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

by Sharon Maas

  As a nurse, Sibyl was naturally respectful of an established order of command, shy of putting herself forward in a situation where her role was clearly defined; a hierarchy served the simple purpose of getting things done without the chaos of human egos colliding with each other, slowing down the process. But this was serious. She alone of all the SOE high command had first-hand knowledge of the present situation in Alsace, and she alone could assess the problem and the solution. The solution was simple: inform the people. It was her job to make sure this was done. It was not her job to do it. It was her job to request help. It was her job to request an airborne distribution of the vital news.

  The decision made, Sibyl radioed her message. She sent the coded message requesting aerial distribution of news of the Allied invasion and further military success in France. At the worst, she would be reprimanded. At best…

  At best, just two days later, Allied aircraft flew over Alsace, over Strasbourg and Colmar and several villages. Hundreds of thousands of leaflets floated down from the sky like oversized snowflakes. People gazed upwards, caught them as they fell, picked them up from the ground, read the words.

  * * *

  Citizens of Alsace! Awake! Allied forces stormed the beaches of Normandy on June 6th 1944 and in the following weeks have started the work of recapturing France. France is for the French! Alsace is for the French! Alsace belongs in France! Germany has kept this information from you but it is the truth. Soon you shall be liberated! Take heart, Alsatians, for the end of German occupation and oppression is just around the corner.

  * * *

  Sibyl was jubilant. Yes, the wording was crude and not much better than German propaganda newsprint. But it was the truth, and best of all, it gave hope to the people. Change was to come, and she was a part of it.

  That night, she and Oncle Yves celebrated by opening a bottle of Château Laroche-Gauthier crémant. It had been hand-delivered to them by Jacques, also known as David, himself, and, for Sibyl, that was the best news of all.

  Chapter 18

  Special Operations agents worked in teams of three: the organiser, the radio operator, known as the pianist, and the courier. But as in so many other aspects, the Acrobat Circuit was different. It was so very small, so very limited in staff. As a result Sibyl held down two of those roles, that of organiser as well as pianist. As courier, the choices had been limited. There was, basically, only Jacques, who also played a double role: that of leader of the Maquis, and head saboteur.

  * * *

  The shop bell’s jangle announced the entry of a young man, limping in with the aid of a crutch. Sibyl, sitting on a stool behind the counter, jumped to her feet.

  ‘Bonj… Guten Tag… oh!’ It was better to address all customers in German, Oncle Yves had said, since one never knew who was plain-clothed Gestapo, or a spy for such a one. But the stumbling greeting soon turned into a cry of joy. She would know those eyes, the eloquence of that gaze, anywhere.

  Now, she almost didn’t recognise him. The beard was gone. The hair, cut in a conservative, almost military style was side-parted, sleek, neat. He wore a dark grey suit which, though it had seen better days, was clean and fitted the gangly body beneath it well. A blue shirt, a blue-and-white striped tie, and well-worn but well-polished shoes completed the outfit. Over his shoulder was a leather pouch, in his free hand a burlap bag containing some very bulky objects. The bell jangled as he opened the door and in the same movement placed the bag on the counter.

  He placed the crutch aside and put a finger on his lips.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘I have emerged from the underground, a little the worse for wear, bringing boots that need resoling… and a few other things. Perhaps you can help? Please excuse me if I do not speak German. I am out of practice.’

  He unpacked a pair of well-trodden men’s boots – she recognised them as a pair he had worn in the hideout.

  ‘Mais bien sûr! Why don’t you come into the workshop and speak to the cobbler yourself.’

  The moment the door to the outer shop closed behind them she was in his arms.

  ‘Jacques. Oh Jacques!’

  ‘Ssshhh!’ Again, a finger on his lips. ‘My name is David Laforêt. Voila!’ With a flourish, he swept an identity card out of the front pocket of his jacket. Sibyl inspected it; to all appearances it was genuine. But it wasn’t: it bore Jacques’ photo.

