The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  She rushed home, once again throwing her bag on the floor, before entering Henri’s office. She wrote a hasty letter to the Ministry of War, offering her aviation experience to France and the Allies. “It does not matter where I would be stationed, of course, but I request to be put to use. I have risked my life for sport as an aviatrix, and therefore the sacrifice I now propose to make is of no consequence.”

  * * *

  A week passed without word from either Henri or the Ministry of War. The Taube had become a frequent fixture in the skies over Paris, occasionally dropping its bombs, which were always accompanied by a note full of threats. There was nothing else to do but make light of the macabre matter. The clerk at the postal office had told Alouette that the German plane’s flight pattern was so regular he’d begun to set his watch by it.

  Alouette’s restlessness turned to worry over Henri’s fate. Every day she awoke faced with two choices: carry on her day as she’d done before the war and pretend that everything was normal, or wallow in self-pity that her husband was at the front, possibly getting killed at that moment. Most days she went with the former choice, but one morning it was the latter, and she stayed under the covers until well past noon.

  Hortense burst into the room with a tray of bread and tea. “Madame, will you not go out today?” She set the tray on the bed before raising the blinds.

  Alouette blinked in the sudden sunlight before burying her head under a pillow. There was nowhere to go, anyway. Most of the population believed the Germans were indeed at the city gates and had fled for the countryside, turning the once-bustling Paris into a ghost town. The theaters and museums had all been closed, and the gas lamps that had given the city its nickname, “The City of Lights” remained dark.

  “Madame.” Hortense’s voice was hesitant, but closer this time.

  “Yes?” Alouette reluctantly pulled the pillow away.

  “It is your husband you worry about, no?”

  Alouette met her maid’s eyes without reply. For once Hortense’s gaze held no animosity, only sympathy.

  She stepped toward the bed to set a gnarled hand on top of Alouette’s. “My son-in-law is also at the front. I pray for his safety each day. I will add Monsieur Richer’s name to my prayers as well.”

  Alouette was uncomfortable with this unexpected show of affection from the normally aloof maid, but she nodded in agreement. “We must pray for all the Allies at the front.”

  Hortense dropped her head in acquiescence. “Perhaps it's just that Monsieur Richer’s letters have been held up in a German blockade.”

  Alouette’s indignation rose. Wasn’t it enough that the Germans were bombing their city and killing their men? Did they have to steal their mail as well? She turned away, and Hortense, taking the hint, left the room as silently as she had come in.

  The next day Alouette was pleased when Hortense handed her an official-looking letter, with the Aéronautique Militaire, the aviation department of the French War Office, as the return address. Her half-smile soon drooped as she read the opening lines. The letter was written in a characteristically French style: polite but standoffish, telling her with regrets that only males could be employed in the French air force.

  “Madame?” Hortense inquired, a helpless look on her face.

  Alouette folded the letter into a mock airplane and sent it flying across the room. It landed, as intended, in the fireplace. “It’s nothing.”

  A few days later another official-looking letter arrived. This one summoned her to the office of a man named Georges Ladoux, from the Deuxiéme Bureau of the Ministry of War.

  Alouette hurriedly dressed and rushed over to the address given in the summons, thinking at last the men of the Aéronautique Militaire had changed their mind.

  The building at 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain had been built recently; the ornate doors led into a rotunda with high plastered ceilings and a mosaic tiled floor. None of it seemed like a suitable office building for the War Department.

  Alouette was shown to an upstairs room and squinted at the hastily-scrawled lettering on the door indicating that this was the office of French Counterespionage Services. That’s odd, she thought as she pushed the door open. What do they want with me?

  As Georges Ladoux stood in greeting, it was clear he was much shorter than Alouette. He was stocky, with black hair gleaming with brilliantine product and a well-trimmed toothbrush mustache. He nodded as Alouette sat down across from him. “I presume you know why I have sent for you, madame.” It was not a question. Ladoux’s eyebrows arched and he leaned forward expectantly.

