The Spark of Resistance

by Kit Sergeant

  As she brushed by Armand’s desk on her way to the kitchen, a stack of papers fell over. She dumped the dishes in the sink before gesturing to the pile on the floor. “And who should not fully trust whom? During my training in Vichy, Captain Sardanapalus said to destroy all records, not keep them around like some kind of flashing sign pointing to every member of our network.”

  Armand narrowed his bloodshot eyes as he frowned at the mess. Then without a word he spun on his heel and lurched to their bedroom, slamming the door and then locking it for emphasis.

  Mathilde gave an audible sigh before she turned on the sink and began washing the dishes.

  She was so involved in her work that she didn’t hear the front door open and shut again. She looked up with a start to see Marcel standing in the living room, staring dejectedly at the scattered papers. “Is the night’s dispatch in there?” he asked upon catching sight of Mathilde.

  “No. I didn’t have time tonight to type one up.”

  “Is there nothing to send to London then?”

  She gave him a regretful shrug. “You can tell them Armand’s mother has died. That’s why there is no report tonight.”

  He muttered something about not letting personal matters get in the way of winning a war before he went into the little room.

  Chapter 12

  Didi

  Didi started her six-hour shift that night in the usual manner, tuning in to the established frequency and adjusting the wireless to lessen the background noise. Sometimes the interference was so harsh she couldn’t imagine hearing a voice over the din, but tonight it was barely noticeable. She hunched over her desk, her headphones blocking out the click-clack of the other FANY’s Morse keys, a cacophony Didi’s trained ears couldn’t translate to anything discernible, even when she could hear clearly.

  She waited for her operator to make contact. He was usually punctual, and when the time for his sked came and went, Didi grew anxious. She shifted in her chair and restacked the square cards she used to take down Marcel’s code. After that, she polished the Bakelite box and knobbed lever of the Morse key that she used to tap out her dispatches.

  Finally she heard a transmission coming through. Didi grabbed the pencil and took down his Morse signals. They employed the Q-system commonly utilized by ships, which consisted of a series of 3-letter combinations, most beginning with Q. Marcel had tapped, ‘QRK IMI’ which meant, How are you receiving me?

  Didi replied with, ‘QSA 4,’ on her Morse key. The 4 indicated the strength of the signal; anything less than 3 and Marcel would attempt to resend his message. But since the signal was strong tonight, Marcel continued with ‘QTC,’ I have a message for you.

  Didi faithfully translated the clicks of his key into letters on the square card until she got to ‘QRU,’ I have nothing more.

  If there were messages to send from the SOE, Didi would then type out her own ‘QTC’ and then the coded reply. Tonight, however, there was nothing to relay and she ended the transmission with ‘VA,’ Close down.

  She took off her headphones, relishing the cool air of the hut on her warm ears before she picked up her pencil again and began to decode Marcel’s message.

  She was so involved in her work that Captain Smith’s voice startled her. “Was that the latest report from The Cat?”

  “Yes.” Didi set down her pencil and pushed the card toward him.

  “What’s this? Nothing to report?”

  She shook her head. “Something about a family emergency.”

  He tossed the card back onto the desk. “There’s going to be a lot more family emergencies if that devil Hitler’s allowed to keep moving about France. Don’t they know there’s a war going on? We’ve no time for ‘family emergencies.’”

  “Yes, sir.” Didi replied for lack of anything else to say.

  “That Cat’s reports are usually quite informative. Sometimes even as little as a few hours after you end the transmission, our bombers are on their way to France to blow up something they’ve told us about—an ammunition dump or a German train carrying more troops across the border.”

  “I know, sir,” Didi said, not without a bit of pride this time. It was luck of the draw that she had been assigned as Marcel’s home operator. She wasn’t quite sure who The Cat was or how he/she was related to Marcel—or whether it was Marcel himself—but she knew that anything that came in beginning, “The Cat Reports,” was given priority by the higher-ups of the SOE.

