I supposed I lacked courage. I wasn’t at all sure that we would be fine.
Dear God, make me strong. Give me some courage too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On November 11 the German and Italian armies invaded Vichy France, the part of France that General Pétain governed and that the Germans had previously agreed to leave alone. We were not surprised. “You can’t trust Hitler,” Maman said, shaking her head.
Papa said, “At least we are back to being one France now. We are all under Germany’s heel.”
In the spring of 1943 I was carrying a knife across the kitchen when I slipped. I caught myself on the counter, but the end of the knife cut through my blouse and into my shoulder just above my left breast. It was a small cut, but it became infected.
The Germans had taken all our medicines, of course; it was now impossible to buy even an aspirin. Maman tried to draw the infection out with hot compresses, but it grew worse. The area swelled, and the skin became shiny and red. It felt hot and hard.
“Does it hurt?” Maman asked me, pressing the compress gently against my skin. I bit my lip and nodded. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. She sat back and looked at me. Lines of worry etched her face. “I suppose we wait. It may get better.”
I trudged off to my music lesson. My whole body felt feverish, and my head hurt. When I opened the door of Madame Marcelle’s apartment, she came toward me with her hands held out. “Suzanne, good news!” she cried. “The company’s next opera will be Carmen! Carmen! ”
Carmen is a great tragedy, one of the best operas ever written. The music is superb. You can bet I wanted to get that lead. In an instant I forgot my discomfort. “Oh, madame!” I said. “Am I ready?” I had always dreamed of singing Carmen.
“You will be,” she said. “Come, we have so much work to do.”
Madame and I stepped up the intensity of my lessons. I sang for hours every day. I practiced over and over. When I won the role of Carmen I sang even more.
“We shouldn’t have to go see her onstage,” Pierre grumbled. “We’re hearing the entire opera every day.”
“Tais-toi!” I said. “Be quiet! You’re not hearing all of it, only my part.”
“Oh,” said Etienne with mock surprise, “are there other parts beyond yours?”
“Remember,” Pierre said gravely, “she’s an artist.”
Meanwhile Maman’s compresses did nothing to cure the infection in my shoulder. It gradually grew worse until it hurt even to move my arm.
“Maman,” I said, “I can’t sing Carmen with my elbow pinned to my side.”
Maman sighed. “We had better go see Dr. Leclerc,” she said, “though Lord knows what he can do in that empty office of his.” Dr. Leclerc didn’t have medicines either.
Maman went with me. Dr. Leclerc’s office was attached to his house, on the ground floor; we entered it off the street.
“Bonjour, madame, mademoiselle,” he said as we went in. He stood up from his desk, and he shook Maman’s hand and smiled at us both. I saw that his smile didn’t reach his eyes. He looked old and worn, much more so than the last time I’d seen him. Perhaps he was only tired. He worked hard, I knew, despite his lack of supplies. I saw him walking down the street at all hours of the day and night.
In his examining room Dr. Leclerc pressed his fingers gently around the red area of infection. Pain shot across my shoulder and chest. I did not wince.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” he asked, looking up.
“Very much,” I said.
“And here?”
“Even more.”
He nodded. “I remember,” he said. “You’re a tough one. I’m glad, because you have quite an abscess there. I will need to drain it—with a knife, you understand— and I have nothing with which to deaden the pain.”
“I understand,” I said.
Maman shook her head. “Poor child,” she whispered.
Dr. Leclerc went into the front room and returned with a small glass bottle. “This much whisky I have hidden from the Germans,” he said. He poured half of it into a small cup. “Drink it. It may help some.” Then he smiled. “And when we have finished, perhaps your mother and I will drink the rest.”
The whisky felt like fire going down. Dr. Leclerc cleaned my side with soap and water. He laid out a tray with his scalpels and with needle and thread. “If I were you, I would close my eyes,” he said. “Scream all you wish, but try not to thrash too much. Madame, perhaps you will hold down her hands.”
