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

by Sharon Maas

  And then, out of the blue, it was there: an ugly grey army truck embellished with swastikas, and a swastika-embellished soldier standing on the back with a megaphone, and the strident announcement, in German, of course: ‘All wine-pickers to leave the vineyard. All wine-pickers to come to the road and stand with your hands behind your heads. There is to be an inspection of identity documents. Once you have been inspected you are free to continue picking. All wine-pickers to leave the field. All wine-pickers must immediately come to the road.’

  ‘Merde!’ cried Jacques, and he ran. In the opposite direction to the truck, away from the road, towards the forested hills where the vineyard ended. At first the man on the truck did not notice, but from his vantage point he did no doubt notice a turbulence in the steady line of people walking towards him; and he raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, and let out a shout. Soldiers jumped from the truck’s cabin and rushed into the vines, pushing their way past the pickers, shoving them aside.

  Sibyl looked behind her, in the direction that Jacques had run. She could see his head, bobbing above the vines, speeding towards the forest. A shot rang out; the head ducked and Jacques was no longer visible, just neat green rows of golden vines. Her heart throbbed violently; a soldier bumped into her, threw her aside. Pickers blocked his path.

  ‘Geh weg! Aus dem Weg! Aus dem Weg!’ he cried, but it seemed that the pickers were doing the opposite; they crowded together to create obstacles. They bent down as if to tie their shoelaces. They blocked his way as best they could. This was happening in all the rows. The soldiers cursed and shouted; a few shots rang out. But their pursuit was hampered and by the time they reached the forest Jacques would be well on his way; and Jacques knew these forests like the proverbial back of his hand. He was gone. He would be safe, God willing, but only for today. They had all been far too optimistic, underestimating the determination of the Gestapo to catch their escaped terrorist.

  Sibyl reached the road along with the other pickers. She did as she was told; stood with hands behind her head, as did the others, a row of them along the road. Officers with swastika bands on their arms walked down the row, stopping at each picker, asking questions, inspecting their ID cards, sending them back to the vines. The vendange must go on.

  When it was Sibyl’s turn the inspecting officer looked at her ID and then at her face.

  ‘You! I know you! You are the cobbler’s girl!’

  Indeed: it was the Gestapo officer who had come after the break-in.

  ‘That is right.’

  ‘What are you doing here? This Château Gauthier is well known as a hideout for terrorists. Do you know Madame Laroche?’

  ‘I know of her. She owns this vineyard, does she not?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky. Why are you working for her?’

  ‘For the same reason as all the other pickers here: because she pays well.’

  ‘It’s a long way to come from Colmar. Why did you come here?’

  ‘I told you: because she pays well. Better than my uncle the cobbler, so I took a day off. Many people here are from Colmar. Madame Laroche sent a vehicle for us.’

  He snorted and handed back her ID. ‘I will be keeping a closer eye on you. Something is not right. You may go and continue picking.’

  Sibyl tucked her ID back into her pocket and returned to the vines. But the joy had been sucked from the vendange. It was not over yet, she realised. The war is still with us, and Alsace is still under the German thumb. It is too early to celebrate.

  * * *

  When she returned to Colmar this was confirmed. There was no sign of defeat on the part of the Germans stationed there. If anything, their presence seemed even more permanent, and more sinister. She avoided as a matter of course the centre of town, where they stood around and sat around and stared; but now she spotted them even in the quieter streets, strolling along the cobbled lanes, incongruous in their grey-green uniforms. She saw them knocking at doors, no doubt checking that Germanisation was satisfactory. She was stopped once, cycling home from a visit to the market, and asked for papers. An aura of suspicion and fear hung in the air – it gave her goosebumps. Something was wrong.

  * * *

  And then von Haagen was back, standing across from her in the shop, in his hand a somewhat bedraggled bunch of roses. He held them out to her.

  ‘They are from the climbing roses at the Villa Schönblick,’ he said. ‘I thought of you right away. Fräulein Schuster, here I am again, at your service.’

