Return to the Field

by Alexander Fullerton

  ‘Why should you be sorry? What are you – French, or German?’

  Spreading his hands: ‘I’m human – and you’re young, attractive, your whole life before you—’

  ‘What’s that whip for?’

  ‘My whole point, Zoé—’

  ‘I’m to be beaten with it? Or just to scare me?’

  She knew he was Hector. Doing a first-class job for a heck of a long time, that man Hallowell had said. A traitor, serving the Gestapo now for how long? Some relations as hostages – allegedly. Father with an engineering business, mother Scottish: Hallowell again. But he’d have been turned long before Baker Street had decided the allegations had to be looked into, she guessed. How many fellow agents – including quite probably some she’d have known – would he have caused to be arrested, tortured and killed, by this time?

  So close she could smell his breath. Names, they’d want. And still send her to Ravensbrück when they’d got them. She couldn’t even look at him. And trying not to breathe… Footsteps were coming loudly along the corridor, anyway: he’d heard it too, and straightened.

  ‘At least think about it?’

  ‘You are – contemptible!’

  The door banged open: a tall, uniformed Gestapo major barked at him, ‘You – get out!’

  ‘Jawohl, Herr Major…’

  Out like a rabbit. The tall man standing with his booted legs apart, fists on his hips: lean, hard-faced, more soldierly-looking than most of them.

  ‘Friend of yours, is that?’

  ‘I’ve met him before, apparently. He says when I was in a hospital.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Moving to his chair. ‘You’re the one with no memory.’ Still standing, he poked at the files with a forefinger. ‘Yes, I read these. This one Rouen, July–August last year, SOE agent “Angel”, alias Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre, and the other more recent. Quimper, Châteauneuf-du-Faou, Suzanne Tanguy or Zoé. Angel to Zoé – A to Z, was that the idea? Whose – Colonel Buckmaster’s?’

  ‘I don’t know what – or who—’

  ‘You look like a cat that’s been in a lot of fights.’ He still hadn’t sat down. Looking at the portraits of his leaders: then moving towards them. A hand to each, lifting them carefully from their hooks.

  ‘There, now.’ He brought the framed prints to the desk, slid them into a drawer. Where they’d hung, on that end wall, she saw iron rings which they’d covered – a couple of feet apart and six or seven feet up. He heeled his chair back and sat down, studying her.

  ‘Those straps—’ he pointed – ‘transferred to the rings you see behind me – huh?’ Reaching up: ‘Like so?’ He picked up the dog-whip then: ‘Get the idea? I see you do. It’s up to you, though. My job’s to get the answers to certain questions, and one way or another I will get them.’ He slapped the whip down on the desk-top. ‘Understand me? My French good enough?’

  ‘It’s very good.’

  ‘It’s important we understand each other… I have a list of questions here – relating to both areas, both of your – deployments. I’ll read through them, or some of them, and you may stop me in order to – to answer, clarify, or comment. But it’s all straightforward. After this reconnaissance of the terrain we’ll take it question by question, and according to the readiness and quality of your replies you’ll either remain in that chair or go on the rings. Understand?’

  ‘Yes – but I have no memory. I truly have not. You could whip me to shreds—’

  ‘If necessary. But let’s hope memory returns so fast you’ll surprise yourself. Here we go, now. One – in August last year you murdered an officer of the Sicherheitsdienst on a train somewhere this side of Brest. You were on your way to an escape réseau that handled a clandestine sea-route to England. I want every detail of that escape-route, personnel, safe-houses, place of embarkation, et cetera.’

  ‘Are you saying I went to England?’

  ‘Are you telling me you didn’t?’

  ‘Not as far as I know – or remember—’

  ‘I’ll skip, in that case—’ he’d turned a page – ‘to question number – thirteen. You arrived in France from England approximately eight weeks ago – most likely by a Lysander aircraft touching down on a field near Soucelles, in the district of Angers. How did you get from there to St Michel-du-Faou, and whom did you contact en route, especially in Rennes?’

  She was looking at the dog-whip. Shaking her head. ‘As far as I know I’ve never been up in an aeroplane of any kind.’

