The Secret Agent

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘Everyone, leave now!’

  Sylvie wasn’t sure who had given the order, but the résistants scattered. A couple of them drew pistols, heading towards the trouble. The younger of Sylvie’s companions grabbed her by the elbow as they all ran back into the woods, crashing through the bushes to escape. There was no point looking back to check if they were being followed. They’d discover that soon enough if flashlights blinded them. She only realised as they lay face down in the bushes that she was still holding the bundled parachute in her arms.

  ‘Drop it,’ the older man muttered. ‘There’s no time to bury it.’

  ‘If I leave it, they’ll know which direction we went,’ Sylvie answered in a whisper. He gave a curt nod. She bundled it and stuffed it inside her jumper.

  The gunfire had resumed, and it seemed from the shouts that the bursts were being answered by French fire. Sylvie bit the inside of her lip until she tasted iron. To Sylvie’s immense relief, the fight didn’t seem to be coming closer. The younger man cocked a thumb, and painstakingly the trio crawled through the woods on their hands and knees, only moving into a low crouch as they reached the fork in the path.

  Keep moving. Keep moving. One more minute. One more minute. For France. For England. Keep moving. Keep moving. One more minute. One more minute. For France. For England.

  The repetition had helped Sylvie during training when her endurance had been pushed to the limit in training exercises, crawling through fields during the freezing-cold Scottish winter. Now, she muttered it under her breath over and over, thanking Sergeant Walters for putting them through their paces.

  The journey back to Sautron took them twice as long as their trek to the drop site, and when at last they came to the road, Sylvie wasn’t the only one who gasped with relief. The three of them clasped hands and the youngest produced a hip flask. They passed it round, taking turns to toast the others. The flask contained a strong liquor of some sort, probably homemade, and was the most welcome thing Sylvie had drunk in weeks.

  ‘When is your child due?’ he asked, pointing at her stomach.

  Sylvie looked down. The silk parachute had bunched under her jumper and did indeed look like a pregnant belly. She began to laugh and found that once she had started, she could not stop. The shock of the night’s events was catching up with her. She clasped her hands over her mouth and tears rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘Go home and go to bed, mademoiselle,’ the older man told her kindly.

  Sylvie unearthed her bicycle. She rearranged the silk into a more becoming bump and stowed the packages in the basket. She dropped the bullets at the dairy as instructed and cycled home on deserted dark roads. Fortunately, the house was silent as she crept upstairs and she had no awkward encounters.

  The time was just past three in the morning, according to her alarm clock. Definitely time for bed, though she felt too alert. Tomorrow, she had to meet Dieter. The fact that she had not been arrested since his visit to the club must be a good sign, but it was one more thing to think about.

  She stored the packages in her hiding place outside the window and changed into her pyjamas. She spread the silk on her bed on top of the sheet and lay on it before pulling her sheet over her. The silk felt cool and soft against her skin. She imagined what it would be like to lie on it with Felix, their bodies sliding over the cloth. With him in her mind, she was not even aware when fantasy became dream, and she fell asleep.

  She overslept. Hardly surprising after such a late night, but it set her off on the wrong foot. The silk parachute was twisted around her legs, and she had to untangle it. It had seemed a good idea the night before to turn it into something, but now it was just one more thing she would have to hide. When she had time, she would cut it into smaller sections and smuggle it into the club. She could hide the pieces on the clothes hanger inside one of Monsieur Julien’s costumes until she had time to deal with them. With luck, anyone who saw it would assume it to be the lining of the costume.

  The scent of the forest clung to her. As she rubbed the hard soap over her skin to try to get a lather, she couldn’t stop thinking about the men in the forest who had run towards the sound of gunfire not away from it. Her instructions from Marcel had been very clear not to get involved in any fighting, and she had followed them to the letter. Even so, she felt a deep stab of guilt as she wondered what had become of the men.

