My Brother
Strong above me, arm protective,
Round my shoulder, leading me.
Always caring, ever loving,
Do you see me, do you see?
Enigmatic, strong and stoic,
Leaning forward over me.
Book in one hand, reading quietly,
Do you see me, do you see?
Light glows brightly, shining from you,
In your shadow, always be.
I am here now, I am growing,
Do you see me, do you see?
So you’ll leave me, one day finding,
Life beyond our sanctuary.
Never knowing how I loved you,
Did you see me, did you see?
Sophia de la Martinières
1932, age 14
21
Paris
1943
Édouard arrived back home from the south two days later. He seemed exhausted and went straight up to his room, pausing on the stairs to tell Connie they were entertaining that evening. She would be required in the drawing room at six thirty.
She wondered who the guests would be that night—and sent up a silent prayer it wouldn’t be Falk and Frederik. She was slowly calming down after the trials of two nights ago, when Venetia had been transmitting from the cellar and Frederik had arrived at the house unexpectedly.
When Sarah had gone out shopping the morning after, Connie had run downstairs and checked the cellar, intending to relock it. But the key was missing. She searched for it both inside and out, but found no trace. Comfortingly, neither was there evidence of Venetia’s presence—not a hint of stale Gauloises in the air and nothing touched or removed that she could see. And so far, no reprisals, which she knew from experience were fast. If the Boche had picked up a radio signal from the locality, they would have conducted a house-to-house search immediately, aware that the wireless operator would usually pack up and leave within hours.
At six thirty that evening, as requested, Connie was on parade in the drawing room. A dreamy Sophia, looking heartbreakingly beautiful in a new lilac cocktail dress, was led in by Sarah.
As Sophia sat down in the chair, Connie studied her and realized she’d recently gained an aura that distinguished between longing and knowing. She was simply radiant: a young woman at the full height of her physical powers.
Édouard arrived downstairs in the drawing room looking rested and refreshed, seemingly back to his untroubled self. He kissed his sister, commented on her beauty that evening, and relayed the guest list. It was the usual mixture of bourgeois French, Vichy officials, and Germans.
By seven thirty, all the guests had arrived, apart from Falk. Frederik had delivered his brother’s apologies that he was delayed, but would arrive later.
“There was a breakin last night at the STO office on the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois,” Frederik explained. “The Resistance stole sixty-five thousand files and got clean away. Understandably, this has not pleased my brother.”
Connie had learned of the STO program during her SOE training. It was a register of young Frenchmen—totaling almost 150,000 names. Large numbers of them were continuously rounded up and sent to Germany to work in munitions factories and on production lines. The deportation of these thousands of young men had caused growing dissent among the French public and had rendered the Vichy government extremely unpopular. The STO program had made many previously law-abiding French citizens look to and support the Resistance. Connie’s concerned face as she listened to Frederik gave away none of the inner delight she felt at the success of the Resistance’s mission. And Venetia’s obviously successful part in it.
“Of course there will be reprisals,” added a high-ranking Vichy official. “We will become even more vigilant to stamp out these rebels who tear our country apart.”
As coffee and brandy were being served in the drawing room, the front doorbell rang. A few seconds later, Falk entered the room.
“My apologies, Édouard, I have been kept from your table by the militants of this country who continue to undermine our regime.”
As Édouard poured him a brandy, Connie noticed Falk’s face was set hard and a glint was in his eye. Connie gritted her teeth as he walked over. “Fräulein Constance, how does this evening find you?”
“I’m well, thank you, Falk. And you?”
“As you have heard, there has been some trouble from the Resistance, but rest assured, we are dealing with it and they will not get away with what they have done. Anyway, enough of work. I’m in need of some entertainment.” His fingers reached out to stroke Connie’s cheek.
His touch was like iced water dripping down her face.
“Fräulein, perhaps you can—”
“So, you have had to deal with a big problem.” Édouard appeared by their side to defuse the situation.
“Yes, but the perpetrators will be caught and punished. We already have intelligence coming in from the French public who do not approve of the Resistance and wish to alert us to traitors. And we believe they are operating very close to here. One of our listeners picked up a strong signal two nights ago, which was being transmitted from one of the houses in this street. A full search was conducted immediately of your neighbors’ properties, but nothing was found. Of course, I told my officers not to trouble you with such an intrusion.”
Connie’s blood froze in her veins as Édouard looked genuinely surprised. “Where could the signal have come from?” he questioned. “I know for a fact that all my neighbors are loyal and law-abiding people.”
“Brother,” Frederik interrupted suddenly, “if this was two nights ago, I was here for a short time visiting Mademoiselle Sophia, and she said she longed to hear some music. The gramophone would not work, so she mentioned there was a radio in the house. Wanting to please her, I switched it on and tuned it to find some classical music for Sophia to listen to. So, Falk”—Frederik sighed penitently—“I think that perhaps this is the signal you picked up. I apologize for causing you extra work. But I can assure you, the full might of the SS was present in this house that evening, and I only saw the cat enter and leave.”
