The Soldier's Girl: A gripping, heartbreaking World War 2 historical novel

by Sharon Maas

  She had met him as a raggedy deserter who had neither washed not changed his clothes nor shaved in perhaps weeks, his face, more scraggly beard than skin, his hair long and greasy and hanging to his shoulder. His dishevelled appearance had gone a long way in preventing their relationship from taking a physical development, as might have happened in more propitious times; his wildness a barrier that she had, in secret, welcomed, even as she had embraced his being, explored every turning of his heart, an unspoken pact between them. A shower together under a waterfall of cold fresh water, a bar of soap she had packed in her luggage, went a long way in propelling their relationship to the next stage. That, and the knowledge that either or both of them might die before they’d meet again.

  This last night they reached the very rim of the interlude granted them, the edge of the axe that would chop apart this war-stolen month and thrust Sibyl into the fray. Their bodies responded spontaneously. They made love, melting wordlessly, soundlessly into each other in the darkness, a consummation that simply completed all that had gone before.

  And then it was time for her to go.

  * * *

  Vera had given her the clothes to pack, the clothes to wear. A simple tweed skirt, grey, not new, but obviously used and tired, fitting perfectly over Sibyl’s slim hips. A cotton blouse, its floral pattern faded through many washes. Thick cotton stockings, and French-style boots with cork soles. More of the same, packed in her battered little suitcase, along with old cotton underwear. She had been checked and double-checked for anything English: bus tickets, coins, the flotsam and jetsam one collects without thinking about it. But the most important item in the suitcase was the MCR1 receiver, a miniature device which fit into a biscuit tin, as well as the transmitter. Together they weighed over ten pounds, which made the suitcase quite a bit heavier than if it had contained only clothes. Added to that: the Sten pistol. It had to be kept near the wireless devices, for once the latter were discovered the game was up and the gun was a necessity.

  As her time approached, Sibyl had the persistent sense that caterpillars were crawling around in her belly. Just looking at the suitcase made her dizzy.

  As Jeanne Dauguet she was to work as a cobbler’s assistant in Colmar. The cobbler himself was an older man named Yves Girard who had his own shop; his previous assistant was a young man who had been conscripted to fight in the Wehrmacht, leaving a vacancy that had to be filled. By Jeanne. M Girard was an Alsatian through and through, detesting the Germans, supporting the Allies in any way he could. Recently he had taken on a more active role in the Resistance.

  ‘You’ll find out the details once you arrive,’ Vera had said. ’You’re to work at the front of the shop, taking orders for repairs, selling boots, shoes and shoe paraphernalia, while M Girard will do his cobbling in the workshop at the back. You’ll have a small bedroom in his flat above the shop; you’ll share a kitchen and bathroom with him.’

  M Girard, Vera explained, was officially Jeanne’s great-uncle. There really had been a Jeanne Dauguet, who had left Colmar for Paris as a child with her parents sixteen years previously; her father had been killed in a road accident soon afterwards. The real Jeanne had grown up in Paris; she had been an underground Resistance member but had been killed in a bomb a year ago. No body had been found so her mother, still active as an underground agent in the Paris Resistance, had offered up her deceased daughter’s genuine birth certificate and other documents as a cover for a new agent: Sibyl. And so Sibyl was to step into Jeanne’s shoes, and Jeanne would live on in Sibyl’s body. Her great-uncle Yves was really that; Jeanne’s grandmother’s brother.

