by Kit Sergeant
Marthe nodded her consent.
“This way, this way,” Fischer waved her on.
Marthe followed, determination outweighing any nervousness she might have about going to a strange man’s office. There was something endearing about the little man, however resolved she was in using him for information to supply to his enemy.
He escorted her through a large front room filled with close-shaven men answering phones and banging away on typewriters before ushering her into the inner office. The clamor from outside ceased mercifully when he shut the door.
“I am happy to finally have company,” he told her as he sat in his desk chair. “I’ve just recently lost my wife, and I’m lonely in Belgium.”
“I’m sorry,” Marthe told him, accepting the proffered cigarette.
“And you? I do not see a wedding ring.”
“I am not married.”
“Do you have a boyfriend? A soldier serving in the war?”
She shook her head. “No boyfriend. But my brother is a soldier. He was somewhere in Liege last I knew, but I have heard no more of him.”
The man’s pudgy hand closed around hers. “I am sorry. War is a terrible thing, but sometimes it is necessary.”
She agreed with him on only one those assertions, but smiled at him anyway.
Just then the door opened, bringing in a gust of air and the commotion from the outer office. A soldier stuck his head in. “You are wanted on the telephone, Herr Fischer. Headquarters.”
“Will you wait here, fräulein?” Fischer’s pleading eyes appeared ready to pop out of his head. Marthe nodded demurely as he rose.
As soon as the door closed behind him, she leaned forward and gazed about his desk. There were papers everywhere, and a few that resembled a train log, but Marthe did not want to be caught reading them and kept her hands tightly clasped, her cigarette still burning in the ashtray.
Fischer returned a few minutes later, and Marthe stabbed her cigarette out. “I must be getting back to the hospital.” She stood up.
“I’d like to see you again. Would you mind?”
Marthe hesitated, thinking about how to once again demur, but then an idea popped into her head. “My job keeps me quite busy, as I’m sure yours does as well. It would be hard for us to find a time to get together.”
“Oh,” he said, reaching under a pile of papers to pull out a leather-bound book. “I’m sure we could find a day that could work for us both.” He flipped through the book. “Today is Monday…hmmm.” As he ran his pudgy finger down his datebook, Marthe had no trouble reading it upside down. An ordnance train was scheduled to arrive at 3 am this Wednesday.
Marthe looked away as the little man glanced up. “Would Friday afternoon work for you? I could get us a special pass to go to Ghent.” His eagerness reminded Marthe of a puppy.
“Friday will work just fine,” she assured him. “Goodbye, Herr Fischer, and thank you…” Her mind raced. She couldn’t thank him for revealing the schedule. “For the cigarette,” she quickly filled in.
“Any time, fräulein.”
Marthe felt not a little sad as she made her way back to the hospital. If her plan actually worked, there would be no more Fridays, or any days past Wednesday, for the little man.
She paused her steps as a ghastly terror overtook her. Could she really go through with it? She thought back to her childhood: she’d always been quiet little Marthe Cnockaert, going out of her way to please everyone. Max was the one who did what he desired without worrying how it would affect others. Her brother was so personable that people barely noticed how he manipulated them into doing exactly what he wanted. And, on the rare occasions when his victim figured out they’d been duped, he would bestow his customary grin on them, and they had no choice but to forgive him.
If those Germans so much as dare lay a hand on Max. She had a vision of many short men in shiny boots rushing forward with guns to harm her brother and his fellow soldiers. A grey tidal wave of destruction, like what she had witnessed from the window of her family’s home in Westrozebeke. At that, Marthe took a deep breath, knowing what she had to do.
Upon returning to the hospital, Marthe found a scrap of paper at the nurses’ station. She took a pencil and then went into the bathroom and wrote out what she had seen in Fischer’s diary before rolling up the paper and sliding it into her bun.
When she returned, the Oberarzt was rushing by. “Ah, Marthe, I’m glad you are finally back. We have an emergency surgery I will need you to assist with. An amputation.”
