by Kit Sergeant
She was therefore startled when an orderly approached her, stating the Oberarzt wanted to see her.
She found him in the hospital lounge. “Fräulein Cnockaert.” He nodded a greeting. “The bishop has asked that any injured soldiers who are capable of making the journey to Westrozebeke be allowed to do so. Headquarters is sending a lorry around, and, as some of them are still at risk of having a wound burst open, I think it would be best if you went with them. The ward is quiet this morning, so you shouldn’t miss out on too much here.” He took a sip of tea. “You have no objection, I suppose?”
Marthe opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The Oberarzt gave her a strange look, and she recovered her voice. “Of course not, Herr Oberarzt.”
As she gathered medical supplies, she could only think about her own safety, now hoping that the Allies had not gotten the warning in time to assemble the Seven Sisters. But as she left the hospital and walked into the sunshine of a fine fall day, she realized that was ridiculous. Such an assemblage of Germans would be a boon to the Allies, and her presence would not change that.
She stared up into the blue sky, wondering if it would be the last time she would see such a sight. She reminded herself of all of those soldiers who would willingly give their lives to keep the Huns from ruling over Belgium: Jimmy, Arthur, Nicholas Hoot… even her own brother. If they could make such a sacrifice, surely she could as well.
She shut her eyes as the lorry began lurching its way toward her hometown, wondering if it were better or worse to be aware of your imminent death. That morning she had been relieved to hear Alphonse had not been commissioned to drive the ambulance. At that moment, however, she would have given anything to have him there by her side. But that would mean he could be killed too.
Marthe had not been back to Westrozebeke since the morning she’d left with Mother and the other women. The town had been nearly razed to the ground, though here and there a few stone walls stood in defiance of the shells and resulting fires. Her heart hardened as they passed the charred remains of her childhood home, where her father had almost been burned to death. The Germans deserved anything the Seven Sisters could bring.
The lorry halted just outside the crumbling Grand Place, where thousands of soldiers had gathered in close ranks. The bishop stood in the middle of the square, his arms raised. So focused were Marthe’s ears on listening for the faintest sound of an airplane that she heard nothing of what he said. But, save for the droning bishop, no other sound broke through the warm stillness of the day. As the soldiers broke out in a final hymn, Marthe heaved a deep sigh, disappointment outweighing relief.
The brass band finished the hymn with a flourish, and the soldiers clapped dutifully. Stop clapping you hateful Boches, Marthe thought. It’s gone on long enough. But then the men began to shout and she realized the thunderous sound was not coming from the soldiers on the ground: it was coming from the sky.
Smoke burned her eyes as she saw a plane swoop down, scattering men in all directions. She closed her eyes for a second, reminding herself that above all, she was a nurse and there to help people. She put her arms around the chest of an amputee and pulled him underneath the wheels of the lorry. An unscathed soldier who looked to be barely out of his teens was already installed there, his eyes wide with fright.
Marthe got into the young man’s face. “You have the use of your legs and can run. This man cannot.” She could see the soldier’s Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. The next moment he was out from under the lorry, running for dear life as one of the Allied airplanes swept low, nearly decapitating him.
Hordes of gray uniforms swirled everywhere, the rat-a-tat of machine guns breathing new life into men ready to collapse from exhaustion. A bomb hit nearby, showering the bare earth of Westrozebeke onto the heads of the soldiers running for their lives as Marthe continued hauling wounded Germans under the truck.
The Seven Sisters eventually stopped swooping, and slowed their machine guns. They got into formation and then headed off somewhere else, probably content with the damage they’d caused. The gray masses returned, moving much slower this time, hampered by both exhaustion and the bomb craters, broken instruments, and dead soldiers that obstructed their path.
Marthe was assisting her charges in emerging from underneath the lorry when a senior officer from the hospital approached her. “Fräulein, you must return to Roulers immediately. Inform the Oberarzt they must send as many ambulances and doctors as they can spare and that the hospital should prepare to receive a great many wounded men.”
