by David Gilman
‘And those 402 Peugeots weren’t bad either,’ added Drossier. ‘When this war’s over I’m going to have myself one of those.’
‘Once a thief always a thief,’ said Laforge.
‘I only stole from those who could afford it. Never from comrades or the poor.’
Maillé ran a finger along the car’s bloodline and cupped his hand to look through the shadowed window. ‘You’ll be lucky to own a bike when this is over, Drossier. The Germans will take everything and what’s left the rich will keep.’
The first car was clearly less practical to run than the other, but it occurred to Mitchell that the patrician had somehow managed to secure a petrol ration from the Germans. And if that was the case what was he giving them in return?
The servant bent down at the back of the workshop and moved some toolboxes to one side. Pressing his hands against the wooden floorboards he found a latch and then lifted a trapdoor.
‘There are straw mattresses down there and a bucket for a toilet,’ he said, handing Bucard the oil lamp. ‘There will be food and drink in the morning. God willing, that is. I hope to God you haven’t brought the SS down on us.’ He waited until Mitchell and the men descended into the cellar and then he lowered the trapdoor.
The oil lamp revealed scattered straw mattresses, stained and lumpy, and a pile of hessian sacks instead of blankets. The air below ground was musty and chill, yet each man went to a mattress without fuss or complaint and prepared for a night’s sleep. Even Maillé remained silent. A slow, creeping fear trickled like water in Mitchell’s stomach. Was this the kind of place his daughter was being held at in Paris? Had the Gestapo cast her into darkness and left her to imagine what terror lurked there?
‘Leave the lamp burning,’ said Laforge as he pulled sacking over himself.
No one disagreed.
21
Madame Louise Gaétan had served on the front line in the Great War when she was a twenty-six-year-old, strong-minded – wilful, her father had said – young woman determined not to be seen standing in the wings of a nation’s greatest conflict. Now the former volunteer Red Cross nurse refused to be cowed during this, the second conflict twenty-eight years later. She ladled porridge from the stove, wiped her hands on her apron and then broke a dozen eggs into the skillet. A younger woman poured milk from a flagon into tin cups that sat on the table before each of Mitchell’s group. Juliet Bonnier had offered to help but was gently shushed by the matriarch and told to eat. The cooked oats were spooned with a dollop of strawberry jam from one of the jars hidden behind the false wall of the larder.
‘Marie, fetch more plates for these eggs,’ she instructed the young housemaid. ‘We hide what we can from the Boche,’ she explained, raising a hand as if in confession. ‘Ah, I know they are Nazis now, but to me, they will always be the Boche. Marie, hurry with those plates. They take everything. We keep our chickens in a pen in the forest; there are a couple of pigs there as well. We won’t starve. Not in the country. And they know, the Boche, of course they know. But they benefit so we will be seen as collaborators when this is over.’ She shrugged. ‘I tell you this so that when the communists come to take everything someone can speak up for us. Good girl,’ she said as Marie laid out the plates and gave each uninvited guest a clean knife and fork.
‘Why do you think you will be called a collaborator, madame?’ said Simone. ‘I saw the photograph on the hall table of you in a nurse’s uniform.’
Madame Gaétan touched her warm hand on Simon’s upturned face. ‘Child, I take eggs to the wounded German soldiers. Most of them are still boys. God shows himself in wounded men. And our faces are reflected in His. I take them eggs and they give us some gasoline. Then I am allowed to take what food I can to the orphanage in town. I buy from the black market and give it to the children. Here and in Paris. In the city I try and convince the Germans to help us with the needy children and I attend parties where rich women who enjoy protection and favours feel guilty enough to contribute.’ She shrugged. ‘Your brave mother will explain the consequences of our actions. How we survive and what we do can easily be twisted.’
‘Where is Monsieur Gaétan?’ said Mitchell.
