The Spark of Resistance

by Kit Sergeant

  Odette sat up in bed, glancing at the still undrawn shades. “It’s raining. The plane can’t leave in this weather.” She wasn’t wholly sure that was true so she added, “Can it?”

  The woman shrugged before setting a cup of tea on the bedside table.

  Odette gave a deep sigh before she reached for the tea.

  When she arrived at the airfield, it was still pouring. She could just see the bulky outline of the plane, a Whitley, through the driving rain.

  The Scottish pilot told her that the Whitley’s engine had a small issue. “Dinnae fret, hen,” he said, which she took to mean that she shouldn’t worry. He pointed to a pair of bedraggled mechanics examining something underneath the fuselage. “Mah lads’ll hae it right soon. I’ll take care o’ that fer ye while we wait,” he added, picking up the bag at her feet.

  When the plane was finally ready, Odette found that the seats had been removed to make room for the cargo, and her lone bag was perched atop a mountain of crates. She settled on the floor, leaning against yet another pile of wooden boxes.

  “Sorry, miss. It’s no’ going to be a comfy ride,” the pilot told her as he started running his checks.

  At least France isn't far, she consoled herself. Maybe this time she’d actually leave English soil.

  She closed her eyes as the engine started, hoping she could catch a few minutes of sleep. She felt the Whitley jerk as it left the ground. Her eyes flew open as a box tumbled off the pile behind her. Something was wrong.

  The pilot fiddled desperately with his instruments. Odette’s stomach lurched as the Whitley surged upward only to fall again. It reminded her of being on the see-saw as a child.

  She tried to close her eyes yet again, but then she felt the entire fuselage start to convulse. “What’s happening?” she shouted.

  The pilot glanced back at her, the panic obvious on his face. “I cannae control her!”

  Odette planted her feet as the cargo boxes plummeted toward the Whitley’s nose.

  “We’re going down!” the pilot cried.

  Odette felt herself rise from her perch before her stomach dropped once again as she fell to the floor. So this is how it ends, she thought. I never even got the chance to see a Nazi, let alone thwart any of their plans.

  Boxes descended upon her as she covered her head and braced for impact, nearly too late. She felt the plane hit the ground, swerving unsteadily before finally coming to a stop.

  A heavy crate landed on top of her arms, which were still covering her head. She felt a rush of cool air as the pilot pulled the weight off her. “Get out now!” he yelled. “She might catch fire!”

  Odette flew to the door. She pulled the latch down and then shoved at it with her shoulder but it refused to open. The pilot, taking a running start, rushed forward. The door finally opened and the pilot, recovering his composure, waved Odette out first.

  Once outside in the still-driving rain, she gulped in a few breaths of air, then, remembering the pilot’s dire warning about fire, took off in a sprint, stopping just short of a cliff that led 30 meters down to the Irish Sea.

  “I don’t know if it’s Fate, or if you’re doing something to cause all these disasters to keep happening,” Buckmaster commented when Odette returned to London. “Are you sure you want to go to France?”

  “What powers do you think I have, that of a witch?” Buckmaster raised his eyebrows at her, and Odette laughed at his foolishness before adding, “Of course I still want to go. Perhaps at this point it might be better if you arrange for me to cross the Channel by sea.”

  “Yes, I will get you a boat,” he agreed. “We can’t afford any more planes for you.”

  Chapter 21

  Mathilde

  Mathilde huddled against the cold November afternoon in her customary fur, this time accompanied by a matching hat, a gift from Hugo Bleicher. He directed her into a BMW with French plates and told the chauffeured driver to take them to the Pam Pam.

  He turned to Mathilde to lament, “The Pam Pam is home to two of my most despised American exports: hamburgers and jazz.”

  “It was Duvernoy’s idea.” Mathilde’s voice contained no emotion. Duvernoy was a contact from Vichy’s Deuxiéme Bureau that Bleicher had demanded she arrange to meet. She half-suspected the Abwehr officer was using her as a lure so he could arrest Duvernoy.

