She smiled weakly. ‘Oh, I see…’
Holding her at arm’s length, Gaston looked her up and down. ‘Good. Those clothes are perfect. Now, the plane will pick you up in an hour. And it can only stay on the ground for a minute or two, so we’ll have to be on time. The landing field is two kilometres by road but we are going cross-country, because it’s safer. Come, we have to go.’
Leaving the barn, they headed quickly through fields and over gates, at one point even wading through a stream. By the time they reached the appointed big flat field, Catriona was scratched, wet and exhausted. They crouched in the corner of the meadow, waiting.
‘Are you sure it will come?’ she whispered. ‘Just for me?’
He nodded. ‘Of course. The British are happy to have you safe home. Anyway, we got lucky with the timing – the plane was coming tonight anyway, dropping something off or picking someone up nearby – exactly what or where, of course we can’t be told.’ He sighed in frustration. At the same moment, Catriona heard the faintest hum of an engine coming from the west. In the darkness, someone flashed a light. She panicked.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s alright,’ he whispered back. ‘It’s the British, they guide the planes down using bicycle lamps. When the plane lands you run like hell, alright? Mémé and Pépé send you all of their love as do Marie-Clare and Loic. And I know your mother is looking down and her heart is bursting with pride and relief, just like mine.’ As the plane came in to land, he embraced her tightly. ‘Au revoir ma niece courageuse, à la prochaine.’
She hugged him back and then ran as fast as she could. A hatch opened in the belly of the plane as it idled on the grass. A strong hand pulled her up into a tiny space; the hatch slammed shut and the pilot clambered back into his cockpit. Within seconds, the plane was bumping across the field; it gained speed and was once again airborne.
In the darkness, Catriona crouched uncomfortably. The noise from the engine was deafening. Her whole body vibrated. She clung to a rope handle as they rose higher and higher. The Lysander had been stripped out inside to make maximum space for people and supplies but it meant she was jammed almost in the tail of the plane. There were wooden crates all around her and to make things even more uncomfortable, another person was wedged between her and the pilot’s seat: someone with a coat pulled up over their head, who – incredibly – was fast asleep.
Catriona wriggled around, trying to find a way to sleep herself. Impossible. This journey was going to be interminable. The lighter in her bra stuck into her flesh uncomfortably – but she didn't take it out because she found the feel of it comforting. She had failed to find her father and she had killed the man she’d thought she loved, her only solace was that she carried with her the only object that her father had ever treasured.
Chapter 11
‘We’re in England, Miss! Wakey, wakey!’
Slowly, Catriona opened her eyes. The pilot was leaning over her.
‘England? Already? Oh thank God…’ She sat up, aching in every bone. She could hardly believe that she’d slept in such an awkward position but tiredness had won out over discomfort. The hatch in the belly of the plane was already open, and the sleeping man was gone, and now the pilot jumped down and stood waiting to help her out. On the tarmac, she stretched and tried to feel her feet.
‘Are you alright?’ asked the pilot – a young spotty lad, with bright red hair.
‘Nothing a hot bath and a long sleep won’t solve,’ she answered him with a smile. It felt strange to be speaking English again.
‘That’s the spirit. Ah, here they come.’ Two military vehicles were buzzing towards them across the tarmac. ‘I’ll leave you to talk to the powers that be.’ He walked away in the direction of a large hangar.
One of the cars stopped far off in the middle of the tarmac, to pick up a tall man in a long dark coat who was already walking in the direction of the wooden out-buildings. Her fellow passenger, she assumed. Watching his lanky body as he climbed into the car, she thought for a moment there was something strangely familiar… No. No. Stupid wishful thinking. If the man was who she’d briefly imagined he was, he would never have left the plane without even speaking to her.
The other car carried on towards her and stopped, and the uniformed officer who climbed out saluted her. ‘Welcome home, Miss!’