  ‘Are you asking me to believe that after murdering that officer you remained in France?’

  ‘I can’t believe I’d have murdered anyone!’

  ‘Perhaps we’re wasting time… But I’ll try a few more. Back to July of last year… You arranged for some parachutages. One, anyway, within easy travelling distance of Rouen, and there were others later. In making the arrangements you obviously also made the acquaintance of certain leading Résistants. And then again, you met others in order to have them pass back information on the location of secret-weapon sites. I want the names and places of residence of everyone you met in the course of that work.’

  She’d begun to shake her head even before he’d finished. ‘I couldn’t give you one name. Don’t even remember being in Rouen!’

  ‘Tell me.’ He’d put that list down on the file. ‘This is my own question, not listed there. Do you anticipate that if you stall long enough it’ll all end happily for you with victorious British or Americans storming into Paris?’

  ‘I’m not stalling! Can’t tell you what I don’t remember, that’s all!’

  ‘Well – I recommend that you think again, and make yourself remember. You’ll either answer all of it – and in the course of the next few days, at that – or you’ll die of—’ he inclined his head towards the whip – ‘that kind of thing – or you’ll be written-off as hopeless and put on a train for Germany. That would mean – well, I’m sure you know. But believe me, it’s policy.’

  She wondered when the whipping would start. She knew it would: so that when the next session started she’d be in no doubt that whatever worse things he might threaten were no bluff.

  ‘Do you believe me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Suppose so…’

  ‘Do you really think we’d want people like yourself left here – left anywhere? Be realistic, use your head. You’d have tales to tell, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘No. Well – I mean—’

  ‘Of course – you would. Foolish to pretend otherwise.’

  He picked up the typed list again. ‘A few more sample questions. If your memory starts working – go right ahead, interrupt me. Then you could enjoy a cup of tea and a cigarette, we’d talk things over quietly, I could hang the pictures back on the wall there and put this away.’ The whip: his fingers touched it while his eyes watched for her reaction. She remembered that in Rouen the one with the pliers had offered her a cup of tea – before things had reached that stage… He sighed, shrugged slightly: ‘All right. Question number – eight. Who is the mastermind of the Résistance in Finistère? No? Well – question nine: you came to join this Dr Peucat with references from some French source. From whom, who set it up? Ten: you arranged a parachutage to Maquis forces in the Montagnes Noires. We know about that one, but there was another on the same night – where, and with which Résistance leader were you working?’

  It sounded as if Jaillon and Count Jules – and his girlfriend – were in the clear. As they should have been: they’d had nothing to do with ‘Mincemeat’. She had no idea what might have happened to the letters between Peucat and the former actress. She’d kept them with her other papers, but she’d never been called upon to show them.

  Didn’t know what had happened to the other papers, for that matter.

  ‘No answers, eh?’

  ‘I’ve said – over and over—’

  ‘Very well.’ There must have been a bell-push under the edge of his desk: his hand had moved, and a buzzer sounded somewhere outside. There was a shou
t – a name in German and some answer…

  ‘You either don’t have any memory, young woman – in which case it’s just your bad luck – or you’re very stupid.’ There was a rap on the door, and it opened. ‘Herr Major?’

  He nodded, and gestured towards her – a chopping motion, then that hand’s thumb pointing at the rings behind him: ‘String her up.’

  * * *

  In her dreams in the cell at Fresnes she was in Ben’s arms, whispering it to him. How while the underling had been securing her wrists to the iron rings her interrogator had lit a cigarette and remained in his chair at the table leafing slowly through the contents of the files, and had continued doing so even when the other man had left the room – finishing the cigarette, as absorbed and silent as if he’d forgotten she was there. Rosie leaning with her weight against the wall and the pain throbbing in her spine. He might have been doing this deliberately for its effect on her, racking up the tension on her nerves, or giving her time to change her mind and give in – perhaps less out of cruelty than in the hope of not having to go through with it. He must have at least suspected that she was in a frail state of health, that it wouldn’t take a lot to kill her. She’d looked round at him only once – a major physical effort that hurt, left her wishing she hadn’t.