  ‘If they search you, stand back and let it happen. Remember you are Jeanne. Wear your hair in a modest bun, away from the face,’ Vera had instructed. ‘Or in plaits, clipped down, circling your face. Not much make-up – you do not want to look provocative in any way. You do not want to stand out. If they ask where you got the powder compact, you must say it is a present from a fiancé who died and you still mourn him. Do not look men straight in the eyes, especially not Germans. You will have German customers; speak to them in their language and be always polite. If you know their name, use it. Herr so-and-so; if he’s an officer, use his rank. They like that. Always be demure, soft-spoken. That is the character of Jeanne Dauguet. You must look the part. You are fairly pretty but unaware of it. You have the pure innocent look that German men like; use it, but use it discreetly. If they flirt, you may not flirt back. You do not want to appear forward. You will create an aura of modesty, untouchablility, around yourself. You are just a simple French girl, a girl from Alsace, returned from Paris to work in her uncle’s shop. You are not political. You do not resist the German annexation of your country: you do not like it but you are co-operative. You do as you are told, observe the rules. You are not an elegant Parisienne, one of those superior classic women basking in self-assurance. You come from modest circumstances and you are modest. Your papers are in order; they show that you were born in Colmar. Your father is dead, your mother is a nurse in Paris. You have returned to the home you left as a small child. The German authorities might insist you are now German and need German papers. Go along with that – it is to your advantage to have authentic German identification papers. It will strengthen your credentials. Do it, but do not initiate that step yourself.’

  Almost as an afterthought, she added, ‘Of course, the most difficult part of the mission will be the journey to Colmar, carrying the suitcase. If they open that – well, it’s the end.’

  The most dangerous part of today’s mission was the gap between the hideout and Strasbourg, for she had no cover story yet, only Jacques’ instructions and company. At four-thirty, she and Jacques waited at the appointed meeting place, a junction where a footpath met a narrow road. They waited in silence, Jacques’ arm around her, she leaning against his chest, eyes closed. It was still dark, but the greyness of early dawn was already creeping across the fields – gradually revealing a vineyard, and a meadow where a few cows grazed. Somewhere, a cock crowed.

  Eventually, Jacques squeezed her shoulder and whispered, ‘ça va?’

  ‘Oui,’ she replied. But then, because she could not lie to him, she added, ‘J’ai un peu peur, honnêtement.’

  ‘It’s all right to feel fear. But fear will not win because you won’t turn back.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I too feel fear, on your behalf. But, well. Remember what we agreed the first night, Sibyl. We will go through this, come what may. I wish we could do it together but it’s not to be. You have your role and I have mine and we will help win this thing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Here is the farmer. Au revoir.’

  ‘Au revoir, Jacques.’

  A horse-drawn carriage filled with farm produce plodded up beside them. The wagon had been specially modified so as to hide a human being between the cartwheels. Jacques and Sibyl lifted the suitcase into the back of the waggon, covered it with cabbages. Jacques helped her to crawl into the hideout space between the wheels. And then, without another word, he was gone.

  The driver made several stops on the way, chatting with farmers as he picked up produce for the market; it took hours to reach Strasbourg and Sibyl could tell they had reached the city because of the traffic noises. Finally she heard him speak the words: the apples are tasty this year. That was the code. Sibyl scrambled from her hiding place, pulled out her suitcase, and slipped into the open door of a townhouse.

  Part III

  A Question of Identity

  ‘What good fortune for governments that the people do not think.’

  Adolf Hitler

  Chapter 16

  From this moment, she had a cover story: the daughter of the house was an old school friend and she, Jeanne Dauguet, had spent the night, having travelled up from Paris the day before. She had a used train ticket, Paris-Strasbourg, to prove it. Her hosts were a middle-aged couple called the Schmidts; they ushered her into a small kitchen and served her breakfast, o
f which Sibyl could eat but little. From a secret pocket in her suitcase Sibyl removed a wad of paper money, which she slipped to Mr Schmidt. Those who supported the maquisards did so at great risk, and at some expense in these hard times, and had to be recompensed.

  The daughter, Yvonne Schmidt, her supposed friend – her real name – played her part well, greeting her with a torrent of chatter, as if she really was her friend, and they kept up this charade until, at nine, Sibyl took her leave and, suitcase in hand, stepped out into the street. The Schmidts had given her walking directions to the station, now renamed the Hauptbahnhof. She arrived there without incident, bought her ticket to Colmar, and boarded the train. She was now Jeanne Dauguet, on her way to take up her new job as cobbler’s assistant in Colmar. Only, deep inside, in a secret place that must never, ever see the light, lay Sibyl Lake, on her debut mission as Acrobat One; also known as Lucie.

