An Unlikely Spy

by Terry Deary

  *

  Brigit had gone into the town by then. The streets were filled with people complaining about losing their electric power. The poor folk, who couldn’t afford electric, still used gas and they gloated a little. Most of the shops and factories had to close and the workers hung around the doors, chatting and waiting.

  The streets were filled with German lorries, some carrying the remains of the broken train and tanks back to the army base, others going the other way to repair the ruined telephone and power lines.

  Brigit found Blacksmith Legrande in his forge, where he pushed at bellows to make the coals glow white-hot and crafted metal rods. He looked up and smiled. ‘Busy?’ Brigit asked.

  ‘Busy making new fittings for the power lines. Someone brought a big pole crashing down in the early hours.’

  Brigit let her mouth go wide in mock shock. ‘Really? Who could do such a thing?’

  ‘The gossips say there is a British spy in Bray hoping to set up a Resistance group,’ the blacksmith said and gave the girl a large wink.

  She moved closer to the man and felt the scorching heat of the forge. He dipped the hot metal into a pail of water where it hissed and spat and turned from red to black. They moved away from the forge and the blacksmith cleared a space on a bench cluttered with horseshoes and nails, brackets and metal bars, so they could sit down.

  He spoke as softly as his growling voice would allow. ‘I had an odd letter last night,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ Brigit said. ‘I posted it through your door.’

  The man blinked. ‘But it was from the Gestapo. Are you working for them?’

  ‘Of course not. Maman was betrayed. Someone in our group told Major Strauss of our plan to bomb the power lines. I sent a letter telling each of you to go to the churchyard at nine thirty last night.’

  ‘I didn’t go,’ the man said.

  ‘Of course you didn’t. Because you’re not the traitor. Only the one who really is working for the Gestapo was going to turn up. And I was there to see who it was.’

  ‘And who was it?’ Legrande asked.

  Brigit told him.

  ‘I’ll kill the evil turncoat,’ the blacksmith growled and gripped his heaviest hammer.

  ‘Then the Gestapo will know there is a Resistance group in Bray. They think there is just a single SOE agent here from Britain. What we must do is make the traitor vanish. As if they got scared and ran away.’

  ‘I can smash them with my hammer,’ the blacksmith said, ‘but I’m not a magician. I can’t make them vanish.’

  ‘No, but I can,’ Brigit said with a grin. ‘The Lysander collects us at ten o’clock tonight.’

  ‘The town will be swarming with troops,’ Legrande gasped. ‘The Lysander may land but it will never take off again. After last night there will be patrols everywhere.’

  ‘No. After last night every soldier in Bray will be surrounding the churchyard, waiting to round up every Resistance worker in town. Trust me, Monsieur Legrande, just be at the old airfield before ten with your lantern to light the landing path. It’ll be fine.’

  Brigit then went off to find Henri Caron and Marie Marcel and told them to meet, as usual, at Colette’s barn. She knew one was a traitor and wasn’t going to tell them of the landing until the last minute.

  Then she headed back to the farm for lunch and a rest before night fell and the last great adventure began.

  Berlin

  ‘What time does the train arrive in Bray?’ General Fischer asked.

  ‘Ah, the line is still blocked after the sabotage,’ Colonel Roth explained. ‘We must go to Paris and then to Amiens. From there it’s forty kilometres by car. We’ll be there by dark, sir.’

  ‘A tiring day.’ The general sighed as he struggled to fasten the top button on the walrus neck that went with his walrus moustache.

  ‘We could fly, but the British Air Force have been very active. They could shoot us down.’

  ‘No, no, no, that would never do,’ the general cried. ‘Train and car it shall be. Just so long as I am in Bray to see the arrest of the whole Resistance group. A brilliant piece of work by Major Strauss… your uncle?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘A genius. We need more men like him in the Gestapo… a man who is intelligent yet one who can strike like a viper when the time comes. I’m a bit like that you know?’

  ‘You are, sir. Shall we go?’

