Chapter 15

July 1941

‘ H itler is a monster of wickedness, insatiable in his lust for blood and plunder. Not content with having all Europe under his heel, or else terrorised into various forms of abject submission, he must now carry his work of butchery and desolation among the vast multitudes of Russia and of Asia… Let us redouble our exertions, and strike with united strength while life and power remain.’

Winston Churchill. 22 June 1941.

Henri had never felt so ill. The diagnosis meant no more drinking. The doctors had warned him before, advising him to cut down, but now they were telling him to give it up completely. What did they know? ‘You must tell your wife,’ the doctor had said. But that was the last thing he wanted to do. Nancy had enough on her mind; he had no wish to worry her further. Yet when she visited, her face fell.

‘Darling, you’re so pale. You look worn out.’

He couldn’t hide how he looked, but he was determined to put on a front and convince her it was just a minor virus. But she was right—worn out, exhausted, he’d never felt this frail. His sun-kissed skin masked a slight jaundice. And now, she had to see him propped up on pillows in a hospital bed, fragile and sick. ‘I will be all right, Nannie. Please, don’t worry.’

She bent over to kiss his cheek, then pulled up a chair beside him, taking his hand in hers. ‘The doctor wouldn’t tell me anything. He said I should ask you.’

Bless her, awash with concern and confusion. ‘I have a virus, that’s all.’ She tilted her head, puzzled. ‘A week in the hospital with treatment, and I should be well again.’ The truth, however, was far more complicated.

‘Your kidneys are struggling, Henri,’ the doctor had said. ‘Which is why you must stop drinking alcohol. Light exercise only, and you must take better care of yourself.’

It was too awful, giving up everything he loved. ‘What is my prognosis?’

‘If you follow all the medical advice, you’ll live for some years yet.’ The doctor had sighed heavily, placing an information sheet on the bedside table—light reading. Henri hadn’t bothered asking what would happen if he didn’t follow orders.

Nancy’s voice fractured his reverie. ‘I’m supposed to be going to Toulouse tomorrow.’

‘Well, you must go but be careful.’

‘How can I leave you?’

‘Aren’t I in the best place?’ He reached for her hand. ‘You go. And in a few days, I will be home again.’

***

I stood on the platform, but my heart wasn’t on this mission at all. It was with Henri, and I wished I were by his side. I’d never seen him look so ill. Something didn’t feel right, but my train was due at any moment, and I had to focus. People milled around, and two small boys raced up and down the platform, giggling, their laughter shrill, fracturing my thoughts. The newsstand bulged with papers, all reporting on the German invasion of Russia. The French were amazed—remembering Napoleon’s defeat when he tried to take Moscow over a hundred years ago. Now Hitler had taken his war onto Soviet soil, with reports of around 150,000 Soviet soldiers killed or wounded in the first week alone.

The Jewish family I was taking to Toulouse stood a little distance away, just as I’d instructed them to do. They wore clean clothes and carried forged papers. As the train pulled in, I took a deep breath. I’d made this journey several times now, usually with servicemen, and I was confident all would be well.

The guard opened the carriage doors, and we boarded. I found a seat for myself and waited as my special cargo filed in and sat opposite. I glanced at the boy. Joseph was fifteen, already a fiercely independent young man. His mother was very thin and pale, and I wondered if she’d manage the perilous crossing of the Pyrenees. It was a long journey, steep, with thinning air as you climbed. I recalled stories of those who had collapsed in the snow and froze to death. I clenched my jaw. Joseph’s mother muttered under her breath, clasping her hands tight, perhaps in prayer. Her husband, tall and well-built, reminded me of Stanley—calm, positive.

Joseph’s round hazel eyes met mine, filled with defiance and a strength of spirit that belied his years. His mother’s, however, were wide, darting this way and that.

Then the carriage door slid open, and the guard stepped in. ‘Papers, please.’

