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

by Sharon Maas

  ‘But it is personal, now…’

  ‘I took on this mission knowing of the risks and consequences. It is my professional duty to do whatever is required, and I will do so. If I do my job well, which I will, then it will speed up the end of the war and then you can love me as much as you want and I can love you back. But for the time being we must do what we have to do. For the sake of the bigger goal. You know that. Wait. Be patient.’

  ‘And this – this von Haagen. He sounds odd. A German Wehrmacht officer who recites love poetry?’

  ‘Why not? Despite everything, these people are human. We think of them as monsters because they are German but they are not. I treated many of them when I was a nurse and that’s what I found out. I knew they very likely had done atrocious things that it would fill me with loathing to know about but still, as a nurse, it was my duty not to see that but to see the spark of humanity that we carry inside us and treat that with the dignity it deserves. Before they were soldiers, they were normal people. They were babies whose mothers loved them and then they were children and went so school and learnt normal things. Just as I learned Shakespeare and Milton and you learned Racine and Molière, von Haagen learned Goethe and Rilke. So now he recites poetry to me.’

  ‘Except that I did not learn Racine and Molière. You know I had no interest in school! I am not an academic. Would you prefer an academic? Someone you can discuss poetry and books with?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Jacques! You’re sounding jealous. Jealous of a German officer? It’s ridiculous! This is the enemy. I’m just doing a job. You know that.’

  ‘This is more than blowing things up. It means you have to lead him on, to lie and deceive him. I do not see you as a deceptive person. It is contrary to your very nature. Gain his trust and then – a knife in his back. Not literally, necessarily, but…’

  ‘My nature is to do my job well, whether as a nurse or as an agent.’

  ‘Do you not feel conflicted?’

  Again, she paused. ‘To be quite honest, there is definitely a conflict. I do have a conscience, Jacques, and it is not in my nature to lie and deceive and break someone’s trust. And it is not in my nature to kill. When they asked me, at my interviews, if I could kill someone, I said yes, if I am taught how. And so I have learned to overcome my nature, for the sake of a greater good.’

  He nodded. ‘This is war and other rules apply. I have killed; in many of my attacks, people have died. I know this and I ask God for forgiveness, because I know that killing is a sin. Yet still I have done it and will do it again, because the means justifies the end, and the end is something great and good – the freedom of my people. But these were anonymous deaths, the deaths of strangers. What you are about to do, to lead someone on, earn his trust, only to – it doesn’t feel right.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘I know what you mean and I agree. I have thought about this a lot, Jacques. Deep into the night, to be honest. It keeps me awake. But I have negotiated a method with my conscience. This is it: just as an actor in a film or play can be a villain, do things he never would in real life, so too I must learn to separate a part of myself, play a part which is separate from the real me. As if I were acting a part; throw myself into the part, and yet a spark of the real me stays awake and aware and knows that one day, the play will be over, the film will be over, the war will be over. And then I will discard that role and be myself once again.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful in theory. Can you really do it?’

  ‘I believe so. I am determined to do it. When I was a nurse I was able to see beyond the evil a man might have done, see beyond what a terrible person he is – and some of them were terrible still as patients – and still treat them with the care and consideration a nurse is taught to give.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll be careful.’

  ‘Of course. But you must promise me the same.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, then, let’s talk about you and your work which is every bit as dangerous as mine. What are your next plans?’

  Jacques described to her the various targets they would be hitting over the coming days and weeks. ‘But to be honest, all this is child’s play. We need to get the bridge, the Brisach bridge. I am obsessed with it. I want to take a few days to properly reconnoitre the site and see how best we can explode it. It is particularly well guarded on this side of the Rhine.’

  ‘Well, there we go. You talk of my dangerous work; yours is just as bad, if not worse. And I will not let you do this alone. I will be with you.’

  He ignored her words. ‘And we will need more explosives. More powerful stuff. PE isn’t going to do it.’

  ‘I’ll arrange for a delivery – in maybe two weeks’ time. The same landing place? Where I came down?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the best place.’