  ‘Where did you…?’

  ‘Our forger. He’s good.’

  ‘And this?’

  ‘Medical reports, and an exemption from military service. History of congenital dislocation of the hip. The crutch is a nuisance, but it helps. I’ve already been stopped twice by the Boche.’

  ‘Isn’t it risky, though? What if…?’

  ‘Riskier to wander around Colmar as an able-bodied young man. This way, they see the crutch and assume I’m exempted.’

  ‘But I thought you’re on the wanted list?’

  ‘Jacques Dolch is wanted by the Gestapo. David Laforêt is not. There is no way they can connect the two. They do not even have a photo of Jacques Dolch. He is invisible to them – just a name.’

  ‘Well, be careful.’

  ‘Of course. But enough of me. Tell me about yourself. The journey went all right?’

  ‘Yes – but – oh, it was terrifying!’

  ‘The young lady has had her first encounter with a German charmeur,’ said Oncle Yves, who had remained seated at his workbench, filing at a block of wood. ‘She escaped with her life and her virginity intact. I don’t know about her heart, though. Be careful, young man; he was very attentive and very determined.’

  ‘Oncle Yves! How ridiculous! And how dare you…’

  ‘Just teasing, my dear. In fact as I said before, you were lucky. He could have been of quite a different nature and then you would have been in deep stew.’

  Jacques, looking from one to the other, frowned. ‘What…’

  ‘Oh, Jacques, don’t listen to him. It was an – an incident on my first day. And yes, it was scary but in the end nothing at all.’ She told him about Major von Haagen. He frowned again.

  ‘Be careful, chérie. He’ll be back, I guarantee, and you need to be quite strong, and yet polite and above all, tactful. He sounds of a certain type – they don’t take rebuffs lying down.’

  ‘No man does,’ put in Oncle Yves, ‘but especially not a tall, good-looking officer of the Boche.’

  ‘Do we have to discuss this now? Jacques, isn’t there business to discuss?’

  ‘Don’t call me that. Mon Dieu, you’re supposed to be the group leader – I shouldn’t have to remind you! I’m David.’

  ‘Sorry. David. Isn’t there business to discuss?’

  ‘There is. But not here. Sorry, Oncle Yves, but it’s confidential. Where can we go?’

  ‘Let’s go up to my bedroom.’

  Oncle Yves whistled. ‘Oh la la. But she’s a fast one!’

  Sibyl ignored him. She led the way out of the back door, making sure the door was locked, and up the back stairs.

  ‘I’m assuming no-one followed you down the lane.’

  ‘Of course not. I don’t know if anyone was watching me from a window, though. This is a residential area and some of the women in the houses – well, they are watchers.’

  ‘But probably not Nazi spies?’

  ‘Hopefully not.’

  ‘You scare me!’

  ‘The thing is, we are never safe in Nazi Germany and like it or not, Alsace is Nazi Germany now. You never know who is friend or foe. But if anyone asks I have my cover story and so do you. If anyone asks why I was so long in the building, well, I will just say I was making love to the beautiful new assistant to M Girard.’

  ‘And if they ask how you got to know me so quickly, what will you say? Considering I only arrived the day before yesterday, and I have only left the house once, to register at the Mairie and to get my ration card and buy a turnip and two beetroots…’

  ‘I will say I me
t you in Paris before the war and you have returned. To Colmar to be with your one true love.’

  ‘But, officially, I have a fiancé! He died on the East Front and I am still mourning him!’

  ‘Your mourning is only a front. In truth it is me that you love. Come, give me a kiss. I am clean now. Do I not smell of soap? Madame Schmidt helped me to clean up and I am fresh enough for a kiss from you. Come here.’

  A few seconds later, Sibyl said,

  ‘We need to work.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s work.’

