Time Passes Time

by Mary Wood

  Deciding that she wasn’t going to sleep, she put her hand under the pillow and took out the last of the books. She’d finished the other one when she’d first come to bed. Something in her didn’t really want to finish them all, as she’d feel like she’d lost a big part of her that had almost been her. But despite that, she felt compelled to read on.

  Theresa and Pierre had made another visit to Pierre’s parents to be with Jacques at the end of August 1944. Many places in France were liberated by then, and his parents were talking of going back to Paris after the liberation of that city had taken place, but Pierre had counselled them not to. He’d told them to stay put until the whole of France was liberated, or even until the war ended, just in case. He was worried for his mother and grandmother, who would be singled out as Jews so easily. Again, Lizzie had read that they’d had a wonderful time, and she had found that the picture of Theresa and Jacques had come to life for her with reading about their time together that weekend.

  Theresa and Pierre left with such hope of them all being together soon as a family. But they had to see the conflict through, and had now moved towards the east of the country to continue their missions to undermine the German defence.

  Theresa – A Fateful Mission, January 1945

  Theresa marched up and down, and for the umpteenth time the question that had been going through her mind posed itself again: Where are you, Pierre? Please, please make contact . . .

  Pierre had left hours ago to meet a new agent. At last it was time for her to go home and to be decommissioned. Pierre would go back to Paris and await her return from England. The new agent was to take over from her and continue operations that would take him and his group into Belgium, should the campaign being fiercely fought in this area succeed.

  The German offensive had launched a massive counter-attack that had already successfully regained the initiative in the Ardennes after being pushed back so far in November. But at that time the Americans had wavered in their support, and the French General de Lattre had been forced to pull back behind the French lines. The Germans had reacted swiftly and launched Operation North Wind.

  Hers and Pierre’s work had been difficult and extremely dangerous, as they had done what they could to hinder the Germans and to provide intelligence. Twice they had lost safe houses used by her to radio information and receive instructions, and although these raids had uncovered their activities, thank God they had escaped.

  Now things were going well, as General de Lattre had made a move to liberate Colmar and reach the Rhine at Brisach, and she knew that very soon General Schlesser would lead a night attack that, if successful, would finally liberate France. How fitting that the French army should do this.

  Command had said she was to be lifted out any day, and was to keep a low profile until that happened. She’d presumed it would be after the liberation. That must succeed!

  Pierre was to pull out at the same time, but until then their position here was still precarious. The Germans would do anything to uncover their operation and capture them – the leaders and instigators of many of their frustrations. Please God, let the end of the German occupation come soon!

  Once more her worry surfaced. Pierre had had to travel to Troyes to meet the agent, but should have been back by now. From the start something had worried her about the whole thing, although she couldn’t put her finger on why. The message saying a new agent was to join them hadn’t contained anything to cause her concern, but still, something didn’t feel right. Why didn’t Command drop the new agent in Belgium so he was on the ground ready to carry out his missions? Having to keep air time to the minimum, she hadn’t questioned the orders.

  As she thought of this, the smell of fresh bread permeated her room. This often happened at night, as she occupied the room above Monsieur Gaillard’s bakery. He would be busy with his next day’s batch. The aroma took her mind away from her concerns and brought the Pontés to her mind. A few weeks ago they’d heard that the Pontés had taken up their business again and were well. She was glad of this, but she thought it ironic that she was now working with another baker and his family, and that her role was once more that of an assistant, delivering bread and serving in the shop as a cover for her SOE work. She had come full circle.

  Somehow she’d never tired of the missions – her and Pierre, side by side, and with a new band of men now, a group they’d had to gather together, organize and train – but she was ready to have an end to it all.

  That end was in sight; she could feel it was so. Everyone she met had that hope – that feeling that soon the future would be bright. The Germans would be defeated, and then the task would be to put the world together again – mend the broken people, rebuild the buildings and sort out economies. That, she would leave to others. For her part, she just wanted to live a simple life with Pierre and their children, because Pierre now spoke of her little girl as his. Always they called her Olivia.

