Chapter 10

Marseille 1939

O n the day Russia attacked Finland, Henri and I married. It was a glorious Thursday as we exchanged vows, while the Red Army marched across the Soviet-Finnish border. As the Soviets bombed Helsinki, leaving lives shattered and irrevocably changed, the stain of war seeped further into Europe. Since the war began, Germany had forced Poland into surrender, Japan remained entrenched in its war with China, and French forces had invaded Saarland in Germany. U-boats prowled the seas, sinking Allied ships, including the British destroyer HMS Royal Oak in Scapa Flow just weeks ago. Meanwhile, the Luftwaffe launched its first airstrike on Britain on October 16, targeting ships in the Firth of Forth.

Our wedding was a simple ceremony at the Town Hall at three o’clock. I was twenty-seven, and Henri thirteen years older, but age meant nothing to me. My black silk wedding dress, embroidered with pink orchids, glided over my skin like a whisper. My heart hammered in my chest, so loud and insistent that I feared everyone could see its frantic rhythm. But then Henri’s hand found mine, and the world seemed to slow. His touch anchored me, drawing me into a stillness I desperately needed.

As he slipped the gold band onto my finger, the room blurred, and my breath hitched in my throat. A single tear, full of everything this moment meant, escaped and traced a warm path down my cheek. The ceremony passed in a soft haze, but I remember the way our fingers intertwined afterward, a silent promise as we faced our smiling guests and the clicking camera.

Stepping into the waiting limousine, bound for L’H?tel Louvre et Paix, I caught sight of familiar faces in the crowd. Henri had surprised me by inviting friends from Paris—an unexpected, thoughtful gesture that made my heart swell with gratitude. Seeing Marie, her bright smile lighting up the day, nearly overwhelmed me with joy. I had missed her so much. Emma and Emmanuel were there too, along with Micheline, their presence a comforting thread weaving through this new chapter of my life.

The wedding nearly did in Henri’s father, the strain on his face evident throughout the day. Still, I brushed it off, determined not to let it bother me. Henri, ever the diplomat, had arranged for the bartenders and waitstaff to keep his family’s drinks flowing, spreading a little joy to help ease the tension. By the middle of the reception, my in-laws were noticeably merry, fully engaged in the festivities, chatting, laughing, and dancing along with everyone else. The food was incredible, with Marius, the renowned chef, and his team receiving applause from our guests with every course. No expense was spared, with ingredients sourced from all over France, and the attention to detail was impeccable.

Of course, even at our wedding, we couldn’t escape the latest news. Conversations inevitably turned to the war, with many guests adamant that the Maginot Line would protect France. There was no getting away from it. After the meal, Micheline and I disappeared for a few moments to retrieve the gas masks we had brought back from England. I had indulged in a bit too much champagne, and the sight of Micheline wearing that hideous mask sent me into fits of giggles. I laughed so hard that she had to help me put mine on, taking care not to tangle my hair. When we returned, our guests took one look at us and erupted into laughter.

‘Let me try,’ Emma said, springing up from her seat. Soon, the gas masks were being passed around the room, and the photographer happily snapped away, capturing the spectacle.

* * *

We honeymooned in Cannes, staying at the Martinez. Our room was a beautiful corner suite with views of the sea and the port on one side and the mountains on the other. The weather was perfect—dry, sunny, and not too warm, with a refreshing breeze. Henri immersed me in the good life, and it felt like such a blessing, a stark contrast to the poverty I had once known. My old life was now firmly behind me. All the doubts I had harboured vanished as Henri lavished me with love and care.

‘We will have such a good life, Nannie,’ he said, slipping his arm around me.

The sand beneath my feet was cool and soft as we sat on the beach, watching the sunrise. ‘If only it could always be like this,’ I said, knowing that the war was a wolf snapping at our heels.

‘But of course,’ Henri replied, kissing the tip of my nose. ‘Why wouldn’t it be, ma chérie? Tout ira bien.’

Everything will be fine. I studied his face—his tanned olive skin, warm eyes filled with wisdom and a hint of mischief. Henri was a good man, and I leaned in to kiss him. As the sun climbed higher, dyeing the wispy cirrus clouds pink, orange, and gold, I couldn’t help but wonder how long Henri’s version of ‘fine’ would last.

