by Sharon Maas
But there was Margaux, on November 23rd, shaking with excitement. ‘Sibyl – you’ve got to come to the château. You’ve got to hear this yourself… You too, Yves; come on, both of you.’
She shooed them both out of the building to the street where the van was parked and drove them to the château; obviously bursting with good news but refusing to reveal it.
‘No, no, it is not for me to tell you. You must hear it first-hand. From the BBC,’ she insisted.
Sibyl found the château in a state of joyous uproar. French flags hung everywhere, and both Victoire and Elena, laughing and more than a little tipsy, grabbed her as she entered the kitchen and swung her around in a dance of triumph.
‘We’re free! We’re free!’ cried Victoire, grinning, and she moved on to Yves, kissed him, danced with him; Yves, bemused, let it all happen all the time muttering,
‘What’s happening? What’s going on?’
‘Strasbourg has fallen! The Germans have been defeated in Strasbourg!’ cried Victoire, breaking the secret.
‘Sssh!’ ordered Margaux. ‘It’s the six o’clock news… here we go…’
Silence descended. They sat around the radio as Margaux turned up the volume.
First the BBC’s famous five pips, followed by one long pip. Then, a cut-glass female announcer:
* * *
You’re tuned to the General Broadcasting Service of the BBC World Service. This is the British Broadcasting Service. Here is the news.
Strasbourg is free! The German army today was defeated and driven out of the city or captured. The 2nd French Armoured Division of General Leclerc, supported by the 7th US Army of General Patch, entered Strasbourg this morning. Strasbourg, the capital of the north-eastern French province of Alsace, was annexed by Germany in 1940 and has since been part of the regime of the Third Reich resulting in forced Germanisation of Alsatian citizens. The Allied forced were guided into Strasbourg by the local Free French forces of General de Gaulle’s Government-in-exile, who captured alone 4500 German soldiers, 50 policemen and 4 Gestapo agents along with a variety of guns and ammunition.
‘This afternoon at 2 p.m. the French national flag, the Tricolore, was raised on the cathedral of Strasbourg and the city’s inhabitants poured out of their homes amid great rejoicing. The sound of cheering and singing of ‘La Marseillaise’, the French national anthem, broke out on the streets as citizens celebrated their freedom after four long years. The Marseillaise was, coincidentally, written in Strasbourg in 1792 by Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle after the declaration of war by France against Austria and was originally titled ‘Chant de guerre pour l’Armée du Rhi’, ‘War Song for the Rhine Army’. Here today at the Rhine the anthem was very appropriately sung again as Strasbourg rids herself of the German yoke.
‘The rapid Liberation of Strasbourg has produced a torrent of joy in the newly liberated French nation and was a hugely symbolic victory for the French people and the Western Allies in general. The Liberation and Tricolore raised over the cathedral is considered to be the last major objective in the Liberation of France; Strasbourg was the last bastion of German domination.
* * *
Tears of unalloyed joy gathered in Sibyl’s eyes as she listened to the report, and as the first verse of the Marseillaise poured from the radio so did the tears stream down her cheeks and her heart swelled and she rose to her feet and let herself be gathered into the generous embrace of Margaux.
‘We’re free! We’re free!’ sobbed Margaux, and it was hard to tell who cried the most, Margaux, Victoire, Pierre, Yves, Sibyl, or even Elena, the late arrival to the trials of Alsace.
It was only later, much later, after nightfall, because nobody was sober enough to drive them home, that Sibyl dared to put into words the question that had gnawed at the back of her mind ever since that first ‘Strasbourg is free!’ cry went up. Tentatively, hesitantly, at last she spoke the words:
‘I wonder what happened to Colonel von Haagen?’
‘Oh, I expect he’s dead,’ said Margaux. ‘Or else taken prisoner. You’re rid of that creature at last, Sibyl.’
The words fell into Sibyl’s heart with a great heavy thud. And she didn’t know why. Yes, at last she was rid of him. And yet…
She and Elena exchanged a glance.
‘If he is gone then I suppose I’ll be recalled,’ said Elena. ‘Sibyl can’t exactly extract secrets from a dead man.’
