The Spark of Resistance

by Kit Sergeant

  Odette took one last look at the blue sky, trying to imprint it in her memory, before she entered.

  The woman led her down into the depths of the Bunker, the daylight receding with each step until buzzing electric bulbs provided the only illumination. The woman paused in front of a door and unlocked it before shoving Odette inside and slamming the door.

  There was absolutely no light whatsoever in the cell. Odette held out her arms, but not could not see anything except impenetrable blackness. As she did when she was blind, she used her hands to feel along the room, locating the lumpy mattress and laid down.

  Chapter 71

  Didi

  Didi shut her eyes. It’s nothing more than a drill, she told herself. Remember what they taught you: show no fear. She tried to take a deep breath, but instead she swallowed water. The water was everywhere, in her eyes, in her mouth, up her nose. Everything burned.

  And then it was gone, and Didi was gasping at fresh air, which also stung her lungs.

  “Who are you?” a German voice demanded. “Are you French?”

  “Of course,” Didi insisted. “I live in France, don’t I?”

  The voice growled at her to shut up before the water was back. He’d shoved her head into a bathtub. He held her long enough that her lungs felt as though they were on fire. Didi’s mind began to wander. Just as she thought she’d drowned for good, he pulled her back up by her hair. “Who do you work for?”

  “A company,” Didi gasped. She tried to remember her cover story, but found her brain wouldn’t function right. Her eyes wandered around the bare room. Focus, she commanded herself as water dripped down her face. There was no way she would reveal the truth, but she couldn’t think fast enough to outwit her interrogator.

  “Do you speak German?” he demanded.

  She coughed. “No.”

  “Are you French?”

  “Mais, oui. I work for a businessman. He tells me what messages to send, and I do it. He pays me well,” she finished, her words coming out in halting breaths.

  “What messages?”

  She shook her head. “They are in code. I don’t know what they mean. The money he gives me helps me survive.”

  The man grasped her head, as though to shove her under the water again.

  “Please,” Didi insisted. “I don’t know. I told him I could learn the code when he hired me, but I could never remember, so he did it himself.” She made her eyes wide. “I never had a head for numbers.”

  The German’s grip on her scalp relaxed.

  “I was terrible in school,” Didi babbled. “I lied to my employer, but he needed a wireless operator so badly…”

  “We found a gun on the premises.” A short man stepped out of the dark corner by the door. “I suppose that belonged to your mysterious boss as well.”

  “The gardener had a gun. I don’t know why… I thought it was to shoot rats.” Her voice was higher than normal and sounded false even to Didi’s own ears.

  The short man’s tone was milder than his partner’s. “Your boss was obviously a spy and tricked you into sending his messages to England.”

  Didi forced her eyes to open even wider. “England? Why England?”

  The mustached man, the one who’d been holding her head underwater, said in a gruff voice, “You’re the spy, you dumb bitch.” He reached out and smacked her cheek so hard that she fell.

  She touched her hot face. “I’m not a spy.” She began to cry real tears. “I’m not what you say I am.”

  The short man put his hands on his hips. “You really don’t know anything about the London circuit? That they are parachuting agents into France, who are stirring up trouble.” He got into her face. “They call it the ‘Resistance.’”

  “Resistance? But who would tell me something like that?” Through her tears, Didi could see the short man exchange a bewildered look with his partner. The ruse is working.

  They took her into a different room, this one luckily without a bathtub, and asked her more questions. Didi kept up the new storyline for Jacqueline du Tetre: that of an innocent girl who’d been duped into sending coded messages for a mysterious boss.

  She didn’t delude herself that the Germans would accept her story for long: she just wanted to give Dumont-Guillemet and Maury enough time to realize she’d been compromised so they could take whatever precautions necessary to preserve the network. She’d been caught, but she was determined no one else in her circuit would suffer her fate. She would protect them to the end.

  The lies came easily, the same as when she was in training. Though the Germans tried all sorts of tactics to confuse her, she never hesitated, never faltered.

  “Didn’t you think it was strange what your boss was doing?” the short man asked

  “No,” Didi’s answer was firm. “He offered me money, and I took it. I was desperate, don’t you see?” Her gaze fell to her handbag, which they had tossed into a corner of the room. The L-pill was hidden safely inside, but Didi knew she would never consider swallowing it.

  “When is the next time you will meet with your boss?” the mustached man demanded.

  Didi thought fast. Perhaps if they went to a restaurant, she could escape through the restroom window. “He asked me to join him at 7 this evening, at the café opposite the Gare Saint-Lazare.”

  The short man nodded. “We will get him then.”

  Part of Didi was pleased that she had convinced her captors to chase after a fictitious man, but the other part wondered exactly how she was going to get out of the situation she now found herself in: in a speeding car heading toward the Gare Saint-Lazare. She pretended to hate the man who had supposedly manipulated her to become an unwilling traitor to her country.

  “The least you can do is buy me a glass of sherry,” she told the short man once they’d been seated. Her hair and shirt were still damp.

