by Larry Loftis
But the man didn’t fall and there was a flash of metal and the bayonet went to work.
* * *
25. Sturmbann-Führer (Major) Hans Josef Kieffer was chief of the Sicherheitsdienst (SD), the SS’s counterintelligence branch, at its Parisian headquarters on Avenue Foch.
26. The second floor at 84 Avenue Foch was used by SD’s Section IV (wireless unit).
CHAPTER 11
THEY WILL SEND FOR YOU
Peter parried the charge, taking the brunt of it with his left, and delivered a smashing right. The guard stumbled and Peter snatched the rifle and drilled the bayonet into the ground, snapping it. He then broke the muzzle.
Terrified, the young man shouted for help.
“Assistenza! Assistenza!”
Peter struck him in the solar plexus, ending the cries, and followed with a blow to the chin. The Italian was out cold.
Shouts and a rumble of boots echoed down the barrack as Peter scrambled outside and made for the beam. Just then a second guard burst through the door, rushing Peter headlong in another bayonet charge. Peter blocked it, a slight sting in his hand, and thrust a right cross. The man crumpled and Peter lunged for the beam, swinging his legs over. As he pulled himself up, a hand grabbed his coat and yanked him from the ledge. Peter crashed down, and suddenly nine bayonets were pinning him.
The sergeant of the guard pushed his way in and, without a word, hammered Peter with his own straight right. Peter dropped to his knees and the kicking began. After a few minutes the soldiers dragged him back to the cell and Peter took stock of his condition: hands bleeding from four bayonet cuts, possible broken ribs, a closed eye.
The officer on duty came by and began barking orders: “Double the guard. Put a padlock on the door as well as using the bolt. No food for two days. Keep his glasses and shoot at the slightest provocation. No medical attention and no one is allowed in.”
So much for escape. Peter tended to his hands as best he could and thought of Odette. How was she making out?
An hour or so later he heard a discussion outside his cell.
“Let me have a look at this bastard.”
“No one’s allowed in.”
“To hell with orders! Have you seen Angelo?”
The guard said no.
“Well, I have. He’s in the hospital with his face bandaged up. You open that bloody door before I break it in!”
Keys jingled the lock and suddenly Peter saw Goliath. The behemoth was wielding a rifle with the bayonet turned back.
“By Christ, I’ll kill you, you bastard English spy!”
Again and again he pummeled Peter with the rifle, cracking his skull, striking his body, crushing his hands. Raining down blow after blow, he didn’t stop until Peter was no longer moving—unconscious or dead.
* * *
AT DAWN ODETTE’S DOOR opened and the Italian secret police chief came in.
“Your husband is a criminal Madame.”
Odette paused, and then remembered that she had told the chief that she and Peter were married. “Why?” she asked.
“Well, he tried to escape last night and knocked a man down, and in consequence it has been pretty bad for him.”
She gave no reply and the chief took her into another room, where a noncommissioned officer joined them. The chief asked her about her work, but she refused to comment.
Her position was very bad, he said; she would be made to talk.
No, he was quite mistaken, Odette replied, she would not.
The chief waited a moment, and the NCO said nothing. “You are very strong,” the chief finally said. He left without further comment.
* * *
WHEN PETER REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, he again took stock: pounding head, two ribs likely fractured, joints of two fingers crushed, good eye nearly closed.
It could have been worse. Executed as a spy. Tortured for attempting escape. He mulled the possibilities and longed to go out in a blaze of glory—with a Sten gun in his hands.
Perhaps in time.
After a day or so a secret police investigator came by. He sat next to Peter and opened a dossier.
“Now do you feel like answering some questions?”
“Go to hell!” Peter howled.
The agent closed the file and stood.
“I’ll be back.”
The man left and Peter thought about Arnaud. Surely Jean and Simone would have warned him immediately, and Arnaud would have informed London. By now, “Michel” and “Lise” would have been wiped off F Section’s blackboard and replaced by others. One month you’re delivering 168 containers to the Maquis of Glières, the next you’re white dust clinging to an eraser.
Days went by and nothing happened. He thought of Odette and pictured the anguished expression she must have had. Maybe she was wearing the faraway look he’d seen when she yearned for her girls—girls she might never see again.
He wept.
* * *
EACH DAY ONE OF the friendly guards would bring Odette news of Peter and she had them send messages to him. Peter responded with romantic love notes, which the passionate Italians delivered with pleasure.
After a week Odette was summoned to leave and she boarded the lorry with equanimity; it had been ten days since her arrest and, without bath or hygiene, it was hard to sink lower. Her hair was matted and oily, her skin grimy, and the odor of her body clung to her like a shadow. She thought endlessly of her children and Peter’s welfare. She’d heard about his escape attempt and beatings and knew the Geneva Convention provided no protection.
Where were they taking her? Where was Peter? And why the need for a dozen Carabinieri wielding Schmeissers?