‘Anyway, unnecessary now because Alsace is free,’ Margaux said. ‘Your job is done. Yours too, Sibyl. No more spying! No more Marlene Schuster!’
‘But Colmar is still overrun with Germans,’ said Oncle Yves. ‘Alsace will not be free until Colmar is free.’
‘Pah! That is just a question of days now. Strasbourg has fallen and that is the main thing. If Strasbourg is free then all Alsace is free.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Oncle Yves, but he was disinclined to argue. He refilled his wine glass.
Sibyl looked at Elena. ‘We’ll have to wait for instructions. They’ll let us know if our job is done.’
‘And did you hear that bit about the Free French? It was they who captured the Germans! That’s our Jacques, Sibyl. Jacques is the hero of the day. Let us drink to Jacques!’
She grabbed the bottle from Oncle Yves and refilled everyone’s glasses.
‘To Jacques, our local hero! To France! To Alsace! To Strasbourg! To Liberty!’
The cheers went up one by one.
The last cheer was given by Oncle Yves: ‘To Colmar! May you soon be free as well!’
Chapter 40
The fall of Strasbourg was a perfect disaster for Germany – from a military viewpoint, but mostly psychologically. After Paris, no other French city was a source of such symbolic meaning, such national pride, as Strasbourg. Hitler craved Strasbourg. And now it was gone, the swastikas removed from the cathedral towers and replaced with the Tricolore. The humiliation gave rise to a huge wave of renewed energy and determination; but the situation, for Germany, was bleak.
The US Seventh Army, led by General Alexander Patch, had struggled through difficult winter conditions during the Vosges mountains campaign, clearing strong and entrenched German forces from the west bank of the Rhine. By the end of November German forces had been driven back to the Rhine on the northern and southern edges of the Allied advance; Alsace was almost completely in Allied hands.
Almost.
The German Nineteenth Army, led by Infantry General Siegfried Rasp, still held Colmar and its environs.
And was not about to give those up so quickly.
Under direct orders from Himmler, who in turn received direct orders from Hitler himself, they fought with a ferocity almost unequalled throughout the war, and with this renewed tenacity managed to hold onto a bridgehead forty miles wide and thirty miles deep on the west bank of the river Rhein.
The centre of this bridgehead was Colmar. It was a deep pocket of Germany in the midst of ground the Allies had won, at the very eastern edge of France. The very last speck of France still in German hands.
The battle for France would not be over until the Colmar Pocket was emptied.
But the Allies were weary from six months of fighting. Their logistics were stretched thin. They lacked fresh troops and supplies needed to push hard. The terrain was unfamiliar, the winter harsh – the worst winter of the century, in fact, with a metre of snow and temperatures as low as minus four degrees centigrade. The Germans were entrenched in small villages of sturdy stone construction: strong defensive positions.
French forces, under the command of General Jean de Lattre were strained. African troops, experienced from fighting in Italy, had been replaced with French Forces of the Interior, troops of limited quality and experience. These troops might well be capable of defensive fighting, but when it came to offensive operations, and especially complex activities, they were, basically, greenhorns.
In other words, the French troops were weak, fighting against a highly motivated Third Reich ar
my consisting of Hitler’s elite. What chance did they have? And so the Germans held on to the Colmar Pocket as a tiger holds on to its prey.
After celebrating Strasbourg’s liberation, Oncle Yves and Sibyl returned to Colmar and life went on as before. As Oncle Yves had noted, nothing had changed in the town. The same German soldiers dominated the streets; more soldiers than civilians, as usual, some with, some without, the Nazi armbands. It was as if Strasbourg had not fallen; as if nobody had heard the news. After the euphoria of November 23rd it was a let-down, a fall to earth. Nothing had changed. Colmar was as captured as ever, in the palm of the Boche, as Oncle Yves put it.
Sibyl was aware of a heaviness of heart that lingered in spite of all attempts to shake it off. The war was nearing its end; Alsace was partly free, and if Colmar wasn’t free yet it was only a question of time. The Allies were making their way south from Strasbourg, no doubt. And Jacques, with the Free French forces. The Americans. The French army. They were on their way. It was just a matter of time before they’d drive the Germans from Colmar’s streets.
