Chapter 18

Escape

I gazed at the flashing countryside as the train raced from Perpignan to Toulouse. Three times I had tried to escape across the Pyrenees, only to be turned back by the weather. Only a fool would risk such a crossing in those conditions. I sighed. I knew the route so well that I needed no courier to lead me to the guides. O’Leary had made the arrangements, but once again, I was returning—disappointed, frustrated, and cross. The station lay ahead, yet the train began to slow and halted short of it amidst the shouts of men.

The carriage door slid open, and armed Milice stormed in, commanding everyone to get off. I followed the line of passengers. Outside, a fleet of trucks and more armed Milice gestured for us to climb in. As I scanned the crowd, I saw my chance and made a run for it, heading for a side street. Unfortunately, I collided with a crowd of demonstrators that stopped me in my tracks. ‘Blast!’

‘Halt!’ a man yelled.

I turned. Several Milice raced toward me. I pushed on, shoving people out of the way. I had to get through, had to flee, but the dense mass gave little room to manoeuvre, and I realised the jig was up. A heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder, sending chills down my spine, and I froze. Turning to face my captors, I was led away to the trucks. Wild thoughts raced through my mind. Were they looking for me? My stomach churned, and cold sweat slicked my skin as I swallowed hard and tried to steady my breath.

* * *

The cell was dark, damp, and empty, the stench of piss and fear heavy in the air. I glanced at my grazed knees, stockings shredded from when the guard had shoved me inside, causing me to fall on the rough stone floor. Reluctantly, I sat on the icy flagstones in a corner, legs outstretched. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, my bottom lip swollen and stinging like hell. The blow had been a shock—pathetic, really, as I should have expected it. How was I going to escape? I thought of the Māori midwife who delivered me into the world. ‘The spirits will take care of her,’ she’d told my mother. ‘Well, if you’re listening, help me, please.’ My side throbbed. It was one thing to slap a woman, but another to punch her in the gut. The Milice enjoyed roughing people up, especially women. Blasted brutes. My mouth was parched, and no one had offered water or food—not that I was hungry. A sliver of honeyed light slipped through the barred window, casting a golden finger across the cell floor. Dawn. Soon, my captors would return.

I huddled in the corner, facing the wall where vivid green moss grew between the stones, the damp, mouldy odour filling my nose. I closed my eyes and thought of kinder times, of happier days with Henri. Our strolls through the Vieux Port of Marseille. Parties, friends, and family. Dear Stan, still serving with the navy—please, God, keep him safe. I thought of my sisters, Ruby and Gladys, and of the siblings I’d lost, Hazel and Charles. And Mum. I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, summoning their faces, and Henri’s. Beloved Henri. My vision swam as I tried to stifle the sob, my chest aching. Those bastards wouldn’t see me fall apart.

Somewhere above, a door slammed, the noise reverberating through the building. Footsteps echoed down the stairs, accompanied by the jangle of keys and the whiff of ersatz coffee. A young milicien appeared, holding an enamel mug and a small plate with a thin slice of bread and jam.

‘Good morning, Madame.’ He crouched to open the small flap in the door of my cell, setting the mug and plate on the stone floor. He shot me a glance, his mouth forming a weak smile. ‘Hurry, Madame, before they come for you.’ He straightened up, glancing nervously up the stairs.

He’d taken a risk for me. Nice to know there was still some humanity left. Well, I didn’t need prompting. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had anything to eat or drink. The bread was verging on stale, but the delicious strawberry jam made up for it, and while the ersatz had always been repulsive, right now it was heavenly. ‘Merci.’ Touched by his kindness, I passed the plate and cup back through the flap.

The guard nodded briskly before heading up the stairs.

Within five minutes, two more guards appeared, roughly grabbed me by the arms and dragged me upstairs to the grand office of the Vichy Commissioner. A plump man in his fifties sat slouched behind a mahogany desk, glancing up from a stack of papers. He rested his cigarette on the edge of a crystal ashtray. ‘Bonjour, Madame. Please, sit.’

The guard gripping my left arm shoved me into a chair.

‘It seems you’ve had a rough night, Madame.’ The officer stood and walked towards the window.

A flash of red and black caught my eye—the Nazi flags outside, tugged by the wind. I had already decided, just like yesterday, that I wouldn’t talk. I’d withstood the first beating, and I could do it again.

‘Ah, it looks like another stormy day. The mist is rolling in from the mountains. The peaks will be treacherous.’ He cast a leering smile. ‘So, Madame, you refused to talk yesterday. It is pointless to resist. We will find out what we need to know. I seriously ask you to cooperate so we can conclude this matter.’

