by Kit Sergeant
“Not an agent. Just an aid. Marthe,” he picked up his chair and moved it closer to her. “You are a very intelligent girl. Many people trust you.” He reached a hand out to touch her hair. “Not to mention very pretty.”
Marthe cringed inwardly. Her first thought was to flee the room, but she didn’t want him to think it was because of his proposal. She faked a yawn instead, stretching out her arms and pulling her hair away from his fingers. “It’s late,” she said, standing. “I shall give what you said much thought and let you know my decision tomorrow.”
“Good night and sweet dreams, meine liebe fräulein.” He opened the door for her.
As he closed it, Marthe clenched her hands into fists. She raised one of them, picturing it connecting with the fine bones of Otto’s face. What was he thinking? Without knowing it, he had just proposed for her to become a double agent.
Marthe once again had a hard time sleeping. How could she possibly get out of the situation Otto had put her in? She decided her best recourse was to dig up some sort of information: something the Germans would look upon as valuable, but innocuous enough that it would not further endanger her allies. Finally she fell asleep, dreaming of being placed in front of a German firing squad.
Three nights later, Marthe was awakened just after midnight to the sound of incoming planes. She rushed to the window to see the “Seven Sisters” heading north. The German’s anti-aircraft searchlights occasionally caught one of them in their lights. Soon the screeching of bombs was heard. Several explosions followed, then the screaming from the bombs turned into human screaming. Marthe got out of bed and hurriedly dressed and then headed to the hospital.
The hallways were filled with wounded soldiers, and blood appeared to seep from everywhere: the soldiers themselves, the mattresses, it even seemed to stem from the wall. Marthe threw herself into her work, trying to do anything to distract herself from thinking that she was the cause of all of this human wreckage.
It was nearly noon when she returned home in her ruined nursing uniform. Otto was sitting on the steps outside the café, smoking a cigarette.
“Marthe,” he called upon seeing her. “That bombing of the brewery was the result of someone in this town reporting the billeted soldiers’ location to the Allies. Such vermin deserve the same treatment as this cigarette,” he added as he repeatedly stabbed it into the sidewalk before crushing it with his boot.
She didn’t say anything as she stared at the black stain he’d left on the concrete.
“You will help me catch this spy, won’t you, Marthe? I want you to report back to me in a week’s time.”
He walked inside the café, leaving her on the sidewalk, pondering what to do. After all, it was she, with the help of her mother and Canteen Ma, who had informed the Allies of the location of the soldiers. But maybe she could find a way to pin it on one of their secret detectives, a false safety-pin man, one of the men who made the lives of Roulers’ civilian population so miserable.
A few days later, Otto grabbed her arm as she tried to pass him on the stairs. “Have you any news for me, Marthe?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. I need more time.”
He peered into her face. “I should think you have had ample time to at least develop an inkling into who is helping these underground activities.” He must have detected the fear in her expression for he grasped her hand and rubbed his thumb over her palm. “Do not be afraid, Marthe. Not a soul in Roulers will know of the work you are doing for us. You can trust us, especially me.” He dropped her hand as though it were a hot plate. “I have always liked you, and I do not wish to make myself unpleasant to you.” With that, he turned and hurried down the stairs.
Marthe continued to her room. Once there, she flung herself on the bed. She was no surer what to do now than she was when Otto had first hatched his terrible plan. Gradually she became aware of a bird’s chirping and looked up to see a fat robin just outside her window. He kept up his trilling, as if he had not a care in the world. I wish I could say the same.
A gunshot rang out and the bird flew away. Marthe opened the window to see what the commotion was. A man in plain clothes was shooting at pigeons across the Grand Place. She narrowed her eyes in annoyance, but then smiled as an idea occurred to her.
She sat down at her little table and wrote a series of letters and numbers on a slip of paper, bigger than what she would normally have delivered to Agent 63.
Before Marthe left work the next day, she took the slip of paper and rubbed it across a piece of raw meat in the kitchen until the paper was good and bloody. She then delivered it to Otto. “I obtained this from a Belgian man who wishes to remain anonymous,” she told him. “He found it on a pigeon lying dead on the road to Ypres. Neither he nor I could decode it, but I’m sure your men would have that ability.”
He snatched the paper from her hands and Marthe watched as he scanned it. “Without a doubt,” he finally replied, meeting her eyes. “You’ve done well, Marthe. This will go straight to the cipher department—they can crack any code within 24 hours.”
Marthe sighed with relief as Otto left, the message tucked into his pocket, dried blood and all. She’d just earned at least a day’s break from his pestering, but, like a patient leaving a grueling hour at the dentist’s knowing they’d have to finish the procedure soon, she knew her respite wouldn’t last forever. Once Otto realized he’d been duped and the message was nonsense, he’d be back.
A few days later, as Marthe passed by the Grand Place on her way to work, she saw Otto talking to a man she knew to be a German detective. Otto waved to her and she paused. He nodded at the detective before approaching her.
“I just can’t figure it out, Marthe. That paper you gave me—the coding department can’t make heads or tails of it.” He took off his cap and scratched his head. “Do you think that the paper could have been a trick?”