‘My husband does not eat in the kitchen with lesser mortals.’ She beamed. ‘And that includes me. I’m just a woman.’ She laughed, and threatened the group with her ladle. ‘You men will appreciate us one day.’
‘One day when the earth stops turning,’ said Juliet.
‘Yes,’ said Madame Gaétan. ‘We are kept in our place. We stand in kitchen doorways and listen to what you men plan to do. And then you turn to us to carry messages in our camiknickers. We feed you, hide you and nurse your wounds.’ She smiled again. ‘I know about you, Madame Bonnier, and your late husband. I thank God for men like him and more especially for women like you.’
‘These are good men,’ said Juliet.
Madame Gaétan looked them over. ‘I can see that,’ she said.
The man Mitchell mentally called the gamekeeper put his head inside the room. ‘Colonel Garon, if you please.’
Mitchell saw the eggs being slid on to the plates. He stood reluctantly and followed the servant down the corridor and into the room he had visited the previous evening. Olivier Gaétan got up from one end of a long refectory-style table where his own breakfast had been served and beckoned Mitchell to the other end where a map was laid out. ‘Colonel, I have marked out a route to get you to the outskirts of Paris. And I have had a message sent to London. Another wireless operator is going to be brought in by Lysander. That person will accompany you to Paris.’ He handed Mitchell a communiqué. ‘I have been given no further information other than that the aircraft will in all probability be here tomorrow night. The weather looks good but we must pray we can get in and out before the Germans find us at the landing zone.’
‘Thank you.’ The older man seemed more forthcoming this morning. Perhaps, Mitchell thought, it was enthusiasm brought about by being given responsibility to help achieve a successful mission. Sitting virtually alone in a rambling house in the middle of the countryside could easily dull the senses and drive a man’s instinct into self-preservation.
‘You know Paris?’ said Gaétan.
‘I lived there.’
‘When was the last time you were in the city?’
‘I left in ‘41.’
‘Then things have changed. There are some you should know about.’ The patrician traced a finger across a Paris street map. ‘You know about Avenue Foch?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. SS-Brigadeführer Karl Oberg commands Paris. The man most feared on his staff is SS-Standartenführer Heinrich Stolz. He pursues the Resistance in Paris like a hunter after his prey.’
At the mention of Stolz’s name, Mitchell felt his heart skip a beat but he remained silent, not wishing to draw attention to his own mission to find and rescue his daughter.
‘Now,’ said Gaétan. ‘You know the police are complicit. You can trust not one of them. Some may profess to being able to help, and some, I admit, are genuine. But unless they are vouched for you do not ask anything of them. Commissaire Fernand David is in command of the Brigades Spéciales at the Préfecture de Police. Here, opposite the Hôtel-Dieu. And Rue Lauriston. Sixteenth Arrondissement, yes?’
‘I know where these places are,’ said Mitchell. He realized that the older man was exerting his authority by displaying his knowledge, but he wished the man would come more quickly to the point, whatever that might be.
Gaétan glanced at him. ‘Colonel, you are stepping into the lion’s den without the same protection that Daniel had. The good Lord does not necessarily protect the righteous. However, I believe a man, righteous or not, who is patient and studies his enemy carefully might find an angel here and there to guide him.’
Mitchell smiled. ‘Point taken. What about Rue Lauriston?’
The patrician accepted what appeared to be a vague apology from the Englishman. He wondered what this man was really made of
. If he was anything like the other agents who were simply keen for sport against the Nazis then he could soon became little more than prey when faced with the enemy’s overwhelming strength. ‘Number 93 is a base for ex-criminals,’ he went on, ‘Frenchmen who work for the SD. Stolz has men like them all across the city.’ He moved his finger across the map. ‘Here, though it is not yet confirmed, there is a rumour that the Milice are preparing to move into the old communist party HQ at 44 Rue Le Peletier and also at Rue Monceau. You see, colonel, there are eyes and ears everywhere. Neighbours betray each other with anonymous letters, trumped-up grievances to settle old scores. Hundreds have been carted off to prisons and camps.’ He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the air, studying it for a moment as a man studies the clouds that nourish his imagination. ‘So I ask myself, why do you people come to risk capture and death?’