  He gave a little bow and Sibyl had to swallow and take a deep breath before she could reply and take them from him.

  ‘Oh – they’re lovely! Thank you so much!’

  ‘Now tell me, beautiful woman – did you miss me as much as I missed you?’

  ‘I missed you, yes, of course!’

  ‘There’s that English saying, “absence makes the heart grow fonder”.’

  It was a shock, hearing the English words, and she looked up.

  ‘That’s certainly the case with me! Do you understand?’

  She shook her head and he translated the idiom into German.

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke English,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. English was a main subject on our curriculum – it’s useful to know a second language. It is an important part of the higher German education system. Didn’t you learn it in France?’

  ‘A little, just for a few years. I’ve forgotten most of it, though.’

  An awkward silence fell between them, unusual for him. She decided to break it.

  ‘You’ve been away quite a long time. Did you have a good time in Berlin?’

  Was that a shadow passing over his face? But it was just that: a passing shadow.

  ‘Yes, yes indeed, and I have some excellent news! I have been promoted to colonel! And after Berlin I went down to Munich as I have some leave due, so I went to see my parents; there was a small matter I needed to discuss. But now I’m here. But unfortunately I must be going – I just dropped in to let you know I’m back, and to ask you to meet me this evening for dinner. Is that possible?’

  The hesitation was less than a moment.

  ‘Of course! I’d love to!’

  * * *

  He took her to the Rote Löwe. Von Haagen had reserved a table, a cubicle in a far corner, separate and somewhat private. A few tables were occupied: two with uniformed officers with Nazi armbands, one with a well-dressed couple. Sycophantic waiters hovered around them, shoving the table slightly so that Sibyl could slide in, and shoving it back again once she was seated, laying a serviette on her lap.

  Von Haagen ordered lamb cutlets for them both, with potatoes and beans. It was the first full meal she had had since his departure to Berlin, and she told him so. It was necessary to make conversation. She couldn’t just sit there in silence, letting him do all the talking, which was her inclination. But how? Her own body refused to relax and just be natural, a young woman being courted by a handsome young man. She felt stiff and formal, and no conversation came readily to her lips. The rules of etiquette never told you what to do when the young man courting you represented the enemy, and you were the agent employed to betray and defeat that enemy; and your job was to be nice. She had told Acrobat that her agent role would be much like acting; it was playing a role. She had never expected the role to be that of leading lady in a romance; she had not studied for this part, she had not rehearsed. It was all playing by ear, and all with the knowledge that the romance was destined to be a tragedy.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it? The lamb? So tender. It’s straight from a farm. We have a deal with the farmer. He keeps his best lambs for us. Though of course they’re not so young – it’s a summer lamb.’

  ‘Delicious. I haven’t eaten this well for weeks. Not since you left.’

  ‘Haha. That’s why I had to return, to feed you up! Can’t have you starving away! Now, my dear, you must tell me what you’ve been up to in the last few weeks.’

  Under other circumst
ances she would have giggled at the irony. She would have said, oh, nothing much. Just helped a captured Resistance fighter to escape from German hands, hidden him in the empty house of a deported Jew, nursed him back to health, discussed the coming war in which the Allies will wipe out the Germans, picked grapes alongside him and watched him run from the Gestapo!

  Instead, she played into the irony of the situation and, in all innocence, looked up at him and said, ‘Oh, nothing much. It was quite boring, actually.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. I wouldn’t have wanted to hear that you’d been living it up with my Kammeraden in uniform! I know any one of them would love to get their hands on you…’

  She choked on her food and coughed; a piece of meat lodged itself in her windpipe. She coughed and coughed.

  ‘… are you all right? Herr Ober! Wasser, bitte!’ He held up a hand and snapped his fingers. The waiter ran up with a glass of water. Sibyl took several sips and a deep breath and at last she regained her composure. This would never do. Coolness under pressure. That was her strength, Mr Smith had said. Praise indeed; but entertaining a German officer required a far greater supply of coolness than did rescuing the wounded in the rubble of a Blitz bomb site.

