Chapter 13

October 1940

A s we walked around to the rear entrance of L’H?tel Louvre et Paix, I sensed Henri’s irritation.

‘Why can’t we use the main entrance like everyone else?’ Henri threw his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his shoe.

‘You know why. It’s always filled with Germans, and they make my skin crawl. You’ve seen the way they eye up women.’ I exhaled sharply. I preferred slipping into the hotel unnoticed, using the small bar behind the foyer, well out of the way of the enemy. The Germans frequently used the hotel, and although they were in civilian clothes, we all knew who they were. Their loud voices and roaring laughter after a few drinks were more bearable if I didn’t have to look at them. As we stepped inside, the warm air enveloped me like a shawl.

‘Are you sure you won’t join me in the casino, my darling?’ Henri slipped his arm around my waist and kissed my cheek.

‘No, you go ahead. I’ll be perfectly fine here at the bar. Besides, Antoine is excellent company.’

I watched as Henri flicked a glance at the barman. ‘Very well. Enjoy your evening, mon amour. I will be back soon.’ He kissed me once more before striding away.

The lure of the tables was too strong for Henri, but he was usually sensible, so I never worried. I perched on a barstool, resting my navy silk purse on the polished mahogany bar. ‘Antoine, how are you this evening?’

‘I am very well, Madame Fiocca. Thank you. Your usual?’

‘Yes, please.’ I glanced around the small bar, which was unusually quiet tonight. Only one other gentleman sat at a table, reading a book. I’d never seen him before—perhaps he was a traveller. The book looked familiar. Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Antoine placed the brandy on the bar. I grasped the crystal glass and took a sip. ‘Antoine, who’s that man behind me?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Have you noticed what he’s reading? An English book, with the Germans just through there.’ I traced a fingertip around the rim of my glass. Rumours of spies were everywhere, and of neighbours denouncing one another—sometimes even family—for suspected resistance activities.

Just then, a gentle voice whispered in my ear, warm breath caressing my skin with a mist of brandy. ‘Henri. That was quick.’

‘I am not in the mood for cards this evening.’

I smiled before drawing him close. ‘You see that man behind us? Antoine and I think he may be a spy.’ Henri turned to stare. ‘Don’t make it so obvious,’ I hissed.

‘Why do you think this?’

‘He’s reading an English book, for a start.’

Henri leaned on the bar, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘Ah, I see.’ He smiled. ‘Do not worry. I know exactly what to do.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I shall ask him.’ He strode away, leaving me at the bar, my mouth agape. What if the man was a spy?

All I could do was watch as the two men chatted in hushed tones, which was bally frustrating as I could barely hear a word. After a moment, Henri shook the man’s hand and returned to me.

‘No need to worry. He is an English officer, a prisoner of war held at Fort St. Jean. One of many. You should talk to him.’

I was thrilled at the prospect of meeting a fellow Brit and quickly slipped off my stool to introduce myself, with Henri in tow. The man’s name was Captain Leslie Wilkins.

‘What exactly are you doing here?’ I asked, almost certain he was British, though doubt still lingered at the back of my mind. Trust had become the most fragile of silken threads, easily broken.

‘After Dunkirk, hundreds of us were left behind. The French military has about two hundred of us at Fort St. Jean. We’re on parole, you could say. They allow us out during the day as long as we’re back by curfew.’

‘I see.’ His skin was pale, his cheekbones prominent—more so than seemed usual for a man of his build. ‘How are the conditions there?’

He smiled, his dull eyes lighting up for the first time. ‘Poor. The food’s terrible, and there’s not much of it. It’s also pretty cold, especially with winter setting in. The men are desperate for cigarettes.’ He laughed, but it was a half-hearted sound.

I turned to Henri, who gave me one of his looks—the kind he reserved when he knew what I was thinking. ‘Sounds rough,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you meet me at Basso’s tomorrow at noon? We can chat about the conditions over coffee.’

‘Well, yes, if it’s no trouble, Madame Fiocca. I’ll look forward to it.’

‘No trouble at all, and please, call me Nancy. Everyone does.’ What else could I do after hearing his plight? He was desperate, as anyone would be in those circumstances.