I reached into my bag and handed them over. He smiled as his eyes flicked over the documents, then glanced at me before looking them over again.

‘Merci, Madame.’ He thrust the papers into my hand and turned to the others. It was a simple formality, and all was well as the guard departed and closed the door, and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

‘How long will we be in Toulouse, Madame?’ Joseph whispered.

How long’s a piece of string? I mused. ‘A day or two, perhaps, until it’s safe to move on.’ I flashed a reassuring smile. I tried not to get involved with the people I helped along the escape line. Sometimes, with the Allied evaders, it was difficult. They were often British, and I loved them, so it was hard not to chat. But with refugees, it was different. Many had fled appalling treatment, escaping just in time while thousands more were trapped, rounded up, and sent to camps. But this family had become close to me.

Joseph’s mother had witnessed her parents’ arrest. ‘The Germans sent them to Drancy,’ she said.

Her eldest son was shot and killed months earlier for aiding the Resistance. It didn’t do well to know too much—the less, the better for all concerned. But I couldn’t help being touched by their plight.

The train slowed as it eased into Toulouse, exhaling a breath of steam. I sat for a few moments as people disembarked before making a move. ‘Follow on behind me, as before.’ I nodded to them, smoothed down my navy skirt and jacket, and stepped off the train. I made my way to the H?tel de Paris, passing my contact as I strode through the bar. ‘Gin and tonic, please.’ I turned and saw the family standing in the foyer, locked eyes with the contact, and nodded in their direction. He returned the gesture.

Please let them make it, I thought. Was there a God? Did heaven exist as my mother had so often proclaimed? All I knew was I had to return home and avoid awkward questions from any police about my reason for travelling. And I would remember Joseph, his family, their faces, and voices for the rest of my life.

***

I returned home from shopping one morning, eager to kick off my red espadrilles and enjoy a lunchtime drink. I unclipped Picon’s lead and watched as he trotted off to the kitchen.

Claire stood in the doorway, a pensive look on her sweet, youthful face. ‘Madame, Captain Garrow is waiting in the drawing room. He is not alone.’

‘Thank you, Claire.’ I put my bag on the hall table, pausing briefly at the mirror to check my hair. Garrow sat at our desk in the corner of the room, writing. He stood up to greet me. The other man did not stand but continued to sit in Picon’s favourite leather chair, which immediately raised my hackles. It was extremely rude, I thought. As I caught his eye, a bad feeling stirred, like darkness descending. He made me feel so uncomfortable.

‘Garrow, lovely to see you.’

‘Nancy, please forgive the intrusion. Meet Harold Cole. He’s joined our operation, so you might run into each other from time to time.’

Cole managed a begrudging smile without meeting my gaze and muttered, ‘Hello,’ almost as if it were a bloody inconvenience.

I noticed the crystal glass in his hand and the copper liquid within. A bottle of whisky stood open on the bar. Henri had been saving that for the day victory came, and this impertinent man had opened it. This man who didn’t have the manners to greet a lady properly. His shifty shark-like eyes, dark and cold, gave me the shivers, and I hoped never to run into him again. Something inside me suddenly snapped. ‘I would prefer it if you left, please,’ I said as coolly as I could manage, looking directly at Cole. He glanced at Garrow, then back at me, before snorting, his face crinkling into a sneer. Slowly, he rose, downed the last of the whisky, and slammed the glass down on the mahogany table by the chair.

Garrow shot me a puzzled glance. ‘I’ll catch up with you.’

Cole left without another word. ‘I don’t care who he is or where he’s from. I don’t trust him, and you shouldn’t either.’

‘Nancy, I can assure you he’s absolutely trustworthy. Cole’s been assisting Allied evaders in Northern France. A contact recommended him, and so far, he’s proved very worthy.’ Garrow folded the letter he’d written and slipped it inside his jacket pocket.