  Conversation continued; he told her about his parents, his home, his family. He spoke about the beauty of Bavaria, the mountain chalet where the family often went for weekends –before the war; we have not been for years – the wonderful castles and lakes in the vicinity. He made Germany sound like a holiday paradise, instead of a war-ravaged country on the verge, as Sibyl now knew, of defeat.

  Dessert was served: Apfelstrudel. Not a bad effort, but Sibyl had tasted better. The pastry was soggy, and there was no cream. Cream, perhaps, was beyond even the influence of the German occupation forces.

  ‘Excuse me. I must… I’ll be right back.’

  He stood up suddenly and strode off towards the toilets. When he returned he grinned at her and slid back into his seat.

  ‘Where was I? Oh yes. I’m a lucky man, Fräulein Schuster – did we agree that I could call you Marlene? Ja? Wunderbar. And I’ve been thinking so much about you when I was in Berlin that I knew, yes, I knew beyond a doubt, that you are the woman I have been yearning for. The woman to fill my heart. The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. And so –I brought you this.’

  And before she could take another breath, say another word, he had whipped a little box from his uniform pocket – she had seen a little bulge there beforehand, and wondered –and was down on one knee before her.

  ‘Fräulein Schuster – I mean, my dear Marlene – would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

  Chapter 36

  Her jaw dropped open. She almost cried out, spontaneously, ‘What! No! Are you mad!’ but managed to suppress the words and close her mouth. She only stared, speechless.

  He waited, gazed fixed on her. In her peripheral vision she became aware of a stillness in the room; waiters gathering near the door to the kitchen. Watching, waiting. Time, suspended.

  The world held its breath and waited. Her own breath was trapped inside her, unable to escape.

  And then, from some deep place within her, Jacques’ voice, his impassioned cry: ‘For Alsace! For France! For me!’

  Her breath broke, it rushed from her, carrying the word of release: ‘Yes!’

  And the silence split open, and the tension, and the room erupted: the waiters clapped, the other guests cheered and raised glasses. Von Haagen sprang to his feet, reached for her hands, pulled her up and clasped her to himself, his face alight with unmitigated joy. Then he let her go, clapped, and cried: ‘She said yes! Champagne! Bring the champagne!’

  The next few minutes brought a flurry of activity as Sibyl and von Haagen sat down again and a beaming waiter ran up with the champagne and glass flutes. Von Haagen released the cork which flew across the room and the golden liquid quelled up and spilled to the floor and everyone laughed as he filled the two flutes and he and Sibyl raised their glasses, clinked them, and von Haagen cried: ‘To us! To Victory! To Peace!’

  Around the room other uniformed Germans raised their glasses and cried out in echo but the cry that went up was not To Victory! To Peace! but Sieg, Heil! And Sibyl, behind the smile she offered her brand-new fiancé, collected all her strength to not break down with the secret lament rising to her throat and struggling to be heard above the clamour: Oh Lord, what have I done?

  They drank, and von Haagen’s smile melted in a second. Though his gaze still clung to her; it was an oddly altered gaze, the unalloyed delight of pre-toast changed into something doubtful, questioning, insecure. He said nothing but she could tell he wanted to speak.

  ‘What is it, Wolfgang?’

  ‘Marlene. You have made me the happiest man in the world. You must know that.’

  Yet the doubt that clouded his words was palpable. She smiled to reassure him.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that.’

  ‘I know – I do know – that my love is not yet reciprocated. I can feel that you don’t love me yet. That perhaps, even, you are marrying me for convenience. I don’t mind. Love can grow if there is mutual respect and, and the will to love, and I have every faith that you will learn to love me. I am not a bad man, Marlene. I am not a bad man.’

  And then, before she could formulate an appropriate reply, his eyes turned moist as tears gathered, and he closed them and still the tears spilled out and his face crunched with the vain effort of holding them back. But he couldn’t.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ the cry escaped his lips and he buried his face in his hands.