  Captain Smith shook his head. “It’s not right. I hope their so-called emergency had nothing to do with the gonios that have started circling Paris.”

  Didi recalled what Archie had told her about the Nazi signal-detecting vans. “I hope so too.”

  “How did Marcel sound to you tonight? You sure it was him?”

  Didi nodded. If there was such a thing as, ‘Intimacy in Morse,’ which is what the other girls called it, then Didi had experienced it. She had become so well-versed in Marcel’s fist—his personal touch on the key—that she could compensate for any ‘Morse Mutilation’ from interference. “It was him, sir—of that I am sure.”

  “Well, maybe we should get the head of that circuit out here to London—make sure he’s trained in all ways of the SOE.”

  “Pardon me for asking,” Didi was hesitant, figuring Captain Smith would refuse to divulge any information, but she decided to pursue it anyway. “Who is The Cat?”

  “She’s not technically one of ours, nor is the real head—the one they call Armand. They got their start well before we did, but, as their circuit is up and running and ours are just getting off the ground, they’re still the best we’ve got. I’m going to see if Buck can arrange a Lysander pick-up for this Armand as soon as possible.” With that, Smith did a rapid about-face and walked away.

  Chapter 13

  Odette

  When Odette returned to London, she met Miss Atkins at the Trocadero, a baroque-style restaurant near Baker Street. It fell under Miss Atkins’ jurisdiction to finalize logistics, and she asked Odette to make a list of all of her personal possessions and whom she wanted them to go to in the event Odette did not make it back from France.

  Odette agreed to do so, fighting down a pang of panic at the possibility Miss Atkins so politely alluded to. Luckily she was distracted by the food’s arrival. Miss Atkins watched with her eagle-eyes as Odette picked up her knife and fork, holding the knife loosely in her right hand in the proper French form.

  Miss Atkins nodded approvingly. “There are informants everywhere in France, whether they are spies, Vichy-supporters, or just fools wanting to get in with the Nazis. We must make sure that nothing can unwittingly expose you to suspicion. Above all, remember to look left to right when crossing the street. Traffic is on the right side of the road in France, and looking the wrong way is a dead giveaway that you are foreign.” She went on this vein for quite some time, advising Odette how to interact with the local Resistance population, explaining which rationing coupons could be used on which days, and updating her on curfew times. Odette tried to absorb it all, thinking if only she could obey every one of Miss Atkins’ commands, her mission would be triumphant.

  After lunch, Miss Atkins accompanied Odette shopping, where she picked out a French-made dark grey jacket and skirt. “This gray will hide the dirt in prison,” Odette said, fingering the heavy material.

  “Do you think you’re going to prison?” Miss Atkins asked.

  “I don’t know.” She’d been in a melancholy mood ever since Miss Atkins suggested she might not come back. “But it’s better to be prepared, don’t you think Miss Atkins?”

  She frowned. “I suppose so.”

  Miss Atkins purchased the suit, along with a new French valise and heeled shoes, courtesy of the SOE. She also added a Parisian perfume, gloves, and an umbrella to the booty before dropping Odette off at a hairdresser’s with explicit instructions on how to cut Odette’s hair in the latest Parisian style: shoulder-length, with layers to help it curl.

 
The next morning, Odette approached the gates of St. Helen’s Boarding School for Girls. Her training had been relentlessly thorough but nothing had prepared her for the agony of saying goodbye to her daughters. She smiled through her tears as she watched them approach in their plaid jumpers, one of the head nuns trailing after them.

  “Mummy!” Marianne began to run. She reached her thin arms through the garden gates and Odette did her best to embrace her.

  “I’ve come to say good-bye, girls.” Odette wiped her eyes as the nun finally opened the gate. Marianne and Lily flung themselves at her while Françoise stood back and looked on.

  “Where are you going?” Françoise asked.

  “Scotland.” She pulled her oldest daughter close. “You’ll look after your sisters, won’t you Françoise?”