She nodded, hoping he’d never know she was the one who’d caused the destruction in the first place.
Thankfully she did not have much time to think for the rest of the day, and well into the night, as she did her best to make the wounded men comfortable.
When she arrived home early the next morning, she was relieved to see that the door to Fashugel’s room was ajar and she could see movement inside. She was too exhausted to greet him.
After she’d gotten a few hours of sleep, she woke up, her stomach rumbling.
Red Carl was already seated at a table.
“Shall I fix you and Hauptmann Fashugel breakfast?” Marthe asked.
Red Carl’s eyes widened. “It will be just me from now on, Fräulein Cnockaert. The hauptmann was killed yesterday by one of the Seven Sisters’ machine guns.”
“I’m sorry,” Marthe said, and meant it.
“Yes. He was a bloody fine officer, our Fashugel. We’ll not get another commander like him, not even if this war lasts another eternity.”
Chapter 41
Alouette
December 1915
Christmas in Madrid was a magical time. Although the war dragged on, the Spanish citizens remained, for the most part, oblivious to it.
On Christmas Eve, von Krohn requested Alouette to meet him in the Santa Cruz Square market. As she wandered through the merry crowd, the smell of roasted turkey filling the air, she felt unexpectedly light-hearted. That came crashing down as she caught sight of the Baron, who was accompanied by his wife.
“Alouette, I believe you’ve met Ilse,” von Krohn stated, rubbing at his collar.
“Joyeux Noël,” Alouette told her, recalling the Baroness’s affinity for everything French.
“Thank you,” the Baroness replied coolly, accepting a bag of spiced almonds from her husband.
“What are you doing later, Alouette?” von Krohn inquired, ignoring his wife’s suspicious glance.
“Oh, I thought I would head to the Palace Hotel. I hear they give a marvelous party.”
“That party doesn’t start till 11,” he replied. “You are welcome to come to our house. We are giving a dinner party for a few dignitaries.” He pulled at his collar again. “The military attaché Arnold Kalle will be there.”
“Really?” Alouette couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.
“Oh yes, it would not be acceptable for Kalle to dine alone as a bachelor on Christmas Eve.” The Baroness’s tone implied that the same could be said of Alouette.
Alouette, reminded of the last time she attended the von Krohns’ dinner party, demurred. “I’m afraid I must decline in favor of a much-needed nap.”
Von Krohn murmured in her ear, “I will be at the Plaza by 1 in the morning.”
Alouette pretended she hadn’t heard him and took her leave.
That evening, Alouette was seated at a small table near the dance floor. She had just ordered a drink when she heard a thumping sound.
“Excusez-moi,” a young man said. The tables were very closely placed together and he seated himself at the table beside Alouette’s with difficulty. As he picked up his upper thigh, readjusting his leg, she saw that the portion underneath his knee was wooden. He reached out his hand. “Lieutenant Jack McKenna of the British Army.”
Alouette noted how blue his eyes were before she put her hand in his. “Alouette Richer.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Did
the Germans do that?” she asked, nodding at his wooden leg.
“Yes,” McKenna answered with a laugh. “Your good friends, the Germans.”
“My good friends?” she repeated.
He put both arms on the table. Though his words seemed unfriendly, the tone in his voice remained amiable. “I’ve seen you around with von Krohn.”
She gave him an apologetic smile. “I knew the Baron in Switzerland before the war. He has taken it upon himself to introduce me to Madrid society.”
“Do you believe he is a desirable dinner companion?”
“Maybe not as desirable as yourself.” Even if he had an alternative reason for bringing up her German affiliation, it felt good to be flirting with a handsome soldier.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” McKenna asserted. “It would be difficult for an officer in His Majesty’s service to—” he frowned. “How can I say this without offending you?”
“Say what?” Alouette prompted.
