Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

  —

  All that’s left for me to do is bathe. I’d like a tub and a hot water spout but that is out of the question—even if I thought it was safe to waltz into town on my own. The fact is that we’ve run out of time. I have to find that radio, sooner rather than later. We are massed in Saint-Santin and it’s only a matter of time before the Germans realize it. Only this time we won’t be able to defend ourselves because we have only small weapons and limited ammunition. If they discover us we will be slaughtered.

  So, it’s a cold dunk in the stream for me.

  “Denis,” I say, “come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I need you to stand guard.”

  He may have lost his radio but he’s still in possession of his service revolver. And given the fact that he abhors using the thing, I know he hasn’t fired a shot. Denis has all his bullets.

  “Over what?”

  “Me.”

  “Have to piss again, do you, Duckie?”

  “No. I need a bath.”

  “Well, why the blooming hell do you want me to come along?”

  “Because I don’t have to worry that you’re going to peek.”

  As I suspected, Denis Rake stands still as a stump, back turned to me, as I strip naked and wade into a shallow pool in the closest stream. I gasp the second my toe hits the water.

  He laughs.

  “Shut up,” I tell him.

  “For as little as I care to see you naked, Duckie, I would love to catch a glimpse of the expression on your face right now.”

  “Turn around and it will be the last thing you see.”

  Denis Rake never turns, but he does chuckle the entire time I bathe. Every gasp, gurgle, curse, and mutter brings another round of cackling.

  “You’re enjoying this a bit too much,” I tell him, teeth chattering.

  “Serves you right.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Payback is a bitch,” he says.

  I scoop up a handful of frigid water and toss it at the back of his head. He gasps and swats at his hair but never turns around.

  “How was I supposed to know you sleep naked?” I ask.

  “You weren’t. That’s the point,” he says, then adds, “How’s that water feel, Duckie? Cold enough for you?”

  “Ha-ha. Feeling avenged, are you?”

  “Indeed. I do believe there is a God in heaven after all.”

  I’ve got a bar of soap in my pack and I put it to good use, scrubbing every inch of my skin, hair, and fingernails. I watch brown suds slip away in the gentle current, revealing pink, raw skin underneath. A few more full-body dunks and I’m done.

  It is June and the sun is shining. The air is warm. And since I don’t have anything close to a towel, I sit on a rock beside the stream, chin tilted, hair dripping down my back, until I’m somewhat dry.

  I grab my pack from beside the stream, comb my hair, pull on new underclothes—I forgo the stockings—then get dressed in the skirt, blouse, and walking shoes that have been purchased for me. Not what I would have gotten for myself, but they’re clean and they fit well enough. It’s been so long since I’ve worn anything other than boots and trousers that I feel strangely vulnerable. I feel more like a woman and less like a warrior. But perhaps that is a good thing given the task ahead of me.

  ROUTE NATIONALE

  I am very careful about what I place in my string bag. Money. My toiletries. The last bottle of brandy that Buckmaster sent me. A small loaf of bread and a little wheel of Brie that Jacques purchased for me in Saint-Santin. That’s it. I can’t pack for a long journey. I am simply a French housewife out for the day. So I fold my Michelin map, tuck it inside the waistband of my skirt, and push off toward the Route Nationale.

  The nearest stretch of road is also the most trafficked. But there is no way to get from Saint-Santin to Châteauroux without first taking the two-lane highway that runs north. I walk my bike the first ten kilometers instead of riding in case I am approached by any German patrols. It will be easier to ditch the bike, dive into a ditch, and wait until they pass if I have that extra few seconds’ warning. At Saint-Gérons I consult my map, then switch to a smaller, country road and begin cycling. The first five hours aren’t all that bad. I’m rested, I’m fed, and the sun is warm. Once I’ve gotten up to speed, it’s easy to maintain. I conserve my energy for the hills and coast down the other side, stopping to drink from streams when I’m thirsty. I nibble on cheese and bread before starting again to keep my growling stomach at bay.

  I ride all morning and into the early afternoon, determined to get as many kilometers behind me as possible. Twenty. Fifty. Seventy-five. By the time the sun has passed its zenith, my legs are growing tired. I am sweating. My hair is damp along the nape of my neck. My tailbone throbs and I can feel the dull ache of chafing along my inner thighs. And, not for the first time, I am cursing whatever sadistic man designed the bicycle seat.

  By four o’clock I am exhausted. There is not a cloud in the sky. I can feel the hot breath of the sun blaze a path through the part in my hair. My scalp is hot. I stop for a drink but the idea of eating anything makes me nauseated. I allow myself five minutes to rest and stretch my legs, then I plunge my hands into the stream, leaving them there until my fingers are so cold they tingle. I lift my skirt and set my palms against the irritated patches on my thighs. I dare not look to see how badly they are blistered.

  “Buckmaster.” I spit his name as though it’s a curse word. “Bury the radio, my ass. I’ll tell you what I think of your stupid protocols the next time we meet.”