  I just thought about you, then, kept picturing you in my mind, how you might look when I got back to you and where it would be, what time of day and whether it might still be summer: hearing him move, then, pushing his chair back and I suppose stubbing out the cigarette, and I think he took off his jacket – tunic, whatever you’d call it. Oh, Ben, I love you so: those were dreadful minutes but if I’d had a cyanide pill and could have got to it I think I wouldn’t have taken it even then, because while there might still be any chance of getting back to you—

  ‘I’ll give you the first question again. Answer it, and the beating will stop. Answer it now, it won’t even start. You listening? Right. After you killed the SD officer, where did you go to contact the escape réseau? I’ll count to five now.’

  She tightened her arms round Ben, tightened her whole being against the recollection of that first indescribably frightful slash of the whip across her shoulders. She’d thought this might be how she was going to die. He’d repeated the question, struck again, she’d had a sensation and mental vision of splitting open, an image of her spine and right-side ribs visible through parting flesh. She’d screamed, and through it heard his bellow close into her ear! ‘Answer! Answer the question, damn you!’

  * * *

  ‘Hey – what the hell—’

  Girl’s, woman’s voice, in sharp protest. The warm bulk which in her dream had represented Ben wriggling and pushing her off, disengaging her arms and shoving her away. She felt the edge of the bed as she went over it, landing on the concrete on her side. Hurting everywhere, hellish pain in her spine and head, back and shoulders burning as if she’d been skinned and rubbed in salt. Same female voice – above her somewhere, and a tone of concern now – ‘Hell, sorry, but what—’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s all right, Irène. Nightmare – I don’t know… Hey, you OK?’

  ‘A dream I was being whipped. Was, yesterday. Oh, Christ…’

  ‘Really am sorry – I was asleep too, didn’t – here…’

  ‘Oh God, it’s – morning?’

  Greyish light was seeping from the small, high window. She knew where she was, remembered being thrown in, last night. Telling this girl who was helping her up, ‘I was whipped – in Rue des Saussaies, yesterday. Must have passed out. I came to in the van on the way back. So they’ll start again today – expect they will…’

  ‘I don’t believe this!’

  A whisper: the girl was stooping, peering into her face, hands gentle under Rosie’s jaw-bones, turning her face up to such light as there was.

  ‘Suzanne?’

  The hands were on her shoulders now: partially holding her up. ‘Suzanne. Is it possible?’

  She didn’t know. Seemed it was, though. Weak and hurting: but it seemed real. Trying a smile: ‘Lise?’

  ‘Christ, it is!’

  Fingers – Lise’s – were feeling the scarred abrasions on her face and forehead. As light as the ward sister’s had been. Rosie whispering, ‘I’d forgotten – I thought last night – decided it couldn’t be – just someone like you, but any case I wasn’t – wasn’t entirely compos mentis…’

  ‘Wait.’ Lips close to her ear. ‘Want to make sure this one’s asleep. Wouldn’t trust her a centimetre. Hang on.’ She’d pulled away, was bending over the body that was curled against the wall… ‘Irène?’ Very quiet, low whisper. ‘You asleep?’

  It had seemed to be part of a dream to start with, but it was real, all right. Feeling gingerly where her filthy blouse had stuck to her. Carefully – if she’d pulled it off the crusted blood it would have started the bleeding again. Real as that: and, astonishingly, that this was Lise. Although – in the long run, what difference? All right, a tiny interlude now, but then back to the Rue des Saussaies – with the knowledge that Lise was in the same boat not exactly comforting. In fact the opposite. And what about Noally?

  ‘Suzanne—’

  ‘No, Christ!’

  She’d been on the point of putting an arm round her: had caught on quickly as Rosie pulled back… ‘Sorry!’ A laugh like a couple of short breaths, then another quick apology – ‘Not funny, is it? Not in the least. Only – don’t know about you, I’m – dazed… Listen, though – they’ll be turning us out, any minute now, probably separate us, but—’

  ‘What about Noally – Alain—’

  ‘They killed him. Several others too. He went to a meeting, an informer had leaked it and the SD had the place surrounded. Alain and some others tried to break out, there was a lot of shooting, and – that was that.’

