“Unconscious!” Eleanor echoed. “Is she all right now? Where is she?”
“That’s the thing. You see, I put my coat over her. Then I rode my bicycle to the command post to get help,” I said. “When we came back…she was gone.”
“Gone.” Eleanor stared at me. “Oh, I’m so confused. What happened to her?”
“I don’t know. I even went back to Mill Street this morning to look for clues. I guess it’s possible she got up and left,” I said. “Eleanor, it might help if you tell me who she was.”
Eleanor shook her head.
I tried again. “Is she your sister?”
“No, she’s not my sister.”
There was a long pause. I thought she might not tell me. At last Eleanor seemed to make up her mind. She heaved a sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath. “All right. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else.”
“I promise.”
“Well, her name is Violette Romy. She’s about twenty-three. Violette was my French tutor last year. She left last spring and I hadn’t heard from her in months.”
French tutor…I remembered something from the notebook. The person was being trained to go into the field—into another country. A country occupied by the Nazis. Could it be France?
“Violette was originally from France, wasn’t she?” I recalled how the writer had used the French word maman for “mama” in the notebook.
Eleanor nodded. “Yes, she was born in Paris. She was an only child. She never talked about her father. But after her mother died, Violette came to London. My father hired her to help me because when we arrived I was so behind in French compared to the other girls in my class.”
“Did you know Violette well?”
Eleanor nodded. “We met twice a week. I’m an only child too. And I was lonely, especially when we first came. Violette is…well, she’s my friend. I’d do almost anything to help her.”
“When did you see Violette again, after she stopped being your tutor?” I asked. I was trying to piece together the story. If Violette had trained to be an agent in France, why had she come back? And why had she given Eleanor her secret notebook?
“I hadn’t seen her for months until yesterday,” Eleanor explained. “In the morning, I found a note pushed under our door. Violette asked me to meet her in the afternoon. I was so excited! We met up and made our way to Regent Street and went window-shopping. But Violette seemed different somehow.” Eleanor got up and began pacing back and forth.
“How different?”
“Well, her looks, for one thing. Violette was always neat and stylish. Yesterday she seemed thinner; her clothes were worn. And she acted strange.” Eleanor’s words spilled out.
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I thought we’d catch up and maybe go have tea together. But Violette seemed preoccupied. She didn’t ask me many questions about what I’ve been doing. And when I tried to find out where she’d been, she wouldn’t really say. She just changed the subject.”
“Did you just walk along Regent Street?”
Eleanor nodded. She closed her eyes for a second, as if she was trying to replay the events in her mind. “Violette kept looking around, here and there and sometimes over her shoulder. We’d stand in front of one window, and then she’d want to race across the street to see something else.”
I drew in a breath.
“What?” Eleanor asked.
“Nothing.”
But was it nothing? Maybe Violette had been practicing a strategy from her notebook, just as I’d done today while trailing my quarry: It is often better to use the opposite side of the road. Had Violette been following someone? Or had she been worried about being followed? We were quiet for a few minutes. “Eleanor, what did Violette say when she gave you the notebook?”
“Well, it was getting late. I told her I needed to get home to my grandmother. My father and I live with her, you see,” Eleanor explained. “And that’s when Violette said she had something she wanted me to keep for her, just for a week or so. She came close and slipped the notebook into my coat pocket.”
“She didn’t tell you what was in it?”
“No. But she said she wanted to trust me with something important.” Eleanor paused and glanced around. “Then Violette murmured, ‘Thursday evening. I’ve set the trap for then. Please just keep this for me…just in case. If you don’t hear from me by Friday, if not before, then…’ ”
“Then what?” I cried, eager to hear the rest. I wondered what kind of trap Violette had set. And could she still follow through with it, or had someone stopped her?
I shivered, and it wasn’t just because I’d gotten cold sitting on the bench. I asked again, “And then what?”
Eleanor sank back down beside me. “That’s when the sirens started wailing. There were so many people, jostling and pushing. We got separated. I wanted to get home to Nan. That’s where I was heading when you ran into me.
“I don’t know what to think,” she added. “Bertie, you’ve read parts of the notebook. Does it explain what Violette has been doing all these months?”
“Yes, I think so.” I wondered if Eleanor would be shocked. “I think Violette stopped being your tutor to train as a secret agent.”
Eleanor was less surprised than I’d expected. She cocked her head and considered the idea. “Do you mean she might be working as an agent here in London?”
I shook my head. “No. At least I’m not sure. I think it was probably in a country in Europe, occupied by the Nazis. I guess we can assume it was France, since she spoke French. But that’s not all.” I lowered my voice, though there was no one near us. “I didn’t read the entire notebook, so there’s a lot I don’t know. But the last pages are filled with strings of letters—letters that don’t make any sense at all. Gibberish.”
“Gibberish,” she repeated. “You mean like it’s in some sort of code?”
I nodded. “Yes. Exactly like that.”
