‘What do you mean?’
‘The other members of this cell will know that you are going for larger fish. It may encourage the Dubois, in other instances, to betray more outsiders – more of those who come to join the cause.’
‘To save their own skins?’
‘Possibly. But those they betray will probably be more skilful, more valuable to you – if your action today precipitates their cooperation.’
Schneider sat down again in his imposing chair and leaned back, steepling his fingers. ‘You are very persuasive, Herr Koenig. But why do I think you have an ulterior motive?’
Otto Koenig shrugged. ‘It is not up to me, Herr Obersturmführer. I simply offer a point of view.’
Schneider tapped the table. ‘Very well. Against my better judgement, I will let the Dubois go, after first putting the fear of God into them and letting them know we will be watching them.’
‘If I might suggest, Herr Obersturmführer, you might find it more … profitable … to let them go with good grace. If they think they are being watched and monitored, they are less likely to make careless mistakes – mistakes which might lead you to further arrests.’
Schneider shook his head. ‘You have all the answers, Herr Koenig. All the answers …’ He got up from his desk. ‘Untersturmführer Koch will bring the two … British? … prisoners to you. Make sure you find out exactly who they are and what they were up to, will you?’ Then he smiled and spoke in English: ‘“There’s a good chap!” That’s what they say, isn’t it?’
Chapter 29
INTERROGATION ROOM, GESTAPO HEADQUARTERS MONTBÉLIARD
DECEMBER 1941
‘Questioning is not the mode of conversation among gentlemen.
It is assuming a superiority.’
James Boswell, The Life of Samuel Johnson, 1791
The room was bare except for two steel-framed chairs set at either side of a heavy wooden table fixed to the floor with stout steel braces. On the edge of the table at one side was a button, which could be pressed to summon assistance. From the ceiling, a single light bulb hung on a twisted flex. The only other source of light was a small, barred window high up in the wall of this basement room; too high to accord a view of anything except the dark and leaden sky.
Thierry Foustier was manhandled through the door by a uniformed guard and thrust into one of the chairs. The guard then retraced his steps back to the door, slammed it shut, turned the key in the lock and stood to one side, his hands behind his back, his gaze directed up at the source of the watery light that failed to dent the gloom cast by the grey-painted walls of the cube-like interrogation room.
I have very little recollection of what happened after the Gestapo came. I think I was hit on the head; I was certainly concussed or, at best, disorientated by my experiences. I remember nothing until waking up in a grey-painted cell in what I assume were Gestapo headquarters; though to this day I have no idea where they were or how I got there. I was on my own in a tiny cell with only a bed and a bucket by way of creature comforts, though the very phrase now sounds laughable.
My clothes had been taken from me and I was dressed in what I can only describe as drab grey pyjamas. It was bitterly cold that winter, and I had to pull the blanket about myself for anything approaching warmth. The food (if you can call it that) was dreadful – dry, crusty bread – usually quite old – and grey soup made from I know not what. And water, in very small quantities. I tried to make it last, but soon realised that anything I left for later would be removed, so whenever I heard the key in the heavy lock, I wolfed down what I could before it was taken away. To be honest, I had very little appetite, though I knew I must drink to keep hydrated and that if I did not eat, I would have little strength if the moment ever came when I would need it to effect an escape. The very thought, I knew, seemed ludicrously optimistic.
In spite of the dreadful circumstances, I managed to smile to myself and promise that I would never again question the contents of Mrs Heffer’s soup, which was, in comparison, ambrosia. Not that I was likely ever to be in that situation again. Eaton Square might as well have been on the moon, so far away did it – and my former life – seem.
I do not know how many days I was kept there on my own and left in silence. I do know that whenever I tried to sleep I would be woken up for no reason at all, then left once more. I understand, looking back, that this was part of the process of trying to break us down. I say ‘us’, because I could only assume that Thierry was going through the same sort of experience, though I had no idea if we were in the same building or if we had been separated or, indeed, if he were still alive. There was no physical torture meted out to me at that point, though at any moment I knew that I might be hauled out and subjected to heaven knows what. We had been warned in our training that the Gestapo were adept at extracting information by physical force, if mental torture did not yield results. Sometimes, from distant cells, I could hear the heart-rending screams of other prisoners. I tried to block my ears, but the sounds were harrowing in the extreme.
In the quieter times I had plenty of time to think, though I cannot say that my thoughts were rational. I avoided letting myself imagine what physical discomforts I might be subjected to – what other prisoners were going through; I knew that such conjecture would not only be a waste of time but might also result in some kind of mental breakdown. Whatever happened, I had to be strong – in mind if not in body. And yet I would see strange apparitions and dream nonsensical dreams whenever I did fall asleep, which was certainly not frequent enough to allow me to feel rested.
When I was awake and my modest nourishment brought about some kind of rationality, I wondered if I would ever leave the place alive. It surprises me now that the thought did not make me hysterical, but I like to think that as well as my training at Wanborough, my natural resilience, and what I confess is a certain bloody-mindedness fostered by the series of events I had encountered as a girl and as a young woman, had proved to me that there was nothing to be gained by losing my grip, and everything to hope for if I retained it.
