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

by Sharon Maas

‘It’s dangerous work, we all know that and still we take the risk. I’m coming tonight. We must be all the more careful.’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘And when we have freed him, where will he go?’

  ‘I will be waiting in the van nearby, with you. Pierre will bring him to us.’

  ‘I mean, where will he stay afterwards? He cannot go to your place. That is the first house they will search and you are already under suspicion, as his friend.’

  ‘He must go to a safe house. He will know of someone who will put him up.’

  ‘But I’ve been thinking. There’s an alternative. I know where he could stay, without putting anyone in danger at all.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You’ll see. Let’s get him out first.’

  * * *

  Sibyl crept down the stairs and out the back door at one that night. The moon was still new; the surrounding buildings were dull black, the sky luminous black, and Sibyl herself a black shadow from head to toe. She sidled along the buildings, turned into the cobbled road outside the courtyard, and kept going at a quiet jog until she had reached the appointed place where Margaux and her van were waiting.

  ‘If the SS stops us now, we’re done for!’ said Margaux, but so carelessly she might have been telling a joke. ‘Nobody with honest intentions drives around at this time of night. Not in a battered old wine van.’

  ‘It feels odd, not having a cover story. But I suppose they won’t be on the prowl any more now they’ve caught him. Not at night, at least.’

  ‘Once out of town we’ll be safe. I’ll park in the same place as last night. Pierre parked a bicycle near the hospital and will bring Jacques.’

  She took a turn down a quiet lane that seemed to lead to a farm, then down another lane into a wooded area.

  ‘The hospital is about two kilometres away. If all goes to plan they should be here in about an hour. Now it’s just a matter of waiting. Have some wine.’

  She pulled the cork out of a bottle and handed it to Sibyl. She pushed it away.

  ‘How can you drink at a time like this?’

  ‘How can you not drink?’ Margaux took a slug from the bottle, wiped her mouth on her sleeve. ‘Just don’t let me overdo it. I can’t afford to have an accident, tonight of all nights.’

  ‘You can’t afford to have an accident at all, Margaux. You really should…’

  ‘Now don’t you start lecturing me about my drinking. Yes, I know I drink too much. Yes, I know I need to slow down. But on a night like this? I need it, Sibyl, I need it. I’ll give up wine tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you will.’

  ‘Are you doubting me?’

  The banter, sometimes light-hearted, sometimes serious, continued as the minutes crept past. Why is it, Sibyl asked herself, that when you were on edge and desperately nervous, that was when time slowed down to an impossible crawl? And when you were happy and enjoying yourself, it flashed by in a wink? The repartee was distracting but it did not speed up time nor lessen her nerves, which were sharpened to the point of fraying. Margaux, meanwhile, had finished the bottle and Sibyl was seriously worried about her ability to drive afterwards. Yes, she herself could drive instead, but only back to Colmar. After that it would have to be Pierre at the wheel. Though Margaux did not appear drunk; the only evidence of the emptied bottle was a slightly slurred voice.

  An owl hooted. An animal squealed in the undergrowth. Margaux jumped.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Just an animal.’

  ‘I thought…’

  ‘We’re both jumpy. You’re sure Pierre knows where to find us?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. He found me yesterday, didn’t he?’

  ‘It’s just that…’

  ‘Shhh! Listen!’

  It was unmistakeable. A sort of vague whirring noise, and growing louder. They both jumped from the van, one on each side, and peered into the lane leading through the forest. A dark lump could be seen approaching, the whir of the bicycle wheel growing louder.

  And then they were there, Pierre, slowly sailing up with a squeak of brakes; braking further with his feet and dismounting cautiously, supporting the bicycle as Jacques carefully slid off the crossbar and stood on one leg.

  ‘Jacques! Jacques!’ Sibyl’s arms were around him as she whispered his name.

  ‘I made it, Sibi. I made it!’

  ‘Come on, you lovebirds, get in the van. Pierre, put away the bike and get in the back. And now, Sibyl, you kindly tell us which way to go. Where is this wonderful hiding place of yours?’