  ‘Anything else you need? Weapons? Hand grenades?’

  ‘Hand grenades, always. My boys love them. Weapons, no. But – well, money.’

  ‘Always money.’

  ‘Always.’

  Chapter 23

  Major von Haagen came to the shop on Wednesday, as arranged, to confirm the invitation for the following Saturday.

  ‘I would come but I do not have anything suitable to wear. This is all I have.’ She brushed her hands downwards to indicate her clothes.

  It would be wrong to appear too eager; and anyway, it was true. She could hardly go out wearing her everyday skirt and blouse and thick stockings and clumpy shoes.

  ‘It is no problem. I will see to that. I personally do not care what you are wearing but I know you ladies like pretty clothes. You will have pretty clothes.’

  She shrugged. ‘In that case, I will come.’

  ‘I am overjoyed, Fräulein Dauguet. I will pick you up here at eight o’clock.’

  ‘Very well.’

  * * *

  He came on the dot; she had not expected less. Smarter than ever, medals and boots gleaming, he swept into the shop, and, as Sibyl was still upstairs, went right through to the workshop without knocking, bowing his head as he passed under the low lintel. Oncle Yves, having expected his appearance at this time, was appropriately reading a German newspaper at his desk. He looked up.

  ‘Guten Abend, Herr Major. I believe she will be right down. Do have a seat.’

  He indicated the upturned box.

  ‘I prefer to stand,’ said von Haagen.

  ‘As you please.’

  ‘I see you are following the news. It is good to be informed.’

  ‘Indeed. It is all very interesting.’

  ‘That is a Freiburg newspaper, I see.’

  ‘Yes. They come with the morning train. I try to keep up to date.’

  ‘And the news is good?’

  ‘According to this newspaper yes. But I wonder.’

  ‘What do you wonder, Herr Girard?’

  ‘I wonder if it is all the news. There has been gossip that the war is not going too well for Germany. That the Allied forces are making swift progress through France. Why am I not reading this in a German newspaper?’

  ‘Do you listen to gossip? Are you doubting that Germany will win the war, Herr Girard?’

  ‘Indeed I am.’

  ‘It is not possible. There is such a thing as a higher destiny. It is an absolute truth that Germany will be victorious in the end even if there are at present temporary setbacks.’

  ‘Ah – so you too have heard of the setbacks.’

  ‘It would interest me intensely, Herr Girard, to know where you have received information about alleged setbacks?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It is just gossip, as I said. Just gossip. And – ah, here she is. My dear, you are looking beautiful – beautiful. Your beau is here for you, waiting impatiently. I am sure you will have a splendid evening.’

  He kissed Sibyl on both cheeks and passed her on to von Haagen with a light hand on the small of her back. She walked forward, hand stretched out. Von Haagen took it, shook it and did not let go, in fact, clasped it in
both hands while gazing at her in admiration.

  ‘You look delightful! The dress is a perfect fit. It suits you so well!’

  He’d brought her a dress the day before. It was simple and glamourous all at once; a satin floral print with a sweetheart neck and full skirt that emphasized the slimness of her waist and the flare of her hips; the bodice skimmed her figure, the skirt ended just below the knee. He said it was of Mulhouse silk. Through friends, Oncle Yves had managed to get hold of a pair of silk stockings, also from Mulhouse. Sibyl had not worn anything so pretty in years. Having spent the last few weeks in the drabbest of worn-out garments too big for her and the month before that in camouflage trousers and jacket in the forest, she felt almost guilty – it was astonishing, how a change of clothes could lift one’s spirits. While she did not exactly look forward to an evening in a German officer’s club, she could not deny a sense of positive expectation as to what the night would bring. It was, at least, a change from the humdrum routine of the last few weeks. Because even her agenting work had grown into routine.

