The Spark of Resistance

by Kit Sergeant

  “What are those?” Marsac asked, nodding toward the tickets.

  “They’re for the ‘Winter Relief Fund.’” Odette replied. “The French nationals are required to donate money for children orphaned by the war.” She thought of her own girls and the fair possibility that they too might end up fatherless, or even motherless. The notion filled her with fury and she picked up the tickets, glancing at a nearby German officer. “I know just who should pay for this, and it’s not the French.”

  “Now, Lise,” Peter put a restraining hand on hers. “Don’t you go doing anything foolish.”

  She shrugged him off before marching over to the German officer and thrusting the tickets under his nose. “I think you, who have been so instrumental in the necessity of this fund, should contribute something to it.”

  She could feel multiple pairs of eyes on her but the only sound to be heard was the clanging of the train wheels. The officer tightened the monocle over his eye as he perused a ticket. Odette was aware what the challenge could cost her—a beating, or even prison—but she refused to show fear.

  The officer signaled for the waiter, who immediately came over, wringing his hands frantically, probably wondering if he had mistakenly set the tickets in front of the Huns. The officer placed a two-cent piece on top of each ticket and waved at the waiter to take them away. He then took off his monocle to peer at Odette with both eyes.

  She gave him a satisfied smirk and then headed back toward her companions, who wore looks of admiration on their faces.

  All except for Peter, that is, who told her in a harsh whisper as they navigated back toward their sleeping car, “A commendable performance, Lise, but for God’s sake, lay off the theatrics—it’s dangerous enough as it is.”

  “I’m sorry, Peter,” she said, feeling distinctly unregretful.

  They arrived in Périgueux the next day in time for an early lunch. None of them had been to that part of France before, but the worst thing they could have done was to reveal themselves as strangers, so they had to navigate the unfamiliar town swarming with occupying troops without asking questions.

  Peter decided his and Odette’s cover was to pretend to be married. Frager and Marsac went off to find a different place to stay as Peter and Odette headed to the Grand Hotel. It was nearly full, but they were able to get an attic room which would be perfect to listen to the BBC.

  “I hope you don’t mind the accommodations,” Peter said. He set his bag down and rubbed the back of his neck as they both eyed the lone bed.

  “You should take it,” Odette said. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “Nonsense,” Peter insisted. “I’ll make myself a nest out of the extra blankets. Besides, in a few nights’ time I’ll be back in a London hotel.”

  “Will you take this to Miss Atkins?” Odette held out a small valise.

  “Yes, as long as you let me know what’s in it.”

  “Presents for my girls. Miss Atkins will know how to deliver them.”

  He took it from her. “Girls? I had no idea you were a mother.”

  “Well, I am,” she shot back.

  Peter must have sensed he offended her. “What are their names?”

  “Françoise, Lily, and Marianne.”

  His face softened. “It must have been hard leaving them.”

  “Yes.” Odette was desperate to change the subject. How could she communicate how difficult it had been to abandon them, how disheartening it was every day to wake up without them? “It’s a long story, but they are safe and well taken care of.”

  He nodded. “Is there anything in here for your husband?”

  “No,” Odette replied softly. After a moment she added, “I don’t know where he’s posted at this point. And I don’t think even Miss Atkins does either.”

  “And now you’re in the company of a complete stranger.”

  She gave him a shy smile. “I don’t think any two people in this line of work are necessarily strangers.”

  Peter nodded as he tucked the small bag into his larger one. “Would you care for some lunch? Périgueux is known for its foie gras. I might even pick up an extra jar for old Buck.”

  “Buckmaster?”

  “Yes,” Peter answered with a grin. “You wouldn’t know it, but he has quite the sophisticated palate.”

  The dining room was crowded with men in German uniforms. Odette and Peter decided to keep up the ruse of being a couple in love and shot each other shy smiles over their lunch of brandy and the requisite foie gras.

  Afterward they set off for a stroll about town. As they passed a German officer, Peter gave her a playful nudge and Odette giggled loudly.

  The airfield was quiet. Though the hangar was vacant and most of the buildings unoccupied, the control tower seemed operable.

  Peter reached for her hand and Odette accepted it.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  For a moment she thought he was asking about them holding hands, but Odette quickly realized he was inquiring if she thought the aerodrome would accommodate their objective. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here. But won’t the Germans hear the plane landing? It’s very close to town.”

  “True,” Peter agreed. “But it would be in the middle of the night, so hopefully most of them will be off duty. And,” he dropped her hand to point, “Those woods will provide good cover and that bridge over the creek a feasible escape route should anything happen.”

  She nodded, her hand empty of Peter’s feeling cold.

  When they returned to the hotel, Odette sent a transmission for Alec, instructing him to inform London that Périgueux was a go.

  That night Odette had trouble sleeping. She lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling and listening to Peter snoring away on the floor. Had Roy sounded like that? It seemed like something she should have remembered, but for the life of her, she couldn’t recall. It had been a long time in general since she’d thought about her husband, yet she could remember every little detail about her daughters. None of them snored, though Marianne made little cooing noises sometimes, and, when she was really tired, Françoise talked in her sleep.