Peter, meanwhile, was called from his cell and told that he’d be leaving with Odette. The Italians saw him off as one of their own; most came to shake his hand and wish him well, the first of whom was Angelo, the young man he had knocked out, now smiling ear to ear. Strange as it was—enemies treating one another as friends—the Italians had developed a deep respect and admiration for Peter. It’s not every day, they must have thought, that one gets to see two bayonet charges dismantled by an unarmed opponent. Peter’s combat skills, coupled with his passionate love notes, no doubt left the Italians envious.
No sooner than Odette had taken her seat, Peter was in the doorway, handcuffed. Amazingly, the Italians allowed them to sit together for the two-hour drive to their destination, Grenoble.
Odette grimaced at seeing Peter’s condition: his face was a mess and his hands were mangled, one finger clearly broken. She wondered if he had been tortured. For Peter, the injuries no longer existed—he was with the woman he loved and all was well. The ride was like an oasis of happiness, he felt, and just sitting next to her bolstered him.
Odette filled Peter’s pockets with cigarettes she had received from guards, as well as eggs she had saved. Addressing his wounds, she begged him not to do something rash and get himself killed.
It didn’t matter, Peter said. He was certain he’d be executed on any number of counts.
Odette gazed into his eyes. “I know that you will survive all this. Promise me to face it with patience. I shall be thinking of you and praying for you all the time.”
The words came as a shield and belt of salvation for Peter, and yet the encouragement was bittersweet; in the pit of his stomach, he felt sure that Odette didn’t consider her chance of survival as great as his. Why?
He was the circuit leader. He was the dangerous animal. He was the filthy saboteur. The notion that she was going to do something crazy haunted him; he knew without question that she would do everything she could to protect him.
Then there were Arnaud and Roger Cammaerts. The Germans would move heaven and earth to find them, and Peter and Odette agreed that they’d do all they could to save them. When the interrogations came, they’d simply deny everything. With Roger it was business, but Arnaud was different. They loved him. Yes, he was impossible to get along with—Peter and Odette were the only ones who
did—but he was the best wireless operator in France, was loyal to a fault, and was incredibly brave. When Peter wasn’t around, Arnaud refused to work with anyone other than Odette. The trio made a perfect team and Odette was absolutely certain that each would lay down their life for one of the others.
* * *
THE TIME TOGETHER ON the bus was precious, but Peter and Odette didn’t speak of the obvious: that they might never see each other again. They arrived in Grenoble all too soon and said their farewells. Odette was taken to a room in the barrack occupied by two other women. Peter’s reputation preceded him and he was taken to a cell where his ankles were chained.
Sitting in solitude, he considered the impact Odette had on him. It was not until now that he fully realized the extent of his admiration and love for her. Surely, he thought, few people could ever experience such a boundless measure of love as he received by a woman weighed down by the knowledge that she might never again set eyes on her children.
On the second day a group of officers came to Peter’s cell and one asked his name.
Peter wondered why they asked. Had the Gestapo not passed word?
Chambrun, he told them.
“We know all about that,” the man said, “but what’s your real name?”
Peter said that was his real name.
“No, it isn’t. Your name’s Churchill and you’re related to Winston Churchill.”
Perhaps the Gestapo had told them. Wait—the bit about relations with the prime minister? That didn’t come from the Germans.
“What makes you say that?” Peter asked.
Never mind, the officer said. He just wanted Peter to sign a form—with his real name—and rank and number.
Peter complied. The crowd, he realized, had tagged along to catch a glimpse of the prime minister’s kin.
* * *
TEN DAYS IN GRENOBLE and Odette and Peter were again loaded on a lorry, this time for a drive to the train station. On the way to Turin they were kept in separate compartments—each accompanied by seven guards. When the train arrived, they were locked in a waiting room with other prisoners while the guards waited for local transport.
Odette sidled up to Peter and said quietly, “It was I who told them your real name.”
“Why did you do that, for goodness sake?”
“I told the Duty Officer at Grenoble that you were closely related to the Old Man, and that’s a piece of information he’ll never be able to keep to himself.”
“Well, bang goes my cover story.”
Odette brushed aside the cover. “They’ll be so pleased with Henri for capturing you,” she said, “that they’ll probably give him the Ritterkreuz and keep you as a hostage.”
“So that was the idea,” Peter said. “Maybe you’re right. We’ll soon know. But I always thought it rather a dangerous name to travel under these days.”
“Wrong psychology altogether. You’ll see.”
Odette was calm and quite confident, Peter noticed. She seemed to be one step ahead in the game.
“I told them something else, too,” Odette said with a lopsided grin.
“What?”
“I said I was your wife, and that we’d been married since 1941.”
Peter laughed. It was brilliant, actually. If the Churchill name would save Peter because the Germans thought that he was related to the prime minister, it would save Odette, too, if they thought the couple were married.
“Well, that certainly shows your confidence in this plan,” he said. “I begin to like the idea, Lise. Yes, I like it very much. Sink or swim we shall be together.”
Three Italian guards noticed that Peter and Odette were whispering and one came over, shaking his finger.
“Niente politica, eh!”
“As though reunited lovers would waste their precious moments in conspiracy and treason,” Peter replied with a smirk. “Why, all we’re doing is whispering sweet nothings to each other.”
The guard seemed mollified and moved on.