  This was both the tragedy and the genius of the Resistance. Members only knew the names of a handful of other people in the organisation. Even at the highest level of command, each cell leader knew only those in his immediate band. Sylvie had not even learned the names of the two men she had worked with and shared a drink with; they would not be able to identify her beyond a vague description, and in turn she would be unable to do the same to them. The men and woman she had barely glimpsed in the forest were safe from her, and she was safe from them.

  It meant she would never discover the fate of those who went to fight and most likely gave their lives in the forest. She hoped fervently that most of them had escaped, or if they had not, that their deaths were instant and painless.

  She had intended to wash her hair but had run out of time and settled for dabbing eau de cologne along the roots and running her brush through the strands to freshen it. She rolled her hair into a victory roll on the top and pinned the back neatly. She decided not to cycle partly because she could wear a nicer dress, and partly because she had discovered that the muscles used for pedalling were entirely different to those used to dance. The prospect of climbing back into the saddle made her wince.

  She retrieved the package of film, which was small enough to slip into her bag. The bookshop was in a small street at the rear of the chateau, about a fifteen-minute walk from the Jardin du Plantes. She should have enough time to deliver the film to the bookshop and then walk across town to meet Dieter. Céline was chatting to Madame Giraud when Sylvie went downstairs; Sylvie called good morning and hurried on, humming to herself.

  The first indication that something was wrong was when she reached the end of Allée du Port Maillard. A large group of people were milling around the end of the road. Sylvie edged closer and worked her way through the crowd. Whatever was happening, she didn’t have time to waste before going to meet Dieter. A roadblock had been set up and two privates in uniform stood to attention, rifles poised and ready.

  A black van was parked in front of the bookshop and two men dressed in the blue uniform of the milice stood by the open rear doors. A fist gripped Sylvie’s hand as she stepped closer, pulling her back. She went cold, thinking she had been discovered but an old man standing at her side had been the culprit. He raised a finger and wagged it at her, shaking his head silently.

  She stepped back into the huddled group with her mind whirring. She had to let Marcel know, but she had no idea whether it would be safe to visit him. Worse than that, she was carrying a package of film and was about to go meet Dieter. It was highly unlikely he would search her bag, but there could be absolutely nothing to cause him suspicion.

  While she was vacillating, a door slammed open. Sylvie tensed, expecting to see Monsieur Tombée marched out, but instead two miliciens emerged from the dress shop next door, dragging a middle-aged woman between them. She was handcuffed but kicking and struggling to escape. Two more officers followed, half carrying an even older woman with wispy grey hair. Both prisoners had a defiant look in their eyes and were fighting their captors. A murmur of anger and despair surged through the crowd. Clearly these women were well known in the area.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Sylvie whispered to the man standing next to her. He shrugged.

  ‘They are mother and daughter. They own the clothes shop. I don’t know what their crime is said to be.’

  Said to be. A chilling phrase. They could be guilty or innocent, or the charge might have been completely fabricated. However true or not, the reason for their arrest was announced by a milicien wearing the double yellow stripe of a company commander. He faced the
women and spoke in a loud voice so the crowd could hear.

  ‘Therese and Anne-Therese Brodeur, you are under arrest for publishing and distributing seditious materials with the intention of inciting civil disobedience.’

  The elderly woman spat on the ground at his feet. Sylvie wanted to cheer her bravery but kept silent. To show any support would be tantamount to suicide. Instead, she stood with the rest of the crowd, watching silently. How much courage would it take to raise a voice in solidarity? How many voices would be needed to inspire the crowd to act?

  Something was coming, Marcel had said. Whatever it was, it would most likely not come soon enough to save these two women.

  Another man exited the building, his arms full of rolls of poster-sized paper and small blocks of wood that looked like printing blocks. Sylvie’s heart sank. In this case, it seemed the charges were true. He dropped the equipment onto the floor and produced a box of matches. The two women watched as their apparatus was set alight before they were manhandled to the waiting van. As the daughter’s head was bent to push her in, she twisted to look back at the crowd.

