by Sharon Maas
‘You mean – you’re giving me the order to withdraw? You’re not letting me blow it up?’
She sighed. ‘Please don’t make it into a power game, Jacques! Please don’t be upset. Just don’t do it. D’accord?’
‘D’accord. À bientôt.’
He walked out the door. Sibyl sighed. Jacques, too. The old Jacques, the real Jacques, the man of the forest who could listen to grapes ripening and feel the heartbeat of a bird –wiped out by the exigencies of war, this quintessentially male need to demonstrate power and triumph by making huge explosions and big bangs, all, finally, to validate themselves. Wasn’t that what it was all about? Where was the real Jacques in all of this? Buried, somewhere beneath it all. When the war was over he would have to be unburied.
That night she made an emergency radio call to HQ. She gave a short summary of the capture and eventual escape of the men, explained that she had stopped all sabotage action for the next few weeks, and requested an expert to blow up the bridge.
They would consider that request, said Acrobat.
She also told Acrobat about her conversation with von Haagen.
‘I see,’ was the guarded response.
Chapter 29
In the days following the Riquewihr episode Sibyl fell into a sort of slump, a mental apathy in which she no longer cared; not about anything. Not about Margaux and Jacques and the Château and the vineyards; not about winning the war and spying and easing secrets out of von Haagen and leading him on and winning back Alsace. Not about Marlene Schuster or Jeanne Dauguet or Sibyl Lake. She just wanted to be. To do her work as a cobbler’s assistant, answer to whatever name others called her, eat to survive, dress to cover her body, wash to keep clean.
She discovered the lady’s bicycle under the stairwell in the back hallway; that is, she had seen it before but never connected with it. Now she dug it out and dusted it off. Oncle Yves, the only person she actually conversed with at this time, dug out the tools necessary to repair the flat inner tubes, pump them up. It seemed otherwise fine.
‘Used to be my wife’s,’ said Oncle Yves. He sometimes mentioned this elusive woman but never went into detail. He hinted that she was dead, and also hinted that he wanted no questions, and would not answer any. She respected that desire and did not ask. Let people have their secrets. She had enough of her own.
Once the bicycle was repaired, she rode it around town. She avoided the main streets. It seemed to her that military presence was more dominant than ever; and it chilled her to see that more and more of these military men wore black uniforms – SS uniforms, signifying Hitler’s own army: the Schutzstaffel. She remembered from her training how very different these soldiers were from the Wehrmacht. The Waffen SS had started out as a bodyguard unit for Hitler, with the function of protecting him at political speeches and rallies; basically the armed wing of the Nazi Party. It was headed by Heinrich Himmler, Hitler’s right-hand man, who, it was said, was one of the most powerful men in Nazi Germany, responsible for the execution of the most heinous policies. Under Himmler the SS had grown to one of the most powerful organisations in Nazi Germany, the foremost agency of security, surveillance, and terror within Germany and German-occupied territories, existing alongside the regular Wehrmacht but under Himmler’s direct authority.
Now they strutted around town as if they owned the place, or simply stood, watching. Their red swastika armbands screamed danger. The very sight of them turned her stomach to lead, their very presence strangled her; she felt watched, followed, stalked wherever she went. Over the weeks of her relationship with von Haagen she had become familiar to the regular Wehrmacht officers: von Haagen’s girl, they called her and they waved to her, smiled at her, the leering of her first walk through the town completely obliterated. These new SS soldiers did not leer. They simply watched; with not lust but evil in their eyes.
But they were not here, in this part of Colmar. Not in these cobbled streets of charming medieval timber-framed houses, similar to the ones of Riquewihr. Here and there she sailed among the alleyways, finally finding herself in the enchanting world of Little Venice, where slim medieval houses slept beside the river Lauch and there was no indication whatsoever that, not even a mile away, the ugly world of Nazi Germany began. Not a swastika, not a banner, not a flag. The few people on the streets seemed more relaxed than those of Riquewihr; all seemed to share her state of spiritual suspension. She dared to believe that this, this beauty, this wonderland, was the reality; that it was not just a bubble of goodwill and peace but it was real and true and lasting, that here her soul would mutate and come to rest and all burdens drop from her; and they did, as she pedalled along the riverbank, to the fishmonger’s district and the market gardens.