  He flagged down a waitress and ordered the suggested drink. After a minute, he asked Didi, “You do think he is coming, don’t you?”

  She nodded, her eyes on the waitress as the woman set the sherry down. The mustached man took a seat at the bar, his gaze never leaving Didi as she took a sip. How exactly was she going to get out of this mess now?

  As she stood, the short man did as well.

  “I need to use the lavatory. The ladies’ room,” she added for emphasis.

  “Hurry back,” he told her.

  The only window in the restroom was too high and too small for Didi to escape from. She banged her fist on the wall. So close, yet so far.

  She coddled her throbbing fist as an air-raid siren began to resonate. Now there was really nowhere to go. She glanced once more at the tiny window before exiting the restroom.

  The short man was waiting in the hallway.

  “I’m sure you’ve guessed that my boss will not venture out during an air raid,” Didi told him.

  “Where does he live? If he does not show here at the restaurant, we shall pay him a visit at his home.”

  Didi gave him an address near the Edward VII hotel.

  The short man reached for his pistol. “We’ll find this man yet.”

  Didi was brought back to the Gestapo headquarters on the rue des Saussaies. She was held in a cell while the two men tried to find the address she’d provided.

  When the short man returned, he informed her that the address didn’t exist.

  She put her hand under her chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “I suppose that he was playing me for a fool all this time,” she finally stated.

  The short man gave a heavy sigh. “I was trying to protect you.” He threw both hands up in the air. “But now I give up. You are clearly lying.”

  Didi’s reply was a simple, “No.”

  His mouth turned up. “How do you feel about being sent to a concentration camp?”

  The blood drained from Didi’s face. Until now she’d been feeling slightly triumphant about always being a step ahead of the Germans. But they’d resorted to the punishment Hitle
r always dangled in front of his enemies. Her expression crumpled as she thought of Jackie. I’ve failed. It’s over. If only she’d listened to Dumont-Guillemet and moved houses, she wouldn’t be in this situation. Her only consolation was that she’d never compromised him or anyone else. Now if she could only keep it that way…

  Chapter 72

  Mathilde

  In July 1944, Mathilde and her companions were moved unexpectedly to Holloway Prison. In contrast to the communal accommodations they’d had at Aylesbury, they were put into separate cells in Holloway’s E-wing.

  The E-wing was three stories high, opening to arched windows on either end, which gave the central corridor plenty of light. Between each level was a nylon net so that the prisoners on the third floor could not try to commit suicide by flinging themselves over the metal railing. Mathilde and the others were put in cells on the second floor, and not, thankfully, on the first, which was reserved for those women who’d been sentenced to death. The “hanging” room was only a few meters away from where the condemned women slept.

  Mathilde’s cell held a metal bed frame and mattress, a wooden chair and small table, and the requisite water closet. There was a barred window on the far wall, which could be opened to the outside. The solid wood door also had small windows for the guards to peer in from the hall.

  She was served her meals in her cell. Breakfast consisted of tea and toast, with a tiny pat of margarine. For supper there was more bread and margarine, sometimes with a piece of spam, and cocoa. She was allotted three books a week from the library, and spent most of the time reading and ruminating over her plight.

  After many days of deep contemplation, Mathilde decided that the demise of Interallié had indeed been Armand’s fault, not hers. He should never have left those incriminating papers all over the apartment. As Bleicher himself once told her, all of the arrests would have happened no matter what; the only difference being that she would have suffered the same fate as the others had she not agreed to work with Bleicher.

  Yet because she chose that path to save her own life, the English had imprisoned her. Even though Holloway was worse than Aylesbury, it was surely far better than those German concentration camps where they’d sent René and, most likely, other former Interallié affiliates.

  Should the war end, surely the English would allow her to go back to France. But what if some members of Interallié survived? They might have the wrong impression of her, especially those who were arrested in her presence, like Stanislaus Lach, Mireille LeJeune, Boby Roland, and Lucien de Roquigny.

  She decided to write a memoir to emphasize her innocence. After she’d completed it, she’d prevail upon her London contacts—Lord Selbourne for one—to help get it published. She’d just taken out a pad of paper when someone knocked on the heavy cell door.

  “Yes?” Mathilde called.

  “Mrs. Carré?” The man who stood in the doorway was not one of her usual guards.

  “Yes?” she repeated.

  “This letter has come for you, all the way from Paris.” He dropped an envelope next to her before retreating.

  The envelope contained several stamps. Someone, possibly Bleicher, had crossed out her Paris address and written in 6 Orchard Court, London, care of Major Buckmaster. Mathilde used her long nails to open it. It was an official letter declaring the death of Maurice, her once husband. He’d been killed at Monte Cassino in January. Even though the divorce was finalized before she’d left France, she was still listed as his next of kin. She refolded the letter and tucked it in a library book before picking up a pen. “My earliest recollection is one of weariness.”

  Mathilde poured herself into her writing, only stopping for meals and her daily walk with Stella. They usually went down the path leading from the mortuary through the lawn and then onto the little garden surrounded by brick walls. A few days after she’d found out Maurice had died, they found a black cat in the garden.