  ‘Vive la France! Vive la Resistance!’

  The soldier raised his hand and delivered a blow to her the back of her head, and she slumped down. She was lifted and thrown inside, the door was closed and the two women were driven away. The miliciens who had not gone in the van joined the two German privates that had been standing guard at the roadblock.

  ‘Get back to your homes – there’s nothing to see here!’ one shouted. The crowd began to disperse. Reluctantly, Sylvie backed off too, casting a final look back at the pathetic bonfire. The bookshop would have to wait. It would be the height of stupidity to attempt to do the drop at the moment. She would have to return once she had spoken to Dieter and hope to see the bookseller. For now, it seemed the bookseller was safe, but the probable fate of those brave women haunted her as she walked across town.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  As Sylvie arrived, she could see Dieter pacing back and forth in front of the gates to the Jardin du Plantes. He was looking nervous, and when she walked towards him, he twisted his hands together before kissing her on the cheeks in the French fashion. He was wearing cologne. Either he had never worn it before or Sylvie hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Dieter! I’m so sorry I am late.’

  ‘You look tired,’ Dieter said, peering at her. ‘I hope you have not been working too hard.’

  She couldn’t tell him the real reason she was exhausted, and the arrests were raw in her mind.

  ‘I saw something horrible on the way here. It upset me more than I thought.’

  She told Dieter about the arrest of the two women. She watched his expression carefully, hoping to see the smallest indication of sympathy in his reaction, but he looked unmoved. He raised his jaw and gave her a severe look.

  ‘If they committed crimes, they must be punished. They would have known the consequences before they started their treasonable endeavour.’

  ‘All they did was make posters. That’s hardly assassinating the Feldkommandant!’

  ‘What if their posters caused someone to try? Peace depends on people obeying the laws.’

  Something in Dieter had snapped to attention. He stared forward, eyes fixed on a distant point, shining with belief. When he became that man, he could have been on a poster himself, extolling Hitler’s vision of the perfect Herrenvolk. Every time she wondered if there might be enough in him to bring around, the kernel of indoctrination burst forth.

  Sylvie stepped back, shaking her head sadly.

  ‘One of the women was so old,’ she murmured. Madame Brodeur’s sentence would probably be execution in any case, but her treatment beforehand might finish her off before the firing squad could do their job.

  ‘Sylvie, don’t let what you witnessed this morning upset you.’ Dieter flashed her a look of concern, and the zeal in his eyes vanished. The party spokesman had vanished, and the man was back again. ‘If you do nothing wrong, you have nothing to worry about.’

  Sylvie wasn’t sure if he genuinely believed that innocence was a shield against arrest, or if it was simply a line he repeated as any upstanding citizen should.

  His brow creased. ‘Sylvie, what you were doing the other night was very risky of you and stupid. If it had not been me who had seen the light beneath the door, you would have been taken for questioning without a doubt. You could have been in the situation of those … unfortunate women you saw this morning.’

  He sounded genuinely upset, but Sylvie noted the adjective. There was a little sympathy for the women beneath the cold exterior after all.

  She put her hand on his arm. ‘Dieter, I need to thank you for what you did the other night. You could have reported us. I owe you a debt of gratitude.’

  ‘You were very fortunate I was the one! A group of French men and a woman meeting in secret! Do you know what it could look like?’

  Sylvie’s skin grew clammy. She tried to calm her breath before speaking so her voice didn’t betray her.

  ‘What?’

  He avoided her eyes, looking beyond her ear. His neck was growing red. ‘That you were working as a … a prostitute.’

  Sylvie’s muscles sagged with relief. She felt the need to laugh bubbling up inside her, relief spilling out. Never before would she have imagined being described as a whore was the lesser of two evils.

  ‘You thought Monsieur Julien might be running a secret brothel?’ Her voice was shaking. She hoped he would think she was offended rather than relieved.

