Chapter 37

Liberation

I ’ d slept for hours and still felt exhausted. Tardi had taken over the parachutage duties for the last two nights, allowing me to rest. My arm was healing well, according to the doctor, aside from the occasional stinging pain. The sling was off, and now a light dressing covered the wound. I’d been fortunate. Thank goodness we had the chateau, and I had a real bed.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted downstairs, men shouting. What the hell was going on? I slipped down to the kitchen, where my rabble of maquisards were laughing, hugging one another. In their midst was Den, his headset hanging around his neck, the radio on the table.

‘Gertie! Paris is free!’ He flung his arms around me, squeezing me tight. Next, Hubert hugged me, kissing me unexpectedly on the mouth.

‘Liberated, at long last. I can hardly believe it,’ I said, surrounded by joyous men, all congratulating one another, pouring cognac, brandy—anything they could find. I reached for a cup of coffee and a piece of bread left on a plate.

Free. It was 25 August 1944. I’d been here for four months, yet it felt like a lifetime. I drew in a deep breath, soaking up the excitement all around me as thoughts of Henri filled my mind. Please be safe, my love.

‘The Free French have marched into the capital, along with the Americans,’ Den said excitedly. ‘We’ve got the buggers on the run now.’

‘There will be many celebrations there today,’ Tardi said, a broad smile stretching across his face. ‘Music, dancing.’

The swastika flags would be torn down, and Paris would be Paris once more—clean, free. I would have loved to witness that. Henri will be waiting for Marseille’s freedom, I thought, and waiting for me too, I hope.

30 August 1944

Tardi held out his arm and led me around to the rear of the chateau, where we stood at the top of the stone steps. He presented me with a beautiful bouquet. ‘Happy birthday, Madame Andrée,’ he said softly, followed by applause from everyone. Denis, Hubert, Schley, Alsop—everyone who could be there was present.

‘Merci, Tardi.’ The flowers were divine, and I sniffed them, the sweet, subtle scent of pink roses stirring my senses.

‘And now, for another surprise.’ Tardi gestured for me to watch. He nodded to one of his maquisards, who whistled. From around the corner of the great house came a procession—a sight I never thought I’d witness. The Maquis, all dressed in their finest, bearing rifles, marched and saluted as they strode past. An endless stream of men. My goodness, just how many were there? We had thousands in the Auvergne, but surely they hadn’t all journeyed here today.

Tardi was beaming, amusement dancing in his eyes. I turned my gaze back to the men. The man at the front—hadn’t I seen him already? I turned to Tardi. ‘Are the men marching round and round this house?’

Everyone burst into laughter. ‘Oui,’ Tardi chuckled, signalling the men to halt.

‘I knew it.’ How hilarious, and yet so touching. I laughed too, moved by the effort they’d all made and the splendid performance they’d given.

‘The men wanted to give something back.’ Tardi touched my arm lightly. ‘You’ve done so much for all of us, Andrée. It seemed only right to thank you.’ He cleared his throat, a smile springing back onto his serious face. ‘And now, we eat.’

My birthday celebration went on all evening, into the small hours. Everyone brought a gift—remarkable, considering how scarce everything was. Some of them must have spent hours scouring shops in various villages. The Spanish maquisards presented me with a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers, plucked from the forest and wrapped snugly in a Spanish flag, along with a poem. I was deeply touched by the thought and effort they had taken, just for me.

But my thoughts turned to Henri. It was my thirty-second birthday, and I knew he’d be thinking of me. The pull toward him had grown stronger with each passing day, and questions bobbed in my mind constantly. I replayed our parting over and over, the bad dream that preyed on my mind. Each time I thought of him, my chest tightened, and unease twisted in my stomach. I had to get to Marseille soon, or I’d go mad.

* * *

People lined the streets, joyous and emotional, as we marched through Vichy. Many rushed towards us, speaking swiftly in French, thanking us over and over. The Germans had fled, and we raced here as soon as we heard. Hubert had joined forces with Gaspard, and we marched into Vichy together. It was a momentous day—a German-free zone.