  When they arrived, Bleicher followed as a waitress led Mathilde across the restaurant. “A corner table, the mark of Allied spies in the Occupied Zones,” Bleicher quipped as he pulled out Mathilde’s chair.

  Her stomach turned over, but she said nothing.

  Duvernoy entered the restaurant, smiling openly as he caught sight of Mathilde, but his expression turned into a glower as he approached. “Who is this?” he asked, jutting his chin toward Bleicher.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Mathilde replied, spreading a red-and-white checkered napkin over her lap. “He can be trusted.”

  “Is he a friend of Armand’s? René told me about the arrests.”

  “He’s—” Mathilde cast a helpless look at Bleicher, who answered, “Yes, I am one of Armand’s associates. We were all saddened by his capture, but, as they say, the show must go on.” He looked up as the waitress arrived. “Three hamburgers.”

  “Have you heard from Binet?” Duvernoy asked as the waitress walked away.

  “No,” Mathilde’s response was terse.

  “Well, what information do you have on the Germans? Anything new with the Resistance that I can take back to Sardanapalus?”

  She refrained from another bewildered glance at Bleicher.

  “It’s been quiet lately, what with the arrests and all,” Bleicher supplied.

  “Indeed.” Duvernoy got down to business: two cargo vessels carrying much-needed supplies had left from South America and were headed toward Casablanca and Bordeaux. He then spoke about a German coal ship that was loading at Diego Suarez and was expected to set sail within the next few days.

  He finally fell silent as the waitress arrived with the food. Mathilde wondered when Bleicher would make his move. Perhaps he had decided against arresting Duvernoy, or maybe he was just trying to avoid making a scene in the restaurant.

  Finally Bleicher set his steak knife down and tossed his napkin onto the table. “I must get going.” He turned to Duvernoy. “Can I give you a lift in my car?”

  Duvernoy glanced at Mathilde, who nodded. “Thank you,” he replied.

  As the car sped down the Champs Elysées, Duvernoy seemed to sense that something was amiss and became uncharacteristically subdued. When they’d passed the Place de la Concorde, Bleicher announced, “Monsieur Duvernoy, you find yourself in the company of the German Police, and you are now under arrest.”

  The normally pasty Duvernoy turned a sickly green. “You deceitful slut!” he shouted at Mathilde.

  “She had nothing to do with this,” Bleicher stated, slapping a handcuff around one of Duvernoy’s wrists. “But you could save yourself quite a bit of trouble if you denounce your comrades.”

  Duvernoy gave a resigned sigh. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, to start with, who is this Binet you spoke of?”

  Duvernoy cast a hateful glance at Mathilde before answering. “He is a commerce inspector.”

  “And I presume I will find him at the Ministry of Finance?”

  Duvernoy nodded.

  Bleicher brought the handcuffed Duvernoy into the Hotel Édouard VII. When he returned to Mathilde, who was waiting at the curb next to the BMW, he asked, “Who is René?”

  Mathilde cursed to herself. Nothing seemed to get by the astute officer. “He’s an old friend.”

  “And, I take it, also involved in Interallié?” His piercing eyes searched her face.

  The words wouldn’t form, so she nodded instead.

  He marched over to a phone booth. “You will call this René and arrange for him to meet you at the Café Graff at six tonight.”

  “But—”

  “
Six o’clock at Café Graff or you will find yourself back in La Santé at the same hour.”

  With a shaking hand, she picked up the receiver. As she gave the operator René’s number, she crossed her fingers at her side, hoping he wouldn’t pick up.

  But he was as reliable as ever. “Hello?”

  “René.”

  “Mathilde!” The relief in his voice was all much too much to bear. “What happened?”

  We should have arranged a code word in the event one of us was forced to betray the other. Mathilde blinked back a tear, wishing she, or René, could have had such forethought. She glanced at Bleicher, wondering if he could detect the change in her tone as she repeated his instructions: Café Graff at six o’clock.