Although she’d been expecting this, Marthe’s breath still caught in her throat. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, we’ve had the best code breakers in Germany examining this, and even they can’t solve it. No Tommy could be good enough at coding to outsmart our experts.”
Marthe shook her head. “I’m not sure.”
He replaced his cap. “At any rate, keep your eye out. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Both of them looked up as a robin landed nearby and picked at something on the ground. Otto tipped his cap to her, his smile holding no warmth as he bid her goodbye and returned to the detective, who had been observing them from a few meters away.
Marthe continued on to the hospital, her heart heavy. Even the sight of Alphonse exiting the courtyard did nothing to lift her spirits.
He held the courtyard gate open for her. “Is something wrong, Marthe?”
A denial of anything amiss was on her lips, but then she hesitated. Alphonse was clearly loyal to the Cause, and she desperately needed to confide in someone. She tilted her head toward a corner of the courtyard and he followed her. Once they were sure no one was in earshot, she told him about Otto’s proposal for her to become a double agent. “If something doesn’t happen soon to help me out of this dilemma, I think I might go mad,” she added.
Alphonse tightened his hands into fists. “How dare that Boche put you in this predicament.” He took a deep breath and relaxed his body. “Let me think on a solution, and I will get back to you.”
She placed her hand on his arm, which immediately stiffened again. “Thank you, Alphonse.”
“No, thank you, Marthe, for your service. And please don’t worry, I will figure out a way to get you out of this.”
She watched him stroll away, feeling much better about the Otto situation.
Two days later, as Marthe made her way down stairs to the kitchen, she heard a heavy thump on the landing. Red Carl stood in the threshold of Otto’s door, a canvas kit bag at his feet.
“Is Otto going away?” Marthe asked.
“He’s gone, fräulein.”
“Gone? What do you mean?”
“He’s dead,” was his only response.
Marthe first assumed that Alphonse had something to do with Otto’s death, but he had been at the front the night Otto was murdered by two bullets passing through his brain.
“It wasn’t me,” Alphonse insisted when they had found a moment alone, again in the courtyard. “I passed by Canteen Ma in the Grand Place the afternoon you told me about Otto. I informed her of the situation you’d been put in, and she replied, “‘There are several safety-pin men that would be interested to hear of this.’”
“Thank you, Alphonse.” Marthe reached her hand out, but he stepped backward.
“Have I ever told you what I’m going to do once the war is over?” he asked.
Numbed by his unexpected brush-off, she shook her head.
“I’m going to become a priest.” With that, he left the courtyard.
Marthe watched his tall frame walk away, wondering if he told her that to convince her that it couldn’t have been he who killed Otto. Or if it was for some other reason altogether.
Chapter 33
Alouette
June 1915
The days at San Sebastian passed relatively peacefully: the Baron was often away on business and Alouette spent a lot of time relaxing at the beach, trying to avoid the nagging feeling that she was not making much headway at spying.
Finally von Krohn stated that he was to return to Madrid and this time he had no objection to her joining him.
He installed her in Madrid’s Palace Hotel, reserving the best room for her. The hotel was only a few years old, and, as her porter informed her, the only one in Spain to have both a bathroom and a telephone installed in each of its 800 rooms.
She arrived in her new lodgings to find a large bouquet of roses waiting for her on the table. When she saw the card was signed by von Krohn, she tossed it into the garbage pail without reading the message.
“Something wrong, señorita?” the porter asked.
Alouette shook her head and went to the window, which looked out onto the tree-lined Paseo del Prado boulevard.
The porter bowed. “Good evening, señorita.”
Alouette decided to ease her irritation at von Krohn by going for a walk to explore Madrid and changed into a walking dress.
As she passed through the hotel’s ornate double doors, she noticed a policeman walking a beat directly outside of the hotel. She crossed the Paseo del Prado into the park and paused by a fountain with a statue of Apollo. Giving a quick glance over her shoulder, she was surprised to see that the policeman had followed her.
Alouette decided to keep walking, and when she reached the intersection of the Calle de Acalá and the Paseo de Recolotos, she turned her head right and left, feigning that she was lost. The policeman was a few feet behind, watching.
She summoned up the little Spanish she knew and called, “Perdóneme, señor.”
He gazed around before realizing she must be addressing him. “Qué?”
She asked him to point her to the Plaza Hotel. “I’m supposed to be meeting the Baron von Krohn, the German military attaché, there soon.”
He blinked twice at the name before pointing to the large building right behind her.
“Gracias,” Alouette replied before walking off.
Alouette found herself completely alone in this new city. As her Spanish was not very good, she did not have anyone to speak to except von Krohn.
When she complained about her loneliness to him, he decided that he would introduce Alouette to his wife. “She is quite anxious to meet you and I know that you two will get along splendidly.”
Alouette was not so sure, but the Baron persuaded her to join them for lunch. “She wishes for you to procure some toiletries for her the next time you are in Paris.”