Even Édouard’s calm demeanour seemed ruffled by Frederik’s strange confession. Falk also looked unconvinced. “Well, I can hardly arrest my own superior for carrying out a mission to please a lady,” Falk replied, irritation clear in his voice. “We shall, of course, forget it, but I suggest, Édouard, that you hand in your radio immediately, so there can be no more confusion.”
“Of course, Falk,” said Édouard. “I was not here at the house on the night in question. Sophia, you should not have encouraged such behavior.”
“But the music we listened to was beautiful.” Sophia smiled from the chair behind them. “Mozart’s Requiem must be worth all the trouble, surely?” Her innocent charm broke the tension.
Connie noticed that Frederik’s gaze rested on Sophia constantly, tenderness in his eyes. The juxtaposition of an identical pair of eyes on the other side of her—steely and devoid of warmth—was evident. If the eyes truly were windows to the soul, she knew that Frederik and Falk, for all their identical outer packaging, did not share a similar one.
• • •
Édouard came to Connie in the library the next morning. “So, Frederik was here while I was away?”
“Yes. But I didn’t invite him, your sister did. And I knew nothing of the arrangement.”
“I see.” Édouard folded his arms and sighed. “I saw last night that the relationship has grown. They’re deeply in love. Has Sophia spoken to you of it?”
“Yes,” Connie replied truthfully, “and I tried to warn her of the hopelessness of pursuing any relationship with Frederik. But she won’t be reasoned with.”
“We can only hope that Frederik returns to Germany soon, for Sophia’s sake.” Édouard turned to Connie. “You were with them the night he was here?”
“No, Frederik arrived after I retired. I was in bed.”
“My God!” Édouard put a han
d to his forehead in horror. “Sophia has truly gone mad! To entertain a man alone is unacceptable, but to do it in secret, late at night, is unthinkable!”
“Édouard, please forgive me, but I really didn’t know what to do. Even if I had told Sophia it was inappropriate to entertain Frederik alone here at that hour, I’m only a guest in her house. I don’t have the right to tell her what she may or may not do. And especially not while she’s with a German officer, so high in rank. I’m so very sorry.”
Édouard slumped into a chair, suddenly despairing. “Is it not enough they rape and destroy our beautiful country and steal its treasures? Do they have to steal my sister too? Sometimes I …”
“Édouard, what is it?”
He stared into space for a while, then said, “Forgive me, Constance, I’m tired, and shocked at my sister’s behavior. I feel I have been fighting this war for a very long time. So, we will see if Frederik leaves for Germany soon. If not, more drastic action must be taken.”
“At least it was wonderful news about the STO files being successfully removed by the Resistance, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” He turned to her, an odd expression on his face. “And there will be more, rest assured, there will be more.”
Édouard left the library, and Connie sat with her book on her lap, at that moment certain Édouard de la Martinières had been a part of the STO raid the other night. And she was comforted by the thought. But it didn’t change that she was trapped in a web that was not of her own making; passive when she had been trained to be active … going slowly mad …
And why had Frederik covered for the household by mentioning the radio? Could Sophia be right when she said Frederik did not believe in the Nazi cause? Or had he known already that a signal was being transmitted from the house and had come to investigate for himself?
Connie put her head in her hands and wept. The cause she had been enlisted to fight for had been lost in a blur of confusion. All the others seemed to know the game they were playing and their role in it. But she felt no better than a piece of flotsam, tossed to-and-fro on the whims and secret objectives of others.
“Lawrence,” she whispered, “help me.”
She looked around the library, and the books stared back at her, hard, cold, and inanimate, their outer skins so similar, betraying little of their contents. A perfect metaphor for the life she was currently being forced to live.
At lunchtime, Sophia, whom Connie had seen little of in the past few days, looked tired and pale. Connie watched as she picked at her food, then stood up from the table and excused herself.
Two hours later, when Sophia had not emerged from her bedroom, Connie knocked on her door. Sophia was lying on her bed, her face gray, a cold flannel pressed to her forehead.
“My dear, are you unwell?” Connie sat down on the bed and took Sophia’s hand in her own. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, I’m not ill. Physically at least …” Sophia sighed and gave a weak smile. “Thank you for coming, Constance. It feels as if we haven’t spent time together recently. I’ve missed you.”
“Well, I’m here now.”
“Oh, Constance.” Sophia bit her lip. “Frederik has told me he must leave within the next few weeks to return to Germany. How will I bear it?” Her sightless eyes brimmed with tears.
“Because you must.” Connie squeezed Sophia’s hand. “Just like I must bear being without Lawrence.”
“Yes. I know you think I’m naive and that I don’t understand the meaning of love. That I will get over Frederik because there’s no future for us. But I’m a grown woman and I know my own heart.”
“I’m only trying to protect you, Sophia. I understand how difficult it is for you.”
“Constance, I know Frederik and I will be together. I know it here”—Sophia put her hand on her heart—“inside me. Frederik says he will find a way and I believe him.”
Connie sighed. Set against the hardships of the past four years, when millions of people had lost either their own lives or their loved ones to the war, Sophia’s romance could be seen as trivial. But to Sophia it was all-consuming, simply because it was hers.
“Well, if Frederik says he will find a way, he will,” Connie consoled, realizing she could say little else. If Frederik was leaving soon, she could only pray the situation would be resolved naturally.
