L'Agent Double

by Kit Sergeant

  “Something wrong, fräulein?” the maid asked.

  “No,” Marthe said, refolding the card. She reminded herself that the Kaiser was somewhere in the area: the same man who commanded these German vandals to overrun fair Belgium. I must keep a clear head, no matter what.

  The colonel sat in the huge dining room with an extensive breakfast spread in front of him. “Marthe, eat. You must be starving from your long trip.”

  She sat across from him, feeling overwhelmed. Because of rationing, she wasn’t used to large meals, especially not at such an early hour. Not to mention the colonel’s enthusiastic welcome grated at her nerves.

  “What will you do today, Marthe?” he asked through a bite of eggs.

  “Oh, are we not to spend the day together?” she replied, trying to keep the hope out of her voice.

  “Sadly, I have some business to take care of, but I will be sure to have it completed by supper.”

  “In that case, I suppose I will explore Antwerp.”

  “Excellent.” He dug his wallet out and held several bills toward her.

  “No thank you, mein herr.”

  “Take it, Marthe. Deutsche marks are much more valuable here than Belgian francs.”

  She hesitated before picking up the money, feeling her face flush as the other patrons peered at her.

  After breakfast, Marthe took a walk around the city. She’d never been to Antwerp before, but expected it had been much less shabby before the war. The roads were in dire need of repair and some of the buildings had the telltale burn scars and broken windows of a German invasion.

  The shops, too, proved to be a disappointment. There were barely any goods for sale, and the prices they were asking for what little was left took Marthe’s breath away.

  She decided to head toward the Grand Place. A company of English prisoners led by a German officer paused in front of her as a tramcar clanged by. As the car passed, a shower of cigarettes and chocolates fell upon the ragged prisoners. “Vive L’ Angleterre!” a man shouted as he threw more cigarettes toward the Englishmen.

  The German feldwebel caught sight of the tramcar benefactor. Thankful for the distraction, Marthe watched the scene unfold.

  “You there!” the feldwebel shouted. The tramcar happened to pause and he boarded, but not before the culprit vaulted out of the back. The feldwebel pulled out his rifle and ran the length of the car as the tramcar started moving forward. He jumped out to chase the tramcar benefactor down a side-street, past a group of civilians. Marthe saw one of them extend a foot, and soon the feldwebel lay sprawled on the sidewalk. She just caught a glimpse of the man to whom the foot belonged before he faded into the crowd. It was Herr Jacobs, the safety-pin man who had once boarded at the grocer’s house.

  The civilian voices grew louder as a balloon bearing Belgium’s national colors rose above them and began to sail majestically in the July breeze. Marthe realized the date: July 21—Belgium’s Independence Day. “Vive La Belgique!” someone shouted. “Vive les Allies!” came the return cry.

  Another passing tramcar rung its bell loud and clear and a motor-car driver gave an answering toot on its horn. The sounds from the streets grew louder as the balloon soared higher, and then suddenly came the crack of a rifle and the balloon was destroyed. The crowd began to disperse, but proudly, defiantly, for Antwerp had managed to celebrate, in the most minute way, its Independence Day.

  The colonel met Marthe that evening wearing a tuxedo, his chin fitting perfectly in the upturned collar of his crisp white shirt. He had heard of the demonstration and was furious. “How dare they permit such a stupid escapade to take place?”

  Marthe remained silent as he led her to a motor-car. She disagreed with the assertion that the escapade had been stupid but knew the colonel would not appreciate her opinion.

  As the car traveled through Antwerp, Marthe stared out the window, noting that all of the street-lamps had been covered with dark blue paint. The distant beat of anti-aircraft guns announced the presence of Allied airplanes, and soon beams of searchlights slashed through the night.

  The car pulled up to an enormous private residence set back from the road. Several Mercedes were parked along the long driveway.