The following days passed in a blur of debriefing and meetings. Intelligence wanted to know every tiny detail and it seemed it was necessary to repeat it over and over again to many different people. Every time she explained what had happened with Frederik, she had to fight to bury the deep pain in her heart.
At last, her interrogators seemed convinced they knew everything about her mission. She was taken to Baker Street to retrieve her possessions, and then she was on her own.
As she climbed out of the taxi in Holborn, Catriona was relieved to see her house was still standing, and that any windows that had been shattered in her absence had been taped up again by some helpful friend or neighbour. She retrieved her key from the canvas bag she’d left in Baker Street, and let herself in.
On the kitchen table was milk, tea, a loaf and a small packet of butter and a pot of home-made gooseberry jam. Beside it was a card with a stick drawing of two little children on the front.
Delighted, Catriona read:
Grand Père dit que vous retournez aujourd’hui, Catriona. Nous sommes très contents, à bientôt!
Valérie et Olivier.
How sweet it was that they were now referring to Justin as their granddad. She was really looking forward to seeing them too. They were the only ‘family’ she had left in England; the only ones who loved her. The sound of the key in the door lifted her heart – that must be Elsa now, with the children. Justin must have told her that Catriona was coming home. She hurried into the hall, calling out, ‘Bonjour et bienvenue, je suis si heureuse de vous revoir!’
‘And I’m happy to meet you too,’ smiled her father, closing the front door behind him. ‘But I'd rather speak English if you don't mind.’
For a moment, she could hardly speak any language at all. ‘I can’t... Oh, God… Oh, oh…’ And then she threw herself into his arms, covering his bearded face with kisses. And after that she wept, railing against him for leaving her, for lying to her. ‘Where the hell did you get to? Everyone – Gaston, Jean-Claude…’ she nearly said ‘Frederik’, but his name caught in her throat ‘…everyone was so sure you were dead. You disappeared! Why didn't you let any of us know where you were?’
He stroked her hair, holding her as she cried. ‘I’d no choice, pet. Too dangerous. I couldn’t send a message to Gaston or to anyone who might send him a message on my behalf, because I couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t be intercepted and implicate the de Clairands. Karl Fischer seemed to have guessed…’
‘That creep!’
He jerked back his head, shocked. ‘You met Karl Fischer?’
‘Yes.’ She felt a fierce stab of satisfaction at having blown Karl to bits. But she didn’t want to talk about that for now. Her father clearly didn't know anything about what she’d been up to and she wanted to hear his side of the story first.
‘How did you meet him, Catriona? Tell me everything…’
‘Don't change the subject. I want to know what happened to you!’
He laughed and shrugged. ‘Fine, I’ll go first, and then you. But in the meantime, I’m absolutely starving. I don't suppose there’s anything to eat in the house?’
Thank goodness for Elsa. ‘There is indeed! I can make you tea and a fresh sandwich with homemade gooseberry jam.’
‘Oh, you angel!’
‘…but only if you keep talking while I do it.’
While she filled the kettle and cut lots of bread and spread it with butter and homemade jam, he sat at the kitchen table and told her everything.
‘Well, you know what I was doing in France, clearly. I assume that’s why you went tearing off half cocked? So, it seems that Karl Fischer picked up a
n idea of who I might be from an Oberleutnant called Schroeder, who I was trying to recruit to our side.’
She felt physically sick. How stupid she’d been, to trust Frederik. ‘Fre… Oberleutnant Schroeder told Fischer who you were?’
‘I don't think he actually told him – just let something slip without realising it. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, Schroeder. Not evil, but weak. Anyway, Fischer definitely wasn’t sure of the truth – he was just guessing, feeling his way. He approached me, saying he hated Hitler and could I do something to get him out to London. I didn’t trust him and I said I’d no idea what the hell he was on about, and… Well, it all turned a bit nasty. He had me picked up, and I got a right going over from three big thickos he ordered to beat seven bells out of me. They must have smuggled me out of the city while I was still unconscious. Fischer didn’t want Schroeder to know what had happened, because he was trying to entrap him.’