‘My mission is to get someone out of Paris.’
‘You will need a lot of money, colonel. Bribery and the black market can devour money faster than the Germans devour our food and drink.’
‘I have enough and there will be more arriving with the new wireless operator.’
‘Very well. But be warned: do not have too many five-thousand-franc notes. The Germans are suspicious of large denominations. These are small details that can have you arrested and questioned.’
Mitchell nodded.
‘Who is this person you wish to get out of the city?’ said Gaétan.
‘I can’t tell you anything more.’
‘Until you learn to trust me?’
‘Yes,’ said Mitchell, holding his gaze.
‘And what more could my wife and I do to gain your trust other than by how we live? My man here is a widower and his daughter works in our home. That’s four people who would die at the hands of the Germans if you are discovered here. More if they unearth my group.’
Mitchell had wanted to question Gaétan’s honour and trust and it had happened without him trying to do so. It was an opportunity worth taking. ‘Where is the Englishman who disappeared? Guy Neuville. It was your circuit that got him into Paris.’
Gaétan showed no surprise at the missing agent’s name. ‘I do not know.’
‘If he had been taken then word would have got out. If the Germans didn’t seize him then where is he?’
‘As I said, colonel. I do not know.’
‘I think you do. And when you decide to tell me then we can move ahead in mutual trust.’ Mitchell turned for the door, deciding to end the meeting, taking back control. No longer a man on the run but an English agent declaring his intent to move forward with purpose and to challenge those who thought they had authority over him. His only regret about the meeting was missing the freshly cooked eggs.
22
‘We tend to prefer sending those we know as first choice,’ said Colonel Beaumont to the young woman who sat before him. ‘And I knew your father terribly well. He was a wonderful surgeon and his untimely death saddened me when I heard.’
Virginia ‘Ginny’ Lindhurst was a plain-looking twenty-four-year-old. She would not stand out in a crowd. Her almost spinsterish demeanour hid her tenacity and intelligence. It was a mantle as effective as any cloak of darkness described in the mythical legends she had enjoyed reading as a child. And it was just such a cloak that she always imagined hiding herself in when faced with danger. It gave her strength, and meant she did not have to confess her fear of violence to anyone. ‘Luftwaffe bombs do not distinguish the great and good from the rest of us, colonel. At least he died in the operating theatre trying to help others. There’s some comfort to be had in that,’ she lied. There was no comfort at all to think of her beloved father blown to pieces. But after the bombing raid, the grief had turned to... what was it? Almost relief, she decided. She was free. Her mother had died prematurely several years before and her committed surgeon of a father saw little of his only child once the war started except to discourage any thoughts she might have had of volunteering for anything that would take her into the rough company of the common soldier. It was a known fact that nurses were easily seduced by men returning from the battlefield, he had said unfairly. Well, now that he was gone it didn’t matter what he said. She was free.
‘When you go across town to those… Baker Street Irregulars, as I call them, Major Knight will give you a thorough briefing. I will be party to the operation, of course, but it’s his show. On certain matters, we and SOE do not always see eye to eye, but I have agreed to allow them to send you. You did well on your training course, my girl, and you are a first-rate wireless operator. Just what’s needed for our man there.’
‘And you said I would be taken quite a way south of Paris.’
‘Yes. We have a group there at Norvé. Rather, the French do. So far they have looked after our people. It was they who sent a message telling us that the man we thought dead was alive and making his way to Paris. Originally we sent a wireless operator to a different group south of Vichy. They were a small group but SOE believed they would have proven effective. Sadly, that town has been destroyed and the group scattered. But the good news is that the man we wanted to get into Paris survived.’