  Strains of dance music floated in the light breeze as an attendant took Marthe’s cloak. The colonel held her hand as they descended marble steps into a large room decked with flowers, their fragrance tickling Marthe’s nose. Several small tables ringed a dance floor. Sprinkled in among the gray-coated officers were beautiful women of all nationalities. The orchestra broke into a lively dance tune as the colonel led her past a table occupied by a fat hauptmann and his companion, a dark-haired, exotic-looking woman.

  “Colonel!” the hauptmann exclaimed, waving his champagne flute around, spilling most of it on the floor. “Can you believe we are in the presence of the famed Mata Hari?”

  Marthe wasn’t sure to whom he was referring, but the dark-haired woman, who appeared enormously tired, frowned before taking a long drink of champagne. In fact, despite their elegant costumes of beads, feathers, and pearls, most of the women seemed haggard, and Marthe realized that many of them were Belgian, probably driven into the arms of their oppressors by sheer starvation, unable to otherwise cope in a world gone mad.

  The colonel was courteous at all times, and, had he not been an enemy officer, would have made a charming companion. He made no other move to be physical beyond holding Marthe’s hand or occasionally caressing her arm.

  “This is an exceedingly rare grape,” he told her, admiring the almond-colored champagne in the light from the electric chandeliers. “Especially now that we’ve destroyed most of the grape-growing regions in that part of France.”

  Marthe took a sip of the rare wine in lieu of a reply.

  As the hour became late, the German officers became more uproarious. When the fat hauptmann tried to get up from the table, his large belly swept the wine glasses off the table, which shattered on the wooden floor and stained his companion’s dress. She struck his face so hard she left a red handprint. He raised his arm to her, calling her a “filthy Dutch sow,” before the colonel pushed him away. He crashed into another table and passed out amongst the spilled food and drink.

  A stern voice cut through the crowd. “Gentlemen, by orders of the High Command, all civilians not of German nationality must produce their identity cards for my inspection.”

  Voices of several females rose in panic as they grabbed their purses to seek their cards. Marthe watched as the dark-haired woman with the now-stained dress quietly slipped from the room.

  The colonel took Marthe’s arm. “Say nothing. I will arrange this with the major. Von Bissing has lost no time in determining Antwerp’s punishment for the balloon incident from this morning.”

  When they reached the hotel, just before dawn, they learned that the town of Antwerp was to be fined 8,000,000 marks and the curfew was set at five o’clock until further notice. The Germans were determined to punish the Belgians for their behavior. Marthe fell onto her bed exhausted, glad that the colonel had once again made no mention of sharing a room with her.

  Marthe awoke the next morning, blinking in the bright sunshine thinking optimistically that she just might be able to find out the information she needed without having to have an intimate relationship with the colonel.

  Indeed, he wasn’t at breakfast that morning, and Marthe was still in a grand mood when she returned to her room, only to find her door standing half-open. She walked in, expecting to see a maid cleaning the room, but instead a German soldier stood next to two black suitcases. Upon seeing her, he touched his cap and gave her a sly smile before walking out.

  Marthe examined the suitcases, noting that each bore the colonel’s initials in bold white letters. She flopped onto the bed in a huff, realizing the implications of the suitcases’ presence in her room. There could be no mistaking the colonel’s intentions now. Her thoughts traveled to that horrid scene in the garden, which then went to Alphonse�
�s promise to secure an Antwerp contact. She hoped that he would be able to come through: she could have very much used a friend at that moment. Tears came to her eyes as she dug her fingers into the silk comforter, feeling alone in a world of German oppression.

  After a few minutes of feeling sorry for herself, Marthe relaxed her hands, reminding herself she wasn’t some silly girl. She was a secret service agent, a member of British Intelligence, and commanded herself to act as such. She took a deep breath before getting up from the bed to powder her nose and straighten her hair.

  The colonel was waiting for her in the lounge that evening, a glass of vermouth next to him. He kept his well-bred face neutral and made no mention of the suitcases as he ordered Marthe a drink.

