by Amy McAuley
Denise is right, but I feel as though she’s stubbornly digging in her heels to get her own way.
“I’m tired.” I return the pistol to its hiding place. The gray mood I woke up with is making a comeback and dragging another headache with it. “I’m heading to Estelle’s. I’ll see you tonight during the radio broadcast.”
In the courtyard, I climb aboard my bicycle and begin to pedal away.
“Adele, wait.”
I turn my head and the bike follows, curving in a slow circle back to the door being held open by Denise.
“I’ll find a new place,” she apologizes with a smile. “Soon as I can.”
I give her a weary last-minute wave.
At this very moment, I’d give anything to pedal out from behind Stefan’s house and find myself transported to my aunt’s street in England. But no matter how hard I wish, no Victorian terraced houses appear before my eyes. My aunt’s street remains hundreds of miles away.
I think of my small, square bedroom there: a postage stamp of a room, tucked into the back corner of the house. Without a heater, it was cold as an icebox all winter, but my aunt piled my white metal-framed bed high with blankets. The rag rug she taught me to make with scraps of material became a landing pad on the chilly floor between the door and the bed. My photo of Tom, tucked within the pages of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, his favorite book, is inside the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers. I intended to look at it again. Someday.
An envelope atop that same chest of drawers contains the pub wages I managed to save. To Aunt Libby, I wrote on the envelope. Nothing more. I didn’t even take a second to scribble a short note of thanks before I left for good. I hope my aunt’s pride didn’t keep her from accepting the envelope. If I know her, she sees it as one more thing to dust.
Did she keep my room the way I left it?
I press hard against the pedals of my bicycle. Only after I speed off do I realize I forgot to tell Denise that our trio of misfits has dwindled to two.
As I cycle past Estelle’s favorite neighborhood sidewalk café, a craving for lemonade hits me like a bolt from above. The draw of freshly squeezed citron pressé pulls me back.
I prefer this quiet café. The customers tend to be older, but enough are girls and young mothers that I don’t stand out. And no matter the time of day I can always find a shaded table at the back of the outdoor terrace near the bicycle stands.
Lemonade in hand, I take a seat at the table nearest my bicycle. Sun-weathered and parched, I smile at the glass as it rises to my lips. But before I get the chance to quench my thirst, a woman collides with my bent arm. Droplets of lemonade splash onto my skirt.
I whip around at the waist to give her a piece of my mind. My eyes widen. The clumsy woman is Anna, my contact who went missing.
“Mademoiselle, I apologize,” she says. She bends to swipe lemonade from my clothing with a handkerchief and slips a cylindrical object into my hand. “I’m sorry.”
I slide the object into the deep pocket of my skirt.
“No harm done,” I say.
Anna continues on her way. It’s murder to keep still and not track her.
I deliberate my next move in the time it takes to down the lemonade. The object in my pocket feels like a wine cork. There’s nothing valuable about a cork. That means it hides something that is. My uneasy glance skims the street.
From my chair, I can see the twin chimneys of Estelle’s apartment building. Without knowing if I’ll be chased it’s the last place I can go. I jump on my bicycle and ride for Denise’s. Only another cyclist could keep up with me to the end of my chaotic route, and if someone was crazy enough to follow my shortcut through the clothing factory on a bike, I definitely would have noticed.
Immediately after I knock the beats of our code on the door, it swings open. Denise pulls me inside.
“What’s happened?” she asks, visibly antsy. “Should I get my things?”
“You can relax. It’s not a matter of life and death.”
“Tell that to my heart. When I heard your knock I got all set to skedaddle.”
“Denise, I have something to show you.”
I set the cork on the table.
“That’s not an ordinary cork, is it,” she says. “Where did you find it?”
“I stopped for lemonade at the café near Estelle’s, and Anna bumped into me. She gave me the cork, and then she was gone.”
“Intriguing. What could be inside? Microfilm?”
I locate the panel along the side of the cork and slide it. “It’s a tiny roll of paper.” I unfurl the tube. After studying it front and back, I say, “That’s strange. It’s blank.”
Denise plucks the slip of paper from my fingers to check for herself. “You’re right. It’s blank.”
We look at each other in surprise as I say, “Invisible ink.”
“Must be, but what kind?”
Denise stretches to retrieve a box of matches from the stovetop. Lighting the misshapen candle at the center of the table, she says, “One that develops with heat, I bet.”
I shimmy my chair closer to Denise’s, and we watch faint lines of minuscule script appear on the paper as if by magic.
Safe houses compromised. Being followed. Cover irreparably blown. Suspected leak within circuit. Watch your back. Trust no one.
“Watch your back. Trust no one,” Denise says. “Those are the deluded ramblings of a paranoid agent, if you ask me.”
“I don’t know. When I met with Anna, she seemed no-nonsense and tough minded. I think we should take her warning seriously.”
“A double agent within our circuit.” Denise arcs an eyebrow at me. “That casts a long shadow over agents we’re supposed to trust with our lives.”
“What about Shepherd? Think this has something to do with him?”
“I’m not convinced he has the bollocks to pull something like this off. He’s intelligent, but I got the impression he lacks street smarts.”
