The Lavender Keeper

by Fiona McIntosh

  Kilian closed his eyes in fury. This man was surely Ravensburg. They were working together, had infiltrated his life together, had been lovers behind his back. He felt nauseated. He’d told his secretary to not disturb him, and to hold all calls unless there was a message from General Stülpnagel’s office.

  And so for hours he’d sat silently in his office, pondering Lisette and Ravensburg. Loewe had spoken German like a native but his French was flawless too – a perfect match for Lisette as a spy. Were they working for the Allies? They had to be. But given that he, Kilian, was currently out to pasture, why had he been targeted? He teased at his question in his mind, remembering conversations, unravelling Lisette’s story as he moved back through everything he knew of her.

  Was Walter involved? No. He couldn’t imagine it. And Lisette was always wary of inviting Walter whenever he’d suggested it. So she was using Walter as her cover, working at the bank to support her everyday life while she integrated into his. And he’d fallen for it. He truly loved her, and he couldn’t imagine that she had faked her responses to him that well. And yet the photos showed her in a tight embrace with a handsome young man who reminded him of himself, fifteen years ago.

  How could they stomach what they’d had to do? How had Loewe been able to watch him making love to Lisette in the back of the car? How could Lisette bear to have him kiss her and touch her; had she pretended he was Ravensburg?

  Kilian had had enough experience with women to know a lie, to know when pleasure was feigned. He knew Lisette had feelings for him. It seemed that she had somehow learnt to separate her bizarre double life. Her carefree and relaxed manner while they were away suddenly made sense – there’d been no reason to pretend. No, she hadn’t faked it, and two days earlier there had been real desperation in her face. Kilian believed she was genuinely trying to protect him from the Gestapo.

  Lisette’s offer to help Kilian was risky – she could keep the Allies up to date with the plot, yes, but she also put herself right in the Gestapo firing line. Was she doing it for him? He didn’t know, but right now he hated her with passion for trying to coerce him, for lying to him, but especially for making him love her.

  How tragic they all were. While war raged and plots were hatched, he was engaged in a battle of the heart.

  Why Lisette and Ravensburg had chosen him remained a mystery, but that was academic now. They’d stumbled upon something much bigger than a disgruntled Wehrmacht colonel. He felt sickened by the notion that they knew of the assassination plot – he already was a traitor to his own country, but to release information to Germany’s enemies was abhorrent.

  He’d set fire to the incriminating photos in his wastepaper bin, as well as the equally damning notes. He had almost thrown her letter in but he held back – perhaps because there was already enough pain associated with Lisette. He couldn’t bear to watch her words of affection burn, and perhaps deep down he still believed them. He tucked her note into his inside breast pocket, near the letter he still hadn’t posted to Ilse; he’d been adding to it regularly. Now it would have a new entry.

  Stülpnagel clearly didn’t see Lisette as a genuine threat, which was a blessing. Frankly, it was too late for any of them to be worried, for the plan was in motion and no Allied spy would risk jeopardising any plan to kill Hitler. If London knew, then London would be keeping silent and holding its collective breath for news of the Führer’s murder.

  Kilian sat in full uniform – not so much as a button loosened – and waited for the call from General Stülpnagel’s office to take command of the German army in Paris.

  The order never came.

  Morning had shifted to afternoon and Kilian watched as the shadows lengthened until his office was bathed in the softest of evening light. He wasn’t tempted to ring von Hofacker. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that irrespective of whether a bomb had detonated in the Wolfsschanze, Hitler hadn’t died today. What had gone wrong didn’t matter to him. Nothing much mattered to him any more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The next few weeks were a horrifying blur for Kilian. The bomb had been successfully detonated, but once again Hitler had miraculously defied death. Kilian wisely kept his head low, and though tempted to feign illness, decided it was better to work quietly, arriving at his office early and keeping his churning emotions hidden under a granite façade. Behind closed doors he’d held his head in despair. General Stülpnagel had mistakenly believed that Hitler had been killed in the blast, and had begun to arrest the Paris-based SS and Gestapo. He then had to release them when it was confirmed that Hitler was alive, and the evil chain of command intact.