  “I do not,” Alouette replied as coolly as she could. Inside her heart was racing, but she relied on her experiences as a pilot to force herself to remain outwardly calm.

  “I have proof that you have visited Germans in Paris.”

  Alouette covered her confusion by pulling a lipstick out of her purse and uncapping it.

  “German spies,” Ladoux continued.

  She flipped open a compact mirror, hoping her shaking hands were not noticeable. The bewilderment in her voice was not fake, however. “And who would these German spies be?”

  “Does it matter?” Ladoux sat back in his desk chair.

  “I should think that it does. Such words could get me hanged, if they were true.”

  “Then you are saying it is not true?”

  She snapped the lid back on her lipstick. “Of course it is not true.”

  He pulled a piece of paper from a file folder and unfolded it. “Alouette Richer was born in Lorraine, April 15, 1889. Her father was an adjutant in the Hussars. As a young girl, she took to sports with ardor. Before becoming an aviatrix, she had much experience with horseback riding and driving an automobile. She won second place at an international target practice competition in Lille, a sport which few women attempt.”

  Alouette’s hands tightened, but he thankfully put the report down before he read any more. “Now, Madame Richer, if you could explain your recent visit to Crotoy.”

  She met Ladoux’s eyes squarely. “I had to check on my plane. I am trying to join the air force.”

  He gave her an oily smile. “A woman pilot in the Armée de l'Air?”

  His condescending tone was beginning to grate on Alouette’s nerves. “Surely, if you researched me that much, you would know that I recently offered my services to them.”

  He shuffled some papers on the desk, and Alouette caught her name written at the top of a file folder. “I can tell that you are a woman of some character, Madame Richer. If you would just tell us about these Germans—”

  Alouette, sensing there was no point in continuing the conversation, grabbed her bag and stood. “I’m sorry you have been so misinformed, Captain. I have repeatedly offered my services to the government, to no avail. If I knew of any German spies, I would be the first person to report them. But alas, I do not.” She started for the door.

  “Will you join my department?”

  Alouette nearly dropped her purse.

  “We need women like you—patriotic, sporty, not fearful of anything.”

  She stood frozen, thinking that only two of those descriptions were true. “If you are so convinced I’m a German spy, why are you inviting me to join your staff?”

  He indicated her unoccupied chair in lieu of answering.

  As much as she longed to leave this odious man’s office, here he was offering her the chance she’d been longing for. She sat. “What would you want me to do?”

  “I want you to, in fact, find the German spies I have been referencing.” The hairs on his mustache fluttered with his breath.

  Alouette replaced her purse on the floor and folded her hands in her lap as he continued, “When Germany closed its borders, we had not a single French agent within her lines, whereas they had managed to infiltrate France and many other Allied and neutral countries with liaisons ready to act at a moment’s notice.”

  “And do what?” Alouette asked.

  He stretched his
hands out. “Spy. Spread German propaganda. Steal supplies. Defy the blockade.”

  “And we are at a loss as to the identities of these liaisons.”

  “Indeed.” He pulled out a cigarette before offering her one. She declined. He lit it before continuing, “France’s ability to detect these Trojan horses, if you will, was almost nil. That’s when General Joffre recognized the necessity of a Department of Counterespionage. I am the man whom he appointed to begin this new type of combat, what I am dubbing the Secret War.”

  “What role would I play?”

  “I’m told you speak German.”

  She gestured toward her file. “As you know, I grew up in Alsace. I had no choice but to learn the language.”

  He flicked ash into a nearby tray. “Our frontiers are like sieves: full of holes. Everybody and everything can pass through our borders at their will. I will give you 25,000 francs for every spy you expose.”

  The growl in his voice contained hints of intimidation and Alouette had the notion that his offer was as much of a disguised threat as the German liaisons that, according to him, lurked on every corner. Once again, Alouette stood. “You must know, of course, that I do not need the money. And also that I would need to consult with my husband before I can accept your offer.”

