by Ariel Lawhon
“I know,” I say, my eyes on the top floor of the hotel.
Tardivat has assured us that the Gestapo have taken over the entire hotel and installed their senior officers in the rooms.
“They meet in the top-floor suite, every afternoon at twelve thirty, for drinks. It is their prelunch ritual,” he told us earlier as we packed the weapons and explosives we would need.
“What about security?”
“Minimal, at noon, given the allure of a midday aperitif. But guards are still posted at the front and back entrances, along with the stairwell and elevators.”
“They won’t let five armed Resistance soldiers waltz into the hotel,” I said.
“No. But they are known for having…ah”—Tardivat hesitated, the end of his nose turning pink—“female company on occasion. A woman dressed in civilian clothes could make it to the front entrance before being questioned. Beyond that she would have to use her wits.”
“And fists?”
“A knife would be better,” he told me, drawing one finger in a straight line across his throat.
Given this bit of information, I’d made the decision to wash quickly and change into civilian clothes, and I am glad that I did. The skirt and blouse help me blend into the crowded marketplace.
I was able to fit only three grenades into my purse, so they will have to be enough. Hubert has more in his pack, as does Tardivat, but Denis insisted on bringing nothing but his Welrod pistol, so he will bring up the rear.
Tardivat joins Hubert and me as we move through the crowd. He speaks quietly so only the two of us can hear. “At one o’clock sharp we pull the pins.”
We drift apart, again, as we each move toward different entrances. Tardivat, Hubert, and Denis to the rear. I will be going through the front door.
It is 12:45.
I climb the hotel steps, purse slung over my elbow, letting my skirt swish along my calves. There are two Gestapo guards on either side of the front doors and their eyes settle on me as I approach. I know that across the square, on top of the post office, Jacques has me in his sights. And I know that, if either of these men gives me an ounce of trouble, he will pull the trigger and give me a few precious seconds to escape. The knowledge that he is there is the only reason my heart is not racing.
The guard to the left of the door steps forward. His hand moves to his waist and settles on the grip of his pistol.
“This hotel is not open to the public,” he says.
“I was invited.”
“By?”
For the first and only time in my life, I am pleased to hear the faint tremble in my voice. “Obersturmführer Wolff.”
He looks me over and offers a base, male grunt. After a moment he steps aside and opens the door. I did not realize I was holding my breath until I let it out between pursed lips. The lobby has marble floors and a small reception desk manned by an older, distinguished gentleman with silver hair and a weariness around his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase.
I look at him and nod, once, willing him not to ask questions as I walk toward the elevator and the guard posted there. He looks me over with great sadness and I think he makes an assumption about my presence in this hotel at this particular time of day. Clearly, I am not the first woman to have joined the Nazis’ prelunch celebration.
I have no way of knowing whether Tardivat, Hubert, and Denis have dispatched the guards stationed at the back entrance. None of us can use our guns. We cannot warn the German officers that we are here. We need them massed, in one location. We need to catch them unaware at one o’clock when we pull the pins. And if I am the only one to make it into the building, then so be it. Jacques will take care of any Gestapo trying to escape after that.
Once across the lobby, I approach the elevator. I grip the handles of my purse in both hands and keep my eyes down, staring at my knuckles. They are white from the strain, but this is the only way to keep my hands from shaking.
I have made it into the building, so he has less reason to question me, but still the guard asks, “What is your business?”
I let him assume that my cheeks are red from shame instead of anger and excitement.
“You know my business,” I say, not looking up.
“Lass sie sein.”
The voice behind me is male and guttural and I do not understand a word of it. But the guard does, because he steps aside and salutes. A hand reaches beyond my shoulder and presses the button for the elevator.
I rotate my wrist and note the time.
12:50.
I am afraid to turn and look. Instead, I listen to the pulleys sliding behind the closed doors. I hear the carriage lower, and then finally the groan as it stops. A bell rings and the doors slide open to reveal an empty carriage. I step inside, and only then do I turn and face the man behind me.
There is nowhere for me to go. Nowhere to turn or run. I am frozen in place as he steps into the elevator. His face is like the inner workings of a watch. Oddly shaped gears and widgets. But it does not take them long to shift into place, and when they do, I know that he recognizes me as well.
I wait until the doors close behind him before I say, “Bonjour, Obersturmführer Wolff.”
Nancy Fiocca
LONDON, ENGLAND
August 1943
The trunk that Henri packed was waiting for me in Barcelona. And a good thing too. Because by the time we arrived, weeks later, I looked—and smelled—as if I’d been living under a bridge for several years. My clothes were filthy. My hair limp, greasy, and knotted. It was the scabies that nearly broke me, however. Well over half my body was covered in the red, oozing sores, and it took three hours, countless gallons of hot water, and a scrub brush to remove the mites from my skin once we were delivered to our final safe house.
Retrieving the trunk at the post office in Barcelona was complicated, given that I no longer had identification papers. But since I was the only person who had tried to claim it and I knew the sender and return address, they reluctantly handed it over.