  By the time Kilian learnt the names of the plan’s architects in Berlin, they had already been executed: shot by firing squad in the courtyard of the war ministry. Rumours followed later that their deaths were hastened by senior military figures to stop Hitler discovering other high-placed men who knew of the plot. But the Leader wanted revenge. Stülpnagel had been recalled to Berlin; on the journey he’d attempted suicide. Kilian held no hope for the general – he was sure Stülpnagel would be executed. The vengeance continued, reaching beyond Germany as a wave of arrests began in Paris.

  Kilian calmly put his effects into order and awaited the arrival of the Gestapo. He heard through his secretary that Lieutenant Colonel von Hofacker had been arrested in connection with the assassination attempt. Kilian was convinced it could only be hours before they knocked on his own door.

  But true to their word, it seemed that Stülpnagel and von Hofacker had kept Kilian’s name out of it. It had been over a week now, and the arrests in Paris had dried up, although Kilian knew that dozens of men had been and were still being rounded up in Berlin, including their families and all known associates. Hundreds of people were accused of treason, and Kilian’s jaw seemed to grind constantly as he thought of all the good men and women – so many innocents – who would die.

  He had to keep his promise to his co-conspirators: protect himself and look to the future, although the Allies would surely break through the lines before another attempt could be made. Paris would fall to the British and the Americans. There would be no further attempt on Hitler from within.

  Nevertheless, he carried on as instructed. He gave his secretary the file that von Hofacker had provided as a cover for their only meeting in his office.

  ‘We’d better keep this in case the secret police need it,’ he said. ‘This is all I have in connection with my single meeting with Lieutenant Colonel von Hofacker.’ He needed to distance himself from those involved in the attempt, but not lie outright.

  ‘Yes, sir, although I don’t think anyone from the Gestapo has any reason to visit us,’ she said, with a sympathetic smile. ‘And we certainly don’t need to help them.’ She took the file from him carefully.

  He nodded quizzically. Was there another renegade on his staff? ‘How shocking it all is,’ he remarked, probing.

  ‘It is, Colonel. I know you could have me thrown out for saying it, but even as a German national I do wish it would end.’ They were alone in the anteroom to his office but still she looked around.

  He found a smile. ‘I couldn’t have you thrown out, Aline, because after a string of secretaries who’ve been scared of me, you’re the first who isn’t.’

  ‘It must be my age, Colonel.’

  ‘You can keep me honest.’

  ‘No, sir. I’m going to do the opposite. The secret police see suspicion in all of us. Your honesty could incriminate you, this office, me. Herr von Hofacker did not make an appointment, so there is no record of his being here. I don’t think we need to provide any link to you or this office, no matter how innocent.’ She tucked the file into a bottom drawer and quietly locked it. ‘I’ll destroy this.’

  On 7th August General Dietrich von Choltitz, whom Kilian knew well and had fought alongside, was made military governor of Paris, taking over from the disgraced Stülpnagel.

  On 11th August Kilian managed to meet with the new governor
on the pretext of renewing their former acquaintance. It didn’t take Kilian long to establish that the general had plenty of misgivings about his new post. Paramount among these was von Choltitz’s determination to defy Hitler’s latest orders to burn Paris down.

  ‘The war is unwinnable,’ the new governor admitted. ‘But the Führer cannot be convinced. I’m told he’s still screaming orders to divisions that have already surrendered. And now here’s his latest demented plan. He’s demanding a scorched-earth policy, but there’s nothing to be achieved by destroying this city.’

  Kilian could not help but be quietly reassured by von Choltitz’s words. Both of them knew that if Paris burned, the insurgents would rise up, and no French partisan would be in the mood to take prisoners. They would kill every German they could lay their hands on.

  Kilian had assumed they’d go down fighting, but it seemed that inactivity was von Choltitz’s plan. Despite the now near-hysterical orders from Berlin to leave Paris a smoking ruin, the general was hoping that his delaying tactics would give the Allies enough time to take the city.

