Chapter 14

Dangerous Liaisons. January 1941

H enri arrived at work and sank into his chair. The door to his office opened as his secretary brought in a steaming cup of ersatz coffee. ‘Merci,’ he said.

‘Monsieur Fiocca, your father is coming in shortly. He rang earlier.’ She pursed her lips, clasping her hands together tightly.

‘Thank you, Anne.’ Henri sighed. What did his father want to discuss now? He shook his head and took a sip of the bitter coffee, wincing at the acorn taste. He’d never get used to this rubbish. Thank heavens Nannie had fresh ground coffee at home. He glanced out the window at the clear blue sky, his thoughts drifting to last night’s dinner.

Nannie had been in her element, the grand hostess, entertaining their guests with her infectious laugh and glowing brighter than all the stars. She was his star, the light of his life. But he had seen the fire in her eyes. She had already offered to feed the men from the fort every night—four, maybe five—without even glancing at him for confirmation. She knew he would agree, as always. He gave her everything she asked for and more. Was he a fool? Maybe. She deserved it, and he knew she loved him deeply, but she was playing a dangerous game, and they had to be vigilant.

One of the men from the fort, a Scottish chap named Ian Garrow, had mentioned an escape line to help the Allies slip through France and escape via a southern port or across the Pyrenees. This had intrigued Nannie. Garrow had watched her closely, flicking a gaze at Henri as he spoke of needing funds.

Nancy was a British subject living in Nazi-occupied France. If she came to the attention of the Gestapo, it would not look favourable if they suspected her of aiding the Allies. The consequences would be harsh. Henri swallowed hard and gritted his teeth. He had heard whispers of horrific stories—the Gestapo would stop at nothing to unearth traitors. No, he would not let anything happen to his wife. He ran a hand through his hair, gathering his thoughts.

Nancy wasn’t a bird to be kept in a gilded cage. No, he had to let her fly. But if the Germans ever suspected her, the consequences would be far-reaching. The brutes would ransack their home, his father’s home, perhaps. There would be arrests and repercussions for the entire Fiocca family. He would have to ensure he was aware of everything Nannie was doing and, if necessary, stop her.

***

Henri stood in the doorway, watching as Nancy applied ruby lipstick. He loved the way she puckered her lips, often catching his gaze in the mirror and smiling, just as she did now.

‘Darling, I didn’t hear you come in.’ She dashed towards him and kissed his cheek.

‘I finished on time, as you asked me to.’

She studied him for a moment. ‘Hmm, for once.’ She breezed back to her dressing table, picked up a bottle of Chanel perfume, and dabbed some on her wrists and behind her ears. ‘It’s just Ian and Bruce coming tonight.’

Only two, Henri thought. ‘A quiet evening for once.’ The men from the fort dominated their lives, with a room full of guests most nights. Couldn’t he have Nancy to himself for one night? That was selfish, perhaps, but he was in love. He sighed as he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. ‘I take it they are arriving at the usual time?’

‘Yes, now hurry, and I’ll fix you a drink before they get here.’ She kissed him on the lips as she breezed past him, leaving a veil of jasmine and rose scent. Henri sank onto the bed for a moment.

Things had changed since Captain Garrow arrived. He was astute and cunning and had immediately recognised Nancy’s resourcefulness. She was eager to help, perhaps too eager. They were already assisting Commander Busch, and now Garrow was turning their flat into a headquarters for his escape network. Most nights, they discussed plans to move more men, many of whom were soldiers interned at the fort. Bruce, an Australian, got along well with Nancy, but Henri could not shake his unease. The burden of Nancy’s safety preyed heavily on him.

As he fastened the last button on his shirt, he heard the assured yet soft Scottish voice of Garrow.

‘I sent someone to Le Petit Poucet bar to check for evaders,’ Garrow said, taking a drag on his cigarette. ‘Picked up another two chaps.’

All the airmen knew that if they went there, they would be picked up. Funny how word spread.

‘Good evening, everyone,’ Henri said, grinning as he glanced around. Garrow and Bruce flocked around Nancy, who was sitting on the sofa, drink in hand. Bees buzzing around a scarlet rose. He poured himself a generous measure of brandy.

‘Henri, there you are. Dinner’s ready. We were waiting for you, my darling,’ Nancy said as she rose, and the others followed. ‘So where are the airmen now?’

‘At the mission for the time being, but we’ll move them on as soon as possible,’ Garrow said, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Thank you for the food parcels you sent. Lord knows we need all the help we can get.’

Henri sighed. Money, food, clothing—where would it all end? The Allies loved Nancy, but he wondered if they saw her as simply convenient. His stomach churned. He downed the brandy in one fiery gulp, recalling the doctor’s recent words: You must moderate your drinking. More rest and less liquor. Henri huffed out a breath, watching their guests hang on Nancy’s every word.

The men talked of evaders and safe houses as if it were office business and nothing more. Garrow had drawn them into this world of evasion and espionage, piece by piece. How much would be left to salvage?