I think back to the night we parachuted in. Shepherd was captured right off the bat, while marching down the center of the road, a move that definitely bordered on soft-headedness.
“We’ll have to tell Cammerts about this,” Denise says.
“Should we? Anna warned me to trust no one. But she trusted me enough to pass along the note, right? Did she tell Cammerts about the leak herself? If not, then why?” Rubbing my temples, I groan, “Why can’t anything be straightforward for once?”
“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Denise stands. “You’ll probably see Cammerts today, won’t you, after your walk with Robbie? You can tell him then.”
“Denise, Robbie left. He’s on his way back to Britain.”
She picks up the kettle from the stovetop and sets it right down again. “Is he? I’m sorry, Adele.”
“Don’t be sorry. He had to go back to his squadron. Taking care of him was part of my duties. I should be glad he’s out of my hair.”
Denise grins at me over her shoulder. “Methinks the twitchy-faced lady doth protest too much.”
My heart aches just thinking about my last moments with Robbie. An image of him happily playing cards with me in the cellar comes to mind. There’s that cute grin of his. A grin I’ll never see again. I will myself to stay strong.
Taking a deep breath, I roll Anna’s note into a tight tube. I return it to the cork’s compartment.
“Getting back to the note,” Denise says, “there is one person you can trust completely. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.” The answer takes me by surprise. I must have already made up my mind on the matter without realizing it.
“The same goes for me. We may not be able to trust anyone else, but at least we have each other. One for all, and all for one.”
“Friends till the end?”
“Absolutely,” she says, smiling. “Friends till the end.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The factory appears over the hillcrest. Try as I might, I can’t breathe away
the nervous fluttering in my stomach. For three days I’ve played out the sabotage of the factory in my mind, again and again, fine-tuning my plan. Taking in too much information on the tour could be as overwhelming as taking in none, so every detail has to be worked out before I set foot in the building. I know exactly what to look for and what questions to ask.
As I push my bicycle toward the gatehouse, I overhear Gerhard say, “Zucker, here is Adele.”
“Hello, Gerhard,” I say, waving. “I’ve brought the drawings.”
“Wonderful. I cannot wait to see them.”
“May I first say hello to Zucker?” I ask.
Zucker obeys Gerhard’s command to sit, and I let her sniff my hand.
I mimic the mispronunciation of boarding school students reciting German for the first time to say, “Hello, Zucker. You are a very good and intelligent dog.”
The praise is part of my act, but I really mean it. Compared to Zucker, my cousins’ dog Biscuit is an unruly little halfwit.
“Did you learn that phrase so you could speak to Zucker?” Gerhard asks.
“I did,” I say, laughing. “Do I need more practice?”
With a polite smile he says, “Yes.”
I rest the bike against the fence. My basket is empty apart from the drawings of Zucker. The photos and notes I gathered for Pierre on the first visit are safely hidden within a thick laurel hedge at the bottom of the hill.
“What do you think of the pictures?” I ask Gerhard when I give him the charcoal drawing on paper. Impatient with anticipation, I hand him the watercolor before he can give me his thoughts. “Do you like them?”
“Adele, I thank you and commend you on a job well done. These are the works of a truly talented artist. You captured the intelligence in her eyes, as I knew you would. My sister will love this.” He props the pictures on a ledge inside the guard station. “And now, once my replacement arrives to man my post, we can begin the tour. Are you ready?”
For a few fleeting seconds, I feel downright awful for tricking Gerhard. He only wants to do something nice for me.
But I didn’t come to this factory to make friends with German soldiers.
I look Gerhard in the eyes and smile. “Yes, I’m ready.”
Propping myself up against my bicycle at the side of the road, I watch the wagon I hitched a ride in drive away, bound for a village north of the LaRoche farm.
When the area is clear, I cycle directly to the secret entrance of the Maquis camp as quickly as my worn-out legs can pedal.
At the tangle of branches, I continuously shove my hand through in search of the latch. Pierre opened the gate and transported a horse and wagon inside the forest in less time than it’s taking me figure out the door’s secret. At last, my fingers brush cool metal among the leaves. I fiddle with the mechanism until the gate swings open to reveal the storybook tunnel of trees.
I close the gate and set off. Thinking it might not be such a good idea to ride straight in on the men unannounced, I call out, “Hello? Is anyone there?” when the brightly lit clearing comes into view.
I climb down and wheel my bike into the camp. The men must not have heard my call. Three pistols that were aggressively protruding from trouser waistbands are suddenly aimed straight at me.
“You know me!” I call. I frantically search the camp for a familiar face.
Marcus appears in the doorway of a hut. “Wait, wait, wait!” As he runs to me, he tamps the air with his hands, telling the men to stand down. “You are that girl!”
“I am,” I say, my voice ragged with nerves. Lightheaded, I lean my bike and my exhausted body against a tree. “Is Pierre here?”
“What’s going on?”
When Pierre speaks, there is no mistaking him for anyone else. He leaves a canvas tent, pulling a woolen sweater over his head. Ruffling a hand through his hair, he gives me a long, drowsy stare.
