by Kit Sergeant
By morning, death was almost a welcomed notion. Anything to be out of that prison, away from the cold, the darkness, and, most of all, the clocks…
Chapter 18
Didi
After solving one of Leo Marks’ indecipherables—she’d figured out that the agent had misspelled just one word—bugle, in Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘Gunga Din’—Didi was transferred to Norgeby House, one of the SOE’s London coding locations. She’d told Captain Smith she would have rather been relocated to France, but he just shrugged.
Didi was put up in a hotel off Baker Street. When she went to check in, the desk clerk told her she would be sharing a room.
“I’m not sure—” Didi began, but the desk clerk interrupted her. “I’m told that you are quite familiar with this person.” He handed her a key. “I was also told there would be no problem.”
Clearly the desk clerk wasn’t in the mood to handle any unforeseen issues. Didi’s heart started beating rapidly as she walked up the stairs and accelerated even more as she put the key into the lock. Who was it going to be? Armand? What if it was Archie having returned from the field?
The voice that greeted her was indeed familiar. “Hey Deeds.”
Didi let out a heavy breath as she caught sight of her sister standing in the middle of the room. “What are you doing?” Didi asked.
“Packing. I’m leaving for France in the morning.”
“I just got here.”
“I know.” Jackie put a jacket on top of the heap of clothing on the bed and walked over to her sister, embracing her. When she let go, Didi could see that she had tears in her eyes. “I hear you are one of the best coders they’ve got.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Didi flopped onto the bed, careful not to destroy Jackie’s pile. “They won’t send me out.”
“No?” Jackie pulled out her handkerchief and wiped at her eyes. “It’s probably because you have to be twenty-five to be an agent.”
Didi had never heard that rule before. “Jack, you didn’t say anything about me to anyone in the F Section, did you? I just can’t figure out why they keep rejecting me.”
Jackie tossed the handkerchief on the dresser. “Of course not, Deeds. I would never do such a thing.”
Didi searched her sister’s face for a hint of insincerity, but couldn’t find anything. Either she was telling the truth, or her spy training had been that good. Didi forced a smile. “Show me what you’re taking with you.”
Jackie sorted the clothing into organized stacks: two skirts with matching jackets, two blouses, and two pairs each of pajamas and shoes. “All French labels,” Jackie stated. “Courtesy of Miss Atkins and the SOE.”
Didi fingered the pajama top. “These will shrink to nothing the first time you wash them.”
Jackie folded the shirt before putting it into her suitcase. “I know, but that’s the only fabric available in France right now. I can’t wear English ones—if they captured me while I was sleeping, it would be the nail in my coffin.” Her voice softened. “I’m glad they afforded us some time to say goodbye. I suppose I have Miss Atkins to thank for that as well.” She walked over and put her arm around Didi. “You’ll be all right while I’m gone?”
“Of course,” Didi replied, hugging her once more. She and Jackie had been both best friends and fierce rivals as far back as Didi could remember. Well maybe rivals only in Didi’s mind: for her part, Jackie never seemed threatened by her determined little sister. They’d had no one else to rely on except each other during the long journey from France, and now Jackie was leaving her again. “I can take care of myself,” Didi declared. “Since my twenty-fifth birthday is not too far off, we’ll probably meet again in France.”
“Or else England, God willing.”
Chapter 19
Mathilde
After a breakfast of stale coffee and even staler bread, Mathilde was returned to the Hotel Édouard VII. Coming from a night in a silent prison cell, the lights of the hotel seemed overly bright but the hustle and bustle of day-to-day operations made the marble-floored lobby seem blissfully clamorous.
She was taken upstairs to a room with a spacious living area and dining room. On the table was an enormous breakfast spread, including eggs, rolls, butter, and black, steaming coffee. Her mouth watered in remembrance of both the horrid meal she’d been given earlier that morning and the privations of Paris’s rationing.
“Help yourself,” a man stated, nodding at the table. In her haste to pick up her plate, Mathilde barely registered him as the yellow-toothed detective who’d confronted her on the Place du Tertre the other day.
A tall, heavy-set man in tortoise-shell glasses entered the room. Mathilde could feel his eyes on her as she helped herself to a mountain of scrambled eggs, but refused to acknowledge him. She finished heaping food onto her plate and balanced it with one hand so she could carry a mug of coffee with the other.
The man was already seated at the table; he kicked out the chair across from him so she could sit down, though he remained silent as she dug into her breakfast. She abandoned her manners as she ate audibly, chewing the buttered bread with relish and swallowing the eggs and sausage by the mouthful. After her plate was finally empty, the man offered her a cigarette.
She turned the cigarette over. “These are my favorite brand.”
“I imagine they would be, seeing as we found several cartons of them in your apartment. These are confiscated from your own supply, and at your disposal whenever you desire one.”
“How kind.”
As Mathilde angled toward his match, he stated plainly, “We’ve arrested your friend Roman Czerniewski—or Armand, as you knew him.”
She took a puff of her cigarette, not wanting to show him any sign of her inner turmoil.
“We’ve also detained the woman that was in his bed when we found him. A little one, good-looking, though not nearly as pretty as you.”