He took a drink of his wine. “Let’s put it this way—a British officer should take care not to get caught in a Lark’s trap.”
She paused, contemplating whether he knew of her codename, or if he was simply alluding to the English translation of her first name. She raised her chin. “Are you engaged with British Intelligence?”
McKenna neither confirmed nor denied anything. “Why do you ask? Because you are a spy for the Germans?”
Alouette sighed. “It seems to all you men—whether British, German, French, or what have you—women are like birds of prey, sent out to blind an unfortunate hare and make it easier for the hounds to hunt it. Have you no other thought than to accuse every woman of espionage?”
McKenna frowned. “Well, for me, I cannot think of a better way to win this war. Women make the best war laborers, even if the nurses couldn’t save my leg.” As if to soften the blow of his remark, he continued, “How could I not have a grudge against the enemy, when it is their fault I can’t ask you to dance with me tonight?”
She let out a tinkling laugh and was rewarded when McKenna’s face relaxed. But his tone was bitter as he said, “Here is one of them coming to invite you in my place.”
She turned her head, expecting to see the Baron. She was therefore surprised to see a slim man with a full head of dark hair standing beside her.
He bowed. “Madame Richer, I am Arnold Kalle.”
Her heart sped up at finally getting to meet the archnemesis of the Deuxiéme Bureau, and, for that matter, von Krohn.
Kalle held out his arm. “Will you give me this fox-trot?”
Alouette was torn: part of her wanted to stay and chat more with McKenna, conscious that they might be of use to each other. But then again, as a formidable foe, Kalle also played an important part in her mission, and here he was, presenting her with an opportunity to get to know him better.
She placed a gloved hand in Kalle’s open palm. She didn’t dare glance back at McKenna as Kalle led her to the dance floor.
Kalle appeared to be slightly younger than von Krohn; Alouette figured him to be somewhere in his forties. Unlike his counterpart, Kalle had a handsome face and carried himself with a manly grace.
“Pardon me if I seemed rude earlier,” he said as he led her in the dance. “But our mutual friend the Baron sent me to warn you that the man with whom you were flirting is an agent of the British Intelligence Service.”
Alouette studied Kalle’s clean-shaven face. It was unlikely that von Krohn would have done such a thing, but if Kalle was lying, his expression betrayed nothing. “Please thank the Baron for his thoughtful forewarning,” she replied. “But please also tell him that I knew the man with whom I was dealing.”
“Is that so?” Kalle narrowed his eyes, but did not miss a beat in his dancing. “You are playing a dangerous game. McKenna is considered a very astute youth.”
“Dangerous for whom?” Alouette demanded. “For von Krohn, who gets jealous easily? Or for you, who, I fancy, does not?”
“Dangerous for us all.”
In lieu of answering, she rested her head against Kalle’s chest.
Encouraged, Kalle steered her to the sidelines and slowed his feet. “I see that little salon over there is now unoccupied. Should we rest for a minute?”
Alouette’s radar flashed danger, but she nodded anyway.
Kalle hesitated. “Perhaps I should mention to von Krohn that I have indeed gotten you away from your English neighbor. Otherwise he might fail to understand—”
“Don’t bother,” she said coolly. “He doesn’t own me.” With that, she marched into the little salon and set down in a blue velvet armchair. She crossed her legs, noting Kalle’s eyes following her movements. “And now, Herr Kalle, I wish to know why you have been following me since I arrived in Madrid.”
“Did von Krohn tell you that?”
“No,” she lied. “Is it not the duty of a spy to know everything?”
Kalle looked anxiously around the little room, but they were alone. “Once again, madame, permit me to warn you that you have involved yourself in a treacherous situation.”
“You are not the first to tell me.” Alouette folded her hands over her lap, wishing she had the foresight to bring her wine with her. It might have given her more courage to deal with this sinister man. “Tell me, Kalle, why were you given the Iron Cross? I was under the impression that, like the French Crois de Guerre, the German Iron Cross was given only to those who had been in the firing line. Is it because your profession is really so risky?”
