Liberation

  “Anne? You followed us? You could have been killed, you stupid child,” she said.

  Anne put her hands out. “Please, Madame, take me with you! I can cook, I can clean. Don’t send me back to Maman.”

  Nancy sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Go home to your family.”

  “I want to help fight! My family are Milice, I hate them. I wish my father and brother had been in the bar when you came in.”

  Nancy looked at René.

  “I don’t know her,” he said. “Or this place. I just use this barn for storage. I don’t like this village. Too fascist. I hear they were very sorry when they found they had no Jews to give up here, though they looked carefully in every single cupboard just to make sure.”

  “And I know a way out of town,” Anne said quickly. “A track through my uncle’s farm just north of here. There are already Germans in the square, they are setting up roadblocks.”

  “Thanks to your little escapade,” Mateo growled, looking at Nancy. He peered out of the doorway of the barn. “We have to get moving. Lights coming up from the village.”

  “Please, Madame!” The girl put her hands together, and she looked like one of those sentimental Victorian adverts of a poor, golden-hearted child praying for her sick puppy. “I do not want to go home.”

  Nancy could relate to that. “Fine. Let’s finish loading, and hurry the fuck up.”

  A sudden squeal of static booming up from the village made them freeze.

  “What the hell?” Mateo said. “Let’s get moving.”

  Nancy put her hand on his arm. “Wait.”

  The voice curled up from the square. She knew it at once, the exact, slightly accented French of the officer in the Rue Paradis, the man she had seen presiding over the execution in the town square.

  “Madame Fiocca? Nancy? I know you are there. This is Major Böhm.” He paused for a moment, as if expecting her to answer, then continued. “That was an ugly business in the tavern, Nancy. As if you want to get caught. I’ve seen it before, the guilt has driven you mad. I wonder how your men feel? Do they know that you’re leading them to ruin, just as you did Henri?”

  She heard him. She felt his voice in her bones. She looked around her. The girl had clambered into the cab of the truck; René had paused to listen, his hand resting on the box of ammunition he had just loaded into the back. Mateo had his shoulders hunched, staring at the ground. He would not look at her.

  “Madame Fiocca, Henri is still alive.”

  Nancy felt her whole body lurch forward into the darkness, felt Mateo’s hand on her elbow, steadying her. She strained forward to listen.

  “I swear to you he lives. Give yourself up, Nancy, and I shall arrange for his release. It is as simple as that. You know I am in Montluçon. Come to me.”

  She took a step forward as the voice clicked off, and Mateo’s grip tightened on her arm.

  “Mon colonel!” he hissed, and she shook herself.

  “Who is Henri?” René asked conversationally.

  “My husband,” Nancy answered him. “My husband.”

  “We have to leave, Nancy,” Mateo said. “Now.”

  He almost shoved her into the cab, as if she were a prisoner, then as soon as they heard René climb into the back, he released the brake and they moved off into the dark.

  48

  Henri was alive. The idea she could save him made her heart flower and burst. She could see him arriving back in Marseille, see him being greeted by his old friends, even his father and his sister, and the joy she felt stopped her breath. She had not known, had never dared realize, how desperate she was to trade her life for his. She had thought only of helping speed the war to an end, willing him to survive until then. This was so much better. The road passed without registering on her mind; she only realized they were back as the truck nosed carefully up the track to the camp. Something was wrong. Perhaps it was the lack of a reception committee. The men knew they’d been out looking for bazookas and normally the prospect of new kit would make them as giddy as kids waiting for Father Christmas. No cooking fires either. She spotted Juan jogging toward her across the field. The way he carried himself confirmed her fears.

  She got out. “Wait here,” she said to Anne over her shoulder. “Stay in the truck. Don’t say anything to anyone other than René and Mateo.”

  Mateo had gone to greet his brother, and now they came toward her together.

  “What is it?”

  “Mon colonel, Gaspard caught Captain Rake with a recruit. Fournier and Tardivat are away at the lower camp. Gaspard—”

  “Shit!”