  Their plan was to live in Paris, for Pierre to complete his studies. In this they were lucky, as Pierre’s father would be able to access the money his own father had put into an American bank. From this he had promised to settle a generous amount on Pierre, as well as an allowance until he was working and earning enough for their needs. And she had money of her own: a legacy from her Aunt Laura, which she’d hardly touched, and a generous settlement from her ex-husband. This she had never dipped into. All of this meant they would be secure financially and would be able to buy a house. And then they would marry.

  For a moment she forgot her worries as she imagined her gown, their honeymoon – Venice, as Pierre had never been to Venice. She would be able to show him everything, share a gondola with him, and he could feed her grapes as she lay with her head in his lap. Then St Mark’s Square . . . oh, and the Accademia Gallery, the art museum of Venice . . . There was so much beauty to share with him after all of this horror and fear.

  Monsieur Gaillard’s voice broke into her thoughts, bringing that fear crashing back into her. ‘Olivia, there is a message for you from Pierre. You are to rendezvous on the outskirts of Wissembourg.’

  ‘But why? I thought he was bringing the agent here! How did the message arrive? Was it in Pierre’s handwriting? Was the proper code used?’

  ‘Yes. It was a phone call. It was him. The code was correct. He has called in several of our group. I have relayed the message to all those he asked me to.’

  ‘What is the mission?’

  ‘To prepare a landing spot, guide in the plane and accept and store a drop from England.’

  ‘I haven’t radioed a request. Our job is done here.’

  ‘The new agent came in with the details of the drop. It seems it is for his first mission across the border. You will leave through the shop. On the counter you will find a loaf of bread wrapped ready. To all intents and purposes, you are just delivering it to Monsieur Vailles, the neighbour of Monsieur Deprés et Madame. Monsieur Vailles expects you. When safely inside his home, he will show you a way through his cellar into the orchard of Monsieur Deprés. It is best that you make your way through this to the village. Your contact is Raphael Blanc. He will be in the cafe and will take you to Pierre. Your code is oeufs de canard.’

  ‘Why has Pierre not given me a guide that I know? This is not like Pierre. Something isn’t right.’

  ‘I do not know. Pierre wouldn’t do anything he didn’t think was right to do. He has recruited new men only last week, so maybe this is one of them.’

  ‘Okay. Leave me to get ready. I’ll get on my way in a few minutes.’

  As she dressed in her usual trousers – green to blend in with the landscape – and a brown jumper topped with her thick black wool coat, her fear intensified. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t get it out of her head that this all felt wrong. Monsieur Gaillard sounded nervous. What’s going on? But she was being silly. These people were loyal. They had never been under suspicion.

  Setting out, she was horrified to find the light night provid
ed her with no camouflage. Beads of sweat ran down her face despite the extreme cold. The saddle of her bike jolted her as though she was sitting on a rock as she manoeuvred her cycle over the rough terrain, but she arrived as Monsieur Deprés’s without incident.

  He took her through to the orchard. The trees, planted so close to each other, clawed at her as she tried to make her way between them, but the vines of the vineyard beyond were worse, scratching at her face as she bent low, dragging her bike beneath them to make her way to the road. Despite these hazards, she felt safer amongst them than when she stepped onto the road and climbed back onto her bike to cycle the last mile of her journey.

  Tuned in to every sound, even a leaf blowing along the tarmac sent her heart plummeting. The noise her wheels made was amplified in the silence. Why hadn’t she had that squeak oiled? Her fear rendered her breathless and caused her nerves to jangle in her stomach until she thought she would vomit. The dread in her threatened to choke her when suddenly the sound of a heavy vehicle rumbled in the distance. Clambering off her bike, she threw it into the ditch, and was about to follow it when the lorry came into view. Its headlights blinded her. Within seconds she was surrounded by screaming German soldiers, and she knew it was over. Everything was gone: her dreams, her hopes and her life dried up like an empty, parched riverbed with a labyrinth of cracks shattering its surface, but for her those cracks would never be smoothed over and put back together again. For her there was no way back.

