The Secret Agent

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  Dotted among the Heer and Kriegsmarine uniforms were the grey of the Schutzstaffel with their lightning bolt double-S insignia: a chilling presence that was almost enough to put Sylvie off lunch. Her neck went clammy. She had walked into the lion’s den, and if her identity was ever going to be discovered, it would be here.

  Dieter must have seen her unease because he leaned forward and whispered confidentially, ‘I also find it unnerving to see them.’

  Sylvie’s eyes widened. He was admitting something that no loyal party member should voice.

  ‘They remind me of the keenest boys when I joined the Hitlerjugend. I am ashamed to say I was a sorry member because I preferred reading to pursuing outdoor sports. My father was the mayor, so I was given an easier time. My brother is a gunner in the Luftwaffe. I wanted to be a librarian. I am afraid I was always a disappointment to him.’

  Though Dieter was criticising himself for lacking the drive he should have possessed, the fact he mentioned it at all gave her something to ponder.

  ‘My father expected better of me too,’ she confided. ‘There was too much of my mother in me for his liking.’

  Dieter ordered for them both. The portions were generous, though the food was unfamiliar. A piece of braised pork covered in a creamy sauce arrived, accompanied by thick white noodles and greens of some sort. The morning’s events had dulled Sylvie’s appetite, but mindful of Marcel’s earlier comments, she ate with simulated enthusiasm. The dish tasted bland, but presumably this was something favoured by the homesick Germans; being able to taste cream made up for any lack in flavour.

  ‘Is this what you eat in Germany?’ she asked.

  ‘Food from the mountains. The Spätzle here are almost as good as my Oma’s cook used to make.’

  For a moment, Dieter’s eyes misted over as he reminisced about home. Alongside his admission that the SS presence unnerved him, she was struck by an insight: he did not really want to be here. There had been rumours of Germans being persuaded to switch allegiance and work as agents for British Intelligence. Sylvie might have found someone who could be turned. She noted it away carefully in the back of her mind to mention to Marcel later.

  ‘My grand-mère did not want me to travel away from her village because of what I might encounter. She wanted me to marry and settle, but I loved dancing too much. Now I wonder if I should have stayed in Brittany.’

  She forced herself to picture a kindly old woman with a black dress and the traditional Breton lace coiffe bigoudène balanced on her head. There had been no loving grand-mère, of course – Angelique’s mother had disowned her as soon as her pregnancy began to show – but lies were more convincing when the teller believed them. The woman she pictured was the one who had admitted her into Madame Barbe’s house.

  ‘I do miss Brittany sometimes. I miss oysters and coquilles St Jacques, and big pots of mussels with wine and onion,’ she said wistfully.

  Dieter pulled a face. ‘I’ve never eaten mussels. They look…’ he looked around, waving his hands expressively, searching for a word to describe them. ‘Schleimig.’

  ‘Slimy. Yes, but fresh and salty.’ Sylvie sat back in her chair, memories crashing over her. ‘By the sea they are best of all. One summer my mother’s dance troupe was in Saint Nazaire. Her lover taught me to pluck mussels using the shell of another.’

  She hadn’t picked a memory from England. No food or place from her life in Britain appealed to her sense of longing for the past. France was everything. But now she was on the subject of the coast, it was a natural way to introduce the subject that Marcel wanted to find out about.

  ‘Saint Nazaire was not my favourite place to visit. The estuary was very flat and the tides were too strong to swim in. Now I hear there is nothing left of the town, and the whole coast is now made of concrete. Is it true?’

  Dieter hesitated before answering, and Sylvie wondered if she had been too blatantly curious, but then he shrugged, and she relaxed.

  ‘The U-boat pens are there. They are made from concrete, it is true. The British destroyed the dry dock, but they couldn’t destroy the pens because the design is too strong.’ Dieter looked grave. ‘I haven’t been there, but I imagine you would not recognise it. Of course it has changed, but this is a change for the better. France will play an important role in the new Reich. Times are hard at the moment, but when the war is over, France will be prosperous.’

