“Don’t say a word,” Madame Marcelle said grimly. “You must not make the damage worse.”
“Mon Dieu,” Maman said, pressing her hands against the sides of my neck. “Oh, Suzanne, don’t cry. When we get home we’ll take you to the doctor.”
I thought of Dr. Leclerc and the messages that surely awaited me. I rubbed my hand against my throat. At least now, I thought, I wouldn’t need an excuse to see him.
The train home was crowded with German soldiers. I pressed my head against the smooth window glass and tried to sleep. I knew that losing my voice had nothing to do with the war, but I felt that everything bad was pressing upon me at once. Singing gave me something else besides spying to think about, something else to do. The first night home from Paris I woke three times from hideous nightmares, shaking and bathed in sweat. Maman didn’t come to me, so I guessed I had not cried out. After the last nightmare I was too tense to sleep again. I watched the gray walls of my bedroom and tried not to think of Hitler, of the death camps my Parisian uncles had talked about, of the fate that stalked me.
First thing next morning Dr. Leclerc’s daughter came to the door. “Papa wants to see Suzanne,” I heard her say. I was still in bed. I had dozed off sometime after dawn.
“Sacré bleu,” Maman said. “Good heavens! Has he heard about her poor voice already?”
I got up and threw on a dress and went downstairs. “My darling,” Maman said, “have some tea before you run off. It will soothe your throat.”
I sat at the table. The tea she gave me had sugar in it, despite how precious sugar had become. It did go down easily.
“You look horrible,” said Etienne.
I grabbed a pencil and scribbled on a scrap of paper, “I couldn’t sleep.”
Etienne patted my hand. “Don’t worry. Voices can heal. Better than broken backs, I should think.”
Could they? Well enough to sing opera? I didn’t know. I couldn’t speak above a whisper. It frightened me, though not as much as the idea of relaying a message that day. I looked at Etienne and his crutches, and I felt ashamed. Yet I wasn’t ready to be a spy again, not after such a night. You can never back out, I reminded myself. Once you begin, you cannot stop. And you did begin.
Dr. Leclerc looked down my throat with a little pen-light. He shook his head. “You’ve strained your vocal cords badly, I fear,” he said. “But as you know, this is not my area of expertise. It would be better if you saw a specialist.”
I took a pad of paper and wrote, “Where can I go to a specialist?”
He shook his head. “It would be better, Suzanne, but it may not be possible. I don’t know. Perhaps in Paris. If you don’t begin to improve in a few weeks, I will make inquiries. It’s all so difficult right now.”
A few weeks!
“You must not scream or shout or attempt to sing,” he said. “You must speak as little and as quietly as possible. You must gargle with salt water four times a day. I will want to see you every morning.” He didn’t acknowledge how convenient this would be for the messages. We were alone in his office, and he continued in the same calm voice, “I have three messages for you today.”
“Three!” It came out in a hoarse whisper.
“I mean it about not trying to shout,” he said. “Yes, three. It will be a busy week. We are all glad you are back. We need you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Monday, three messages. Tuesday, three messages. Wednesday, six messages—six! I crisscrossed the city. I knew I was becoming conspicuous. I was in more strange places at strange hours than I should be. I had begun to recognize some of the German officers on the street as individuals, not just faceless soldiers. My small attempts at disguise seemed so obvious and useless that I gave them up; I feared I was looking too much as though I had something to hide.
But if I could recognize German officers, when would they be able to recognize me?
Thursday, four messages.
By Friday I still couldn’t speak above a whisper. Madame Marcelle wept over my voice. She made me tea and told me to gargle very conscientiously indeed. “We will not think of your singing now,” she said. “All our thoughts will be about singing later. You must be diligent.”
I would be diligent. When the war was over, I would be famous—or so I told myself, to get through each day.
“I have to go,” I whispered.
“Stay,” she said. “I’ve borrowed a new recording of La Bohème. I want to play it for you.”