Marthe patted her head to make sure the message was secure in its hiding place. “Trench foot?”
The Oberarzt nodded. “Turned gangrenous. Are you ready?”
She followed him into the operating room. He threw back the sheet of the patient, revealing the man’s legs. The skin that was not red, raw, and covered with blisters had turned an unearthly black color. The Oberarzt began washing his hands as Marthe lined up the surgical instruments on a nearby tray.
She had witnessed several amputations in her short time at the hospital, but there was something about this one that made her sick to her stomach. Perhaps it was how young the soldier was, or the fact that his beardless face was handsome, or—most likely—the realization of what she was about to do regarding the train station was manifesting itself physically. Would she have to stand over surgeries of Fischer or anyone else if she succeeded in her mission to bomb the ordnance train? Would they die horrible, painful deaths because of her? How could she reconcile destroying lives as a spy with her duty to save lives as a nurse?
“Excuse me,” she croaked before grabbing a bedpan and retching into it.
The Oberarzt paused and looked up from the leg, scalpel in hand. “Fräulein Cnockaert, are you well?” he asked through his surgeon’s mask.
“I’m so sorry, mein herr. I don’t know what got into me.”
“It’s alright,” his muffled voice replied. “This is hard to handle even for a man. Can’t imagine how a woman could stomach it.” He resumed his cutting. “You go home and get some rest and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Herr Oberarzt,” Marthe said, leaving the room with the bedpan. She rinsed it thoroughly before she left.
It was already dark when Marthe set out for Agent 63’s. The veiled streetlamps threw a muddled gray light onto the pavement, only to be disturbed by distant flashes of light in the West. Véry shells, she thought before quickening her pace.
Everything was quiet as Marthe entered the alleyway. She passed the windows without counting and then tapped on the fifth. As before, the pane slid open noiselessly. Marthe pulled the paper from her hair and placed it into the white palm. The hand disappeared and the window was dark again.
She headed home, relieved that the responsibility was literally out of her hands and into Agent 63’s… and then hopefully the Allies.
As Marthe crept to the back door of the house, she was surprised to see the kitchen light on. Her heart dropped into her raw stomach as she saw a tall man in a German uniform standing under the dim porch light.
“Fräulein Cnockaert?” he asked.
As Marthe’s mouth had gone numb, she could only nod.
He opened the porch door. “Please come inside. There are some officers with questions for you.”
Two men in the uniforms of the military police were seated at the kitchen table. They rose as she entered.
“Please sit, fräulein,” one of them said, extending his hand toward an unoccupied chair.
As if a dream, Marthe sat. It was only her first true coup, and she had already been discovered before she had a chance to be successful.
The other policeman, a red-haired, stocky man, leaned forward. “What can you tell us of Lucelle Deldonck? I hear that she is of relation to you and that she was recently seen in Roulers.”
Marthe dug the nails of one hand into the sweaty palm of the other at the mention of her aunt’s name. She hadn’t seen her since the night at the farmhouse, but hopefully these m
en hadn’t learned anything of Aunt Lucelle’s business with the British Intelligence Service.
The red-haired man searched Marthe’s face. “Lucelle Deldonck?” he prompted.
She blinked rapidly.
The man from the porch had come in as well, and Marthe could feel three pairs of eyes boring into her. Speak. Say something! she urged herself. But still nothing would come from her mouth.
“There is no reason to be afraid, fräulein,” the other man said. “Just tell us what you know.”
Marthe met his gaze. His eyes were brown and drooped at the corners like a basset hound. And basset hounds really aren’t that scary, after all. She took a deep breath. “My aunt Lucelle disappeared when your soldiers raided Westrozebeke.” She let her voice raise in anguish. “Most of them were drunk that night. I wouldn’t be surprised if they shot her accidentally, or on purpose.”
The red-haired man took a cigarette out and lit it in the kitchen fire. “We heard she was in Roulers a month ago.”