She would never again have to put up with Colonel Wolfgang von Haagen and his misplaced courtship. Never again need to pretend a closeness she did not feel, never again have to lie, never again have to betray. And yet…
And yet, his confession preyed on her mind; his meltdown in the restaurant. And despite all reasoning, all self-reprimands, all the stern pull-yourself-together scolding she gave herself, she could not but feel pain – on his behalf. And she couldn’t help wondering, was he dead? Captured? She’d never know, now, and that lack of an ending nagged at her, like having an exciting novel torn from her hands a chapter before the climax. It left a frayed residue. Well, perhaps she could find out, when this was all over. There’d be records, surely, and once relieved of her agent role she could enquire. For her own satisfaction. Just to end the uneasiness, put an end to the story.
At least she didn’t have to marry the creature; but even relief was no adequate conclusion.
She acknowledged that he was a man who had made a terrible mistake and had paid for it. No need to feel sorry for him. And yet, she did. And in a way she hoped he was dead. Better to be dead than captured and live with the agony he’d expressed for the rest of one’s life.
Worse yet, possibly, for him: if captured he’d eventually know that Marlene Schuster was a myth, an actress, a spy; he would have to live with that betrayal for the rest of his life. No, let him be dead. Far kinder to wish him dead than to wish him captured.
A week passed. No news from Baker Street, no recall from duties, no instructions at all. Just life as cobbler’s assistant Marlene Schuster, also known as Jeanne Dauguet, also known, in the far distant past, as Sibyl Lake.
* * *
The doorbell jangled. She did not turn around; she was fiddling with a thick shoelace, trying to thread it into a too-small eyelet. ‘Just a moment!’ she called.
‘Marlene. It’s me.’ The voice was low, without any inflection whatsoever. And unmistakeable. She whipped around.
‘Wolfgang!’ Indeed. It was him; or rather, an apparition bearing a slight resemblance to the man she had known. His face was drained, his eyes sunken, his cheeks hollow, the cheekbones and chin sharp and prominent, the skin itself sallow. He wore a greatcoat, which hung from his shoulders which, unbelievably, seemed rounded, hunched, rather than sharply pulled back as usual. The whole figure was that not of a confident Wehrmacht officer at the height of his career, but of a man defeated, lost, who had tried on a military uniform for the sake of image.
She jumped to her feet, dropping the shoe and for a short moment simply stood there, stiff with shock; the dead man of her imagination risen. Shock, guilt, confusion coursed through her, a tangle of reactions; and somehow, somewhere, even a tiny thread of – relief.
‘Marlene. Marlene. I – come to me, my darling.’
Sibyl cast aside her confusion and, an actor leaping into character without missing a beat, she repeated, ‘Wolfgang!’ but this time in a voice infused with relief. ‘I thought you were – I heard that Strasbourg had fallen and I thought…’
‘That I was dead? Many of my comrades are dead. For some reason, they missed me; I was lucky. But they captured me, The Free French captured me. Don’t just stand there: come to me!’
She raised the counter flap and passed through the gap. He pulled her to him, closed his arms around her and held her in silence for several moments. Her cheek against his chest, she could hear the thumping of his heart, and then the rasping of his sobs.
‘Wolf – what’s the matter?’ She reached behind him and pulled the bolt on the door; this was not a scene for another customer to barge in on.
He managed to stutter, between sobs: ‘They captured me and all the officers, Marlene. They mocked and taunted us and in that moment I only wanted to be dead, even though I knew now that I would die not a hero but a coward. And I thought of you and wanted only to take you in my arms once again. And now you are here.’
‘Oh Wolf. Come, come through to my Oncle Yves – can I offer you a glass of water?’
‘No – no. I must go now. The whole of the Colmar station is in turmoil – nobody knows what is happening. My comrades need leadership and I must go and lead them. But tonight, my love, tonight – may I pick you up at seven?’
She nodded. He buried his face in her hair, pressed her closer yet to him, sobbed again, then pulled himself together, gave a little bow, pulled back the bolt on the door, and was gone.
Sibyl locked the door again and ran through to Oncle Yves. She was trembling all over; she could hardly stand, so Oncle Yves stood up from his workbench, grabbed hold of her and led her to a chair. Slowly she regained her composure.
