘I…I don’t think I could do that. I mean, what if he suspected me…’ She knew she sounded cowardly, but the thought of what Lise was suggesting made her almost want to vomit with fear.

  Lise looked kindly at her young friend. ‘What I’m suggesting is extremely dangerous. Of course, you shouldn’t do it if you feel it would be too risky. You’re probably right. Just say no and continue doing the excellent job you’re doing. Please don’t worry about it. Now, I’ve managed to get us some beef for our supper, just a little bit – but I miss meat, don’t you?’

  Lise chatted about life in general as she prepared a simple meal of meat and bread with some fried onions. Never again did Friedman come up in their conversation. It was simply a chat between two friends.

  Lise deliberately had a lot of visitors, so that agents could come and go without causing suspicion from her Nazi neighbours. She had cleaning ladies, tutors of all kinds of things, charity workers – she was on several committees – and even a few gentleman callers. She even gave piano lessons. She called it ‘hiding in plain sight’ and claimed it was the safest way to live. The train station was just down the street, so there was always lots of hustle and bustle outside.

  Juliet got up to leave at a quarter past eight. The curfew meant no one was allowed out after nine in the evening, and it was a twenty-minute walk to the doctor’s house. She avoided public transport wherever possible as the buses were used by German soldiers. As she pulled on her coat, she asked, ‘Do we know what happened to the British agent?’