“I have to go,” I repeated. “I have to . . .” I let my words trail off. Madame Marcelle would understand. But she stared at me as if she didn’t. “It’s a busy time,” I said. I had only stopped at Madame Marcelle’s to give myself an excuse to walk that way. I had six messages. Too many. I had barely slept all week.
“Last night—” Madame Marcelle began. She stopped and looked at me for a long moment. “Last night I heard something on the radio. On the BBC.”
I sucked in my breath. The BBC was the British Broadcasting Corporation, the radio service from England. “Are you a spy?” I whispered.
She shook her head. “I know someone with a radio, that’s all,” she said. “Sometimes I listen to it. No, my dear. The only spy I know is you.” She smiled. “But last night the BBC read part of a French poem by Paul Verlaine. ‘Chanson d’Automne.’ Do you know it?” She recited a few words.
“I don’t know it,” I said. “I don’t know why they read it. I don’t know what it means.”
“There are signals, you know, all the time,” Madame Marcelle said. “On the radio. This poem—it was in French, not translated, and they read only the first three lines.”
I put my hat on. I was impatient to be gone. Already I might be keeping number eighteen waiting, putting him in danger. I had met Eighteen seven times that week. I had only met a total of five other spies. I didn’t like to think about what that implied. “I don’t know what it means,” I said. “I don’t know anything, madame, except where to go and whom to meet when I get there. The messages are all in code.”
Madame Marcelle paused in front of the door. “I’ll tell you if they broadcast the rest of the poem,” she said. “I asked my friend to let me know.”
“Thank you,” I said. I went out without looking back. I was simply not interested. What did it matter if signals were being sent via the BBC? I knew something would happen soon. It had to. Dr. Leclerc wouldn’t send me out so often and ask me to be so obvious if it were in any way possible for him to delay.
Saturday night I lay awake on my bed, weeping. I was so tired that my hands trembled. I feared sleep. I knew the dreams that awaited me. I didn’t want to dream them again.
That very day Maman had measured me for a new summer dress. She had found a piece of linen somewhere, and though I didn’t really like the color, it was better than anything I had had in a long time. Maman slipped her tape around my waist, then drew back, startled. “Suzanne! You have lost weight!” She measured my hips and bust. Her eyes darkened. “Just since I made the costumes for Rigoletto, only a month ago. A girl like you shouldn’t lose weight. You must eat. I don’t care if you are worried about your voice. You must stay strong.”
Part of me wanted to fall apart right then, to put my arms around my strong mother and tell her everything. I knew better, of course. “Oh, Maman, I eat plenty,” I whispered. “You know I do. I even eat the horrible rutabagas. I’m not pining away.”
“Are you sick?” She searched my face. “Do you feel ill at all?”
“I haven’t slept very well since Rigoletto,” I said. “But I’m trying, Maman. I don’t know why I would lose weight. I feel fine. I promise.”
“This voice of yours—”
“It’s a little better, I think. The saltwater treatments help. I’ll be fine.”
Maman kissed me. “Yes, my strong daughter. I’m sure you will be.”
I was worried about my voice. When I let myself think about it, I felt panicked. I couldn’t imagine a world in which I d
idn’t sing. But although I gargled four times a day, in between I didn’t let myself think about singing. I had too much else to think about, too many messages to carry. The effort of appearing innocent took all my strength.
Sunday I couldn’t go to church. Papa threw a fit. “No child of mine pretends to be an invalid!” he roared, waving his fists inside the doorway of my room. “You will get out of that bed and you will go!”
“I don’t feel well,” I said without moving. “I need to stay home.”
“Oh, let her stay,” pleaded Maman. “She’s worn out.”
“No one is too worn out for church,” Papa said. “There is no such thing. Do you have a fever?” He came into the room and put his hand on my forehead.