We scoured German HQ and the Vichy offices. Petain and his government had already fled. Rumour had it they’d been taken to Germany. All other collaborators had disappeared. Everywhere we went, people engulfed us—hugging us, shaking our hands, kissing our cheeks. They thanked us profusely, bringing food and drink. The atmosphere was electric. People hugged, kissed, wept, and danced beneath the late summer sun, as if they’d emerged from a chrysalis, wings slowly unfolding, embracing life.

All around, the leaves on the plane trees were vivid green, shimmering in the sunlight. The buildings looked more elegant, rid of enemy flags, and children ran, giggling, springing over flowers that swayed and dazzled in the breeze. I drank it in—this freedom, this victory—it was all ours. It felt so natural, so giddy and high.

* * *

The next day, we attended a service at the war memorial. The mayor addressed the crowd, and then various representatives stepped forward to lay wreaths. My group nominated me. Afterwards, as I stood with my men, I glimpsed a familiar face among the crowd. It was the receptionist from L’H?tel Louvre et Paix, weaving her way towards me.

‘Bonjour,’ I said.

‘Madame Fiocca.’ She embraced me, kissing both cheeks, then stood back, shaking her head, surprise flashing in her eyes. ‘What are you doing here? We all thought that…’ She glanced down at her feet, nervously. ‘Well, how wonderful to see you.’

‘I’m with the British Forces, but I’m hoping to go home and see Henri as soon as I can.’

A cloud of blankness wiped the smile from her face. ‘But surely you know?’

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked, a sinking feeling in my chest. ‘Know what?’

‘Well, I’m not sure how to say this, but… your husband is dead.’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Not Henri.’ He couldn’t be. He was my rock, my soulmate. My eyes misted, and tears slipped down my face, cool and wet, quickly turning tacky beneath the sun. She placed a hand on my arm, but nothing could comfort me now. Nothing. I stepped sideways and bumped into Den, my head fuzzy and light.

‘What’s wrong, Ducks?’

‘Get me out of here, please.’

‘I’m so sorry, Madame Fiocca. The Germans arrested him. They held him for five months before…’

I didn’t want to hear any more details. My chest ached, a huge lump swelled in my throat, and I released a wail like a banshee. Den placed a protective arm around me and ushered me away from the crowd to a shaded spot beneath the trees. ‘Henri’s dead.’ Saying the words out loud felt like a blade striking my heart. It was surreal. Maybe she was wrong. People made mistakes all the time.

Den opened his mouth, but no words came out. He drew me to him, hugging me tight, stroking my hair as I sobbed like a child. And I remembered the day my father never came home—the day he abandoned me. I felt that desolation, that pain, all over again. After everything we’d gone through. ‘I shouldn’t have left.’

‘Shush, luvvie. You’ve had a nasty shock.’

‘But it’s my fault, Den, don’t you see?’ His eyes were blank as he flashed a weak smile. He didn’t understand. How could he? I’d never told him everything. Careless talk and all that. All this time, I’d assumed Henri was safe, alive, just unable to reach me. Now, all joy had vanished, dragged away on the tide of a retreating enemy. The Nazis had torn my life apart. ‘I have to go to Marseille.’

‘You can’t go now.’

‘I must. Don’t you see?’ The pain was unbearable, and I had to know for sure. I had to go home.

Marseille

T he sun beat down on our heads as we strolled along, arm in arm. Den, usually so talkative, was unusually quiet. I was grateful for the silence; it gave me space to think. As we walked, I glanced back one last time at our apartment and froze. The light played tricks on my eyes, or so I told myself, but I could have sworn I saw a figure at the living room window. For a brief, heart-wrenching moment, I was certain it was Henri.

‘Are you all right, Ducks?’ Den’s voice broke through my thoughts as he stopped beside me.

A smile touched my lips, though my eyes misted with unshed tears. ‘I will be,’ I whispered, gripping Den’s arm tightly. I forced myself to stand tall, each step a deliberate act of leaving behind everything I’d once held dear. As we rounded the corner, time seemed to stretch, each heartbeat echoing in my ears. And then, like a spectre from my past, Henri’s father appeared before us, his face etched with anger and disgust.