Kalle’s already narrowed eyes grew positively beady. “If I were decorated, madame,” he spit out with vehemence, “it was for defending my native country.”
She lowered her fan and pasted a toothy smile on her face. “Do you mean to accuse me of betraying my native country?”
“I do not yet know whether you are defending or betraying it.” His face relaxed and a muscle played in his cheek, as if he were trying not to smile. “What I do know, madame, is that you are as keen as a knife.”
She lowered her head. “And you are as well, Kalle. And in order that we do not risk putting out each other’s eyes while playing with such sharp weapons, I propose a truce.”
Alouette studied the effect her words had on him, as if she were gauging the range of an airplane’s guns from the cockpit. Every bullet must have hit its mark as he appeared taken aback. Nevertheless, he replied, “I’ll accept your offering.”
She shook his outstretched hand. “I wonder what young McKenna has been doing while we’ve been conversing.” She rose. “I had already succeeded in making him tell me that the British Admiralty soon hopes to eliminate the disastrous consequences of your submarine warfare…”
Kalle managed to recover his voice. “He told you that?”
“Yes, but seeing as it was naval, it’s more von Krohn’s domain than yours. I didn’t think it concerned you.”
He shook his head in amazement. “You are indeed the devil and must get the better of everyone you encounter.”
“I am not the devil, Kalle. I’m just doing my best to navigate this, as you put it, treacherous situation.”
He stood up. “Shall we meet again?”
As Alouette headed back to the table, she noticed McKenna had gone.
“Madame,” a waiter called. “Señor McKenna asked me to give you this.” He handed her a small envelope.
She sat at the table as she opened it. Inside was a hundred peseta note and his calling card. On the back of the card he had scribbled, “I did not dare to pay for your drink in your absence, but I beg you to consent to pay for it yourself.”
She looked up to signal the waiter, noting that the Baron had taken a seat in the opposite corner of the room. She caught the waiter’s attention. “Here,” she said, putting the peseta note in his hand. “Joyeux Noël.”
The waiter’s eyes widened. “Feliz Navidad!” he called as Alouette grabbed her drink and headed to the Baron’s table, where he sat simmering.
“Di
d you have a good evening with your Englishman and with Kalle?” The bitterness oozed from his voice.
Alouette scrunched her eyes, picturing von Krohn as a helpless hare which she had just succeeded in blinding with jealousy. “I did, thank you.”
“Well, I’ve acquired some of my own news. It seems the German Navy is poised to win the war, and there is nothing your suitors can do about it.”
“Oh? How so?”
The normally discreet von Krohn could not resist bragging to Alouette. “We have commissioned fifty brand new submarines—they are capable of remaining at sea for several months. They will be able to break through the blockade once and for all and Germany will triumph.”
Chapter 42
Marthe
March 1916
After eighteen months of fighting, the war at the western front had turned into a stalemate, with both sides digging into trenches but making no major strides. Equally as unfortunate, Marthe’s espionage antics since the death of Hauptmann Fashugel had also reached an impasse.
She was returning from the hospital late one night when she became aware of someone behind her. She quickened her pace only to hear the stranger doing the same. She glanced back, thinking she would see the ominous form of a gendarme, but the stranger was not in uniform.
“Would you kindly direct me to the Grand Place?” His voice was oddly familiar.
She paused in her walking, realizing that the stranger was Herr Jacobs, the safety-pin man who’d boarded at the grocer’s house for a short while. He was dressed in threadbare clothes, his boots nearly worn through the toes.
“Follow me,” she replied.
“I’m actually looking for the Café Carillon. Do you know of it?” He stood in the middle of the road instead of on the sidewalk. “Even the houses have ears,” he said in a low voice, nodding at the brick walls surrounding them.
“My father owns the Café Carillon.”