  She strode up the hill. Most of the men were staying at a distance, but a group of perhaps twenty were clustered round one of the waste pits, laughing and nudging each other. A couple of them slunk off sideways as they saw her approach, without even bothering to warn their playmates she was on her way. One guy had his cock in his hand and was pissing down into the hole.

  At last the pisser heard her coming and half turned, his greasy little face still pink with amusement. She hit him, hard on the side of the jaw, and he went down, getting piss all over his trousers in the process.

  “Where is Gaspard?”

  The men started backing away. For the first time she looked into the hole. Denden was curled up in the corner of the pit on a pile of shit and animal bones. His hands covered his face, but she could see the bruises blooming on his neck and cheek. They had beaten him first. The impulse to shoot someone was almost overwhelming.

  “Mon colonel.” It was Gaspard, sauntering out from under the tree line with a fag between his stubby fingers, looking as if he was just out for a quiet stroll.

  “Get him out of there,” she said.

  Gaspard shrugged. “The pervert was discovered corrupting a recruit.”

  “I imagine the recruit was enjoying it.”

  Irritation flickered across Gaspard’s face. “These men do not volunteer to be the prey of a disgusting deviant.”

  She spoke softly and clearly. “That British officer is the reason you have weapons, ammunition and information. Without that highly trained British officer, you are nothing but a bully stealing sheep from the peasants and playing hide and seek with the local collaborators. Now get him the fuck out of there.”

  Gaspard’s gaze didn’t shift from Nancy—one, two, three—then he lifted his hand and a couple of the men crouched down at the edge of the pit and put out their hands to haul Denden up.

  “No,” Nancy said, still quietly, but shifting the Bren across her chest. “You, Major. You get in there and help him out.”

  The breeze shifted through the trees, and the dappled shade rippled across their faces. Nancy heard Mateo clearing his throat discreetly behind her.

  Gaspard blinked. He sat down on the edge of the waste pit, then shoved himself off the side. His boots squelched in the crap and bones as he landed, and she thought he was going to fall face forward into the stink, but he managed to stay upright. He took three uneven precarious steps across the foul-smelling, shifting morass and put his hand out.

  Denden grasped it and hauled himself upright. He was covered in filth, and blood trickled from his nose and a cut above his eye. He did not speak.

  The men nearest to him outside the pit lay prone on the ground, their faces contorted as they tried to stop breathing in the stench, and put out their arms. Gaspard lifted Denden from below and Denden was hoicked bodily from the pit and rolled onto the grass. He got to his feet and wavered for a second. One of the fighters grabbed on to his arm and held him steady, and when Denden had his balance back he patted the boy’s hand and was released, then walked slowly off into the woods without looking at any of them.

  Nancy didn’t stay to watch them hauling out Gaspard. She went straight to Denden’s tent, fished out a shirt and shorts from his pack, grabbed a towel and followed him.

  He was waiting for her by the bathing spot and as he saw her approach, began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Gaspard wil
l pay for this,” she said as she set down his fresh clothes and helped him pull the sodden and stinking shirt off his shoulders.

  “It’s nothing,” he said.

  “It’s a fucking outrage.”

  He turned to let her peel the fabric from his back.

  “I said it’s nothing.” His voice was vicious, clear. She was about to insist, then she saw. His back was covered in scar tissue. The thick ropes of whip scars.

  “Denden…”

  He bent down to untie his laces and stepped out of his boots. “You knew this wasn’t my first time in France, Nancy. I was here in thirty-nine. I toured with a circus troop and ended up in Paris, passing information through the network there. Lasted almost three years. Trained to use the radio in the field when one of the other operators was shot. I was one of the agents they picked up when they broke our radio codes.”

  “The Gestapo?”

  He took off his trousers and stepped gingerly from the rock platform into the water. He was as thin and wiry as she was. His arms from elbow to wrist were deeply tanned. She sat down cross-legged on the shore while he lowered himself under the water then emerged, pushing the hair back from his face.