* * *

Back in Marseille, I settled into married life, determined to do all I could for Henri while he showered me with gifts, affection, and anything my heart desired. Christmas was approaching, and we were determined to end the year on a high note, pushing aside any worries about what might come later. Friends had already received their call-up papers, and I sensed it was only a matter of time before Henri did too. Although there were no bombing raids and no invading Germans, this so-called ‘dr?le de guerre’—the phoney war—felt like the calm before the storm.

To distract myself from the uncertainty, I threw myself into improving my culinary skills. Not that I was clueless, but my repertoire was basic, and I wanted to venture deeper into French cuisine. Bouillabaisse, the infamous Provencale dish, continued to elude me despite my best efforts. Our housekeeper had prepared it just the other evening, as it was Henri’s favourite dish, and I was determined to master it. Fortunately, with Henri’s connections, help was close at hand. Pepe Caillat, the master of all the great chefs of Marseille, had agreed to take me under his wing. I was determined to make Henri proud.

As I watched Pepe work in his kitchen, Henri’s stories drifted through my mind. ‘They say bouillabaisse was first made by the ancient Greeks who founded Marseille around 600 BC. And they say Venus fed this dish to Vulcan, her husband.’ I smiled, my pulse quickening as I recalled Henri scooping me up in his arms and kissing me with such passion beneath a twilight sky in the Vieux Port, the ocean lapping against the harbour wall.

Pepe’s voice broke my reverie. ‘The secret to a wonderful bouillabaisse, my dear, lies in more than just the ingredients. It is in the herbs and spices, and in the cooking.’ He prepared the fish—a variety of seafood, including scorpionfish, shellfish, sea urchins, mussels, spider crab, and lobster.

A variety of vegetables were spread out on the scrubbed pine bench as I peeled potatoes, leeks, onions, tomatoes, celery, and garlic, along with an assortment of herbs. After completing the potatoes, I moved on to the leeks, rinsing them under running water, the dried earth swirling down the white ceramic sink. Next, I peeled and sliced the onions, tears streaming down my cheeks. Bouillabaisse, I learned, was a simple yet filling dish, often cooked by local fishermen in the port of Marseille. Simple? It seemed anything but—so much preparation, so many ingredients, and it was time-consuming.

As I reached for the herbs, I chopped a bulb of fennel, its rich aniseed aroma filling my lungs, sweet and reminiscent of liquorice. Then came the scarlet threads of saffron, their fragrance of flowers and honey intoxicating my senses. ‘The Romans bathed in saffron-infused baths in Imperial Rome,’ Henri had told me, sprinkling a little into my bathwater one evening. A smile tugged at my lips, but I pressed them together, aware of Pepe’s watchful eye.

‘One of the key ingredients,’ Pepe stressed, ‘is rascasse—the scorpionfish. They live in the coral reefs close to the shore.’ He grasped a bunch of thyme, lifting it to his nose and inhaling deeply. ‘And the herbs, the spices.’ He held a sprig under my nose, its lemony scent heady and intense. ‘Cooking is an art. Does an artist paint with only three or four basic colours? Non! He mixes them, creates his palette. Now, you must create yours.’ Pepe smiled, as if to reassure me. It all sounded so simple and made perfect sense, but I knew it would take practice. The first time I’d served the stew to Henri, his nose had wrinkled, his face twisted, and after the first mouthful, he’d downed an entire glass of wine. But I didn’t mind rolling up my sleeves. Hard work wasn’t a chore, and if perseverance was the key, I had it in spades.

‘Add the fish one at a time,’ Pepe instructed, ‘then bring to the boil.’

This wasn’t just any fish stew. In Marseille, they served the broth first in a soup plate with sliced bread and rouille, then presented the fish separately on a large platter. As I glanced at the clock, I realised it was already four in the afternoon. Henri would be home soon, and I couldn’t wait to tell him about my day.

My cooking lessons paid off when, not long after, my father-in-law asked me to prepare bouillabaisse for a luncheon party with prominent guests, including the famous actor and singer Maurice Chevalier. He was a charming, kind man, and I listened as he and Henri spoke about the Great War. Maurice had been wounded in battle, captured by the Germans, and spent two years in a camp where British prisoners had taught him English.

