Escape by Moonlight

by Mary Nichols

  The punishment cell, she discovered when she was pushed into it and the door locked, was even smaller and dirtier than the one she had been occupying, no bigger than a cupboard and it had no window. Now even the thin soup was denied her and there was no bed. She spent the night huddled on the floor, unable to sleep. Her head was full of questions. How had Etienne been taken? Did it mean the whole circuit had been blown? What about Max and Giles and the others? Had they been rounded up? If they had, then there was no hope for any of them. She had never felt so low.

  Unable to see daylight, she lost track of time; it seemed an age before she was let out and taken back to rue des Saussaies. She braced herself for the usual blows when she refused to answer the questions put to her, but the major was in a jovial mood. She wondered why. Was this some new ploy to get her to talk? ‘Well, Ma’amselle Clavier, I have some good news for you,’ he said.

  Unwilling to show the least curiosity, she stood and waited, though she was so weak from hunger, her legs were hardly able to support her.

  ‘We have set a date for your trial,’ he said. ‘That is good news, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He smiled and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke towards her. ‘You will be transferred to Fresnes for the hearing.’

  Fresnes was a huge prison on the outskirts of Paris and known for its harsh conditions, worse, so she had been told, than Cherche-Midi. ‘Will I be allowed a defence lawyer?’

  ‘Of course. One will be appointed, but I should not set your hopes too high, we have all the evidence we need to convict you.’ He paused. ‘Not only you, but everyone involved in Oberon.’

  It was a huge effort of will to appear indifferent. ‘Oberon? Isn’t that a character in one of Shakespeare’s plays?’

  ‘I believe it is, but it is also the name of a group of terrorists. They are being rounded up even as we speak. But you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are one of them. There is no point in denying it, we have irrefutable proof.’

  Her thoughts flew immediately to Etienne; did that mean he had talked? Or was there a traitor in their midst? What had happened to Max and Giles and Jeanne and all the others? It was all she could do to maintain an expression of indifference, when her head was seething like a cauldron on the boil. ‘I shall be interested to hear this so-called proof,’ she said, steeling herself to sound unconcerned. ‘When is the trial to be?’

  ‘Soon. When we have everyone safely behind bars.’ He signalled to her escort. ‘Take her back to her cell and give her some food and wine. She may also have a pencil and postcards to write to her family and friends.’

  She wolfed down the food brought to her when she was back in her old cell, and drank the wine which was a rough red, but was welcome all the same. She still felt hungry. As for the pencil and postcards, she sat looking at them, wondering if she dare use them. It would be unwise to contact anyone in the circuit, but they must know by now where she was. Maman would be worrying that she had not been in touch, but writing to her might endanger Lizzie and Roger, always supposing Roger had not been the one to betray them. She addressed a card to Giles and then, biting the end of the pencil, mused on what to say. There was only room for a couple of sentences. ‘I am well and enjoying my little holiday, but I shall be glad to get back to work,’ she wrote. ‘Give my regards to my pupils and colleagues.’ It said nothing at all, except that she was alive and still sticking to her story.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me see her,’ Giles told Max. ‘But they gave me this.’ They were talking in his office at the school. It was after hours and there was no one else in the building. If the police came, they would have to be let in by Giles who would take his time walking along the corridors to the front door and that would allow Max time to escape through a door leading onto a backstreet. There were exercise books and papers on the desk which Giles would be in the middle of marking.

  ‘Enjoying my little holiday,’ Max read aloud from the card Giles had given him. ‘What does that tell us?’

  ‘Not a lot, but what did you expect? At least she still has her wits about her and fingers to hold a pencil.’

  ‘Don’t! It doesn’t bear thinking about. Did you learn anything about Etienne?’

  ‘No, but I did learn that Justine is to be put on trial at Fresnes and I could appoint a defence lawyer for her. He’d have to be approved by the Boche, of course.’

  ‘Get the best you can. I’ve got money for contingencies. In the meanwhile we must think up ways of setting her free. Etienne too. In transit from one prison to another would be best. Did they tell you when that was to be?’

  ‘No, but the lawyer will be told.’ He paused. ‘Have you managed to contact London?’

  ‘No. I assume that they will know something has happened when they don’t hear from Etienne.’ He had thought of going to Prosper’s circuit and asking them to send a message but had decided to leave them out of it. He could not be sure that circuit had not also been infiltrated. There were traitors everywhere. ‘We are on our own over this.’

  ‘Where shall we meet?’

  ‘In Count Mollet’s cellar. It’s the only safe place left, but for how much longer is anyone’s guess. Bring me news when you know it.’

  ‘Right, but you take care.’

  ‘And you.’ They shook hands and Max let himself out of the back door which Giles locked behind him, then went back to his desk, wondering how long it would be before he was arrested. He had given Jeanne, who was the youngest and possibly the weakest of the group, sick leave and told her to take herself off to the unoccupied zone. All the others had been told to resume their ordinary lives and not attempt to communicate with each other, but if there were a traitor in their midst … He shuddered at the thought.

