The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  She had been living on edge ever since the murder of the false safety-pin man the night the ambulance had tipped over. She had a feeling that Herr Jacobs had something to do with the murder, but of course he never discussed it. It should have reassured her that people in the espionage network were looking out for traitors, but to her it was just a reminder of how easily such work could go foul.

  She was therefore startled to hear knocking on the kitchen window after she’d heated a pot of soup on the stove. The man standing outside had a hat pulled down low over his gaunt face, but there was no disguising his identity.

  “Father!” she exclaimed before hugging him tightly. When they broke their embrace, she ushered him inside. “Mother, come see!” she called upstairs. “Father’s back!”

  Marthe’s mother rushed down the stairs. “Is it true?” She let out an excited cry as she caught sight of her husband sitting at the table. “Felix! Oh thank God you’re alive.”

  Mother clutched him to her as if she never wanted to let him go, and Marthe encircled her arms around both of them, all three weeping with joy. When they’d finally had their fill, Mother sat down next to Father, grasping his hand while Marthe prepared tea and Father told them what happened to him. “I was taken in by a kind farmer in his house on the road to Ypres. He has a brother who lives in Roulers and was finally able to answer my inquiry as to your fates. I came as soon as I heard.”

  “And you weren’t hurt?” Mother asked.

  Father shook his head. “Germans are the same everywhere, but I kept my nose down and cooperated with them as best I could. They took all of the harvest for their army, leaving many of the townspeople starving.”

  “Not much different from here, then,” Mother remarked.

  “No.” He took a sip of tea. “The brother of the farmer owns the Café Carillon in Roulers.”

  “I know it,” Marthe said. “It’s the little yellow brick building in front of the church by the Grand Place.”

  “Yes. It was recently struck by a bomb,” Father replied. “Though it did minimal damage, the brother is taking his family further away from the front. He offered the café title to me.” He bestowed a weary grin on his wife and daughter. “Don’t you see, my lovelies? We can be together again under one roof, and this will provide us with a modest income.”

  “And Max? Have you heard anything?” Mother asked.

  Father frowned before he shook his head.

  After thanking the grocer and his wife profusely for their kindness in providing them shelter all those months, Marthe’s family moved into the space above the café.

  As their new business was adjacent to the Grand Place, it was usually not in want of customers, including German soldiers. Marthe had heard stories of the capture of “café girls,” tortured by the Huns for trying to make men talk. But it seemed all too easy to overhear the soldiers’ gossip, Marthe realized as she waited tables after a long day of nursing. She didn’t want to appear overly friendly to the soldiers so as not to alienate the Belgian patrons. Not to mention it might attract the soldiers’ suspicions.

  She convinced Father to open the upstairs room, usually reserved for private parties, to double as a soldiers’ lounge. One evening, when Marthe came home from the hospital, the smell of cigarette smoke and the chatter greeting her even before she walked into the café, Mother approached her, an anxious look on her face.

  “There are some German officers in the lounge who have announced their intention to billet with us.”

  Marthe sighed. They’d just been reunited with Father, and now this? She walked upstairs with a heavy heart. Three officers were seated at the center table, their duffel bags scattered on the floor between them. A man in a disheveled tunic, his hauptmann’s jacket draped over the chair, sat smoking a cigar. He had bright red hair, and, as he caught sight of Marthe, raised his glass. “Fräulein, will you do us the honor of toasting to our upcoming trip to Paris?”

  Marthe paused, not wanting to offend the Germans but she would never deign to toast to the enemy. The other hauptmann, his uniform still intact, tightened his lips as he glanced at the third man, a younger man with golden hair. A dimple played in and out of his cheek as he winked at the red-haired hauptmann.

  “I’m sorry, Herr Hauptmann,” Marthe replied finally. “I have just come from duty at the hospital and am quite tired.”

  “The hospital on Menin Road?” the red-haired hauptmann demanded.

  “Yes, Herr Hauptmann.”