  I shift routes again in the early evening to bypass Montluçon and its Nazi garrison. Roger le Neveu was stationed there. I have not forgotten him or what he did to Patrick O’Leary. And I suspect that, given its proximity to Termes, Obersturmführer Wolff might be stationed there now. I do not want to come across him, or his infamous whip, without my service revolver. Hubert and I deliberated long and hard about whether I should bring it with me. If captured, I could not explain my way out of having a British-issued military piece. And yet, I will likely need it. Round and round the mulberry bush we went. The simple fact, however, is that French housewives don’t carry them. And if I am to succeed in this mission, I must be convincing.

  So I left it in Hubert’s care, along with my pack.

  And now I am defenseless.

  By sunset I can no longer sit on my bicycle seat. I stand up to ride and my energy fades with the light. Each push of the pedal grows harder than the last. The soreness radiates from the front of my legs to the back. The muscles in my arse begin to burn and spasm.

  “Let someone else volunteer next time,” I mutter to myself. “Keep your damn mouth shut, Nancy.”

  I make a deal with myself that I will continue riding until the light is gone. It keeps me going another thirty minutes. And then I come to a long, sloping hill. My lungs ache at the sight of it. I get off and push my bike to the top. My legs do not consider this a break, however. They tremble and quake with every step. I’ve been gripping the handlebars for so long, there are blisters bubbling up on my palms and my knuckles ache from the pressure. My hands are swollen. My feet are swollen. I…

  …am at the top of the hill.

  Below me stretches a broad valley, and at the far side, the lights of Saint-Armand. I have biked over two hundred kilometers in one day. My knees buckle with relief. But I remind myself that the most dangerous part of my journey is ahead.

  The valley is littered with little farms and I search for a barn that is not close to any house. There is only one, and it appears to store seed, not animals. I stash my bicycle between a roll of hay and the barn and go inspect the interior. It so dark inside that I can barely see. A mound of old hay is piled into one corner, but I glare at it.

  “Not this time,” I say. I will not suffer scabi
es along with blisters, bruises, and total body failure.

  Once more I demand an excruciating feat from my body.

  I climb a rickety ladder into the loft. I would be delighted to find bare floorboards but what greets me is even better. The loft is filled with sacks of alfalfa seed. It smells sweet and musty. I kick off my shoes. Unbutton my blouse. Push my skirt off my hips. I stand there, wearing nothing but my underclothes, letting the cool night air dry the sweat along my skin, then I hang my clothes over the rail to dry.

  I crawl onto the sacks, wedging them around my body to support thighs, back, and neck. I do not think. I do not worry. I do not pray. I simply disappear into that great void of consciousness known as sleep.

  * * *

  —

  I am woken by air raid sirens. Thin silver light drifts through the rafters, so I know the sun hasn’t risen yet. Every muscle in my body throbs. But I have to get up. It takes one mighty push and I time my scream to coincide with the siren. Just one. That is all I allow myself. And then I am shoving myself onto all fours. Sit. Stand. Slowly, very slowly twist and turn my body. Lift my knees. Crane my neck. Get the blood flowing again so I don’t pass out and tumble over the railing.

  I take stock of my physical situation. There are blisters on my feet, thighs, and palms. My tailbone is bruised. The skin on my thighs is raw, chafed, and angry. My scalp is sunburned. My lips are cracked. And there is no actual word in the English language to explain the state of my muscles. I am surprised by how difficult it is to get my clothing on. How hard it is to zip my skirt and button my blouse. To pull on my walking shoes.

  The bread and cheese is all I have for breakfast, so I nibble it, standing in the hayloft as I listen for the whine of falling bombs. Nothing. After five minutes the sirens die down. I listen for the distant drone of airplanes. But the skies are silent. A false alarm.

  I know that the brandy won’t do anything to numb the pain in my body, but I decide it will help me feel better about the situation. I allow myself a single, long swallow, then stretch again before climbing down from the loft. I retrieve my bicycle, brush my hair, gather my string bag, and hang it over the handlebars. Now I look like any other woman headed into market early on a Saturday morning.

  By the time I hit the outskirts of Saint-Armand I am hidden in a crowd of twenty different women cycling into town. I look for a good place to gather information about what’s ahead of me. I choose a café populated by old men and park my bicycle beside a table on the patio.

  I offer my best smile to a group playing cards at a nearby table. “Bonjour!”

  They tip their hats. Offer toothless grins. Mutter quietly among themselves. I hear one of them say he wishes he was fifty years younger and this pleases me, not because I want the attention, but because the ruse is working.

  I don’t sit gracefully—it is more of an exhausted plop—but at least I don’t burst into tears, and that is the main goal.

  When the waiter comes I order coffee and am delighted to discover that they have it. So I request two cups. They have no cream or sugar, but I am happy to drink it black. After my first sip, I ask the old men what news there is today.

  “Bourges was raided yesterday,” one of them tells me. I think he must be the leader of the group, because he possesses the greatest number of teeth. “The Germans took five men from a bistro and beat them in the street. Then they shot the hostages when they had nothing useful to tell.”

  It is not hard to appear shocked. I will never not be shocked by this kind of brutality. “Are the Germans still in Bourges?”

  “I do not think so. They rumbled through town on their way back to Montluçon, cracking their whips in the air.”