I think now that although these thoughts might have got me through, they were, to say the least, a touch on the optimistic side. But if I were not optimistic, if I did not believe that I might escape this dreadful place, what would be the point in carrying on?
I made myself think of Devonshire, and the beach and the sea. I remembered the feeling of sand between my toes, and could almost taste the sweetness of Semolina’s jam sandwiches and savour the tang of salt air. Any moment from those happier days that took me out of myself for just a brief while I clung to. I talked, in my head, to Diana about boys, to Aunt Venetia about clothes and to Celine about everything. I heard her telling me to buck up and stop being feeble. What was I worth if I gave up so easily? I felt her brush running through my hair, and her breath against my cheek, and as we talked, so she began to slip away from me, and then the pain of her loss became just too great and I talked instead to Harry. I tried to feel his arms around me and to gaze into his eyes for reassurance. We sat together and gazed at the waves – at our lovely life force, the sea. There were times when I found it hard to see his face clearly, and then I would shake my head and make myself remember. Then Thierry’s face would appear. It was all so confusing.
I had little sense of night and day, for the sky outside the tiny window seemed always to be devoid of much in the way of light. Then the moment came when I heard the key in the lock, my cell door opened and I was bundled out by two uniformed Gestapo officers. My heart had never beat so fast and so loud. I was determined that if I were being marched off to be shot, I should say absolutely nothing and would remain outwardly calm and impassive. Deep, deep inside, I was screaming.
Thierry Foustier sat on the chair at one side of the table, gently swaying. He tried to imagine what would happen next, but realised the futility of the exercise and cleared his mind of everything except the desire for a good meal and a glass of wine. Eventually, even those profitless thoughts wer
e expunged and he sat, trance-like, awaiting the arrival of his interlocutor. He had been brought here twice already and left alone for an hour before being marched back to his cell. Would this time be any different?
After half an hour, a brief knock heralded the arrival of … what? Another march back to the cell? He had heard of the techniques the Gestapo used to undermine their prisoners. The guard turned around, inserted the key in the lock and pulled open the heavy metal-lined door. A tall, thin man in a grey suit entered. In his right hand, a clipboard; in his left, a fountain pen. He sat down quietly at the table and nodded at the guard.
‘You may go.’ The instruction in German.
‘But sir …’
‘Auf Wiedersehen.’
Otto Koenig preferred to interrogate prisoners on his own, without the distraction of another body in the room. It was against protocol and regulations – there would be no protection against personal assault – but he insisted on such conditions and reasoned that any disturbance could be reported with a press of the button on the table.
Koenig looked at his clipboard and asked in French, ‘Thierry Foustier. Is that your real name?’
‘It is the one I was born with.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ The tone impassive; the expression unperturbed. He released several papers from his clipboard and shuffled through them in an unhurried fashion. ‘Your papers indicate that you work for an insurance company.’
‘That is what I told your officer. The one who came to the house.’
‘They are very good.’
Thierry looked critically at his inquisitor.
‘They are very good forgeries.’
Thierry remained impassive and said nothing.
‘You realise the seriousness of your situation?’
Again, no reply.
‘Your compatriot, Marcel Clemont …’
A flicker of recognition crossed the Frenchman’s face.
‘Ah, yes. You see, we know his name. Or, rather, we know the name that appears on his papers, but we doubt that is his real name.’
Thierry’s face resumed its blank expression.
‘And the young lady working with you …’ he looked down and sifted through the papers on the desk, ‘Christiane de Rossignol …’ He looked up again and smiled. ‘Her papers say she is a bookkeeper.’
Thierry shrugged. ‘That is for her to say.’
‘How long have you been working together?’
No reply came.
‘How do you know Henri Dubois?’
Again, no reply.
‘I have all the time in the world, Monsieur Foustier, but it would be easier for both of us if you cooperated. My patience is endless but that of our Gestapo comrades is very limited. If you do not tell me what I need to know – what they need to know – they will find themselves forced to use what they rather elegantly call “enhanced interrogation techniques” as a means of extracting the necessary information, rather than the simple means of sleep deprivation that I prefer to employ. Answer my questions or you can look forward to a long and undisturbed sleep in the company of the angels.’
Thierry smiled but remained mute.
Koenig realised that little information would be forthcoming, but hour after hour he kept up the tirade of questions – sometimes asking them in soft, cajoling tones, sometimes raising his voice and shouting – all the while endeavouring to break the reserve of his prisoner.
Then, suddenly, and without warning, Koenig leaned across the table and put his face up close against Thierry’s ear. ‘Over the next few hours, several things will happen. You will go where you are taken without fuss and without asking any questions. Is that understood?’
Unsure of the meaning of such a statement, Thierry leaned back in his chair and regarded his interrogator with a questioning stare.
Koenig now spoke in a whisper and in English. ‘Trust me, Patrice.’ Then he pressed the button on the desk. The key turned in the lock, the guard entered and Koenig instructed in German: ‘Take him back and lock him up. I will see him again later.’
