A door, an office off the corridor where her name — her correct name — was entered. A silent wardress in grey, like a slightly overfed greyhound, searched Sophie briefly, removed her belt, gestured to her to take off her suspender belt and leave it in a small pile with her pattens. Then she was led along a corridor with the damp-earth air of below ground, then up an iron staircase, cold on her scratched feet, passing floors with iron-barred gates. The wardress stopped at the fourth floor. She unlocked the gate and waited, almost politely, for Sophie to precede her. Just as silently she unlocked a cell. Sophie entered and the door was locked behind her.
The room was small, scarcely longer than she was and perhaps twice as wide. The window was frosted glass, heavily barred on the outside. Painted plaster from the peeling walls littered the floor.
A rusty iron bed; a roll of thin mattress; a blanket; a stained lavatory seat with a tap in a collar of rust above it. A small window in the cell door, with a rusty basin resting on a ledge below it. The walls exuded the smell of urine, mould, long-unwashed bodies and a hint of mice.
Sophie unrolled the mattress, then examined the walls, scratched with unknown implements, a hairpin perhaps, or even a fingernail, maybe a harder piece of plaster. The scratches were mostly dates, names, all French and none she recognised, a few curses and an advertisement for services the inmate was unlikely to ever render to her clientele again. But in one corner a prayer had been carefully inscribed, in English, Hail Mary, full of grace . . .
Sophie wondered where the writer was now. Heaven, probably, for she doubted many English agents left here alive. Had her predecessor been an agent of SOE? Who had betrayed the woman who had written those words?
Who had betrayed her?
Sophie sat and tried to think. She was cold, and the day’s meagre food had only touched the edges of her hunger. Body, brain, emotions were drained. She was scared to even entertain conclusions in case she could not bear them.
Wheels outside. The window in the cell door opened briefly. Something splashed into the basin. She inspected it: water that smelled of cabbage and even contained a few shreds of it, along with three beans. She shut her eyes and drank it, swiftly, for what little nourishment it might offer, then replaced the basin, in case there might be another offering.
There was not.
Darkness outside dimmed the frosted window, though the light through the crack in the door’s window showed the prison’s lights were still burning brightly. The cold seeped into her bones. A woman’s voice began La Marseillaise. Others joined in what was evidently a nightly ritual. Finally, the floor echoed with cries of ‘Vive de Gaulle!’
Another song was taken up, a French folk song Sophie had heard back in the Great War, and then another. She wondered whether to try a song in English, to see if any other British agents might be here or, just possibly, to add a small piece to a jigsaw of information: there was an Englishwoman in the cells.
She began God Save the King. Voices hushed respectfully, but no one sang with her, so she stopped at the end of the first verse, heartened by the cries of ‘Vive Churchill!’
To her surprise she slept, despite the cold that had become pain, the wildlife in the mattress and the bodily fluid stains on the stinking blanket — partly from exhaustion, perhaps, but also because for the first night since childhood she had no useful thoughts to occupy her: no plans for tomorrow or next year. She was now a package to be delivered to her fate, at least till she reached a place where volition might be possible.
The frosted glass announced it was early morning; slightly more frosted this morning, the ice melting as the day passed. She sat, stiffly, stood even more stiffly, and began to move her arms and then her legs to try to warm herself. Faintly, down the corridor, two prisoners were conversing in Morse, each contributing a line of a rude song about Hitler’s, Goering’s, Himmler’s and Goebbels’s personal endowments. She wondered if anyone else in the building, apart from herself, had actually met the Führer. Was there someone of high enough rank here to have done so?
The wheels again. This time a lump of bread — it could not be called a slice — dropped into the basin, along with a green shred of what, after examination, she decided had once been cheese. She ate the bread, consigned the greenery to the lavatory, then wished she had thought to wash her underwear so it would dry overnight, or at least be damp but cleanish. It was unlikely she would be issued with fresh clothes.