  I have to clear my throat before I ask, “Whips?”

  “Just the one,” another old man says. “Only one of them had a whip.”

  “The garrison commander. Ugly fils de pute.”

  None of them argue this fact.

  “Do you know his name?” I ask. “The garrison commander?” While the designation of a whip isn’t all that common in Hitler’s military, there are many Obersturmführers and I need to be sure.

  “Non,” the man says, and several others shake their heads.

  Then the group leader picks a bit of coffee ground from between his two front teeth with the end of his tongue and says, “My son lives near the garrison in Montluçon and has told me about this man. He is cruel and evil. His name is Wolff.”

  I finish my coffee before it turns cold, then wish the men good day. When I cycle through Bourges an hour later, the town is silent. Businesses are closed. Shades are drawn. Mourning hangs thick in the air. I do not know which street the men were killed on, so I keep my eyes off the ground and get through town as fast as I can. I have seen enough bloody cobblestones to last a lifetime.

  I make Issoudun by lunchtime and I am badly in need of another break. So I make my way into the town square and walk my bicycle through the local market, hoping no one notices how I must lean on it for balance or how I wince with each step. I move slowly, perusing the stalls, buying as much produce as I can fit in the basket at the front of my bicycle—squash, zucchini, peaches. A loaf of bread. Another small wheel of cheese. I arrange them carefully and hope that I pass for a housewife doing her weekend shopping.

  There is a German checkpoint at the far end of Issoudun, so I duck into an alley between two houses and run the brush through my hair. I coat my lips in Victory Red. I set my jaw and square my shoulders, then press on, determined not to look as though I am avoiding the checkpoint.

  When I draw close I can feel the Germans staring at me. I climb off the bike and join the queue. I force myself not to limp. When my turn comes to pass between the gates, I look at the guard in charge.

  “Halt!” he shouts.

  My heart stutters. I think about the price on my head. The description of me that has been passed from one Gestapo headquarters to another. My nickname, the White Mouse. He motions me forward, then yanks my string bag out of the basket. I watch him as he rifles through my belongings.

  “What is this?” he demands, waving the brandy bottle in my face.

  “Lunch.”

  This gets a laugh from his colleagues and the tip of the guard’s nose turns pink. “For me,” he says, then waves me on without replacing the bottle.

  The road to Châteauroux curves to the south and is littered with German vehicles, so I cycle west to Brion, then southwest to Villedieu-sur-Indre, and enter Châteauroux at its northern end. I was lucky that the guard did not ask for my papers, but I might not be so lucky again.

  I cross the main bridge into town, cycle through the roundabout, and take the second exit onto the main street. The house at the edge of town looks exactly as Denden described it, but I am far less graceful with my approach down the paved walkway than I would like. I drop my bike at the gate and limp, bowlegged, toward the door so my thighs won’t rub together. It swings open before I can knock.

  “Who are you?” a middle-aged gentleman with muddy eyes and a widow’s peak asks. His French is terrible.

  “A friend,” I say, in English, then give the bit of nursery rhyme Denis instructed me to use. “Silver bells and cockleshells.”

  He opens the door wider and I step in.

  The little house is almost bare of furniture but for a kitchen table, two chairs, and one long bench where a couch ought to be. I assume there are beds in the bedrooms but the doors are closed and I cannot see. I have so many questions and no time to ask them.

  “How can I help you?” the man asks.

  “I am Andrée,” I tell him, “and I have a message for Alex.”

  “I’m Bernard.” He extends his hand. “And I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  He winces. “Alex is not here.”

  “When will he be back?”


  “Never.”

  Unease settles heavily onto my shoulders. “What has happened?”

  “He was shot by the Germans yesterday in Bourges.”

  My unease turns to despair. “Why was he in Bourges?”

  Bernard shrugs. “He goes the first Saturday of every month. I do not know why.”

  I drop into one of the kitchen chairs, then drop my forehead to the rough wood and begin to cry. I cannot help myself. “You mean to tell me that you have no radio operator?”

  I have failed. My chest heaves with sobs. The man is speaking to me, but I cannot hear him over the sound of my own self-pity.

  Finally, he shakes me by the shoulder.

  “Madame! Did you hear me?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “I said I can work the radio. But it won’t do you any good.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t code the messages.”

  My tears stop as quickly as they came.

  “I can.”

  * * *

  —

  The message is short.

  Hélène to London. Position abandoned. Protocol enacted.

  Request new radio and transmitter. Send to four four point six

  four eight nine degrees north, two point two one eight two

  degrees east. Urgent.

  I double-check the coordinates for the small clearing outside Saint-Santin three times before handing Bernard the message. He is not quite so efficient in typing it out as Denden but it gets through nonetheless. Ten minutes later his machine begins to chirp.

  “London confirmed your message,” he says. “They will deliver your radio at one o’clock in the morning, tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “You just saved seven thousand lives.” And then I shuffle toward the doorway.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “Back to my camp.”

  “Right now? It’s after midnight.”

  “Yes. And about this time tomorrow I have to be in Saint-Santin to collect an airdrop from London because my friends don’t know it’s coming.”