Fräulein Benedix must have sensed M’greet stirring, as she turned with a friendly smile. M’greet noted that her coloring was similar to her own, but her bunkmate was much shorter.
“Clara,” Fräulein Benedix said, extending her hand.
M’greet shook it and introduced herself.
“Oh,” Clara’s mouth formed a bow. “You’re Mata Hari, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“I’ve heard so much about you. I too am a dancer.”
“Is that so?” M’greet stretched her arms over her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you. Where have you performed?”
Clara waved her hand. “Nowhere you’ve ever heard of, and nowhere near the famous halls you are familiar with.”
M’greet glanced out the window. “The sun has not even risen yet.”
“Yes, but we must be at breakfast in five minutes. The Fräulein’s orders.” She retrieved a comb from her bag and ran it through her hair.
M’greet heaved a deep sigh. “I’m not sure I could get ready in that short amount of time.”
Clara stopped combing. “And risk the Fräulein’s wrath? I’m not sure you want to do that.”
M’greet pictured the monstrous frown that would surely appear on the blonde-haired woman’s drawn face. “You’re right.” She threw back the covers on her bed. “Mind if I borrow your comb?”
After a meager breakfast, the recruits assembled in the anteroom. Besides Clara and M’greet, there were two males and two other women who appeared to be sisters. In contrast to the German soldiers M’greet saw on the street the other day, these men looked nothing alike: one was tall and thin, the other short and fat. The other two females were of medium height, both with dark hair and blue eyes and introduced themselves as Julia and Maria Manzanarés, proving that they were indeed sisters. The thought occurred to M’greet that none of them, herself included, looked like spies.
Fräulein Doktor entered carrying a riding whip with an ivory handle. She paused in front of them and smacked the whip on a table. “Silence!”
The other recruits stopped their chit-chat and looked up.
A diamond cigarette holder was pinched between the Fräulein’s first two fingers and it, along with the myriad of jewels that covered her hand, caught the sunlight and threw sparkling reflections all over the stone walls of the anteroom. So much for not attracting attention.
The Fräulein ashed the cigarette holder with a graceful flick. “Today’s lesson will be how to detect other spies, both those that work for our side and the enemy. This could quite possibly save your lives.” She paced up and down the room as she spoke, occasionally shooting her new recruits looks that sent shivers up and down their spines.
“You must play up on the French spies. The English ones are respectable and undergo equally rigorous training, but the people employed by France are inexperienced and easy to turn into Doppelagenten.”
Double agents, M’greet translated. Unused to being intimidated—which she certainly was, by the surrounding stone walls of the immense castle, by the military paraphernalia scattered throughout, and especially by the Fräulein—half of M’greet wanted to run for the Belgian hills, but the other half was determined to make the Germans pay for the property they had stolen.
The Fräulein made them memorize a script to recite whenever they fell upon a suspected spy before calling upon M’greet and Clara to act it out.
“Wie denkst du über das Vaterland?” Clara asked in a loud, clear voice.
How do I feel about the Fatherland? Not very well, considering they took all of my furs at the beginning of the war. Which begs the question: what am I doing here? M’greet got so lost in her own thoughts that she forgot the next lines.
“Ich bin mir nicht sicher,” was M’greet’s reply. I am not sure. She repeated the first line, asking in turn how Clara felt about the Fatherland.
“Nein!” Fräulein Doktor shouted, banging her whip on the nearest table. She waited for the sound to finish reverberating around the room before she said in her high, pinched voice: “Those are not the lines, H-21. You must stick to regulations, and never, ever improvise.”
M’greet’s rational brain told her to beg for forgiveness, but, as usual, her impetuousness won out. “I’ve been improvising all my life. I am an entertainer.”
The Fräulein marched over and stood in front of her, her whip held between crossed arms. “Are you that stupid, woman, to contradict me?”
M’greet raised her chin and was about to argue, but logic won this time. “No, fräulein,” she mumbled, avoiding those steely gray eyes.
“Again!” the Fräulein commanded, stomping a boot for lack of a nearby surface upon which to smack her whip.
This time M’greet managed to get it right.
Chapter 32
Marthe
June 1915
Summer had come to Roulers. Although the faint sounds of machine guns were ever-present, the equally ubiquitous bird songs somehow managed to mitigate some of the horrors of war. Stray shells still occasionally soared over the town, but they usually exploded in the air above or plunged into empty fields.
For once since the war started, Marthe felt surprisingly light-hearted. In May, the Germans had made the mistake of sinking the Lusitania. There were many U.S. citizens aboard, and all of Europe was holding their breath that America would soon join the Allies.
When Canteen Ma delivered a new message: “Take care: counter-espionage being strengthened throughout Belgium. Trust no one,” Marthe crumpled the message in her hand before tossing it into the flames of the kitchen stove. The Germans were always tightening their counter-espionage measures and since she had come this far, there was no sense in worrying over something she had no control over.