‘You killed my son!’ His voice cut through the air, each word a dagger to my heart.

No, please! The scream echoed inside my head. What could I say? Protest? Apologise? My mind spun, a whirlwind of guilt and confusion. How could I explain when I knew, deep down, that I was guilty?

‘Murderess,’ he spat, his eyes burning with hatred.

A tightness gripped my throat, crushing my chest as tears blurred my vision. Anger surged within me, desperate and uncontrollable. Before I knew it, my hand flew out, connecting with his cheek in a sharp slap. The crack echoed in the tense silence, shocking us both.

Henri’s sister stepped in, her grip firm as she pulled him away. ‘Papa, non,’ she pleaded, casting a hard stare in my direction before disappearing into the crowd with him.

Den’s voice broke the tense silence that followed. ‘Henri’s father?’

‘Yes, and his sister. As you can see, they don’t like me. They never approved of me marrying Henri, and now—well, I’ve killed their only son.’ The words hung in the air between us, heavy with the truth I couldn’t escape. It dawned on me that it had been almost a year since Henri’s death. He would be buried, likely here in Marseille.

The thought of his absence crushed my soul, the need to find his resting place consuming me. I had to pay my respects, to find solace in the only place where I might still feel his presence. Until then, I was adrift, searching for an anchor in a world shattered by war and guilt. Den’s arm around my shoulders guided me forward.

Hubert, Alsop, and our doctor friend Pierre Vellat had all come along to keep me safe. They were very kind and deeply concerned, and I was grateful for their support. Den and I found them sitting outside a small bistro overlooking the harbour where sunlight danced across the ocean like a scattering of diamonds.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Hubert asked, handing me a glass of brandy.

I sank onto a wooden chair and downed it in one gulp, savouring its warmth. ‘Not really. There wasn’t much left.’ I glanced at my old book, emotions rising and falling like the yachts bobbing in the harbour. I thought for a moment. What else did I need to do now that I was here? I knew I couldn’t stay; I was still attached to SOE, though the war was over for us. My thoughts drifted to Picon, my little dog. Was he still alive? He was my only link to my old life, to Henri. I had to find him. Scraping my chair back, I leapt to my feet. ‘I need to find an old friend of mine. Den, will you come with me?’

‘Of course, Ducks, of course.’

We set off to the butchers, hoping to find the Ficetoles still living there, but when we arrived, the shop was closed, and my heart sank. Fortunately, a neighbour informed us that the Ficetoles had moved to a house just outside of town after their home was destroyed in an air raid. We returned to the others, explained the situation, and Hubert offered to drive me out to find them. After a few false starts, we finally found their house a few hours later. I knocked on the door, and a familiar bark greeted me. ‘Picon!’ The door swung open, and there stood Monsieur Ficetole, his eyes wide with surprise.

‘Madame Fiocca!’ Monsieur Ficetole exclaimed, a broad smile spreading across his face. ‘I can’t believe it’s you! Please, come in!’

Picon scampered behind him, and I crouched down as my little boy leapt into my arms, yelping and howling, licking my face, his tail wagging furiously. Relief and heartbreak collided within me—this was the reunion I had dreamed of so many times, but without Henri by my side, it felt painfully hollow. Now, Picon was all I had left of the life we’d built, the life that had been torn apart.

We were shown into the kitchen, where Madame Ficetole gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she saw me. ‘It cannot be,’ she whispered. ‘We thought you were dead!’

I realised that everyone I’d ever known had probably assumed the same. ‘Thank you for taking care of Picon,’ I managed, gritting my teeth against the sobs that threatened to escape. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I hugged my boy, who snuffled my neck and face, his front paws resting on my shoulders.

We sat down around the wooden table, and Monsieur Ficetole made coffee. My hands trembled slightly as I wrapped them around the warm cup, bracing myself for the words I feared.