  ‘Back to Colmar.’

  ‘Back to… are you out of your mind?’

  ‘Maybe a bit. But we can risk it. Nobody’s about yet – or still. They’re not looking for Jacques. It’s not like last night. They don’t know he’s gone.’

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘Just drive, Margaux. Trust me.’

  Margaux trusted her, and drove; following directions.

  ‘Nearly there! Turn left here.’

  ‘But Sibyl, this road drives right past…’

  ‘I know. Gerechtigkeitsgasse.’

  ‘Sibyl, you must be mad. You can’t put him up in your own home!’

  ‘I’m not. I won’t. This is better. Stop here. Pierre, I’ll need your help – Jacques, get down carefully… that’s right… arms around our shoulders. Margaux, you can come too, to unlock the door. The key’s in my pocket.’

  They drove into the cobbled courtyard at the back of Gerechtigkeitsgasse.

  ‘Sibyl – this is insane. You can’t…’

  ‘I’m not, Margaux. I said, trust me, and get that damned key.’

  Margaux fished in her pocket as they walked, Jacques hobbling between Pierre and Sibyl, arms around their shoulders. They walked right past the back of the cobbler’s shop.

  ‘Where…?’

  ‘Right here. Open that door.’

  They had stopped in front of the back door of a house four doors down from Uncle Yves.

  ‘Whose house is this?’

  ‘It’s no-one’s. Though I suppose the Germans think it’s theirs. It used to belong to a Jewish violin-maker. Now it’s empty. Oncle Yves was his friend and had a key. It’s the safest place he could possibly be. And best of all: I’m four doors down. I can dress his wounds, bring him food and drink…’

  ‘Bien, I get it. It is brilliant, Sibyl. Now let’s get him upstairs. I think we will have to carry him.’

  ‘I’m not an invalid, and I’m not dead yet! Stop talking about me in the third person; I’m right here and I can get upstairs – ouch – with just a little help.’

  Jacques tried his damaged leg but stumbled; he caught himself and, holding the banisters, managed to lever himself up one step.

  ‘We’ll carry you. What you need are crutches. I’m sure Oncle Yves can make them for you. He’s got enough wood.’

  Chapter 34

  ‘I’m sorry. I was a fool.’

  Jacques, from the double bed in what was once the main bedroom in the violin-maker’s home, watched her as she dressed his wound, changed the bandage. Sibyl had requested various supplies from Margaux who, as usual, was able to get her hands on almost everything she needed. The bandages were strips of cotton cut from a clean sheet. Margaux had even disinfected them all by ironing them. There was alcohol and iodine and even a sterile packet of cotton wool, left over from happier days, and rubber gloves of obscure provenance.

  ‘Yes, you were. Foolhardy. Why, Jacques, why? I told you not to.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it. I think I needed to – to prove myself. To stand tall, to pull off something spectacular. Everything in the last month has been so, well, small. Ever since that first train bombing. That was the best attack and actually it was your attack, not mine.’

  ‘You wanted heroics.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘This is a war, Jacques, it’s not a time for personal aggrandisement. I’m very disappointed in you, and Acrobat – we
ll, Acrobat is seething. I got a good telling-off.’

  ‘But it wasn’t your fault! You told me not to! I went against orders!’

  ‘I was – am – responsible for your actions.’

  ‘How can you do that? You can’t watch me day and night. You did what you had to, you warned me not to do it. I disobeyed your orders: it’s all my fault.’

  ‘Acrobat doesn’t see it like that.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry. I apologise.’

  ‘Well, what’s done is done. Now it’s a case of what we do in future, and that is: precisely nothing. It’s over, Jacques.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Precisely that. No more action, ever. Acrobat’s orders. There is no more Acrobat network. No more drops. No more Maquis action, at least, not under my charge; they can do what they like with the leftover supplies. He hinted that the Allies are going to move into Alsace soon. Our job was to prepare the way, weaken the province. We did that, and now we can disband.’

  ‘But what about you? Does it mean you have to go back to England? Will they recall you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jacques. He didn’t say. Seems he wants me to stay here a while.’

