The Spark of Resistance

by Kit Sergeant

  Notable associates of Spindle who died in concentration camps include Paul Frager, who was executed at Buchenwald, and Adolphe Rabinovitch (Alec). Alec had been captured shortly before D-Day and, probably because he was Jewish, was gassed at the Rawicz extermination camp, located in Poland, in 1944. Frager had been betrayed by his colleague Roger Bardet—and probably also by Bardet’s close associate Jean Keiffer (Kiki of Interallié fame)—and was arrested by Bleicher in 1944. Although Bardet and Kiki were both sentenced to death after the war, like Mathilde, their sentences were commuted and both were eventually released.

  Eileen “Didi” Nearne: After she’d encountered the American soldiers, Didi thought her ordeal was over, but the Americans didn’t believe her incredible story. Although she was clearly malnourished and still in her prison uniform, the Americans thought she was a German agent and kept her in a room with captured female SS guards. It didn’t help that, in her fragile state, Didi’s mind had become muddled, nor that the Americans were unaware that female British agents had been sent to France.

  She was in their custody for three weeks until Vera Atkins came across a report written by the Americans and recognized that the “unbalanced” subject they described was one of their own.

  When Didi finally returned to England, she moved in with her sister, Jackie. Though Didi suffered from “exhaustion,”2 Miss Atkins tried to help her find gainful employment in London.

  Though, unlike Odette, Violette, and Nora, Didi was never awarded the George Cross, she did receive the Croix de Guerre from the French government, and was appointed a Member of the Order of the British Empire (MBE) by King George VI for “services in France during the enemy occupation.”

  In 1993, Didi returned to Ravensbrück to attend a dedication ceremony. Odette, Yvonne Baseden, Vera Atkins, Leo Marks, Francis Cammaerts, and Violette Szabo’s daughter were among those also in attendance.

  After Jackie died in 1982, Didi lived alone until her death in 2010, at the age of 89. Neither sister ever married.

  A note to the reader: Thanks so much for reading this book! If you have time to spare, please consider leaving a short review on Amazon. Reviews are very important to indie authors such as myself and I would greatly appreciate it!

  Read on for a sample of L’Agent Double: Spies and Martyrs in the Great War!

  1 The other F Section women to receive the George Cross, Violette Szabo and Noor Inayat Khan (Nora in the novel) did so posthumously. The women who were shot outside Odette’s cell at Ravensbrück and then put in the crematorium were the “Little Paratroopers”: Violette Szabo, Lilian Rolfe (Nadine), and Denise Bloch (Ambroise). For more information on their stories, visit www.kitsergeant.com

  2 Didi probably suffered from what is now known as “Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.”

  Selected Bibliography

  Carré, Mathilde-Lily. I Was the Cat. New York, Lancer, 1969.

  Garby-Czerniawski, Roman. The Big Network. London, G. Roland, 1961.

  Helm, Sarah. Ravensbrück : Life and Death in Hitler’s Concentration Camp for Women. New York, Anchor Books, 2016.

  Helm, Sarah. A Life in Secrets : Vera Atkins and the Missing Agents of WWII. New York, Ny Nan A. Talese, 2006.

  Jerrard Tickell. Odette. London, Headline Review, 2008.

  Loftis, Larry. Code Name : Lise : The True Story of World War II’s Most Highly Decorated Spy. New York ; London ; Toronto, Gallery Books, 2019.

  Marks, Leo. Between Silk and Cyanide : A Code Makers’s War, 1941-45. Stroud, Gloucestershire, The History Press, 2013.

  O’connor, Bernard. Agent Rose : The True Spy Story of Eileen Nearne, Britain’s Forgotten Wartime Heroine. Stroud, Amberley, 2014.

  Ottaway, Susan. A Cool and Lonely Courage : The Untold Story of Sister Spies in Occupied France. New York, Little, Brown And Company, 2014.

  Paine, Lauran. Mathilde Carré, Double Agent. London, Hale, 1976.