Von Krohn’s wife, Ilse, was much younger than Alouette had expected; she looked to be only a few years older than herself, a brunette who held herself in a dignified manner. Ilse was an heiress and the von Krohns could afford a lifestyle unique to most of the other Germans in the area. They were the only ones in the diplomatic service with a chauffeur and motor car. Alouette wondered why on earth she had married the odious Baron, unless it was just that she desired to be styled as a Baroness.
“Do you speak German?” Ilse asked in French.
“No, madame,” Alouette answered.
“It is no matter,” Ilse said. “I am glad of the opportunity to practice my French.” To her husband, she spoke in German, which Alouette easily translated. “Hans, are you quite certain she does not know German?”
“Nein,” von Krohn returned.
“Well, if you want to know for sure, I know a way.” She held out her hand to Alouette. “My husband and I are hosting a little dinner party tomorrow night. We would love it if you could come.”
Dressed in a beaded navy-blue gown, Alouette arrived at von Krohn’s house at the allotted time, but the guests were already seated. It seemed to her that their expressions were spiteful as they exchanged furtive glances with one another. Neither the Baron nor his wife introduced Alouette to anyone, and she took her seat at the end of the table with a sense of foreboding that they had been gossiping about her before she arrived.
There were thirteen guests at the table, Alouette noted, a mixture of German officers and some affluent-looking Spanish couples. As the soup was served, she tried to converse with the man on her right, a fat German with equally chubby hands sprinkled with dark hair.
“French people have a sort of holy terror of the number thirteen,” she said in her native language.
“Oh, is that so?” His French accent was atrocious.
“Yes. If my mother were here, she would either make someone get up from the table or else invite the butler to dine with us.”
“Are you afraid of death?”
Alouette, taken back by his abruptness, replied, “If that were so, I never would have been an airwoman.”
The eyes of her companions focused on her. She expected to hear praise, or at least a few questions about her feats, but there was only silence which Alouette was desperate to fill. “This soup is quite tasty.”
One of the officers turned to von Krohn and said in German, “God will punish England for entering this war.” He spoke with the guttural accent typical of his countrymen. “When we have won, we shall make England a colony.”
“Those French are utterly incomprehensible to me,” the German with the hairy hands added. He glanced at Alouette, but she focused on her soup, once again pretending not to comprehend a word these brutes said. “They continue fighting for the English, knowing full well that they have not the faintest chance at success.”
“What’s more,” added the original speaker, “the latest bulletins state that the French are surrendering, preferring to be prisoners of war than to fight. But we have no room for them in our camps, and headquarters had ordered that they all be killed.”
A man with a bulbous nose seated next to the Baroness spoke up. “The French are cowards. Their degenerate race is worn out by loathsome diseases, carried by their women, who are all harlots.”
Alouette fought back the impulse to spit in their faces. Despite having no appetite, she forced herself to eat. Toward the second course, the German with the bulbous nose roared in German, “How long will it be before she shows the first symptoms?”
“Half an hour or so,” von Krohn replied.
“She appears calm,” the fat German said. “She would not be so calm if she was aware of the horrible death awaiting her.”
Alouette willed her expression to not reveal her bewilderment. It’s only a loathsome trick they are playing to get me to admit I speak German. She took a sip of water.
As the dessert and coffee were served, the young man on Alouette’s other side seemed to take pity on her. “I too am an airman. What sort of plane did you fly?” he asked in French.
“A Caudron. I knew the inventor.”
“Pity he
died in that accident.”
“Yes,” Alouette agreed sadly. “A pity indeed.”
She could feel the Baron’s eyes on her and glanced up. His expression was stony as he said, “Madame Richer, you look quite tired.”
“I am.” She delicately wiped at her mouth before setting the napkin down.
“She can’t be that tired. I’m sure there’s some man waiting in her hotel bed,” the bulbous-nosed German stated.
Von Krohn stood. “Gentlemen, should we retire into my office for a cigar?” He nodded at Alouette, giving his permission for her to leave the disastrous dinner party.
She had passed their hateful test.
The Baron met her the next day. “You are being followed by one of the German Embassy’s military attachés. A man by the name of Major Arnold Kalle.”
“What? Aren’t you employed by the German secret service?”
“Yes,” von Krohn stated with barely concealed impatience. “But Kalle is upset because I never give him information about my department.”
“I had no idea that the Germans exercised such pettiness when it comes to espionage.” The full meaning of his statement finally settled in. “What should I do? Can’t you get this man recalled back to Germany?”
He sighed. “I don’t have any solid proof. One day, one of my agents, a Frenchman, drowned under mysterious circumstances outside of San Sebastian. But I have nothing but my suspicions.”
Alouette was silent as she contemplated this. She had no one to protect her, and it seemed that even von Krohn was unwilling to advise her. They walked to the Puerta del Sol Square, where the Baron took his leave of her, stating that he had errands to run. He looked deliberately at a motor car with a Spanish license plate as he did so.
Alouette headed back to the hotel, noting that the car followed slowly behind her, pulling off the street while she waited on a corner. Glancing behind her, she could see the shadowy figures of two men, but the bright sunlight prevented her from discerning much else.