The event was a complete success, and Maurice was astonished that an Australian had cooked the main course. That praise alone was enough, but seeing my father-in-law singing my praises—a sight I never thought I’d see—was the cherry on top.

January 1940

The Soviets, pushed back by the Finns, retaliated with fierce air attacks. It was one of the coldest winters on record, with temperatures plunging across Europe. I was grateful for the milder climate of southern France as I strolled through the Vieux Port, past lovers arm in arm, and bustling bars and cafes filled with locals and tourists alike, all sipping drinks in the sun. Local fishermen lined the harbour, crates of the freshest catch by their sides as they called out to passersby.

Christmas had been wonderful. We’d spent the holidays at our cabin in the Alps with a couple of friends. Henri had received his call-up papers just days before, but we were determined not to let that darken our celebrations. The drive home, however, had been sombre, knowing what awaited us and wondering how much time we had left together. Whenever Henri went away on business, I felt desolate, as if every second with him was precious and the clock was ticking.

As well as worrying about the war and his call-up, I had realised that life as a wealthy man’s wife was one of indulgence and luxury—a far cry from my childhood. Though I was happy, it felt as if my only purpose now was to be there for Henri. I had given up work at his request, and while I was a good wife and a capable hostess, my days seemed to lack direction.

Like other French wives, I indulged in the finest couture, daily rounds of manicures, visits to beauty salons, hair salons, dress salons, restaurants, and the cinema. Mornings were lazy. Claire, my maid, would bring me breakfast in bed, and I’d read the newspaper with Picon beside me, feeding him bits of croissant. Around ten, I’d take a bath, sipping champagne and reading a book, occasionally glancing up to admire the view of the harbour. Some days passed slowly, others flew by when Henri was home. Madame Dumont, our housekeeper, was a marvellous cook and kept Claire in check. At nineteen, Claire was a sweet, capable girl who lived with her parents and adhered to her Catholic upbringing. She didn’t indulge in gossip, which I appreciated.

Farewell parties had become a nightly ritual, each one tinged with a growing sense of dread as more men prepared to leave for the front. The laughter and clinking glasses felt like a fragile veneer, barely masking the underlying fear. Henri’s voice broke through the noise one evening, his tone calm yet heavy with the inevitable. ‘Soon, it will be my turn.’

I forced a smile, trying to be brave for his sake. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ I said, but inside, my heart sank, weighed down by the thought of losing him to the war.

I had hoped for more time, but the day came sooner than I dared imagine. On a cool morning in March, Henri received his orders to report for service in two weeks. Just fourteen days until everything changed.

He was stoic, his bravery almost infuriating in its steadiness. ‘Do not worry, Nannie. We beat them before, and we will do it again,’ he said, his voice a quiet reassurance that felt like a lifeline I couldn’t grasp.

‘Of course you will,’ I replied, my voice betraying none of the storm inside me. But as I looked out across the harbour, watching the gulls swoop and soar, their cries seemed to echo the anguish I fought so hard to suppress. I knew I couldn’t let Henri see the depths of my fear, couldn’t let him know how much the thought of him leaving tore at me.

The image of sitting at home, waiting for news, haunted me. The thought of wondering if he was warm enough at night, if he had enough to eat—or if he was even alive—clawed at my insides. My fists clenched involuntarily as the brutal reality set in. Our perfect life, so briefly enjoyed, was about to be shattered.

As we sat together by the fire that evening, Henri in his leather armchair, sipping his brandy, and me curled up on the hearthrug at his feet, I finally voiced the thoughts that had been haunting me.

‘I’ve been thinking about what I should do when you leave for the front,’ I began, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Henri’s brow furrowed deeply, concern darkening his features as he looked down at me. ‘What do you mean?’ His voice was low, steady, but I could hear the tension beneath it. ‘You will be here, safe, waiting for me.’ His words were firm, almost as if he was willing me to bend to his will, to keep everything the same as it was.

Biting my lip, I hesitated for a moment, searching for the right way to express the storm of emotions inside me. ‘Darling, I want to go to the front,’ I said, finally letting the words slip free. ‘I want to do something useful. I can’t just sit here and wait.’