  Suddenly Odette heard loud German voices coming from somewhere below.

  “Peter,” she whispered.

  “Wha—” he sat up, taking notice of the commotion. There was a pounding noise, and then the sound of something large like a body being dragged down the hall.

  “I think they’ve arrested someone,” Peter said finally.

  Odette’s gaze traveled over to the suitcase with the contraband radio inside. “Do you think—”

  “It will be all right.” He came over and sat gingerly on the bed. Odette gave him a stricken look as the bed squeaked.

  “Don’t worry.” He reached over and patted her hand. “They’ll just think we’re doing what married couples do.”

  She scooted over to make more room for him.

  With Peter beside her, Odette no longer had trouble falling asleep.

  The next morning, they were confronted with yet another setback: the plug for their radio had broken off.

  “I’m not sure what to do,” Peter said, examining the busted plug. “It’s illegal to buy or sell any radio parts.”

  “Surely they must have black markets here just like anywhere else in France.”

  “Perhaps you could find one in a general store, but…” Peter started.

  Odette grabbed her bag and disappeared behind a partition. She emerged after a few minutes wearing her best dress and matching hat. She went to the mirror to apply a dark red lipstick. “I’m going out shopping,” she told Peter.

  “You look amazing,” he replied in an awed voice.

  She gave him a little bow before she left.

  She returned half an hour later, the purloined plug in her handbag.

  Peter told Frager and Marsac to have dinner in the dining room while he and Odette tuned in to the BBC in their room. If the message personnel came as expected—for some reason, Peter had chosen �
�Les femmes sont parfois volage,’ or ‘women can be fickle’—they would go to the aerodrome that night to await the arrival of the Lysander.

  “These walls are awfully thin, don’t you think?” Odette remarked as Peter fiddled with the plug. She wondered if he was thinking about the same thing she was: namely, the arrest of the man the night before.

  “I’ll try to keep it quiet,” he replied, “though I’ve never worked with a set like this one.” He spun the dial and the room was filled with loud static. He immediately switched it off before wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Let me see,” Odette walked over to the radio. The transmission was scheduled to go on less than three minutes.

  She moved the dial to another station and in moments they heard a booming voice state, “Les femmes sont parfois volages.”

  “Very fickle,” Peter agreed, his face lighting up. Odette followed as he strolled downstairs, carrying their bags. He told the concierge that they had met some friends who had asked them to stay with them and made arrangements for Odette’s bag to be dropped off at Frager and Marsac’s hotel.

  By quarter past eight, the four of them were marching down the road to the aerodrome, their gaze on the orange-red moon rising behind the blackened tree branches.

  A mist lay over the fields. The night was cold, but thankfully still. Once they arrived at the field beside the aerodrome, Peter showed them their places. They were to form an L-shaped flare path, standing sentry with their electric torches. As soon as the Lysander appeared, Peter and Frager would run to the top of the L and board the plane as quickly as possible. If they were lucky, the Lysander wouldn’t have to be on the ground for more than two minutes, not nearly enough time to rouse the guards from their warm beds.

  “We have some time before then,” Peter told Marsac and Frager. “Why don’t you get familiar with the layout of the terrain?”

  They complied and moved out to wander the foggy field.

  “You’ll be in charge of Spindle while I’m gone, Lise,” Peter told her.

  “Me? I’m not sure I’m capable—”

  “Of course you are,” he interrupted. “You are one of the most capable people I’ve ever met. Man or woman,” he added.

  “But you’ll return soon, won’t you?” Odette tried to convince herself she was only concerned about running the circuit without him. Not that she would miss his presence terribly.

  “I will. And please take care of yourself. I want to find you intact when I get back, so don’t go doing anything too risky while I’m gone.”

  “I promise you I will, Pierre.”

  If he noticed her French translation of his name, he didn’t remark on it. Both of his hands grabbed for hers. He leaned in, as if to kiss her, and Odette buried her face in his neck.

  Just then the low humming of a plane became audible. Peter straightened to flash his torch: one long, then two short.

  She could see the Lysander come into view, like a black dragonfly descending into the mist. It flew over her head and then disappeared once again, its roaring slowly fading.

  “What happened?” Odette cried, her voice loud against the sudden silence.

  “I don’t know,” Peter replied helplessly. “I’m sure he saw the signal.” His eyes traveled to the tops of the trees. “Maybe he’ll come back.” He nodded toward the white handkerchiefs they’d placed to mark their spots. “Why don’t you go wait, lying low, and if he doesn’t come back within a half an hour, I’ll meet you by the bank of the creek.”

  Odette squeezed his hand, one long and two short, before she did as she was bid.

  She lay down on the freezing ground as she heard two voices. She almost called out, thinking it was Frager and Marsac, but started when she recognized German accents. The men passed so close to her she could hear their jackboots hammering the frost, but luckily they didn’t see her. She watched as they approached the spot where she’d left Peter, wondering if they were going to step on his prone figure, but they finally receded from her eyeline.

  The tenor of the returning Lysander vibrated the ground. Odette watched to see if Peter would flash again, but another light illuminated the field. The Germans were flashing a countersign to the control tower.

