Legends of the Lost Lilies

by Jackie French

  ‘But you made a call the morning we arrested you?’

  ‘To a café where they take messages for customers. I am sure you know that already, from the telephone exchange. But that café was to be the intermediary only once, if I was in immediate danger. They passed a message back to me. A contact — I don’t know if they were French or English — was to meet me in the line outside the butcher, where they’d take me somewhere safe, with new identity papers and a disguise till I could be fetched back to England, either directly or even via Spain. I carefully did not ask, and they carefully did not tell me how I was to return. The phrase I used was something like “Tell Michelle Anna needs the bicycle back again”,’ she added helpfully. ‘If I’d had another escape route, I would have taken it.’

  ‘You had a blanket and pattens that you most certainly did not have when first apprehended.’

  ‘I found them in a back garden, probably discarded. I hid in the gardens near the house that had been rented for me till curfew ended, then attempted to use the first public phone box I found. That is the truth.’

  He smiled. ‘I almost believe you. Perhaps I do believe you. But sadly I think there are . . . details . . . you may decide to give with other methods.’

  She kept her smile steady. ‘Henri, whatever happens next — and I have a fairly good idea of what it might be — please believe that you have gained more information this morning than any of your colleagues will, no matter what methods they use.’

  ‘I almost believe that too. Let me trade honesty for honesty then. I cannot promise you freedom, but I can offer comfort in return for more-useful information. A small manor house outside Paris, servants who will of course be your gaolers, but as long as you do not attempt to escape or contact anyone beyond the social life that will be offered to you, you may forget the war exists for a while.’ His own smile was suddenly grim. ‘It is a luxury enjoyed by very few in Europe.’

  ‘And not one I could accept,’ she said quietly, ‘even if I had the information to give in exchange for it.’

  He stood. ‘I am sorry. Truly, I am most sorry.’

  She stood as well and offered him her hand. The room swayed slightly. Her nausea grew.

  He bowed again and kissed her fingers. ‘Goodbye, your ladyship. I wish I could say “farewell”. Let me at least show you to the door.’

  ‘Thank you, Henri.’ She managed to make it almost to the doorway before vomiting the tartines and the pastries neatly upon his shoes.

  Chapter 23

  At the harshest moments of my life I have found lasting friendship, even love. Those times were grim, indeed, but if I could write the story of my life again, I would not erase those chapters if it meant sacrificing what I gained from them.

  Miss Lily, 1939

  The same wardress came for her that afternoon, silent, though her grip was not as punishing as before. Women’s voices yelled ‘Bonne chance’, ‘Good luck’ and ‘Vive de Gaulle!’ as Sophie’s bare feet paced along the corridor beside the wardress’s boots.

  But this time, as they stood at the prison’s front door, the wardress hesitated. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly in French, not looking at Sophie, her lips hardly moving.

  ‘It is not your fault.’

  ‘I have children, madame. My husband is a prisoner in Germany. I must work . . .’

  ‘I understand. We do what we must.’

  ‘God go with you, madame, and see you safe.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sophie quietly. They moved towards the waiting vehicle — not a car this time, but a police wagon.

  She climbed into the back herself. The door clanged behind her. It had a small grille high up, through which she could peer. The other metal walls were blank, except where someone had attempted graffiti that was illegible. They drove through quiet Paris streets, past pavement cafés, where brightly dressed women sat with men in German uniforms or complacent civilians; women on bicycles; old men tending gardens. It seemed to Sophie that the bicyclists all carefully did not look at the black van, self-satisfied and purring along the conquered streets.

  The car turned into a street Sophie recognised from photos she had seen back at Shillings, some of the very few shown to her, not so she would recognise the place, but to make real the threat of what she might face so she might either prepare for it or retreat from the mission before even more resources were wasted on her. As they have been entirely wasted, thought Sophie.

  This was Avenue Foch, now nicknamed Avenue Boche by the French, for almost all the nineteenth-century mansions behind its now-wintry leafless chestnut trees housed German agencies. The van turned as guards swung open high metal gates, accelerated a short way then stopped, as she expected, in the courtyard of number 84, the headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst, the intelligence service of the SS.

  Through a doorway, into a vestibule with a wide staircase, the kind of entrance she had been used to as a debutante, a lovely lady. These stairs should lead to a drawing room, with tea, perhaps, or cocktails, or the intimacy of crumpets and honey.

  Instead the room was bare, except for a desk, one upholstered chair behind it, a wooden chair, slightly battered, on the other side. The man at the desk did not look up from his papers for several minutes while Sophie sat and waited. He wore a grey uniform, impeccably pressed, his hair brushed back as if he were not concerned over his receding hairline.

  At last he scribbled his name and smiled. His teeth were immaculate, but too narrow: a fish’s teeth, not a tiger’s. ‘Pardon me, your ladyship,’ he said in German. ‘The most unexpected aspect of war is the increase in paperwork.’

  ‘I know,’ she said with feeling, in the same language.

  ‘Ah yes, you operated an Australian business. You are wealthy and so feel privileged and secure.’

  ‘Not invariably, but usually.’ She smiled at him. ‘You are perceptive.’