Henri’s reaction was immediate, almost visceral. He threw up his hands in disbelief. ‘What? No, Nannie, that is out of the question!’ His voice was sharper than I’d expected. ‘The front is no place for a woman, especially my wife. You are safe here at home, and that is where you will stay.’

I could feel his protective instinct kicking in, the same fierce determination that had always been a part of him. But this time, I couldn’t let it wash over me, couldn’t let it dictate what I would do. My heart pounded as I pushed back, my voice rising with a determination that surprised even me. ‘I could be an ambulance driver,’ I insisted, sitting up straighter. ‘I have nursing training. I could help, Henri. I need to do something.’

The room seemed to still for a moment, the fire’s crackle the only sound between us. I could see the conflict in his eyes—his need to protect me battling against the reality of the war that was pulling us apart. His jaw tightened, his usual confidence wavering for just a second before he drained the last of the brandy in one gulp, setting the crystal glass down on the mahogany table. ‘You know as well as I that France barely has enough ambulances. They are requisitioning buses now. God help us.’ He shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

‘Give me one of the company’s trucks and kit it out as an ambulance.’ I waited with bated breath, determination flaring inside my veins.

But Henri was adamant. ‘It is too dangerous, Nannie. And besides, you cannot even drive.’

‘Then teach me!’ I countered, my heart pounding with resolve. ‘You know I’m a quick learner, Henri. I’ve adapted to everything life has thrown at me so far, and I can do this too. You can’t expect me to sit at home while you’re out there fighting. I need to do more.’

Henri sighed, rubbing his temples as if trying to dispel the thought. ‘You have no idea what you are asking. I understand how you feel, truly I do. But the front… it is brutal, unforgiving. I cannot bear the thought of you being in that kind of danger. I need to know you’re safe.’

I reached out, taking his hand in mine, the warmth of his skin grounding me. ‘And I cannot bear the thought of doing nothing while you’re out there, facing all of that alone. I can help, Henri. I need to help.’

‘I do not understand why you wish to be in the midst of battle. It is so dangerous, and I will worry terribly about you.’

‘I know, but you don’t have to, truly. I can take care of myself. Besides, I’m not like other women. I can’t wave goodbye, then sit at home knitting balaclavas and socks.’

He stared at me for a few seconds before bursting into laughter once more. He laughed so hard tears slipped down his cheeks. ‘Now that would be a sight. Old woman Fiocca with her knitting needles.’

‘Cheek.’ I shot him my best frown, and he roared with laughter.

‘Stop it, Nannie. You are more formidable than the entire German army. I can hardly breathe.’

As I sat scowling, Henri calmed down, and then, with a sigh, his face settled into a serious look once more. ‘You never give up, do you?’

‘No, I don’t,’ I said, smiling up at him. ‘And I never will.’

Henri poured another large brandy. ‘How many times have I told you about the last war and how I won it for France?’

I bit my lower lip, suppressing a laugh. He’d told the story so many times, always as if he’d single-handedly won the war. But I knew he meant the entire French army and the Allies. He was still my hero.

‘Now I will win it again.’

‘Not if I win it first.’ Adrenaline surged through my veins as a fire ignited in my belly. Everything I’d seen, everything I knew, collided like a myriad of stars. I believed in the cause, and I believed in myself. Me. Nancy Wake Fiocca was going to make a stand—for Henri, for France, for all humanity. This, I felt deep in my core, was my purpose. France needed more than soldiers, and this was my chance to be useful.

Henri’s eyes widened, and we stared at each other before a grin tugged at his mouth. We both burst into laughter, tears filling my eyes and streaming down my cheeks.

‘I give up, Nannie, you win.’ Henri sighed, lifting a hand to his forehead. ‘I see your mind is made up, so I will teach you to drive.’

With a joyful shriek, I flung my arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Thank you.’ I never thought I’d ever learn to drive. What a thrill!

‘But you must promise to be careful. Promise me you won’t take unnecessary risks.’

I nodded, tears welling up in my eyes. ‘I promise, Henri. And you promise me that you’ll come back to me.’

Henri leaned down, cupping my face in his hands, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down my cheek. ‘I promise, mon amour,’ he whispered, before kissing me tenderly, his lips lingering on mine as if trying to imprint the moment in our memories.