  * * *

  A pair of uniformed men were making their way slowly down the train carriage. From their uniforms Sibyl identified them as local police. Just checking, no doubt. Heart, slow down.

  They approached at a snail’s pace; every passenger’s documents were inspected. Some were accepted immediately. In other cases, the passenger was interrogated for what seemed an unhealthy length of time. Why? The passengers so questioned – as far as Sibyl could tell from further down the carriage – seemed innocuous enough. A middle-aged woman with a basket on her lap. A smartly dressed young man who looked as if he was off to work. An older man with a small girl on his lap, perhaps his granddaughter.

  Finally it was her turn.

  ‘Ihre Papiere, bitte.’

  She rummaged in her handbag, found her identity card, handed it over.

  ‘Where are you going to?’

  ‘To Colmar.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘I came from Paris. I spent last night with a friend in Strasbourg.’

  So far, so good; the first part was a lie; she had not come from Paris, but just in case, she had proof that she had. But it was true that she had spent the night with a friend in Strasbourg, and they could check it if they were suspicious. They weren’t; they were more interested in her language. The incriminating suitcase was neatly stored in the luggage rack above her head. It took all of her willpower not to glance up. It took yet more strength to keep her attention focused on the questioning and not allow her mind to quiver at the thought of the deadly biscuit tin so innocently concealed above them. They remarked on her German; she explained how she had learned it.

  ‘You speak excellent German.’

  ‘Yes, my grandmother was Austrian and she always spoke German with me.’

  That, too was true; her grandmother had indeed spoken German with her. Sibyl’s grandmother; had Jeanne’s? Perhaps. They would hardly be able to check.

  Next they wanted to know why she was travelling to Colmar, what she was going to do there, how long she intended to stay, and if she could prove it. Indeed: she showed them a letter from the cobbler, her ‘uncle’ Yves Girard, explaining that his former assistant had been conscripted and sent to the Eastern Front, and that he urgently needed her help.

  ‘It’s a semi-permanent position, at least until the war is over and the assistant returns,’ she added.

  ‘If he returns!’

  The officers both laughed, handed her back her papers, wished her a pleasant stay, and moved on. She took a deep breath. It was over. And, it seemed, the reason they had singled out other passengers for questioning was because, presumably, they had not been able to speak German – or not well enough. Jacques had explained to her that French was completely banned. In all the schools, now, German was the medium. Bookshops had been raided, all French books burned. No French newspapers were allowed; only German everywhere. She had already seen the swastika signs when walking through Strasbourg: on some of the cars, a huge one on the station building, more on the walls of the ticket office and waiting room and platform, portraits of Hitler everywhere. It sent chills down her spine.

  There were no further incidents before the train chugged into Colmar’s station – or Kolmar, the German version, as the station sign announced. She stood up, straightened her clothes and reached up for the suitcase. A fellow passenger, a man in his forties who had until now been buried in a newspaper and had spoken perfect fluent German with the two police officers, sidled up beside her.

  ‘Erlauben Sie mir, gnädige Frau,’ he said, and, before she could object, reached up for the suitcase.

  ‘Meine Güte, that’s quite heavy!’ he remarked, which is exactly what Sibyl had dreaded. Yes, it was heavy. Too heavy for a normal innocuous suitcase, and chivalrous men everywhere would want to help. Another mistake she’d made as an agent: she should have arranged for a separate, clandestine, delivery of the radio. A man carrying a heavy suitcase would be left alone; a woman would be offered help everywhere. Too late to think of that now. She thanked the gentleman, refused his offer of further help, and lugged the case down the carriage and on to the platform, through the station and out into the streets.

  There she stopped, placing the case on the pavement, to remove the sketched map from her leather shoulder bag. She found herself in a large square; this she had to cross to access the main street that would lead her to the cobbler’s shop. In better days she would have taken a taxi, but none was to be seen.