  The slopes of the mountain were green again. The skiers had gone and the village was peaceful, or as peaceful as it was possible to be under the circumstances. Under the outward calm, the area was seething with clandestine activity. In the forest of the higher slopes, a secret army was being trained, an army led by Roger, whom everyone knew as Dirk. He was annoyed that London seemed to be ignoring his frequent requests for arms and ammunition and a wireless operator, requests he sent over the border into Switzerland by escapees who had found their way to Annecy and were sent on to Lizzie. They had no way of knowing if the messages ever arrived. ‘How could they be so inefficient? Or perhaps they don’t trust me.’

  They were talking in the byre where they were scrubbing out the pails after finishing the milking. The cows were once more enjoying the fresh grass on the slopes and the yield was a little better than it had been. The extra was never declared, but hidden in Madame Clavier’s dairy where she made cheese or butter which she sold, along with the skimmed milk, to local people she could trust. Now and again the Vichy authorities came on an inspection, but Hans usually forewarned them and nothing untoward had ever been found.

  ‘I expect they have limited supplies and they are more urgently needed elsewhere,’ Elizabeth said. ‘You can train without weapons, can’t you?’

  ‘Not properly. How can men learn how to use a rifle if they’ve never handled one? Or set explosive charges.’

  ‘You’ve got a few rifles, you’ll just have to share them. And I don’t think it’s a good idea to play with explosives. You’ll have the Vichy police down on us like a ton of bricks. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves or we won’t be able to use the crossing.’

  She and Roger worked together on the farm and in their undercover work and had, as a consequence, become close. She knew how he felt about her because he often told her so and he didn’t seem to mind when she told him to stop his nonsense because she wasn’t listening. He did not know she was not Pierre’s daughter, nor of her relationship with Max. Max seemed a distant figure now, someone she had once known but had half forgotten. Did that mean she had never really loved him?

  ‘Are you expecting Justine with more escapees?’ he aske
d.

  ‘No. We haven’t heard from her for ages. She usually manages to send us a postcard now and then to say she’s OK but there’s been nothing for weeks. Mamie is worried she might have been arrested.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Antoine let you know if that had happened?’

  Antoine? Was that Max? If it was, he would know how worried they would be. Perhaps he was in trouble too. ‘Perhaps he can’t.’

  ‘Right, that’s made up my mind for me. I’m going to Paris to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s too risky.’

  He laughed. ‘I do believe you care, after all.’

  ‘Of course I care.’ Saying that was easy, but how profoundly did she mean it? You couldn’t love someone you didn’t trust with secrets, could you?

  ‘Good.’ He grabbed her and kissed her. ‘I’ll hold you to that when I come back.’

  She could not dissuade him from his foolhardiness and the next morning he cycled into Annecy where he left the bicycle with Alphonse, donned the German uniform again and caught a train to Paris. In his pocket were false travel documents provided by Hans. Poor Hans, he was now in so deep, he dare not refuse to do as he was asked.

  Elizabeth was left behind to wait and worry. He didn’t seem to see danger, even when it was staring him in the face. He thought giving Hans money meant he could trust him, but you couldn’t buy loyalty, could you? And supposing those German identity papers let him down? Supposing he was arrested? He would be shot. A future without Roger’s cheerful countenance and unfailing optimism seemed bleak indeed. Was she beginning to fall in love with him? It was foolish if she was; she knew nothing about him. He never spoke of his family, his childhood and growing up, except in general terms that told her nothing.

  Roger saw no point in being stealthy. He had to rely on his disguise to keep him safe and German soldiers in Paris did not skulk about. They were cocksure and arrogant. He had had plenty of practice at being cocksure and arrogant himself. It had been his defence against the harsh world of a dreadful boarding school where the older boys were still allowed to have fags. Seven years old when he first went there, torn from the arms of his mother by a stepfather who hated him, he had been terrified. The initiation into the duties of a fag had only exacerbated that. He was required to walk the length of a beam in the roof of the gymnasium watched by half the school; he wanted desperately to duck out of it. He wasn’t sure what he feared most: falling off the beam to the floor twenty feet below him or the kicking he would have if he refused. He had decided a quick death was better than a slow one. He still held to that belief.

  He had survived by being stubborn and doing everything asked of him, however dangerous or ill-conceived, until he had been privileged to have a fag himself, and, to his lasting shame, he had not spared him. He had become as high and mighty, as cruel as those who had once tormented him. His mother had died, he was convinced of a broken heart, and after that he never went home again. His home was wherever he happened to be: school, college and then the army.

  Girls were a different matter; he was not sure how to handle them. He liked to think they were all like his mother, gentle, forgiving and vulnerable, so he was never knowingly cruel to any of his girlfriends. They didn’t last long when he found out they were not all like his mother, that some of them were hard-hearted and grasping, though on reflection, he had come to the conclusion he attracted the wrong kind of girl. Until he met Lisabette and fell instantly and irrevocably in love with her.

  But his upbringing had scarred him. Even with Lisabette he found he couldn’t stop his bantering and though he was deeply sincere in what he said to her, it came out of his mouth like a joke, as if he were afraid to let go, to reveal his own vulnerability, his fear of being rejected. And so far she had rejected him. He didn’t know how to overcome that, but perhaps going to Paris and finding out what had happened to her aunt, might put him in a more favourable light.

