Violins of Autumn (Lisette de Valmy)

by Amy McAuley

  I go through the group, showing each man how to properly hold the Sten at his shoulder, in line with his eyes the same way my instructor did. These men will require quite a lot more training if they expect to survive firefights with German soldiers who lie in wait and kill with precision. But I can’t give up on them now that I’ve stepped up to train them. My instructor made sure no one left our class a bad shot, because every student’s life depends on how well he or she has been taught. If one of these men dies because I failed him in training, I would never forgive myself.

  “The gun is like an extension of your body. Feel the trajectory, as you would your pointing finger. You don’t need to look at your feet to know where they’re headed; you can envision it in your mind. If you practice enough, firing your weapon this way will become automatic.”

  Only Big Edgar watches me without skepticism.

  “After you fire one round, immediately fire off a second. Both rounds should strike within one to two inches of each other to be most effective.”

  The man who refused to take part leans against a tree, one hand on the trunk and the other at his waist, giving me an arrogant once-over. “Impossible!”

  To the men, I say, “Accuracy might be more difficult with a submachine gun than with a pistol, that is true.”

  I exchange the Sten for a pistol and take aim at a circular knothole in the center of the tree trunk. At this distance, there’s no chance I’ll miss. But the jackass propped against the tree doesn’t know that.

  I fire off two rounds before he has time to react. The bullets hit the knot exactly where I wanted them to, within millimeters of each other. I watch the man slowly come around to what just happened, his body leaping to action one flabby bit at a time in a comic, erratic dance.

  “You crazy woman!” he hollers, red with rage. “You could have killed me!”

  I finally turn to address him. “No, I’ll leave that deed to the Germans.”

  He points a threatening finger at me and storms off into the woods.

  Picking up where I left off, I say, “But with practice either weapon will get the job done with speed and accuracy. That is called the double tap.”

  At the end of our hour-long training and target practice, Edgar gives me a sheepish grin as he hands over his weapon. “You were good.”

  “Thank you, Edgar. That means a lot to me.”

  “Will you train us again?”

  “That’s up to Pierre, I suppose.”

  His eyes go wide as he notices a change in scenery over my right shoulder.

  Without turning to look, I know Pierre is on his way. He’s probably been made aware of my unconventional teaching methods. I prepare myself for a humiliating lecture. Looks like I won’t be training Big Edgar again, after all.

  “Adele did a good job!” Edgar calls out in my defense, before rushing off.

  Pierre comes up beside me. “I spoke with Charles. You shot at him?”

  “Pierre, I didn’t. He insulted me, so I shot the tree to scare him. He wasn’t in danger.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you mean? Do you believe me?”

  “Yes, I believe you. I told him he should have followed your instructions. I chose you to train the men. By disregarding your training, he also disregarded me.”

  “Thank you, Pierre.”

  He extends his hand. “Apparently you did a good job. You’re welcome to come back.” The corners of his lips tweak into a smile as he says, “Next time you can teach the proper use and handling of explosives, so the men don’t blow each other to bits.”

  It isn’t an outright apology for his “flimsy little girls” remark, but it’s much better than nothing. From Pierre, it’s probably as good as I’m going to get.

  I press my sweaty palm to my skirt before taking his hand. “I’ll come back,” I say, as we shake on it. “You can count on that.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Twice in the next week, Cammerts met with Denise and me for drinks at Le Colisée, in the middle of the afternoon. A dangerous move, I thought, to lump several agents together in the open like that where we could be watched, followed, or nabbed all at once. Both times, I patiently waited for the perfect opportunity to speak up about this security risk, but it never arrived, and before I knew it we were shaking hands good-bye.

  “He’s not alone today,” I tell Denise while we park our bicycles next to the terrace. “Looks like he’s brought new agents to meet us.”

  Denise grumbles, “Rookies.”

  Cammerts and a lithe young man with elfin ears stand when we join them at the table. The woman, whose perfume I smell from yards away, remains seated.

  “Adele and Denise, this is Agnes Purdon and Benjamin Baker.”

  Denise and I say hello to the new agents as Cammerts excuses himself to order lemonade inside the café.

  Agnes has a kind smile that shows a lot of teeth. She’s probably a nice enough person, but when her wide smile parts, English words come out her mouth.

  “It’s a thrill to meet you,” she says, smack-dab in the middle of the crowded bistro. It stuns me like a slap.

  It won’t be such a thrill to meet Denise and me if we clobber her.

  “How are you finding Paris?” Benjamin asks. He speaks French, at least, but not well. No dialect like his exists in any region of France, or anyplace else for that matter.

  “It’s a beautiful city.”

  Generic answers are all he’ll get from me. I sure hope he takes the hint and doesn’t try to carry on a full conversation. Whatever draws attention to him draws attention to me. And to Denise.

  Agnes slips her long dark hair behind one ear. “You must be forever on the go. You’ve been to the Louvre? The Eiffel Tower was splendid.” Again she speaks in her native tongue.

  Flabbergasted, I stare at her. It’s a good thing Denise isn’t too dumbstruck to put Agnes in her place.

  “Speak to us in French,” she whispers. “Your carelessness is not appreciated.”