  “Really, Red Carl,” the blond man said in a gay voice. “You are not here to court-martial the young lady.”

  The other hauptmann, a cadaverous man with close-cropped hair, gazed at her through his thick glasses. “Perhaps the fräulein will show us to our sleeping quarters.” There was nothing sinister in his words, but Marthe felt uneasy all the same. She guessed he was the senior of the three, and showed him to the single room, but he turned to her, his eyes glinting behind those large glasses. “Herr Hauptmann Carl and I have some work to do together. The Herr Lieutenant can take the single room instead.”

  “Excellent,” the golden-haired lieutenant replied, clapping the other man on his shoulder. “Red Carl, if you snore tonight the way you did on the train in, you will not be long for this world if Hauptmann Reichman has anything to do with it!”

  Red Carl waved his hand. “He would never kill me. I’m too valuable for that.”

  Marthe went to fetch some more linens. When she returned to the lounge, the blonde lieutenant was sitting at the table alone.

  “I’m sorry if you found my companions rude, fräulein. They don’t mean to be that way, they’re just always wrapped up in their own ideas.”

  “What sort of officers are they? They weren’t wearing the uniform of the Army of Würtemburg.”

  “No,” the lieutenant agreed, finishing off his wine. “They are from a special unit, sent ahead to arrange our trip to Paris.” He said the last phrase mockingly before letting out another laugh.

  Marthe knew it would not be wise to make further inquiries of the lieutenant, but vowed to herself that she would send Agent 63 a message about the Paris warning later.

  He took out a cigarette from an expensive-looking case and offered one to Marthe. She declined.

  “Otto Von Prompft,” he said, sticking out the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette.

  “Marthe Cnockaert.” As he grinned, she noticed his smile was not quite even, the one facial imperfection he exhibited. “You have a dueling scar.”

  He touched his left cheek. “I was a student at Stuttgart up until a few months before the war started.”

  “My brother Max was also at University.”

  “Did he duel?”

  “No.” It had been said that a man’s courage could be judged by the number of scars on his cheek. But her brother looked down on the practice of dueling, cursing anything that society considered elite. “Max always said he preferred to have his courage judged in other ways.”

  “Très intéressant,” Otto replied.

  “You speak French?”

  “Oui. I lived in Paris for a few years.” There was something frank yet friendly in his voice and Marthe couldn’t help but develop a fondness toward the young lieutenant as he continued, “I’ve recently come from Berlin, and I know that you Belgians bemoan the oppression you claim you are forced to live under, but the regulations in the German capital are quite similar.” He flashed her that slightly uneven smile again. “It is war-time, you know.”

  Marthe wanted to protest against the deplorable pillaging his countrymen had done, but tightened her lips as he told her, “We Germans know how to endure, so it is no matter. We are bound to win in a few months’ time.”

  She couldn’t help her reaction. “Win the war? You might have been able to accomplish a few victories thus far, but you will not emerge from this war a victor.”

  “Marthe, as yet Germany has not even been tested. A crushing victory is forthcoming, and it is coming soon.” Hi
s once friendly voice had taken on an ominous challenge.

  A bell rang from downstairs and she rose.

  “Thank you for the conversation, Marthe.” His tone had once again become amiable and the twinkle in his eye reappeared, as if he had never made any threat.

  Marthe went downstairs to find the café nearly empty, save for two men in plain clothes seated at a table.

  “Alphonse?” Marthe asked, recognizing the ambulance driver who had been wounded with her. “Am I wanted at the hospital?”

  “No, fräulein,” Alphonse stated. “My friend Stephan here and I just wanted a drink.”

  The man named Stephan nodded. He was a stocky man with an incongruously thin, well-trimmed mustache.

  Marthe’s hands grew sweaty at the way they were eyeing her—so queerly, as if they knew something she didn’t.

  “Brandy?” she asked.

  “Tea,” Stephan replied.

  She went into the kitchen, her heart pounding. How long had they been sitting there? Did they hear her conversing with Otto and suspect that she was working with the Germans?