  ‘Lead the way, Roth. I shall remember this day for a long time.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  ‘They’ve been there for over a hundred years’

  Bray-on-Somme

  Night fell, and the full moon shone in a calm purple sky. Aimee and Brigit walked across the eastern fields of the farm to the airstrip. They each carried a small bag with the few clothes they had brought from Britain. They left behind the radio and the codebooks, the pencil bombs, the maps and the explosives. Colette would hide them and they’d be ready for another day.

  To the west they could hear army trucks moving into place. If they hoped to trap secret agents while making that sort of noise they were wrong. A cat wearing ten bells had as much chance of catching a bird.

  As it grew closer to ten o’clock the town finally fell silent. A light breeze from the west would carry the sound of the Lysander arriving long before anyone saw it. But the enemy would be too busy at the churchyard and the saboteurs would be ready.

  Blacksmith Legrande stood by the gate to the field. ‘Good evening, Charles,’ Aimee said with a smile.

  ‘Good evening, Madame Marcel,’ Brigit said to the teacher. She had been unhappy when she’d arrived at the farm to be told of Aimee’s escape that night.

  ‘Good evening, Henri,’ Aimee said to the reporter. ‘Are we all ready?’

  Two Resistance workers and one traitor muttered that they were.

  ‘People in the town said someone was arrested by the Gestapo around half past eight last night,’ Marie Marcel said. ‘It wasn’t you, Madame Furst, was it?’

  ‘It was,’ Brigit said. ‘And me too. But we talked our way out of it.’

  ‘How?’

  Brigit laughed. ‘We just told them we were Gestapo agents pretending to be Resistance saboteurs.’

  ‘And Major Strauss believed you?’

  Brigit shrugged. ‘He had to. You see, there really is a Gestapo spy in Bray. He knew that. He just didn’t know who the man or woman was.’

  ‘So how were you betrayed?’

  ‘The traitor whispered our secret to old Corporal Rudolf in the dark.’

  ‘Then we’re all in danger,’ Marie Marcel gasped. ‘The traitor could name us all.’

  Before she could answer, Brigit’s ears picked up the faint humming like a distant bee. ‘The Lysander. It’s a few minutes early – the westerly wind must have blown it along,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to hurry.’ Aimee placed Blacksmith Legrande and Marie Marcel at the end of the runway where the plane would stop before it turned around and they climbed on board.

  Brigit and Henri Caron ran to the far end of the airfield and peered into the sky. The Lysander made a black shape against the cream moon and they switched on their lanterns.

  The plane waggled its wings to show it had seen them, then the engine’s note dropped as the pilot cut his speed and began to circle towards the waiting group.

  The plane landed. It was two minutes to ten. It turned, the glass hatch over the cockpit slid open and Aimee ran forward to pass the cases to the waiting pilot.

  Marie Marcel stepped forward towards the tail of the plane. Blacksmith Legrande took a sock filled with sand from his coat pocket and hit her over the back of the head with it.

  *

  In Bray churchyard there was silence apart from the creaking of the leather Gestapo boots and the shuffle of army boots over the grassy mounds that had covered the coffins for hundreds of years.

  ‘Are you certain the Resistance will turn up?’ General Fischer asked.

  ‘Oh yes, sir. We have the names of
the traitors willing to join here. Camille Olivier, Hugo Philippe and Bastien Robert.’

  ‘And the Gestapo spy in their midst? Will they be here too?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We’d better be careful to arrest them with the others, so no one suspects. We can use them again. What was the brave woman’s name, Colonel Roth?’

  ‘She’s a teacher. Marie Marcel, sir,’ Roth replied.

  ‘That wasn’t the name she gave me,’ Major Strauss said. ‘It was Furst. Aimee Furst. Marcel is just her code name.’

  ‘These agents change their names to keep their secrets,’ Roth grumbled. ‘I just wish they’d tell me in Berlin when they do it.’