  Agnes blushes. “Je m’excuse.”

  Cammerts returns with our drinks. Along with my lemonade, I receive an envelope, which he slides across the table. “Adele, this letter came for you.”

  A personal letter. I look to Denise, and she looks back with a hint of a grin.

  “Thank you.” I set it on my lap, unopened.

  Like bumps on a log, Denise and I drink our lemonade, without adding a single thing to the conversation. Benjamin’s god-awful French accent grates against my ears. The odd English word pops up here and there.

  Was I naive to assume that agents are taking matters of security as seriously as Denise and I are? That only the cream of the crop passed training and agents who muck up will be dealt with? Agnes and Benjamin are a rude, almost frightening, awakening. Are Denise and I kidding ourselves, buying into a promise of covert professionalism that doesn’t even exist?

  “Adele, I can’t have Benjamin and Agnes residing in the same house,” Cammerts says. “Agnes will spend a portion of her time with you.”

  My head snaps up. The agent who spoke English in a public place is going to stay with me? I wouldn’t dream of putting Estelle and her family’s lives at risk. Not for anyone or anything, but especially not for this careless woman I just met. She is not my problem and not my responsibility. I have to draw the line.

  “No,” I tell him.

  “Pardon me, Adele?”

  “I won’t do it. Everyone makes mistakes, but I don’t think Agnes will learn from hers. I can’t take a chance on someone who’s not cut out for this.”

  Agnes’s rouged cheeks tremble as she fights back tears. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, I really don’t, but it’s the truth.

  My words warble as I force them out. “She can find her own way. As we have.” I bend the envelope in half and tuck it in my brassiere for safekeeping. “C’mon, Denise. We’re done here.”

  Denise appears lost in thought with her lemonade. For a split second, I wonder if she’s about to jump
ship and leave me.

  “Good day to you all,” she says. Handshakes go round the table. “We’ll keep in touch, I’m sure.”

  At our bikes, I give my head a shake. “What did I just do?”

  “Should I start calling you Boss?”

  I climb aboard my bicycle. “It’ll wind up being the right decision.”

  “No argument here. As I see it, Agnes is behind bars within the week, and if Benjamin lasts even that long with that pathetic accent of his, then I’m a monkey’s uncle.” She belts me a good one on the arm. “With those freakishly long toes of yours, you’ll make a splendid monkey’s aunt.”

  I laugh and stick my tongue out at her.

  Pedaling away, she says, “What kind of mad world are we living in, where you and I are the experienced ones?”

  “I’m as baffled as you are, believe me.”

  We ride side by side through the sunny streets.

  Too many shops display signs that they have no merchandise to sell. A sign in a restaurant window proclaims the establishment off-limits to dogs and Jews. Makeshift street signs in German point the way to Denise’s district. A cluster of women lower their heads and skitter away down an empty alleyway, illegally dragging bulky tree limbs behind them, fuel for their cooking fires.

  “Who do you suppose the letter’s from?” Denise asks when we turn the corner onto her street. “Do you think it’s from him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The letter could have only come from one person. My aunt, the other choice, doesn’t know my whereabouts; another one of those security measures that are supposedly vital to follow.

  “Aren’t you curious to read it?”

  “Not really.”

  Without giving me even a sideward glance, she says, “Liar. Your face is twitching.”

  “I’m too good to let anything—”

  “Twitch,” she says, when I don’t elaborate. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before.”

  My hands, clammy with sweat, slip against the handlebars. I regain my grip. “Denise, a radio van. It crept past the end of your street. Did you see it?”

  “I saw it.”

  We push our bikes around back to Stefan’s tiny courtyard.

  “You thought I transmitted lightning quick before. Wait until you see me today.”

  “You’re not honestly thinking of transmitting,” I say, though I’m not actually too surprised. “They’re in your neighborhood at this very moment.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it? I’m not transmitting at this very moment. By the time I am, they will be long gone.”

  Once in the attic, Denise falls like a sack of flour onto the divan. I take up my usual pose, flat on my back on the floor. The envelope within my brassiere digs into my skin, a reminder that it exists and has yet to be acknowledged.

  I hold out as long as I can, then casually get to my feet. “If you need me, I’ll be in the loo.”’

  I leave the attic, feeling Denise’s stare on my back.

  Inside the bathroom, I lock the door and take a seat, not on the toilet but on the rounded rim of the bathtub. I’m reminded of my cousin Philip who was assigned the role of fuel warden in his family. We were permitted one five-inch bath per week back in Britain, and he took his job seriously enough to paint a line five inches from the bottom of the tub.

  The small brown envelope feels crisp and new in my hands, as if it hasn’t made a perilous journey. I turn it over, licking sweat from my upper lip.

  Finally, I open it and let Robbie speak to me again.

  Dearest Adele,

  How are you? Well, I hope. And Denise? I’m all right, in fine health and good spirits. There have been a few close calls, but my escort is sharp as a tack. He’s a real capable fella. You’d like him.

