The Tiger Claw

by Shauna Singh Baldwin

  Eyes everywhere, even in the furniture.

  A man signed the register at the desk and looked in Noor’s direction. Her tongue went numb till he picked up his suitcase and disappeared behind the brass scissor-grate of the lift.

  She slid her sunglasses to the tip of her nose.

  She hadn’t been dressed as now, in black slacks, a white cotton blouse and green cardigan, when she entered the front courtyard of the Hôtel du Dauphin off the avenue Thiers two hours earlier. This morning, when soldiers checked her papers at the station and she passed her valise and oilskin coat to the helpful bellman, she was “Madame,” looking like a schoolteacher on vacation, complete with straw hat and sensible paisley skirt. A schoolteacher who glanced into every mirror and shop window as she passed.

  The lunch menu in the hotel read Soupe aux légumes. Soup. Day in and day out in London, Paris and now here. Enough of soup.

  She left her coat and valise in the care of the bellman, and avoided a checkpoint by wandering back streets behind the Notre Dame de la Couture church. Through the place de la République she went, down to the river.

  In a quayside café open to the breeze off the Sarthe, she ordered an omelette, even buttered bread, saving the cheese sandwich packed by Madame Aigrain for dinner. No reason to save her counterfeit francs; she was leaving.

  A carved doll with a dress of yellowed lace for Babette. Four inches high, it couldn’t compare to the beautiful china doll the Gestapo had smashed, but it was pretty. A shocking amount, but no matter—she paid in false coin.

  Gifts caused embarrassment, Mother said, placed a burden on recipients to reciprocate. But Noor enjoyed giving.

  Monique had mentioned wanting the pattern for Noor’s reversible forest-green skirt, so the skirt was left for Madame Aigrain’s daughter to copy. Noor would use it again, insh’allah, on her next assignment in France. But a promise of the skirt pattern as present for Monique wouldn’t suffice. Noor couldn’t meet her empty-handed. Or Renée, or Émile.

  A peach for each.

  Tart green apples and a couple of Anjou pears for Mother, Dadijaan, Zaib in London—and Kabir, though she didn’t know where he was stationed at the moment. A glimpse of fresh fruit would raise their spirits.

  Returning to the hotel, Noor retrieved her valise from the bellman and, in the ladies’ lounge, quickly exchanged her straw hat and paisley skirt for the black slacks, cardigan and sunglasses, tying her hair in two ponytails. She returned to the bellman’s desk with her coat and the handbag containing the gifts over her arm, as if going for a long walk.

  He addressed her as “Mademoiselle” this time, as he took her valise for storage.

  Amusing.

  Please, Émile, please walk through that door.

  An Abwehr officer passed through the lobby.

  Émile must have been arrested. She was sure of it.

  She was poised at the very edge of her chair, handle of her handbag in hand, when Émile came into sight at the door. He sauntered as if looking for but not finding someone else, and as he passed, whispered an all-clear. His moustache hadn’t grown back to its slender line in the three days since his flight from Paris. His hair seemed to have receded further; he looked older.

  She took a deep breath, held it as long as she could and exhaled. Then a second breath. With the third exhale she calmly adjusted her sunglasses, picked up her handbag and coat, and followed him from the hotel.

  Down the avenue Thiers to the checkpoint. Noor allowed a man with a wheelbarrow full of bricks and a woman shouldering a dachshund to queue between them. Émile passed through and continued walking down the avenue.

  The little dog licked at the woman’s earrings, and the soldier reached out to stroke its ears. The woman jerked the dog away.

  “He bites B—” The word bitten off unspoken was “Boche.”

  The young German’s face hardened beneath his helmet. “Next!”

  The now grim soldier examined Noor’s ausweiss, verifying its expiration date. Sweat varnished his hairless upper lip. Her own had beaded from the heat, yet she shivered and shivered. He would notice. In a moment he would notice.

  “Danke!” He returned her papers and motioned her through.

  Émile wasn’t leading her to his home? Of course he wasn’t—too dangerous. Moss-green elbow patches flashed like semaphores down cobbled streets, into a park neatly structured as a Mughal garden.