A day. She exercised just enough for warmth, so she didn’t feed her hunger. She washed her underwear, meticulously wringing it out as dry as possible, for what else was there to do? A night, which seemed colder, and sleep more impossible, perhaps because she was less tired but her hunger was edging towards starvation. Another day. A night. Identical, tracked only by the changing light outside, the twice daily creak of wheels followed by the slither of a pretence of food, the only variation the songs, yells of encouragement, and sometimes sobs or screams, the booted tread of guards. She tried to hear Violette’s voice among the cries and songs, for surely Violette would have yelled in defiance if she was here. Each evening when she did not hear her, she hoped a little more that the connection between them had been overlooked.
She wondered if she would be left here, shut out from life, till the war ended, or the world; she realised she was being left till she wondered exactly that.
She tried hope, but it was hard to hope when you did not know the mechanics of any miracle that might help. The resistance might storm the prison. So might the tooth fairy. A whirlwind could blow her back to Australia; or Lily, who had masterminded miracles before, might walk through the door, immaculate in . . . What was the correct dress for rescuing prisoners? A demure pink and grey tweed suit perhaps, with dusty pink high heels? A pink chiffon scarf? A picnic basket certainly, with cherry cake, lamb and chutney sandwiches, or even Rose’s hilarious first attempt at scones, when she had used salt instead of sugar, and they had each solemnly eaten one while Rose watched on proudly . . .
The next day they came for her.
The wardress grasped her arm so hard there would be bruises. She did not speak when Sophie wished her good morning in French and then in German, nor as they stepped along the metal corridor, down flights of stairs and along the underground passage, nor even when Sophie smiled as they emerged into daylight. ‘Ah, the sparrows of Paris! Always so cheeky!’ She spoke in French again this time. Perhaps Polish or Lithuanian would have been more appropriate, but she knew neither . . .
A single car stood in the courtyard, its Nazi flag limp in the mid-winter chill. The pavement felt frozen under her bare feet. The wardress opened the back door, shoved her in before Sophie could do more than turn, then marched away without looking back.
I am a non-person, Sophie realised. This woman had children, perhaps, nieces or nephews maybe, or even a dog. At times, almost certainly, she is kind. But she cannot afford to be kind to me. To her I am simply an object on the conveyor belt of life.
She did not attempt to speak to the driver, who wore the uniform of a German army private.
The car started with an efficient rumble; it was driven, quietly and competently, turning once, twice, three times. Sophie realised she was being driven around the same block, not once, but several times. Why? To confuse her? Surely even an infant would not be confused. To give her hope that she was being taken somewhere better? But any reasonable person would know that what came next must be worse. The car turned once again into the prison courtyard.
This time she managed to step out of the car before the wardress reached her, though she waited for the woman to take her arm.
A different doorway. A corridor, stairs. The wardress knocked.
‘Komm herein!’
The wardress opened the door and stood back to let Sophie enter.
The man at the desk was in his mid-thirties perhaps, in uniform, hair shiny with pomade, chin also shining from recent shaving. He stood, clicked his heels — more shine upon his boots — and bowed. Sophie cros
sed to the chair in front of the desk, upholstered in brown leather and comfortable-looking, and took her seat.
‘My dear Countess!’ he said in the French of a native Frenchman. ‘I have only just heard that you were here. A thousand apologies.’
Sophie quickly sorted through her responses, then gave him an indulgent look she might give her son. ‘It is war-time, Colonel. One expects . . . hostilities.’
‘One must always expect good manners, Countess. Please, call me Henri. A cigarette?’
‘You are most kind but, no, I do not smoke.’ Sophie wondered at the name. Was it his real name? Or was this a subtle power game, using the name of her supposedly dead husband.
He put the silver cigarette case and the silver lighter back into his pocket, just as the door opened again. Sophie smelled it before she saw it. Coffee, in a tall pot on a tray, and two small cups. Such small cups.
‘Coffee, Countess?’