He sat down, his rotund belly protruding like a barrel. How did he even squeeze into that uniform? A sudden wave of giggles threatened to escape, and I struggled to suppress them, biting my bruised lip until the pain strangled all humour.

‘So, what is your name?’

I gritted my teeth. ‘Madame Fiocca. My husband is Henri Fiocca, a businessman in Marseille.’

‘Yes, yes, you said all this yesterday.’ He slammed his chubby fist on the desk, and I flinched. ‘We know you are lying. We have made enquiries in Marseille, and there is no trace of you, nor of a man named Fiocca. You are wasting my time, Madame. Now I will ask you again. What is your name?’

‘Madame Nancy Fiocca.’ As I stared into his dark eyes, I noticed him glance at the guard and subtly signal with a nod. I braced myself, but the blow to my stomach forced the air out in a wild rush and I doubled over, unable to breathe. The guard grabbed my hair, yanking my head back, dragging me upright. Nausea surged as I coughed, tasting blood and bile.

‘We know you are a prostitute from Lourdes. There was an incident, an explosion at the cinema in Toulouse the night before your arrest. People saw you at the scene. It is no use denying it as we have several eyewitnesses who will swear to this.’

A prostitute? I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I was fleeing the Germans, not the scene of an explosion. Weren’t they looking for Madame Fiocca of Marseille? Somehow I’d got it all wrong, and I realised I was a scapegoat. Regardless of any pleas, I would be found guilty and imprisoned, or worse. After several hours of interrogation, the beast finally allowed me a bathroom break.

As I peered into the mirror above the basin, my heart dipped at my reflection—hair matted with blood, face bruised and swollen, streaked with dried blood. I turned on the tap, letting the icy water flow over my trembling hands then splashed my face, wincing as the skin stung. ‘What a shiner. Bastards,’ I muttered, gripping the sink. I took a few deep breaths. ‘Well, Nance, this is one fine mess you’re in. How the hell do you get out of this?’

***

Lying in my cell, every inch of me ached. Four days passed, each bringing more beatings and questions. After a while, I grew accustomed to the pain, surprising myself with my resilience. They could charge me, but I wouldn’t break.

Just then, a familiar voice called from above, ‘Nancy.’

Footsteps echoed down the stairs. The guard appeared, followed by a man in a suit—O’Leary. Jesus. They’d arrested him too. He smiled as he spoke with the guard, and my heart raced. What was he doing? He’d blow my cover. The chink of keys in the lock, and O’Leary was by my side, kissing me on both cheeks.

‘What are you doing?’ I whispered.

‘Play along,’ he said quietly, and then in a loud voice, ‘Ma chérie, come. I am taking you home.’ He helped me to my feet and took me in his arms.

I was confused, but we followed the guard up the stairs to the commissioner’s office. What plan had he concocted?

‘Ah, Madame, sit down.’ The commissioner smiled, though his expression remained stony.

O’Leary placed his protective arm around my shoulders.

‘Monsieur Dupont has told us everything. Madame, I knew you were lying from the start. If only you had told us the truth, then you could have avoided all of this unpleasantness.’

I sat silently as he prattled on, occasionally glancing at O’Leary, wondering what cock and bull story he’d concocted. Look at him, larger than life, grinning back at me, playing the part. My God, he had some guts.

Before I knew it, the commissioner discharged us both. A guard returned my handbag and coat, and O’Leary took my arm as we walked out to freedom. I stood in the street, marvelling at how life carried on in Toulouse—people chatting, shopping, working—unaware of the brutality inside that building. They’d have their day of reckoning. I devoured the fresh air, smiling at the vast sky, the winter sun warming my face. For a moment, the pain of leaving Henri vanished, replaced by pure relief. But it couldn’t last.

‘Come on.’ O’Leary said.

‘What the bloody hell did you tell them?’

‘That I was a member of the Milice, and you are my mistress.’ He smirked. ‘I said that your husband works in Marseille, and we had been away together. I suppose you could say I appealed to him as one Frenchman to another.’ He hitched an eyebrow.

I laughed for the first time in days. O’Leary was one hell of an actor.

‘When you did not return, we knew something had happened. We knew the weather had turned, so I made enquiries which led us here. I obtained false papers that identified me as Milice, and I told the commissioner I was a very good friend of Pierre Laval, who, incidentally, is conveniently in Berlin. So, when the commissioner wished to verify things and telephone Laval’s office, I told him that Laval would be most annoyed if they inconvenienced Madame Fiocca any further.’

I shook my head, grinning, despite the throbbing pain in my mouth and face. ‘You’ve got some nerve, that’s for sure.’ I suddenly remembered the money and my jewels and delved into my bag, felt the rough pile of notes, the cool metal of gold chains. ‘Phew!’ Now that was lucky.