Mathilde blew out a ring of smoke. “Oh?”
“We have in our possession all of the documents we need to put you in prison for life, or possibly in front of a firing squad.”
He paused to gauge her reaction, but once again Mathilde declined to give him one. “Is that so?”
“However,” the man leaned forward, “my colleagues and I have decided that you are much too intelligent and interesting a person to languish in prison.”
She ashed her cigarette in lieu of a reply.
He lit a cigar. “You know everything. You could be a valuable asset in helping us destroy the Interallié network.”
“Why should I help you destroy what we have worked so hard to build?”
“Yes,” he nodded enthusiastically as Mathilde reprimanded herself for admitting her guilt. “You and this Armand formed Interallié. You do know that his girlfriend had nothing nice to say about you when we questioned her, don’t you? She thinks you betrayed the network to us and that you were a more revolting beast than a cat. She said, and I quote, ‘It was up to me to convince Armand that that deceitful trollop would double-cross him one day. I managed to get her to move out, but that didn’t stop her, did it?’ She even told us you’d be wearing a bright red beret, ‘a tasteless blood-colored thing, along with a tattered, moth-eaten fur.’”
Mathilde’s painstakingly cultivated veneer finally cracked. “That bitch!”
From his spreading grin, she knew she’d committed a great blunder.
He glanced around the overstuffed room. “This is not really the place to continue this conversation.”
She bit her lip, afraid he’d demand for her return to prison. But instead he reached over, placing a thick hand over hers. “I think you’re due for an even more substantial meal, and a big glass of wine at that. That will put us both in the right mood for a real tête-à-tête.”
She searched his face, but he kept his expression as neutral as hers. “Are you mocking me?” she asked finally.
“Of course not.” Though his countenance gave nothing away, his voice sounded sincer
e.
She slid her hand out from under his. “How could I, an accused spy, go anywhere in public with you? If you insist on making jokes, you might as well…” she couldn’t bear to suggest he send her back to La Santé.
“I didn’t get to where I am by making jokes.” He moved his hand as though to shake hers. “It just occurred to me I never introduced myself. I am Sergeant Hugo Bleicher of the Abwehr and I would be delighted to take you to lunch. I suggest La Tour d’Argent.”
She’d heard of the Abwehr before—it had something to do with military intelligence. At least he hadn’t said he was with the Gestapo. Her stomach, despite its fullness, grumbled at the thought of her favorite pre-war restaurant.
“I only have one stipulation,” Bleicher continued. “You must give me your word that you will not try to escape. It would pain me very much if I had to shoot such a beautiful woman.”
Mathilde shut her eyes for a second, at the same time shutting her mind to her plight, focusing only on how Armand’s new girlfriend had betrayed her. That, and the choice that this man had put before her: a few hours of eating, drinking and conversation in a pleasant setting versus returning to her prison cell.
She reached out to shake his hand. “I give you my word, monsieur.” She drew back to touch her hair, desperately tangled from a night spent tossing and turning on a filthy bed. “But I couldn’t possibly accompany you to La Tour d’Argent looking as I do.”
His eyes brightened as he nodded to a uniformed guard, who opened the bedroom door. Another guard entered, pulling a rack of clothes behind him.
“My things!” Mathilde exclaimed. She quickly recovered her calm stance. “You’ve been busy,” she commented as dryly as she could before taking a sip of coffee.
“Indeed.” Bleicher snapped his fingers and a guard, with typical German efficiency, pulled a hanger from the rack and walked to the table, displaying the outfit with a flourish.
Mathilde ran her eyes over her favorite black pantsuit, forcing her lips to curl upward. “Perfect. Now, if you gentlemen will allow me the pleasure of a shower.”
A few hours later, Mathilde found herself sitting across from Bleicher at La Tour d’Argent’s best table, overlooking Notre Dame. The sun had begun to set and the hulking towers of the cathedral appeared black against the orange sky.
La Tour d’Argent was a catégorie exceptionnelle restaurant, which meant that it was even higher than Category A and subject to neither rationing nor price setting. Bleicher ordered mutton chops for himself and duck for Mathilde.
Mathilde suppressed a shiver as she took in the jovial diners, the immaculately white tablecloths, the gleaming silver candelabras. She’d only spent one night in prison, but it was enough to know she never wanted to go back. Her mouth wouldn’t stop watering at the thought of the impending meal.
The waiter presented Bleicher with the wine cork. Despite herself, Mathilde was impressed with the worldly way her dining companion tasted the wine, letting it linger on his tongue before nodding his approval at the waiter.
“The world has certainly turned on its end,” Mathilde commented as the waiter retreated. “Who would have thought that a German Abwehr officer would have a suspected French spy for his dinner companion?”
“Indeed, who would have thought that women, instead of raising children and running a household, would go off to gamble their lives in the French Resistance?”
“I never had children,” Mathilde said, as though he were directly referring to her.
“I know. I know all about your husband and his… problems.”
“Ex-husband. I filed for divorce.” As soon as she said it, Mathilde realized the words weren’t strictly true—she had been so busy with Interallié that she’d forgotten to file. But she had intended to, and supposed that intent versus action made little difference to the Abwehr.