  ‘I know I can trust you, Colonel. I’m going to communicate with the Allies and send an emissary. This must happen quickly.’

  Kilian nodded.

  The general continued, ‘The sooner they reach Paris, the sooner I can hand it over. We won’t get out unbloodied but the Americans and British are our best hope – the French Communists will likely want us all swinging by our necks from the Eiffel Tower.’

  ‘If your plan is to prevent further bloodshed, sir, and achieve some sort of truce, then a negotiation must be opened with the French underground. I agree, Paris should be preserved and I’m happy to act as the go-between if that helps you,’ Kilian offered. He couldn’t care less about living or dying, but he wanted at all costs to avoid a massacre.

  When Lisette turned up at the safe house, the network had rallied around her. And so began her life as a true Resistance fighter, sleeping by day and working by night.

  Her first mission was as part of a group that blew up a railway track north of Paris. A few days later she was among the saboteurs who attacked subterranean cables between Frainville and Aulnay, melting them with battery acid. The following night she was part of a massive effort to sabotage the Villeneuve Saint-Georges line on the south-eastern fringe of Paris. The job was so effective that trains would be delayed for weeks. In the meantime she acted as lookout for a derailment, and sabotaged a bridge leading out of Paris.

  Exhausted and in yet another strange flat in the early hours of one morning, she allowed herself a quiet weep. She wept for Markus Kilian and the look of shock on his face, and she wept for Luc, from whom no word had been heard. Lisette had asked daily but all she received was a look of sympathy, or a shaken head. Luc was gone. There’d been fierce fighting throughout southern and central alpine France and she truly believed he had headed right into the fray, rejoining his fellow maquisards. He could be lying wounded. He could also be dead.

  She’d lost both of them. But then, she always lost those she loved.

  Of all people to find her whimpering beneath her thin blanket that morning, it was Sylvie who touched her gently on the shoulder.

  ‘That never helps,’ she said.

  Lisette was embarrassed. ‘I know. It’s my little indulgence as I don’t have soap or shampoo.’

  Sylvie grinned. ‘I hear you’ve been doing some really good work.’

  Lisette sat up and wiped her tears away. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I also hear you’ve been living quite rough.’

  ‘My cover was blown.’

  ‘So the colonel gave you up?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, let’s just say an old foe caught up with me. I’m not taking any chances.’

  ‘That’s the way to think. So you need a place to stay.’

  ‘Everyone’s being kind. I’ll sort something.’

  ‘I have a place set up … you’re welcome to stay there,’ Sylvie offered.

  Lisette was astonished. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m rarely there. It’s a flat over in Bastille, more room than in Montmartre, but it’s not as decent.’

  Lisette was taken aback by her generosity and momentarily lost for words. Her hesitation amused Sylvie.

  ‘We’re all in this together, you know; what we fight for is all that matters.’ Sylvie lifted a shoulder. ‘Our petty jealousies and desires are irrelevant.’

  She was right. Lisette felt humbled. ‘It won’t be awkward for you?’

  Sylvie grinned again. ‘Not for me. I’m French, remember? You’ve lived too long among those straitlaced British. And frankly, I think I got the best of Luc.’ Lisette tried not to bristle as Sylvie continued. ‘Besides, he’s gone. We’ve both had our hearts hurt by him. But I know how to heal my wounds. It would be wise if you learnt to do the same, including that tender torch you carry for your German colonel.’

  Lisette’s mouth dropped open. She could not believe Sylvie would be so candid.

  ‘Yes, before you ask, it is obvious,’ Sylvie said, smiling a little at her shock. ‘He’s the enemy, Lisette. Every time you think about the people who’ve died, the innocents tortured, the families and lives destroyed, the six years of hunger, fatigue, desperation, of the newborns who have withered at their mothers’ breasts and the old people who fell by the wayside – when you think of that, you keep your colonel’s uniform in mind.’