  She took a deep breath, picked up the suitcase, and marched across the square. Once again swastika flags, banners and posters adorned the buildings: hanging from windows, slung across the street like Christmas decorations, pasted onto lantern posts, on walls, everywhere. If you didn’t already know that Colmar was now firmly German soil – according to the Germans – then you certainly would know now. Army Jeeps and trucks trundled through the town, swastikas flying from their hoods or pasted on their doors; Wehrmacht soldiers with apparently little work on their hands sat at small tables outside a café. A group of them stood at a fountain, washing their faces. Soldiers outnumbered civilians almost two to one; in fact, Sibyl saw few of the latter, and those she saw were invariably older women with children.

  She soon learned the reason for the dearth of young women on the streets. Faces turned as she walked by, wolf-whistles and admiring grins followed her as she continued on her way. Some of the soldiers doffed their hats, or half-bowed towards her. No-one had ever called Sibyl beautiful, but today she might very well have been a film star. The attention was not only unwelcome but downright disconcerting. She wanted to be, needed to be, invisible. Why had Vera not warned her, advised her, that in a town overrun with German soldiers she would, simply by being female and young, turn heads?

  But no: Vera had warned her, obliquely. Wear this ring, Vera had said. It’s an engagement ring; it might help establish that you’re unavailable. She had pushed a thin gold ring with what was probably a fake diamond on to her ring finger. Not that a German intent on mischief will take much notice, she’d added. She hadn’t thought it necessary at the time, but had worn it anyway. But who, now, was looking at her hand, seeing the ring?

  But it was too late, she could not blame Vera. She could not allow herself to show nervousness, and she must deal with it here and now. She straightened her shoulders and walked on, suitcase firmly in her right hand. At least, she thought, being an object of admiration is probably better than being an object of suspicion.

  She was soon to change her mind on that reflection. She passed a café with several outdoor tables, at one of which sat a group of uniformed men enjoying, it seemed, a mid-morning cup of coffee. (Didn’t they have a war to fight, she wondered? Or had the war not yet reached Colmar?) Again, every single head turned as she walked by, one man whistled – and one stood up. Her heart skipped a beat as he fell into step next to her. Giving a slight bow, removing his cap, he said,

  ‘Guten Morgen, gnädiges Fräulein! Darf ich behilflich sein? May I be of help to you?’

  He gestured towards the suitcase, and continued, ‘Bitte, erlauben Sie mich, Ihren
Koffer zu tragen. Please allow me to carry your suitcase.’

  She replied, in German, ‘Oh, no thank you. It’s quite all right. It’s not heavy and I haven’t got far to go.’

  ‘But I insist! It wouldn’t be right for me to allow you to continue so heavily burdened. Please, gnädiges Fräulein. You must let me help. It is a command, not a request. Oh, and may I introduce myself: Major Wolfgang von Haagen, Commandant of the Kolmar region, at your service.’

  Did she detect a threat in those words, or was it only her own edginess, her guilt? Let me carry your case, or I’ll have you arrested? Searched? She could not risk it. It is a command, not a request.

  ‘Well, all right then. It’s very kind of you. My name is Jeanne Dauguet.’

  She stopped, set down the cases, stepped aside.

  ‘Ich freue mich, Sie kennenzulernen, Fräulein Dauguet.’

  He held out his right hand. She took it. His grip was firm, confident, a second too long. His eyes sought hers and though she had looked down, avoiding his gaze, something in it forced her to meet it. His eyes were dark blue, penetrating, questioning, admiring. He smiled, nodded slightly, bent his knees to take grasp the suitcase handle, lifted the case.

  ‘My goodness, but it’s indeed heavy! What have you got in there?’

  She had, during the train journey, thought of an answer to that one.

  ‘Books!’ she said. It was the first thing that had occurred to her, and now she’d have to stick to the story, before he asked… ‘I read a lot.’