Chapter 22

London. June 1943

L ondon was not the same as I remembered. The Luftwaffe had ravaged her soul, endless bombing raids reducing buildings and houses to mounds of rubble. Some homes stood defiant, like giant dolls’ houses, their entire front walls ripped away, exposing beds, wardrobes and personal effects, with sheets flapping in the breeze.

Piccadilly suited me, at least for the time being. I found a modest flat to rent and spent the first few weeks cleaning, decorating and shopping for furnishings. Afterward, I had the parquet floor professionally sanded and polished; I wanted everything to be perfect for when Henri arrived. Through Garrow, I was able to source some French champagne, and the brandy Henri loved so much.

The capital brimmed with busy people, each seemingly with a purpose—except for me. I craved my old double life in France, as a Resistance worker and wife, and as the days ticked by, I grew increasingly restless. My worries over Henri’s whereabouts persisted, and I was desperate for another focus.

Garrow had been a godsend, initially arranging my hotel accommodation and taking me out for dinner. Soon, he reintroduced me to others I’d helped through the escape line in Marseille—men who introduced me to their wives and families. After that, dinner invitations flowed in abundance. The more affluent invited me to restaurants and shows, and before long, my evenings were busy. But the days dragged, feeding my anxiety, fuelling my sadness.

Friends advised me to join the Red Cross or the Women’s Institute. Charles de Gaulle had set up his HQ here and was the commander of the Free French. Perhaps I could return to France as a special agent. In the meantime, a fellow evader and lieutenant in the Seaforth Highlanders suggested I volunteer at the canteen of the Combined Operations Headquarters in Whitehall. ‘They’re so short of hands,’ he said, and I agreed to work four hours a day. But my plans to return to France were always at the forefront of my mind. I was determined to make it happen.

* * *

The Free French didn’t want me. The rejection hurt. After everything I’d done, I’d convinced myself they’d jump at the chance to have me. I tried to explain my exploits in France, but it was no use.

‘We are well aware of your efforts, Madame Fiocca,’ the recruitment officer said, ‘but I’m afraid we do not have a position for you at this time.’

Talk about having the wind knocked out of you. They’d scuttled my hopes.

‘Don’t fret,’ Garrow said. ‘Let’s just say there’s a wee bit of friction between Churchill and General de Gaulle, so I doubt it’s personal.’

But it felt personal to me, as I clutched at straws, desperate to return to Henri.

‘Have you heard of Buckmaster’s group?’

I shook my head.

‘He runs SOE—Special Operations Executive.’ Garrow lit a Marlboro, inhaling deeply. ‘They’re always looking for people fluent in French, of a certain character. People like you.’

I considered his suggestion. After hearing a little more about it, I decided it was my only option—aside from swimming the Channel, of course.