  Her head was swimming. Noor sniffed.

  Émile dropped back. “Salut, Anne-Marie! I didn’t recognize you at first. I like your hairstyle, but you are quite pale.”

  Renée, Monique and Babette sat on a blanket spread under a canopy of cherry trees, a picnic hamper open before them. At the sight of Noor, Renée set her book aside, and Monique her sewing. Babette jumped up and ran to Noor.

  Noor kissed the air wide of the little girl’s cheeks; if she had influenza, she didn’t want Babette to catch it. Babette grasped Noor’s hand, laughing, eyes sparkling as she discovered the doll.

  Monique moved the hamper, making room for Noor and Émile. Exclaiming over the peaches, she lifted out sandwiches, even wine.

  Renée commanded and Babette skipped away, taking her new doll to a grotto in the far corner of the park. She began bathing it in the stream spouting from a gargoyle mouth.

  “What happened?” said Émile. “Why are you here?”

  Noor whispered details, recounting events since the Garrys fled Paris: the sudden arrival of the Gestapo at Grignon, the executions, the bravery of Monsieur Hoogstraten.

  “This is terrible,” said Renée in a fear-constricted whisper. “Even worse than before—we can never return home.”

  No mention of the arrests of Monsieur Hoogstraten and Professor Balachowsky. But it was possible Renée didn’t know them.

  Émile was close to both men, of course. His eyes dulled with pain-filled shadows.

  “Quel bordel!” he said.

  It certainly was a mess.

  Should she mention the exchange of shots? She was trying to snare butterfly thoughts—so little time—it was best Émile know.

  Renée looked shocked. “You shot two Germans?”

  Noor should have taken Émile aside to tell him. Too late.

  “I did as I was trained,” she replied. “But I am most grieved since. The men may be wounded, not dead.”

  “I would have done the same,” said Émile. “You are a true patriot.”

  “Sales Boche!“ said Monique. “I hope they are dead—I wish you’d killed more.”

  Renée looked from one to the other. “What children you are! The Englishwoman has confessed to murder, and you applaud? You want to be her accomplices! I want to return to my home, not join her in a Gestapo cell!”

  Noor was wretched enough without Renée calling her a murderer. If she could change what had happened at Grignon, she would. But she couldn’t. And she wasn’t answerable to Renée or the Germans for her deeds.

  “No one is going to prison,” said Émile. “In Paris, Fresnes is full to capacity with resistants. As are all the prisons in France, Renée—they won’t have any place to imprison us!”

  It was a valiant effort to make light of things, but Renée brushed it off. “Mais vraiment, Émile, we too are implicated. We can never return home now.”

  Monique tossed her chestnut curls. “Anne-Marie didn’t begin this, Renée. We’ve all been implicated for three years. None of us are innocent. We don’t tell you everything, but Émile and I are not machines that, when the Gestapo or Vichy throw a lever, change purpose and motion. Émile, you remember I said to you, I said: ‘If we don’t refuse, what will our children learn but Nazi brutality?’”

  She took up her sewing and pulled her needle through a pleat—she was smocking a baby’s gown.

  “Anne-Marie did what had to be done,” said Émile. “C’est tout!”

  His voice challenged his sister. He held Renée’s gaze till she looked away. Monique continued sewing. It was up to Noor to break the silence
.

  She blew her nose. “Any news from Guy?” she asked Renée.

  “Still in the Stalag.” Renée seemed a bit mollified by the question. “I don’t understand it. Other soldiers have been exchanged for workers and Jews, and have returned—why not Guy? The exchange program is working, but not fast enough. Many are hiding from the STO in the hills, not far from this very park.”

  “Patriots,” said Émile.

  “Outlaws,” said Renée. “Playing soldier games in the Maquis, to avoid work. Young people don’t know the meaning of work.”

  How many years had Renée worked? When Noor was thirty-nine, she wouldn’t feel old enough to say “young people” as if they were a new species of insect.

  “Those young men are trying to stay alive, Renée,” said Monique. “Trying to fight with few weapons and fewer provisions.”