  Stephan was still seated at the table when she returned, but Alphonse had risen and was looking at the pictures on the walls.

  “Your family?” he asked.

  “No, the former owner’s. My father has only recently taken over the lease.”

  “I see,” Alphonse replied with a casual tone as he sat back down.

  She began pouring the tea.

  “How do you like your double-job, sister?” Stephan asked quietly.

  Marthe, feeling the blood drain from her face, kept her head turned slightly away. She willed her sweaty hands not to drop the teapot.

  “Alphonse,” Stephan said, louder this time. “I see your button is coming loose. Perhaps you are in need of a safety-pin. I have two.”

  Marthe breathed an inward sigh of relief as she set the pot down. “I might need one as well. You say you have pins handy?”

  Stephan lifted the lapel of his jacket to reveal them. They were pinned diagonally and Marthe could feel her heartbeat resuming a normal pace.

  Alphonse copied Stephan. “So you see, sister, we both have pins.”

  Marthe nodded and glanced around the empty room. “How did you know about me?”

  “The sergeant-major at the hospital told us.”

  “What? That German traitor—”

  “He is not German. He grew up in France, and until yesterday, was our channel of communication. But alas, he was transferred.” Alphonse replied. “Stephan here works at Brigade Headquarters, and, as you know, my frequent ambulance trips to the front put us in a position of being able,” he too glanced about the room, “to provide certain information.”

  “We were told to pass this on to a girl named Laura,” Stephan said.

  “You can well imagine my surprise when I figured out who this Laura was,” Alphonse filled in.

  “Do you have information for me now?” Marthe asked.

  “No.” Stephan touched his mustache. “We come on another matter, concerning a man named Otto von Prompft.”

  “He is billeted here. I’ve only just met him,” she stated. “He seemed nice enough, for a German officer.”

  “No.” Stephan leaned in and Marthe did the same. “He is a spy-hunter.”

  “How do you know that?” Her voice had become a whisper. “Do the Germans suspect me?”

  Alphonse’s voice, though hushed, seemed to reverberate throughout the empty café. “They are no more distrustful of you than they are of all Belgians, unless they are imbeciles or on their deathbeds.”

  “And even then, they are still mildly suspicious,” she murmured.

  “Quite right.” Alphonse looked over at Stephan expectantly.

  “I sometimes open mail for the censor at HQ,” Stephan began. “I recently came across a letter from this Otto to his mother stating that the ‘special work’ they had sent him to do in Roulers would be both ‘easy’ and ‘interesting.’ He is not employed by the army or the military police.”

  “I see.” Marthe stood up straight, mentally stabbing Otto a hundred times for letting her like him. “I have another matter I’d like to discuss, though. There are two men in the hospital—”

  “Is one of them the Scottish man from the night of the bombing?” Alphonse asked.

  “Yes. Are they to become permanent prisoners of the Germans?”

  Stephan and Alphonse exchanged uneasy glances before Stephan answered, “Most likely, yes.”

  “Isn’t there something we can do for them?” Marthe begged.

  Alphonse gave a resolute nod. “I will look into it.”

  Chapter 24

  M’Greet

  February 1915

  Soon after M’greet returned to the Netherlands, she had an interview with the Dutch magazine, Nouvelle Mode, and they decided to feature her on the cover. Van der Capellen attended the photo shoot, and, on a break, asked her if she thought her outfit immodest.

  M’greet glanced down at her low-cut bodice, a pearl necklace dangling in the space between her breasts. “Of course not.”

  He nodded, appearing for a moment uncertain, but then his face cleared as he replied, “Well, if you don’t have a problem with it, then I don’t either.”

  He took her out to dinner that night. The weather was unseasonably warm and they sat near an open window. The trickling of a water fountain outside could be heard whenever the string quartet performing that night was between songs.

  “How’s your house coming along?” Van der Capellen asked.