  Her screams were stopped by a vicious swipe. The sockets of her arms burned as they wrenched her arms behind her and clamped them in cold steel. One of them hooked his leg around hers and brought her to the ground. Irons were locked around her ankles.

  A soldier on each side of her hooked their arms through the crook of hers and dragged her towards the back of lorry. The pain of this seared through her as her shoulders threatened to dislocate and her knees scraped along the road. But she knew this to increase tenfold when from behind, her legs were lifted and she was thrown into the back.

  Other soldiers inside lifted her and shoved her onto the bench. Her tears blinded her. Blinking sent them running down her cheeks, stinging her scratches and grazes, but clearing her vision. Opposite her sat Pierre.

  Though she willed him to, he did not make eye contact with her. She knew this was procedure. If they showed signs of knowing one another, they would incriminate each other, so she looked away without speaking to him. Before she did, she drew strength from how he sat up straight, dignified and defiant. This stopped her tears and straightened her own body. If Pierre should look at her, he wouldn’t see a broken woman but a brave one. One who could cope.

  They hadn’t gone far, no more than twenty miles, when the vehicle came to a halt. Pierre was dragged out through the already open canvas at the back of the lorry. Everything in her screamed against this. What was happening? God help us!

  In French one of the Germans spat out all his hate and everything that his vile beliefs stood for: ‘Sale Juif! Vous ne mareherez pas sur le sol Allemand et vous ne eontaminerez pas notre pays de votre présence.’

  My God! No . . . no! They know Pierre is a Jew. They are going to shoot him rather than let him set foot on German soil! Soil they say he will taint. Please God, no!

  Time froze. The soldier raised his arm. Pierre stood tall. His eyes sent her a message of love. The crack of the shot ricocheted through her, blocking her ears and taking her into a world where all sound was like she was underwater. Pierre’s beloved face disappeared. His body crumpled. There, on the border between the country he loved and the one he hated and feared, he died.

  With his death everything that was her fragmented into a million pieces.

  Miles and miles, they travelled. None of the soldiers spoke to her. Though her soul wept, she did not allow herself to cry outwardly. Her mind screamed at her, How did this happen? We were so near to the end . . . Then it dawned on her that besides herself there were no more captives in the lorry – no new agent, no men that Gaillard had said he was to contact. And how did the Germans know that she was travelling along that road at precisely that time? How did they know that Pierre was a Jew? Gaillard! He must be the traitor! My God, I will kill him! It was a silly thought, as she would not live to take revenge on anyone. But why? Why did he do it? Collaborators weren’t always allowed to survive. Despite the Germans saying they would not carry out the threatened atrocity if information was given, they often did once they had what they wanted. But it just didn’t make sense in this case. The Germans were all but defeated. Oh my God, if it was him, did he know about the planned campaign? No, he couldn’t. She and Pierre had never shared details with anybody – not specifics. Only enough to encourage their group to carry out the work needed.

  One of the soldiers looked at his watch. What she’d understood of what he said hardly affected her, and yet, if she’d heard it before they’d killed her darling Pierre her blood would have run cold, as he confirmed with his fellow soldiers that they would reach Dachau very soon.

  Dachau. A place of evil. Intelligence had informed them of inhuman atrocities carried out in the prison camp there on Jews, homosexuals, Jehovah’s witnesses, gypsies, criminals and dissidents. The latter were tortured and then shot. She fell into this group. The former were sorted when they arrived, and those who were of no use in any way to the Germans – including infants and young children – were killed or experimented on, while the others were put to hard labour, starved and beaten until they too were of no use. Then they too were killed. It was a place feared by all agents, but at this moment she felt no fear. You couldn’t frighten a dead person, and that was what she was: an emotionally dead person.