  He rose from his chair and bowed. “Of course. Take what time you need. Contact me when you are ready.”

  Alouette’s demurral of Ladoux’s offer was not merely an excuse. As typical of most marriages, she consulted Henri on all of her decisions, but he often did the same. They’d shared the same interests and had a trusting, if passionless, marriage. Still, they had never spent so much time apart, not since Henri had rescued Alouette from poverty when she had, misguidedly, left her hometown for good at sixteen to follow a lover to Paris.

  She wondered what Henri, with his old-world sense of chivalry, would think of the pompous little Ladoux. She would never know if his letters couldn’t get past the blockade.

  The next afternoon, when Alouette finally got the motivation to get out of bed, she decided to demand news of Henri at the town hall. While she was getting dressed, Hortense entered without knocking and set an envelope on the bed. “Madame, this came for you by courier this morning.”

  Alouette could feel her maid’s eyes boring into her back as she lifted the bulky letter with an equally heavy heart. Ironically it had come from the Sixteenth Arrondissement, the same destination she had been gearing up to set out for later that morning.

  She tried her best to rip open the envelope in spite of her shaking hands.

  Dear Madame Richer,

  We regret to inform you that the soldier, Richer, Henri, aged 42, was engaged in bringing up transports while exposed to military artillery fire.

  She looked up, her mind racing with indignation. I know that already. What do they think, husbands don’t communicate with their wives?

  She forced herself to read on:

  After being wounded by a highly explosive shell, he showed an extraordinary coolness in bringing his lorry into a position of safety.

  “Thank God,” she exclaimed out loud, expecting the rest of the letter to contain news of Henri receiving the Croix de Guerre.

  But the letter ended simply with the words, A few minutes later he died.

  “No!” The letter landed on the bed as Alouette’s hands flew to her mouth. She tasted blood and forced herself to look at her fingers. She must have sliced the tip of her finger opening the envelope, but sensed no pain. She felt nothing, in fact, but a numbness that penetrated her body.

  “It’s Henri,” she told Hortense helplessly. Her eyes dropped to the terrible letter sitting on the bed. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh madame!” Hortense glanced at the cream-colored letter, as if the French government, in opposition to their callous explanation, had included some sort of blueprint for what to do next. “Madame?”

  Alouette glanced at Hortense, who was standing with her hefty arms opened wide. Wordlessly Alouette stepped forward until those arms were around her back and she was standing in Hortense’s embrace. She clung to her maid, feeling as though the floor was sinking beneath them.

  Chapter 7

  M’Greet

  October 1914

  M’greet’s letter to her daughter was returned unopened, accompanied by a note from her ex-husband. He stated that if she wished to see Non, she should ask permission from him first. M’greet responded with a letter written, perhaps a bit pretentiously, in French, knowing that Rudy did not readily speak the language.

  My dear friend,

  If you so wish, I will ask you personally: be kind and let me see my daughter. There is much hate between us, but Non should not be deprived of a mother because of our bickering. I thank you in advance for allowing me what I’ve been craving all these years.

  Sincerely, Marguerite

  Finally, Rudy agreed to a meeting, though he was reluctant to meet in Amsterdam, where he lived, or even in the Hague. Instead he suggested lunch in Rotterdam.

  The last time she’d seen Non was nearly ten years ago, at the railroad station in Arnhem. It had been shortly after M’greet had started to make it big as Mata Hari. She’d traveled from Paris in the first-class car, and was helped down by the liveried footman who’d been assigned to personally look after her luggage.

  Non’s eyes grew wide as she gazed at her mother’s finery. She reached out to touch the fur lining on M’greet’s coat, but Rudy brushed her arm away.

  “You’re looking… well.” He had spat out the last word, as if it pained him to say it.

  She glanced at him disdainfully, telling him she felt just the opposite about him with her eyes. She turned to her daughter and swept her into her arms. “Oh, Non, my baby girl. How would you like to visit Mammie in Paris?”