* * *

Francoise was a lovely woman, around sixty years old, who welcomed me into her home with open arms and wasted no time in cursing the enemy. ‘The Boches captured my nephew near Dunkirk,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Her grey hair was braided and coiled over her head, and as she adjusted her black spectacles, her blue eyes narrowed. ‘They sent him to one of their camps in Germany. I despise the Nazis.’

We shared a bond, united by our hatred of the occupiers. At first, it was a relief to have somewhere to hide, but as the days dragged on, restlessness gnawed at me. Four more failed attempts to cross the Pyrenees had taken their toll, and my brave facade was wearing thin. Each failure coincided with the Germans making more arrests, forcing our contacts and guides into hiding. Finally, I couldn’t hold back my frustration any longer. ‘There’s a mole in the network, Pat. There has to be!’

While Pat worked on making new plans, I remained where I was, trying to keep myself busy. I spent my days cleaning and cooking, anything to distract myself from the gnawing pain in my gut and chest. Why hadn’t Henri followed through as he’d promised? Was he too consumed with his work and family? What about me? He was my husband. Tears pricked at my eyes, and my cheeks burned with anger. ‘What have I done?’ I muttered. Henri would have done what he felt was right, and I knew he would have tried. Perhaps he had fled—perhaps. But my actions had put him in danger. I thumped my fist on the table, causing the cups and saucers to rattle, pain shooting through my hand.

The Germans held all the power now, and they had taken everything from me. For the first time in my life, I had to accept my situation. It felt hopeless, and all I could do was wait. I had to quell the screaming urge to contact Henri, to ask him what the devil was happening. I had to resist—for his safety as much as mine.

I wasn’t the only one on the run. Francoise was also sheltering ten evaders in her flat. By day, I washed laundry, and by night, we played cards. Francoise, with her bamboo cigarette holder perpetually clamped between her teeth, puffed away on one side while sipping coffee from the other.

‘The Milice and the Germans are swarming everywhere now, with more patrols at the Spanish border,’ she said, her voice heavy with concern.

O’Leary was working on organising a new escape party, and I clung to the hope that this time it would succeed.

* * *

We split into two groups. I travelled with O’Leary, a French Resistance radio operator named Philippe, a French policeman known as Guy, and a New Zealand airman. The train to Perpignan was packed, but fortunately, there were no signs of German soldiers. The day was pleasant, with a light breeze and clear skies, which filled me with a rare sense of optimism about this journey.

Suddenly, the door to our compartment slid open, revealing a breathless guard, his face flushed. ‘The Germans are searching the train. Get your papers ready, please,’ he said before hurrying further along.

As the train began to slow down, far from any station, O’Leary glanced at me with urgency in his eyes. ‘Jump,’ he whispered, his voice low but firm. ‘I’ll meet you at the top of that hill. There’s a vineyard. Go, quickly.’

Without hesitation, I pulled the window down, grabbed my bag, and clambered onto the seat. The ground blurred below, and with a deep breath, I hurled myself out of the window, bracing for impact. I hit the earth hard, tumbling over rough stones that shredded my stockings and left my knees stinging. The screech of brakes echoed in the distance, followed by the harsh, accented voices of German soldiers and the rattle of machine-gun fire.

There was no time to dwell on the pain. I spotted one of the others sprinting towards the trees at the foot of the hill and followed, not daring to look back as bullets whizzed overhead. Within moments, the sounds of pursuit faded, but I kept running through the vineyard and up the hill, my heart pounding, lungs burning. Finally, beneath the sheltering branches of an oak tree, I collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath as sweat trickled down my back and face. The overgrown grasses whispered in the breeze, but the tranquillity did little to soothe my racing thoughts.

Then panic set in. In the chaos, I had lost my bag—along with all my jewellery and cash. My engagement ring, the diamond eternity ring, and all the gifts from Henri—gone. I cursed myself, fighting back tears. How could I have been so careless?

Just then, Guy arrived, panting and flushed, his face a mix of relief and surprise. I swallowed hard, trying to push down the grief. As I rested my hand on my chest, I felt a crinkle beneath my blouse. The money! In my haste, I had stuffed some of the cash into my brassiere. It wasn’t much comfort, but at least I wasn’t entirely empty-handed.

‘Have you seen O’Leary?’ I asked, scanning the area anxiously for any signs of the others. The second party had been on the train too.

‘Non. No sign.’ Guy replied, settling down and opening his coat, taking deep, steadying breaths.