  Without looking round or in any way betraying his nervousness, he went up the steps of Justine’s apartment on the rue de la Pompe and banged on the door. After a minute it was answered by a little old woman in a black dress and a shawl. Seeing his uniform she seemed to shrink into herself. ‘Fraulein Clavier?’ he enquired.

  ‘Not here.’ She drew her shawl tighter about her. ‘They took her away.’

  ‘They?’ He spoke in French but remembered to have a German accent.

  ‘The police. German soldiers.’

  ‘Where did they take her?’

  ‘Don’t know. Prison perhaps.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  She shrugged. ‘Months. April I think.’

  ‘Who lives in the apartment now?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘I don’t know that I should.’

  ‘Yes, you should, unless you want to be arrested yourself.’

  Trembling, she led the way, hardly able to unlock the door of the apartment her hands were shaking so much. He followed her in. The place had obviously been thoroughly searched; drawers and cupboards had been left open, their contents strewn about the floor. He went from room to room; they were all the same.

  ‘It will do,’ he said. ‘I am requisitioning it on behalf of the occupying forces. I will move in immediately. Give me the key, madame.’ He held out his hand and she put the key into his palm. ‘You may go now.’

  She scuttled away. He flung himself onto the sofa and let out a huge breath of relief and chuckled softly. Being arrogant had its compensations. But what now? Straight back to Dransville with the news or should he stay and try to find out what had happened? He was hungry; he would go out and try to find some food and then go over the flat himself to see if anything had been missed by the searchers, then he would decide. He turned and left, carefully locking the door behind him and pocketing the key.

  Max made his way stealthily on foot, pausing every now and again to listen for the police patrols and the heavy sound of jackboots because anyone out and about during curfew was either a policeman, a German soldier or a doctor who was allowed to attend his patients. His way took him along the rue de la Pompe and past Justine’s apartment. There was a German captain coming down the steps. It was too late to hide; his only hope was to walk on past.

  ‘Antoine Descourt.’

  Max started to run. The captain ran after him. He dodged down a side road and sprinted for all he was worth, straight into the arms of a couple of German troopers. They had obviously been out on a spree and were more than slightly tipsy, but sober enough to hold onto him. ‘You want this fellow, Herr Hauptmann?’ they called out to Roger as he joined them.

  ‘Yes. I’ll take charge of him now.’

  Max recognised the voice and was unsure whether to be relieved or more worried than ever. He stopped struggling and felt Roger’s heavy hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Can you manage him on your own, sir?’ one of the soldiers asked.

  ‘Yes, there’s a police van round the corner. On your way or you will be late reporting back. I will see you are commended.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ They left, arms round each other, weaving erratically.

  ‘You don’t make it easy for yourself, do you?’ Roger said. He didn’t loosen his grip on Max’s shoulder for fear he’d make a break for it.

  ‘What are you doing back in Paris?’ Max spoke in French.

  ‘Looking for you, since Justine appears to be behind bars.’

  ‘Did you put her there?’

  ‘Me? Whatever makes you think that?’

  ‘You seem very comfortable in that uniform. And you came out of her house as if you owned it.’

  ‘So I did. I was looking for her. Shall we walk? I think we should get off the street.’

  They turned and started back the way they had come. ‘Why were you looking for her, if you knew she was in prison?’

  ‘I didn’t know until the concierge told me. I came because her parents are very worried they haven’t heard from her. I volunteered to
find out what had happened to put their minds at rest and also to ask Justine to get in touch with London on behalf of the Annecy resistants. The powers that be have been very tardy sending us arms and ammunition.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think,’ Roger said slowly, releasing him, ‘you are going to have to learn to trust me.’

  They had reached Justine’s apartment. Roger turned and started up the steps. ‘Come on,’ he said, when Max hesitated. ‘It’s the safest place for you at the moment.’

  Max followed him up to the apartment where Roger let them in with his key. ‘You seem to have made yourself at home,’ he said.

  ‘As I said, it’s the safest place for both of us. The concierge thinks I have requisitioned it on behalf of the Boche. I’m counting on her being too frightened to check up on that. There’s no food in the place. I’m going down to ask her to provide a little coffee, sweetener and milk. She might find us a bit of bread too, until we can go out and find some food. Have you got a ration card?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Roger went out onto the landing and called down the stairwell. ‘Madame Concierge.’

  The old lady appeared at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Coffee, Madame,’ he ordered. ‘Milk, sugar, bread and butter and a bottle of wine.’

  She did not answer but went back into her own quarters and reappeared a little later with the items on a tray. He met her halfway down the stairs and took it from her. Returning to the apartment, he filled the kettle and put it on the gas stove, made coffee, buttered the bread, found some wine glasses and took the whole lot into the sitting room and put it on the coffee table.

  ‘Now we’ll talk,’ he said in English to the silent Max.

  Max didn’t know what to make of Roger. Whose side was he on? What did he know? What didn’t he know? ‘What about?’ he asked warily.