‘I was told in my briefing that his French identity is Pascal Garon.’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’ Colonel Beaumont fussed over some of the papers on his desk. It was a simple means of buying himself time to find the correct words without alarming the young woman too much. He had known her since she was a child, but was able to separate the sentiment that was engendered from the necessity of sending her. She had proved to be the best on her course. Her mother being French meant she was bilingual, her French that of a native. Still, the girl needed to know the worst-case scenario if she did not already.
‘Ginny, we lost one agent in Paris some time back, and our wireless operator there has gone pretty quiet except for some probing messages about when we are sending a replacement. These were out of his designated transmission time. So we are worried. If he had been captured and made to transmit under duress he would have given the usual warning code. No such signal has been received. Pascal will try and find him and also complete his mission in the city. But because of our uncertainty, he needs his own wireless operator. I will confide this much to you. Pascal’s wife was taken by the Gestapo and executed. We were sent photographs of her being shot. It was this that motivated Pascal into going back to Paris for us.’ He tidied the papers and rested his hands on them. ‘My dear, should anything go wrong –’
‘Colonel, I know the risks. Please don’t worry about me,’ she said quickly.
A little too breathlessly, thought Beaumont. But, he convinced himself, nerves were the order of the day for someone so young being sent into harm’s way.
‘I am confident that I can do my duty to the best of my ability. I won’t let you down,’ she said with a confident smile that disguised her own trepidation.
Beaumont gave her an equally reassuring smile, thankful that he had not had to share potential horrors with her. The reality of what could befall those sent on a clandestine mission was always acknowledged, but seldom discussed further. Fear was a key that could open a terrifying world in the imagination.
‘Tomorrow night, then.’
‘Yes. Tomorrow night.’
*
Mitchell’s men kept out of sight in the workshop cellar and were allowed outside briefly so they could smoke. Should a sudden raid take place they didn’t want any tobacco fumes lingering in the enclosed cellar which could seep through the floorboards into the workshop above. Drossier had admired the classic Delage and then sat in the Citroën’s driver’s seat. Even after a lifetime of hard work and petty theft, he would never have enough money to buy such a car. His fingers traced the numbers on the beautifully designed black-faced Jaeger rectangular speedometer. He played his hands over the steering wheel. As he drew the rough tobacco into his lungs he wound down the window and rested his elbow on the sill. It was not hard to imagine driving down a country lane on a s
ummer’s day with a girl in her frock that would settle above her knees. He leant over to the passenger side and opened the glove compartment. He found driving gloves and a half-leather-bound silver cigarette case. He opened the case and saw it was almost full of cigarettes. He eagerly tugged half a dozen free and tucked them away.
‘What are you doing?’ said Chaval, who had come up for air from the cellar. ‘Come on, get out of there. Pascal wants us to trap rats in the barns.’ He saw the cigarette case. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘It was on the seat,’ Drossier lied quickly.
‘Put it back. Don’t take anything. Not even a cigarette. We don’t steal anything from our countrymen. Nothing. Understand?
‘Yeah, yeah, of course. Like I said, it was just on the seat. I’ll put it in here for safekeeping.’ He opened the glove box and closed it, then slid out of the car, the cigarette case already palmed and in his pocket.
*
Mitchell sat at the kitchen table with Juliet and Jean Bernard and unfolded a railway timetable. ‘I want you and Simone to take a train into Paris. Jean Bernard, you will accompany them and take them to your sister’s. At least you will be safe there. There is nothing more either of you can do with me from here.’
‘Your sister’s?’ said Juliet to Bernard. ‘How do we know we will be welcome?’
‘She’s a widow with a young boy a few years younger than Simone. It is a good idea. Pascal is correct. You will be safe,’ he said.
‘I have a wireless operator coming in tomorrow night. Gaétan says he has already sent a man into Paris to arrange a safe house,’ said Mitchell. ‘I have other plans for the wireless operator. But if there’s a leak and there’s an ambush at the landing zone then I want Juliet and Simone far away from Norvé.’