She had been here often before, as a child, for here was a rural community of wine-producers, where Aunt Margaux had friends who had children. They all used to play and bathe in the river and love life. And more memories came flooding back, bringing delight; and she ventured further afield, into the countryside, and slowly, gradually, she found herself again, that inner being trapped beneath all the identities she had worn, and there at last she felt anchored, strong once more and not pulled apart from the roles she had to play, the job she had to do.
She cycled, too, to all the churches of Colmar and leant her bike against their walls and entered and sat on pews and prayed. She prayed for peace to come to this fractured land, the peace it cried out for; and she cried too, with the land and with its disenfranchised people. And she knew she had to fight on. There was no escape.
* * *
Work in the shop was slow. Nobody needed new shoes or boots these days; it was all repairs, but nobody had money for repairs. Oncle Yves repaired their shoes nevertheless; they would give him whatever they could in return. A pot of soup. An egg. A pair of old but undarned socks. A book. Whatever they could.
Grete, the woman she’d met at the officer’s club, came to visit several times. She would come and just sit there, and talk; sometimes she brought her little girl. She had a need to talk, and talk, and talk. Sibyl listened; her heart went out to Grete, whose situation was sad indeed. The Germans passed her from man to man; that way, at least she and her daughter could eat.
Von Haagen took her out on two more occasions; once to a restaurant called the Rote Löwe, which seemed to be a meeting point for German officers and their girlfriends, and once to the cinema, to see a German film called Die Feuerzangenbowle, with Heinz Rühmann as star. In the middle of the film von Haagen reached out and touched her hand. She tensed, and looked at him; his eyes glowed bright through the darkness.
‘May I?’ he whispered. She considered, and then nodded. He squeezed her hand, and lifted it over to rest on his own knee, where he continued to lightly stroke the back of it with his thumb.
The following day he was there again, in the shop; to pick up his boots – now repaired to his satisfaction – and to say goodbye.
‘Goodbye? You are leaving?’
‘Do I detect as hint of sadness in your voice, in your eyes? Yes, I am leaving. But not for long, hopefully. I have been called to Berlin. There are – things to discuss. The Führer wishes to lay forth his plans to his officers. It seems the Alsace is coming into focus at long last. And I am pleased. It has been quite boring, sitting here in this dead town doing nothing more than ensuring that people speak the right language and read the right books and wear the right names. It is time for some action!’
‘Action! Do you mean the Allies are going to invade the Alsace?’
‘They would be foolish to do so. But it is a possibility. We must be on the alert. Whatever happens, Alsace belongs to Germany and we will defend it with our lives. More than that I cannot say, regarding the war.’
‘But…’
‘But one good thing Colmar has brought to me. And that is you. You must have felt it too, Marlene – I may call you that now, I hope – that you and I have a strong and subtle connection, one that goes deep into the soul. The very though
t of you fills my heart with such joy, such hope; it gives me something to live for. A soldier needs something, someone to live for and for me, it is only you.’
She stood there, stunned, before him; at one point she realised her jaw was hanging open, so she closed it and stuttered a few words, not knowing what to say.
‘No – no, you need not speak now. I only wanted you to know in no uncertain terms. I told you right from the beginning that my intentions were honourable. They have always been so. I have no time for a dalliance with a girl such as you – it would be a waste of my time. Well. That said, I am not going to make a formal proposition now. There is time enough for that, and I do not want to rush you. But I hope, I pray, that you give earnest thought to this and upon my return you will be ready to make me the happiest man on earth.’
‘How – how long will you be away?’