“And now Violette is missing. She could be hurt, or kidnapped. I’m afraid she’s in some sort of trouble, Bertie.” Eleanor clenched her fists. “If only we had more clues to what happened to her.”
“She might be safe. She might have just walked home. Did she say where she was living?” I asked. “With a friend, or did she have a flat? Or maybe she was staying in a hotel?”
Eleanor shook her head. “I know Violette used to live alone in a small rented room. I don’t know exactly where it was, though. And now…now I have no idea.”
“So there’s no way to check if she reached home last night.” I frowned. That would make finding her hard, if not impossible. I had another thought—if Violette was renting a room in a boardinghouse or a hotel, she might not even have used her real name.
Eleanor sighed and turned to face me. “I guess, after all, it’s a good thing you ran me down, Bertie. Because if I hadn’t met you and dropped the notebook, I’d never know something might have happened to Violette.
“But if something has happened, then whatever plan Violette set in motion for Thursday might be ruined. That’s only five days from now….” Her voice trailed off.
“But we can help.” I leaned forward. “We can figure out what the trap is and be there in Violette’s place. I know we can do it. Let me help.”
Eleanor opened her mouth to answer. At that moment, the air was split by the eerie, spine-chilling rise and fall of the warning sirens. LR started to quiver. She lifted up her small snout and wailed, Wooo…wooo. It was happening again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The agent should merge into the background and act in the same way as those around him.
—SOE Manual
The air-raid siren made me bolt to my feet. “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since the last bombing raid,” I cried. “I’m on call tonight. I
need to go home to get my bicycle. And my helmet.”
“Let me take Little Roo,” Eleanor offered. “I know where the Mayfair command post is. We can run and meet you there. That will save you time.”
“But…”
“It’ll be fine. She likes me.” Eleanor grabbed LR’s lead. “It’s not like I’m going to steal her.”
I hesitated, but only for a second. I couldn’t afford to be late again, and I could ride faster without LR in the basket. “All right. Once I get my bike, it’ll take me less than five minutes to reach the command post.”
“Let’s go, Little Roo!” And Eleanor was off, LR trotting behind her.
The flat was empty; Dad wasn’t back. I pulled on my helmet and grabbed my torch. I pulled down the blackout shade in the kitchen, so if Dad came in and turned on a light, it wouldn’t shine outside. I was halfway out the door when I remembered to stop and scribble a quick note.
Jimmy was at the reception desk. All the constables had to take turns answering the phone on weekends. I called out, “Missing the Saturday dance tonight?”
“Not a chance.” Jimmy flashed a wide smile. “I asked George to take over my shift later. He doesn’t care about dancing. I hope the raid ends in time. If you were a bit older, you could bring your little friend. Now, haven’t I seen her before?”
“I don’t think so. Well, I’m off.”
He waved me on. “Be careful, Bertie.”
* * *
—
This time will be different, I vowed, pedaling hard. This time I’ll make the wardens proud of me. Dusk was falling and my stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.
The air-raid sirens blared, their awful voices rising and falling in that eerie, urgent wail. People scurried along the streets, heading home to their Morrison shelters or to Anderson shelters in their gardens. Others made their way to public shelters or Tube stations.
When I rushed into the command post, Warden Ita greeted me with a warm smile. “Ah, Bertie. You’ve made good time and I see you’ve got your helmet on. And you arranged for our Miss Shea to bring your rescue dog.”
Our Miss Shea? “You…you know Eleanor?”
“A little. She volunteers with the PDSA, the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals. You know, the folks that rescue animals from bombed-out houses. We coordinate with them quite a bit.”
“Where is she now?” I asked. “And where’s LR?”
“I’ve just sent them out to an incident.” The phone on the desk jangled sharply. Warden Ita held up his hand. “Hold on a minute.”
He answered the phone and took a few notes. “Got it. Thank you.” Then he turned back to me. “That was the ambulance station,” Warden Ita said. “Here’s what I need you to do. A house on Berkeley Square was hit. Let the rescue team know there’ll be a short delay but the ambulance will arrive as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir. I can be there in two or three minutes.” It was less than half a mile away.
“I’ll come and check on the situation when I can. Watch out for delayed-action bombs and incendiaries,” Warden Ita warned. Incendiary bombs, I knew, could cause destructive fires. Everyone in London remembered December 29, 1940, when the magnificent St. Paul’s Cathedral had been saved by dedicated fire watchers.
It felt strange to be riding my bicycle without Little Roo’s ears flapping in the breeze in front of me. I could hear the rumbling drone of planes and the ack-ack fire sputtering around me. Anti-aircraft guns, all trained skyward, were stationed throughout the city.
I hoped this raid would be short, like the one last night. In the Blitz, all-night raids hadn’t kept ambulance drivers, fire watchers, air-raid wardens, and rescue volunteers from their duties. They’d saved people from the rubble, fought fires, and rushed the wounded to hospitals. Some had been killed.
At least tonight I had my helmet.
* * *
—
It was easy to see where the bomb had hit. One corner of a two-story house had been blown away. Dust and smoke still filled the air.