  ‘I’m glad about that.’ He reached out and touched her arm.

  Sibyl finished wrapping the wound. She tied the bandage firmly, removed her gloves and took his hand, and only then looked up to meet his eyes.

  ‘Jacques – you don’t need to be a hero; not for me. You should know that.’

  ‘Maybe I wanted to be a hero for myself.’

  ‘But you don’t need that either – you shouldn’t need that. You are by your very nature the strongest, finest, man I know; you don’t need to blow up bridges to prove your worth. Your worth is…’ she searched for the elusive word. ‘… intrinsic. Inherent. Innate. None of these really sums it up. It’s something that shines out of you, when you are really yourself.’

  ‘I haven’t been myself for so long. This damned war…’

  ‘But it sounds as if it will soon be over.’

  ‘Did he really say the Allies were coming in?’

  ‘He didn’t say it. He hinted at it. It’s what I gathered from his words.’

  ‘But that means the war is coming to Alsace. I don’t think the Germans are just going to turn tail and flee. They will defend it!’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know it, Sibi. There is going to be fighting, for sure.’

  Sibyl felt a sudden leadenness in her stomach, a tightness at her throat. It was true; isn’t that what von Haagen had hinted at, as well? That the Allies were about to attack? What did that mean? How soon? What kind of an attack? Would there be Panzers creeping through the streets of Colmar? Would, God forbid, Colmar be bombed, as German cities had been? Not that the Allies would bomb Colmar; for them it was in France. But what if Hitler, forced to retreat, ordered it to be flattened, as a leaving present? As in, what I can’t have, nobody should have?

  ‘I wonder why I wasn’t recalled, if the operation Acrobat has been called off.’

  ‘I think I know, Sibi. I think it’s about von Haagen. You told them he went to Berlin to discuss strategy?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Well, then. There you have it. They expect he’ll be back and the two of you lovebirds will carry on the way you began, and he’ll tell you all about these strategies, which you will dutifully report back to Acrobat.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘What other reason could they have for leaving you here, if the war for Alsace is about to begin? Why endanger you that much, unless they still have use for you?’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Take it from me, Sibi. I am sure. They want you to be his lover. That is the only thing that makes sense.’

  The constriction around her throat tightened; she could hardly breathe. She could actually feel the pounding of her heart, a quick-march pounding in her chest. And a rushing in her ears as the implication of Jacques’ words opened their true meaning to her. He caught her eye.

  ‘Don’t look away, Sibi. Look at me. Look at me and tell me you love me. The way I love you. Because I do. You know I do.’

  ‘I love you, Jacques. I always have. You know it. Nothing can ever change that.’

  ‘This damned, damned war. Come here.’

  He reached out, clasped her upper arms, drew her down towards him. She gave a little gasp and let herself be pulled. She buried her face in the pillow beside his, and a sob burst from her.

  ‘I can’t, Jacques, I can’t.’

  ‘You can. It’s for France. For Alsace. For us.’

  Chapter 35

  A week later, Jacques was limping about the house and chafing at the bit.

  ‘I can’t stay here any longer. I mean, it’s wonderful being near to you and seeing you every day, every night – but I need to get out. Do something. I’m wasting time. Why aren’t the Allies here yet?’

  She shrugged. ‘They’ll be here in their own time. Where will you go? I won’t let you go to Margaux.’

  ‘I’ll find a place. Don’t worry. I just need someone to drive me out of Colmar and set me down in the countryside. Perhaps around Türckheim. I know people there – a farmer – it’ll be safe.’

  ‘If you insist. I still think you’re safest here.’

  ‘My safety – what about the safety of Alsace? I need to be with my men. I need to know what’s going on. You can’t keep me for yourself all the time, you know!’