‘Well, I don’t like him. There’s something about him, that’s all. I hope you’re right.’ I poured myself a brandy. ‘Anyway,’ I smiled and sat on the sofa, ‘What was it you wanted?’

‘We need more money, I’m afraid. We have a batch of papers to pay for and safe houses. Well, you know how it goes. The money from England has run out. We’re waiting for a drop, but meanwhile, we’re rather stuck.’

My heart sank. Poor Henri was always being asked for something. ‘How much do you need?’

With an apologetic expression, he said, ‘Twenty thousand francs.’

‘I’ll ask Henri later and sort something out.’ Garrow didn’t seem his usual self. My little performance had rocked the boat, but Cole had made me feel more uneasy than I’d ever felt facing any German soldier. That was a definite red flag in my book.

We saw less of Garrow after that. He got his money, of course, and Henri and I came to the same conclusion. They only visited when they needed something. Well, it was nothing personal. It was war and survival. Still, I suddenly realised how tired and anxious Henri had become. He was more relieved by the snub, whereas I was a little hurt. We’d risked so much, and I’d felt good about myself, fantastic. The work had given me purpose; still, it was just as well not to have Resistance workers or Allied evaders at our home every other day. A few days later, the police raided one of Garrow’s regular meeting places, Noailles Hotel, making several arrests. I heard through the network that they were looking for Garrow. I guessed he’d go into hiding, but I couldn’t help wondering if there was a mole in the organisation—one by the name of Cole, perhaps.

September 1941

‘Reds Battle Nazis in Leningrad Streets’

Névache was beautiful in autumn. I loved gazing at the majestic views of the rugged mountains from our chalet. Henri whistled. He looked so relaxed here. It was strange waking up to silence, occasionally hearing the faint sounds of chopping wood or a barking dog. Birdsong carried on the mountain breeze, raw, pure as nature itself. Sometimes, at night, the faint drone of aircraft drifted over us. Whether it was the enemy or Allied forces, we couldn’t see, but we hoped it was the Allies, perhaps on their way to give Mussolini hell.

‘I wonder how Churchill’s getting on with his meeting with President Roosevelt.’ I glanced at Henri, who sat in front of the log fire, brandy in one hand, a smouldering cigar in the other. He shook his head.

‘I cannot see the Americans joining. They remember the first war.’ Henri downed the brandy, then reached down and threw another log on the fire. ‘Look at the war in Russia. American mothers want to keep their sons safe, and who can blame them?’

He had a point. The Germans were determined to take Russia, but the siege in Leningrad was a bloody, brutal battle. The city lay in ruins, heavily bombed. News reports claimed the Russians had beaten the Germans back from the Front, while another claimed there had been about three million German lives lost. Even though the British had help from the Commonwealth—Aussies, Canadians, and South Africans, to name a few—it seemed to me that a larger force like America could help tip the balance in favour of an Allied victory.

To lighten the mood, I played one of Henri's favourite records, L’Accordéoniste by Edith Piaf. I wound the gramophone and set the needle on the record, the sweet melody drifting out, filling our hearts. Henri looked at me, his face creasing into a warm smile, Picon asleep on the sofa next to him, and in that moment, I wished I could freeze time. Nothing was certain, but the present moment was perfect.

* * *

In October, we heard the shocking news of Garrow’s arrest. He was sentenced to ten years in Meauzac Concentration Camp, but first, he was to spend three months in solitary confinement at Fort Saint-Nicolas in Marseille. It was a dreadful blow. A Belgian named Pat O’Leary was now in charge.

‘It’s time for you to step back, Nannie.’ Henri shot me a beseeching glance. ‘Just for a short time, as a precaution.’

O’Leary came to see us soon after the arrest. He was tall, perhaps about thirty, with blue eyes and thinning blond hair. I liked him immediately and felt he was trustworthy.

‘We need money,’ he said, with a fleeting apologetic smile.