  “We’d be completely disarmed if we followed every law the Germans pass,” said Émile.

  “Have you written to the Kommandant of the Stalag?” asked Noor, remembering that Gabrielle was able to meet with the Kommandant at Drancy.

  “Naturellement! He wrote back—a very courteous, correct letter. He said it takes three French volunteer workers to release a French prisoner of war, but the ministry here says it takes six. Others say it only takes one Jew. I haven’t written to Guy or sent him a single parcel since we arrived in Le Mans. How am I to tell him we can’t go home because the Gestapo is waiting outside our door? And if I write to him now, I’ll lead the Gestapo here, to Émile’s home.”

  Yet another dilemma of war. What could Noor say beyond commiseration? Renée deserved better. Many women like her in France, and indeed everywhere in the world, deserved better. Renée needed something to cheer and distract her, but Noor couldn’t think of anything.

  She draped her oilskin over her arm and a round flat shape came to hand—the gold compact Miss Atkins said Colonel Buckmaster gave all his women agents. Extra, as Noor had her own tortoiseshell compact in her handbag. Made in France, Miss Atkins had said. A bright little thing, a conciliatory gift to express Noor’s gratitude to Renée—Renée who had given grudging but essential hospitality to an agent torn between two secret missions, Renée whose heart was as full of longing for her Guy as Noor’s was for Armand.

  Noor held the bright disc out to Renée. “Please accept this. A parting gift. From me.”

  Surprise registered in Renée’s eyes, then reluctant pleasure. She opened the compact, looked solemnly at her reflection for a moment, then snapped it shut.

  “You are leaving, then,” she stated and questioned in the same breath. Noor’s gift was interpreted as partial reimbursement; Renée uttered no word of thanks.

  “Yes.”

  She could tell Renée found the news reassuring.

  “Back to Paris?” asked Monique.

  “No.” Noor took a deep breath. “I am leaving for London tonight.”

  “Tonight? So quickly?” Monique sounded genuinely sorry.

  It was too quick. After all her training and preparation, Noor had, in her short time in France, sent fewer than twenty messages for her cell. Important, some critical, but still …

  “Gilbert made the arrangements?” Émile was asking.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you distrust Gilbert,” said Renée.

  “I do, but I have my orders.”

  “The danger of betrayal is far more for Frenchmen,” said Émile. “Will they be sending another operator to take your place?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I wish we didn’t need a radio operator from London, Anne-Marie, but we do. A radio can be a better weapon than any gun, tu sais? It calls down destruction. I know Morse, but the Germans would detect me before I finished the first sentence.”

  “My transmitters remain in France, but no one can use them without security codes and encryption keys,” said Noor. “One is left at Madame Aigrain’s. The one at Grignon was probably discovered. When London sends my replacement, you will need this to locate the third.” She showed him a piece of paper—the address of Madame Gagné’s boarding house.

  He nodded once he’d memorized it, then said, “Once you leave, the Allies will bomb France without fully understanding their targets. If French civilians are killed and not German military, you know what will happen: the support of the people will wither. And the Allies desperately need French support on the ground when they invade.” A pause, then disconsolately, “If they invade.”

  “What do you suggest? I should not leave? My superior officer said it was an order.”

  Émile bit into dark rye. “No, of course you cannot disobey.” He held the sandwich at arm’s length. “What’s in this, Renée?”

  “Cauliflower.”

  He made a face and waved it before Noor.

  “I’ve eaten lunch,” she said. “But, Émile, don’t you think the English understand this? They will send in a new operator soon. No need to explain this to my superiors.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. They will send a new operator when it is a hundred percent safe,” said Émile with uncharacteristic bitterness. “They keep out of harm’s way, the English, the Americans, they think dropping explosives from the air will defeat Hitler and Vichy. Oh, I know they’re waiting for Stalin and Hitler to exhaust one another. But explain! A second front is needed. Now! Explain to the Colonel and to Churchill—eventually they will have to invade and fight him here. On the ground, not from the air!”

  Noor laughed shortly, but Émile was quite serious.

  “Émile, I can explain to the Colonel, but don’t think I can request an audience with the Prime Minister.”