  She nodded solemnly. “When will you be back?”

  “I don’t know.” A tear coursed down Odette’s cheek. She licked her thumb and rubbed at an imaginary spot on Marianne’s face. “You will all be good girls while I’m gone, right?”

  “Of course, Mummy,” Lily replied.

  “I don’t want you to go,” Marianne wailed, grabbing one of Odette’s legs. “You can’t leave us.”

  “I have to.” Odette’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Someday you’ll understand why.”

  “Are you going to fight the Nazis?” Marianne asked through her tears.

  “Yes, but I’ll try to come back as soon as I can.” Odette nodded at the nun, who clapped her hands. “Come on, girls, we must be getting back to class.”

  Each girl hugged her once more before grudgingly following the nun back inside.

  Hitler could do his worst to me, and it wouldn’t be nearly as hard as what I just went through, Odette mused as she slowly walked away from St. Helen’s. Saying good-bye to her girls, not knowing when or if she would be back, had been the worst experience she’d ever had to endure.

  After a tearful night alone in her London hotel, Odette met with Buckmaster the next morning.

  “Good morning, Lise,” he said as she entered his office.

  Odette looked around the room. “Who is Lise?”

  “You are.”

  She sat down. “What happened to Céline?”

  He shrugged. “She’s done, her ashes scattered over Manchester. Rest in peace. Oddly enough, another woman with her same coloring and features has emerged, although she’s a bit…” he gave her a meaningful look, “more amenable than Céline. She will have many other aliases,” he pushed an identity card across the table, “but to the SOE she will be known as Lise. We decided to keep your first name for your on-the-ground pseudonym. That way if someone calls you on the street, you’ll know they’re talking to you.”

  She took the card, trying to hide her shaking hands. ‘Odette Metayer’ was printed in bold lettering. Her own expressionless eyes stared back at her from the photograph. From here on out, like Céline, Mrs. Sansom had officially been buried, to be replaced by the various aliases callously provided by the SOE. It gave Odette a cold feeling, like ice water running through her veins, and she did her best to shrug it off.

  "Tell me about yourself, Mrs. Metayer," Buckmaster demanded.

  Odette cleared her throat. "I grew up in Dunkirk. My father's name was Gustav Bédigis, a bank official. My mother's name was Lil Lienard.”

  Buckmaster nodded at her to continue.

  “My father was killed at Verdun. I married Jean Metayer, a shipping clerk. He was quite a few years older than I, a kind man while he lived. He died in 1936 of bronchitis.” She touched a handkerchief to each eye for good measure.

  “And, Mrs. Metayer, have you any children?”

  She hung her head with real emotion. “No children, sir.”

  “I think that’s good for now.” He clasped his hands. “Now Lise, the circuit you'll be working with is Clothier. You’ll be their courier in Auxerre.” Odette recalled from her training that the SOE’s networks, or ‘circuits’ were organized around three main people—the “head,” or organizer, courier, and the wireless operator. It was the courier’s job to carry dispatches to and from the different circuits and the local recruits. She also knew that women were preferred as couriers because they could move about the countryside easier than men, not to mention the Germans being less likely to conduct thorough searches on women for messages hidden in their hair or undergarments should they come under suspicion.

  Buckmaster opened a drawer and pulled out a small purse. “Here is 50,000 francs. You will receive instructions at a later date on how to obtain more money.” He handed her a piece of paper filled with contacts and addresses. “Memorize this, and then burn it by tomorrow morning before you depart for the airport. You should be in France in a few days.”

  He took out another pouch and emptied it onto his desk to reveal an assortment of differently-sized pills. He separated the white ones into a little pile. “These are responsible for violent stomach issues. You can give them to the enemy or use them yourself to feign illness. It won’t be pleasant, but it will get the point across should a doctor need to examine you.” He then pushed the green ones forward. “These are stimulants and should only be taken when you are too tired to do your duty, but have to keep going.”