‘That would be delightful. I wonder, could we perhaps have a little bread and butter with it? Or even cake?’ Sophie smiled again. ‘Cake is impossible, of course, but you seem to be a man who can produce miracles.’
‘I hope I can today. Of course we shall have cake.’ He raised his eyebrows at the wardress. The wardress left. Sophie wondered if the signal had been to truly bring something edible, or merely meant, ‘Ignore her.’
‘Will you pour?’
‘Of course, Henri.’ She made sure her hand did not tremble as she first poured for him, then herself, adding cream to hers and sugar, purely for their nourishment. She managed not to gulp, then deliberately poured herself another as he regarded her over the lip of his own cup.
The wardress entered again. To Sophie’s amazement she pushed a trolley, this one of polished wood, not metal. A plate of madeleines, another of tartines already spread with butter, croissants.
‘Please help yourself, Countess.’
She took a madeleine, took the smallest bite, tucking it under her tongue in case the colonel wished to speak and she had to answer, hearing Lily’s voice a war ago, explaining the art of eating and conversing simultaneously. She imagined herself, almost a child in her too-expensive, too-indulgent dress, sitting in Lily’s silk-lined drawing room, the fire flickering, the crumpets toasting, Lily slightly in shadow, the chiffon scarf at her throat, gazing at her with what Sophie had assumed was indulgence and which probably had been. But there had been other emotions too, which Sophie had not guessed at the time.
Miss Lily, she asked mentally, when offered a feast and you are starving and are reasonably sure that charm will not affect the outcome, should I focus on the man or on the food?
She laughed, the answer obvious. Henri gazed at her, startled. Sophie finished the madeleine in two bites, took a croissant, ate it neatly but swiftly, and took another before she explained. ‘Please excuse my manners, Henri. I doubt I will see another croissant for a long time. Perhaps never.’
‘My dear Countess, you are mistaken.’ He met her eyes, held them. She felt like saying, ‘My dear boy, you are far too young and far too stupid.’ But she would play the game, at least till she had eaten everything on the trolley.
She crossed her legs, glad they were still excellent and that she had managed to wash, laborious as it had been with so little water. But what else had she to do to pass the time, except to wash and to remember?
‘Henri, you are handsome and far, far too charming. And this feast is a treat.’ She began on the tartines.
‘Dinner at the Ritz, tonight?’ he suggested.
‘My dear man, you aren’t serious?’
‘Of course I am. How could one resist the temptation to dine with such a companion?’
She glanced regretfully at her putrid dress. ‘Women always say, “I have nothing to wear.” But you too must admit this is not suitable for the Ritz.’
‘That can be remedied. You might even have your own personal couturier, from Maison Violette.’
She responded with careful casualness. ‘If only there were dresses like Violette’s in London.’
He kissed his fingers to her. ‘Only say the word and a dinner dress will appear.’
‘And shoes? Stockings?’
‘Naturally.’
Sophie looked at him from under her eyelashes, nibbling the last tartine. She felt nauseated — too much food, too fast, after too little. She hoped her complexion had not turned lime. ‘I would adore to dine with you at the Ritz. And a dress from Violette would be divine.’
She caught a hint of his surprise. She was supposed to be defiant, courageous, tell him frankly that she would never betray her country no matter the torture or the bribe.
‘I will ask them to call Violette now. I am sure she will attend to you herself, as she did four days ago. Just a few questions first.’
‘Of course, Henri.’ So they knew Violette had spoken to her. She hoped she would not be sick.
‘You came here as the Comtesse de Brabant.’
‘That is correct,’ she said composedly.
Another flicker of surprise. He had not expected any capitulation, Sophie not even disagreeing with what they evidently already knew.
‘You came to spy?’
‘Yes. Terribly bad mannered, I know, but there is a war on.’
‘Who were you to meet?’
‘I don’t know. There were to be contacts, but you did not give me time to meet them.’ She managed a smile. ‘If you had waited, I might have led you to members of the resistance. I was to establish my identity in Paris and cultivate contacts in whatever aristocracy I found here, both French and German.’
