by Ariel Lawhon
She glances away, avoiding his gaze. “Not everyone grew up with wealthy parents. When you’re the youngest of six you’re lucky to have clean bathwater, much less a bicycle. It didn’t exist in my world. And I never knew it should have until many years after I left home.”
Henri is abashed. Luxury is an odd thing. You don’t know you have it until confronted with someone else’s lack. He has always known he was wealthy—his father made sure of that, made sure it was flaunted. Every meal of his entire life has been either gourmet or damn near close. He has seen parts of the world most people only dream about. He replaces his wardrobe every two years. He has an expansive wine cellar. He can speak three languages fluently and is passable in two more. He is tall and handsome and has excellent teeth. He knows these things. Has always been thankful for them. But a bicycle? It’s such a small thing. A signpost of childhood. Never once in his life has it occurred to him that there are people in the world who didn’t have one. Until now.
“I am sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known. Besides, it’s a stupid little thing. Just a bicycle. It’s not like a yacht or a topaz or a vacation home.”
“No. Don’t downplay this. Learning to ride a bike is a rite of passage.”
Nancy Wake—no, Henri reminds himself, Nancy Fiocca—is the kind of woman who conquers the world. Fearless. Ferocious. Nancy is the sort of woman who bathes in a meteor shower. She is not the kind of woman who concedes to anyone. And yet, this time, she surprises him.
“Teach me,” she says.
So he does.
* * *
*
“I hate it!” Nancy howls an hour later as she wobbles down the empty path. “Who invented this seat?”
“I believe it’s called a saddle.” Henri chuckles as he jogs along beside her.
“It is a device of torture. An anvil on my bloody pelvic bone. I may as well be sitting on the edge of a sword. I swear—I damn well swear”—and she does, throwing out an impressive string of invectives—“that this was invented by a man. The same one who created that damned cotton log known as the menstrual pad. I’ll kill him with my bare hands if we ever meet.” She teeters, and for one awful moment Henri thinks she’s going to end up in the brush. “If I can ever walk again.”
If Henri wasn’t actually afraid of her in this moment, he would laugh. But his lips twitch, and she glares at him.
“I hate you,” she says.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do, in fact, but we can argue about it later. I’m much too afraid of dying at the moment.”
“If it makes you feel any better, bicycle saddles weren’t exactly created for comfort when it comes to male anatomy either. As a matter of fact, when I was nine years old—”
She gives him a withering look and Henri decides that story is best left for another day. It’s a good story, though. She’ll laugh at his expense. “Go on, ma chère,” he says, giving her another push down the gentle slope. “Let’s see you ride this thing.”
And she does, for thirty feet, before her front wheel hits a rock and she starts to teeter. Nancy digs the toes of her new leather pumps—highly impractical bike wear; he did try to talk her out of them—into the gravel, ruining them completely. She grinds to a stop and whips her head around to chastise him.
“You didn’t fall and you are perfectly fine,” he interjects before she can get a word out. “You are allowed to complain only when your knees and elbows are bloody. This is a mandatory life skill. No different than reading or writing.”
“I hate you,” she says again, but it’s with a delighted grin. There’s a light in her eyes that he hasn’t seen before. Nancy presses hard, on the left pedal, and she’s off once more. “And I will consider it entirely your fault if my lady parts are ruined beyond repair!” But this warning is shouted over her shoulder and Henri has to run to catch up with her.
* * *
GRENOBLE, FRANCE
October 1940
I step off the train and onto the platform of the Gare de Grenoble. In all the years I’ve lived in France, this is my first time visiting the famed medieval city. I am here to deliver one radio—currently disassembled and ensconced in my suitcase—three identification cards, and twelve food ration cards to a woman known only as Vivienne. We are to meet in four hours atop the Bastille and I will know her by the green feather tucked into the band of her red velvet cap.
Every day I think things cannot become more restrictive in the Free Zone, and every day I am proven wrong. A week ago the Vichy government signed into law a decree that declares all foreign-born Jews to be illegal immigrants. They are, without warning or chance of appeal, to be sent directly to Germany and housed in concentration camps. Garrow, O’Leary, and I cannot work fast enough. We cannot procure documents fast enough. When I grow tired and overwhelmed by the amount of travel before me, I remind myself that my feelings are nothing compared to those of the thousands of Jews running for their lives.
There is a nip in the air, but the sky is bright and blue and I look up to take in the perfect, cloudless magnitude of it. I ground myself in the beauty of a perfect fall day. And that is why I collide with someone directly in the middle of the platform. My first instinct is to grip the handle of my suitcase even tighter. My second is to apologize.
“Pardo—” The word catches in my mouth as I stare at the beautiful blonde in front of me. “Stephanie?”
Her hair is mussed. Her clothes are disheveled. She has been crying. And she is gripping the hand of the man beside her as though they are about to be ripped apart for all eternity.
It takes Stephanie a moment longer to recognize me. I can see her pull her thoughts away from whatever problem has so deeply upset her. She focuses on my face. Her mouth forms a gentle O. And then Stephanie Marsic releases the man’s hand and throws herself into my arms.