“The men in your life—French like your husband or Polish like the one you call Armand—have done nothing but hurt you. Why remain true to the Allies?”
“The brave Allied soldiers are no reflection of the men in my life,” Mathilde commented as the waiter arrived with their food. Nearly melting at the taste of the duck, she started in on her meal as Bleicher told her what seemed like his life story.
“My father owns a bicycle shop in Tettnang, Germany, which is located only a few miles away from the Swiss border. He wanted me to take over the business, but I refused. I tried enlisting in the Navy, but,” he gestured toward his glasses, “was rejected due to my impaired vision. Nonetheless, I was drafted into the army when the Great War began. In 1916, I stole a uniform off a Tommy and crossed enemy lines. The British arrested me, accusing me, of all things, of being a spy and kept me as a P.O.W. for two years.” He paused to take a bite of his meal. “Between the wars, I was a businessman, working for an export company and traveling, which helped me learn both Spanish and French. That’s probably why, when war came again, they made me part of the Secret Police.”
“The Nazi Police.”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure how much you know about the Abwehr, but, unlike the Gestapo, most of us do not belong to the Nazi party. Those goons are more interested in upholding Hitler’s racist decrees than they are in uncovering Resistance intelligence.”
This clarification made Mathilde feel only slightly better.
After another large bite of food he continued, “I don’t have political ties myself, but if anyone has a reason to loathe England, it is I. The British refused to show me any humanity when I was their prisoner—Christmas of 1917 found me in both handcuffs and manacles around my ankles.”
A thought suddenly occurred to Mathilde and she voiced it aloud. “Are you married?”
He pushed his empty plate aside. “Yes. Unlike you, I have a son. But my wife knows not to expect me to remain faithful while I’m away.”
Mathilde turned her nose up at what he might be implying. “You and I are on opposite sides of this war. Whether you agree with Nazi politics or not, you are still a member of the German Police, and I was arrested for being a member of the French Resistance.”
He waved his hand. “The French, and all of the Allies for that matter, are going to lose this war. And you will have nothing to show for all your efforts with said Resistance, except poverty, forced slavery… and a broken heart.”
Mathilde took a sip of wine to cover up her consternation.
“The war is a forgone conclusion: Hitler is bound to win and those who were foolish enough to oppose him are doomed.”
Doomed. She closed her eyes, picturing the prison walls closing in on her. Although she longed to think of herself as self-sufficient, a female warrior, she’d never in her life been without a protector for long. Armand had abandoned her, even before he was arrested, and now she felt desperately alone. How could he? Mathilde could once again feel tears forming behind her eyes as she thought of his unfaithfulness with Viola.
Bleicher must have sensed he’d hit his mark, for he reached for her hand and caressed it with his thumb. The rest of her dissent evaporated with this slice of kindness. He lifted his other arm to glance at his watch. “A few hours until nine o’clock, when The Cat usually reports to London.”
At these words, Mathilde was filled with a sense of defeat. There would be no more transmissions to London, and soon no more communication with the rest of the world. Only long days in a cold, dank prison cell.
“You were never truly on their side,” Bleicher said as the waiter delivered dessert: chocolate cake and real coffee with cream.
Mathilde blinked at this non sequitur.
He helped himself to a heaping teaspoonful of sugar. “You became a spy out of a misplaced sense of duty, and a misguided attraction to Czerniawski. He never even disclosed his real name, nor did he tell you about Viola Borni. How could you have loved a person who was dishonest with you from the start? He used you, and when you ceased to be of service to him, he cast you aside for the widow Borni. All of your network knew of this deception and probab
ly had a few laughs at your expense.”
“I never said I loved him.” Even Mathilde could detect the contempt in her voice.
“No,” Bleicher said soothingly. “I don’t have a high opinion of him either. Do you know he was in his pajamas when we arrested him?”
The combination of coffee, wine, and sugar was getting to her: she was beginning to fall under this man’s—this Hun’s—spell. She glanced around the restaurant with blurry eyes. Her fellow patrons, most of them also Huns, laughed uproariously, indifferent to rationing, to the war, to the life and death struggle carrying on outside the restaurant doors. Impervious to the turmoil going on inside her head. Would it be a noose waiting for her, or would she have the honor of a firing squad?
Bleicher’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “The hour grows late and we must be getting home.”
“Home?” Mathilde was brought back to reality. “To what home are you taking me? Back to prison?”
He leaned forward, his eyes suddenly stony, his voice grave. “That, mein Fräulein, is for you to decide."
Chapter 20
Odette
Odette’s passage to France had been nothing but delay after delay: a few times because of bad weather, once because Buckmaster had received word that her French reception committee had been captured by the Gestapo, and once because her appointed plane had been damaged during landing.
When a new plane had finally been scheduled, she was directed to spend the night at a hotel in Cornwall, near the airfield. The War Office told her to be ready for a 2 am flight and to grab any rest she could.
She thought that might be an impossible request, but, despite her nerves, she fell asleep right away.
At one o’clock in the morning, she was awakened by someone opening her door. “I was told to rouse you,” a woman in a FANY uniform said.