  Tonight we toasted my birthday with the elderly couple accommodating us. The effects of the champagne are making me nostalgic. I couldn’t sleep without passing along sincerest thanks for everything you did for me. I’ll never forget you or your kindness. I think of your smile often. You haven’t seen the last of me, Adele. That’s a promise. Good night, until we meet again.

  I reread the letter twice, lingering over the bit about him being in fine health. I return the folded letter to the envelope. Why did he make an empty promise to see me? It only raises my hopes so they can be dashed even more painfully when we never meet again.

  Overhead, footsteps rush about.

  “Aaadeeele!”

  I spring from the side of the tub, forcibly stuffing the rigid envelope back into my undergarments. I burst from the bathroom and sprint, heart pounding, to the attic. The first thing I notice is Denise’s pallor. Always a pale girl, her freckles now stand out against her ashen complexion.

  “What’s going on?” I run to help her pack the suitcase.

  “I happened to glance out the window,” she says, breathless, “and there was the van. It drove away at first, but now it’s parked down the street. The noose is tightening.”

  With Denise’s all-important radio and belongings packed, we make for the second-floor emergency exit.

  At the window, Denise grips her suitcase and throws one leg into the open air. When it’s my turn, I follow her. The height of this window is startling. The possibility of a violent fall seems all too real, so unlike the height from an airplane that is almost too enormous to take in. We shimmy down the gutter to the courtyard, and thankfully the first part of me to touch the ground is my foot, not my head.

  Denise fumbles as she attaches the suitcase to her bicycle.

  “Hurry, hurry,” I say.

  She finally secures it, and then we’re off, cycling toward some safe place that only exists in our hopes.

  The screech of brakes fills the air, a terrible sound that means only one thing. A black Citroën Avant, a menacing-looking automobile if I ever saw one, roars to the side of the road. The doors simultaneously fly open. Four uniformed men exit the car, shouting in German. They swiftly close in on us and block our escape route, pistols pointed at our heads. Grabbing hold of our bicycles, they nip our brief flight in the bud.

  We are captured.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Denise and I wheel our bicycles down the sidewalk, sandwiched between the two plainclothes secret police officers tasked with taking us in for questioning.

  “I don’t trust these two,” one of them says. “Puncture their tires.”

  I push on, willing him to change his mind.

  The soldier minding Denise shakes his head. “The tires alone will fetch us a good price on the black market.”

  I know Paris well enough to know we’re being led to German headquarters. For weeks I’ve lived among German soldiers, but under their radar. They go about their business. I go about mine. At headquarters, all that will change. The Germans will have complete control, and I will have none. To know I’m only minutes from being at their mercy terrifies me. I don’t want the Gestapo to hurt me. I don’t want them to hurt Denise. I dread being separated from her when we arrive. Apart, neither of us will know what is happening to the other. And they will use those worries against us.

  The training lectures on interrogation gave me such a splitting headache I had to lie down afterward. The SOE hammered home the brutality of the Gestapo, who will do whatever it takes to get a confession. No rules. Nothing barred.

  A dire warning from one of our instructors comes rushing back to me. The Gestapo is above the law! Its activities cannot be challenged or investigated!

  The SOE also made sure we learned the Gestapo’s tricks of questioning. When a student seated next to me said, “We won’t be fooled by the Krauts now,” I agreed with him, so confident I wouldn’t get caught in the first place. As I walk toward a real interrogation alongside Denise, the embarrassment of being wrong brings me to tears.

  Denise isn’t a stranger, or even just a fellow agent. She’s my best friend. I might not fall for “confessions” supposedly signed by her, but what if the Gestapo threatens to hurt her unless
I talk? Can I stay silent as they describe her torture to me, knowing I have the power to end her suffering? What if I break down to protect her and put the lives of hundreds, including Estelle’s family and the LaRoches, at risk?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Denise. She stares straight ahead, her teeth methodically tugging on her bottom lip. I want to be stoic like her, but the more I think about what we’re passively walking into, the more I want to bolt. We have to at least try to escape. The only time to do that is now, before we reach headquarters.

  Our lucky break shows up at the exact moment I set my mind to running.

  The soldier beside me points to a café down the street. “There’s another one!”

  He darts off, abandoning his comrade who is now outnumbered.

  I glance at the remaining soldier and Denise’s suitcase, still strapped to her bicycle.

  I try to relay a message to her with my eyes. I’ll distract. You go. I’ll catch up.

  No. Her lips press together, resolute. I won’t leave you.

  I mouth the word “Estelle’s.”

  She gives me a slight nod of agreement. Holding her hands to her mouth like a megaphone, she screams toward the café, “Jacques! Run, they are coming for you!”

  The other soldier immediately stumbles into the street, frantically glancing between the café and Denise. In the seconds before he can get his wits about him and realize he is being tricked, Denise throws her leg over her bicycle. She rides away in the opposite direction as if blasted from a cannon.

  I lift my bicycle, empowered by every ounce of backbone I have in me, and heave it at the soldier before he can fire his raised weapon at Denise. The bike knocks him off his feet. Whether or not he falls to the ground is anybody’s guess. I don’t stick around to watch.

  I run for my life down a side street. Fear churns a landslide of thoughts through my mind. I desperately cling to those that are helpful.