“Ma petite!”
It is difficult to return the hug with one arm, but I must not release my package under any circumstances. I know better. I’ve heard the stories of men and women caught with contraband. Rumors are spreading that the Vichy police now consider listening to the BBC a treasonous crime punishable by death. This is France under German occupation.
“Nancy,” she says, then steps back. She wipes her face with her sleeve and looks at the man she’s traveling with. “This is my husband, Paul.”
“Count Gonzales! How wonderful to finally meet you!”
I expected a specimen. A man of staggering beauty. But the man who stands before me is…normal. His hair is peppered with silver, his waist is a bit soft, and he’s barely taller than his wife. Two days’ worth of stubble covers his jaw. His nose is crooked. And his brow is furrowed in concern. He looks over my head, scanning for something. I don’t know what I have said or done wrong, but I take a step back from both of them.
It takes a moment, but the Count finally extends his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” The words are French but heavily accented in Spanish.
“Nancy is an old friend of mine,” Stephanie says. And there is something in the tone of her voice that makes me wonder if she is telling him I can be trusted.
He looks between us for a moment, then gently kisses her on the forehead. “Why don’t you grab a coffee with your friend? I’ll get our tickets.” He points to a small café across the street. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Sí.” Stephanie rises onto her tiptoes and plants a fierce kiss on his mouth. Then she grabs my hand and pulls me to the café.
Stephanie insists on sitting inside, in a far, dim corner. A waitress arrives the moment we take our seats, but we are informed that, due to a coffee shortage, they have only tea and ersatz. I detest the roasted acorn and hickory faux coffee but do not object when Stephanie orders us each a cup.
&n
bsp; I have never seen her like this. So rattled. So…out of control.
“What are you doing in Grenoble? Of all places,” she asks.
I set my suitcase beneath the table and I squeeze it between my knees. I open my mouth to answer, realizing at the last possible second that I cannot tell her the truth. This realization makes me suddenly, staggeringly lonely.
“I have come to meet Henri for the weekend,” I say instead. If she were halfway paying attention she would know that I am lying. Stephanie knows me too well. But she hasn’t paid attention to my answer. Her eyes are already on the door, looking for her husband.
I set my hand on hers. “Stephanie, what’s wrong?”
Her fragile composure crumbles. She begins to sob, and I can barely hear the answer to my question. “We have to leave France. We have to escape.”
“Why?”
“The Germans are after Paul. We are trying to get across the border into Switzerland.”
This makes no sense. I shake my head. “Why not Spain? Surely—”
Her voice drops to a whisper. “No. We can’t. Not ever again. If Paul sets foot in Spain, he will be arrested for treason.”
I suppose that I’ve always had strong instincts. I wouldn’t have made it in the world as long as I did on my own if I hadn’t. But since I have been working with Garrow and O’Leary those instincts have become heightened. I can feel when a situation is wrong. Or dangerous. I clamp the suitcase tighter, then reach across the table and circle her wrist with the fingers of my right hand.
“What did he do, Steph?”
I don’t know what to do with this new, weeping version of my friend. It’s a struggle not to shake her by the shoulders as I wait for answers. I am growing impatient.
“He sold weapons,” she says, finally, between sobs.
“To who?”
Stephanie Marsic looks up at me. Her eyes are red. Her lashes are wet. Her mouth is trembling. “Everyone. Anyone who would buy them. The Spanish at first. But then the French. The Germans too. He had an entire network built around smuggling them into Europe and selling them to the highest bidder. That’s where his money came from. Every bit of it.”
I can feel my fingers tighten on her wrist. I don’t want to hurt her. I force myself not to hurt her. “Did you know?” I whisper.
“No.” She shakes her head. “Not until last week. Not until we had to leave Paris.”
“Why are the Germans after him?”
“He took payment for a weapons shipment two weeks ago but never delivered it to the Germans.”
“What happened to it?”
“He sold the shipment to some Frenchman in the Auvergne instead.”
I force myself to loosen my grip on her hand. I release my fingers one by one and set my hand on the table beside hers. “What Frenchman?”
“I don’t know his name. Paul calls him a maquisard. Says he’s gathering soldiers near Mont Mouchet to fight back against the Germans.” She shrugs, and when her shoulders drop I can see every last scrap of hope she has left fall away. Her words tumble out uncontrollably. “Paul isn’t a bad man. And I didn’t know. He had a change of heart, at the end. He didn’t care about the money anymore. And he didn’t want to help the Germans.”
Too bloody late, I think. If I said the words aloud they might kill her. If it were anyone else I would delight in the assassination. I would enjoy watching them writhe. But I cannot do that to her. Not to Stephanie. Keeping silent is the only mercy I can offer.
“Stephanie,” Paul says from the doorway fifteen feet away. “Time to go.”
I cannot look at him again. I refuse. I look at my dearest friend instead. “You don’t have to.”
She grabs my hand and squeezes it hard. Silent tears run down her face. She shrugs again but I’m not sure whom she’s apologizing to. “I love him,” she says, then kisses me good-bye on the forehead.