  Rose, Sarah. D-Day Girls : The Spies Who Armed the Resistance, Sabotaged the NAZIS, and Helped Win World War II. New York Crown, 2019.

  Tremain, David. Double Agent Victoire : Mathilde Carré and the Interallié Network. Stroud, Gloucestershire, The History Press, 2018.

  Young, Gordon. The Cat with Two Faces. London, White Lion Publishers, 1975.

  L’Agent Double Prologue

  October 1917

  The nun on duty woke her just before dawn. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes to see a crowd of men, including her accusers and her lawyer, standing just outside the iron bars of her cell. The only one who spoke was the chief of the Military Police, to inform her the time of her execution had come. The men then turned and walked away, leaving only the nun and the prison doctor, who kept his eyes on the dirty, straw-strewn floor as she dressed.

  She chose the best outfit she had left, a bulky dove-gray skirt and jacket and scuffed ankle boots. She wound her unwashed hair in a bun and then tied the worn silk ribbons of her hat under her chin before asking the doctor, “Do I have time to write good-byes to my loved ones?”

  He nodded and she hastily penned three farewell letters. She handed them to the doctor with shaking hands before lifting a dust-covered velvet cloak from a nail on the wall. “I am ready.”

  Seemingly out of nowhere, her lawyer reappeared. “This way,” he told her as he grasped her arm.

  Prison rats scurried out their way as he led her down the hall. She breathed in a heavy breath when they were outside. It had been months since she’d seen the light of day, however faint it was now.

  Four black cars were waiting in the prison courtyard. A few men scattered about the lawn lifted their freezing hands to bring their cameras to life, the bulbs brightening the dim morning as her lawyer bundled her into the first car.

  They drove in silence. It was unseasonably cold and the chill sent icy fingers down her spine. She stopped herself from shivering, wishing that she could experience one more warm summer day. But there would be no more warmth, no more appeals, nothing left after these last few hours.

  She knew that her fate awaited her at Caponniére, the old fort just outside of Vincennes where the cavalry trained. Upon arrival, her lawyer helped her out of the car, his gnarled hands digging into her arm.

  It’s harder for him than it is for me. She brushed the thought away, wanting to focus on nothing but the fresh air and the way the autumn leaves of the trees next to the parade ground changed color as the sun rose. Her lawyer removed his arm from her shoulders as two Zouave escorts appeared on either side of her. Her self-imposed blinders finally dropped as she took in the twelve soldiers with guns and, several meters away, the wooden stake placed in front of a brick wall. So that the mis-aimed bullets don’t hit anything else.

  A priest approached and offered her a blindfold.

  “No thank you.” Her voice, which had not been used on a daily basis for months, was barely a whisper.

  The priest glanced over at her lawyer, who nodded. The blindfold disappeared under his robes.

  She spoke the same words to one of the escorts as he held up a rope, this time also shaking her head. She refused to be bound to the stake. He acquiesced, and walked away.

  She stood as straight as she could, free of any ties, while the military chief read the following words aloud:

  By decree of the Third Council of War, the woman who appears before us now has been condemned to death for espionage.

  He then gave an order, and the soldiers came to attention. At the command, “En joue!” they hoisted their guns to rest on their shoulders. The chief raised his sword.

  She took a deep breath and then lifted her chin, willing herself to die just like that: head held high, showing no fear. She watched as the chief lowered his sword and shouted “Feu!”

  And then everything went black.

  A Zouave private approached the body. He’d only been enlisted for a few weeks and had been invited to the firing squad by his commander, who told him that men of all ranks should know the pleasure of shooting a
German spy.

  “By blue, that lady knew how to die,” another Zouave commented.

  “Who was she?” the private asked. He’d been taught that everything in war was black and white: the Germans were evil, the Allies pure. But he was surprised at how gray everything was that morning: from the misty fog, to the woman’s cloak and dress, and even the ashen shade of her lifeless face.

