Staying Alive

by Alexander Fullerton

  Switch to ‘Off’. Retrieve aerial wire – a very much slower process than letting it run out had been. Just seconds for that, then on the air for less than three minutes including the call-up process, and now about five minutes winding the damn wire in. A potentially useful thought while doing so – pianists might carry spare aerial wires: could have simply left this one then, saving those minutes. The thought overtaken by a vision of Boches in headphones in one or more detector vans – two if they’d been on the ball and out for cross-bearings, the way they’d have you actually pinpointed. But please God not: please God keep them fiddling around in expectation of more to come.

  Done. Wire rewound and in its slot in the case, case shut. Swivelling carefully to face down into the tower, hefting the case right-handed, left hand for guidance on the wall and with the torch in it for minimal illumination when necessary, an occasional flash downward at her feet and the next few steps. Not looking into the void on her right: had never had a head for heights. Traffic sound growing as she neared the bottom – but only a distant hum, above all no crescendo backed by blaring horns and/or screeching tyres. At least, none of that yet.

  Ground floor – amongst the litter of fallen stone and rotted timber and a stronger amalgam of smells than there’d been higher up. Pocketing the torch: even blind, you’d have found the gap in the wall, by the inflow of rain-chilled north wind: also a greying in the blackness, recognisable shape of the breach. And when in it, an aura of fight from the streets and the traffic on them, sound also amplified.

  Find the bike: and no problem, she was there, propping it against the wall and manoeuvring the transceiver case into the panier, then rearranging the musty-smelling laundry around and over it.

  The van started up at that moment. The sound froze her – and she stayed frozen, lowering the bike and watching for the van’s emergence from the side-street. As now… Lights scything weakly across this area as it swung out, lights that might conceivably have reflected on the bike’s shiny handlebars but in fact posed no such hazard. She was crouching then, hearing bicycles – the whirr of their tyres, by the sound of it three or four of them. The van had stopped: at the corner, obviously, but – on the move again now, turning away – the way from which it had come, forty or forty-five minutes ago.

  For the moment, nothing else. Oh, voices… But the hell, move out.

  No more pauses either. No matter what, keep going. None of their business, ignore them. The one and only imperative now being to get clear. Out through the area of detritus, into the road and over it – no reason to give a damn for any other passer-by, once in the public road – there were people here and there, but none of them had any more interest in her than she had in them, the only menace was or might be Funkabwehr in a van or vans. They were still very much a danger because one was still in the crucial area and carrying the transceiver, which if discovered would mean – well, the end of everything.

  Cover some distance, though, you’d cease to be of interest.

  Getting there, Jake, getting there. In the alley where the van had been. Nearly seven. Freewheeling to the bottom of it and turning right: not racing, but not dawdling either. Visualising the map and telling herself that at the next corner she’d go left, should then be heading south; hold on that way about a kilometre, then another left should bring one to the river.

  * * *

  Old Rosie had told me, over a table in the Café des Beaux Arts, ‘I was feeling cock-a-hoop, all right. You can say that without fear of contradiction.’

  ‘I can imagine, Rosie.’

  ‘Thought I’d licked it. Imagining the despatch rider being halfway from Sevenoaks to Baker Street with my signal for decoding by the night staff. Nearer the reality, however, they’d have had a draft of it in plain language on the Duty Officer’s desk before I’d got anywhere. Must have taken me at least half an hour getting down to the river and then up to Pont St-Michel, and – well, that was fine – no hue and cry, no nothing, how pleased Jake was going to be, I’d have been thinking. But there was a surprising amount of traffic on the bridge and by the time I was halfway over, it was only moving at a crawl – the cause of which was a checkpoint they’d set up at this town-centre end.’

  ‘Oh, crikey.’