I threw down my bicycle and Eleanor came running toward me, wearing a tin helmet with PDSA RESCUE stenciled on it. She must have been carrying it in her knapsack all day. Eleanor was better prepared than I was.
“Where’s Little Roo?”
“Oh, Bertie, the rescue team needed her.” Eleanor’s cheeks were flushed red from running and the cold air. “Two small children on the first floor are trapped inside with their mother.” She touched my arm as we hurried toward the building. “I’m sorry. I wanted to wait until you got here. But you should’ve seen Little Roo! She really wanted to help. And everyone says the heavy rescue men are the best. They work in construction and know how houses are put together.”
I swallowed hard. “I wish I’d been here. She’s just…she’s so little.”
We got as close as we could; then the waiting began. The minutes seemed endless. Ten…fifteen…twenty. The all clear sounded. After that, a crowd began to gather. Neighbors emerged from nearby houses, or stopped to look as they returned home from shelters.
People huddled close in the cold and spoke in whispers. Silence was important: The rescue workers had to listen for sounds from survivors. We all waited for a whimper, a cry, an excited shout that meant someone had been found alive.
“The man who took Little Roo inside said she was a silly-looking thing. But I stood up for her,” Eleanor whispered. “I said LR was as good as Rip and Rex, those famous rescue dogs from the Blitz. We learned about them in my PDSA training.” She patted my arm awkwardly. “Sorry, Bertie. I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”
“It’s all right.” I dug my fingernails into my palms. My stomach was a mass of knots. I stood on tiptoes and tried to peer into the hole where the front door had been. “Where do they think the children are?”
“I heard a neighbor say the family has a Morrison shelter in the kitchen,” Eleanor said softly. “I guess the problem is getting them out without more of the building collapsing.”
Somewhere inside, a man shouted, “Watch out there!”
Then we heard a piercing yelp of pain.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Undaunted by smouldering debris, thick smoke, intense heat and jets of water from fire hoses, this dog displayed uncanny intelligence and outstanding determination in his efforts to follow up any scent which led him to a trapped casualty.
—PDSA Dickin Medal citation for Rex, civil defense rescue dog
“Little Roo!” I leaped forward.
Eleanor grabbed my arm. “We have to stay back. They’ll bring her out. You’ll see.”
I shook her off and plunged ahead. I didn’t get far. A burly rescue worker in dark blue overalls stood in the entrance with a lantern. He put out his arm. “Easy now, lad. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
I stepped back, my eyes glued to the gaping hole where a door had been. Through it, I could see smashed furniture, a broken pram, a child’s boot. The family had probably gone for a walk that very afternoon. I imagined a young mother, waiting in a long queue with her ration card to buy food for her family.
And now…I swallowed hard. I knew that a dog, even a dog helping in a rescue, would always be last on the list to save.
“How are things going?” Warden Ita asked softly. He’d come up behind us. His arm on my shoulder felt solid and warm.
“Hello, Warden.” The rescue worker shifted his hurricane lamp so he could shake hands. “We’re trying to get two little ones and their mum out. The spaniel helped us find a path to them. But now it seems as if some of the rubble has shifted.”
“Any injuries?” Warden Ita gestured toward the street. “The ambulance has just arrived. We’ll keep it standing by.”
“Can’t be sure yet,” the rescue worker replied. He wiped brick dust from his eyes, leaving a smud
ge on his broad face. “You know, Warden, I thought we were done with all this. I’m not sure how much longer Londoners can hold out.”
“We’ll hold out as long as we must,” Warden Ita assured him. “Besides, the tide’s turning. Once our troops invade France, they’ll drive Hitler’s forces back to Berlin in no time.”
The man asked a question about the rescue worker schedule, and Warden Ita moved closer to answer. I felt cold suddenly, without him behind me. I couldn’t hear their exact words, but a strange thing happened. Their voices started to sound distant and tinny.
Maybe I was just hungry, but I started to feel dizzy, and hot and cold at the same time. One minute it was like being stuck at the bottom of an empty well. And then it seemed like someone was pouring icy water in over my head. The water got deeper and deeper, creeping over my chin and up to my mouth. I had a hard time catching my breath.
Images flooded in. I was there again. Our old house. I could smell the sharp cordite of the gunpowder, the burning wood. Thick brick dust clogged my throat and nostrils. The sounds came back too. The staccato of the ack-ack guns, rumbling planes, walls and beams crashing.
Terrified screams. My screams.
One part of me knew it wasn’t real. I tried counting. That had worked before. One two three. One two three. Then I felt myself sway and was sure I’d be sick to my stomach.
“Bertie!” I heard my name and felt someone grab me hard. “Bertie!”
I opened my eyes. And there was Dad. He pushed my head down close to my knees. “Keep your head down, lad, before you faint. Breathe now. Slow and easy. That’s it. You’re all right, son. It’s going to be all right.”
* * *
—
Ten minutes later, I was able to stand up straight without the world spinning.
How I Became a Spy Page 6