  The other Zouave shrugged. “All I know is what they told me. They say she acted as a double agent and provided Germany with intelligence about our troops.” He drew his revolver and bent down to place the muzzle against the woman’s left temple.

  “But is it necessary to kill her—a helpless woman?” the private asked.

  The Zouave cocked his gun for the coup de grâce. “If women act as men would in war and commit heinous crimes, they should be prepared to be punished as men.” And he pulled the trigger, sending a final bullet into the woman’s brain

  L’Agent Double Chapter 1

  M’greet

  July 1914

  “Have you heard the latest?” M’greet’s maid, Anna, asked as she secured a custom-made headpiece to her mistress’s temple.

  “What now?” M’greet readjusted the gold headdress to better reflect her olive skin tone.

  “They are saying that your mysterious Mr. K from the newspaper article is none other than the Crown Prince himself.”

  M’greet smiled at herself in the mirror. “Is that so? I rather think they’re referring to Lieutenant Kiepert. Just the other day he and I ran into the editor of the Berliner Tageblatt during our walk in the Tiergarten.” Her smile faded. “But let them wonder.” For the last few weeks, the papers had been filled with speculation about why the famed Mata Hari had returned to Germany, sometimes bordering on derision about her running out of money.

  She leaned forward and ran her fingers over the dark circles under her eyes. “Astruc says that he might be able to negotiate a longer engagement in the fall if tonight’s performance goes well.”

  “It will,” Anna assured her as she fastened the heavy gold necklace around M’greet’s neck.

  The metal felt cold against her sweaty skin. She hadn’t performed in months, and guessed the perspiration derived from her nervousness. Tonight was to be the largest performance she’d booked in years: Berlin’s Metropol could seat 1108 people, and the tickets had sold out days ago. The building was less than a decade old, and even the dressing room's geometric wallpaper and curved furniture reflected the Art Nouveau style the theater was famous for.

  “I had to have this costume refitted.” M’greet pulled at the sheer yellow fabric covering her midsection. When she first began dancing, she had worn jeweled bralettes and long, sheer skirts that sat low on the hips. But her body had become much more matronly in middle age and even M’greet knew that she could no longer get away with the scandalous outfits of her youth. She added a cumbersome earring to each ear and an arm band before someone knocked on the door.

  A man’s voice called urgently in German, “Fräulein Mata Hari, are you ready?”

  Anna shot her mistress an encouraging smile. “Your devoted admirers are waiting.”

  M’greet stretched out her arms and rotated her wrists, glancing with appreciation in the mirror. She still had it. She grabbed a handful of translucent scarves and draped them over her arms and head before opening the door. “All set,” she said to the awaiting attendant.

  M'greet waited behind a filmy curtain while the music began: low, mournful drumming accompanied by a woman’s shrill tone singing in a foreign language. As the curtain rose, she hoisted her arms above her head and stuck her hips out in the manner she had seen the women do when she lived in Java.

  She had no formal dance training, but it didn’t matter. People came to see Mata Hari for the spectacle, not because she was an exceptionally wonderful dancer. M’greet pulled the scarf off her head and undulated her hips in time with the music. She pinched her fingers together and moved her arms as if she were a graceful bird about to take flight. The drums heightened in intensity and her gyrations became even more exaggerated. As the music came to a dramatic stop, she released the scarves covering her body to reveal her yellow dress in full.

  She was accustomed to hearing astonished murmurs from the audience following her final act—she’d once proclaimed that her success rose with every veil she threw off. Tonight, however, the Berlin audience seemed to be buzzing with protest.

  As the curtain fell and M’greet began to pick up the pieces of her discarded costume, she assured herself that the Berliners’ vocalizations were in response to being disappointed at seeing her more covered. Or maybe she was just being paranoid and had imagined all the ruckus.

  “Fabulous!” her agent, Gabriel Astruc, exclaimed when he burst into her dressing room a few minutes later.