“I think I have to use the toilet—often. Too often,” I said. “I’ll never be able to sit through Mass. Papa—”
Papa wrinkled his nose. I wasn’t sure he believed me. Why should he, such a lie? I hadn’t used the toilet all morning. “Well!” he said, throwing up his hands. “Stay where you are. Sleep the Sabbath away. The sin will be on your conscience, not mine.” He stomped down the stairs. “Come, boys, your sister lies in bed this morning.”
I waited ten minutes after they had gone, until I was certain that Mass must have started. Then I dressed quickly and dashed from the house. Dr. Leclerc had met me late the night before on his way home from delivering a baby; “Between nine and ten A.M.,” he had said. Which was fine except that church began at nine. Still, if I was quick, I would be back in bed before my family came home.
After Mass Aunt Suzanne came with her battalion. I got out of bed as soon as they all returned. “Oh, I feel much better now,” I said carelessly. “It must have been something I ate.”
“Bah,” Papa said. “The rest of us aren’t sick. You ate nothing except what we ate.”
“At Madame Marcelle’s, maybe. I must go see her this afternoon.”
Could I pass this off? I had always been good. I had always done what I was told. I had never behaved as I was behaving now.
“Suzanne!” Maman reproached me. “On a Sunday, with your cousins here?”
“I promised, Maman. She—she is not feeling well.” Oh, the lies became clumsier now that there were so many of them. I had to be in a hotel lobby at two o’clock. After that I was to go down to the quay.
“You will not go out of this house today,” Papa said sternly. “If you are too sick to go to church, you are too sick to go to Madame Marcelle’s.” To my aunt he said, “She runs wild these days. Ever since we came back from Paris.”
“Poor dear,” Aunt Suzanne said sympathetically. “It must be so hard, injuring your voice.”
I did not say anything. I tried to be useful in the kitchen. At one-thirty, just before everyone sat down to dinner, I left the house. I walked away quickly, praying hard that Maman or Papa would not come after me.
After the meeting in the lobby I had another message, and another. It was six o’clock before I got home. Aunt Suzanne and my cousins had gone.
“You’re going to catch it now,” Pierre said as I walked up the steps.
I did not stop walking or even slow down. My parents got up from their chairs as I passed them. Papa began to yell and wave his arms. I couldn’t hear him. It wasn’t that I wasn’t listening; I was truly too worn out to make sense of what he said. I went straight up the stairs to my room. I lay flat on my bed and fell asleep instantly. For once I didn’t dream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On Monday morning at the breakfast table Papa had plenty left to say, and this time I heard it all. I was an ungrateful daughter. I was acting like a fool. I was gone too much, I was rude, I disobeyed. Why was I behaving this way? What were my reasons?
“Yes, Papa,” I whispered. My voice hurt.
Who did I think I was, to show such disrespect to my mother, to my aunt? Why?
I was a spy.
“I’m sorry, Papa.” I did not offer excuses. I had none that could be believed. My brothers sat silent, staring at their plates. Maman looked unhappy. Papa went on and on.
“Well,” he said at last, picking up his fork, “I can tell you one thing. You’re not going anywhere today, not if I have to tie you to a chair.”
I cleared my throat and tried to swallow a sip of tea. “But I’m getting my hair cut,” I whispered. “I have an appointment.” When Papa said nothing I added, “Madame Marcelle said she would come with me. She wants to show the hairdresser a new style.”
This, thank heaven, was the absolute truth. I could not fake getting my hair cut. And Madame Marcelle did want to come with me. Never mind the message I had to deliver first, or the ones I felt were sure to come afterward. Once I was out of the house, I didn’t have to come back.
“No,” Papa said, “No haircut.” He laid his hands flat on the table. The cat purred around his ankles, but for once Papa ignored Miki. “You are not to leave the house.”
“Papa,” I said, “I’ve had this appointment for two weeks.”
“No,” he said.
I nodded. “Very well.” I was pretty sure he wouldn’t tie me to a chair. At the worst he would shut me in my room—and the room had a window, and the window opened.
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. I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t.
“She should go,” Maman said quietly.