‘So soon, sir?’
‘It has been …’ he glanced at his watch, ‘four and a quarter hours. I have what I need for now. I will see the woman next.’
The guard left, and Koenig pushed the door closed and waited for his next captive to appear.
When Rosamund entered the interrogation room, Otto Koenig had his back to her. He was facing the opposite wall and looking at the papers he held in his hands. It was not until the guard had left the room and the sound of the turning lock echoed across the space and reassured him that they were alone, that he turned round and faced her.
Rosamund’s eyes widened and her lips parted as she clung to the edge of the table to steady herself. For what seemed like an age, she stared at the man in front of her without saying a word.
‘Christiane de Rossignol?’ he said evenly.
Rosamund nodded gently but still did not speak.
‘I am Otto Koenig. Please sit down.’
As she sank into the chair only moments before her legs gave way, all manner of contradictory and confusing thoughts raced through Rosamund’s mind. She tried in vain to work out why on earth the man who was about to interrogate her should be Harry Napier.
Chapter 30
INTERROGATION ROOM, GESTAPO HEADQUARTERS, MONTBÉLIARD
DECEMBER 1941
‘Four be the things I’d been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles and doubt.’
Dorothy Parker, ‘Inventory’, 1937
Despite his confidence that such was the case, Harry Napier glanced at the door to reassure himself that they were alone. He allowed himself the merest glimmer of a smile before asking levelly and in French, ‘Your papers say you are a bookkeeper. Is this true?’
Rosamund opened her mouth to speak, but found that no words came out, so dry was her mouth. She cleared her throat and managed a weak ‘yes.’
‘And you were checking the books at the Peugeot factory on the day of the explosion?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you had nothing to do with the events of that evening?’
‘No.’ Rosamund swallowed, her mind racing. What was happening? Why was Harry here? Why was he interrogating her on behalf of the Gestapo? Whose side was he on? Was she hallucinating?
He continued, glancing at his papers for information. ‘The factory machinery was badly damaged. Production has had to be stopped while one particular piece of equipment is replaced.’
She sat perfectly still as he spoke, watching his every move and concentrating on his every word with growing incredulity.
‘It would take someone of extreme courage to undertake such work,’ he said pointedly. ‘Someone very brave, not to say foolhardy.’
Rosamund sat mesmerised, her head spinning.
‘And yet you say you had left the factory before the explosion happened?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very wise. You must have been some distance away when you heard the noise.’
‘I was at the station …’ she heard herself say, on automatic pilot.
‘Your mission accomplished?’
‘I was only checking the books; I told you.’ Her fear and confusion were now mixed with rising anger, and Rosamund had to fight to stop it taking over, to prevent it from affecting the level tone of voice she was struggling so hard to maintain. It was as if the two of them had been cast in some strange role play, like those she had undertaken at Wanborough when they had tried to make her and her compatriots crack under the strain. They had conjured up all kinds of scenarios in those days of training, taught you how to behave in the face of enemy interrogation, but they had never intimated that such an experience might involve being questioned by someone you had, up to now, trusted and thought of as being on the same side. Should she ask him what was going on? Should she admit to knowing who he was, or was this part of some elaborate charade that she was meant to go along with? She wanted to burst in
to tears, to say it was all so unfair, to ask him how he could do this to her, how he could have deceived her, but her innate resilience – fuelled by the anger and confusion – prevented her from doing so.
‘I have nothing to say,’ she declared in as confident a tone as she could muster. ‘I have told you all I know: that I am a bookkeeper and that I was asked to go to the factory to check over some anomalous figures. I located the particular discrepancy, corrected it and left.’
Her interrogator sat down opposite her. ‘And have you always had a head for figures?’ he asked.
Rosamund sat transfixed. Harry knew she had not. He knew that Diana Molyneux was the one with the numerical skills and that she, Rosamund, was useless at anything involving mathematics. Words were her thing, not calculations and codes and confusing series of digits. She wanted to hit him, to scream, ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ Instead she dug her nails into the palms of her shaking hands, the better to conceal her feelings.
‘I don’t think you are a bookkeeper at all, Mademoiselle de Rossignol,’ he said evenly. ‘I think you are something much more important. I think you have talents and abilities far in excess of simple accountancy. It would not surprise me at all that you were capable of great courage, that you were possessed of considerable intelligence and that someone had recognised your worth and offered you a position that would make use of your sensibilities and your unique gifts. Am I right?’
The words dried up. Rosamund stared at him incredulously. What could she possibly answer? He had ranted on at her – sometimes quiet and cajoling, at other times raising his voice and getting impatient at her lack of cooperation. There were moments when she thought she was going mad; that this was all a mirage – her mind playing tricks thanks to the lack of nourishment. Now, after what seemed like an age, the conversation ceased.
He got up, walked around behind her chair and put his hands upon her shoulders. She thought at first – just for one brief moment – that he was going to reassure her that all was well, like Harry would have done in former times. But as the hands rested, so the fingers began to press together into her flesh. The shock made her cry out. ‘You’re hurting me!’
The Scarlet Nightingale Page 23