  Bleicher didn’t seem to notice the higher pitch any more than René did. After she’d hung up, Bleicher rubbed his hands together. “And now to arrest Mireille Lejeune.”

  The mention of yet another friend was too much for Mathilde. “No.”

  He put a vise hold on Mathilde’s arm before opening the door to his car. “La Santé prison,” he told the driver loudly, his grip tightening as he pushed her inside.

  She moved over to the other window, feeling numb. Bleicher sat as close to her as he could.

  “La Santé prison,” the driver repeated as he started the car.

  “You won’t change your mind?” Bleicher asked Mathilde.

  “No. Prison would be better than helping you do this to my friends.”

  “They will be arrested no matter what—Armand kept an index file of all of Interallié’s agents, not to mention he had a box full of copies of messages sent to the SOE.”

  Oh Toto, what did you do? I told you to get rid of those records.

  Bleicher continued, “Viola gave us the cipher and we’ve read all of the messages. And chances are, most of your agents will talk and we will make more arrests. But if you aid us, you will save yourself from such a fate.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Duvernoy, Binet, René, Mireille Lejeune, her husband Boby Roland,” Bleicher tapped his fat fingers with his other hand as he counted, “Uncle Marco, Armand, Viola…”

  “Stop.” A migraine was rapidly forming and Mathilde held a hand up to her temple. “Please stop saying their names.”

  “If you have a headache now, think about how much worse it will get as you sit in your cold, stinking cell.” He touched her leg. “Help us,” he beseeched.

  Mathilde’s hand dropped back into her lap. “You know about all of them?”

  “We do. As I said, their fates have already been set.” He could tell she was weakening. “Where does Mireille live?”

  Mathilde leaned forward and gave the driver the address.

  They entered Mireille’s apartment with Mathilde in the lead and Bleicher just behind. Mathilde introduced her companion as a “trusted friend” before inquiring about her papers.

  “I burned them just as you told me to,” Mireille stated.

  Thank you, Mathilde thought as Bleicher’s face fell. “And these?” Mathilde asked, pointing to a vase that had come from her flat. She walked over to touch a wilted tulip. “Why did you take them?”

  “I was going to water them until you got back.” Mireille’s tone was full of confusion.

  Bleicher’s voice reverberated through the small room. “They were going to die no matter what. You didn’t have to try to save them.”

  “Did you take anything else?” Mathilde found it hard to focus her racing mind.

  “Just the money. I figured the organization could use it, or maybe it could be a bribe to get you out of jail.”

  “You shouldn’t have touched anything.”

  Mireille’s mouth dropped. “Why, Mathilde, if it’s the tulips you are worried about, I will see to it that you will have more flowers than ever.”

  “What about the money?” Bleicher asked.

  Mireille went over to an empty vase near the purloined flowers. She reached inside and pulled out a wad of bills. “It’s all there. You can count it if you don’t believe me.”

  “That is quite unnecessary,” Bleicher seized the money. “But it does prove your guilt.”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  Bleicher pocketed the bills before pulling out his handcuffs. “You are under arrest.”

  Mireille’s eyes became little slits as she looked at Mathilde. “You did this.”

  “Of course not,” Bleicher’s voice cut in, convincing no one. Mireille didn’t say a word as Bleicher placed the handcuffs over her wrists, kindly keeping her arms in front instead of behind her. “Now, tell me where your husband is.”

  “I don’t know. He is a police officer and is often assigned to different parts of the city.”

  “Then I guess we will be taking a tour of our fair Paris.”

  Even though the women were separated by Bleicher’s presence between them, Mathilde could feel her friend fuming as he directed the driver to the first police station. Tears pricked her eyes, but she wouldn’t give Bleicher the satisfaction of letting them fall.

  They found Boby Roland outside the precinct off the Champs-Élysées. Mathilde stayed in the car, watching as Bleicher forced Roland to his knees beside his stunned wife. Bleicher waited beside the couple, now both with their hands cuffed behind their backs, until a white van came to collect them and deliver them to the Édouard VII.