***

Later that night, as they lay in bed, unease gnawed at Henri like a rat, refusing to subside. A dull ache pummelled his right side. ‘Nancy, I think you’re doing a little too much for the British.’

‘What do you mean? We give them food and a little money to help. How is that too much?’

‘You know what I mean. Just think about what you’re doing, my love. France has eyes and ears. You don’t know who to trust. We live opposite the Vichy Commissaire, for goodness’ sake.’ Henri puffed out a breath.

‘I know you’re worried about me, but I can’t back out. Those men need our help.’

They were in too deep. The trouble was, he didn’t want her to go any further. She was infuriating at times, stubborn, and determined to save the world. How was he going to keep her safe? ‘Be careful tomorrow, Nannie.’

‘I will. I’m only delivering a food parcel to the mission.’ She rolled towards him and into his arms as he drew her head to his chest, nuzzling her hair. ‘Besides, Bruce will be there. I’m taking him out to lunch afterward.’

The Seaman’s Mission was busier than ever, with a steady stream of evaders. Reverend Caskie, a Scottish minister, had taken a tremendous risk by becoming involved with the Resistance. The mission had become a major safe house, the hub of the escape line. Nancy preferred to deliver food parcels in person and had never once been stopped or followed. But if anything happened to her, he would never forgive Garrow.

Marseille was changing, with rumours of an increasing number of German and Italian spies. Meanwhile, the French police remained loyal to the Vichy government. The pain in Henri’s side intensified, sharp and fleeting, catching his breath. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to alarm Nancy, and steadied his breathing, fighting off nausea.

***

The journey to Lyon had been uneventful and quiet. Today was the first time I’d used my new identity papers, procured by a doctor friend of Henri’s. We decided to omit my British citizenship. I was still Madame Fiocca of Marseille, but to the Vichy gendarmes or any Germans, I was French.

As I tried to shake off the unease I turned my thoughts to Christmas which had been wonderful. Henri and I celebrated with friends and several officers from the fort. Bruce had recently joined the Garrow Line, and we had become close, like siblings. Meeting a fellow Aussie was a comfort, and Henri had taken us all to dinner to celebrate.

Now, it was a new year, still marred by war, and I wondered how much longer it would last. Rationing was biting hard, and winter was harsh. Supplies of coal and food had dwindled, but I was glad to share what we had with friends who needed help.

An icy chill surrounded me in the small waiting room. Heating was a luxury even a doctor couldn’t afford. The surgery door swung open, and Dr. Jean Fellot stood there, beckoning me inside. ‘Madame Fiocca. It is lovely to see you.’

I followed him inside and waited until he closed the door. Despite the empty waiting room, I kept my voice low. ‘Bonjour.’ I handed over the brown suitcase. I knew what was inside—a radio. Jean was my Lyon contact, trustworthy and discreet. He had already assisted many people, evaders and civilians, and at that moment, he was sheltering a Jewish family in the cellars below. He opened the suitcase.

‘Merci, Madame. I wish you a safe journey home.’

It didn’t do to stay long. Prying eyes were everywhere, and I wished to return home. I handed Jean a slip of paper. ‘That’s the address of our chalet in Névache. If you ever need it, please use it. The key is under the doormat.’ Safe houses were always needed, and where better to hide than the Alps?

***

As the weeks flew by, I made more trips—two or three times a week—to Lyon, Cannes, and Toulon, working for both the Garrow Line and Commander Busch. Small packages, secreted in the bottom of my handbag or sewn into the lining of my coat, became routine. I relished the thrill of it all, the feeling of doing something purposeful. I escorted evaders to the Spanish borders, taking the train to Toulouse or Perpignan. Sometimes, Bruce came along, though we never sat together. It was reassuring to have someone watching out for me.

The business took much of Henri’s time, and he worked long hours. He was tired and frequently concerned about my activities, but I assured him I was aware of the dangers and was doing everything possible to avoid detection. During the day, I stuck to my routine of shopping in the mornings, meeting friends for lunch, and spending the odd afternoon at the beauty salon, being pampered and preened. In between, I’d slip away to run my extra errands, taking ‘parcels’ to their destination—and often, the ‘parcel’ was a person, usually more than one.

I became accustomed to taking evaders by train to the foot of the Pyrenees, via Perpignan, about twenty miles from the Spanish border, and trekking uphill to meet the passeurs, guides who would take over and lead them the rest of the way across the perilous peaks of the Pyrenees to Spain. Since my work began, the number of people moving along the escape line had grown—more Allied soldiers, downed airmen, and citizens fleeing persecution, mainly Jews.

With not enough safe houses, we became desperate. Occasionally, I’d hidden people at Henri’s factory, in a basement there. It wasn’t ideal, and we couldn’t let the workers know about our clandestine operations, either. Henri complained bitterly about it. ‘You’ll have the entire Marseille Gendarmerie at our door, Nannie,’ he said, throwing his hands up in the air. ‘One night, that’s all we can risk.’

He was as desperate to help those in need as I was, and I couldn’t blame him for being concerned. ‘They would never think to suspect you, Henri.’ No, of that, I was fairly certain.