I don’t look around until I hear the little bell chime above the café door. I catch a final glimpse of her bright blond hair in the October sun. It glints in the light, like a final wink, and then they are lost in the crowd. But I remain at that table, in the corner, breath caught in my throat because I am certain—as certain as I have been of anything in my life—that I will never see her again.
Madame Andrée
CHAUDES-AIGUES PLATEAU, CANTAL, FRANCE
June 5, 1944
The man in the armoire blinks three times, then says, “Oh. Hello, Nancy.”
Madame Renard glances between us, then offers a short, approving nod, satisfied that I have not arrived for a nefarious purpose. She returns to her baking.
René Dusacq is an SOE operative by way of an American mother and a French father. I met him in London during my SOE training and he is not only a good friend, but one of the last people to see me off before I was flown back to France. Hell, he was the one who talked me into that third bottle of wine and was responsible for my wretched hangover on the plane. He kissed me good-bye, for Pete’s sake.
“You are Anselm?”
He tucks his revolver into the holster strapped to his thigh and gives me a little bow. “In the flesh. You’re not the only one who got a code name, you know.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. There is so much that London chooses not to tell us. Code names. Personal histories. Details of our fellow agents’ assignments. All these things can be used by the Germans if we’re captured. So, in many respects, we fly in wearing blinders, focused only on the task we have been given. None of that matters now, however. I throw my arms around his neck and give him a sloppy kiss on the cheek.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell him. “We need your help.”
* * *
—
Anselm has just arrived in country and has yet to make peace with the fact that half of the instructions London gave him prior to departure are useless. He sits in the backseat of Jacques’s car, revolver in one hand, a thick slice of rum cake in the other, listening as I prattle on for a good ten minutes about how he needs to forget everything he thinks he knows about being embedded with the Resistance.
“I was told we’d be taking bicycles,” he says in English.
“Everyone was. But they’re practically useless unless you’re a woman or in an urban area.” I twist around and look at him in the backseat. “Did you keep your parachute?”
“No. I buried it. As instructed.”
“Damn. I could really use one about now. The bugs are getting awful at night.”
“Who’s this?” he asks, motioning toward our driver.
“Jacques,” I say. “And no, he never smiles.”
“Does he speak?”
“Not often.”
Anselm peers out the window. It is dark and Montluçon is going to sleep. We sit in the car, watching lights go off around the city.
“Why aren’t we leaving?” he asks.
“It’s safer to drive at night, without headlights. The fewer people who see or hear us, the better.”
“I’m sorry? We’ll be driving without lights?”
“You’ll get used to it.”
Jacques starts the Renault a little after midnight. He has a remarkable memory when it comes to back roads and byways and navigates the car with skill through the countryside. But, given our limited speed and vision, the drive back to Fournier’s encampment takes twice as long as the one to Montluçon did. I’ve got the Sten gun in my lap and Jacques has half a dozen grenades beside him just in case we run into an unfriendly patrol. Anselm remains wide-awake, uncertain, and stiff as a board in the seat behind us.
We reach Fournier’s encampment just after nine in the morning and I step out of the car, feeling twice as old as my thirty-two years. Various joints pop. My knees. My shoulders. My mouth feels as though I’ve brushed my teeth with sardines. I refuse to
calculate how long it has been since I’ve washed my hair, but my scalp itches and that’s never a good sign.
I look to my bus, eager for sleep, but notice that the camp is buzzing with activity. Soldiers are running hither and yon. People are shouting. Cheering. Hugging.
“What the hell?” I say, mostly to myself, as I make a beeline for Fournier’s tent.
He’s gone. So is Hubert.
I grab Louis by the sleeve as he trots by. “What’s happened—” I ask, and then add, before he changes the subject, “Yes, I found your wife. Yes, she’s fine. It looks like she’ll have the baby in a week or two. Now tell me what the hell has happened.”
“It has happened!”
“What has?”
“D-Day! The Allies have landed at Normandy.”
* * *
—
“You can sleep in the car,” I tell Anselm. “I’ve done it often enough myself. We’ll find you a tent tomorrow.”
I shuffle toward my bus and see that there is a note stuck in the door. I slide the paper out and unfold it, expecting to read a short missive from Hubert. What I find instead is a note from Henri Tardivat.
You’re welcome. Also, I’d like my Sten guns now.
The sheet is on the house. It was yours to start with.
Besides, I did tell you to keep it.
—H.T.
“Surely not,” I mutter, and push the door open.
I hurry to the back of the bus and there it is. My mattress, just as Tardivat promised. The two rear benches face each other, and the mattress sits nicely on top of them, supported in the middle by a wooden crate. Lying, neatly folded, on top, is my old parachute. Beside it are my wool blanket and my red satin pillow.
I’ve never been all that good at being a girl. A woman, yes. I’ve developed that skill in spades. But girlishness is a luxury I was never afforded as a child or a young woman. I had to grow up quickly. I had to adapt. But the older I get, the more I am brought up short by simple luxuries and basic acts of kindness. Especially here, in this place. I crawl onto the mattress, wrap myself in my old parachute—it does feel like a sheet—and lay my head on the little pillow.