The Best of Our Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘And do you have a name?’

  ‘Pardon?’ She was lost in her thoughts, unsure of whether to stay or to leave, to take some food from the shop or not.

  ‘My name is Laurent,’ he said slowly, as if she were hard of hearing. ‘What are you called?’

  ‘Hélène. I arrived here just before from Lille. I really don’t know where I’m heading. What is the latest news?’

  The shop was quiet now. The other people who had helped carry the body in had left and the hysterical children must have been taken away. Flies had begun to buzz around the dead body and the food that had been strewn across the floor by the Germans in their haste to take as much as they could. A smashed jar of jam was getting particular attention.

  ‘The Allies are pushing in from the west, mostly Americans and Canadians. In most places the Germans are staying and fighting. I wouldn’t stay around anywhere like here where there is going to be fighting. People seem to be heading into the country to hide until they can then go to somewhere liberated by the Allies. Hard to think it will all be over soon. That is when life will get interesting. Why don’t you join me? We can go for a long walk in the country together.’

  They headed south and stayed together as travelling companions for a month. Laurent had made the most of his asthma, he told her, to avoid being sent away as forced labour and he was able to remain in Lens throughout the war as a teacher. He made a passing reference or two to helping out the resistance. Nothing much, he emphasised, just passing messages and things like that. He wasn’t brave enough to do much else, he assured her.

  ‘You watch though,’ he told her. ‘Soon everyone will have been in the resistance. It will turn out that France was a country of heroes while the Germans were here. It wasn’t at the time, that’s all!’

  On their third day together, as they looked over Cambrai from a nearby hill, she confided that she had been involved in the resistance too, in Lille. Like him, nothing too important, but there had been ‘an incident’ with a German soldier and she had decided to leave town.

  Laurent nodded, not probing any further. He didn’t ask too many questions, preferring to have her as an audience to whom he could give the names of the trees and plants they saw and for whom he could recite poems, tell her about medieval French history and the books he read and reread during the war.

  They headed south, following the Reims road and by the second week in September they were deep into the Champagne region.

  ‘If the Germans had any sense they would have taken it all with them,’ he said. ‘The true taste of France.’ But they hadn’t. Just to the north of Reims they came across an abandoned chateau by the banks of the River Aisne where the liberation of the city was being celebrated by anyone who was passing by.

  An elderly gardener, wearing his Great War medals for the first time in four years, told them that the chateau had been requisitioned by the Germans in 1940. Before that it had belonged to a family with German connections, so none of the dozens of people who had converged on the chateau seemed to have any qualms about partaking of its hospitality.

  ‘They never treated me well,’ the gardener confided in them as he led them through the cellar.

  On their second night in the chateau Laurent and Hélène were sat by the banks of the river, halfway through their second bottle of Mumm Grand Cru. Their shoulders were touching, though during their time together, Laurent had made no attempt to go further than a friendly arm around her shoulder.

  ‘You are married, Hélène?’

  She was slightly startled. He asked so few questions and when he did, nothing intrusive. She was about to say no, but realised that she was playing with the cheap wedding ring she had bought in a second-hand shop in Lille. It was something she had felt obliged to do after being questioned by the matron in the hospital.

  ‘My husband was killed. A few months ago, by the Germans in the Pas de Calais. It was in a forest near Boulogne. I had no idea I was pregnant at the time.’ She held out a hand in front of her, palm down. Enough.

  Laurent was silenced by the amount of detail along with the lack of it. Hélène was drawing jagged patterns on the grass with a twig. He pulled her close to him as the tears began to streak down her face, their lines illuminated by the moonlight bouncing off the river.

  ‘I suppose that at a time other than this, it would be a consolation. When is the baby due?’

  ‘Late October, maybe early November.’

  Her head was bowed down, her hair covering all of her face and the tears flowing quite freely.

  ‘At least your baby will be born in a free France. You must have loved your husband very much.’

  For the next few minutes she was so inconsolable that even Laurent, never lost for the right thing to say or to do, was helpless. All he could do was apologise, rub her back and pour her another drink.

  When she regained her composure she assured him that she was fine. He was not to worry. It did her good to cry. She felt better. In any case, it was more of a wartime romance than anything else. Probably wouldn’t have lasted.

  What had disconcerted her so greatly was her reaction to Laurent’s statement that she must have loved her husband very much. She had not hesitated to think about his question, because there was no doubt in her mind that she did love her husband very much. Not the fictional French husband apparently killed in a French forest, but the real one in England, who she could only wish was here with her now.

  They remained at the chateau for two more days. By then it had been drained of champagne and American troops had arrived to take the estate over.

  They took a circuitous route into Reims: not long after leaving the chateau they came across a platoon of American soldiers who told them that there was still some danger in the area. Small pockets of Germans remained and it was especially hazardous around the airport. That was their most direct route into the city, but the Americans advised them to head east. That side of the city was safe. Once you’ve crossed the River Vesle you know you can enter the city.