  “You cannot?”

  “No. You overestimate my powers, my rank. I’m a radio operator, c’est tout!”

  Émile shook his head vigorously. “Mais non! Prosper met him.”

  “Met whom?”

  Émile whispered, “Monsieur Churchill.”

  “No!”

  “Si, si! Archambault told me.”

  Mr. Churchill was reputed to be fascinated by his SOE agents. Some agents she knew had met with him before their missions, but …

  “Ah, well, Prosper is Prosper. He outranks me many times.” But then her curiosity prompted, “What do you think Monsieur Churchill discussed with Prosper?”

  “The invasion.”

  “Mais oui—but that’s a very big subject.”

  “I think not. I think Prosper was told something specific. You’ve heard what Monsieur Churchill said on the radio? Four days ago he said the invasion will come ‘before the leaves fall.’ But I think Prosper knows something more specific than ‘before the leaves fall.’ And the Germans want it.”

  Perhaps Émile’s hope for an invasion, the hope of everyone in France, had drawn him into the realm of astrology.

  “Oh, be sensible, Émile—” said Renée.

  A man in a suit approached. Noor raised a forefinger.

  Renée began to tell about something cute that Babette had said. Émile and Monique nodded and smiled as if they were listening.

  Had they been speaking too loud? How long had the man been there? What had he heard?

  The man passed by without looking in their direction.

  Renée resumed in an even softer undertone. “Prosper knows your name, where you live, details of your ‘work.’ Isn’t that enough?”

  “Our work,” Monique reminded her. “But they won’t get it from Prosper. He’s very proud, very strong.”

  “He has not been tested,” said Émile. “All of us are not as strong as Max.”

  Would Noor find the courage to resist if captured? How could she know—how did anyone know? She wouldn’t be arrested; she’d never find out. She fought the image of Prosper under torture, drove it from her mind.

  “Anne-Marie,” Émile said, getting to his feet, “time is short. Would you like to walk in the gardens?”

  Noor began to rise, but Renée said, “Brothers and sisters have no secrets. Say what you need to sa
y.”

  Émile and Noor sat down again. She’d already told Renée what shouldn’t have been said. Best to fulfill her reason for meeting Émile in Le Mans. So Noor told them her suspicions of Gilbert.

  When she was finished, Renée looked affronted instead of grateful. “Gilbert is French. Frenchmen are not traitors.”

  One would think she knew every Frenchman personally.

  “But Renée,” said Émile, “I have the same suspicions.”

  “C’est impossible!” said Renée in a voice of certainty. “A Frenchman betraying Frenchmen? Foreigners betray Frenchmen, Frenchmen do not betray Frenchmen.”

  Noor was the only foreigner present, accusing a Frenchman. Renée didn’t wonder if Gilbert was a traitor or not, or what information might have led Noor to such a conclusion. What she disputed was Noor’s right to comment on the proclivities of a single Frenchman.

  “Renée,” said Monique, “Maréchal Pétain and every minister in his Vichy government are Frenchmen, so how can you say Frenchmen do not betray Frenchmen? I have witnessed it myself: every day at the Hôtel de Ville in Paris, Frenchmen denounce other Frenchmen. Écoute! the Boche pay ten thousand francs for each arrest.”

  “Those are denunciations of Communists, Communist Jews and Israelites by Frenchmen,” said Renée, “not denunciations of French men by Frenchmen.”

  Respect for her sister-in-law seemed to restrain Monique from pointing out that Renée had completely sidestepped Monique’s mention of Vichy.

  “Most Jews living in France are French,” said Noor. “It’s a religion. And they are not all Communists.”

  “I’m sure you would know, Anne-Marie,” said Renée.

  Should Noor address the implied accusation? If she did, the conversation would turn to her beliefs and religion, something she had not the time to explain. Better to let it slide.

  Back to Gilbert. “So Gilbert is safe in the ever smaller pigeonhole labelled ‘Frenchmen’ and you cannot see his potential for treachery.” Her passion sounded muffled by the handkerchief held over her nose. “How many more arrests will it take before you believe it?”