That night was yet another busy one at the hospital, but, during a much-needed break, Marthe overheard two orderlies state that several hundred troops were to be billeted at an old brewery on the outskirts of town. This was an unusual development: most of the time soldiers were quartered in civilian homes in pairs or threesomes before going off to the front. Such a concentration in one place would make an excellent target for the “Seven Sisters”—a group of British planes that occasionally dropped bombs over Roulers. To many of the oppressed Belgian citizens, the Seven Sisters were a welcome sight, even though the Allied planes often flew low and positioned their machine-guns on anything within their targets.
It was nearly midnight when Marthe set out to deliver the news to Agent 63. She was just across from the window when she heard footsteps in the alleyway, so she crouched down in a doorway, doing her best to hide in the shadows.
Had she been followed? The slip of paper tucked into her bun, on which she had printed the brewery information, felt warm, as if it could spontaneously combust and set her hair on fire.
The footsteps grew closer and a vague figure paused in front of the fifth window. Marthe relaxed her stance, thinking it must be a fellow agent dropping off their own message. Indeed, she watched as the figure knocked on the window in the same sequence she used: three taps, a pause, then two more. She assumed it was safe to come out of her hiding place, but something inside prevented her from doing so.
The window slid open without a sound, just the same as it always did for her, and a white, outstretched hand appeared in the moonlight. But then the shadowed figure pulled something from its belt. A red flash and a booming sound interrupted the silent night. The sound echoed through the narrow alley walls before Marthe heard a strangled cry and an even more disturbing thud.
The figure located an abandoned crate and put it below the window before climbing into the apartment.
Marthe had no recourse but to sit there, crouched in the shadows. Agent 63 had been discovered. Agent 63 had been murdered.
She waited for at least half an hour, maybe more. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted the dark figure to reappear, but it did not. Finally she rose, her knees stiff, and left the alleyway.
The
walk home in the dead of night from Agent 63’s window, while never pleasant, was the worst Marthe had ever experienced. She feared that a policeman lurked at every intersection with a rifle aimed straight at her heart. This was the penalty of espionage. This was what Canteen Ma had tried to warn her about.
When at last she was secure in her own bedroom and able to close her eyes against the terror of being caught, all she could see was Agent 63’s white hand reaching out to the murderer. The last thing on her mind before she succumbed to a restless sleep was: now how she was going to pass on the information about the soldiers billeted at the brewery?
Mother remarked in the morning that Marthe must not have slept well.
“No,” she admitted.
“What is it?” Mother asked. Marthe never told her mother the minute details of what she had been doing. Of course her mother knew that her daughter was a spy, but not the full extent. Now Marthe confided about Agent 63’s death, expecting that Mother would persuade her to quit the espionage game altogether.
“What message were you trying to get to Agent 63?” she asked instead.
Marthe filled her in on the brewery.
“Perhaps I could run into Canteen Ma in the Grand Place this morning. The café is always in need of fresh fruit.”
“You? You would take the message to Canteen Ma?” Marthe asked incredulously.
“With Agent 63 gone, you will need to find a new form of communication.”
Marthe gave Mother the tiny piece of paper. “Just get as close as you can to her and slip this into her hand when no one is looking.”
Mother nodded.
On the way to the hospital, Marthe mused over Agent 63’s death, expecting every minute for the name Marthe Cnockaert to be called, a forcible hand to be placed on her shoulder, a man calling for her doom to appear.
As soon as Marthe walked in through the hospital doors, an orderly rushed up. “Fräulein Cnockaert, the Oberarzt wants to see you in his office.”
Marthe’s knees felt weak as she made her way down the hall. In her recollection, the Oberarzt had never once commanded her presence in his office. A buzzing began in the back of her forehead, which made its way to the front of her scalp when she saw the Town-Kommandant also waited for her. As this was probably the end of her spying career, and possibly her life, she hoped Mother would be able to pass on the brewery information.
The Oberarzt stood up from his desk and came over to greet her with an unexpected smile. “Congratulations, Fräulein Cnockaert.”
Marthe, suddenly aware of her open mouth, closed it dumbly. Was this a joke?
The Town-Kommandant also stood. “His Royal Highness, the King of Württemberg, has graciously awarded you the reverent Iron Cross for all of your fine work and dedication to this hospital.”
Marthe sank into a chair.
The Oberarzt coughed as the Town-Kommandant held out a black and white ribbon with a silver-trimmed black cross. Marthe rose and stood at attention as he hung it on her neck. “The Fatherland is proud of the work you’ve done.”
She nodded, touching the black cross, which felt hot in her hand.
“Thank you, Herr Kommandant,” she replied, longing to take the heavy necklace off as soon as possible.
Otto approached her that night. He glanced shiftily around the lounge before asking if she’d come with him to his room.
“That wouldn’t be proper,” Marthe replied.
“I need to speak to you about a serious matter.” His gaze refused to meet hers, and Marthe could feel the blood drain from her face. Was this the moment she’d been waiting for since that shot rang out in the alleyway last night? Wordlessly she trailed him up the stairs.
Otto seemed somewhat more at ease with the door shut. He pulled a chair very close to the lone lamp before offering Marthe the chair and a cigarette. She politely refused the cigarette as she sat down, the lamp heating her cold face. Otto hunkered in the corner, his profile hidden in shadow.