  Sylvie looked around the restaurant. It was easy to say that with a full plate.

  ‘I’ve seen it happen before,’ Dieter said earnestly. ‘After the Great War. Saarland, my home, was held by the French. It was fifteen years before we were returned to our true motherland.’

  He seemed to grow taller in his seat, standing to attention in an unseen parade ground.

  ‘And it is better now than before?’ Sylvie asked.

  ‘Nowhere is as good as it should be. Most of our men have gone to fight. The work has to be done by the French labour force, and they are lazy and unwilling.’

  Dieter looked at her, his pale blue eyes full of a fire that lent them a ferocity and passion they didn’t usually possess.

  ‘My mother told me about the Great War and how the French controlled the mines. Troops came from everywhere to patrol the streets. Britain, Italy, Sweden… I grew up seeing the uniforms everywhere of men who were not of my country. Our homeland was not ours.’

  Like the French children growing up now with German uniforms on the streets causing them terror, Sylvie thought. She was mystified by how he could not see that the childhood he described was what the homeland he loved was inflicting on the rest of Europe.

  ‘I was born not long after the end of the war,’ Sylvie said. ‘My mother was happy it was over and the death had stopped. She could stop nursing and return to dancing. She would be sad to know we are at war again.’

  The atmosphere changed, growing tense.

  ‘What about your father?’ Dieter asked.

  Sylvie looked him in the eye. Even without the complication of Arthur Crichton’s nationality, that was not a matter she wanted to share.

  ‘I think she was happy he was over and done with too. As I said, I was not the daughter he would have hoped for, and she was definitely not the wife!’

  Dieter held her gaze for a moment, then broke into a fit of laughter. Sylvie joined in with giggles that came naturally in response to the infectious sound of his laugh.

  ‘What is so funny?’

  ‘You Frenchwomen are outrageous,’ Dieter explained. ‘The girls I grew up with would never say such a thing. All my sister wants is to be a hausfrau and raise children. It was the same with the girls in my village.’

  ‘Is that what German men want from their women?’ Sylvie asked.

  Dieter began to play with his napkin. ‘I don’t know. Maybe not all German men.’

  The expression in his eyes was one she had seen on the face of other men. It made his meaning clear whether or not he realised it. He wanted Sylvie. And against all odds, she found she did not mind.

  She did not hesitate when Dieter offered her a dessert and had to stop herself moaning with genuine appreciation when a delicate slice of cake was placed before her, consisting of six layers of sponge held together with chocolate cream.

  Chocolate!

  Sylvie licked her lips. ‘This is heaven.’

  Dieter smiled over the top of his less appealing looking dumpling with custard that was apparently called something like a Germknödel. She was glad she had chosen the chocolate cake, but was almost regretting her gluttony by the time two small cups of coffee arrived. Three courses felt like a banquet after the slender rations she had been used to for so long, and her stomach was beginning to ache.

  ‘This is proper coffee too.’ She sighed with pleasure after a sip of the bitter, black liquid.

  ‘Of course,’ Dieter said with a smile. ‘La Cigale is a good restaurant, and they serve the best food. The food in my Soldatenheim is very pleasant but dull.’

  Sy
lvie felt a flicker of irritation. The boarding houses for soldiers had once been hotels or pensions for more welcome visitors. Even though the Wehrmacht had commandeered the majority of the food supplies, it was their French hosts who were expected to foot the bill for the occupying forces. All at once her enjoyment diminished, replaced by an overwhelming sense of guilt. She’d eaten half a week’s rations in one meal. The cost must be immense.

  ‘How can you afford to eat here?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry, that is rude. I just didn’t imagine a secretary would be very well paid.’

  To her surprise, Dieter blushed a little. ‘My family is wealthy. I have money of my own. I don’t have many things to spend it on, but good food is one of my pleasures.’

  He signalled the waiter and paid the bill.

  They walked to the botanical garden. Instinctively, Sylvie avoided the camellia paths and they settled on an iron bench in front of the glasshouse. Unlike the Sunday when she had visited before, there were few people strolling through the gardens.