  It began as soon as they arrived. A frump of a woman, her uniform fitted to every crease of her fat body in a way that looked as if she could hardly move against its restrictions, took charge of her. Dragging her to a room, bare but for a wooden bench, she removed the irons and ordered her to strip. Once she was naked, the woman tweaked her breasts and said, ‘you’ve borne children – unusual for one of you pigs to have done that. Ruins your body. Look at how little life there is in your tits! They flop and droop. Pity, I like firm, pert breasts. The rest of you is good, though. Sad that it is to be wasted. I wouldn’t have minded a chance to show you what real pleasure is.’ Her laugh held an inhuman sound. Nothing more than a sick disgust settled in Theresa. She knew the pleasure of loving a woman, but this woman was party to the belief that homosexuals were the scum of the earth and party to the killing of those discovered, and yet she was of that persuasion herself.

  The woman provided her with a coarse gown that chafed her skin. Her talk continued to be of a sexual and sadistic nature, telling her how her torturers would take pleasure in damaging her breasts. ‘They will burn them with their cigarettes, cut them with their knives – ha, they may even take your nipples off! And your vagina won’t escape their attention. They may fuck it first, but then they will put a hot poker up it and cut out your clitoris and make you eat it. Then if you haven’t given them what they want, they will gouge your eyes out, pull your teeth or your fingernails, or both, with pliers. Stick wires into your ears until your eardrums burst. If still you refuse to talk, they may string you up by your feet and let you hang there until death stares you in the face, but they won’t let it take you. They will cut you down, let the medical team make you well enough to take some more, and then dislocate your joints and break your bones, starting with your fingers. So, my beautiful one, tell them what you know. Save yourself all of this and come and work with my women. Eat three meals a day, then when we have triumphed over the world and are the master race, I will take care of you.’

  Throughout all of this, Theresa felt nothing. She had no feelings. She was an empty shell.

  This protection didn’t stay with her long. It dropped away with the agonizing pain of the first cigarette burn on her breast.

  In the room the woman had taken her to, a man sat behind a desk. His hair, black and grea
sy, was plastered to his head, and his face appeared skeletal in the way his skin stretched tightly over the bone structure of his cheeks, prominent forehead and his chin. His eyes, so dark they appeared lifeless, were framed by the longest lashes she’d ever seen on a man. His body was small and thin, with a long neck protruding from a shirt collar that was too big. His Adam’s apple stuck out as if he’d swallowed something of a triangular shape and it had got stuck. It danced up and down every time he spoke.

  In his menacing voice, he’d asked her her name, her nationality and for her poem, the unique code that identified her when she radioed messages to Command. ‘These things will be enough for today. Tell me them and you can go and have a bath and a meal.’

  She didn’t open her mouth. She just stared at him, letting her hatred for him burn through her eyes.

  The slap he’d given her hardly penetrated the shield that had come down over her, even though it knocked her from her chair. At this he demanded she get up and sit down in front of him again. When she did, she saw he’d placed her pill on the table within her reach. Her hand shot out towards it. When issued with it she’d found the idea of using it to take her life rather than be at risk of telling all she knew when tortured, abhorrent; now she saw it as her saviour. One bite and this would all be over, and she would be with Pierre. But as she almost reached it he stung her fingers with his cane. ‘Ha, you missed your chance again. Weren’t your instructions to take it the moment capture was imminent? You disobeyed, didn’t you? Afraid of death, are we? Well, that will make the process even more enjoyable for me, because you will die if you don’t tell me what I want to know.’

  Theresa spat in his face.

  His anger at this did not erupt. His controlled reaction was to call into the room two guards. These tied her to the chair with bonds so tight that she could hardly breathe as they wrapped them around her body. When done, they left. Her interrogator stood and walked slowly around his desk until he stood behind her. The smoke from his cigarette encircled her face as he leaned over her. Then with one hand he felt inside her gown, cupped her breast, pulled it out of the top of her gown and held the tip of his cigarette on her flesh. The pain had her drawing in a deep gasp of air between her gritted teeth. It went on and on as the pressure he applied wasn’t quite enough to extinguish the cigarette. But then it stopped. Not because he’d withdrawn it, but because it had burned so deep it must have damaged the nerve, cutting off any sensation.