“She does not need to,” I said. “I’ll be still.”
Maman looked sad. “I would like to hold your hand, ma chère,” she said.
So Maman held my hand lightly, I looked up at the ceiling, and Dr. Leclerc put a knife into my shoulder. The pain was worse than I thought it could be, much worse than the pain of the abscess itself. I didn’t cry out. I held still.
Dr. Leclerc drained the abscess and cleaned it, then stitched up the wound. “This will heal slowly,” he said. “Come back in ten days to have the stitches removed.”
“In ten days I’m going to Saint-Lô,” I said. “Madame Marcelle has arranged a special music lesson for me. I’m rehearsing to sing Carmen, you know.”
“Come early in the day, then,” he said. “Come before you leave.” He looked at me curiously. “Do you travel much, a young girl like you?”
Maman rolled her eyes. “She’s never at home these days. Rehearsals, costume fittings, special lessons—she is always going somewhere.”
“You don’t mind?” asked Dr. Leclerc.
“Of course not,” I said. “I love singing. I love performing. I don’t mind traveling at all.”
Madame Marcelle went with me to have my stitches out, because we were on the way to the bus station to go to Saint-Lô. This time when we entered his office, Dr. Leclerc seemed livelier, almost happy. “Here’s my tough girl,” he said. “How is your singing?”
I was pleased to be a tough girl. I sang him a few bars of Carmen, and he smiled at me. “Where do you travel for your singing?” he asked.
“Only in Normandy,” I said. “Someday I’ll sing in Paris and Brussels. Someday I’ll sing all over the world.”
“Someday, when this war is over,” he said softly.
“Yes,” I said.
Dr. Leclerc glanced at Madame Marcelle, who was sitting near the window, looking out. “Your chaperone goes everywhere with you?” he asked.
“When I’m singing,” I answered. “She’s my teacher, and besides, I can’t go all the way to Saint-Lô alone.”
“Just so,” he said. He seemed to be thinking of something. “Come, let us take these stitches out.”
My wound was healing, only slightly red now and only slightly painful. The stitches seemed to have grown into my skin, however, and removing them hurt quite a lot. Again I didn’t wince or cry.
“Tough girl,” the doctor repeated approvingly. He looked again toward the other room, where Madame Marcelle waited, and then back at me. He lowered his voice. “I could use a tough girl to do some work for me. Do you want to hear about it?”
Something in his voice chilled me. It was the Resistance. I am not sure how, but I knew it right away. As I stared at the floor, fear and hope welled up inside me and my throat slowly went dry. Goose bumps rose on my arms.
“Are you a spy?” I whispered. Dr. Leclerc, whom I had known all my life! He looked back at me steadily, silently. I realized that even the little bit he had already said endangered him. I was pleased he trusted me. I smiled. Then I thought suddenly of Madame Montagne and the helplessness I had felt the day she died in the square. I licked my lips to wet them. “Is it about the Germans?” I asked.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Dr. Leclerc said. “Not your mother, not your brothers, not your best friend. And if you agree to help me, you can never back out. Not ever, no matter what. You must help me until the very end.”
“Is it about the Germans?” I repeated.
“It is about freedom,” h
e said.
I lifted my chin. “I hate the Germans,” I said.
His eyes looked steadily into mine. “It’s about that too.”
My hands began to shake. I thought of my favorite prayer— dear God, make me strong—and as I prayed, I felt an icy calm wash over me. At least for that moment I wasn’t afraid. “Madame Marcelle will have to know,” I said. “She goes everywhere with me; I couldn’t hide things from her well enough. But she is safe. She has no family. She has no one to tell secrets to.”
Dr. Leclerc nodded. “Come back when you return from Saint-Lô. There’s a little problem with those stitches that needs to be attended to.”
“They seemed fine,” I said.
“There’s a little problem,” he said. “Nothing serious. Come back when you return.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, yes.” I understood. There was no problem with my stitches; it was the lie I was supposed to use. I guessed he would tell me more about my duties then. When I left Dr. Leclerc’s office, I felt at once older and younger. I was part of the Resistance! A girl like me!