  When Bleicher returned, he once again directed his chauffeur, his voice dripping with satisfaction. This time it was to the Café Graff. Upon their arrival, Mathilde saw that yet another white van waited next to the curb.

  “You go ahead in,” Bleicher said as he helped her out of the car. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He gestured to a man wearing plain-clothes standing outside. “Stay at the doorway. Patrons are free to enter, but do not let anyone leave.”

  Mathilde took a wobbly step toward the restaurant before turning around to address Bleicher. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Your life and liberty depend on it.” His face softened as he realized the extent of Mathilde’s turmoil. “Just act as you would normally.”

  René was waiting at a table. He stood up as Mathilde approached. “Ma petite princesse, thank goodness you’re safe. I thought the Germans had arrested you too.” He kissed each of her cheeks before embracing her.

  He didn’t seem to notice his old friend’s shiver. As they broke apart, Mathilde squeezed his hand. Run, she wanted to say, but her tongue once again refused to work as she caught sight of Bleicher at the bar.

  René ordered a double whiskey before commenting, “Boby Roland told me something really bad was happening within the network.”

  “When did you see him?” Mathilde asked, her voice unnaturally high.

  “Two days ago, when I was supposed to make my weekly report to Armand. Roland told me of Armand and Viola’s arrest, and also said that you’d been apprehended that morning in the Rue Cortot.”

  “Roland doesn’t know the full extent of what happened.”

  “No?”

  The waitress returned and distributed their drinks.

  “Someday I will explain it all to you.” She nodded at his glass. “For now, enjoy your whiskey.” She wanted to add that it might be his last for a long time, but two burly men approached the table from behind René.

  One of them held a pistol to René’s back as he announced that they were members of the German police. “If you move,” the German said, pushing the gun harder into René, “we will shoot you.”

  “You can arrest me, but leave the woman alone,” René commanded.

  Mathilde closed her eyes to the swimming room. She opened them as René said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a drink before we go.”

  The man relaxed his pistol, and René downed his whiskey. Mathilde pushed her glass across the table and he quickly finished that as well before he rose, dumping enough money on the table to pay for both drinks.

  As one of the men handcuffed Ren�
�, Bleicher approached. “Put your cuffs on my wrists,” Mathilde hissed under her breath.

  “What? Why?” Bleicher’s voice was equally low.

  “Just do it.”

  René caught her eye before they led him off and gave her that familiar half-smile. Her ruse had worked—her oldest friend suspected nothing of her betrayal.

  She watched sadly as the Germans escorted him out of the restaurant, suppressing the urge to demand they take her as well. After all, she consoled herself, they already know everyone who worked for Interallié. There was nothing she could do to save René… or any of her other associates, for that matter.

  Afterward, Bleicher took her to another fancy restaurant, where Mathilde drank too much champagne in an effort to forget the long day which had seen the arrest of her friends. Whenever the guilt tried to penetrate her alcohol-infused thoughts, she would remind herself that the plush-covered restaurant booth was infinitely better than the freezing, rat-infested cell of La Santé.

  When Mathilde found herself once again in Bleicher’s car, she was conscious enough to realize that, instead of returning to her room in the Rue Cortot as she had expected, the car was speeding away from the city. “Where are we going now?” she asked Bleicher.

  “We are going to bed.”

  “What?”

  Bleicher’s voice was rushed. “You are free, Mathilde, but, given the circumstances of the day, I don’t think you should be left alone tonight. You shall come and live with me at Abwehr headquarters, at least until suspicion about you should die down.”

  Exhaustion took over Mathilde’s outrage and she said nothing more as they drove out to Maisons-Laffitte, a baroque château in the northwestern suburbs.

  And she was too weary to fend off Bleicher when he appeared that night in her room, clad in his striped pajamas. He climbed into her bed, and pulled up her nightgown. When he entered her, she made a cry of surprise, but not of protest. She was too tired to fight anymore.