  ‘He really wasn’t—’

  ‘He’s a German officer. He’s as guilty as all of them. Now, are you coming?’

  Lisette nodded mutely and followed Sylvie to an apartment in the backstreets of Bastille. On the fringe of the eleventh arrondissement, it was a scruffy area of Paris, and while the studio itself was as neat as a pin, the surrounds were full of grubby cafés, greasy bars and dirty buildings. But Lisette couldn’t have been happier. At last there was a bed to sleep in, running water, a few meagre supplies. Sylvie even gave her a dress.

  ‘Sylvie, I—’

  ‘Don’t,’ her friend warned. ‘I’m not good with thank-yous. I promised Luc a long time ago that I’d look out for you. Let’s just say I keep my promises.’

  Sylvie slid into the booth of the all-night café in Pigalle, far away from Bastille. The streets were deserted, tension was rife. Inside the café, the smoke sat in a thick layer above the heads of patrons. She smelt old grease and cheap perfume that clung to the worn fabric on the chairs. But no one appeared to mind. There was a sense of anticipation. Voices were muted, but with an undertone of excitement. Change was coming to Paris.

  Sylivie’s companion lit the cigarette she was holding.

  ‘It’s the end, I tell you,’ he said. ‘There’s a general strike happening tomorrow that will escalate tensions. I know resisters will mobilise against the Germans. They don’t care any more about strategy or guerilla tactics. It will be out-and-out street battles before the Allies swarm in.’

  She nodded. ‘I heard something very interesting today,’ she admitted, lazily blowing smoke to one side.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You know I’m in contact with quite a few of the réseaux?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, there’s word that the new military command in Paris wants to talk.’

  ‘Talk?’

  ‘Negotiate.’

  ‘What terms?’

  ‘We don’t slaughter German soldiers. They don’t burn down Paris.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, knocking back a shot of anise.

  ‘I’m telling you what I heard.’

  ‘Who’s leading these talks?’ he demanded.

  ‘Ah, now, that’s what makes it interesting.’

  ‘Don’t tease me, Sylvie.’

  ‘You deserve it. But you don’t deserve my company.’

  He laid his hand on top of hers. ‘But I do appreciate it.’ He hesitated. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes, Luc, she’s all right. She’s at the flat in Bastille.’

  ‘
You know, Sylvie, you try to hide it, but you have a big heart.’

  She flicked off his hand playfully. ‘Don’t charm me.’

  He stared deep into her eyes. ‘I’m trying to thank you.’

  ‘Why don’t you see her, if you’re so concerned?’

  He looked away, out into the crowded café with its rows of near-empty bottles behind the bar. ‘I can’t. Not yet.’ He looked back at her and she knew she was looking at a man who was in love – but not with her.

  ‘After all she’s done …’ she began.

  ‘We’ve all done things in this war we’d rather forget.’

  ‘I haven’t, unless I count falling in love with you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  She gave a small shake of her head, cross with herself for admitting that.

  ‘Finish what you were going to say. About the middleman,’ he urged.

  ‘It’s why I’m not sure you can avoid Lisette.’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The conduit is Kilian. He’s asked for both of you.’

  Luc’s face was dark in thought as he sat at a park bench, watching a blackbird prospecting for insects in the grass. It wasn’t yet five a.m. but it was warm and bright. ‘Over my dead body. I won’t help.’

  Armand looked pained. ‘Listen,’ he said, his tone sympathetic. ‘Paris is about to blow up. The gendarmerie, the Métro, it’s all on strike today. The railways will follow. The Allies are almost knocking on the door, the Communist partisans want to take Paris before they get here and the Germans are packing up. We’ve got twenty thousand resisters surging now, howling for revenge. My job has been to arm those insurgents for this very moment, but now the real problem is avoiding a massacre in the streets. None of us want that. This new governor, this von Choltitz, he can also see the future. He’s right to extend a hand. And as much as I hate to shake it, I think we have a responsibility to avoid the inevitable bloodbath by trying to work with the enemy.’

  ‘It could be a trap,’ Luc said, anguished.