God bless Henri. Not only did he send a sufficient replacement wardrobe, complete with my favorite little luxuries, but also enough cash—in single banknotes, stuffed into waistbands, stockings, and shoes in the event the trunk was searched—to get me into a hotel and, eventually, out of the country. Not to say that it was easy, of course. I was arrested and charged with illegal entry as soon as I applied for a new identity card in Barcelona. But the British vice consul intervened the moment he was notified that a subject of the Crown was being harassed. The appropriate bribe was paid. My papers were issued. And a notification of my pending arrival was sent ahead of me to London.
Barcelona to Madrid to Gibraltar. Vehicles and trains and lengthy stops that only wasted time. One delay after another. I nearly crawled right out of my skin with frustration before boarding the British ship Lutsia and joining a convoy of seventy ships bound for the United Kingdom. We sailed through the Strait of Gibraltar, into the Atlantic Ocean, up to the Bay of Biscay, and into the Celtic Sea. It took ten days, and I am told that had we tried to go through the English Channel we would have been sunk by German U-boats. As it was, we were still escorted by one British destroyer, three warships, and a rotating series of air patrols—mostly American Liberator bombers. So, once again, my route was circuitous. Once again, I had to sit and wait and trust that safety was more important than speed. Finally, however, we docked at the Scottish port of Greenock. One train to Glasgow. Another to Edinburgh. A third to London, and by the time I stepped onto the platform in the city of fog, I felt as though half my life had been wasted by travel.
Henri will meet me in London. That was our arrangement. And I have made arrangements of my own as I wait. I find us a small, furnished flat in the Piccadilly and St. James’s Street area. It’s dirty, needs to be painted, and the parquet floors could use a good sanding and polish, but i
t hasn’t been bombed like so many others nearby and we’ll make do. I apply myself with vigor to these domestic duties my first months in London and by the time I’m done, our little flat gleams. Funds are limited, but I do buy Henri a pair of pajamas, slippers, and a dressing gown. I also buy a bottle of French champagne and an expensive bottle of brandy so we can properly celebrate when reunited. I keep them in a cupboard and look at them longingly each night before bed. I miss the scent of brandy on his breath. I miss the heat of his skin beside me as we sleep.
I cannot call Henri because the lines in our Marseille flat and in his office are tapped. I cannot write to him because our mail is being intercepted. I have no safe means of getting a message to him. So I wait. And I wait. And I wait.
The thing is, I’ve never been good at waiting.
LONDON
Headquarters of Charles de Gaulle’s Free French Forces, October 5, 1943
“What do you mean you are ‘declining my services’?” I demand of the older, portly French recruitment officer sitting across from me. His name plate reads “Colonel Passy” and his expression “unamused.” He is trying not to yell at me, I think.
“I have already been working on your behalf for three and a half years,” I tell him. “I helped establish the Resistance network in Marseille.”
“What I mean,” Colonel Passy says, as though I am a very stupid—and possibly hard of hearing—child, “is that we do not need your help.”
“The hell you don’t! I’ve just come from France and the whole damn country is going to hell.”
“We have the situation handled,” he tells me.
It is a monumental struggle not to stand and slap the man senseless. “France is overrun,” I tell him. “Your citizens are being jailed and slaughtered by the thousands for the mere suspicion of working against the Germans. The entire infrastructure is destroyed. It is a fallen country under enemy occupation and you have the nerve to sit here, in safety, hundreds of kilometers away, and tell me you have it handled?”
“If you are so eager to help the war effort, madame, I suggest you buy a ladle and go volunteer at a soup kitchen.”
“Be grateful I don’t have a ladle now, Colonel, or I’d beat you over the head with it.” I collect my purse and see myself out.
* * *
Henri
Fort Saint-Nicolas, Marseille
Paquet points at him. “Get dressed.”
Henri lifts his manacled arm as though to say, I can’t.
Paquet nods at Marceline and she moves forward with the key. Once free, Henri’s arm drops to his lap with a thump. It has long since gone cold and numb and he worries that—should he survive this ordeal—his circulation will never be right again. It begins to tingle after a moment as the blood courses more easily through his veins. Then his arm begins to cramp.
They watch Henri as he struggles into his clothing. It is an ordeal with broken fingers on his left hand and his right arm unable to obey commands. Each movement is stiff and agonizing. In the end he doesn’t bother to tuck in his shirt or lace his shoes. Marceline clucks her tongue.
“Surely you can do better than that,” she says. “Do make yourself presentable.” Marceline ties his shoes, then tucks in his shirt.
“Where are we going?” Henri asks from between clenched teeth.
“On a field trip.”
* * *
*
The Société Marseillaise de Crédit does not open for another hour. The door is locked and the windows shuttered. No one has swept the front step this morning or turned on any of the lights save those on the first floor. But Paquet in his full officer’s regalia strikes an imposing figure, and the bank manager rushes to unlock the doors when he bangs on them with his fist.