  “Who else? They had me for six months then deported me, but I jumped from the train with a couple of others. Made it to the Breton coast. Found a friendly fisherman.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her chin in her hand.

  He poured the warm water over his skin with his cupped palms, working it through his hair.

  “Because I shouldn’t need to show people my scars to prove I’m not a queer coward.”

  Nancy flinched. She’d said that. To a man who had survived three years in occupied Paris. To a man who it turned out knew exactly what would happen to him if he were caught. To her friend.

  “Denden, what I said… I didn’t mean it…”

  “Yes, you did.” He palmed more of the water, rubbed it across his chest, then more to clean the blood from around his nose. “Everyone thinks queers are cowards. I was afraid they were right; I think that’s why I started passing information in the first place.” He leaned his head back, feeling the sun on his face, his arms wide. He looked like Jesus being baptized. “You think you’re a modern girl, Nancy. But you’re still your mother’s daughter. All that dreary Bible shit is still in you somewhere, judging us all.”

  He stepped out of the water and she handed him the towel. He wrapped it round his middle and sat down next to her.

  “You might be right. I judge myself too. It makes me a miserable bitch sometimes.”

  He lay back on the cool stone and looked up into the sky.

  “Was it Jules they caught you with?”

  “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  Nancy had drawn in her breath, ready to tell him about the Milice, about Böhm, about what she was going to do, but that curt little dismissal caught her own confession in her throat. She’d literally dug him out of the shit, and she’d tried to apologize. She didn’t owe him any more than that. Yes, she did. She knew she did, but she couldn’t give it to him.

  49

  The incident was not spoken of afterward, and if anyone had anything to say about Anne’s arrival in camp they kept it to themselves. Nancy had most of the day to prepare her notes for Denden and whatever officer SOE sent in after her before Tardi found her.

  He slammed his way into the bus. She hid the notes she’d been making under the satin pillow and waited calmly for the onslaught.

  “Mateo thinks you aren’t going to do it, but you are, aren’t you?”

  She’d never seen him like this, his face flushed, voice raised. He seemed to take up all the oxygen in the narrow space of the bus, leaning toward her. She let her hand rest on her side arm.

  “This German is lying to you!”

  “Tardi,” she said calmly, “I have to do it. If there is any chance that Henri is alive, I have to trade my life for his. I love him. He would do the same for me.”

  Tardivat slammed the flat of his palm against the side of the bus, making the world lurch. “Bullshit! You’re not in France for him, you’re here for us. That’s what you said, that’s what you swore.”

  Nancy felt a sweep of cold anger through her bones. “I’ve done enough for you! God, Tardi, don’t panic! There will still be plenty of drops, lots of parachutes. Find some other girl to make dresses for.”

  He rocked back for a second as if she’d struck him, then came forward again. “We need you! No one man is worth the damage losing you will do.”

  She stood up quickly, forcing him to back off. “Henri is worth ten of me!” she said. “A hundred of me. You don’t know, Tardi, you don’t know him. You don’t know either of us. My God, if there is any chance… I’d die for these men, but I’d die a thousand times over for Henri.” The anger died from his face as she spoke, leaving grief, bewilderment. “You’d do the same for your wife, Tardi. Don’t deny it.”

  She took her hand off her gun and he moved a step back.

  “Maybe, mon colonel,” he said, his voice bitter, “but I thought you were better than me.”

  Then he left. Nancy sat back down heavily, her head in her hands, and for the first time since she had come back to France, she realized she was shaking.

  When Nancy woke the next morning the nest on the floor she had made for Anne had been tidied neatly away. She felt a brief pang of guilt at leaving the child, but Tardi and Mateo would look after her. Nancy pulled herself up on her elbows and looked out of the window. All quiet. She had not seen Tardi again yesterday, and no one else had visited to tell her what she should or should not do. That meant Mateo hadn’t told Fournier or Denden about the offer and Tardi had kept her decision to himself. Good. It would be easier this way.