He blinked, hearing truth in her voice. ‘What was your ultimate aim?’
‘To find information, of course, but primarily to encourage an anti-Hitler sentiment among the class of people I would meet as a comtesse.’ She kept the smile through growing nausea. ‘So much more effective than a resistance worker on a bicycle throwing hand grenades. But sadly, I hadn’t had time to even buy a suitable dress for my endeavours, much less peddle propaganda.’
‘Your contact was Mademoiselle Violette? She once lived with your family, did she not?’
At all costs she must try to keep further suspicion from Violette. ‘You know she can’t have been, as Mademoiselle Violette must be the one who contacted the authorities. The people who brought me to Paris did not know my address here, and no one else in Paris knew my true identity. Even Mademoiselle Violette did not know I planned to come to Paris. I suspect she would have told you at once if anyone from England contacted her. I should never have trusted her,’ she added, letting a small tinge of resigned bitterness enter her voice.
‘But you hoped Mademoiselle Violette would help you?’
‘Yes. I was mistaken.’ A shrug, a rueful smile. ‘She is, like you, French. She accepts the conqueror, as long as she does well.’ And ten thousand French women are quietly resisting you, she thought, though you do not see them.
He looked at her, amused. ‘We French are perhaps more formidable than you think. We will become partners with the Germans. It seems you underestimated Violette, too. She phoned us as soon as you had left.’
She shrank, as if from a physical blow. It was impossible. And yet, all along, she realised, she had subconsciously known it was the only explanation that fit the facts. If the Germans had been waiting for her, had been told of her true mission from England, they would have waited to see who among their number she contacted. But Violette saw only a spy from England, and that is who the Gestapo arrested, a woman who must be removed before she could do damage.
Had Sophie once again failed to see Violette, except as an extension of her parents? Why should Violette be loyal to an England she hardly knew, simply because her parents were English? She finally had a life she loved, a home, a ‘famille’, even her own revenge campaign. Why risk it to further an English plot, when the English plotters had failed to contact her for years?
And yet Violette had seemed loyal to Sophie. Or had she merely played a
game, till she had acquired the life she wanted using Sophie’s funds as its foundation? No, Sophie had seen love, too. Or thought she had.
‘What organisation sent you here, your ladyship?’
He had seen her shock. She met his eyes, held them as she smiled again. ‘You don’t know that? Shameful!’
He smiled back. ‘Mr Lorrimer’s work, I presume.’
‘Of course.’ So Violette had told him that, too.
Henri sat back, relaxing cat-like. ‘It is a pleasure to talk with someone so . . . civilised . . . about these matters.’
‘A pleasure to talk to you too, Henri. And of course to eat your pastries.’ She hoped he could not hear them churning in her shrunken stomach.
‘And Miss Lily is organising it all?’
She did not flinch, as she was prepared for him to know the name. ‘No. The woman in charge of this operation is not called Dorothy, but that is the name she uses. I’m sorry — I know no more about her identity. I could probably have found out, but I thought it best to know as little as possible.’
She crinkled her eyes at him. ‘An interview like this was always possible. You are now going to ask me where I prepared to come here, and I will tell you the truth there, too — several places, one almost certainly in Northern England judging from the local accents — though they may have been concocted to discombobulate me. No one told me the names of the places, and nor did I ask. I had the impression that the major decisions were made in an office in London.’ She gazed at him innocently. ‘I hope that is helpful, Henri?’
‘A facility in Northern England, an office in London? I think you are playing with me, Countess.’
‘I think I am, too,’ she said demurely. ‘You should not be so charming, Henri.’
‘Perhaps you would find my colleagues . . . not so charming?’
She met his eyes. ‘I suspect they will not be. Henri, I was urged to come to France by James Lorrimer. My contact in Paris was going to use the phrase “Don’t you long for the first daffodils of spring?” Until someone spoke those words to me — and so far no one has — I have no contacts in France to give you.’
Legends of the Lost Lilies Page 18