‘I cannot say. Certainly, a few weeks, as I shall visit my parents on the way back – a few days leave is due to me – and clarify a few matters with them as well. I am not sure how much of my time the Führer will need.’
‘I shall look forward to your return.’
‘And so shall I. And now, dearest Marlene, would you find it very forward of me if I were to take you in my arms and kiss those lovely lips of yours? Yes? May I?’
‘Well – I suppose so.’
‘Then come out here from behind that counter – it separates us so! And allow me to take leave from you properly.’
She raised the flap and emerged from behind the protective counter. She stood before him; she could not have felt more exposed if she were naked. But it had to be. And she had to relax. He drew her to him, placed his hand under her chin, raised it, and planted his lips on hers – lips that were as dry and cold as the sense of dread now filling her heart. The sense of falling into a well that was too deep, too dark; bottomless. Where would this lead? There was no way of knowing, except to wait and see. And play along.
He tipped his cap. ‘Auf Wiedersehen, my beloved!’
‘Auf Wiedersehen, Wolfgang. Good luck in Berlin.’
‘It’s not luck. It’s strategy!’
Chapter 30
‘You’ve got him by the balls,’ was Acrobat’s reaction to Sibyl’s report.
‘Yes, but…’
‘It’s a good thing. Lust is one thing. Love is another. Play along as well as you can.’
‘I can’t. He’s gone to Berlin.’
‘He’ll be back. Play along.’
And it was done; a new role, a new challenge, one so much harder than the one she had signed up for. Managing a group of Resistance fighters was one thing; to deliberately deceive and betray von Haagen on a personal level quite another. She felt sick as she put away the wireless equipment and returned to her room. Yes, he was the enemy, a German, a representative of the Nazi regime, even if, as he had assured her, he was not a party member. Did that justify stringing him along? He was human, too; and that human spark was, unfortunately, Sibyl’s Achilles’ heel. Mr Smith had rightly diagnosed it. She recalled his words, at the second interview: Compassion in a nurse is a highly desired virtue. For a person assisting in secret work for the liberation of France, not so much.
She had reassured him that she was capable of restraining that compassion if her job called for it. She had spoken with confidence and determination; she had meant it.
But actual betrayal of a person’s love?
During training there had been discussions, advice. The honey trap, it was called. Pillow talk. An important tool in an agent’s arsenal, especially for a female agent. Lure a man into bed, get him to talk. It wasn’t a method she’d find easy, but if called upon she’d do it, with clenched teeth. She’d actually been thankful that von Haagen had made no such demands on her; it had been so easy, up to now. He was such a pretentious prig that conversations with him amounted almost to entertainment; she enjoyed sparring with him, taking him down a few pegs, sticking fingers into the holes in his bluster, reducing him, at times, even to tears. Buried in him was tremendous guilt. Exposing that guilt, digging it to the surface with the delicacy of a scalpel had been a challenge she’d been happy to rise to. Playing a role, she’d thought; it had both surprised and delighted her how easy it was to strip bare that guilt.
But now, her next moves, if she were to play along as Acrobat requested, this would not be exposure of guilt. It would be betrayal of trust. And the guilt, in that case, would be on her side.
But she had to do it; right up to the final consequences.
You are an actor on a stage, she told herself sternly. Just do it. This is the job.
Nevertheless, she was glad he had gone to Berlin. With luck, he would never return. Yes, it would be unfinished business, an opportunity lost, but that was the loss of Special Operations, not hers. What she had now amounted to a holiday. There was only one thing for it. Enjoy the respite, however long it would last, and prepare for his return.
Meanwhile, there was Jacques to deal with. He sent, via their secret mailbox system, a message to say he would not be at the next programmed meeting. Was he sulking? Because she had given him strict instructions, forbidden him from carrying out the bridge demolition himself? Was he insulted, because she had cast doubt on his prowess? Men could be so sensitive; questioning their ability to achieve any goal could be seen as an attack on their masculinity. But not Jacques, surely. Not the real Jacques, so well established within himself, so in touch with his own fundamental sense of self that he could commune with, it seemed, all of nature, all of life; who had no need of external applause or confirmation or validation; who radiated wholeness and well-being. But that was then. The war had stripped him of so much of his essence she could not help but doubt: did she really know him, now?