  Outside the shop von Haagen had parked a motorcycle with sidecar. He helped Sibyl into the sidecar, mounted the motorcycle, put on his helmet and goggles, gave her a wave and a smile and rode off. Sibyl reached behind her head to clasp her hair; not that it had been styled in any particular way, but she had loosened it from the inevitable plaits circling her face and for the first time her natural auburn curls bounced free, with only a grip on each side to keep them behind her ears and, as they gathered speed, spread out behind her, in need of taming. She wore no make-up except for a bit of powder from her compact; but she had managed to buy some beetroots in the market that morning, extracted a little juice and coloured her lips with it. Again, a tinge of guilt. Dressing up for an evening out with a German officer! It was disgraceful. No. It was work.

  The officers’ club was housed in the ground floor of a stately house on the outskirts of Colmar. Sibyl stomach turned. She recognised this house. The sign on the iron gate, back then, had read Château Bellevue, and had been changed to Haus Schönblick, but the house itself was distinctive with its beautiful gardens and bright blue shutters. She had been there with Aunt Margaux before they had left France. Margaux’s mother had lived in Colmar with her own ageing parents, and they had been friends with the family who lived here. Sibyl couldn’t remember their name, but one thing she did remember: they had been Jewish, and she had often played here with their children. Where were they now? She didn’t ask. She wasn’t supposed to know.

  Now, von Haagen explained, as he released her from the sidecar, it housed the Wehrmacht officers in the upper stories while the downstairs rooms contained a kitchen and dining-room in one side, and the officers’ club on the other as well as a conference room.

  ‘Meine Dame – ich bitte!’ said von Haagen, reaching out his elbow to her. She took it. They entered the building; the spacious, richly carpeted main hallway was unchanged from the pre-war days, a wide staircase leading to the upper stories to one side of it. The oversized, ugly garderobe was obviously new, and overflowing with bits and pieces of uniform – jackets, coats, helmets, caps, and, on the bottom shelves, an untidy array of boots.

  ‘This way,’ he said, placing a hand on her elbow and leading her to a door on the left side of the hall, from behind which came a muffled sound of raised male voices. He opened it, led her over the threshold, and stopped as a cloud of noise, the blur of voices trying to be heard above each other, enveloped them.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ cried von Haagen, thrusting his right arm forward, and immediately all the faces in the room turned to him and the echo of Heil Hitler! went up and a hundred male arms shot upwards. It shocked Sibyl deeply; but she kept a neutral face and her arm down and waited it out, surveying the scene. There was a slight hush as some faces continued to stare, but then the noise resumed as people returned to their interrupted conversations, their card games, their beer glasses, their back-slapping raucous laughter.

  From several small tables grouped around the room, uniformed men and a small number of women, drank away the evening in swirls of cigarette smoke, smoke so dense she could not breathe. Her lungs rebelled at first and only reluctantly and hesitantly nipped at the stinking air.

  One or two men stood up, waved to von Haagen. Cries of ‘Wolfgang! Wolf! Over here!’ reverberated above the hubbub. Faces burst into beams of admiration as glances moved from him to her, curiosity merging into appreciation. A wolf-whistle or two. More men stood up, bowed towards Sibyl, beckoning arms indicating their way to a table at the back.

  Scattered here and there around the tables were women; Sibyl’s glance took in women in elegant dresses displaying deep décolleté necklines and abundant sequins; women wearing flamboyant hairstyles, red sulky-sultry lips, heavily outlined long-lashed eyes; women watching her, silently, appraisingly, and, ultimately, dismissively.

  Von Haagen led her between such groups to the table he had been called to. Five men sat around it, and one woman in a slinky green dress, blonde hair piled in an untidy bouffant. All except the woman leapt to their feet at their approach, bowing and grinning in sycophantic greeting. All of them spoke at once.

  ‘Wolf, so this is the girl you’ve been keeping to yourself!’

  ‘Charming!’

  ‘Lovely!’

  ‘You lucky fellow, Wolf!’

  Von Haagen said nothing at first but only smiled secretly and allowed them all to have their say. Only then did he deign to introduce Sibyl.

  ‘Gentlemen – and lady – may I introduce: Fräulein Jeanne Dauguet.’