• • •
The next few weeks were full of broken nights as air-raid sirens shattered the still Paris air and its residents yet again retreated underground for safety. Connie heard of RAF attacks on both the Peugeot and Michelin factories in the industrial heartlands outside Paris. At home in England, she would have greeted this news with joy as she read it in the Times, but here, the papers were full of the numbers of innocent French civilians working there who had been killed.
As she took her daily stroll down to the Tuileries Gardens, Connie could almost feel the weakening heartbeat of a city and people who were slowly losing their faith that the war would ever end. The promised Allied invasion had still not materialized, and Connie was beginning to wonder whether it ever would.
Sitting down on her usual bench, the air already heavy with mist, as though also in a hurry to rid itself of this miserable day, Connie saw Venetia walking toward her.
They went through the usual polite rigmarole of a greeting, and Venetia sat down next to her. Although she was in her “wealthy woman” uniform, today she had not bothered with her makeup mask. Her skin was translucently pale, her face desperately thin.
“Thank you for your help with the cellar that time. Much appreciated.” Venetia pulled out a Gauloises. “Smoke?”
“No. Thank you.”
“I live on these bloody things, they stem the hunger.” Venetia lit up.
“Do you need money to buy some food?” Connie asked, feeling she could provide at least this.
“No thanks. The real problem is I always seem to be haring around, never able to stay at the same place twice in case the Boche pick up my signal. I’m always in transit on my wretched bicycle, so it’s hard to find the time to sit down and eat.”
“How are things going?”
“Oh, you know, Con”—Venetia drew heavily on her cigarette—“one step forward, two steps back. At least our lot are a little more organized than they were when I arrived in the summer. But we can always do with an extra pair of hands. And I was thinking, perhaps it doesn’t matter if you’re no longer officially an agent. There’s no reason why you couldn’t help out as an ordinary French citizen. And then, perhaps, if you met the people I work with, they might be able to help you leave France.”
“Really?” Connie’s deadened spirits lifted immediately. “Oh, Venetia, I know my life is a picnic compared to yours, but I’d do anything, anything to try to get home and out of that house.”
“Well, I’ve already told my network that you helped me, and I’m sure they might be able to help you get out of France. What I suggest is that you join us at the next meeting. I can’t promise anything, and you must remember there’s always a risk there’s a traitor who will inform the Germans of our whereabouts, but a favor deserves a favor. Besides, you’re my friend. And I feel sorry for you, stuck in that house entertaining those pigs.”
Venetia gave Connie a warm smile, and she saw a sudden flash of her friend’s beauty appear through the veil of exhaustion.
“By the way, I think the chap you’re staying with may be extremely high up in the Resistance. I’ve heard there’s a very wealthy man in Paris who’s number two only to Moulin, our late and revered Resistance boss. If it is your chap, sweetie, it’s understandable why London had to sacrifice your glittering career as an agent when you appeared on his doorstep in full view of the Gestapo. Anyway, must fly.” Venetia stood up. “I’ll bring you exact details of where and when the meeting is taking place on Thursday. So, tally-ho, and see you here then.”
22
As arranged, Connie was in the gardens on Thursday, but Venetia did not appear
. Finally, after sitting on the bench at the appointed time for the following four days, Venetia arrived, wheeling her bicycle. She did not acknowledge Connie, merely paused, stared straight ahead, and said under her breath, “Café de la Paix, ninth arrondissement, nine o’clock tonight.” Then she was gone.
Connie spent the next few hours pondering how she could leave the house unnoticed. As sure as eggs were eggs, Édouard would not allow her out in the evening unaccompanied. She decided the best thing for it was to announce she had a headache and retire to her room after dinner. Édouard usually shut himself away in his study at this point. And when she knew he was safely inside, she would go to the kitchen and let herself out through the cellar, which still remained unlocked due to the lost key.
That night, after dinner, just as Édouard had left the table and she was following suit, the doorbell rang and Sarah answered it. She came into the dining room. “It is Colonel Falk von Wehndorf to see you, Madame Constance. He is waiting in the drawing room.”
Almost weeping at the bad timing, Connie walked into the hall and painted on a bright smile as she entered the drawing room. “Hello, Herr Falk. How are you?”
“I’m well, but I haven’t seen you for the past few days, fräulein, and I have missed your beauty. I wish to ask you if you would give me the pleasure of accompanying me out for some dancing later on this evening?”
Connie began to utter an excuse, but Falk shook his head and put a finger to her lips. “No, fräulein, you have refused me once too often. Tonight, I will not be dissuaded. I will collect you at ten o’clock.” Falk began to leave the room, then stopped as in afterthought. “I hope to be in a very good mood. My officers have an important appointment at the Café de la Paix tonight.” He smiled at her. “Until later, fräulein.”
A horrified Connie watched him leave, her heart thudding against her chest. This was the café where she too was headed. She had to warn Venetia that the Gestapo knew of their meeting. Running upstairs and pinning on her hat, Connie raced back down and walked toward the door. Opening it, she had one foot on the doorstep outside when a hand grabbed her arm.
The Lavender Garden Page 24