  ‘More like oh Jesus Christ Almighty. Me with my little old transceiver and no way to go except right ahead where the bridge joins Allée Feuga, where they had a barrier across it. Gendarmes with vans, also Boches with Schmeissers and a couple of Light Fifteens. All slow-moving as hell – must have been the best part of another hour before it came to my turn. Can’t swear to that, it’s not the sort of detail one does remember after sixty years, but the rest of it – especially how it felt – well, I did contemplate throwing the transceiver off the bridge. No one could have stopped me, and I had all that time to think about it. It could have saved my life – but what for? I mean, without that piece of equipment, what was I? And what about Hardball, how’d I have told Jake?’

  Slow shaking of the head as she stubbed out her cigarette, her eyes showing how vividly she did remember it.

  ‘Just no way out, you see…’

  * * *

  A gazo-powered Renault that had been inching along in front of her for the past hour had been examined and waved on around the end of the barrier, and one of two uniformed gendarmes who’d been searching it and questioned its driver had gestured to her to approach him. Watching from the side were three or four Boche soldiers, one an NCO with a Schmeisser and the others riflemen.

  Rosie scared, uncertain, looking from face to face as she wheeled her bike up closer. Encountering another one who’d crossed over from the other side where he’d been watching the other traffic-stream filing westward. Trench coat and soft hat, obviously Gestapo. That stream wasn’t being checked, only slowed by the constriction.

  ‘Where from?’

  The shorter of the two gendarmes had shouted the question at her. She told him, waving back the way she’d come – westward, then adjusting that to south-westward – ‘From the hospital at Fonsorbes, monsieur.’

  ‘Hospital where?’

  ‘Fonsorbes – Sacré-Coeur.’ Déclan’s wife’s place of work. ‘See, my mother’s—’

  ‘What’s this?’

  The pannier full of dirty clothes. She told him, ‘Blanchissage – my mother’s. She’s ill, not capable, but they won’t—’

  The taller one reached across his colleague to lift a chemise – an old one of Berthe’s – fastidiously between finger and thumb before allowing it to fall back. It was a joke of sorts: he’d winked at the other one. Rosie stuttering, close to tears, ‘I’m taking it home to wash for her. At the hospital they would not permit—’

  The German in the trilby cut in with ‘You’re wasting everyone’s time, including mine. Let the child go.’

  Child gazing at him – damp-eyed, trembly. Looking back at the gendarmes uncertainly: ‘Messieurs?’

  ‘Get along, then.’

  Around the end of the barrier – a pole resting on oil drums which also had storm-lanterns on them – before mounting. Passing between the vans and a Citroen Light 15 that would be the German’s. Feeling the stares of Boche soldiery as she mounted, and thanking God for the impatient one. Gestapist, of all unlikely saviours. The gendarmes on their own would have made her empty the panier, bet your boots they would. In fact, hadn’t even got around to asking for her papers, which was usually the very first thing. Not that they wouldn’t have passed muster, it was the transceiver that would have put her in a cattle-truck for Ravensbrück. Thank God for that Boche with his impatience or intolerance. More than ready for home now, one way and another, and putting all she had into it – up Allée Jules Guesde to the Grand Rond to start with, thence into the northbound Allée Verdier. On the home run, believe it or not, might almost call it one’s home ground – from Boulevard Lazare Carnot into Jean Jaurès, Place Marengo only a kilometre ahead then, just over the canal.

  11

  Old Rosie smiled. �
�You bet he was glad to see me. So was I to see him. He kissed me, for Pete’s sake!’

  ‘In defiance of SOE regulations?’

  She touched her cheek. ‘Kissed me here. Or this side, I don’t remember. Well I mean, would one. Also hugged though, hugged each other. But if I have to go into this much detail we aren’t going to get through the rest of it by tonight, are we?’

  This was at breakfast in the Brasserie des Aviateurs. I’d not bothered having mine at the Mermoz; I’d worked into the small hours on my laptop, had the outlines of her story so far on the hard disk and backup, and we’d met here an hour earlier than we had the day before. I’d asked her whether their guest of honour was still expected to clock in on the Sunday morning, and she’d said yes, there was to be a Memorial Mass at St-Sernin’s in the morning; he might or might not be there in time for that but definitely would be for the lunch. She’d booked me in for it as well – in the hotel’s banqueting hall, opening with aperitifs at noon.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes, of course, thank you very much—’

  ‘Despite – I didn’t mention this before – it’ll mean having to listen to me again, since I’m down as a secondary guest speaker?’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘I offered – after the reunion’s president had rather hinted – me being SOE’s only representative – sort of tribute to the hero, old comradeship and so forth, although at higher levels it barely existed… Grim prospect, but—’

  ‘Very good idea, I think. I’ll look forward to it immensely, Rosie. Have you worked out what you’ll tell them?’