  “Mitou, it looks just like you!” Stella exclaimed. She tried to coax it to come closer, but it escaped through a small hole in the wall. Though she longed to touch something soft and furry, Mathilde couldn’t help but feel jealous that the cat was so free.

  The next day Stella came prepared with a little piece of bread. This time she and Mathilde were able to pet the cat a few times before it again ran off.

  The Luftwaffe had returned to London, and the shriek of the air raid sirens became a frequent occurrence. That night Mathilde slept under the little table in her room to protect herself from shattering glass if the bombs were to come too close to the prison. A tear streaked down her cheek at the thought of dying alone in her cell, huddled on the floor. The SOE must have forgotten about her, as she was no longer given an allowance, and the rest of the world, even Maurice had abandoned her, save for Stella and perhaps the garden cat.

  She said as much to Stella the next day on their walk.

  “I fully agree— you are my closest friend here. Look,” Stella dug into her pocket and pulled out a bar of chocolate. “A guard took pity on me when I complained that I was still hungry after the evening meal.” She split the chocolate bar and handed half to Mathilde.

  “He took pity on you?”

  “Well,” Stella shot her a grin. “Maybe I did have to resort to my powers of persuasion. I only gave him one kiss, but believe me, I’m willing to do more if it means getting more food.”

  “At any rate, I’m going to savor it as much as possible and only eat one square at a time,” Mathilde declared.

  Stella looked skeptical. “Why? What if tomorrow one finds the chocolate melted in the pocket of our burned bodies after the prison was hit by a Luftwaffe bomb? What if the SOE decides we are a mortal threat to their agents and signs our death sentence?” She took a large bite of the chocolate. “I’m going to live for today and pretend that tomorrow doesn’t exist.”

  After a moment of thought, Mathilde, deciding that Stella was right, stuffed the rest of the chocolate into her mouth.

  Chapter 73

  Didi

  Didi was transferred to the towering Fresnes Prison in late July 1944. As the car drove through the Parisian streets, she stared out the window, thinking it might be the last time she would look upon her native city. She blinked back tears as they passed Louise’s apartment, remembering the warmth and laughter they’d shared listening to the outlawed BBC broadcasts. She vowed she would never say anything that would put Louise or her family in any danger, no matter how much the Nazis might torture her.

  They were putting her in Fresnes until they could figure out what to do with her. Didi was well aware that the chances of surviving a concentration camp were slim, at best, but also realized that she could not give in to the blanketing wave of despair that threatened to drown her. I’ll find some way to escape, she promised herself.

  But the looming shadow of the prison was intimidating and, with its peaked roof and barred windows, appeared to be completely impregnable.

  Didi’s first full day in Fresnes was marked only by a guard coming in the morning and evening to deliver putrid liquid that was supposed to be coffee, and a piece of bread.

  In between, Didi explored her cell. The window had a small crack in it, and she was able to look out at the gray sky by standing on a chair. After darkness had fallen, she walked the length of the room, which was illuminated by one bare bulb.

  She noticed two separate calendars carved into the wall and ran her fingers on the date of one the scratches. November 11th. The other calendar ended on May 12. There was one word scrawled underneath that date: Lise.

  Suddenly she heard a faint knocking sound coming from the room next door. She paused to listen. It was a sequence of short and long raps, and then it stopped, only to start over again. With a gasp, Didi realized the tapping was Morse code. It said, “Welcome, are you with the Resistance?”

  “Yes,” she answered back. “Who are you?”

  “RAF officer.”

  The tapping was wearing on her knuckles, so s
he decided to ask the most pertinent question. “Is there any possibility of breaking out of here?”

  “No,” came the reply.

  Still, Didi refused to give in and spent the next several nights plotting different ways to escape.

  Didi was shoved awake early one August morning. “Get up!” her warden told her. “The Allies are on their way to liberate Paris.”

  Didi’s heart leapt. Maybe Dumont-Guillemet had caught wind of what happened to her and was planning another coup.

  “You’re being transferred,” the warden said, tossing Didi’s skirt at her.

  Still not fully awake, and certain she was about to be set free, this statement confused Didi. “What?”

  “The train leaves in half an hour.”

  “Train to where?” Her voice was desperate.

  “Ravensbrück. The women’s concentration camp.”

  It was an unbelievably warm day in a month of warm days. Even at the early hour Didi was taken by bus to the Pantin train station, the sun was blazing.

  “There’s no passenger train,” another prisoner commented.

  “No,” Didi answered, catching sight of a man in a white uniform with perpendicular crimson slashes. “But the Red Cross is here.”

  “At least that means they’ll keep the Germans in line.”

  Didi thought the same thing, up until they were told to board the freight train. “Like cattle,” she remarked aloud.

  The train didn’t leave for hours. The day turned even more sweltering, causing the packed cattle car to become unbearably hot. Didi had been lucky to get a spot on the floor near the car door, where at least she could feel the hint of a breeze. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, willing herself to fall asleep.