  Chapter 19

  Jacques had not brought a map. Agents should never carry maps. He did bring, however, an old notebook, half of its pages still blank, and on this he sketched out for her the area beyond Colmar and marked the targets planned for sabotage in the coming days and weeks, both in the North, Henri’s domain, and in the South. The targets were: two electric power stations, a tyre depot, a spare-parts factory (formerly for civilian, now for military vehicles), a military vehicle maintenance garage – and, of course, the usual telephone lines, railway lines and storerooms. The old tactics of blocking roads and slashing tyres would continue: the men were practiced at this, and experts. But now, with equipment, their targets were more sophisticated, their methods more complex, their tools more technically advanced. Plastic explosive, after the success of both trial targets during training, evoked, apparently, almost reverence in the minds of the maquisards.

  ‘They are like boys with new toys,’ said Jacques. ‘I need to cool down their passion –Henri or I will lead all attacks involving PE.’

  Sibyl nodded. ‘And what happened to the men who stole the guns?’ she asked. ‘Were they ever found?’

  Jacques shook his head. ‘Not yet. They are in hiding. But we will find them.’

  They talked strategy for several hours. They exchanged news. Sibyl told Jacques about the aerial leaflet drop. Jacques told Sibyl of his investigations along the western bank of the Rhine; his grandest plan was to blow up two bridges at Brisach and Chalampé, for it was over these two bridges that the Germans replenished their supplies towards the South.

  ‘We will have to wait for that,’ said Sibyl, ‘and plan carefully. Blowing up a big bridge is not the same as blowing up a railway line – that was just practice. The bridges are bound to be heavily guarded. Be careful.’

  ‘I am,’ said Jacques. ‘I wait and I watch. We will do it.’

  They discussed the next delivery of supplies, what would be needed, the time and place of the next drop; they discussed the budget. They would need more money soon.

  As they made their way back down the stairs Sibyl gave a satisfied sigh. ‘That was a good meeting, I feel as if I’m finally doing the task I’ve been sent for. I’m an agent. I’m going be a good one. As good an agent as I was a good nurse.’

  ‘You’ve been a good agent from the start. My men are totally in awe. Even Henri. They call you Lucie la Terrible. But I don’t see you as terrible. Quite the opposite.’

  They had reached the bottom of the stairs. He pulled her close, kissed her, then released her.

  ‘Not here and now. There is a time for everything. But when the war is over…’

  ‘When the war is over…’ She pushed open the door into the workroom. They walked through.

  ‘In the meantime, voilà. Un petit cadeau.’

  He opened his leather shoulder bag and removed a bottle of gewürztraminer.

  ‘It’s good, to be the son of a winemaker. Because the wine never runs out. Find an occasion to celebrate and celebrate. Au revoir, ma chère.’

  He slung his pouch over his shoulder, picked up his crutch. ‘I will collect the repaired boots next week, d’accord?’

  The bell jangled as he opened it and limped out into the gathering dusk.

  Chapter 20

  Several days had passed before von Haagen returned. Sibyl had even started to hope that he had forgotten her, forgotten the shop, forgotten the resoling of his boots. It was not to be.

  The door swung open, the bell jangled, and there he stood, on the customer’s side of the counter, smirking down at her in thin-lipped cold-eyed greeting.

  ‘Guten Tag, Fräulein Dauguet. You see, I am back.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I have brought boots for your uncle to repair, and a book of poetry for you to read. Rainer Maria Rilke. I wasn’t sure which of his books to bring. I chose this one: Das Stunden Book, Volume One. Das Buch vom mönchischen Leben. “The Book of Monastic Life.” I hope you enjoy it.’

  He slapped a book down on the counter. Sibyl glanced at it, touched it, withdrew her hand as if scorched.

  ‘Go on, open it. Read it. Read it aloud.’

  Hesitantly she opened the book, glanced through the pages. Closing it again, she pushed it across the counter to him.

  ‘I – I don’t know. Perhaps you should read.’