  She shrugged. ‘Near enough. There’s another speaker too, sort of backing me up. You met her, actually – in here, day or so ago—’

  ‘Rosie – I was thinking, on my way here – sorry, abrupt change of subject – thinking that even with the whole of today, if there’s as much to come as I anticipate we’ll surely need the rest of Sunday – and listen, rather than risk spoiling the ship for a ha’p’orth of tar, which it might come to, how about staying over to Monday, make sure of it?’

  ‘You mean change our flights.’

  ‘Yes. If it cost anything – well, would, extending hotel bookings—’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. In for a penny… See how we’re doing, and decide at lunchtime, shall we? I’d have to make a call or two, that’s all – and you’d ring your wife, of course—’

  ‘This evening, yes. If we’re going to. This was to have been her last day in Ireland, she might extend that too. Decide at lunchtime, then, and meanwhile let’s push it along a bit? Not blaming you in the least, I tend to pump you for detail I dare say I don’t need – up to me to put flesh on the bones when I’m back chez moi, isn’t it?’

  ‘Meaning you’ll be dreaming half of it up in any case. Here’s coffee, at last.’

  ‘Thing is, when we’re home and I need some elaboration I’ve only to pick up the phone – eh?’

  ‘We’ll set hours for it.’ She thanked the waitress, and began pouring coffee. Croissants and fruit would be coming, but she’d told the girl she’d have two dead or crazy customers on her hands if we didn’t get coffee instantly. She added now, ‘I won’t be there every day – but you won’t have all that many queries either, I hope.’

  ‘I’ll try not to, but—’

  ‘See how it goes.’

  ‘Absolutely. And to kick off with – if you’re ready for this – what about your developing relationship with Jake?’

  ‘If you think that’s important.’

  ‘Well – yes, I certainly do!’

  ‘All right, then. In a nutshell – let’s say I felt warmly towards him, and he felt protective of me. Coffee’s not bad this morning, uh? He – well, because I was quite a bit younger than him – and I looked even younger than I was. And from time to time one did have to take quite serious risks, as often as not at his behest – that after all being part of his job as Chef de Réseau—’

  ‘And you’d have responded to the protective attitude.’

  ‘In how I felt, sure. Maybe would have more overtly, in other circumstances. Dare say we both would. We liked each other, were attracted to each other, and – all right, if things had turned out differently, might very well have come to something. You’re wondering about Ben, aren’t you, but – see, the plain fact is he doesn’t feature in this. I’d had that little fling with him – which certainly was not any part of what you might call my repertoire—’

  ‘You didn’t expect to see him again.’

  ‘I’d taken steps to ensure I didn’t. Left no trail – you know all that. Anyway – got the picture, me and Jake?’

  ‘I think so. Enough to work on. Maybe when we approach the end—’

  ‘Where do we go now?’

  ‘That night at eleven, listening-out?’

  * * *

  Headphones on and ears peeled by two minutes past eleven, getting nothing but atmospherics and thinking Come on, come on, let’s get cracking, get it over? They knew damn well this was a listening-out night, she’d even mentioned it in her transmission from the tower – in case having got her on the air at that earlier hour the Sevenoaks operator might have tried to cut a corner and get whatever she had for ‘Lucy’ off her chest; if she had tried to she’d have heard from Baker Street by now the reason she’d failed to connect – Baker Street having decyphered the tower signal and either redrafted whatever they’d meant to send or just added a follow-up.