Keeping her hand as steady as she could, Catriona set a steaming mug of tea in front of him. ‘I met Oberleutnant Schroeder as well, as it happens.’
He was taken aback. ‘Good God, Catriona – what have you been up to?’
‘He spoke to me about you,’ she said, ignoring the question. ‘He told me that Fischer told him that you’d got on a train to Paris. Obviously, he was too stupid to realise Fischer was lying.’ She tried to keep her voice calm and business-like. She’d hate her father to know that she had developed feelings, not just for a Nazi but for such a weak, pathetic man.
Kieran smiled grimly. ‘I did get on a train. A transport train.’
‘Oh God.’ Even though he was clearly safe, sitting right here in front of her, Catriona’s stomach tightened with fear. She sat down at the table, placing the plate piled with bread and jam between them. ‘How did you escape?’
‘Somewhere up near Poitiers, the train stopped. I don’t know what was going on but the soldier supposed to be guarding us was asleep, so myself and a few others broke out of the carriage, and we just ran for it. I managed eventually to make contact with one of the British circuits, and they were happy enough for me to stay on in France, liaising between London and the French on the ground. Of course, I could never show my face around Bordeaux again. So I was knocking around Tours, the Loire, that neck of the woods, and I’d still be there if a fellow called Justin hadn’t insisted I be told by London that my daughter was in Bordeaux and soon to be airlifted out. I demanded they get me out at the same time, so I could be sure you were safe…’
She couldn't believe it. ‘So it was you on the plane! Why didn't you talk to me?’
‘Because the deal was, if they brought us both back together, you and I were not to share any information before our debriefing, to preserve the accuracy of our memories. And the easiest way to do that was to pretend to be asleep. I was so happy when you actually fell asleep for real yourself, and I could sit and look at you all the way to England!’
She beamed at him. ‘And now you can look at me as much as you like, for the rest of your life!’
He smiled back at her – but instead of answering, he took another bite of his bread and gooseberry jam.
She glared at him suspiciously. ‘We are going to stay together, aren't we?’
‘For a while. But I’m working for the Resistance, Catriona. I have to go back.’
She felt that old painful stab of abandonment. ‘You're not going back without me!’
‘Yes I am.’ He fixed her with a determined stare. ‘You haven't told me your story yet, and I’m not even sure I can stand to hear it. But it’s clear that you’ve put yourself in terrible danger by chasing around after me. And you are never, ever, ever to do anything as foolish as that ever again, do I make myself clear?’
She said stubbornly, her hands clenched in her lap, ‘I wasn’t being foolish.’
He sighed and relented. ‘Brave, then. But it’s a fine line, Catriona, between brave and foolish. I won’t say I’m not proud of you, getting the Brits to drop you into France, to find me. And I suspect your mother would be proud of you too – in fact, I know she would: she was as brave as a lion herself. But she’s not here to mind you and you’re all I’ve got. So here you stay, and if everything goes wrong and the Germans invade, you’re to get yourself to Ireland no matter what. DeValera will resist joining the British with his last breath, no matter what Churchill threatens, so Ireland’s neutrality should hold.’
She sat in silence.
Her father lit a cigarette with a box of matches from his pocket. He exhaled and then spoke again slowly: ‘Listen, darling. I swore to Eloise’s memory that I’d look after you…’
‘Where’s your silver lighter?’ she interrupted.
His face darkened. ‘Gone. Those thugs stole it. The last thing I had of your mother. Of my darling Eloise…’ Just saying his wife’s name caused a catch in his voice. And then he realised that his daughter was smiling at him. He stared at her, bemused. ‘What?’
She didn’t answer but jumped up and ran out into the hallway to find the canvas bag and dug her hand into the side pocket. She returned to the kitchen and placed the flat of her hand on the table in front of him, then lifted it to reveal the lighter.