A few tense minutes passed before O’Leary appeared. ‘I went back to check if the others made it off the train, but I didn’t see anyone,’ he said, his expression grim.

Guy stood, determination etched on his face. ‘I’ll go back and see what’s happened.’

‘Be careful,’ O’Leary warned. ‘The train’s still there, so the soldiers will be searching.’

As I kept watch, I finally spotted the other two men making their way up the hill towards us. Relief washed over me. ‘You made it! Any sign of the others?’

They both shook their heads. ‘Nothing,’ one of them replied. ‘Didn’t see or hear a thing except Nazis on my tail.’ The New Zealander dropped down beside me, his breath still ragged.

‘We can’t stay here,’ O’Leary said, glancing around. ‘Come on, let’s move.’

* * *

The wind howled as it nipped at the sides of the stone barn. Inside was freezing, riddled with draughts and I thought to myself it would be just as warm sleeping outside. At least it had a roof. We lay huddled together for warmth. I sat snuggled between O’Leary and the New Zealander. It was times such as these when morals and modesty had to take a back seat. Survival was key, but it didn’t stop me from wondering what Henri would think if he saw me now. Under any other circumstance I would have laughed, but here, trapped in such a predicament, I felt like crying.

Life seemed to be at its bleakest, darkest ebb. The French Resistance fellow was on watch duty, although it looked more like he was asleep as he’d been sitting on the floor in the same position by the door for an hour. Either that or he’d frozen to death. It was our second night in the barn. I desperately needed a bath and a fresh change of clothes, if only to feel human again. My eyes grew lead-heavy, fluttered, and I gave up fighting the darkness, the darkness from which the Germans and the Milice had an annoying habit of waking and pulling you from in the middle of the night. Did anyone ever sleep properly anymore?

* * *

The trek back to Francoise in Toulouse was gruelling. We set off at sunset on the third day after our escape from the train, our stomachs growling in protest as we trudged along rural lanes, dust and dirt clinging to our clothes and skin. We avoided the main roads, knowing that if the police or any German patrols spotted us, they’d arrest us without hesitation. As we passed a field, I spotted crops and couldn’t resist hopping over the ragged stone wall to scavenge. I dug up a lettuce, brushing off clumps of soil and tiny black bugs that clung to the leaves. When I rejoined the group, I offered my spoils around, but the men turned it down, pulling faces as if it were the most unappetising thing they’d ever seen. I didn’t care. It was fresh, healthy, and better than nothing, so I tore off the leaves and ate them as we walked.

After five days, we finally reached the safe house—hungry, dehydrated, and utterly exhausted. We’d slept by day and travelled by night, sheltering in barns, sheep pens, and any other farm structures we could find along the way. By the time we arrived, we were itching from head to toe and soon discovered we all had scabies. Francoise scrubbed us down with disinfectant as soon as we arrived. Seeing her was like being reunited with an old friend, and we embraced warmly. Inside, the aroma of cooking greeted us, and she ushered us to the kitchen, where we sat around the wooden table with O’Leary to discuss new escape plans.

As the conversation carried on, my thoughts turned to the growing suspicion that there was a spy in our network. Something felt off, and I couldn’t shake the sense of betrayal gnawing at me.

O’Leary turned to me, lighting a cigarette. ‘I have a meeting tomorrow with a recruit who’s joined our group in Paris,’ he said, exhaling a puff of smoke. ‘Funny thing—he claims he’s heard of you, Nancy.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Said he wants to meet the amusing girl from Marseille.’

‘Does he, now?’ I replied, a sense of unease creeping over me.

‘Don’t worry,’ O’Leary reassured me. ‘I have no intention of bringing him near you. Besides, I haven’t even met him yet.’ He looked distant for a moment. ‘But he was quite insistent.’

Something wasn’t right. I could feel it. ‘Be careful tomorrow, Pat,’ I warned, though I knew I couldn’t stop him. We all took risks—it was part of the job.

2 March 1943

The following day, as I sorted my clothes in the kitchen with Francoise, a young Frenchman burst in, wide-eyed and breathless.

‘The Germans have O’Leary.’

A wave of nausea hit me, and my heart pounded in my chest. The new agent—the man who’d insisted on meeting me—had to be a double agent.

‘We have to get everybody out.’ Francoise dropped her wooden spoon onto the table and moved the pan off the stove. She placed a hand on my arm. ‘Hurry. Get ready to leave while I round up the others.’