The next few days passed in a whirlwind. Henri taught me to drive, patient but firm, as I fumbled with the gears and wrestled with the steering wheel. Despite the tension of the coming separation, we laughed together more than we had in months. It felt good to be working toward something, even if the goal was bittersweet. I was determined to be ready when the time came.

Then, all too soon, the day I had dreaded since the moment Henri had received his orders arrived. Dressed in his uniform, he looked every bit the proud, capable man I had fallen in love with, but his eyes betrayed the same fear and sadness that gripped my heart.

We stood by the door, the morning light casting long shadows across the floor. I reached up, smoothing the lapel of his jacket, memorising every detail, every line of his face, as if it would be the last time I saw him.

‘I will be back before you know it,’ Henri said, his voice steady, though I could hear the emotion beneath it. ‘And when I return, we shall pick up right where we left off.’

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Instead, I reached up and kissed him, pouring all my love, all my hopes, and all my fears into that one kiss.

‘I love you,’ I whispered against his lips, my voice trembling.

‘I love you too, Nannie,’ Henri replied, his eyes locking with mine one last time before he turned and walked out the door.

I stood there, frozen in place, listening to his footsteps fade away, until the silence of the empty house pressed in around me. It was only then that I allowed myself to cry; the tears streaming down my face as I clutched the doorframe, my heart breaking with every sob.

But I didn’t cry for long. I couldn’t afford to. There was too much to do, too much to prepare. Henri was gone, but I had made a promise too. And I intended to keep it.

I would find a way to fight, to help, to make a difference. For Henri, for France, and for the future we both dreamed of—a future that I would do everything in my power to protect.

The days that followed were a blur of activity. I threw myself into my driving lessons with renewed determination, mastering the controls and growing more confident with each passing day. I practiced first aid, honed my nursing skills, and devoured every bit of information I could find about the front lines and the war effort. I was preparing for the unknown, but I knew one thing for certain—I would not sit idly by while the world fell apart.

As I lay in bed at night, Picon curled up beside me, I would stare out the window at the stars, wondering where Henri was, what he was doing, if he was thinking of me too. The distance between us felt vast, but I knew that our love was stronger than any separation, stronger than any war. And I held onto that, even as the uncertainty of the future loomed large.

Then one morning, a letter arrived. The envelope was creased and worn, as if it had travelled a great distance, and my heart leapt as I recognised Henri’s handwriting. I tore it open, my hands shaking, and read his words with bated breath:

My dearest Nannie,

I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you more than words can say, and every day that passes feels like an eternity. But I take comfort in knowing that you are safe, and that we will be together again soon.

The front is as you might imagine—harsh, unforgiving, and filled with moments of both terror and camaraderie. But I am strong, and I am determined, as are the men who fight beside me. We will hold the line, Nannie, for you and for all those we love.

Please take care of yourself, my love. Be brave, as I know you are. And know that you are always in my heart, no matter how far apart we are.

Yours forever,

Henri

I pressed the letter to my chest, closing my eyes, the tears of relief and longing flowed without restraint. Henri was alive. He was fighting, thinking of me, and the connection between us, fragile yet unbreakable, surged through me with a fierce intensity.

He spoke of the cold, the mud, the relentless shelling, but he also spoke of hope, of determination, of the belief that this nightmare would end. And intertwined with those words was his love for me—a love that remained unshaken, a love that gave me strength when my own courage wavered.

And that was all the motivation I needed to keep going, to keep fighting in my own way, to keep the promise I had made to him and to myself. But beyond that, I realised it wasn’t just about waiting for him, about being strong for him. It was about finding my own strength, about proving to myself that I could endure this—just as he was enduring on the front lines.

For as long as this war raged, I would be strong. I would be brave. And I would be ready for whatever came next. But now, there was a deeper resolve within me. This wasn’t just about surviving until he returned. It was about making each day matter, about contributing something meaningful in a world torn apart by chaos. I would not let this war diminish me. Instead, I would rise to meet it, just as Henri was doing. And when he finally came home, he would find me stronger, more resilient—ready to build a new life together from the ashes of this one.

I opened my eyes, the tears subsiding, but the fire within me burning stronger than ever. I carefully folded the letter, placing it where I knew I could reach for it whenever the darkness threatened to overwhelm me. Henri’s words would guide me, and with them, I would face whatever came with unshakable resolve.