‘Oncle Yves: you were right. It’s not over. I think it’s just about to begin.’
* * *
That evening, at the Rote Löwe, in their now-familiar cubicle, he told her the story.
‘It was a complete disaster, Marlene. A catastrophe. The Wehrmacht’s defence collapsed completely. All of us in the senior leadership, we panicked. Our morale was completely broken; I suppose we all know we have lost and knowing that – well, how can a man fight to the death knowing his death is in vain? We fled, Marlene! So many of us fled! I too fled; we fled even prior to the Allied push. All of us; we were completely demoralised, the army, the Waffen-SS, and the Luftwaffe ground forces. There was a complete breakdown in discipline such as I have never seen in my entire life. It was abominable, atrocious. The SS had looted Strasbourg even before fleeing. Soldiers ordered to fight to the last round, fight to the death: they threw away most of their ammunition before the battle and then claimed that they had run out and surrendered. If Hitler had seen that he would have hanged every last one of us. Everyone ran away, district leaders, group leaders, regiment leaders, the municipal authorities, the mayor and the deputy mayor, government officials: they all took to their heels. They all fled. Every last one. It was shameful, shocking – and in retrospect I am ashamed and shocked by my own actions and I wish they had killed me. The other officers – well, they were taken prisoner, eventually marched off. We too, a small group of us, were taken prisoner but they let us go and sent us away. I walked from Strasbourg to Colmar. I ate only things I found along the way: fallen apples, overripe grapes clinging to vines, plums from trees. Luckily there was enough water, enough streams. I arrived back at the officers’ garrison late last night.’
‘You said they captured you? The French?’
‘Yes. The Free French captured us. They lined us up against the wall, taunted us. We stood there with our hands up, prisoners. And then a strange thing happened. They walked down the line, asking all our names and ranks. And they picked out certain of us – about ten of us, I think – and set us free.’
He spoke on and on, telling and retelling, relating his shame and the disgrace that had befallen him and the entire army. His death wish, and yet his relief at being alive, to once more hold ‘Marlene’ in his arms.
>
After several hours of lamentation, and a whole bottle of wine emptied, almost entirely by him, he had calmed down considerably. Far from acting drunk, he stopped the lamentations and seemed almost to draw on last reserves of sobriety and reason.
‘On my way here, dear Marlene, as I was tramping through the mud and the cold wind was whipping at me, I had but one thought: what if I had died? What would become of Marlene? And that is why I came to one conclusion: Marlene, we must marry as soon as possible. Before Christmas.’
‘Get married, now? But, Wolf, that is impossible!’
‘No, it is not impossible. Just a civil wedding, at the town hall. You have all your papers here, and I must only send for my birth certificate. It is easy. We must marry, Marlene, for several reasons. The first reason is of course selfish: I love you, I need you, I want you. I do not want to die in the next battle – oh yes, there will be another battle, my dear! – without having loved you entirely, body and soul. Marrying you will bring so much comfort to me, give me so much strength!
‘But that is only the selfish reason. For your sake, too, it is better we marry now. This is for your own future. Look at you, a poor cobbler’s girl. But when I die, Marlene: as my widow you will inherit my entire property, automatically, and no one can contest it. That is actually quite a significant inheritance. I own a villa in Munich, which was left to me by my grandparents. And quite a substantial amount of capital, and shares in some businesses. And of course you will also receive a widow’s pension. Your life will be quite a different one. I would leave this to you with a big heart and all my love – I would not begrudge you marrying again, my beloved. I want you to be happy.’
‘But why are you so sure that you will die?’
‘Because I can no longer fight this war for Germany, knowing what I now know, Marlene, knowing the evil behind my forces. I just cannot. And now most of the other men know it too. Their spines are as limp as vines. Mine too. I should have died. And in the next battle it is very likely that I will die. Because, Marlene, this will not happen again. I cannot live with such ignominy; I must fight the next battle like a man, a soldier, to the death. I cannot live on knowing I was a coward. My death is very likely considering what happened in Strasbourg – I am determined not to let that be my last fight. I am not a coward and the next time I will fight bravely to the death, not because Hitler ordered it, not for the Third Reich, but for my own honour, to clean my slate of disgrace.’