  She longed to get drunk on brandy, thinking it would make whatever was in store for her that night easier, but at the same time she wanted to keep her wits about her. The colonel’s breath smelled of alcohol, which was unusual for him. She looked away as he lit a cigarette and caught the eyes of a German lieutenant at the next table. The lieutenant smirked and then winked at her. Confused at his attention, she dropped her eyes to the tablecloth before peeking over at him again. He nodded at her before getting up from the table.

  “Come on, Marthe, you must be tired,” the colonel said, rising to his feet. “Let’s go upstairs to our room.”

  There it was: our room. As Marthe followed him upstairs, she was as unsteady on her feet as the colonel, but for a different reason.

  He opened the door with a key and then walked in. A maid had laid out Marthe’s nightdress on the bed, and the colonel’s lips turned up as he fingered it.

  Marthe tilted her head and curved her lips into a passable smile, but she was unable to meet his gaze, afraid he would be able to see how much she hated him for what was about to happen.

  “You seem nervous, Marthe.” He dug a bottle of brandy out of his bag and poured some in a glass. “Drink some of this as you get dressed and I’ll be back in a half an hour.”

  As he shut the door behind him, Marthe cast her eyes helplessly about the room, wondering what to do next. She went to the double doors that led to the balcony and stepped outside, gazing upon the unsympathetic rooftops of Antwerp, wondering if it would be safe to jump. But, even if she survived, her mission would have been a failure: she still hadn’t gained any information regarding the Kaiser’s visit.

  She caught sight of a man on the balcony next to hers. It was the German lieutenant from earlier, although now he was dressed all in black. Wondering if this was Alphonse’s promised contact, she took a wilted violet from the corsage pinned at her breast and dropped it over the banister.

  The lieutenant watched the flower fall before he stepped onto the ledge. Wordlessly he scaled the distance between them and dropped onto her balcony. “Good evening, miss,” he murmured in a low voice, lifting his lapel to reveal two safety-pins running diagonally. “I’m with the Antwerp Secret Service and have been detailed to shadow you.” He pushed past her into the room.

  Marthe followed him. “How did you manage to obtain a German uniform?”

  “The War Office,” he replied as he opened a case and shook out a cigarette. He put it to his mouth before replacing it. “I s’pose I oughtn’t smoke for fear the old colonel will smell it when he gets back.” He tucked the case back into his pocket. “Look here, have you succeeded in getting anything out of him?”

  “Nothing so far,” Marthe replied, the regret obvious in her voice. “Perhaps I might learn something more tonight.” She shuddered.

  He nodded, a compassionate expression on his face. “I wish I could somehow assist you.”

  “Me too,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  His eyes fell onto the colonel’s suitcases, which still sat exactly as the German soldier had placed them. “Are those your precious colonel’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you searched them for papers?”

  “Not yet.” Marthe cursed herself for not having thought of that herself.

  He got down on his knees. “Unsuspecting bugger left them unlocked,” he said as he snapped them open. The counterfeit lieutenant ran his hands expertly through the suitcases’ contents. “Nothing of value,” he said as he got back to his feet. “But better to check all the same.”

  Just then, a knock sounded at the door. “The colonel!” Marthe gasped, her eyes widening as the doorknob began turning. She turned to warn the lieutenant, but he was nowhere to be seen. The doors to the balcony remained undisturbed and she reasoned he must have slipped under the bed.

  The colonel’s fingers gripped her arms. “Why have you not undressed yet, my pet?” He let her go, noting both the untouched drink on the nightstand and his open suitcases. “Oh, I see, you were engaged in unpacking my bags.” He reached for her again, his lips pursed.

  Marthe racked her brain for how to give the lieutenant a chance to leave the room. “I must leave after tonight,” she told the colonel, stalling for time. “The Herr Oberarzt needs me. And what would I say to him if I were not there when the All-Highest arrives?”