  An unfamiliar voice barked, “Put out those lights, you imbecile. Wait until the plane lands and we can grab the whole lot!”

  It’s a trap! Odette longed to communicate a warning sign to the approaching plane, but she refrained, knowing that she would give herself away. She looked up to see Peter’s frame breaking toward the treeline. He was followed by Frager.

  The Lysander rose once again as Odette walked purposefully toward the bank of trees near the creek. Godspeed, she wished the pilot. Fly away from here and return to the safety of England.

  Another voice was just behind her. “You make for the right and we’ll rendezvous on the road to Périgueux.” It was Marsac. She raised one hand, just enough to let him know she’d heard him, and kept up her march.

  The quiet after the Lysander’s engine was disconcerting. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise as she heard another sound, the frantic breaths of a German Shepherd. A part of her knew that it was her worst nightmare coming true: an unknown beast chasing her through the darkness, but there was not time to dwell on it now. She began to run, listening hard as the dog’s breathing quickened. It was chasing her.

  She kept up a breakneck pace, her eyes focused just ahead on the copse of trees where Peter told her he’d meet her. But suddenly the ground rushed up to connect with her, and with an audible ‘oomph’ she realized she’d fallen. She could hear the snap of branches as the dog approached. Odette picked herself up, her knees and bruised hands aching, but she kept moving forward.

  She ran to the edge of the embankment, and, knowing she had no other choice, slid down the hill. She gave an unearthly moan as her body splashed into the creek. The bone-chilling water was waist-deep but she was able to wade through it. She could hear the whining of the German Shepherd, and then a human voice calling, “Frizi, Frizi.”

  Odette finally reached the other side and climbed out. Her teeth chattering and her soaked wool skirt clinging to her legs, she set off for Périgueux.

  She met Marsac about halfway to town, and they continued their weary, frigid walk together. He’d washed his face in the creek and before they arrived at his hotel, he taught her how to clean off her shoes with grass. “It’s no good having muddy soles in front of the Vichy police.”

  Luckily, her bag was waiting at the hotel and he waited in the lobby while she changed into a fresh dress.

  “My god,” Marsac stated, when she emerged, taking in her outfit down to immaculate hat and stockings. “It’s as though you were at a Vogue shoot and not…” he held out both arms, not daring to state last night’s adventures aloud.

  She shot him a grin before accepting his arm. They sat near the window at the Grand Hotel’s café and were able to spot Peter and Frager as they came into town.

  “Good morning,” Peter called out cheerfully as he pulled up a chair. He looked exhausted but presentable enough.

  “Four coffees,” he told the waitress before whispering to Odette that he and Frager had spent the night under the stars, managing to catch a little bit of sleep in between a thicket of trees. “Frager’s flask of Armagnac was very helpful in that respect,” he admitted.

  Odette was starving, but she tried to restrain herself as she dug into breakfast. She was immensely pleased to have everyone in their party back safe.

  Her hand, holding a forkful of eggs, shook just a little as a group of Gestapo members sat down at the next table. “Did you hear about what happened at the aerodrome last night?” one of them asked in a bellowing voice.

  Peter, whose back was to the men, winked at Odette.

  “Yes,” another one replied, “and I’m sure the swine are still hiding somewhere—unless, God willing, they’ve already frozen to death. If not, then we’ll capture them soon enough: I
’ve got men out there now, combing the woods.”

  The smallest of them piped up. “I heard a rumor that one of them was a woman.”

  “Nonsense,” the first man replied as the waitress set his order in front of him. “Frenchwomen are not the kind to consent to staying out all night in a freezing field.”

  Peter gave Odette an appreciative smile as he finished the last of his coffee.

  Chapter 32

  Mathilde

  When Mathilde arrived at Maître Brault’s office, another man was waiting in one of the chairs across from his desk.

  “Ah, Madame la Chatte, I’d like to introduce you to Lucas.” Maître Brault waved her toward a seat. “As I mentioned, he’s recently arrived from London.”

  She turned her focus to Lucas, who was a slight Frenchman in his mid-thirties with bright blue eyes. “I was trained by the SOE,” he said with more than a hint of pride. “I was the first of their men to parachute into France.”

  Mathilde suppressed an amused smile at his arrogance. “And what is your mission here?”

  “To spark the French Resistance.”

  She sat up. “It’s already been, as you would say, ‘sparked.’ I helped found Interallié: surely the SOE has knowledge of us.”

  “Yes, of course. But now the SOE is training dozens of recruits at a time with their, shall we say, more refined methods.”

  Mathilde opened her mouth to retort, but he interrupted her. “Refined as in, with their guidance and expertise, they are hoping to prevent entire networks from being caught.”

  She shut her mouth. He had her there.

  Maître Brault must have decided it was time to change the subject. “He is planning on leaving again for England tomorrow by plane. Do you have any messages you wish him to relay to London?”

  “Leave?” Mathilde asked, then addressed Lucas. “I was told you just returned.”

  “Yes. I pick up leads on possible local Resistance recruits and then make my way back to Great Britain to pass on to their names to Major Buckmaster.”