  She would sort the men into groups for training with the bazookas and get René to brief the senior fighters on their tactical use. Then, when they were all occupied she would tell one of the junior officers who hadn’t heard about Böhm’s offer, Jules perhaps, that she was going to search for another drop site closer to Montluçon and be on her way.

  She wondered what mood Mateo would be in. Would he have forgiven her for the bloodletting in the café? Maybe forgive was the wrong word. For him to forgive her she’d have to admit she was wrong—and she wasn’t wrong. He’d get over it. And Gaspard would be watching her too, looking for some way to pay her back for the incident with Denden. He’d crow when news of her departure spread round the camp. Couldn’t be helped. Fournier would be able to stand up to him now.

  At least she had some meat to throw at the buggers. The prospect of big action would focus their minds. Denden had received a message from London last night. They wanted Nancy’s group to take a bite out of a German army group forty miles south, to draw off some of the troops and help clear the way for the British to land at Marseille. Thank God they had the bazookas. Time to throw some bones: she’d consult as to strategy, as Fournier knew that part of the country well; Gaspard could pick which of the men they should train with the bazookas. Let them rub that on the sore spots of their egos.

  She dressed quickly and went off to relieve herself in the woods, then walked up the track to the main camp.

  What the…? Tardivat had Anne by the arm. She was cowering in front of him and his arm was raised.

  He saw Nancy and released the girl, throwing her forward onto the ground.

  “Mon colonel, this stupid child set a fire going out of cover! She was sending smoke signals into the air for hours.”

  “Stop scaring the kid and put it out then,” Nancy said.

  “I made bread, Madame,” Anne said, pointing at a dozen rolls sitting on a napkin on the grass. “I saw the oven last night and thought I would make a special breakfast for you, to say thank you.”

  Stupid girl. You don’t use up resources to make special thank you meals for officers. What next? Birthday cakes? But poor kid. Nancy remembered her first days as a runaway, and the kindness of strangers.

  �
��OK, Anne. Just don’t do it again.”

  Anne scurried past her, loading rolls into the skirts of her dress and retreating toward the old bus. Tardivat stamped out the cooking fire, swearing fluently.

  “Seen any planes?” Nancy asked.

  Tardivat shook his head. “But it’s a clear day. They could be far enough off and high enough to see the smoke without us seeing them.”

  Nancy thrust her hands into her pockets. “Tell the guys to keep an extra-sharp lookout. And I need you, Fournier, Mateo and Gaspard in the bus, quick as you like. New messages from London.”

  He hesitated. “You’re still going?”

  “Yes. Afraid I’ll give away our position?” She couldn’t keep the sneer out of her voice.

  He looked hurt. “No, I am not afraid of that. I am afraid Böhm lied, that you are breaking your promise to us for nothing.”

  She turned away. Not much chance Mateo would feel like getting over yesterday if he heard about Anne’s mistake, then of course he’d be ten times worse when they found out she’d gone. Enough. She was done explaining herself to these men. Another hour and then her job as peacemaker, mother, confidant and nanny was over. They could sort themselves out. She walked back toward the bus.

  “Madame, I’m so sorry.” The girl was scampering at her side, like a puppy.

  Nancy looked down at her; such a fragile little thing. How old was she? No more than eighteen. Only a year or so older than Nancy had been when she fled her home. And God knows Nancy had made enough mistakes then, only she’d had the luxury of not running away during a war.

  “It’s my fault, Anne. I should have taken you through the security protocols last night. Rolls looks good, though.” Anne smiled. “My officers are coming in for a briefing, maybe they’ll forgive you when they eat them.”

  50

  They liked the plan, she could see that. Gaspard was the king of the roadside ambush, and Fournier had developed a way with plastic which had taken out a dozen small bridges and two key factories since D-Day, but they all liked the idea of a proper battle.