  Which is how they arrived at the small village on the banks of the Vesle. On the outskirts of the village a group of around thirty German prisoners of war were being led away in a column. An American Army jeep pulled up alongside them and a sergeant leaned over, shouting above the noise of the engine.

  ‘Speak English?’

  ‘A little,’ said Nathalie

  ‘You planning on going into the village?’

  ‘We’re passing that way.’

  The sergeant stood up in the jeep and looked back at the village.

  ‘Just be careful. They’re in a vengeful mood. We had to do a deal with them. They’ve let us take these prisoners in return for leaving the officers behind.’

  The village opened out slowly in front of them: the houses were large with small plots of land between them. The road leading through the village and the two or three that they passed leading off the main road were all wide, with well-kept verges. They could not see any people, so headed in the direction of the church steeple. Ahead of them was a commotion that grew louder as they approached the church.

  Next to the church was a large house, set back from the road and linked to the church by a high wall, which appeared to have been recently white-washed. A row of trees peered out from behind the wall, some of the leaves beginning to turn brown. A large crowd was facing the wall. Standing with their backs to it were two men in steel grey German uniforms.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Laurent asked a man at the back of the crowd.

  The man took a step back so as to talk to them away from the others.

  ‘The Germans carried out a reprisal shooting here two months ago. The resistance blew up a German truck just outside the village and the Germans shot four local men against that wall. The Americans captured the German unit that carried out the shooting and brought them back here so they could be identified. There was almost a riot: people want revenge. Eventually it was agreed that the two officers who were in charge of the
unit would be left behind.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to them?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you think?’

  An elderly man wearing medals and holding a rifle was shouting at the two officers.

  ‘You have to answer our charges!’ he kept repeating.

  ‘No comprehends,’ the older of the two officers replied, shaking his head. He was around fifty and plump, his face a deep red and his eyes imploring. His hands were tied behind his back and his nose bloody. He was trembling violently. His companion was much younger, perhaps in his twenties. He stood very still, his face impassive and with possibly the faintest trace of a smile, as if he was a man resigned to his fate. His trousers were blood-stained and he was jacket-less, the front of his white shirt ripped.

  A woman came and joined the old man who had been shouting at them.

  ‘You cannot pretend that you don’t understand. We know that you speak French well enough, you bastards. You certainly spoke it when you shot those men against this wall.’

  Between the two Germans and the crowd an elderly priest stood to the side. He was holding a tall cross in his hands. The priest appeared to be terrified and he was leaning on the cross for support.

  The man turned to Laurent.

  ‘The Germans have been pretending that they don’t understand us. Some of the villagers are insisting that we cannot do anything to them until we know that they understand what we’re saying. Others just want to shoot them straight away. It’s crazy.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It is anarchy, to be honest. We would have been better letting the Americans take care of them. You don’t speak German by any chance?’

  Laurent shook his head and looked at Hélène. Purposefully she strode to the front of the crowd.

  ‘I speak German. I can translate for you.’

  There was a murmur of approval.

  ‘Tell them,’ said the old man, ‘that they are accused of shooting the four hostages here. We want to know if there is anything they have to say.’

  She stepped forward and translated what the man had said into German.

  The older officer leaned forward.

  ‘Please madame, you must understand. We were acting under orders. I actually managed to persuade my superiors that we should only shoot four people: they wanted us to kill one hostage for every German soldier killed on that lorry – twelve! We should be treated as prisoners of war. This is not a proper way to deal with us.’

  She translated back into French.

  The woman and the man with medals conferred. The man then spoke.

  ‘Tell them that is as good as an admission. They are going to be shot.’ Behind him two men emerged from the crowd carrying what appeared to be German machine guns.

  ‘No!’ said the older officer. ‘This is a terrible mistake. Madame, please... I have a wife and children... you must tell them to save me. I would have been shot if I had not taken the hostages. Please...’

  He was weeping and had sunk to his knees. The younger officer next to him spoke for the first time.

  ‘Get up, sir, and shut up. You know what they are going to do to us. Let them get on with it. We’re finished.’

  ‘Do not speak to me like that! I am your commanding officer!’

  ‘Then act like it, sir. Where is your dignity?’

  The two men with machine guns had stepped forward now.

  ‘Ask them,’ said the woman, ‘if they have any last words.’

  She translated.

  The younger officer shook his head and looked slowly around him. The older one spoke quickly, looking at the priest as he did so.

  ‘I am a practising Catholic, even during the war. Please allow me to confess. Please.’

  She glanced over to the priest who appeared to have caught the gist of what the German had said. He looked quizzically at her, the cross quivering in his hands as he did so.

  She allowed the silence that had descended to linger. In that time a small flock of ravens descended on the trees behind the white wall.

  She stepped towards the two officers. As she got nearer, she could smell the fear.

  ‘You’ve lost, haven’t you? Accept that.’

  With that, she turned round and walked back towards the crowd.

  ‘What did he have to say?’ the woman asked her.