  There was loud groaning and a clack of turning wheels as the clock on the church tower moved forward and the bell began to strike the hour. Ten times it sounded and the air trembled into silence.

  A faint light appeared between the gravestones. ‘Switch that torch off, Corporal Rudolf,’ Major Strauss said. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Reading the gravestones, sir,’ the old soldier said.

  ‘We are waiting to capture Resistance workers while you read gravestones?’

  ‘That’s what I was about to tell you, sir,’ the corporal said. ‘They’re already here.’

  ‘What? Where?’ General Fischer choked. ‘Where?’

  ‘Under the ground, sir. They’ve been there for over a hundred years. I thought those names sounded familiar,’ Rudolf went on sadly. ‘Every month I change the flowers on the graves of some of my comrades from the last war and those are the names on some of the other gravestones. See for yourself, sir,’ he said, flashing a torch at the moss-covered headstones. ‘Camille Olivier, Hugo Philippe and Bastien Robert.’

  ‘That Furst woman lied to us,’ Major Strauss groaned.

  ‘Not really, sir. She said those three would be here at ten o’clock tonight… and they are.’

  *

  Blacksmith Legrande lifted the limp body of Marie Marcel into the Lysander where she lay twisted on the floor. Brigit climbed in after her and checked that the gag and ropes that bound the traitor would stay tight till they landed.

  Aimee turned to little Henri Caron who was still dazed at what had happened. ‘I trusted her,’ he said. ‘Why did she do it?’

  ‘The SOE back in Britain will find out when they question her. Meanwhile you are safe.’ The blacksmith walked over towards them. Aimee went on, ‘You have both been heroes. For now, you need a rest from the dangers. One day, when the British and American armies are ready to land in France, Mr Churchill will send an SOE agent – it may be me, it may be someone else. They will need your help. They will need your sharp eyes, Henri. They will need your strong arms, Charles.’

  ‘How will we know?’ Henri asked.

  ‘We will send a radio message to my mother, Colette, at the farm. Mr Churchill and our American friends will invade and drive the Germans back to where they came from. The Resistance in France must make our invasion easier by destroying the Germans from inside the country. You have been heroes; you shall be heroes again.’

  Aimee shook hands with each of them then kissed them on their cheeks. They were cheeks that were wet and salty with tears. She climbed the short ladder into the cockpit and squeezed in beside Brigit. Her feet rested on the groaning shape of a traitor.

  The two men ran to the end of the field to light the path for the plane. The roar of the engine split the air and moments later it was soaring over the quiet town of Bray.

  A hundred German soldiers and four Gestapo officers looked up at it.

  The oldest and fattest of the officers turned to the small and chubby one. ‘So, Major Strauss, while we have been chasing phantom Resistance workers, the real ones are flying off to safety.’

  The major’s mouth was too dry with fear to answer. He nodded.

  ‘Do you have a warm coat, Major Strauss?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the man croaked.

  ‘You will need it. Pack your bag. You are off to Russia.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  ‘We will accept nothing less than full victory’

  June 1941–May 1945: Coventry, England

  The Furst family settled in Coventry. The haters of Castle Bromwich were fifteen miles away. Marius was released from internment and changed his name to Foster to avoid the people of his new home town treating him like an enemy. If anyone asked him about his accent he told them he was Polish and had escaped just before the Germans invaded in 1939.

  Life was quiet. Brigit went to a new school. She couldn’t settle. Aimee began work in a factory. She found it dull. Brigit lied about her age and went to work alongside her maman. It made life better for them both.

  At the start of 1944 the SOE asked Aimee to return to France. The fightback against the German invaders would begin soon. The date was secret. Aimee left to lead the old Resistance group in Bray. Her trusty helpers were a blacksmith and a newspaper reporter. But now there were a dozen more desperate to help.

  This time Brigit had to stay behind. Every week Major Ellis visited Marius and Brigit with news. The Germans were being crushed by armies from the south and the east. The enemy hadn’t enough men to spare to seek out and destroy the Resistance fighters. It was the Resistance doing the destroying.