“Naturally,” Odette continued, “I need hardly add that this stunt is merely a war-time measure.”
Peter held her eyes. Now was the time. “If I ever get the chance,” he said, “I shall ask you if you’d care to make it a lifetime measure.”
* * *
AFTER A NIGHT IN Turin they entrained for Nice. The Italians were quite pleasant, giving them oranges and singing most of the way. From the station, Peter and Odette were driven to a beautiful villa on a hill and put in separate rooms. There were no interrogations, and again the Italians treated them extremely well.
Nine or ten days later they boarded a big saloon, this one headed for Toulon. Peter was not handcuffed and they were again allowed to sit together. When the truck reached the coast, the driver turned west on rue d’Antibes, which runs through the center of Cannes.
Odette reached for Peter’s hand. It was here, six months prior, that they had met. It was here, from their headquarters, that they had watched the Gulf of Napoule burning gold at sunset.
Life sometimes plays it back—mostly the beautiful—lest one forget the blessings, fleeting though they are.
The lorry lumbered along to Provence and they were teased again, this time with the warm scent of garrigue—an intoxicating mixture of sage, thyme, juniper, rosemary, and lavender—the scent of freedom. After a brief stop they carried on to Toulon, where they entrained for the twelve-hour trip to Paris. Once again, Peter and Odette were able to sit together.
The train chugged through the night and dawn broke as they entered the city on May 8. Odette squeezed Peter’s hand and smiled.
“Bonjour, mon Pierre.”
She retrieved something from her bag and held it out. It was a small crucifix. Peter took it, the encouragement as powerful as the symbolism vivid; they were about to embark upon their own trek down Via Dolorosa.
Colonel Henri greeted them at the Gare de Lyon station and, with apology, handed them over to two Gestapo, who drove them to Fresnes. Located seven miles south of the heart of Paris, Fresnes was Europe’s largest prison. It was built at the turn of the century and offered some twelve hundred cells; cells which the Gestapo found adequate for three thousand prisoners.
Odette and Peter again said farewell and they were taken to holding cells for registration. Odette was strip-searched and then led down a flight of stairs to a ghostly, medieval underground passage. Colonel Henri appeared and carried Odette’s luggage through the long corridor. Between chasms of darkness, they went through a series of doors, all of which had to be unlocked and relocked. Armed guards at all checkpoints.
The passage ended at the ground floor of the main center, above which were four catwalks. The place was clean and quiet and stale.
Like a morgue.
Henri took Odette into an open room and offered her a cigarette. She took it and they sat at a small table and smoked and talked as if a couple at a Champs-Élysées cafe. The German was extremely polite, she noticed.
“I don’t like some of the things in the Nazi regime,” Henri said. “One day I’ll be put in prison for it. I was in prison in the last war. Could have escaped but didn’t to save the life of a British officer.” He shrugged. “I do my job as well as I can. I don’t like it, though.”
Odette smoked and listened.
“I don’t like seeing you here,” Henri went on, “and if I can I shall get you out.” He paused a moment and then added, “Of course you don’t love Peter, it cannot be.”
Henri was probing, Odette knew, but why? He was smooth and charming and as dangerous as a domesticated tiger, so there had to be a motive. Technically, his job was over. The Gestapo was in charge of all prisons, so once Henri turned her and Peter over to them at the train station, he had no further need to see them.
Then it dawned on her: Henri was recruiting.
He didn’t want to ask openly if she’d work for him; that would be clumsy and amateurish. But if he could get her to deny her love for Peter it would open the door, and Henri wou
ld then make his next move.
“You are making a big mistake,” she said. “The arrest has nothing to do with it.”
“Pity you’re taking it like that. I could have done something for you.”
Odette said nothing and Henri studied her. After a few moments his countenance suddenly changed, almost cheerful.
“Peter is a very lucky man,” he said.
Odette smiled to herself. Henri got it. He realized that she knew his game, and that she’d just won the battle of wits.
After a while a guard came. Henri told Odette that if there was anything she needed, anything he could do for her, to let him know.
Odette was taken to an empty cell and locked in.
Cell 108. It was not unlike her prior quarters: plaster walls with fungus on the ceiling, rusted iron bed, chair with a broken back, lavatory with a brown enamel basin, shelf with a spoon and tin bowl. It was twelve by eight.
Fresnes Prison, Paris. Musée d’histoire de la Justice
She studied the walls and noticed scratches—a calendar ending February 17. And in another place, clearly visible: “Quand j’etais petite, je gardais les vaches; maintenant ce sont elles qui me gardent.”—“When I was little, I kept the cows; Now it is they who keep me.”
Cows . . . Somerset . . . Marianne, Lily, Francoise . . .
* * *
FOR SEVERAL DAYS ODETTE saw no one. She was in solitary confinement, she realized, and her coffee and starvation rations were inserted each day through the food hatch. One afternoon Henri stopped by.
He talked openly, almost like a probation officer. “Lise, I am truly sorry to see you in this place,” he said. “Fresnes is not for . . . for people like you.” Glancing about the room, he noticed that Odette had only two blouses, including the one she was wearing.