She loved him; that she knew. She was not sure if she still knew him. Whatever the case, she had ordered a pause in all Maquis activity, and he was definitely holding to that. Perhaps that was why he had cancelled the meeting: because no action was planned for the next few weeks. But still, wasn’t it worth it, to meet, just to see each other? She shrugged these doubts aside. For the moment, she had space. It was time for a little holiday.
Chapter 31
She dreamt of Château Gauthier; that she was there again, running through the vines. Jacques appeared before her, holding up a bunch of grapes. He plucked one and held it in his hand and it grew to the size of an apple; pale green, translucent, bursting with juice. ‘Harvest will be in four weeks’ time!’ said Jacques. ‘Until then we must lay low. No action.’
‘But.., but they are ripe!’ said Aunt Margaux.
‘Let me try the riesling,’ said dream Sybil, and suddenly they were in the kitchen, around the table, and her mother was there, and Elena, and Aunt Margaux was pouring the wine but it was red, and it was not wine, it was blood; and then someone knocked on the door.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Aunt Margaux and got up. The banging grew louder and louder.
It woke her up. Had it been in the dream? Had it been real? Because it had stopped; there was only silence. But, then, through the silence: a crash like the splintering of glass followed by Oncle Yves bursting through her bedroom door and she was on her feet and grasping for a gun which wasn’t there because, of course, the gun was up in the attic with the radio.
‘You are all right? What is it?’ cried Oncle Yves.
‘I don’t know! Someone broke in!
‘Mon Dieu! Gestapo!’ And her heart galloped as she pulled on the dress she had worn the day before.
And then there were feet, footsteps running up the wooden stairs, and someone crying,
‘Acrobat! Acrobat!’
‘Acrobat!’ she yelled back as she lurched into the corridor and then a body leapt up the final flight and, panting, flung itself at her, grasping her arms.
‘Mademoiselle! Vite! Vite! You must come with me! Immediately!’
It was Pierre, one of Jacques maquisards, a boy of about eighteen.
‘What is it, Pierre? What’
s the matter? Did you break the window?’
‘Yves, I’m sorry, I had to because you did not answer the back door – you must come, mademoiselle Lucie, Jacques is in danger and so are you! He has been caught! You must flee right away!’
‘Oncle Yves. You too,’ cried Sibyl. ‘If I am in danger so are you. Let’s go.’
‘The wireless? Upstairs?’ Oncle Yves, in white longjohns and a vest, was struggling to pull on his trousers.
‘You must leave it, Mademoiselle. No time.’
‘No. I cannot. It is the most compromising thing in this house. It won’t take a second. Oncle Yves, you go down with Pierre. I’ll be right there.’
She dashed up to the attic and grabbed the suitcase containing the tranceiver; kept packed away for just such an emergency. And the Sten gun. She flew down the stairs and met up with Pierre and Oncle Yves at the back door.
‘Vite, vite; follow me,’ said Pierre once they were in the back courtyard, and now he was whispering. The neighbouring houses were all shrouded in blackness; it seemed no-one had heard the racket.
Pierre ran, but too fast; Oncle Yves could not keep up. He doubled back and slowed his gait but his impatience was palpable.
‘Where are we going?’ Sibyl, lugging the suitcase, was caught between the two; hurrying to keep up with Pierre, slowing her feet so Oncle Yves could keep up. Oncle Yves, clearly out of breath already, panted as he kept up at a limping run. Pierre was leading them through cobbled back streets, a labyrinth of lanes and alleyways, none of which Sibyl had seen before.
Eventually they reached the river Lauch. Pierre slowed his gait.
‘I think they won’t find us here,’ he said.
‘Who are they? What has happened?’