Henri passed him a glass of brandy, and we sat at the dining table, where we had a commanding view of the harbour. As O’Leary spoke of regrouping and changing safe houses, my instincts grew into a frenzy. Cole preyed on my mind. I had to say something. ‘One person, in particular, is right under your nose. I’d stake my life on it.’

O’Leary shot me a knowing glance. ‘Cole?’

He said it without hesitation, a clear indicator that he, too, was suspicious. ‘Yes.’

He sighed, drank his brandy. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t had much to do with him, but there are things that need checking.’ He rubbed his chin, deep in thought.

After O’Leary left, Henri hugged me tight. ‘Stay away, Nannie. It’s becoming too dangerous.’

I knew he was right. Henri always was, so I did as he asked—for now.

December 1941

With Christmas approaching, O’Leary visited to request further funds. That awful man, Paul Cole, was, as I had suspected, not one to be trusted. He’d been stealing funds from the escape network, and O’Leary, along with Bruce and a few others, had questioned him a few weeks ago. ‘I said we should shoot him,’ Bruce had told me later. ‘But the others locked him in the bathroom while they decided, then the bugger escaped.’ Word was the Germans had him. For the time being, this compromised the line. Bruce and O’Leary had travelled to Lille to warn as many others as possible, but the Gestapo made several arrests. We lost couriers, organisers, and safe-house keepers. My mouth ran dry at the news, bile surged in my throat. We’d have to lie low and regroup.

There was the question of two downed airmen who needed to cross the Pyrenees. It was becoming clearer to me that having such activities going on at my home was not good, so I asked Henri one evening about the possibility of renting another flat. ‘It will be safer,’ I said, ‘and it means that O’Leary can use it as needed.’

Henri sighed. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. Leave it to me. I shall find somewhere on the other side of town.’

A few days later, O’Leary told us the Gestapo had caught Bruce, and I felt the life drain from my body. Sinking into a chair, I sucked in a deep breath.

‘They’re holding him at St. Omer in Lille.’

‘But they’ll interrogate him.’ A stupid thing to say—it was obvious, but I couldn’t bear to think of it. ‘He won’t talk.’ I knew him too well. ‘Bloody Cole,’ I spat, clenching my fists. Garrow should have listened to me. ‘You should have shot the bastard when you had him.’ Bruce had wanted to. Too much bloody deliberation, and the worm had wriggled away, sealing the fate of so many.

Henri poured me a brandy, and I downed it in one gulp. Trust no one. Take nothing for granted. I clenched my jaw, swiped tears from my eyes, an ache growing in my throat. ‘Perhaps we can get him out, somehow.’

O’Leary shot me a blank look. ‘I have men in Lille. There should be news soon.’

* * *

‘The Japanese aerial strike force attacked the US Pacific Fleet on 7 December 1941 at Pearl Harbour.’

Thousands of casualties and deaths were reported, and now, finally, Britain had the ally she’d been seeking, and suddenly it seemed as if the tide might turn. The new year began as it ended—with war, fuel and food shortages. The people were cold, unable to heat their homes for long or at all. They were hungry, with reports of children growing sick with malnutrition, prey to diseases, even adults too. All I knew was our clothes were a little looser, but I had no complaints. Our cellar was well-stocked. I continued providing food parcels for the Ficetoles, whom I knew to be struggling, along with other friends in need.

* * *

Henri sat slumped in his armchair by the roaring fire one evening, shivering, having caught an awful cold. He didn’t feel well, and he was uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn. I’d exhausted all avenues of conversation and failed miserably at cheering him up. I switched the radio on, keeping the volume low while waiting for the BBC London broadcast. ‘You’ll soon talk if the Gestapo catch us,’ I said.

Henri fixed his gaze on me as a frown flitted across his face. ‘I suppose I will.’

I’d meant it as a joke, but it was a sobering thought, and Cole’s menacing face flashed in my mind, unleashing a heavy feeling of foreboding. I swallowed and stared into the flames, tongues of amber leaping up the chimney.