  ‘Very well. It is hard to choose a single poem, though. But what about this one… one of my favourites.’ Opening the book, holding it up, he read, in a dramatic voice and every now and then glancing up at her: ‘“Immer wieder, ob wir der Liebe Landschaft auch kennen…” Shall I continue?’

  Without waiting for a reply, he continued:

  “Again and again, however we know the landscape of love

  and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,

  and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others

  fall: again and again the two of us walk out together

  under the ancient trees, lie down again and again

  among the flowers, face to face with the sky.”

  ‘Is that not beautiful?’

  ‘Indeed, very beautiful… but I’m sorry, Herr Major, I don’t think…’

  ‘It is too intense for your liking? You don’t think it is appropriate, that a man and a woman of only slight acquaintance, should recite love poems to one another? I quite understand. You may think it forward of me. Let me explain my motive. I am aware of the fact that many of my co-soldiers have behaved despicably toward the French women in our care – yes, the French, and especially the women, are indeed in our care during these troubling times. We have a duty of protection towards you and you may have heard some distressing rumours that belie the implications of that responsibility.

  ‘But I wanted you to know that I am not of that ilk. I am not of such primitive calibre. I have the refined intellect for which we Germans are historically renowned. I am a man of culture, of good taste and civility and I abhor vulgarity in all its forms. I categorically reject all behaviour in which women are disrespected. And I wanted to make my intentions quite clear right from the beginning. I have been impressed with you, Fräulein Dauguet, from the first moment I saw you, struggling with that heavy suitcase. I was distressed by the comments expressed by the men at my table – extremely crude, vulgar even, quite inappropriate for German officers, and I felt embarrassment on your behalf. I leapt to your rescue as a demonstration of chivalry, of the correct behaviour of a man towards a woman. This is the way of refined culture. This is the true German way. The true German is not an uncouth brute but a man of polished sensibilities, a man of culture. We must constantly prove our superiority, the refinement of our intellect, not through words but through behaviour, through little acts of humble benevolence and gallantry such as I displayed towards you on that memorable day. And I want to make it clear to you, right from the start, so that there is no doubt whatsoever, that my intentions are absolutely honourable. Let there be no doubt whatsoever on that subject.’

  He stopped for breath and tried to catch her gaze, which was wandering somewhere along the rafters that held up the ceiling, following the movement of a spider, as she tried with all her might to suppress a giggle.

  ‘Fräulein Dauguet?’

  There was nothing for it. She had to look at him. And remove the twinkle from her eyes. His every word had been spoken in earnest and somehow, inexplicably, she felt pity for him. Every word he has spoken – he was actually se
rious. It was unfair to laugh, perhaps dangerous. She had often met men who liked the sound of their own voices more than was good for them. But a man who liked the sound of his own voice, all the while believing he and his entire nation was of a superior calibre to all others, and at the same time so blind to his own haughtiness as to actually use the word humble… well. Words failed her, and so did the latent laughter.

  ‘It’s a beautiful poem,’ she mumbled, ‘and I will certainly read more of Rilke. But, Herr Major, your boots…’

  The attempt to change the subject backfired horribly. He exploded.

  ‘We are discussing love poetry, emotions, not boots! My goodness, how shallow can one get!’ But in the next breath, he had brought his tone back under control.

  ‘Excuse my outburst, Fräulein Dauguet but I did hope we could extend our conversation a while longer, before turning to more mundane matters. Really, women are supposed to be the more sensitive sex but in reality, they are often so immersed in domestic thoughts it acts as a veil between them and the subtleties of higher thought. The only remedy is education, and self-education. I do implore you to read this book in all earnestness and with your full attention, and perhaps you will then be capable of carrying on a conversation of more depth. In the meantime, perhaps you would so kind as to summon Herr Girard so that we might indeed discuss the condition of my boots.’

  Sibyl flushed in the effort to contain a fitting retort. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Just a minute.’ She walked to the door to the workshop, opened it, and peered in.