“It’s that girl,” Marcus calls to him. “She has come back.”
Squinting, Pierre steps closer. “Adele?”
“Yes, it’s me, Pierre. I’ve come back after spying on the factory.”
His eyes widen with shock. He shakes his head, exhaling a loud sigh. “All right, come here.”
I take the photographs from my bicycle basket and hold them in the air for Pierre to see.
“The factory is producing gun carriers and turrets for German Panzer tanks,” I say.
Marcus rushes ahead of me to the table. “Panzers! Pierre, did you hear that?”
“Yes, I heard her. How do you know this?”
“I toured the factory this morning.”
Pierre’s head tilts questioningly. “You toured the factory?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you manage that?”
“They mistook me for a student.”
“They mistook you for a child and then showed you around? I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. I guess, when you think about it, what do they have to fear from schoolchildren? They’re next in line to enter the labor draft and may one day end up working at that very factory. It’s just a building, after all, and hardly a secret. The Germans do have to worry about the Resistance and the RAF, of course, but you said so yourself, I don’t look like I belong to either of those groups.”
Marcus pats me on the back. “Bravo, Adele.”
I spread the photos across the tabletop. “I took these the first time I visited the area. They show the grounds and the building’s access points. I know the location of the assembly areas, the metal presses, the transformer hall, and even the night watchman’s room. I wasn’t able to take notes during the tour. That would have looked too suspicious, but I have it all up here.” I tap my temple. “I’ll write up notes before I return to Paris this afternoon. And I’ll draw you a map to use with the photos.”
Pierre picks up one photo after the next, studying them closely.
“What do you think?” Marcus says. “Can we do it? Can we destroy the factory?”
Pierre’s satisfied nod fills me with pride.
“Yes, Marcus, we can do this.” Gathering the photos into a pile, Pierre says, “Adele, this will require heavy explosives. Are you still in contact with a wireless operator? She can transmit our list of requirements to headquarters?”
“Yes, I can give the list to the girl I dropped in with. Her name is Denise.”
Pierre closes our conversation with a sharp nod and he strides away from the table.
I bite my lip, wondering what to do next, rapidly deflating over his lack of enthusiasm for my hard work. I put my neck on the line to get him that information.
Midway to the tent, Pierre spins around. With a shake of his head, as if he’s coming to his senses, he says, “Great work, Adele.”
“Thanks.”
Outside the tent’s canvas flaps, he spins around once again.
“New men have recently joined us. They desperately need training. The weapons that come in with the drops are unassembled, and if they are not cleaned and put together properly”—he smirks—“well, you know what could happen.”
“Yes, the person standing behind the weapon is in greater danger than the person standing in front of it.”
“That’s right. These men are more liable to shoot each other than the enemy. Would you mind giving them some instruction?”
Pierre wants me to train the new men. Did I hear him correctly?
“I don’t mind at all,” I say, grinning over my hard-won promotion. “I’d be happy to train them.”
A group of fifteen men have assembled in the large field within walking distance of the camp. They huddle into a tighter bunch when I begin the lesson, giving me their rapt attention as I show them the proper way to clean and assemble a Sten gun.
As I disassemble it for a second time, I say, “You see, because it is such a light, simple-machined weapon it can be stripped down like this and easily concealed.”
One of the Maquis, who refused to take part in the training when I
introduced myself as their instructor, lets out an audible harrumph. “Go back to your kitchen where you belong, woman.”
Ignoring him is difficult, but I bite my tongue and move on.
On a fully assembled Sten, I display the cross-bolt button near the trigger. “With this control you can select your firepower—single shots as well as automatic fire. In a close-combat fight the key is to have great speed and accuracy, so it’s best to fire single shots. You’ll have more control that way. Because it’s so light and simple, the Sten can be raised and fired quickly. It can be an excellent weapon, but you must keep it clean. I can’t stress that enough. It has a long opening, which can allow foreign objects to enter.”
I don’t expect the man in back to have a sudden change of heart, but his rude howl of laughter sends a jolt of anger buzzing through me, like an electrical charge. If he doesn’t want my help, why doesn’t he just leave?
“As I was saying, this can be a good close-range weapon.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “But if it’s dropped while cocked it can go off on its own.”
Clutching his ample midsection, laughter nearly fells my tormentor to his knees.
My cheeks flare hotter. My lips press tight.
A burly man who introduced himself as Big Edgar peers down at me, his eyes sympathetic.
“And as I mentioned it can be prone to blockages, so keep those drawbacks in mind. Should the gun jam you may be able to clear it by tilting it this way to clear the rounds”—I exhibit the motion—“and recocking.”
I pass out a Sten gun to each of the men. Almost in unison, they raise the weapons—without first checking to see if they’re loaded—and take aim.
During my training in London, the first time I held a weapon in my hands I made every mistake in the book. The moment I set foot in the long practice corridor, the target—a life-sized figure in a trench coat—popped out and sped at me. I brought my gun up to assume the position I’d seen in films. In my ear, the instructor didn’t offer the glowing words of praise I was expecting. He burst my confidence with a sharp, “Right, then. You’re dead.”