by Sharon Maas
Yet still, her heart was galloping, her breathing grew shallow and her nerves were at breaking point as she slipped the cover off the typewriter, opened the bonnet for the spool cavity, lifted the unused spool to check how much ribbon remained. She did this as often as she could, whenever she found a free moment, anxious not to miss the return point, when the ribbon would reach its end and automatically reverse, deleting the single line of typed letters, or part of it. Marie-Claire had to be quick on the ball to prevent this; finding the optimal point near the end of the ribbon, yet not leaving too much unused. She had no idea how much typing it would take to create one full line of used ribbon, thus the necessity to check again and again, as often as she could. When the top half of the ribbon was as full as possible, she would turn it round to use the bottom half.
Now, she eased the right-side spool out of its case as gently as she could. More than half of it had been used, wound now on the left spool with every word the Kreisleiter had typed over the last ten days since she’d changed spools. Every word, every secret, every bit of confidential information was stored on that left-hand spool, and more was to come. Pride surged in Marie-Claire’s breast: what a brilliant idea she’d had, and how Jacques would be grateful, appreciative, beholden!
She was doing this for Jacques. Risking so much for him. Not only her job: if she were found out, she’d be guilty of espionage, and the consequences for that crime were dire, probably deadly. This much Marie-Claire knew. But she would do it for Jacques.
It was hard to gauge how much ribbon would be used at the next sitting. Sometimes the Kreisleiter typed for over an hour, hammering away with his two-finger method, which was remarkably fast. Sometimes, he only needed ten minutes. She replaced the spool. She’d give him another day, and then turn the ribbon. A full spool of top-secret writing: Jacques would be ecstatic. Hopefully.
* * *
A week later, and the ribbon was almost full, top and bottom. It was time to remove and replace the spool. She carefully threaded the new spool, delivered by Madame Guyon the week before, and placed it in its slot, ready for use the following day, or whenever the Kreisleiter chose to return.
The full spool in hand, she walked over to the window. Thick green velvet curtains hung on both sides, now open. She stooped down, lifted the hem of the right-hand one, found the spot where the stitching had been cut open for a few centimetres. She slipped the spool into the gap; it fell to the bottom of the hem.
Later, Madame Guyon would ease it out, hide it in the gusset of her underwear, where the security guards would never think, or dare, to search.
‘Isn’t it uncomfortable, there?’ Marie-Claire had asked. Madame Guyon only cackled.
‘What we women will endure to rescue France; it is truly extraordinaire!’
Twenty
Juliette
She stood at the edge of the forest, a black shadow herself in a forest of shadows, black against black. Beyond her, crowning a wide hilltop, the blackness yielded to an open space lit only by a moonless night sky, a wide barren expanse curved across the hill’s gentle crest. Between her and this broad summit, a wire fence, high and barbed. Beyond the fence, the mountaintop had been reclaimed. No longer a soft rounded mound, it had been carved and churned, chunks of it removed. Bare earth lay before her, bare earth cut into wide terraces hugging the downward slope of the mountain. Terraces, obviously prepared for yet more building work, a project in its infancy. Orderly rows, like a giant’s stairway down the mountainside.
The moon was bright tonight, almost full, and Juliette could make out in the distance, near what appeared to be the front of the wired-off space, shadows that moved slightly, shadows of human shape.
‘Guards,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Sentries. Soldiers. But why?’
Something was going to be built here, and Juliette, who had always scoffed when Victoire spoke of intuition and sensing things that had no factual reality: she knew. She knew that here, right here, an evil thing was brewing.