  ‘That is why I have this job.’ His lips, but not his eyes, smiled back at her.

  ‘So I imagine. Mein Herr, you have not given me your name.’

  ‘No, I have not, have I? Your ladyship, we wish to know the name of your contact in France.’

  ‘I have already explained that I do not know it. I was on my way to meet them when you arrested me.’

  ‘How did you get to France?’

  ‘By plane. I had trained to land by parachute, but the pilot had passengers to pick up in France. Men, who kept their heads down, so I could not describe their faces. Young, one tall, one medium height,’ she added helpfully.

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Two women met me, their faces covered in scarves. They blindfolded me. I balanced behind one on a bicycle — it is unexpectedly difficult to balance blindfolded on a bicycle.’

  ‘Where did they take you?’

  ‘A house, I think. I could smell soup cooking and then they fed me some — leek and potato. There was a church nearby, perhaps. I could hear hymns — it was Christmas Eve. After that, a cellar, in the same house, if it was a house. I didn’t know how long I stayed there until they took me out — I found out later it had been a fortnight. It was a full day’s journey to Paris in a horse and cart, but I was blindfolded and under what felt and smelled like sacks. We may not have come to Paris directly. Someone helped me from the cart, still blindfolded, and asked me not to look behind me and told me that a limousine had been booked for me under my assumed name. What else can I tell you? I have been to Paris before, though never for long and believed no one would recognise me under another name.’ She shrugged and smiled again. ‘So, I wore make-up to look younger, and my hair has been dyed. The car arrived, ordered in my assumed name through an agency. Whoever ordered the car had also paid for it, but I tipped the driver. I used the same agency the next day — it was convenient. The bicycle taxis are a trifle undignified and look chilly.’

  ‘What was your eventual target?’

  ‘To meet and charm influential Germans or members of the Vichy government and gather information.
There was no specific target, as it was impossible to know what chances I might have to make friends in Paris. I expected my former ward, Violette, to help me, though I had not seen her since 1936.’ Sophie shrugged. ‘I did not know if she would help or not, but I did not expect her to betray me. I understand though why her loyalties have changed. Her home is France now, after all.’

  She waited in case he would say Violette was being questioned; Henri and the French authorities had been mistaken and that someone else had called the Gestapo; that they wished to know Violette’s associates too. Instead he said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘But there was to be another contact here, as I explained to your colleague, who would announce himself with a password, but no one has made contact.’ She smiled at him sympathetically. ‘If you had left me alone for a few more days you might have more names. Of course, possibly only red herrings.’

  ‘Red herrings?’ He frowned. ‘Communists?’

  ‘No. I apologise — it is an English saying. Herrings are not red, so a red herring is something that misleads you. My purpose in Paris was to meet as many influential people as possible, to influence them in turn and to gather information about the loyalty of well-born French men and women. If I had done my work properly I would have met many people in the next few days and you would have had to check them all. All would probably have been innocent, though I hope I would have found some who do not welcome the Occupation. I might also have gained useful information from German officers on leave,’ she added, as Violette (Violette!) presumably had told them she wanted German contacts too.

  To her relief he seemed to accept that her target was Paris and to gather information, rather than acting on information already received in England. ‘I still believe there is more you are not telling us, your ladyship.’

  ‘There is, but none that is important. I can tell you the sandwich I ate on the flight here. It is called a shooter’s sandwich, so appropriate for war, but really it was invented for gentlemen to eat while hunting, so not at all suitable for me. I was too nervous to eat. Mein Herr, those who sent me assumed that at some stage I would be in a room like this, with a man like you. They were very careful indeed to make sure I knew no more than the facts I would need. My mission was open ended and depended on Mademoiselle Violette’s help, or those who would be influenced by black-market food, champagne and an assumed countess. It is ironic, of course, that I really am a countess, though not a French one. A British agent who had been sent to liaise with the resistance would need to know much more than I do. But the woman I was to impersonate did not know Paris well, so I did not need to either.’

  ‘It seems the true Comtesse de Brabant is dead.’

  ‘Yes. The Frenchman, Henri, did not ask me about that. Her maid must have been a member of the resistance, because the English authorities were told that her identity would be suitable for an English agent who wanted to meet well-born French people.’

  ‘Who helped conceal the body and the death?’

  ‘I have no idea. I was told the maid has escaped to Spain, but now I think about it, that might have been a lie, so I would mislead you in a conversation like this. Possibly there was a butler, not a maid, or not even someone in the comtesse’s service, but an undertaker or even an attendant at the morgue. It was made very clear to me that I should not ask unnecessary questions.’

  ‘That is a pity,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Because you must use . . . other methods . . . to find out what else I know?’

  He nodded.

  Sophie looked at him with compassion. ‘It would be easier if I screamed defiance at you, wouldn’t it? Behaved as your enemy should. I’m sorry, I am not defiant. I came prepared to tell you everything I know that might be of use to you. But, mein Herr, if I did have any other information, torture would not make me betray my country. The only effective weapon would be to threaten those I love. You have none of those at your disposal.’