  ‘It is fortunate – I know you would not do such things,’ he said, smiling in a way that caused ripples of shame to wash over her. ‘Shall we walk?’

  He held out an arm for her to take and she slipped her hand through.

  ‘Did you find the music enjoyable?’ she asked.

  There was a long silence before he answered. He shouldn’t have enjoyed it, but he obviously had. The laughter in his eyes as they had danced and the way he had naturally found the rhythm had been proof of that. But to admit appreciating music that was scorned as degenerate? Played by people of inferior races who could not be allowed to affect the purity of his country? How terrible it must be to feel such a conflict between the truth he felt and the ‘correct’ answer.

  ‘The music was strange,’ he said finally. ‘I think it would take me a long time to understand it, but yes, I had an enjoyable evening. I very much enjoyed dancing with you.’

  He stopped abruptly. ‘I came to the club the other night because there was something I wanted to say. I have wanted to for a while now. Fräulein Duchene, I love you.’

  Sylvie blinked and took a step back and saw the briefest flash of hurt in his eyes. He clearly expected a different response.

  ‘You love me? I don’t understand… We only met each other recently. We’ve only been out together once. Twice, if you count when we met by accident.’

  His face was serious. ‘I’ve spoken to you at Mirabelle. We’ve danced together. It sounds stupid, but that is all it took. I knew as soon as we first walked together through the streets that you were the only woman I ever want to be with.’

  He took both of Sylvie’s hands, holding them tightly, and for one awful moment she thought he might drop to one knee and propose marriage.

  ‘Say that you feel something for me too.’

  He stood before her in the uniform of the enemy. The oppressor. She should feel no qualms about disappointing him, but Sylvie had never seen anyone looking less oppressive. He looked eager and boyish. Endearing. She did like him at times, but that was as far as her feelings went.

  ‘What you’re feeling isn’t love,’ she said as kindly as possible. ‘It is infatuation or the excitement of first love. I’ve felt it before and it fades.’

  ‘But perhaps not always,’ Dieter said.

  That was true, at least. What he did not know – what he could never know – was that she had only spent time with him at all to try to make him spill secrets so she c
ould use them against him. She’d grown fond of him, but at Mirabelle the other night she’d seen the side to him that was her enemy. The friendly dog had bared his teeth.

  ‘It is too soon,’ she said. ‘And you are German and I am French.’

  ‘Our countries may be enemies, but you cannot help who you fall in love with,’ he said. ‘It is not uncommon. There would be no trouble.’

  His naivety was both endearing and frustrating. For a German man, perhaps not. For a French woman, almost certainly.

  ‘How long would you need to fall in love with me?’ he asked. It was pitiful to see him standing with hope and despair mingling in his eyes. ‘A month? A year? Am I pressing you too quickly? We should take more time to get to know each other better.’

  He walked over to the lake and stared into the water. He beckoned her over.

  ‘I would like to propose something to you. I have a friend who arranges the leave rotas. His family own a farm. If I promise to have workers sent to help on their land, he will grant me a favour and move me to the head of the list.’

  The workers he talked about were French, taken and forced to work in Germany under the Service du Travail Obligatoire ruling. Dieter was offering to arrange a quick holiday by sending slave labour to his friend and saw nothing wrong with that. He didn’t notice Sylvie’s lack of enthusiasm, because he continued. ‘I could be in Paris in two weeks and you could come with me.’

  Despite her revulsion, the moment he said the word Sylvie’s imagination started to spiral.

  Paris.

  The city that had been snatched from her was now being dangled enticingly again. The idea was so seductive she almost agreed, but this would not be the Paris she had dreamed of since childhood. This would be the Paris where jackbooted Nazis goose-stepped past the Arc de Triomphe and Hitler posed proudly for photographs before the Eiffel Tower. She didn’t want to see it like that.

  ‘They call Paris the city of love, don’t they? There is a guide to the best hotels to stay at. We could visit all the sights. I could take you to see everywhere you wanted to see.’