Chapter 35

Last Offices

T he cloying stench was all-consuming, rising to the rafters of the barn—an oven beneath the unyielding morning sun. I took a deep breath as I moved from one body to the next. Seven young, fresh faces I barely knew, but I knew where they’d come from, how old they were, and how they’d spoken of going home once the war ended. How determined they’d been. Some had told me how their fathers had fought in the first war, their words edged with patriotism and resolve.

In the past, there had often been no time to bury our dead. Men were buried where they fell. Sometimes, we had no choice but to leave them behind. But these boys deserved better—a decent burial, at the very least.

I had water, cloths, and clean clothes, and I set to work, cleaning each man with care. The motions came back to me, my old nurse training resurfacing as I dipped the cloth into warm water, watching the dirt swirl away. Three of the boys had clean bullet holes in their foreheads—a sign they’d been shot afterward. I hoped they’d been unconscious before such an inhumane act.

‘Bastards,’ I muttered, hatred boiling up inside me. Guilt gnawed at me too. We hadn’t gone back for them during the heat of battle. Maybe we could have saved them—some of them. Maybe. I huffed out a breath and carried on, changing dirty shirts for clean ones, combing and smoothing their hair.

After a few hours, I stood back, taking a deep breath and resting on an upturned wooden box. My gut twisted, a heavy ache crushing my chest. Guilt took root deep inside me, thorny and relentless. Those boys hadn’t known any better, and I felt responsible. I was supposed to train them, lead them. At least I could do this for them, for their mothers. I knew their mothers would have wanted this.

Footsteps shuffled behind me, and I turned to find Tardi standing in the doorway. ‘I’ve finished.’ I swallowed hard, the words hollow in my heart. I knew I’d never be finished hating the Nazis.

He pulled off his beret, nodded, and stepped closer, casting a glance over the seven men. ‘It’s all arranged. The local priest, the church. Three o’clock.’

Funerals. Always sombre. I felt the weight of it pressing down on me and swallowed the lump in my throat. ‘Have you asked the men to dress in their finest? It’s only right that we make an effort, do things properly.’ I looked away, unable to hold back the tears any longer.

Tardi placed a hand on my shoulder, firm and steady, warmth flowing through my skin. ‘You’ve done them proud. Their mothers will know of this.’

I glanced at him, his eyes flashing with concern and determination. I had done my best. ‘I’ll go and get cleaned up.’

* * *

Armed guards stood at the church gates and outside the village. The men were clean, wearing their Maquis best, flying their colours, weapons in tow, marching tall and proud into the churchyard. Seven freshly dug graves awaited.

The priest read a short sermon. As the last man was lowered into the ground, dirt thrown in after him, I turned my face to the heavens. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘God bless you all. France will soon be free.’

I sniffed, wiping away the tears. After the war, I would make sure they had tombstones with the words Mort Pour La France engraved—died for France. The men, sombre and resolute, saluted at each grave. It was a fitting send-off, just as their mothers would have wished.

As we headed back to camp, I slipped on my sunglasses, striding off into the glow of the late afternoon sun.

* * *

London’s instructions now came thick and fast. Since the Allied landings, operations had changed, and my responsibilities had expanded overnight. My area now covered a much larger region, which meant more travel and dealing with groups I’d never met before.

One such group’s leader was furious when I told him we couldn’t arm his men, and I left his camp with a barrage of abuse trailing behind me. New groups were springing up everywhere, each with its own political agenda—ex-Vichyites, ex-Miliciens, communists, and more—something London had no wish to get involved in.

No sooner had I returned to camp, tired, dusty, and desperate for a bath, then Jacques marched over to me.

‘Madame Andrée, I’ve heard something troubling,’ he said, nervously glancing around as if to ensure no one was listening.

‘What is it?’

‘A band of Maquis nearby has three women hostages.’

‘Why haven’t I been told about this?’

‘I think they’re using them for, well, you know.’ He nodded, raising his eyebrows.

I instinctively understood what he meant. They were using the women for pleasure. Not on my watch. ‘Merci, Jacques.’ The thought sickened me. I couldn’t believe they’d stoop so low. My resolve hardened as I decided to visit the group and interview the women myself that afternoon.

* * *

‘The girls were all working for the Germans, Madame Andrée.’ Cesar, the leader, towered over me, his rifle slung over his shoulder, his hand stroking his stubbly chin. Wild, bushy hair the colour of coffee beans framed his grimy face.

‘Well, that’s for me to decide. And you should have informed me that you’d taken them in the first place.’ Anger flashed in his eyes, but I held my ground.

As it turned out, the first woman, in her thirties, had fallen in love with a member of the Milice, and for that, the Maquis had undoubtedly taken their revenge. The second woman was merely seventeen years old. ‘I am not a spy,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘I would never betray my country, Madame.’ I believed her completely. She was called Sophie, a beautiful girl with a voluptuous figure—I suspected that was the only reason for her capture.