The entire scene seemed shrouded in menace; or maybe that sense of menace was her own creation, a feeling of foreboding that had grown steadily over the last hour’s slog through the forest. Juliette had always loved the Vosges mountains that had formed the backdrop to her childhood and youth. Jacques had often taken her up into the forested hills; they had camped here together, with their Gauthier-Laroche friends and others. Not, of course, this particular mountain; but those closer to home were surely no different and never had they evoked fear and antipathy within her, this sense of creepiness and, yes, evil. The intuitive notion of wrongness. And here, now, before her was the vindication for her sense of trepidation. No, she was not fearing ghosts; her unease was not a delusion. The cause was real, and it was here in front of her. The enemy was here, concrete and visible and solidly present in the mutilated mountain, and her instinct had not deceived her. A shiver went through her, and it was not from cold. The November night might be chilly, but this particular chill came from within.
She had seen enough. She turned to go home. Not home home: Juliette, now in the Resistance, lodged with a farmer in the nearby village of Natzwiller. It was her first mission: Jacques had reports of unusual and suspicious Nazi activities here on Mount Louise, and he had sent Juliette to investigate.
‘Something is going on there,’ he’d told her. ‘See if you can find out what.’
Juliette had applied for a waitress job at the Gasthaus Zum Schwarzen Ochsen, a country public house just outside Natzwiller; after a short interview with the owner, a stocky, bull-necked man with a ruddy pockmarked face called Herr Heck, Juliette was immediately employed. They were, apparently, short-staffed. Alsatian girls, it seemed, did not want to work there and German girls would have to be imported. Difficult, to get them to come to the back of beyond.
She had quickly proved an asset to the Gasthaus; the Nazi officers were happy to be served by a pretty young Alsatian woman. It meant, however, walking the fine line between politeness to the over-flirtatious punters and rejection of the same. She kept her eyes and ears open, but had learned nothing in the first few nights. And so, on her one night off, she had gone out to investigate herself, walked uphill through the forest – and had found this.
Jacques was right. Something was going on here, on Mount Louise. She was no closer to knowing what, exactly. But this: an enormous building site, excavations on the crest of the mountain; this was vital information. It was news enough, urgent enough, to report back to Jacques.
Twenty-One
Victoire
Once again it was vegetable stew for dinner, mostly cabbage. She carried the steaming pot across from the stove and placed it in the middle of the table. She called into the hallway: ‘Maman? À table! Dinner’s ready!’
‘Coming!’ called Margaux through the open door of her office. ‘Just let me address these envelopes, so that Pierre can take them to the post tomorrow morning.’
Victoire busied herself with cleaning up the used utensils and setting the table for the two of them. Her mother appeared in the doorway, walked over to the sink to wash her hands, then scraped back a chair and sat down at the table.
‘You look worried, Maman. Is everything all right?’
‘Not too good. Now that we are forced to sell our wine in Germany instead of France, it is impossible to run this business. Everything has slowed down. Germany has its own vineyards already producing excellent wines. And they are established. We are just a new upstart company in their eyes. And French, which makes it worse.’
‘But I thought French wines were the best? Especially from Alsace?’
‘That’s what they say – but not in wartime. It’s like they believe we have poisoned the wine. So many rejections. Too many.’ She shrugged. ‘We will make do. We always do, don’t we, and we must still count our blessings. Many Alsatian businesses have folded. People just don’t have the money. Not for new shoes, or new clothes, or new hats. I have seen one small business after the other in Colmar go bust. We
are fortunate that our market is large and not just local. People will always want wine.’
Margaux talked some more about the business, and then she looked up.
‘You are very silent today, chérie. Is something the matter?’
‘Yes, Maman. There’s something I must tell you.’
Margaux looked at her and raised her eyebrows.
‘I’m listening?’
‘I’m leaving school, Maman.’
‘You’re leaving… No! You must not, you cannot, not without my permission!’
‘Then you must give it.’
‘Good schooling is essential – one day the war will end and—’
It wasn’t often that Victoire interrupted her mother, but she sensed a lecture coming on and had to nip it in the bud; once Margaux raised her voice there was no stopping her, and that point was coming. There was nothing for it but for Victoire to raise hers, and almost shout:
‘Maman, I have a plan! Just listen!’