  ‘I thought there would be a greater army presence in Nantes,’ she remarked. ‘I am surprised that there are not more patrols marching night and day through the streets.’

  ‘If you were to go further along the coast, there are more garrisons,’ Dieter said. ‘Paris is very busy, of course.’

  Sylvie looked at the sky. ‘I’ve never been to Paris. I was going to once. I nearly did, but…’

  She wrinkled her nose, feeling the prickle that meant tears were not far away. Too many painful associations. The loss of her mother and an entire change of life. Of who she had been.

  ‘Before my mother died. But then she died and I never went.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Dieter said. ‘Jeder einmal in Paris. That’s the promise they have made. I will go one day. Perhaps you will too.’

  She smiled at his kindness.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He licked his lips nervously, then swiftly leaned towards Sylvie and kissed her cheek, his lips landing like a butterfly alongside hers. Caught off-guard, she stiffened. Dieter pulled away, his expression one of mortification. His face began to glow scarlet down to the roots of his white-blonde hair.

  ‘I’m sorry, Fräulein Duchene,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I should not have done that. I must go. Goodbye.’

  He stood and walked off, head down and hands bunched at his side. Sylvie watched him go. Thoughtfully, she raised her fingers and touched the spot that Dieter had kissed. There was something sweet and innocent about him. He had lacked any of the idea of slowly building up to a kiss – she suspected he was probably a virgin. For a fleeting moment, she had caught a glimpse of the boy he had been before war had transformed him into the enemy, and she was intrigued.

  A rich boy. A mayor’s son who showed slight glimpses that he had reservations about some of his country’s actions before the propaganda took over again. A reader who became a secretary with a desk job rather than go into battle.

  She wondered if he would have liked the woman she had been in peacetime. She’d worn so many faces living in France, then England, and now back in France that she was not sure now who that woman had actually been.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ensuring Céline did not discover Sylvie’s night-time exploits on the night of the planned raid was a problem that occupied Sylvie right up until the very morning of the event. Even though she was not expected to be directly involved with the break-in of the town hall, she woke having slept badly, feeling nauseous with anticipation, like she had been drugged.

  As she was stirring hot water into a tisane of chamomile flowers, a solution came to her. As well as the cyanide pill, agents were given barbiturates and amphetamines to either keep them awake or help them sleep. Sylvie hadn’t used any, but one of the pills would ensure Céline slept soundly.

  She crushed one to a fine powder and wrapped it in a twist of paper, ignoring her conscience telling her it was wrong to do what she planned; there were more important matters at stake. If anything, she was doing Céline a favour, because if she did happen to wake and discover what Sylvie was doing, she would need to be silenced.

  The weather grew hot and stormy through the course of the day. By late evening, the sky was black with thunder clouds that burst in torrents of rain that battered the roofs and pavements, bouncing back up to soak everything. There could not have been a more perfect night for a raid if God himself had arranged it. No one would be outside if they could help it. The soldiers on patrol would huddle in their greatcoats, wishing they were indoors and hopefully paying less attention to shadows.

  Céline and Sylvie sheltered in the doorway as Mirabelle closed, hoping the rain would ease, but it showed no sign of it. Sylvie saw Felix slip out through the side door, dressed in a dark coat and beret. The crates and piles of rubbish had been moved, suggesting the door was deliberately kept blocked unless needed. He looked towards the front of the alley, and their eyes met. One eye flickered in what might have been a wink before he slunk away down the alley, collar up and beret pulled down low to ward off the rain. Sylvie’s blood chilled to think that whatever risk she was running, his was so much greater.

  ‘Let’s run for it,’ she shouted to Céline over the noise of the rain. They held their umbrellas low and did their best to dodge the puddles and streams that ran down the old streets, but they were both cold and shivering by the time they reached home. The circumstances could not be more perfect.

  ‘Come in for a drink,’ Sylvie suggested as they stood in the hallway, shaking water off their umbrellas and coats. ‘I want to ask you about some ideas I have for a new dance. I’ve saved a little wine.’