What on earth would I be asked to do?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I didn’t tell Madame Marcelle anything on the trip to Saint-Lô. I couldn’t think how to begin. I am doing something for Dr. Leclerc that may be illegal, and the Germans could hang me for it—in fact, they probably would if they caught me—but I don’t know what it is. Perhaps I am a spy—what do you think?
Perhaps I was letting my imagination run wild. Perhaps I wasn’t a spy; perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps Dr. Leclerc wanted me to baby-sit or to help with paperwork in his office.
You can’t tell anyone. Not your mother, not your brothers, not your best friend. And if you agree to help me, you can never back out. You must help me until the very end.
It wasn’t nothing. It was spy work. Dear God, make me strong.
“Dr. Leclerc needs to see me,” I said to Maman the next morning.
Maman was scrubbing the sink. She glanced over her shoulder. “Everything’s healing?”
“Oh, yes. Only he wanted to check the stitches again.”
“All right. See you later.”
It was that easy.
I went alone to Dr. Leclerc’s office. He was sitting at his desk, his forehead furrowed in concentration. “Suzanne,” he said when he saw me. “Sit. Shut the door.” He wasn’t smiling. I wondered if I had done something wrong. What could it have been? I hadn’t spoken to anyone, not even Madame Marcelle.
Dr. Leclerc tapped his desk with his fingers. “First of all, I’m never going to tell you more than the least you need to know,” he said. “Try not to ask questions. If you must ask questions, ask them only of me. Trust no one else. No one.
“I receive messages, and I send them. I need you to carry them. You’ll pick them up from me and give them to someone else. I’ll tell you when and where.”
“What kind of messages?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Where do you get them?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Whom do you give them to?”
“These are unnecessary questions, Suzanne.”
He still had not smiled. He seemed almost angry. Where was the kind doctor I was used to?
“Are you frightened?” he asked.
I nodded slowly.
“You should be,” he said. “You could be caught. I would say it is very likely that you will be caught. Perhaps your youth will shield you from suspicion. I hope so. If the Nazis catch you, they won’t let you go.”
My mouth had dried up. I swallowed hard.
“If you aren’t brave enough, it is better that you say so now,” he continued. “If you lose heart later, you will endanger others besides yourself. You will endanger me, my family, and many people you don’t know. Do you think you have enough courage?”
“These messages,” I said, “will they help France win the war?”
“They will increase our chances,” he said.
“I have enough courage,” I said.
“You are certain?”
“I am.”
“All right, then.” He hitched his chair closer to his desk and folded his hands. “I receive messages from the Allies for many different people. You will pass them on. When I need you, I’ll send for you. You’ll come to me as a patient. Perhaps this incision of yours won’t heal quickly. I suggest that you may continue to have pain when you move your arm.
“When you come, I’ll give you the message on a small piece of paper. You’ll hide that paper on your person. Don’t bother trying to read the message; it’ll be written in code. You will go where I tell you and give the message to the person you meet there. You’ll do it so no one sees. You will do everything as naturally as possible. Do you understand?”
I understood that it would be difficult. “How will I know whom to meet?” I asked. “Will I recognize them? Will I know their names?”
Dr. Leclerc shook his head. “Names are dangerous,” he said. “You’ll never know anyone’s name except mine, which you already knew. You’ll know the others by their numbers.”
“Their numbers?” I felt slightly hysterical. “What numbers?”
“Everyone has a number,” he said. He stood up and held out his hand. I shook it, feeling somewhat dazed. “You’re number twenty-two. The twenty-second spy in Cherbourg. Welcome, Suzanne.”
It was hard to sleep that night. I lay on my lumpy secondhand mattress and watched the night shadows play across the ceiling. I was singing the role of Carmen at age sixteen. This seemed unreal enough. That I was now also a spy seemed incredible. Unfathomable. What would I do? Was I brave enough? Could I be a spy?