That did it. A moment’s silence, then, from Margaux, ‘A plan?’
‘Yes, Maman. Today after school I took the bus into Colmar. I went to the Red Cross headquarters and signed up for a six-month course in nursing. I need to do something useful and this is it. There’s a war on and nurses are always needed in a war.’
‘How can you sign yourself up? You are only fifteen! You need my permission! Which, young lady, I am not prepared to give!’
‘Maman, I’m sorry, but I told them you’d come in later to sign the permission. Please, Maman, please sign. Don’t make a fuss. Let me do this. I need to do something besides looking after the animals and the greenhouse and… and cooking and cleaning!’
‘All of those are honourable and vital occupations. What would happen if there were nobody to do them? And what about Leah and Estelle?’
‘You know what I mean! I mean something – something a bit more…’ She shook her mane of curls, as if trying to shake out the word she was searching for. ‘Challenging. Please, Maman!’
Margaux scraped a chair back from the table, dropped herself onto it, placed her head in her hands. Victoire immediately squatted down next to her, placed a hand on her back.
‘Please, Maman!’
‘I thought-I thought I could keep you safe! I thought I could keep you, the last of my children! One by one, I have lost them. Marie-Claire, Leon, Lucien – they are all dropping away.’
‘Oh, Maman! That’s not true. It’s not as if they’ve… died, or something! Leon and Lucien will surely be back soon. And Marie-Claire isn’t far away, you see her all the time!’
Margaux looked up, met Victoire’s gaze with eyes brimming with apprehension.
‘Yes, but I have lost that girl’s soul, and that is just as bad. She is consumed by that den of yellow monsters; she is no longer my child.’
‘Don’t say that, Maman. I think, maybe, if you were to reach out to her, try to understand her…’
‘What is there to understand? The child has cotton wool for brains. Do you know what she said to me last time she was here? She said, “Maybe the Germans aren’t so bad, they’re just people like you and me.” Imagine that. But… we are talking about you. Chérie, please don’t believe that you are useless. And your list of what you do is not complete. You also take care of Leah and Estelle. Is that not important, vital work? Is it not risky enough for you?’
Victoire sighed, stood up, walked to the sink and filled the kettle with water. She placed it on the stove.
‘Being a nurse is not really risky. It’s not like being a soldier, is it! And the war has not even come to Alsace, not really. Maybe it never will; both sides want to keep it intact.’
‘If you are a nurse employed by them they can send you wherever they want. That’s what it is, to be an employee. They can send you into the thick of things, to the front line. Do you want that, Victoire? Do you know what that means?’
She squirmed, and nodded. ‘Yes, Maman. I’m not stupid. I’m just asking you to understand. I cannot sit here at home safe and sound when the world is blowing apart out there.’
Margaux shuddered. ‘Don’t use words like that, they are terrifying. Think of your brothers. Think of Jacques – who knows where he is, what he is up to? I only know that it is all so dangerous.’
‘It is Jacques who is my inspiration. It is Jacques who I want to live up to.’
At that moment the kitchen door flew open and Jacques walked in. ‘Did someone just mention me?’
The two women sprang to their feet, cried out his name in delight. ‘This calls for a special wine!’ declared Margaux. ‘It’s been ages, Jacques! Two months, at least! I’ve been worried sick!’
‘Worried, about me? What a waste of worry. It’s all right, Tante. I have a way of landing on my feet.’
‘What brings you here? I thought you were in Strasbourg!’
‘I was. As for what brings me here – actually, now that they’ve invaded Colmar I’ll probably be working here more and more, around Colmar. It’s my home, after all. But specifically, why I’m here, now, at the chateau…’ He turned to Victoire. ‘It was to speak to you, Victoire. I want your help.’
A light flickered in Victoire’s eyes; hope, mingled with doubt. ‘My help? Yes, yes, of course! In any way! Maman and I were just talking… what can I do? Is it for the Resistance?’