“In fact,” the other man laid his forearms on the table, “we’ve heard she was in this very kitchen.”
“No,” Marthe replied. “I have not seen her since we left Westrozebeke.” She forced herself to look straight into the man’s face.
His arms dropped back to his side. “Very well then.” He nodded at the red-haired officer, who tossed his cigarette into the fire. “It is Lucelle Deldonck we want, not you. I have good information that places her here, but if you insist you have not seen her, I have no choice but to believe you. I hear you are doing excellent work at the hospital.” He nodded at his comrade before starting for the door. “However, if you are lying, I would hate to have to report you to the Town-Kommandant.”
“I assure you that I speak the truth, mein herr,” Marthe stated as she crossed her arms in front of her.
Each man gave a small bow as they walked out. Marthe stared out the window, making sure they had really left, before she went upstairs to her room. She fervently hoped that her lies would help Aunt Lucelle avoid detection by the suspicious Germans.
The interrogation in the kitchen almost made Marthe forget about her previous mission that night. As she laid in bed, she wondered if the Allies would receive the message in time. If so, and they decided to bomb the ordnance train, the whole town might be destroyed. When she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of explosions and amputees.
Chapter 14
Alouette
December 1914
Gerda’s friends turned out to be two German brothers, Otto and Charles. They were both handsome in the coolly-indifferent way that Alouette recognized as being inherently German. They greeted the women at the railway station, and when Alouette asked them to direct her to the nearest hotel, both men protested loudly.
“Any friend of Gerda’s is more than welcome to stay at our house. We have plenty of room,” Charles, the elder brother, stated. In contrast to his brother’s light hair and blue eyes, Charles had dark hair, with matching, soulful brown eyes.
“Thank you for the lovely offer, but I do not wish to intrude,” Alouette replied.
Gerda’s slim hand gripped Alouette’s. She gave the brothers a flirtatious smile before leading her aside. “Accept their invitation, my friend. They are sincere, and would be terribly hurt if you refused their offer of hospitality.” She narrowed her eyes, her tone challenging. “Or are you afraid?”
Alouette gave a nervous laugh. “Why should I be afraid?”
Gerda’s half-whispered reply almost sounded like a hiss. “Well, we are all German, and you are French.”
Alouette stuck out her chin. “If I were as tainted by narrow-minded nationalism as some of my compatriots, I wouldn’t have come here looking for my Swiss fiancé. I just don’t want to cause anyone inconvenience.”
“Nonsense, Alouette, you are not inconveniencing anyone.” Gerda led her back to the gentlemen. “My friend has decided to accept your offer,” she told them.
“Wonderful,” Otto declared.
They all piled into an enormous motor car. Gerda sat up front with Charles while Alouette got comfortable in the backseat beside Otto.
“What brings you to Switzerland?” he asked.
Once again, Alouette related the lost fiancé fable.
“That is so heroic of you, facing the perils of the mountains and the frontier of a foreign land in the middle of a war to find your lost love.”
Alouette realized that the Karl Mather storyline also provided her a convenient way to fend off any advances Otto might make, a likely possibility considering the way he was staring at her. “Yes, indeed.” She gave a deep sigh. “This will hopefully be a nice break from worrying about him all the time.”
Otto nodded as the car pulled up in front of a large, hammered-iron gate. A guard in uniform nodded at the car as he opened the gate. The long driveway eventually curved past an enormous snow-covered park to reveal a typical Swiss mansion with a grand turret peeking through a maze of tiled roofs and arched windows. The house was painted a friendly yellow, which was like a ray of sunshine over the white landscape and immediately appealed to Alouette.
As soon as she crossed over the threshold, however, the feeling that she had just entered a hot-bed of German spies washed over her. There was nothing tangible to indicate this, just a general notion that stemmed from the trio’s watchful eyes. It struck her that Gerda Nerbutt was testing her and Alouette made up her mind right then that she would pass any challenges the brothers and Gerda put forth to convince them to recruit her in whatever game they were playing.