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing. He just said to get on with it.’

  One of the two men had trouble releasing the catch on his machine gun. When they fired, it was clear not much had been planned. Both fired at the older officer, leaving the younger one still standing – unscathed and shocked. There was no smile or defiance on his face now, just a wide open mouth, unseeing eyes and a look of utter fear. The two gunmen stepped towards him. One man’s gun jammed and the other only let out a short burst before stopping.

  Above them, the sky had blackened as the ravens flew off in mass, their panicked shrieking merging with the ring of the machine gun fire.

  The younger officer had slumped to the ground, where he was groaning loudly and writhing on the bright green strip of grass. The old man with the medals stepped forward. He was holding a pistol and stood no more than two feet from the officer. He was taking careful aim at his head, but he was shaking violently. His first shot missed completely, ricocheting off the white wall. One of the gunmen put his machine gun down and went over to grab the pistol from the old man. The officer had lifted his head off the grass and was trying to say something, blood seeping out of his mouth. The gunman knelt down next to him, placed the pistol against his temple and fired.

  No one in the small crowd moved for a good minute, shocked at what they had seen and shocked at what they had done.

  They were offered a bed for the night but decided to move on.

  ‘Victor’s justice,’ said Laurent as the village began to fade behind them.

  ‘What other kind is there?’ she asked.

  They moved on to Reims, where they stayed until the end of September. Laurent had decided that he wanted to return to Lens. By now, he was beginning to be open about his desires towards her. The occasional friendly arm around the shoulder became more frequent, pulling her closer to him and trying to hold her there. The kiss on the cheek moved closer to her mouth and there were references to ‘we’. She realised that he was beginning to assume that ‘we’ had a future. She allowed herself to contemplate the prospect for a while. It was not without its attractions. Laurent was a decent man; intelligent, witty and resourceful. She could disappear into the anonymity offered by being a schoolteacher’s wife in Lens. Life there would be dull but safe, something that she could not contemplate.

  She also realised that she needed to head on. He had no idea of where she came from and she needed to escape his attention and his affection before it became a problem. One morning when he was helping to clear roads she fell into conversation with an American officer who couldn’t believe she spoke such good English. The officer was about to head down to Lorraine and if she wanted a lift, he would be happy to oblige.

  ooo000ooo

  Nancy had been liberated by the US Third Army on the 15 September after a ten day battle, but in other parts of Lorraine the war continued.

  She had intended to stay in Nancy until it was safe for her to move eastwards on the last leg of her long journey. Lieutenant Larry Jones had spent much of the first half of the journey from Reims to Nancy with his hand on her knee and most of the second half of the journey with it on her thigh. She wondered if she had made the right decision to abandon Laurent. But she needed Lieutenant Jones, even more than he apparently needed her.

  ‘Civilian control, ma’am. My mom is French-Canadian and I speak it as well as all of you, so I’m running the office in Nancy making sure everyone has the right documents.’

  His French was not as good as he thought it was but it was passable.

  ‘I’ll let you practise on me later,’ she promised, which was all the encouragement he needed to book her into the one hotel that was still standing and pay f
or the room.

  But more importantly, she needed new documents. He bought her story that her papers had been lost in Reims without too much difficulty and so the first thing he did when they arrived in Nancy was fix her up with an impressive new set. She was exhausted now; tired of moving, tired of not being sure of who she was meant to be and in no real physical state to do much other than rest.

  She thought hard about the new identity Lieutenant Jones was fixing her up with. She could be anyone, apart from the one person she wanted to be and be with. Instead, she decided to revert to her real identity, which was something she had never given much thought to. It seemed to make sense. She had come full circle.

  The hotel ought to have been the perfect place for her to stay: the sheets were clean and the small bathroom always had water. Downstairs there was a bistro attached to the hotel which had some food if you liked potatoes and Lieutenant Jones had assured her that her bills would be taken care of. He had even arranged for her to have a check up with an army doctor. All was well, she was assured. If only it was, she thought.

  But there was an air about Nancy that made her uncomfortable. She had imagined that liberated France would be euphoric, that people whose dreams had come true and whose suffering had come to end would be happy. Yet all she could sense was an edge to the city. A tension that she found hard to describe flowed in on the River Meurthe and attached itself to the elegant but war-scarred buildings on the Grande Rue.

  On her second night in Nancy she was in the bar adjoining the bistro. It was ten o’clock and Lieutenant Jones had left. He had joined her for dinner and realising that he was going to get no further than the ground floor of the hotel, reluctantly but politely bade goodnight.

  The barman was polishing a beer glass in an extravagant manner.

  ‘Not your boyfriend then?’

  ‘No. He’d like to be. I’m married.’ She held up her left hand and wriggled her fingers.

  The barman smiled. ‘What brings you here.’

  ‘The war. I got a lift here. I’m moving on soon.’

  Outside there was a crashing noise, the sound of glass breaking and people shouting. The barman went into the street and returned, still polishing the same glass.