  “That’s not possible,” Rudy replied.

  “Oh, but she would love it.”

  Non’s enthusiastic nod showed she agreed.

  “What she would love is to have school supplies.” He put his hand on M’greet’s arm to pull her to the side and tell her in a gruff voice, “We are in a little bit of a financial problem.”

  “Of course.” She shrugged off his arm; his grip and rough manner reminded her all too well of their terrible marriage. She then pulled out a wad of bills and counted them aloud before handing them to Rudy. Catching sight of her daughter’s dirty face, she wet her thumb and swiped at Non’s cheek. Non smiled up at her and M’greet pulled the rest of the money out of her purse. “Make sure you buy her a new dress,” she told Rudy.

  He had nodded and led Non away.

  Throughout the years that had passed since, M’greet had often become melancholy when she thought of Non. How could she grow up a proper lady without a mother? But Rudy had always refused her visitation, though he never returned any of the money M’greet sent.

  Now M’greet agreed enthusiastically to a visit, writing to Rudy, this time in Dutch, that she’d like to discuss the possibility of contributing to Non’s secondary education. She wondered what her daughter looked like, if what Anna had said was true and her hair had darkened since she saw her last.

  Rudy answered that if M’greet wanted to help with money, she should send five thousand florins for Non to take voice and piano lessons. He ended the letter stating that he had not received his pension that month and would not be able to meet in Rotterdam after all.

  “Is something wrong, madame?” Anna asked, entering the room with a basket full of M’greet’s stockings.

  “It’s Rudy.” She wiped at a tear that was threatening to fall. “It’s always the same with him. He tells people that he doesn’t want any of my ‘dirty cash’ but at the same time insists I contribute something to Non.” She clenched her fists. “But he won’t let me see her. How can he deny me that, me, her loving mother?” M’greet finally broke down and wept openly.

  Anna, unaccustomed to such a display of weakness from her mistress, seemed unsure what to do. She set down the basket an
d sat beside M’greet. “Madame, how is it that he can make such demands of you?”

  M’greet focused her red eyes at a spot on the wall and shook her head. She’d spent most of her adult life spinning fantasies—it helped her escape from the fact that she was a penniless divorcé forbidden to see her daughter. Now she cried for the reality that was her existence, soaking her servant’s blouse with makeup stained tears.

  M’greet cleaned up in time to accompany van der Schalk to a dinner party hosted by Lady Hendriks, one of Amsterdam’s most distinguished women. The guest of honor that night was the Baron Willem van der Capellen.

  “Ah, the beautiful Margaretha MacLeod,” the Baron said, kissing her ring. His lips lingered a bit too long on M’greet’s hand as evidenced by the tsk-tsking emulating from his wife, a stick-figured woman with a pinched face and graying hair. The Baron himself was about fifteen years older than M’greet, and for a moment she was drawn back to those horrifying days after she’d returned on an errand to find that Rudy had left, absconding with everything in their little apartment, including Non.

  She had met the Baron on the street one day soon after that. He approached her at a flower stall, and she asked him back to the small apartment she’d rented. She’d slept with him that first afternoon, and many afternoons after that. In return, the Baron paid her rent and bought her some clothes to replace the ones that Rudy had stolen.

  Over dinner that night at Lady Hendrik’s, the Baron mentioned he’d seen M’greet dance once. “I couldn’t believe the little Margaretha MacLeod that I knew had become the famous Mata Hari.” His wife’s face seemed to become even tighter, her lips forming a hard line.

  “Mata Hari?” van der Schalk coughed down the food he’d been chewing before turning to M’greet. “I thought you were Russian.”

  The Baron laughed heartily before hitting his heavy fist on the tablecloth. “Russian. That’s rich. That’s really rich.” He gave M’greet a glance of appreciation before wiping his eyes with his napkin. “Russian,” he repeated.