  ‘Lise. I’m so sorry. It’s too awful!’

  ‘It still doesn’t seem possible. Is, though.’

  They were holding each other’s hands… ‘They’d have known who he was and where you lived, so…’

  ‘Yes. Actually I bolted, but they still caught me. What happened with you?’

  ‘Long story. One thing, I’m saying I’ve lost my memory. I think they don’t know whether to believe it or not. But I won’t know you, if—’

  ‘Better not anyway. Vice versa.’

  ‘Yes. They asked me yesterday who I saw in Rennes. I didn’t tell them – not anything.’

  ‘Good for you. Nor have I, as it happens. They beat me – God, didn’t they!’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘In St Brieuc. What happened was a friend telephoned, told me about Alain, I made a break for it – to a safe-house, so-called, at Fougères. Weren’t you going to Fougères when you left us?’

  ‘No. I went west. But your safe-house—’

  ‘They had it staked out, a souricière. I walked right into it, like a bloody fool! But I’m denying any connection with SOE. I was Alain’s help and artistic disciple, and we fell in love. God knows that’s true. But if he had other business I didn’t know it. I’m just me – Elise Krilov, aspiring artist, Paris-born and educated, never been in England and they’ve no proof I have. OK?’

  ‘But they’re not swallowing it?’

  ‘Associating with an agent’s worth a death sentence, isn’t it? I can’t prove I didn’t know – wasn’t a pianist, et cetera. They want to know where I’d stashed my radios, of course. Oh, hell, here we go…’

  Shouts, cell doors crashing open…

  ‘Wakey-wakey time. Listen, if you get back and I don’t, tell them what happened to Alain?’

  ‘Yes – not that it’s likely.’

  ‘And that I didn’t tell them anything, and I have no fingernails on this hand.’

  ‘Lise!’

  ‘I fainted. Before that I shut my eyes, screamed blue murder, thought about being in Pont Aven with Alain. That would have been such fun. Suzanne—’

  ‘Better not use n
ames?’

  ‘No – you’re right…’

  The light came on: one bare bulb, high up. They were face to face, still holding hands. Shock in Lise’s expression at the way Rosie looked, until she’d got it under control. But she herself – Lise – wasn’t much changed: a year or two older, maybe – after just a few weeks – and starved, that desperate look they all had. Rosie whispered quickly, ‘One thing – in case you get back and I don’t – tell them “Hector” is working for the Gestapo, any radio he was using before is likely to be Boche-controlled.’

  ‘I remember – I told you he’d been arrested, you told us it could have been faked. But you will get back—’

  ‘I know. So will you. Only in case—’

  ‘Frankly I wouldn’t care all that much. But let’s – let’s make a point of it?’

  ‘What is it with you two then?’

  Irène was sitting up, drawing her legs up too, as into a Yoga position. Black accusing eyes, dyed-blonde hair, forty-ish. Staring at Rosie: ‘Jesus – you’re a sight for sore eyes!’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Rats been at you?’ She laughed. She had some front teeth missing. Asking Lise, ‘Taken to her, have you?’

  ‘Poor kid was flogged yesterday.’ She asked Rosie, ‘What did this to your face?’

  ‘I’m told I went through a car windscreen. Don’t remember it, but—’

  The cell door was thrown open. Lise’s hands tightened: ‘Good luck today. God bless you.’ A wardress – not the one who’d dumped Rosie in here last night – checked items on her clipboard, and pointed at Irène. ‘You’re for release. Second floor, first. You two, queue for breakfast, then you—’ she meant Rosie – ‘back to your old cell.’

  Not Rue des Saussaies?

  * * *

  Two days later she saw Lise in the exercise yard. There’d been no recall to Rue des Saussaies. Allowing her time to get her memory back, she guessed. That, or they’d given up on her. No point in thrashing someone who passes out as soon as it starts. That could be it: she didn’t know what had happened except that she had lost consciousness and before that must have been hit seven or eight times. But if they’d given her up as useless, why waste cell-space, why not get rid of her?