‘The Germans arrested Henri in May last year. They held him until October.’ He shook his head, reaching across the table to pat my hand. ‘We are so sorry, Madame. It is terrible, but so many terrible things have happened.’

He should have come with me, I thought bitterly. Regret clawed at my insides, a relentless ache. My voice was barely a whisper when I asked, ‘When did he die?’

‘October 16.’

‘How?’ I forced the word out, though part of me didn’t want to hear the answer.

Monsieur Ficetole exchanged a sombre look with his wife before clearing his throat. ‘They shot him.’

The room tilted, and for a moment, I thought I might collapse under the weight of those words. My vision blurred as tears welled up and spilled over, hot and relentless. A sob caught in my throat, and I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to stifle it. But the pain was too sharp, too raw, and it tore through me like a knife. At least it wasn’t the guillotine, I tried to tell myself. At least there was that. But the thought brought no comfort. My chest tightened as the truth settled in—Henri had been dead for almost a year, and I hadn’t known. I wasn’t there to say goodbye.

Goosebumps prickled my skin, a cold shiver running through me as I recalled the dream. It had been mid-October, the same time. Henri’s final goodbye. I hadn’t realised then, but now it was so painfully clear. The signs had been there, and I’d been powerless to stop it. Tears blurred my vision again, and I let them fall, no longer trying to hold back the grief that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

Madame Ficetole’s voice broke through my pain. ‘We took Picon as soon as Henri was arrested. We just wanted to help, and you had always been so kind.’

I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. ‘Merci.’ I snuggled Picon against my cheek, his excitement uncontainable. Our doctor friend then suggested a small sedative to calm him, and I agreed.

‘The Germans were looking for you,’ Monsieur Ficetole said. ‘They called you the White Mouse and put a bounty on your head—one million francs. They put up posters everywhere. But your husband never told them anything.’

The words cut deeper than any blade. It was all my fault. I’d put Henri and his family in danger. I’d sacrificed my husband for the war, and now I had to live with that.

As Madame Ficetole dabbed her eyes with a corner of her apron, Den wrapped his arm around me, drawing me close.

‘We need to leave,’ Hubert said gently.

I nodded. ‘I’ll take Picon now. Thank you for everything. I’ll be in touch soon.’ I hugged the Ficetoles and bid them farewell, then cradled my drowsy pup in my arms as Hubert drove us back to the chateau at Montlucon. The roads were clogged with burned-out vehicles, forcing us to take detours that doubled our journey time. We joined the steady stream of people heading north, like ants crawling along a narrow path.

When we finally returned to the chateau, I shut myself away in my room, settling Picon on the bed beside me. I wished I had a picture of Henri, but all personal items had been left behind in London. Closing my eyes, I pictured him in my mind—his smile, his warmth—and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Soon, it was time to leave. SOE had established a branch in Paris, and we had been summoned. Our American colleagues returned to London, and the maquisards said their farewells, returning to their homes. Despite my grief, I felt a spark of joy in my heart—the joy of having contributed to our freedom and ending the suffering.

My dear friend, Henri Tardivat, announced that he would continue to fight with the French until Germany capitulated. As I looked into his eyes one final time, I understood. ‘Knock ‘em dead,’ I said, grinning fondly as we prepared to leave the Chateau du Fragnes. There was no awkwardness between us as I hugged him tight—my friend, my brother in arms. ‘When this is over, I’ll return. I’ll find you, Tardi, and we’ll have a drink together.’

‘I will expect it, Nancy.’ It was the first time he’d used my real name, and it felt right, as it should be. These extraordinary times would soon revert to the ordinary, but a sadness lingered, waiting in the wings. As we piled into the car and set out for Paris, I felt adrift, tossed between moments of laughter and deep gloom. What would become of me now that I was a widow? Where would I live? Where would I work? Nothing would ever be the same again.

A fleeting thought of Mum pierced my heart. As I raised my chin and gazed into the burning blue sky, I knew I had to begin again. So much loss, so much pain. I would visit Mum as soon as I could—there was much to say and much that had been left unsaid. Life was short.