  At last the news was announced. The invasion from the west had begun. British and American troops crossed the English Channel and landed on the beaches of north-west France.

  As Mr Churchill had said back in 1942, ‘This is not the end, it is not even the beginning of the end, but it is perhaps the end of the beginning.’

  On 6 June 1944 the American leader General Eisenhower told his troops, ‘You will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world. Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped, and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely. The free men of the world are marching together to victory. We will accept nothing less than full victory.’

  Brigit and Marius listened in silence to the BBC radio report. The general finished, ‘Good luck, and let us all beseech the blessings of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking.’

  ‘We all pray that,’ Marius said.

  ‘You want to see the defeat of your own people?’ Brigit asked.

  ‘No. Only the evil ones. The Nazis,’ he said. ‘For the sake of all the good Germans.’

  And their prayers were granted.

  A year later the war drew to a close. France had been set free when Major Ellis delivered the message: ‘Aimee is on her way home.’

  Epilogue

  Tuesday, 8 May 1945: Coventry, England

  The city streets hummed like the tram rails under the rolling steel wheels. But this time it was the tramping footsteps of the Coventry people marching towards the centre that made the rails ring.

  The green glow of gas lamps lit the smiling faces and turned the bombed buildings into smiles with broken teeth.

  ‘Will you be going to the victory party in the centre?’ Brigit asked. Her father and mother looked at one another and shook their heads. ‘No. The people don’t want to see a German in the middle of their happiness.’

  ‘You’re French, Maman.’

  Aimee shrugged. ‘And the British believe they fought the war to save the French. They hate the Germans. They despise the French. But you go, Brigit. Start making good memories after the bombs, the Blitz and the bitterness. Tonight will be a fresh start.’

  Brigit put on a light coat and stepped out of the front door into a river of excited people. Most of them spoke in low voices and added to the hum that swelled as they met with other streams from side streets and alleys.

  Families kept their heads together, but odd single men and women walked with their heads up, looking at the darkening sky and breathing in the warm summer air of victory.

  One lone girl looked across and caught Brigit’s eye then looked aw
ay, frowning. She wore a worn and faded brown coat and had rubbed a red powder into her cheeks and lips to make them rosy. Her straw hat was shapeless, but a new red, white and blue ribbon made it cheerful as a sparrow.

  The girl looked again, and her thin lips fell open in a small ‘o’ of surprise. ‘Brigit?’ she cried. ‘Brigit Furst?’

  Brigit nodded, uncertain. She knew she should have known the girl’s face, but it was too thin and pinched. ‘It’s me,’ the girl went on. ‘You remember me? Gladys Turnbull? We was at school together – before the war.’

  ‘Of course,’ Brigit said faintly, remembering the girl who had spent years trying to bully her. ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘It seems ages ago – six years. We was just kids, but we had a good time, didn’t we?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Gladys threw her arms round Brigit and it was like being hugged by a skeleton. ‘I mean you was the clever one at the top of the class and I was at the bottom. But we got on, didn’t we?’ She stopped for a moment, but the flowing crowd forced them to keep walking towards the city centre. ‘We wasn’t evacuated together, was we? I was sent to a horrible place. Farm in Wales. What about you?’

  ‘A small village in Wales. I didn’t stay long,’ Brigit said.

  ‘Yeah you got out. Don’t blame you. The rest of us wasn’t far behind, you know. We made an escape plan. The milk lorry stopped at the farm gates every morning and one of the lads knew how to drive. Well, the driver got out to load the milk churns, we piled in and drove off. I think the language that driver used was terrible.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Well, he was shouting in Welsh so we never really knew. What a laugh. We ran out of petrol at a place called Bewdley and walked the rest of the way.’

  ‘Well done, Gladys.’ Brigit smiled.

  ‘I bet you never made no great escape like that… and it was all my idea. They was good days.’