  “Do not worry your pretty head over such trifles,” he replied. “The All-Highest will not arrive in Roulers until Saturday, around 11 o’clock to review the troops. He won’t even spend the night, and I doubt if he will have time to visit the hospital. We still have several days to enjoy ourselves—I can put in papers to extend your leave if you want.”

  “But I promised the Oberarzt I would return in three days.” Marthe was hardly aware of what she was saying; her mind was occupied by the information he’d just revealed. Hopefully the man under the bed would be able to pass on that information to British Intelligence. That is, if the colonel didn’t discover him first. This time she didn’t pull away as the colonel pressed his lips upon hers in a long, lingering kiss.

  The ringing in her ears cleared just enough that she could discern a voice singing in the hallway. Who could possibly be singing while she was in such a ghastly situation?

  The sound of breaking glass came from just outside the room, and, once again grateful for the distraction, Marthe broke the embrace to throw the door open. The drunk hauptmann from the other night stood outside, obviously up to his old tricks, while a waiter wordlessly picked up the broken glass.

  “What happened here?” the colonel demanded, wiping saliva off of his face.

  The hauptmann attempted a bow, which nearly caused him to tip over. “This pig-dog,” he swept his hand toward the bent waiter, “and myself tried to pass each other, but as you can see, there was no room.” Both Marthe and the colonel looked down the corridor, which was wide enough for at least four men the hefty hauptmann’s size to walk shoulder-to-shoulder. The hauptmann clicked his heels together as several senior officers appeared. There was a flurry of salutes and more heel-clicking as the Germans greeted one another.

  Marthe tried to slip back to the room unnoticed, but the colonel caught sight of her and called to her in a stern voice. “Mein fräulein?”

  “Herr Colonel, why don’t you join these men for a drink while I,” she dropped her voice lower, “undress? I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

  The colonel’s lips spread into a wide grin. “Au revoir, my pet. I will see you quite soon.”

  Marthe refrained from running back to the room as the colonel headed to the lobby with the other officers. Now that she’d managed to gain the information she’d sought, she had no desire to repeat the kiss she’d shared with the colonel earlier. Or anything else, for that matter.

  She hoped the fake lieutenant would be able to help her escape, but, after checking under the bed, she realized he’d disappeared. She’d have to figure out how to get out of this situation on her own.

  There should be at least one train leaving for Roulers before dawn. Marthe crossed her fingers that the colonel would be so embarrassed by her sudden departure that he wouldn’t tell anyone. She scribbled a note, telling him that she changed her mind and that she hop
ed he would eventually forgive her before grabbing her train pass. She locked the door from the outside, hoping to stall the drunk colonel for at least a few more minutes while she made her way to the train station.

  An hour later, Marthe sat in the comfort of a train seat, breathless and disbelieving that she had managed to get out from under the colonel’s grasp without causing a permanent stain upon herself.

  A woman passenger on a train that late at night was unusual, but the military police passed her through without a hassle. It was nearing dawn when the train arrived at Roulers.

  Everyone was asleep when Marthe arrived home and she was able to doze off for a few hours in her own bed.

  In the morning, Mother did not question Marthe when she showed for breakfast. It was enough for her that her daughter had returned safely.

  As she set out for the hospital that Saturday morning, Marthe saw that the Grand Place was adorned with brightly colored flags, in preparation for the coming of the Kaiser.

  Alphonse’s ambulance sat near the entrance of the hospital, and, upon circling it, Marthe caught sight of him tinkering with one of the wheels. His eyes traveled up and down her nurses’ uniform. She straightened her spine and met his gaze squarely, trying to show him she was no different now than when she left.

  “Have you heard the news?” he asked finally. “The Kaiser will not be paying us a visit after all. The Seven Sisters have been bombarding us regularly these last few days and the High Command has decided it would be too dangerous for him to come to Roulers.”

  Marthe didn’t reply, for really, there was nothing to be said.

  Chapter 37

  Alouette