  M’greet held a powder puff to her cheek. “Did you finalize a contract for the fall?”

  “I did,” Astruc sat in the only other chair, which appeared too tiny to support his large frame. “They are giving us 48,000 marks.”

  She nodded approvingly.

  “That should tide you over for a while, no?” he asked.

  She placed the puff in the gold-lined powder case. “For now. But the creditors are relentless. Thankfully Lieutenant Kieper has gifted me a few hundred francs.”

  “As a loan?” Astruc winked. “It is said you have become mistress to the Kronprinz.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You of all people must know to never mind such rumors. I may be well familiar with men in high positions, but have not yet made the acquaintance of the Kaiser’s son.”

  Astruc rose. “Someday you two will meet, and even the heir of the German Empire will be unable to resist the charms of the exotic Mata Hari.”

  M’greet unsnapped the cap of her lipstick. “We shall see, won’t we?”

  Now that the fall performances had been secured, M’greet decided to upgrade her lodgings to the lavish Hotel Adlon. As she entered the lobby, with its sparkling chandeliers dangling from intricately carved ceilings and exotic potted palms scattered among velvet-cushioned chairs, she nodded to herself. This was the type of hotel a world-renowned dancer should be found in. She booked an apartment complete with electric Tiffany lamps and a private bathroom featuring running water.

  The Adlon was known not only for its famous patrons, but for the privacy it provided them. M’greet was therefore startled the next morning when someone banged on the door to her suite.

  “Yes?” Anna asked as she opened it.

  “Are you Mata Hari?” a gruff voice inquired.

  M’greet threw on a silky robe over her nightgown before she went to the door. “You must be looking for me.”

  The man in the doorway appeared to be about forty, with a receding hairline and a bushy mustache that curled upward from both sides of his mouth. “I am Herr Griebel of the Berlin police.”

  M’greet ignored Anna’s stricken expression as she motioned for her to move aside. “Please come in.” She gestured toward a chair at the little serving table. “Shall I order up some tea?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Griebel replied as he sat. “I am here to inform you that a spectator of your performance last night has lodged a complaint.”

  “A complaint? Against me?” M’greet repeated as she took a seat in the chair across from him. She mouthed, “tea,” at Anna, who was still standing near the door. Anna nodded and then left the room.

  “Indeed,” Griebel touched his mustache. “A complaint of indecency.”

  “I see.” She leaned forward. “You are part of the Sittenpolizei, then.” They were a department charged with enforcing the Kaiser’s so-called laws of morality. M’greet had been visited a few times in the past by such men, but nothing had ever come of it. She flashed Griebel a seductive smile. “Surely your department has no issue with sacred dances?”

  “Ah,” Griebel fidgeted with the collar of his uniform, clearly uncomfortable.

  Mirroring
his movements, M’greet fingered the neckline of her low-cut gown. “After all, there are more important issues going on in the world than my little dance.”

  “Such as?” Griebel asked.

  The door opened and Anna discreetly placed a tea set on the crisp white tablecloth. She gave her mistress a worried look but M’greet waved her off before pouring Griebel a cup of tea. “Well, I’m sure you heard about that poor man that was shot in the Balkans in June.”

  “Of course—it’s been in all of the papers. The ‘poor man,’ as you call him, was Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Austria should not stand down when the heir to their throne was shot by militant Serbs.”

  M’greet took a sip of tea. “Are you saying they should go to war?”

  “They should. And Germany, as Austria’s ally, ought to accompany them.”

  “Over one man? You cannot be serious.”

  “Those Serbs need to be taught a lesson, once and for all.” Upon seeing the pout on M’greet’s face, Griebel waved his hand. “But you shouldn’t worry your pretty little head over talk of politics.”

  She pursed her lips. “You’re right. It’s not something that a woman like me should be discussing.”

  “No.” He set down his tea cup and pulled something out of his pocket. “As I was saying when I first came in, about the complaint—”