  He introduced the men by their first names and rank: Heinrich, Major; Karl, Major, and so on; one by one, Sibyl, highly alert, committed faces and names to memory. The woman he introduced simply as ‘Ilse, Heinrich’s girl.’ She nodded her head as if infinitely bored and accepted Sibyl’s handshake with a grip as limp as a wet flannel. Immediately she turned back to Heinrich, languidly placed a new cigarette in a silver holder, and pointed it at him. He lit it with his own. The two fell back into conversation, loud, but indecipherable above the general clamour. Indeed, one had to shout here. Von Haagen pulled back an empty chair, gestured, and Sibyl sat down. He looked around and found an empty chair at another table. Everyone moved their chairs together and he squeezed in, next to her.

  All the other men immediately showered Sibyl with unbridled and unmistakably admiring attention. Where did she live, what did she do, how did she meet Wolf? One of them remembered that first day, when Wolf had leapt from their table at a Colmar street café and run after Sibyl, grabbing her suitcase.

  ‘He was simply the fastest, Fräulein Dauguet. We all would have done it but he shot off before we could catch our breath.’

  ‘The early bird catches the worm,’ said von Haagen. His arm lay languidly across the back of Sibyl’s chair. An expression of infinite smugness and possessiveness was plastered over his face. Had she not been on the job Sibyl would have been tempted to slap him. She merely smiled vaguely.

  ‘But your girl is certainly no worm!’

  ‘A good catch nevertheless!’

  Someone waved for a waiter.

  Sibyl was offered beer, wine, sherry, cocktails. She refused it all and asked for water. The empty banter went on for another hour. The others ordered another round of beer. The waiter removed their empty steins. They were all incredibly picky about their beer. They ordered Weizen, Pilsener; a Helles and a Dunkel and a Doppelbock. They laughed and joked while ordering, teasing Sibyl.

  ‘But you must drink beer now; Alsace is Germany and Germany is beer country! Your French wine is like syrup!’

  ‘I don’t drink wine or beer,’ said Sibyl.

  ‘Anti-alkoholiker, ja?’ said someone.

  ‘Not really. Alcohol just doesn’t agree with me.’

  ‘Ah, but it takes practice! What joy is there in life without alcohol?’

  They all laughed.

  ‘Actually, she is a good example for us all. After all, our belo
ved Führer also does not consume alcohol.’

  It was von Haagen, leaping to her defence. Up to now he had not participated in the banter and the teasing, and Sibyl could see why; the conversation had been so far below his usual pompous standard. She had to wonder what he had in common with these men, who all seemed, well, to use a word her mother would, incredibly common. It all seemed so very much – beneath him. Why had he brought her here? To show off?

  It had become clear to her that German women were in very short supply in Colmar –the Germanisation of Alsace had not yet led to any great female influx across the Rhine. And French women were notoriously reluctant to hobnob with Germans, which is why they seemed to spend much of their time indoors, out of sight: to prevent being accosted on the streets, just as Sibyl had been. She was well aware that romance between a German soldier of any rank and a Frenchwoman would be not only frowned upon but bring down the wrath of her compatriots, who would judge it as collaboration with the enemy. It was a risk she had to take: it was her job.

  Her job was also, she realised with a start, not only to gain access but to get these men talking.

  Get them drunk, and let drink do the rest, she had been instructed. And now, with von Haagen’s mention of Hitler – for the first time this evening, apart from the initial Hitler greeting – she had her opening.

  ‘But why do you not follow your Führer’s example? Surely that would please him?’ There was a short silence as the men contemplated the question and their by now rather befuddled heads thought of a reply. Finally the man introduced as Karl spoke.

  ‘No! Our Führer is erhaben – exalted – above the vices. He must remain pure to ensure his vision remains pure. That is the secret of his magnetism – purity of vision. But we lesser men: we are red-blooded. We are his arms, his feet. Our spirits are fired by his vision, but it is our lower nature that carries out his work. It has to be so.’

  ‘We are brutes in comparison!’