“What’s this?”
“Let her get her hair cut, Papa,” Maman said. “This is a hard time. Let her be happy about a new haircut.”
“Bah,” said Papa.
“She’s a good girl,” Maman said. “Let her go.”
Miki meowed. Papa bent to pick the cat up. “All right, then,” he said. “Get your hair cut. But then you come straight home.”
“Yes, Papa,” I said.
Maman patted my hand. “We know how upset you are about your voice,” she said. “Don’t worry. It’ll come back.”
I delivered the message before I went to Madame Marcelle’s. I gave it to number ten, a woman I recognized easily despite the fact that she was wearing a wig. I had met her twice only the day before. Twice. Lord in heaven, were there so few of us left? Fear clung to her like a bad smell.
“Is it so bad?” Madame Marcelle asked me when she opened her door.
“Oh, how do I know? I think it is.”
“Well.” Madame Marcelle set her hat upon her head. “We will get your hair cut anyhow.”
We walked down the street to the shop where I always got my hair cut. The woman who owned it sometimes gave me a special set just before my performances. When we walked in, she smiled at me, an extra-large, how-wonderful-to-see-you smile. “Suzanne,” she said. “How lovely. I wasn’t sure you would come in today.”
“Madame Marcelle has a picture to show you,” I said. I settled myself into the chair.
“I think it would look good onstage,” Madame Marcelle said. She took it out of her purse.
The hairdresser waved her fingers at us. “Certainly, certainly, excellent,” she said. “Just let me make one little phone call and I’ll be right with you.”
I leaned back into the soft cushioned chair. This woman always washed my hair before she cut it, and I loved the feeling of her fingernails against my scalp. That and the warm water would feel especially nice today, when I was so tense.
The hairdresser came back into the front room. She put a towel around my neck and fastened it in back. Then she bent over the picture Madame Marcelle showed her. I closed my eyes.
The door of the shop slammed open. Madame Marcelle screamed. I jumped up, nearly knocking over the chair. A group of German soldiers burst into the shop. Six of them—one was an officer. They raised their guns and pointed them at me.
The officer pulled me toward him. Madame Marcelle clung to me, but he pushed her away. He yanked the towel from my neck and shoved me toward the soldiers. Two of them grabbed my hands. They pulled my arms behind my back and
bound them together with something strong. “Madame!” I shrieked.
“Suzanne!” She looked at me in despair. “I don’t understand! I don’t understand at all!”
The soldiers must have thought she meant she knew nothing, for they left her alone. But I knew she meant she had done nothing, she had not betrayed me.
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
The hairdresser put her arm around the Nazi officer and laid her cheek against his chest.
“I’m sorry, Suzanne,” she said in a soft, throaty voice. She lifted her chin, and the officer kissed her. “But you see, I support a different cause.”
So that was the phone call she had made—a call to her Nazi lover to say I was there. But how had they known about me in the first place? It couldn’t have been solely the hairdresser’s fault.
It didn’t matter. I was caught. The soldiers marched me at gunpoint through the cobblestone streets in the full light of early morning. I did not cry out to any of the people we passed, but neither did I look away from them. I held my head high and nodded to everyone I recognized. If this is the end, let them remember that I went with dignity, I thought. Dear God, make me strong.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They took me to the city jail, which the Germans had commandeered at the start of the occupation. They unshackled my hands and took me to a small room, where they sat me on a hard wooden chair. There was one light, no window. Across the room were a table and a few comfortable chairs, where the Germans sat while they pointed their guns at me.
You must just hold on, I told myself. There wouldn’t have been so many messages in so few days without a reason. Something would happen soon. You must hold on, I thought, as long as ever you can. You must be strong.
A more important-looking Nazi came into the room with a stack of papers in his hand. He sat at the table and pulled out a pen.
“What is your name?” he asked in heavily accented French.
“Suzanne David.”
“Do you know why we have you here?”
For Freedom: The Story of a French Spy Page 10