  She picked up the purse and scooped the pills into it.

  “And this,” Buckmaster held up a small brown one. “This is the ‘L’ tablet. L for lethal. It’s a cyanide tablet, and once chewed, it can kill you in a matter of 15 seconds. Obviously it would be used as a last resort: if you get captured by the enemy and feel there is no escape… well, this little pill can be your permanent way out.”

  Odette tried not to visibly balk at Buckmaster’s suggestion. She wasn’t sure she could ever willingly commit suicide, not even if being tortured by the Nazis was the alternative. She did her best to steady her fingers once again as she accepted the pill and placed it into her bag with the others. The question of the L-pill could wait for another day.

  “One last thing,” he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small gold ring. “This is your good luck gift.”

  “Good luck gift?”

  He dropped it into her hand. “We give them to all of our departing agents, just to let them know we’re thinking of them. If worse comes to worst and you run out of money, you can always pawn it.”

  The ring was too big for any of her fingers, so she slipped it on her thumb for now, vowing to take it off later. “I think I’m ready.”

  “Do you have any other questions?”

  “No questions.” Odette reached into her handbag and pulled out a packet of letters. “But I do have a favor.” She pushed the letters across the desk. “These are to my daughters. They are all undated, so if you would be so kind as to post them to St. Helen’s once a week, I’d be grateful. I don’t think I’ll be in a position to write to them on a regular basis.”

  Buckmaster tucked the packet into his drawer. “Will do. And good luck, Mrs. Metayer.”

  She stood. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 14

  Didi

  As Captain Smith had predicted, the SOE requested the presence of Interallié’s chief in London as soon as possible, and Didi dutifully communicated the invitation through the wireless. Over the next few days, a great number of her dispatches to and from Marcel were about finding a place for a Lysander to land.

  Didi had just sent out a message, translated as, Pick-up for Armand fixed for full moon on first October eleven thirty PM STOP, On this day confirm safety and give weather conditions STOP, when Captain Smith approached her station.

  He took out a handkerchief and rubbed a fingerprint off her Morse key. “I’m going to arrange for you to give Armand instructions on how to code and send messages, SOE style.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes.” He tucked the handkerchief back into his front pocket. “You are aware that, as the biggest Resistance network in France, they are still a little raw in the way we do things around here.”


  She nodded.

  “He won’t have a lot of time on this side of the channel, and his ‘dance card,’ as you might say, is already full. I’m assuming he’s going to want to send Marcel a personal message through you, and you might as well take the opportunity to show him the proper way to code.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The first week of October, Captain Smith walked into the wireless hut accompanied by an unfamiliar man. “This is the director of Interallié,” Smith said. “The first official pick-up we’ve ever made from German-occupied territory.”

  Armand was tall and lean, with dark hair and matching eyes that studied Didi’s every move. She held out her hand, casting her gaze downward rather than meet his penetrating one. As he reached forward to shake hands, a newspaper fell from his briefcase.

  “Look at this,” Captain Smith bent down to pick it up. “It’s the Paris-Soir.”

  “The main underground newspaper for the Resistance,” Armand stated, sensing that Didi did not understand the significance.

  Captain Smith tucked it under his arm. “I will see that this is on the King’s breakfast-table in the morning. I can’t imagine how surprised he will be to personally read about Resistance activities firsthand!” He clasped Armand on the back. “I’m glad we are finally able to unite France and England’s endeavors to stop Hitler.”

  “Me too.” Armand tapped Captain Smith’s shoulder in solidarity, but his eyes were once again on Didi.

  “Would you like to send a message to Marcel?” she asked after Smith had left.

  “Yes.” His smile widened. “So you are the one we’ve been communicating with. I always thought it would be a man.”

  “Most of the men in England have gone off to war.” Didi set a pencil and stack of white cards in front of him. “We FANYs are responsible for all but the extremely sensitive communications.”