‘Everything I do, everything we all do, is for the Resistance, Victoire! But yes, you are right, I have a small role for you. For you, and Tante, and I hope you agree. But first, tell me – how are Leah and Estelle? Are they well? How are they making do in that dark room?’ He looked from one woman to the other.
‘Victoire looks after them – business has taken over my life, now that the Nazis are in Colmar. She will tell you.’
‘They are fine, Jacques. Yes, it’s horrible and dark down there but they do come out once a day to stretch their legs and get some fresh air – don’t worry, we are very careful about it. Estelle is learning to read, which keeps them both occupied. But of course it is very frightening to have to hide, and also very boring.’
‘We have to get them down to the south of France. I’m working with some people to figure out the route, and anyway, snow is on the way and it’s not a good time to cross the mountains, which is what they will have to do. I am going to be training a young man – his name is Eric – to escort them, and future Jewish refugees. And that brings me to the task I foresee for you. For you and Maman, that is.’
Again, he enclosed them both in an enquiring gaze, meeting their eyes, silently questioning.
Both Victoire and Margaux nodded, encouraging him to go on.
‘It is this. I am working now with a Jewish organisation that is creating a network of safe houses for Jews, from the German border in Rhineland and Baden through Alsace and then over the Vosges to the south of France, to Vichy. I have figured out the best and safest route would start right here, in Ribeauvillé. There are people, Jews, coming from Germany, through Kehl, to Strasbourg and then down to here. So I need a safe house to collect them and send them on their way. And of course, Tante, I thought of you. Because of what you are doing for Leah.’
‘Jacques, you silly boy! Why do you even have to ask? Of course I will do, we will do it. Victoire is just raring to do something – we were just talking about it. N’est-ce pas, Victoire?’
Victoire beamed back at her, then at Jacques. ‘Yes, Jacques, yes, of course!’ She turned to Margaux.
‘But I’m still going to do that nursing course.’
Margaux sighed. ‘Mes enfants, ils sont tellement têtus! These headstrong children of mine!’
Twenty-Two
Marie-Claire
Christmas that year fell on a Wednesday, a fortuitous day as it meant that the Mairie closed down for that full working week, bookended by two weekends. Which meant that its staff could enjoy an extended holiday, allowing the Germans to return to their homes and families. A skeleton staff kept vital affairs running, but Marie-Claire and her coll
eagues were excused.
A day before the long break began, the Kreisleiter paid an unscheduled visit to the office, striding into the building with his usual air of absolute command. Secretaries scurried out of his way, low-ranking male clerks stood around uncertainly in his path and Grötzinger hustled behind him as he strode across the hallway to the office, Marie-Claire in his wake, summoned by a click of his fingers. She had learned to read his body language, his signals. Now he flicked his wrist at the mayor, with the same hand movement reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes.
‘Herr Grötzinger, I don’t need you. I have work to do. Fräulein Gauss, I have something to discuss with you; stay.’
‘Yes, sir,’ stammered Marie-Claire as Grötzinger hastily retreated, his face as red as gammon. She and Kurtz entered the office and Marie-Claire closed the door, then walked to her chair and stood before it hesitantly, looking up at him in expectation.
He, meanwhile, lit his cigarette, took a long drag, placed it on the edge of the ashtray, then busied himself with rearranging the permanent items on the desk and placing them with geometric precision around the large leather writing pad: clock, pen tray, calendar, ink-bottle, stapler, brass container for paper-clips. Opening drawers and removing other items: a wad of blank paper, a French–German dictionary. From his briefcase he removed a single item: a thick book whose title, Marie-Claire could read upside down, was Mein Kampf. Whereas the other paraphernalia he had produced or rearranged was familiar, part of his regular routine of re-settling into the office after an absence of several days, this last thing was new; she had never seen the book before, though she had heard of it.