  His eyes twinkled; he drew her close. She laughed, ran her fingers through his hair, nuzzled into his chin. It had been a wonderful week, a week of much needed respite: no plans for bombings or dangerous drops, for Jacques, no hiding from the Gestapo. For him, just rest and recovery. For her, just looking after him and his wound, and being with him at night. Sneaking down the back stairs and into the courtyard and up his backstairs, like a student nurse with a secret boyfriend, courting behind Matron’s back, climbing through the downstairs window after curfew. You could even forget there was a war on; that the war was slowly creeping towards Alsace. You could almost forget it. But not quite. Again, weeks passed; for Sibyl, weeks of stifling uncertainty. Her next scheduled call with Acrobat brought no relief, no news and no instructions. She gathered that the Allies would, at some point, arrive to take back Alsace; but no details and no date were forthcoming. It could take forever, and here she was, in Colmar, with nothing to do but polish shoes and take orders for the resoling of German boots or – more and more – orders for cloglike footwear for the locals. Food shortages grew more severe; and everyone, it seemed, looked forward to the wine harvest. So did she.

  * * *

  And then the wine harvest, the vendange, was upon them. Margaux paid her a surprise visit, inviting her to come and help. ‘You must, my dear, you must. It will cheer you up. It will cheer us all up. Regardless of the war, we must have wine. The harvest is the one bright spot in the Alsace year in these dark times. You will stay at my place.’

  ‘But, you know, your association with Jacques? It is known. I shouldn’t risk it.’

  ‘Pfft! Do you really think the Boche care about Jacques any more? About some possible British agent? Darling, they have bigger problems. Did you know that the Americans are right now in the Vosges, fighting for the freedom of Alsace? And the Free French Forces up north, fighting for the liberation of Strasbourg? This is a harvest of celebration. It is the last harvest of the war. Everyone knows it. Alsace will the very last corner of France to be liberated, but we will be liberated. It’s a matter of weeks. Les Américains will sweep through and drive away the Boche as if they were swatting away flies. And our own army is motivated as never before and there will be triumph and rejoicing.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘The grapevine, the radio, the BBC. It is common knowledge.’

  ‘I can hardly believe it. It’s so quiet here in Colmar…’

  ‘They are pissed afraid in Colmar. Hitler is pissed afraid. They are all terrified
of les Américains. They are all hiding in Colmar. And what about your majeur? No news of him?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not a word. I believe that episode is over.’

  ‘Your people in London, this Acrobat fellow, will be disappointed. I think he was expecting great things from your liaison.’

  ‘We all thought that. It’s not to be. What happened to Jacques?’

  ‘Jacques? Oh la la, Jacques. My golden boy Jacques – well, as you know, he was hiding out in Türckheim and then he came home. You cannot keep Jacques hidden away for long. Especially when there is a harvest on the horizon. Yes, my dear, Jacques is home and it is he who is organising our vendange. He has grown a beard and dyed his hair jet black but otherwise – well, Jacques is Jacques. The Boche have more serious problems than to come looking for him. So, I take it you will come to help?’

  ‘I will have to ask Oncle Yves to give me some days off. But if he does – yes, of course!’

  * * *

  That harvest, the harvest of 1944 at the Château Gauthier, was the most glorious of them all. For the locals, the Alsatians, there was, at last, hope. Yes, the war had come to Alsace and soon there would be freedom. Margaux’s words – they will be swept away like flies – was repeated and passed on and improved upon: the Boche will be sucked up like ants by the American vacuum cleaner! They will be devoured by the American fire-breathing dragon! They will be crushed underfoot like under the boots of a giant! And so the people rejoiced and passed through the vines plucking and laughing and cracking jokes; bursting with hope as the grapes were bursting with juice and goodness; and Sibyl and Jacques worked together, laughed together, hoped together, planned together. It was just a matter of weeks. Alsace was on the brink of freedom. It would be French again. The Boche would slink off like a defeated beast with its tail between its legs. Sibyl believed it all.

  Before the war, the vineyards, including Château Gauthier, had employed itinerant workers who came from far afield to pick the grapes. Since the war, this was no longer possible; and so people came from the villages and towns to help: women and children and older men, as all the young men had been conscripted. The vendange must go on! Sibyl worked side by side with Jacques. Around her people laughed and joked; they spoke French, they wore berets, they sang French songs of freedom and revolution, and she sang with them.