That night at home, I tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep. My thoughts refused to quieten. What if he was a German spy? He was so convincing. I detested this way of living—bloody war! None of us were safe, not until France was liberated. In the end, I decided to trust my instincts. My heart told me this Englishman was genuine. He needed help, and that was all there was to it.

***

I strolled along the Vieux-Port and slipped into Basso’s. I made my way over to the barman. ‘Albert, I have a meeting here. Can you take these for me and hide them behind the bar? If anything happens, I wouldn’t want them to fall into the wrong hands.’ I handed him a bundle of cigarettes.

‘Very well, Madame Fiocca.’ He glanced around before taking the package.

I found a table with a clear view of the street. Before long, I spotted Captain Wilkins making his way along the road, chatting amiably with a few other men. For a split second, my heart pounded, but then I noticed a chap with the most ridiculous, large, bushy moustache, and I relaxed. Only an Englishman would tolerate such a thing, and no German could replicate that. I turned around. ‘Albert, it’s okay. You can give me the package.’

***

That evening, back at the apartment, I instructed the housekeeper that we were expecting three guests for dinner. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had time to inform Henri, who was now running late as usual. Business was struggling, as all of France was, but Henri shouldered the responsibility, doing his utmost to keep things afloat. ‘It’s fine,’ he would say whenever I asked him. I strode into the living room and poured myself a brandy, then stood at the window, gazing out across the harbour.

The sun shimmered on the water, a fiery globe dipping down, skimming the ocean’s surface. In the distance, a ship loomed, its red flag bearing a central swastika. I gulped the brandy, fire flaring in my throat, spreading to my heart. I reached for the letter that had arrived that morning from Marie. Both she and Richard were returning to England. Her words echoed in my mind, a pang striking my heart. It was for the best.

***

As Henri stepped through the door, laughter greeted him—not just Nancy’s sweet laugh but another’s as well. He set his brown leather briefcase on the hall table and removed his jacket.

‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Fiocca,’ Claire, their maid, beamed from the kitchen doorway. ‘Madame wished to let you know that you have dinner guests.’

‘Bonsoir, Claire.’ So that explained the male voices. He raised his eyebrows, sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. Nancy was indefatigable. ‘Who?’

‘I do not know, Monsieur.’

Henri nodded before going into the bathroom and closing the door. All day, he had been looking forward to a quiet evening alone with his beautiful wife. He stood at the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror before splashing his face with cold water. His eyes were bloodshot. He squeezed them shut as a memory resurfaced—that day at the Front when the Germans opened fire on their position. Men fell like flies, crying out, dying in the mud. An officer yelled, ‘Hold your position! Do not break rank!’ But it was hopeless. He’d known then that all was lost; France was lost. The tanks overwhelmed them. It was chaos, bloody, brutal chaos. And his friend Charles, always by his side until that day. How it had wrenched his heart to leave him behind, his blue eyes staring blankly one last time into the gentle sunlight. Henri’s heart raced, and he gasped for breath, as he always did when he looked back. Never look back—only forward. He stared hard at himself, seeing panic twist every line and crease, draining the colour from his skin. ‘Mon ami,’ he muttered, his knuckles white as he gripped the basin.

A knock at the door made him jump. ‘Henri, are you in there?’

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Oui.’

The door opened, and her reflection slipped into the mirror.

‘Are you all right, darling? Did Claire tell you we have guests?’

‘She did. I just wanted to clean up first.’ He turned to face her, and her smile slipped.

‘Henri, you’re not all right at all.’ She moved toward him, throwing her arms around his neck, pressing her face against his chest. ‘I wish you’d tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.’

He held her tight, sighing, nuzzling her silken hair, drinking in the soft undertones of lavender. He wouldn’t be a burden. Besides, she had enough to contend with, especially now that she seemed so intent on helping captured Allied soldiers. An uneasy feeling had settled over him, growing by the day. ‘All is well, my love. Do not worry.’ He gave her a light squeeze and brushed the top of her head with his lips. ‘Now, time for dinner. Our guests will wonder where their beautiful hostess has gone.’