‘What? How? Where… How did you get this?’ In joy and shock, he grabbed his precious lighter and kissed it before reading the inscription over and over again. ‘Where did you find this, Catriona? What were you really doing in France? Tell me!’
So she told him the whole story. How she had been trying to find him, but how she had also been fighting for the cause, the same as Kieran. And how she nearly got sick when she saw Fischer with his lighter, and how she’d managed to steal it before killing six Nazis (or twelve, if you believed Gaston). She didn't admit to her feelings for Frederik. That was all in the past now, because it had to be. And Kieran, if he suspected, didn't press her on it. He just got to his feet and drew Catriona into a hug and whispered ‘Thank God you’re safe. You’re your mother’s daughter, Catriona, and I’m so proud of you. I love you my darling girl, I love you.’
* * *
The End
* * *
To download a free book and to read more Jean Grainger fiction, or sign up for her newsletter, go to her website www.jeangrainger.com
About the Author
Jean Grainger is an Irish novelist. She writes both contemporary and historical Irish fiction. Before becoming a writer, she was a tour guide of her beloved Ireland as well as a teacher of English and History at both second and third level. She won the 2016 Best Historical Fiction at the Author’s Circle Awards, and her WW2 book, What Once Was True was chosen by Bookbub readers as in the top 20 Historical Fiction Books of 2018. She lives in a stone cottage in Cork with her husband and two of her four children. The older two come home occasionally with laundry and to raid the fridge.
Reluctant Informer by Marion Kummerow
Synopsis
Reluctant Informer
When the Gestapo extends an offer, there’s no way to refuse.
* * *
Sabine Mahler never imagined going against the sinister Gestapo, until they made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. With her husband in their hands, his life depends on her willingness to cooperate.
Will she be able to save her husband and the resistance organization she’s tasked to take out?
Chapter 1
Berlin, February 1944
Sabine and her husband of five years Werner sat at their kitchen table having dinner. On the radio, Goebbels’s propaganda ministry raved on about yet another glorious victory of the Reich. She wondered whether anyone still believed those lies.
But she didn’t voice her concerns. Not because their small row house on the outskirts of Berlin had paper-thin walls and the sounds of their neighbors on either side could easily be heard. No, she had made it a habit to mind her own business and not complain.
What difference would it make anyway?
Food rationing. Lack of adequate transportation. The horrid nigh
tly bombings by the Allies. The god-awful work in the munitions factory. There was nothing she could do about any of it.
She didn’t even complain, the way some of her work colleagues did, about the ever-increasing quotas they had to fill. The soldiers needed rifles, and complaining about exhausted feet and numb hands would only bring the wrath of her superior upon her. It wouldn’t change a thing in the greater scheme of warfare.
Weapons were needed and someone had to make them. People who stuck their noses into someone else’s business tended to disappear. That wouldn’t happen to her.
“How was your day?” Sabine gave Werner a tired smile as the news report ended. Usually he would pull her onto his lap after finishing dinner, but not today. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of his uniform, and merely unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
Werner sighed and a look of sadness flashed over his face. “There was another incident with the SS.” He paused for a long moment, reluctant to tell her what bothered him.
“What happened this time?” She knew how much he adored being a fireman. His father and grandfather both had been firemen, and it was only natural that he would follow in their footsteps. But the work had changed so much, it wore on his soul, until most of the joy drained away. Instead of serving and protecting his fellow citizens, he had to stand by helplessly and watch the atrocities the SS or Gestapo committed. He rarely complained, afraid to utter criticism against the Party, but she knew how much he hated the cruelty of the regime.
Sabine sat quietly, waiting for him to speak again. The pained expression on his face struck panic in her heart. It beat so fast, she thought it might gallop out of control. After a few minutes, he finally looked up, and she read the sorrow in his eyes.
The Darkest Hour Page 17