  Maybe told Sevenoaks to hold on, await new copy on its way down to them. Taking their bloody time about it, for some reason, perhaps having no option but to wait – Buck or one of his deputies to be consulted, for instance, unavailable for an hour or two. Shouldn’t happen, but occasionally did, unavoidably. Listen-out time as established by Rosie’s own message last Sunday night was 2300 to 0100; she could call it a night when she’d taken in whatever they might have for her, otherwise was stuck here for the full two hours.

  After a longish day following a night that hadn’t been exactly restful. She did have Benzedrine tablets in her room, but hadn’t thought of them earlier and couldn’t leave this now. Probably as well, in any case: they were fine if you knew it was going to be hours and hours, otherwise – well, just bloody well stay awake, was all, even if it took a bit of doing. Jake had urged her to be ready to respond to the first peep of the call when it came, and to be equally quick with her Message received, out when they signed off. He’d been into his nail-biting mode on account of having used the tower, almost certainly alerting the Funkabwehr to there being a pianist at work right here in town; they’d know there had to be messages inward as well as out, and that just a short burst of acknowledgement was as much as they could expect from the recipient, so they’d be sharpish on it, desperate not to miss any scrap of a clue to her locality. In fact to have picked up her earlier transmission they’d have been ranging the frequencies – and would now know which to be listening-out on in further attempts at eavesdropping; if they’d missed out on it, might get a helping hand from the RHSA radio-intercept centre in Paris, which was powerfully equipped, listened twenty-four hours a day and 365 days a year, supposedly retrieving and recording every syllable that wasn’t lost to jamming or atmospherics. The recordings would then of course be worked on by code-breakers, who might or might not get lucky. They were alleged to find BCRA codes easier to break than the SOE ones. One didn’t know very much about that operation – beyond the fact that it was to be feared.

  Or respected, say. As were those bloody vans. One level down from which were goons on foot, in civvies, radio sets bulging like eight-month pregnancies under their topcoats, ear-plugs concealed by turned-up collars and turned-down hat-brims. If the vans got cross-bearings on Place Marengo for instance, and then you saw one of those types shuffling round – well, Benzedrine might come in handy if you were in a position to make a run for it, otherwise might think seriously about getting the cyanide capsule out of the elastic of one’s knickers.

  Never had see
n one of those wired-up goons of course, only been told about them, but she thought she’d know one when she did. Anyway if you were at your set you couldn’t also be watching the street. But then again wouldn’t be transmitting either, not at any rate from this city. In warning her about minimising the receiving/acknowledging procedures, Jake had seemed to be wondering whether even that might not be reviewed. He hadn’t got any distance with it, it had cropped up in a last-minute soliloquy when he’d been on the point of leaving, but if he was thinking of doing away with the listening-out routine from chez soi, presumably one would be expected to get out of town for that as well.

  Not, she thought, while she had only the one set. Draw the line at that prospect. Cycling out of town minimally three nights a week with a transceiver on your bike, you’d inevitably wind up done for – meaning dead, like Wiggy. You could hope to get away with it now and again – like last night, for instance – but —

  Sevenoaks calling.

  She was on to it like a hawk, answering with a single blip – Send your message: over… It came in fast, wasn’t very long and mercifully was all they had for her tonight. Lucy therefore signing-off instantly before switching off, unplugging from the mains then winding in the black wire. Time, eleven thirty-seven. Could have been a lot worse: so decypher this stuff before hitting the sack. And let no one ever say a pianist didn’t earn her crust. With all the bits and pieces packed away and the case shut and locked and stowed away under the floorboards, she crept down to her room – tiptoeing because Berthe had turned in soon after Jake had left – and settled down with her school exercise book and one-time pad in the hope of making sense of this.

  It came out as—

  Transceivers which regrettably were not included in Jake 7 drop will be delivered by Hardball team on Canet-Plage night 29th November subject confirmation on 27th and 28th. Notification of adverse developments at your end should be sent urgently by day or night right up to 29th. Hardball team of 5 to be deployed as planned, Jake making whatever adjustments may be necessary following the Printemps losses. BCRA trio will require separate transportation to safe-house and on-routing to Marseille.