  “Not well,” M’greet replied. “I don’t think it’s any closer to getting done than when I left for Paris.” She reached across the table to put her hand on top of his. “Perhaps you could speak to my decorator and urge him to hurry.”

  “M’greet,” he replied with a sigh, “Dekker is the best in the Netherlands. He knows what he is doing.”

  “He is slow and stupid.”

  He shot her a mocking smile. “We all cannot be as smart as you. Have patience, he will get it done.” He squeezed her hand before glancing toward the courtyard, a wistful expression on his face. “I have to return to the front tomorrow. If only it weren’t for this infernal war, we could run off and get married.”

  A sharp breeze blew, causing M’greet’s eyes to water. In the dim electric lights, the normally wide, friendly face of van der Capellen thinned, his mustache drooped, and his eyes appeared steely, making him look just like her ex-husband.

  M’greet covered her gasp by dabbing at her wet eyes with a napkin. She could never marry van der Capellen; although the affable general with the ready laugh normally held no resemblance to Rudy, all she could think of was the brutality she suffered while married. And all of the philandering: on both of their parts. Although M’greet had affairs out of retaliation for Rudy’s unfaithfulness, she wasn’t sure she could ever remain faithful to one man again. She’d been on her own for more than a decade and relished her freedom too much to jump back into the role of dutiful partner. “But of course we can’t. What of your wife?”

  He shook himself out of the revelry. “You’re right. We’ll have to keep things just as they are.” He took a bite of food and chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. “What does a beautiful woman like you want with an old soldier like me, anyway?”

  M’greet giggled. “Oh, come now, you know you’re not that old. You’re just fishing for compliments.”

  He threw his head back and laughed that deep belly laugh. “You’re right. Now, did you get everything that you needed in Paris?”

  She gave a dainty shrug. “I got a few outfits and trinkets, but I couldn’t bring too much over the border for fear it might get confiscated.”

  “You need to go shopping then.” He slapped his heavy hand on the tablecloth, startling a passing waiter, causing him to spill water on the floor. “Of course you do.” He dug out his wallet and gave her several hundred guilders. “Buy yourself some nice things tomorrow. I wish I c
ould go with you, but my train leaves in the morning.”

  “Oh,” she puckered her lips in disappointment. “That early?”

  He took a long sip of whiskey. “If only the English troops could get it together. They missed their opportunity after that surprise attack in Artois.”

  M’greet suppressed a groan. How she hated to hear talk of war!

  After one last night with van der Capellen, M’greet wandered some of her favorite stores in the morning and then made her way back to the house in Nieuwe Uitleg. She walked down the quiet street next to the canal, stopping to admire the new green shutters on the brick facade of her home before letting herself in, only to find the hallway strewn with scraps of wallpaper and fabric samples. Her immense trunks from Paris were stacked next to the stairwell, still unpacked. She kicked at a box before noting the two men in grungy overalls standing on the second-floor landing, staring with uncertainty at her beautiful new dresser of carved wood and copper pulls. One of them scratched at his greasy hair before he threw up his hands in defeat.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  The movers looked dumbly down at her as Dekker called, “Madame Mata Hari, you’ve returned.”

  “I have.” She mounted the stairs. “What is all of this?”

  He glanced at the movers, his frown deepening. “It seems we mismeasured—”

  “You mismeasured.”

  He cleared his throat. “At any rate, it doesn’t appear that this dresser will fit through the doorway of your bedroom.”

  “That’s impossible.” M’greet stomped over to the dresser. She approximated the width of the dresser and then pushed past the movers, walking to the doorway with her arms held tight. “It looks as if it will fit fine.”

  Dekker pulled the measuring tape out of his pocket and walked over, holding out the tape to demonstrate. “It’s six centimeters too large.”

  “Well.” For a moment, M’greet was at a loss for words. “Well,” she said again. “I suppose all that money I paid for it is wasted, wouldn’t you say?” She marched over to the landing to angle her body behind the dresser, pushing on it with all of her weight.