The third woman, however, was a different story. ‘It is my duty to support the Germans, and I will gladly do whatever it takes to help them. They will defeat the British,’ she declared, defiance flashing in her green eyes.

‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it,’ I replied, unnerved by the smirk that spread across her thin lips. Her wild eyes and dishevelled state betrayed the defiance in her voice. She wore rags, her clothes dirty and torn, revealing toned, tanned thighs and a little too much cleavage. Unlike the other two, she was dangerous—a spy who couldn’t be trusted. A sinking feeling settled over me. It wasn’t right to keep her in the camp, where the men would continue to abuse her or worse.

‘We can’t let you go,’ I said, meeting her gaze. ‘You must have known there would be penalties for being in league with the enemy, for being a spy. You will be executed.’

The woman didn’t say a word. She simply nodded, a blankness veiling her face. I wondered how she truly felt in that moment. Memories of my own incarceration resurfaced—days of beatings, thinking the worst, fearing my execution was imminent. I swallowed, surprised by my own resolve. I didn’t feel sorry for her. In truth, I felt nothing. She had made her choice, and it couldn’t be undone.

Leaving her with the Maquis guard, I went to organise the firing squad. Her appearance lingered in my mind, and I decided to find a dress she could wear.

‘Madame Andrée,’ Cesar said, pulling off his beret. ‘This is a little extreme. We cannot execute a woman.’

‘Why not? She’s a German spy, for Christ’s sake.’

‘But... a woman?’ He glanced at the men gathered behind him, all of whom seemed against the idea.

‘I’m not asking. It’s an order. My order. If you don’t do it, I will.’

He stared at me, his eyes narrowing to slits. ‘Very well.’

The execution was arranged for the following morning.

* * *

A heavy feeling hung over the camp as dawn broke. I arrived tired and hungry, having been up half the night dealing with another parachutage. A man was making coffee, and I asked for a cup before going to sit beneath an old oak tree. Leaning back against the trunk, I rested my head for a few minutes. Fingers of sunlight filtered through the trees, casting beams of light that danced in the forest.

The firing squad had been selected. Three maquisards stood in line, weapons ready. Another led the girl out beneath the boughs of the oak tree. I unwrapped a croissant from a napkin in my coat pocket and took a bite. Sweet heaven. Croissants and coffee for breakfast—my small pleasure amidst the madness.

I watched as the girl shook her head when offered a blindfold. Brave to the end. Her eyes met mine, defiant. She spat on the ground, then ripped off the dress I’d given her, the pretty ocean-blue fabric slipping from her bronzed skin. It was unexpected—a final, bold statement, no matter how pointless. She stood tall in her white undergarments, the early morning breeze tugging at her raven hair, then extended her right arm in a Nazi salute.

It was ugly, just like the crowd at that Berlin rally. A mix of anger and sadness churned inside me. I took a deep breath. Too bad.

‘Ready,’ Cesar said. ‘Aim.’

‘Sieg heil!’ she yelled, her voice shrill, thin on the last syllable as it quivered like a cry.

‘Fire!’

The crash of bullets filled the air. Birds rose and scattered from their perches, and I followed their black silhouettes flitting into the blue. I didn’t want to see her fall, but my gaze drifted to where her body lay, splayed out on the forest floor. The three maquisards stood still, staring, their faces blank, rifles dangling from their hands. For a few seconds, all was silent. No voices, no gunfire, no rustling leaves. Then finally, a bird chirped, sweet notes breaking the quiet.

I took another bite of my croissant, savouring the taste. They never really filled you up, I thought. Standing up, I brushed away stray crumbs from my khaki shirt and swigged the last of my coffee, handing the enamel cup back to the maquisard who’d made it. I nodded to Cesar. ‘Merci. I have to get back. I trust you can deal with the body?’

‘Oui.’ He watched me as I jumped into my truck. I knew he wasn’t happy—he hadn’t agreed with my order—but it had to be done. That girl had posed a huge risk. How many men would have fallen because of her? How many families would have suffered? It was one less spy, and possibly many lives saved as a result. I felt ruthless, but I knew that if it had been the enemy dealing with one of us, they wouldn’t have hesitated.

‘Madame Andrée,’ Sophie called, running to me. ‘Can I stay with you?’ She pushed a stray golden curl from her eyes.

‘I said you could go home.’

‘I have no home or family, Madame. I have nowhere to go.’

I sighed. ‘Sophie, I move around all the time.’

‘But I can look after you at your camp. I can cook and clean, organise things. Please, Madame.’

Her blue eyes were imploring, and as she glanced over her shoulder at the men in the camp, I could tell she was uncomfortable. Perhaps she doubted they’d release her. ‘Get in,’ I said. It had been a long time since I’d had any help like that, but I supposed I could find her something to do. She was a sweet young thing.