She waited for the interrogation to begin, but Otto said, unexpectedly, “I’ve heard good reports of you, Marthe. Congratulations on earning the Iron Cross. How do you feel about the chance to earn an even greater distinction?”
News in the German espionage system travels fast. She knew that he could see every little nerve play out on her face, so Marthe proceeded with caution. “What is it you would have me do?”
“I have knowledge that there are at least three spies against Germany here in Roulers. One of them, a woman, was shot last night.”
So Agent 63 was indeed a woman. She tried to meet his gaze, but his eyes were merely glints of steel in that dark corner he’d chosen.
What was Otto thinking? Could he have been the shadowy figure in the alleyway last night? She nearly startled visibly as the miserable thought struck that Otto had followed her home. She attempted to compose herself, fearing that he could hear her heartbeat from across the room. “Who are these people you suspect?” Even Marthe was surprised by how calm her voice sounded.
He tilted his head toward the light, looking like a boy who was proud of having a secret from his mother. “I shall have to reserve that to myself, Marthe.”
“How can I assist you, then?”
“The Higher Command is aware that there is a rebel underground intelligence system operating here in Roulers. There are a few people whose confidence I would like you to gain.”
“You want me to find proof that these people are spies.”
He waved his hand. “Not necessarily proof. Just let me know if you see or hear of them doing anything suspicious.”
“You are asking me to act as an agent of the German government.”
“Not an agent. Just an aid. Marthe,” he picked up his chair and moved it closer to her. “You are a very intelligent girl. Many people trust you.” He reached a hand out to touch her hair. “Not to mention very pretty.”
Marthe cringed inwardly. Her first thought was to flee the room, but she didn’t want him to think it was because of his proposal. She faked a yawn instead, stretching out her arms and pulling her hair away from his fingers. “It’s late,” she said, standing. “I shall give what you said much thought and let you know my decision tomorrow.”
“Good night and sweet dreams, meine liebe fräulein.” He opened the door for her.
As he closed it, Marthe clenched her hands into fists. She raised one of them, picturing it connecting with the fine bones of Otto’s face. What was he thinking? Without knowing it, he had just proposed for her to become a double agent.
Marthe once again had a hard time sleeping. How could she possibly get out of the situation Otto had put her in? She decided her best recourse was to dig up some sort of information: something the Germans would look upon as valuable, but innocuous enough that it would not further endanger her allies. Finally she fell asleep, dreaming of being placed in front of a German firing squad.
Three nights later, Marthe was awakened just after midnight to the sound of incoming planes. She rushed to the window to see the “Seven Sisters” heading north. The German’s anti-aircraft searchlights occasionally caught one of them in their lights. Soon the screeching of bombs was heard. Several explosions followed, then the screaming from the bombs turned into human screaming. Marthe got out of bed and hurriedly dressed and then headed to the hospital.
The hallways were filled with wounded soldiers, and blood appeared to seep from everywhere: the soldiers themselves, the mattresses, it even seemed to stem from the wall. Marthe threw herself into her work, trying to do anything to distract herself from thinking that she was the cause of all of this human wreckage.
It was nearly noon when she returned home in her ruined nursing uniform. Otto was sitting on the steps outside the café, smoking a cigarette.
“Marthe,” he called upon seeing her. “That bombing of the brewery was the result of someone in this town reporting the billeted soldiers’ location to the Allies. Such vermin deserve the same treatment as this cigarette,” he added as he re
peatedly stabbed it into the sidewalk before crushing it with his boot.
She didn’t say anything as she stared at the black stain he’d left on the concrete.
“You will help me catch this spy, won’t you, Marthe? I want you to report back to me in a week’s time.”
He walked inside the café, leaving her on the sidewalk, pondering what to do. After all, it was she, with the help of her mother and Canteen Ma, who had informed the Allies of the location of the soldiers. But maybe she could find a way to pin it on one of their secret detectives, a false safety-pin man, one of the men who made the lives of Roulers’ civilian population so miserable.
A few days later, Otto grabbed her arm as she tried to pass him on the stairs. “Have you any news for me, Marthe?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. I need more time.”
He peered into her face. “I should think you have had ample time to at least develop an inkling into who is helping these underground activities.” He must have detected the fear in her expression for he grasped her hand and rubbed his thumb over her palm. “Do not be afraid, Marthe. Not a soul in Roulers will know of the work you are doing for us. You can trust us, especially me.” He dropped her hand as though it were a hot plate. “I have always liked you, and I do not wish to make myself unpleasant to you.” With that, he turned and hurried down the stairs.
Marthe continued to her room. Once there, she flung herself on the bed. She was no surer what to do now than she was when Otto had first hatched his terrible plan. Gradually she became aware of a bird’s chirping and looked up to see a fat robin just outside her window. He kept up his trilling, as if he had not a care in the world. I wish I could say the same.
A gunshot rang out and the bird flew away. Marthe opened the window to see what the commotion was. A man in plain clothes was shooting at pigeons across the Grand Place. She narrowed her eyes in annoyance, but then smiled as an idea occurred to her.
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 82