  ‘There is Mademoiselle Violette,’ he said musingly. ‘But, I presume, as she betrayed you, you do not feel any love for her.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ said Sophie quietly. ‘Yes, I trusted her. That was my mistake. I had been warned not to contact her, that her allegiance is to the present government or, in truth, to whatever government is in power. I also did not realise how vulnerable she must be. Her past connections with England are too well known. She could not afford to offend the country she has chosen as her home. She chose her career, her employees, her life here, over someone she knew for a few years and who had given her such a lot of money. Of course, it was not very much money for me, but a gift I could well afford. And an investment in her talent, of course, which ultimately also benefited me. I still feel affection for her, even love — but, mein Herr, I would sacrifice Violette, as she sacrificed me.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘What?’ The exclamation might have come from the sixteen-year-old Sophie who had never met Miss Lily. ‘My mother?’

  He looked pleased. ‘Yes, your mother. She lives in Paris. You have perhaps contacted her already? I have arranged to have her brought here.’

  Sophie began to laugh. ‘That will be an interesting reunion for both of us. I have met my mother only once, for perhaps an hour, since she abandoned me when I was six weeks old. Yes, I continued her allowance till this war made it impossible, but only because a clause in my father’s will stipulated it. I didn’t like her. I think she quite liked me but did not want it known I was her daughter, as she had shaved at least a decade from her age, and a then twenty-four-year-old offspring would have been embarrassing.’

  ‘Ah. I see. That does . . . fit . . . with what we have discovered. You would not be upset if we tortured her?’

  ‘I would be upset if you tortured anyone. But I would feel no more emotion over her pain than I would for anyone you picked up off the street — possibly less, for I did not think her a kind woman that time we met, and anyone else probably would be far more of a loss to those who love them. But, as I said, I have nothing more of value to tell you, so the question is academic.’

  He smiled at her, his first smile. ‘It is conventional to say I am sorry to do this. But I am, in fact, well suited to my work.’

  ‘I thought you might be.’

  ‘Would you care to spit in my face? Yell “God save the King”?’

  ‘Neither,’ she said evenly. There was a limit to how much pleasure one could give to others. She had reached it. Not that it mattered, for he would take his pleasure with her now.

  He pulled the cord that had perhaps once rung for coffee, or linden tea and madeleines.

  Chapter 24

  Sugarless Apple and Date Spread

  Take 3 dozen cooking apples, such as Granny Smiths or Bramley Seedlings. Peel and core. Cover with water immediately, and add 1 cup chopped dates. Simmer till very thick, stirring often so it does not burn on the bottom. Bottle while hot and seal. Excellent instead of jam, or to replace custard over a steaming pudding.

  Mrs Taylor, 1943

  SHILLINGS ESTATE, ENGLAND, JANUARY 1943

  NIGEL

  He knew when James’s car drew up. If the news had been good James would have telephoned, discreetly talking of his Aunt Bertha who had evacuated to Scotland and was enjoying hillside rambles.

  Nigel answered the door, glad once again that he could open it himself now, instead of waiting for butler or maid to answer the bell, to take the hat and coat, to announce the visitor and leave while he sat politely waiting for the ritual to unfold. He let James follow him wordlessly to the kitchen, the one room a wood stove kept warm — all he allowed himself now Sophie had left. He and Mrs Goodenough and Hereward had used most of their hoarded luxuries for Sophie.

  He sat at the kitchen table, to let James have the warmer seat. ‘How bad is it?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘She has been arrested.’

  ‘As the comtesse?’

  ‘As herself. She’s in Fresnes Prison.’

  He did not ask how James knew. T
here would be watchers, even if not communication. The watchers were also supposed to protect.

  He forced himself not to yell. ‘How?’

  ‘Violette. The Gestapo arrived at the house before Sophie had even returned from meeting her. There was no time to intercept her. She fled and seemed to vanish — the watchers did try to find her. She was arrested the next morning before we could rescue her.’ James did not say, ‘I told you not to trust Violette.’ Nor was there need.

  A sea ran through him, then its tide retreated, leaving him colder than he’d ever been. He had been lonely before but always, since 1913, there had been Sophie. Knowing she was alive, happy or at least fulfilled, had been the small glow that had warmed him each chilly night.

  James stood. For a moment Nigel thought he might embrace him. Instead he turned, lifted the cover on the stove and put the kettle on.

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ve used up my month’s ration and haven’t bothered to dry any alternatives.’

  ‘I brought some from London.’

  ‘Black market?’

  ‘Of course not. I filched it from the Home Office canteen. And sugar too.’

  Nigel’s lips twisted in what was not a smile. ‘You are treating me for shock? I don’t think a cup of tea will do it.’

  ‘Whisky?’

  He shook his head. ‘What chance of rescue now?’

  ‘None, in Paris. But if she is transferred it will probably be to Ravensbrück, by train. The prison and the train station will be watched to see which carriage she is placed in. The train can be derailed . . .’

  ‘She might be killed!’

  James said nothing.

  ‘Can’t you offer an exchange of prisoners?’

  ‘We could try. But that would immediately rouse suspicion — her known aristocratic connections are not enough to warrant that kind of intervention. The Gestapo would suspect she knew more than they think she does now. They would continue to . . . interrogate . . . her.’