Henri is dressed and as tidy as can be expected under the circumstances with his hands cuffed behind his back and the pained movements of a man who is clearly injured. He has known the manager for decades and appreciates the look of dismay upon his face.
“We are not open for another hour,” the manager says.
“I don’t care,” Paquet says, and then, “Where are your safe-deposit boxes?”
The manager looks between them, alarmed. “In the vault.”
“Take us there.”
“I cannot—”
“You can. And you will. Because if you choose not to cooperate, we won’t even bother to put you in the cell beside Monsieur Fiocca, we’ll just shoot you in the street and leave the dogs to clean up the mess.”
If Henri’s hands weren’t cuffed, he would set them on his friend’s shoulders to reassure him. All he can do instead is say, “It’s fine. Do as they tell you.”
The manager leads them through the marbled lobby of the Société Marseillaise de Crédit. Henri’s grandfather banked here. His own father still does. He’s been traversing these hallways since he had curls at the nape of his neck and dimples on his knuckles. He knows the way to the vault by heart. But he drags behind instead, hoping that there is still some way to prevent Marceline from taking anything else from him.
The vault door is made of solid steel and weighs one thousand pounds. The keys required to unlock it are numerous, and the combination complicated. The manager gets it wrong on the first two tries because his hands are shaking. Henri did not realize that, at some point after entering the bank, Paquet drew his gun, and just as he begins to mutter curses under his breath the giant door swings inward.
Marceline steps into the room first, surveying all the boxes, large and small, along with a second, smaller vault door where Henri assumes the bank keeps cash and gold.
“Which box is yours?” she asks.
He nods at a medium-sized box along the far wall. “Number seventy-five,” he says. “But I do not have the key.”
And then she gives him the smile he’s grown to hate as she reaches into her pocket and removes the keys she took from him weeks ago. “I do.”
Office keys. Home keys. Mailbox key. Car key. And safe-deposit box key. He’s never been concerned about keeping them together and on his person because he and Nancy are the only people who know which boxes they rent. This scenario never crossed his mind.
Marceline steps in front of box seventy-five, slides the key into the lock, and turns it. He watches, in mute acceptance, as they begin to plunder his life.
“What do you want from me?” he asks.
“Your money, of course,” she says. Henri’s entire life savings in gold, cash, and bonds are pulled from the box and stuffed into a bank bag. “Among other things. Not the least of which is information on the whereabouts of your wife. The Germans are willing to pay handsomely for that.”
“You won’t find it in that box.”
“Maybe,” she says, tying the knot on the bank bag. “Or maybe not.”
Once she has rendered him penniless, Marceline begins doing the real damage.
Henri’s birth certificate is lit with a match. He now has no way to prove his citizenship. The deed to the building that houses his family’s shipping company. The lease to their flat. His marriage certificate. These all burned to ash right before his eyes as well.
Only when the box is empty does she turn to him again. “Now,” she asks, “which box belongs to your wife?”
* * *
LONDON
The brassy, metallic clamor of a ringing telephone startles me from sleep. The sun is high, and light bounces off bright, bare walls. I don’t know who I am or where I am or what is happening, and that infernal ringing just won’t stop. It doesn’t help that I came home and drank a good bit of the brandy I bought for Henri when the Free French rejected my services. He’d be so disappointed in me if he knew. Angry drinking is dangerous drinking.
It takes a moment to settle into my own body, to remember.
And then anothe
r to scramble out of bed and stumble to the other side of the room and yank the receiver off the wall.
“Hello?” I sound awful. Like I’m hungover. Which I am. But I won’t apologize for it, because I hate everyone right now. Except for Henri. Him I miss so much it makes my stomach hurt.
“Nancy Fiocca?”
The use of my married name is strange and the cautious instincts that I have honed over the last few years kick into gear. I feel the adrenaline whoosh through my blood. My heart rate ticks higher.
“Yes,” I say.
It is a male voice. So generic and blandly English that I cannot place the region, and therefore I know it is either fake or being controlled. Whoever this is does not bother with further pleasantries.
“What were you doing in central London at the general’s headquarters yesterday?”
“General…” It is neither a question nor a statement.
“De Gaulle,” he says, and waits in silence while I decide on an answer.
“I think you must have confused me with someone else.”
“No, Mrs. Fiocca, we haven’t. You were wearing a blue dress, belted at the waist. You arrived just after three o’clock in the afternoon and were gone by three twenty. You were back home in Piccadilly at ten minutes to four.”
Well, I’ll be buggered. I’m being followed. Again.
“What’s it to you if I did visit them? I volunteered my services to the Free French—because I lived in France for the last nine years—and was rejected without cause. That’s hardly an offense worthy of an interrogation at”—I glance at the clock. Eleven? Really?—“so early in the day.”
“My superior would like me to inform you that if you are similarly interested in serving the British cause against Germany, you should report to fifty-seven Orchard Court, Portman Square, promptly at two o’clock this afternoon.”
I am confused. I shake my head. Rub my dry, scratchy eyes with a fist.
“And who, exactly, is your superior?”