I dashed to my room, grabbed my brown leather shoes from beneath the bed, and slipped on my camel coat. My hands shook as I snapped the gold clasp on my black handbag. My heart drummed in my ears, and my thoughts spun in a dizzying whirl. Please, God, keep O’Leary safe. Wild images flashed through my mind. He had to be all right. At worst, they’d send him to one of their camps, but he would survive—he was a fighter. He was clever, resourceful, and diplomatic. Still, I knew someone in the network had betrayed us, and the net was closing in.

When I emerged from my room, a familiar face stood in the kitchen.

‘Bernard.’ I managed a smile, even as Francoise hurried around, grabbing her coat, keys, and bag, calling out to the other evaders she was hiding.

‘I see you’ve heard about O’Leary. Francoise says you can’t go with the others. I have a place for you to stay tonight.’

‘Merci, Bernard.’ He was a saviour.

He nodded. ‘I’ll take the others to their safe house, then we’ll head back to Marseille. We need to warn everyone.’

Once again, I found myself relying on the kindness of others for my safety. My mouth was dry, and a tightness spread across my chest as I paced the floor, thinking of O’Leary. He had risked everything to get me out of prison, and I felt I should help him. But Francoise warned me off.

‘It’s madness. You’ll get arrested, and it’ll be far worse for both of you.’ She hugged me tightly, then kissed my cheeks several times, the stale scent of cigarette smoke lingering on her skin and hair. Tears trickled down my face, partly because of her kindness and partly because I was leaving again.

‘Merci, Francoise. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. Bless you.’ I squeezed her hand, unwilling to run again, yet knowing I had no choice. The tide had turned, and I was now the prey. But Marseille. Henri. My heart leapt with both joy and sadness. I’d be so close yet so far, unable to stop by or even telephone.

* * *

As the train drew into the station at Marseille, my breath caught in my throat. There, standing on the platform, was a policeman I recognised from my arrest. ‘Bernard,’ I whispered. ‘That policeman knows me. He saw me at Milice HQ.’

He glanced around. ‘Follow my lead.’

As we stepped off the train, Bernard took me gently in his arms and kissed me. With my sunglasses on, I prayed the man would not recognise me. The kiss was warm and sloppy, but I didn’t care just as long as it did the trick. Bernard broke away, and with a quick glimpse at the man, slipped his arm around my shoulders as we turned to leave. My heart raced, and I fully expected to be challenged, but no one stopped us.

As we descended the stone steps from Saint-Charles station, the familiar whispers of Marseille called to me, as delicate as the sea breeze, urging me home and into Henri’s arms. My eyes welled up with tears, and a familiar ache tightened in my throat. A voice in my head screamed for me to run home. It would be fine. No one would notice. But I clenched my jaw and fought hard to push the thought away.

‘This way,’ Bernard said, taking my arm.

He kept to the side streets, but all I could think about was strolling down Boulevard d’Athènes to La Canebière, turning right, and heading straight to Henri. I longed for the safety of home, to close the door behind me and hide from the war and the oppressive enemy, wishing it would all vanish as quickly as the mist that rolls in from the sea. But wishes weren’t ours to command. I followed Bernard like a forlorn puppy, battling every step to suppress the scream building inside me.

The briny air filled my senses, and I inhaled deeply, savouring the salty tang that lingered in my nose and mouth. I closed my eyes momentarily, lost in memories of bygone days. When I opened them, I saw people hurrying along the road, their faces etched with the stress of the Occupation. What if Henri had left? He’d promised to follow me, but if he had, O’Leary would have known, and he would have told me. Bernard stopped at two houses to warn the occupants of the latest news, only to find that word had already spread. Apparently, there were evaders at my little flat—the one Henri had rented.

‘We’ll go to the flat first before we head to Nice,’ Bernard said.

* * *

The train puffed out of Marseille, and Bernard leaned back, letting out a deep breath. The money Henri had given me scratched against my chest, and my soul ached and sobbed for everything I was leaving behind. We had collected a package from my flat—two Allied airmen. At least they had a chance with us. I was also acutely aware of not having an identity card, well aware of the consequences of being caught without one. But luck was on our side, and our journey to Nice passed without incident.

In Nice, we headed to Madame Sainson’s little flat on Rue Barralis, one of the safest safe houses there was. She was a lovely, remarkable woman, about ten years older than me, married with children. Both she and her husband were deeply involved in the network. Their home could accommodate up to seven or eight evaders at a time, and it was always a hive of activity. I had made the trip from Marseille to Nice many times with evaders in tow, and Madame Sainson and I had become firm friends over the past two years. She was such fun, though a security nightmare, often posing for photographs with evaders alongside Italian soldiers! The entire population of Nice seemed to know to send her any waifs and strays. Despite the danger, she always made me smile and laugh—a true blessing during such dark times.

And today, I desperately needed to see a friendly face.