My thoughts returned to Henri. We had been so happy together, sharing laughter and love. He often said I was a breath of fresh air. Perhaps that’s why he chose me. After all, he could have had any woman he desired, but I’m glad it was me. A war would have arrived regardless, and I would have acted as I’d done. And so, Henri chose me and saved me, and for that, I would be eternally grateful, despite the deep regret that writhed inside me. He was the greatest love of my life, but I still had Picon. I scratched his chest as he sprawled on my lap, his soft brown eyes gazing up at me with a familiar warmth that spoke of unconditional love. It was as if, in his quiet way, he was telling me that everything would be alright. ‘It’s just the two of us now, my best boy,’ I whispered, and his tail wagged in response, a small comfort amidst the storm of emotions swirling inside me.

I turned my gaze to the window, to the flashing countryside, and to the lines of people walking, cycling, and riding in carts and cars, all making their way back to their homes while we were leaving ours behind.

* * *

Germany surrendered to Montgomery on May 4, 1945. The war in Europe was finally at an end. Eisenhower accepted Germany’s unconditional surrender on May 7, and Stalin on May 8. Victory in Europe was declared that day. Apparently, one couldn’t move in Paris as thousands of people celebrated in the city centre. People sang It’s a Long Way to Tipperary from the Place de la Concorde all the way to the Arc de Triomphe.

I was stuck in Marseille, filled with mixed emotions. I’d said my goodbyes to friends, having concluded my business. The money Henri had left in a safety deposit box at the bank had gone. Like so many others, the Germans had plundered our savings and valuable possessions. But I had my memories. They were my gold, my diamonds, and my love. Marseille was empty, desolate, and held nothing for me anymore.

I had a visitor recently, a padre who had been arrested by the Gestapo and imprisoned alongside Henri. He sought me out, determined to pass on a message. He told me of the beatings Henri endured. They exchanged words through cell walls whenever they could. He explained that Henri’s father visited one day and pleaded with him to give me up, but Henri simply said, ‘Leave me in peace, papa.’ It was difficult to hear of the final days of his life, but in a way, it brought closure.

Soon afterward, étienne, Henri’s old friend, invited me out for dinner. He was also a doctor, and he explained how Henri had been suffering from uremia, but he hadn’t told me because he knew I’d be worried. The condition was incurable, which would have shortened his life. I suppose what étienne was trying to say so indirectly was that even if Henri had not died in 1944, he would not have lived for much longer. But such information doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

‘He refused most dinner invitations,’ étienne said. ‘He preferred to stay at home in the evenings, although sometimes he came to dinner, and we would play cards.’

So, no dining out with any female companions. He’d lived as a bachelor, and my heart ached as I realised that what we had was rare and exquisite. Tears spilled as I hung on his every word, each one adding depth and colour to the story. So, while I spent weeks fleeing Germans and scaling the Pyrenees, Henri sat at home nursing brandy and his thoughts, with Picon by his side. Now I have Picon by my side.

* * *

I was still in service and on the cusp of returning to Paris, the city where it all began, where the plane trees would be flowering once more. Henri once told me that Napoleon had ordered the planting of plane trees along roadsides to provide shade for his marching troops, and I heard his whisper in my ear now as clearly as I had then. Van Gogh painted beneath them as he sheltered from the sun. And everything seemed to lead back to the ancient Greeks. Did you know, Nannie, that the Trojan Horse was carved from the wood of plane trees?

Fond anecdotes sailed on a sea of memories; his voice was a whisper that kissed my soul. Tears clouded my eyes, but I smiled. We had shared so many good times. Henri had given me so much, perhaps more than I deserved, and he had accepted my need to follow my conscience despite the risks. ‘You died for France and for me, and I salute you. Adieu, mon amour,’ I whispered into the night breeze as the moon pulsed against the velveteen sky flanked by a myriad of stars. ‘Forgive me.’

When my time comes, I wish to be cremated and have my ashes cast over the mountains of the Auvergne, where I fought side-by-side with my maquisards. And if there is such a person as Saint Peter, I’ll make it easy for him and plead guilty on all counts. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The End