My number was twenty-two. I tried to imagine tiptoeing into a dark alley in the dead of night, whispering “twenty-two” to an old man in a tightly wrapped cloak, his face obscured, a fellow spy. I tried to picture myself sliding a piece of paper stealthily into his hand.
Then I pictured a sudden burst of light, men with flashlights swarming into the alley, Nazi soldiers wearing swastikas and crying “Halt!” Would they shoot me immediately, or would they torture me first, trying to find out everything I knew? Would I betray Dr. Leclerc? Could I go silent to my grave?
I pictured the cemetery as it had looked from our bleak apartment, a new plot freshly dug. Or would the Nazis take my body away instead of burying it? Would Maman and Papa ever learn of my fate?
All these horrible thoughts swirled in my head while behind them a full mental orchestra played the score for Carmen. Quand je vous aimerai? Ma foi, je ne sais pas. Peut-être jamais! Peut-être demain! When will I love you? My faith, I do not know! Perhaps never! Perhaps tomorrow! No wonder I couldn’t sleep.
At the end of our next lesson I steeled myself to tell Madame Marcelle. Now, I thought. I didn’t know when the doctor would call on me. I needed to be ready. I gathered the music in my hands and turned to face my teacher. “Sometimes I might carry messages,” I began in a rush. “I—”
Madame Marcelle held up her hand. Her face went still. “Don’t tell me any more,” she said.
“But I—”
“No,” she said. “You’ve said enough.”
“But I haven’t said anything yet,” I said. “I need to tell you—”
Madame Marcelle shook her head and came to sit beside me. She put her hand in mine. “When you tell a lie,” she said in a very conversational tone, as though we were discussing music theory, “first, say as little as possible. If you do something without explanation, it’s less suspicious than if your explanation makes no sense. Second, always be as truthful as possible. Keep all the details absolutely true, except for the little central part that can’t escape being a lie. The more truth you can put into the lie, the less likely it is that you’ll trip yourself.”
“I wasn’t lying,” I said.
“No,” she agreed. “But you will be. Say nothing further. I’ll see you tomorrow for your lesson. Practice your scales and
be ready.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next Tuesday when I came home from rehearsal, Maman said, “Dr. Leclerc called. He wants you to stop by sometime tomorrow morning.”
Papa looked up from his paper. “That shoulder still bothering you?”
“A little,” I said. “Nothing too bad.” Oh, my heart was beating fast.
In his inner office Dr. Leclerc peeled back the collar of my dress just enough to check the scar. While he did this, he spoke in a low tone, very rapidly. “Tonight you must go to the café by the theater at six P.M.” He gave me the address. I knew it; I had been there before. “You’ll get a coffee and walk toward the tables. An older woman will jump up to greet you. When she kisses you, give her this.” He pressed a folded square of paper into my hand. “Her number is seven. She’ll tell it to you. Tell her yours.”
“I understand,” I said. I felt dizzy. I started to slip the paper into my handbag.
“No, no,” scolded Dr. Leclerc. “What are you thinking? You must hide it. It can’t fall into the wrong hands. Do not put it in your purse or your pocket. Do not put it down at home. Keep it with you always, and keep it somewhere no one will find it, not even if they’re looking for it.”
I wore my hair piled very high at the front, and pinned. I thought for a moment, then reached into the mass of hair and took out one of the pins. I lifted my hair, slid the paper in, and pinned the hair back on top. I fluffed my hair out further.
“That’s better,” Dr. Leclerc said. “That doesn’t show. Pin it down a little harder, perhaps. Remember too that you’ll have to be ready to hand it over when you go into the café. At that point you can’t be fumbling with your hair.”
I tried to imagine how I would do it: take the message out where no one could see me, hold it in my hand, give it to number seven. Mary, Mother of God, I prayed, you will have to help me. Give me strength.
For Freedom: The Story of a French Spy Page 7