  Céline readily agreed. Sylvie described the dances The Firefly Girls had performed while she warmed cheap red wine on her gas ring. Whenever Céline could, she turned the conversation to what she might be able to sing while the girls were dancing, and after being interrupted one too many times Sylvie lost her qualms about drugging her friend. She gave the wine a stir.

  ‘Oh dear, this smells very sour. I’ll add some chamomile and honey. I miss nice wine. It was so lovely to drink champagne the other night.’ she added wistfully.

  ‘What happened to not accepting drinks from the enemy?’ Céline asked.

  Sylvie examined her fingernails. Céline could never be allowed to suspect her real motive for accepting Dieter’s hospitality. ‘I don’t know. It’s wrong, but he’s clearly going to keep coming to the club and he seems quite nice. He was very angry at the way his friend spoke to me. I had such a lovely lunch too. There was proper chocolate cake! I wish I could have saved some for later.’

  ‘I miss chocolates.’ Céline sighed. ‘When the war is over, I’m going to eat until I burst.’

  ‘Do you think it will ever be over?’ Sylvie asked. ‘That the Allies will win, and we’ll be free of Hitler?’

  ‘Or the Nazis will and we’ll have their sort of peace. If they do, perhaps they’d ease the regulations and we’ll have more freedom.’

  ‘I’m not sure that counts as free,’ Sylvie said. ‘Standing in line to have our papers pored over as if we’re doing something wrong just by walking down the street.’ She hid her surprise. Céline was talking as if she was happy to accept that outcome. Didn’t she see the boarded-up shops and houses belonging to families who had just disappeared? Or what happened to those who stepped out of line?

  ‘They won’t need as many checkpoints or curfews if they don’t think we’re going to fight back. I know it’s awful now, but this can’t last forever, can it?’ Céline asked. ‘I don’t want them to win, but nothing seems to be changing.’

  Sylvie stretched out her legs. ‘Did you ever consider joining the Resistance?’

  ‘Hiding in fields and laying bombs? Not for me.’ Céline examined her nails. Unlike Sylvie’s, they were perfectly shaped and polished. ‘For girls like us, the best we can do is find a man who can give us a good time. That’s why you’ll do well to keep Herr Baumann onside.’
>
  She gave a mischievous smile and toyed with one of her blonde curls. ‘Perhaps you could see if one of his friends might like to come out with me. We could all go together and eat as much chocolate cake as they’d be willing to buy.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Sylvie poured the hot wine into cups with her back to Céline. She stirred in a smear of honey and crumbled a few chamomile flowers on the top. Surreptitiously, she added the white powder to Céline’s cup and gave it another stir before turning around and passing it to her.

  ‘Which one of Herr Baumann’s friends would you like him to ask?’ She hoped Céline had better taste than to suggest Nicki.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind.’ Céline gave a coquettish shrug, then wrinkled her nose. ‘The tall one, I think. He was a good dancer.’

  ‘Then I’ll do my best.’ Sylvie curled her knees up and raised her cup. ‘Santé!’

  They clinked cups together and drank.

  ‘Oh dear, I don’t think that has worked very well,’ Céline exclaimed with a cough.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Sylvie agreed, wrinkling her nose. ‘It needs a lot more honey. Still, it’s a shame to let it go to waste.’

  She took another tentative sip. Céline did likewise. The honey should have left no taste of the sleeping powder, and hopefully it was just the bad combination of chamomile and red wine that Céline meant; the strong flavours guaranteed that any trace of the sleeping powder should be masked. But Sylvie wasn’t sure if a sip or two would be enough; she needed to keep Céline drinking.

  ‘Won’t Felix mind if you go out with Valter?’ she asked.

  Céline took a bigger sip. ‘Felix? He doesn’t get to say who I go dancing with.’

  ‘So you are not serious about him? I thought you were together when I first came to the club.’

  ‘That’s crazy talk.’ Céline gave a genuine laugh. ‘I’m not serious about any man. Felix is only one of many, and I like him the least – he’s too serious. Do you like him?’