  Sibyl reached out, touched his hand.

  ‘Wolfgang! What is it? Tell, me, please!’

  Words burst from him. ‘I’m ruined. I’m ruined. Everything is ruined. It could have been perfect. You, me, our home, our family. All ruined. It’s all over. Finished. It’s a catastrophe.’

  ‘What do you mean, Wolfgang? Tell me, please!’

  He dabbed his eyes with his napkin and looked around the room. People had lost interest in them, continuing with their own meals. The well-dressed couple had left. Waiters were gliding here and there, serving wine and dessert. Nobody was watching. Yet still he lowered his voice.

  ‘Marlene – let’s slide down a bit further. Into the corner. I want to tell you something.’

  He slid further back into the cubicle; she did the same. They ended up sitting side by side at the deepest end, out of sight of all the other diners. He took her hand, and when he spoke his voice was low.

  ‘Marlene, I’m going to tell you something only you can hear. It is a secret, you understand. But you are now my fiancée, the confidante of my heart. I know I can trust you.’

  She nodded. ‘Of course, Wolfgang.’

  ‘It’s true, what I just said. We’re finished, Marlene. Germany is going to lose the war. The Allies have already reached the Ardennes. Most of France has been cleared of our forces, Belgium too. Paris has fallen! Paris! The very symbol of our domination! It is all a farce! We are near the end. We have been told falsehoods regarding Germany’s inevitable victory. It is all a myth, a terrible myth. We have been deceived!

  ‘Marlene, in Berlin I learned the truth. I spoke with generals who told me the reality of our situation. They are trying to tell Hitler but he won’t listen; when they tell him the truth he shouts them down. He is an ugly man, Marlene, an ugly man. And mad! Off his head, some of the generals are saying!

  ‘Marlene, my beloved, do you realise what all this means? So much death, Marlene, so much devastation. Europe in ruins. And it’s not over yet. Marlene, my dearest: the war is coming to Alsace. Alsace is now part of Germany and Hitler is determined to keep it that way, whatever the cost. Even if France has fallen, even if Paris has fallen: Hitler needs to keep Alsace. That was why he called this catastrophic meeting in Berlin. It is to let us know that Alsace is to be the fiercest battle of all. We must never surrender Alsace, he said. We must fight to the death! Never retreat! He lambasted the r
est of his army, called them cowards, because they retreated. That must not happen in Alsace, he said. He sacked some of his most loyal generals. And he told us how we can keep Alsace. He’s stripped away badly needed units from the Eastern Front, he’s combed the Reich for all the manpower he can find to bring his battered formations in the West up to strength. He’s also hoarded precious fuel and Panzers. And it’s all top, top secret so as to surprise the enemy. Alsace, he says, will be the last stand and it must be a glorious victory.

  ‘He’s already assembled a strike force of unbelievable strength; the enemy hasn’t seen such powerful German forces for years! It’s already started in the Ardennes with the Operation Wacht am Rhein but it will proceed into the Vosges and then to Strasbourg and Colmar. We’re going to send the finest and fiercest troops into the Vosges. That’s what he’s done. Kept the best for the last. Alsace is a matter of pride for him; even if all else is lost, Alsace must remain German. And I will tell you something else. This is top secret, Marlene. You understand.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I met Heinrich Himmler. You know who Himmler is?’

  ‘I’ve heard the name. I’m not quite sure…’

  ‘Hitler’s right-hand man; he’s head of the SS, the Sicherheitsdienst, the Gestapo. A man of extraordinary power and so – so dangerous, so evil – beyond words evil. I’ve only now found out the extent. Marlene, I don’t – I can’t – the things he said – I am devastated. A broken man. I’m so ashamed – so ashamed – to be a German – to know these things – what he has done – it’s happening right now – those people!’

  He was close to collapsing in tears. Sibyl reached out and took his hand. He clasped it, kissed it, squeezed it.