After a five-course dinner, the foursome sat in the drawing room and chit-chatted. Her companions stuck to banal information: where each of them had grown up, where they had gone to school, their most and least favorite subject matter at said schools. The heavy food had caused Alouette to become sleepy, but she forced herself to remain alert and not give away too much information. However cautious she was, it seemed that whenever she spoke, her hosts would exchange knowing smiles with one another.
“Did you know that Gerda graduated from the University of Freiburg?” Otto asked.
“No,” Alouette replied. “I didn’t know such a prestigious school allowed women.”
“She was one of the few they let in,” Charles added. “She earned a doctorate in political science.”
“Congratulations,” Alouette tried to fake a bright tone. “Your line of study must have been fascinating.”
“Yes,” Gerda agreed before taking a long drag on a cigarette.
Alouette looked down. In another life, she supposed she and Gerda might have indeed have been at least allies, having the ability to prove themselves as women in spheres normally reserved for men—Gerda’s at university and Alouette’s in aviation. However, the German woman’s dismissive tone, combined with their opposing allegiances, made it clear that the two would probably never truly be friends.
Alouette yawned. “I should be getting to bed. I’ve had a long day of traveling, and that wonderful food at dinner did me in.”
At this, Gerda exchanged a furtive glance with Charles. “Do you need me to walk you to your room?” he asked.
“No thank you, I’ll be quite all right.”
At breakfast a few days later, Charles leaned in toward Alouette. “I have news of your fiancé.”
Alouette, feeling both Charles and Gerda’s eyes on her, refrained from dropping her fork. “Karl? You have heard of him?” With great effort, she managed not to stumble over her words.
“Yes. Guess where he is.”
Her heart pounding, Alouette ventured, “Is he in Zurich?”
“No, he is at a hospital outside of Munich.”
She looked down and sniffled, doing her best to conjure up tears.
Gerda shifted in her seat with a derisive sneer on her face, obviously not fooled by Alouette’s crocodile tears.
“I must return to France immediately. It is clear that I have no business being here,” Alouette added for good measure.
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Otto put his hands on her shoulders. “I can help you,” he whispered.
Alouette shook her body, giving the effect she was heaving with sobs. “What can you do? I cannot get to Germany to see him. I am French, remember?”
“Don’t despair,” Gerda’s tone was sympathetic, but Alouette detected a sinister note underneath it. “Otto here has a plan.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I’m just off to Munich myself. I will look up Karl and ask him to give me a letter for you.”
Alouette glanced at Gerda. She had never noticed how cruel Gerda’s eyes were. She had thought they were blue when they first met, but now they had become steely gray. “Why don’t you go with Otto, Alouette darling?” Her voice dropped on the word darling. “I’ll lend you my passport—Charles can substitute your photograph for mine. He’s very clever at that sort of thing, aren’t you Charles?”
“Oh yes,” he answered, nodding enthusiastically. “It’s quite easy.”
Alouette felt like a butterfly on whom the net was closing in. “I couldn’t possibly manage it—my French accent would surely give me away in Germany.”
“Oh bother,” Gerda dismissed Alouette’s misgivings with a wave of her bejeweled hand. “Otto will do all the talking for you. You won’t even have to open your mouth.”
“I’m not sure I’m willing to risk paying so dearly to see Karl.” Alouette tried to make light of the situation. “Imagine how awkward it would be for Otto if I were arrested and shot before a firing squad!”
Gerda narrowed her eyes as Otto burst into laughter. “Don’t worry about me—they would never dream of suspecting me of being a spy.”
Although they had not accused her of anything, Alouette was convinced they knew she was a spy for France and were trying to do exactly what she’d joked about—get her shot.
Gerda insisted Alouette was making a great mistake in throwing away the chance of accompanying Otto and seeing her fiancé.
Alouette was so preoccupied in her own thoughts that she only half heard her, but replied anyway. “Please don’t insist. I shall not go.”
