* * *
‘Yes – Café Trianon?’
A young girl’s voice. For some reason she’d expected a man to answer.
‘I’m anxious to get in touch with Élise Krilov. I was told I might find her there – or that someone would know where else—’
‘Élise Krilov?’
‘D’you know her?’
‘Not – personally. I may know who you mean, though. Don’t go, I’ll enquire… Who are you, may I ask?’
‘Old friend of hers. Zoé, tell her.’
She’d thought of bringing her coffee to the telephone with her, but had decided to leave it as a marker on the table. She was leaning with a shoulder against the wall and the suitcases in her field of view. Cigarette down to its last two centimetres… ‘Hello, yes?’
‘You’re looking for Élise, I’m told.’
‘Élise Krilov – yes. D’you know where—’
‘Frankly, I don’t. Although – well, tell me, is she expecting to hear from you?’
‘Yes. Definitely.’
‘And your name – you told my daughter—’
‘Zoé.’
‘Is that all the name you have?’
‘All Élise would recognize. We’re very old friends, but it’s been a long time, she doesn’t know my married name. We’re – sort of cousins, really.’
‘Is that so. Well, I hope you find her… Although – yes, that is a thought – I know one place she might be found – if she’s in Rennes at all, that is—’
‘Is there a telephone number?’
‘If there is, I don’t know it. But give me yours, where I could get back to you – my daughter can find out, it’s on her way—’
‘Extremely kind… I’m at—’ she read the number from the faded printing in the centre of the dial. ‘It’s a café, the Dinard. You’d know it, I dare say. I only just got into town, though, and I don’t know my way around—’
‘Will you be there long?’
‘In Rennes?’
‘At the Café Dinard!’
‘Sorry… Well – as long as necessary.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Very kind…’
She’d hung up.
* * *
It was a cut-out, as she’d expected. If ‘Giselle’ had any suspicions, she wouldn’t ring back; if she had serious doubts, she’d get out of town.
Meanwhile it was Rosie, if anyone, who’d exposed herself to danger. If the Trianon telephone had been tapped – as it could have been – the next thing might be a squeal of tyres outside and men in black uniforms bursting in.
Not men. Things. Having met some in Rouen, at very close quarters, she was in a position to state that, categorically.
Telephone conversations were often eavesdropped on by operators who earned a bit extra on the side by acting as freelance informers – mouchards. Not that anyone would have got much of interest out of that call. Not unless the name Élise Krilov rang a bell somewhere: if she’d been arrested, for instance, and the word put out that a female SOE agent might be passing through and looking for her. Key words were what made telephone calls dangerous. As far as possible one avoided using phones at all – this was Baker Street’s advice – but when you had to, there were words and names you tried not to use.
She was aware of the Germans’ eyes on her as she returned to her table and sat down, pulled the coffee closer and stirred it before taking a sip to see if it was still drinkable. While she’d been at the telephone she’d seen the waiter bringing the Germans refills of what passed for beer; and they’d have to be here for some good reason, she thought. In their own canteens – Locale, they were called – they’d surely get German beer, not that swill.
One of them caught her eye, and smiled. She looked away: then saw the waiter, and beckoned him.
‘Mam’selle desires?’
‘I’m expecting a telephone call. If someone – a woman – asks for Zoé, that’s me.’
A nod… ‘And while you wait for it – something to eat?’
‘What is there?’
‘The soup is good. There’s also cheese.’
‘Soup, then. With some bread, please.’
‘Soup with bread.’ Scribbling on his pad. ‘No more coffee?’
‘Garçon.’
The German who’d smirked at her: the waiter glanced round at him. ‘One moment, Monsieur.’
‘No, not one moment, this moment.’ His French wasn’t too bad. ‘Bring the young lady some cheese as well, and put it on my bill.’
Rosie told the waiter, ‘I want soup and bread only, and on my bill.’
‘As Mam’selle wishes…’
The other German was chuckling. Muttering something like ‘Bad luck, chum!’ in German.
‘You misunderstand me. As perhaps you do also, Mam’selle. I was hoping only for conversation, an opportunity to improve my French.’
The waiter stayed out of it. Rosie didn’t blame him. She told the German coldly, ‘I’m sorry. I’m very tired.’
‘Yes – one can see—’
‘Excuse me.’ Turning away, fumbling a new cigarette out of the pack and lighting it quickly before he could display his gallantry that way. It was possible that he’d only wanted conversation. But who gave a damn what he wanted… She heard the other muttering angrily now – in his own foul language: but the thing was not to seem to want their good opinion, or curry favour. With nothing to hide, one wouldn’t.
The waiter was back already. ‘One soup…’
‘Oh, that’s fast service!’
‘It’s there in the tureen. Filling a bowl takes no time at all.’ He transferred it and the greyish bread from his tray. ‘It’s good soup, I think you’ll find. Ah—’
The telephone was jangling.
‘Perhaps—?’
‘I’ll see to it.’
She watched him cross the room to it; so did the Germans. He took the earpiece off its hook, listened for a moment, then turned towards her with a mournful expression and gestured negatively. Calling to the proprietress then: ‘Madame?’ There was an elderly man helping out there now, could have been either her husband or her father. The waiter had left the earpiece hanging, and had started over to meet a couple who’d just arrived; the place was full by this time, and the three of them were looking around to see where there might be room. He was looking at Rosie then – thoughtfully, stroking his chin.
Bringing them over.
‘Mam’selle…’
The man was short and bald, in a shiny brown suit, and the woman taller, grey-haired; the waiter was suggesting that they might share Rosie’s table. And why not? She shrugged: ‘Of course.’ Then: ‘I’m sorry, Madame, my baggage takes up so much space.’
‘No inconvenience at all. Thank you…’
‘Yes – thank you!’
He was bright pink – naturally pinkish to start with, brighter now presumably with embarrassment. For whatever reason… ‘Very kind. Who’d have expected it to be so crowded?’ Rosie was thinking that the waiter had probably brought them to her as a kindness, a defence against the German – who no doubt would have persisted, had barely taken his eyes off her since that last approach. Still might, she thought. A hide like a rhinoceros – by the look of him. Also, being a member of the Master Race, polite to us lesser beings this evening – so far – only because he condescends to be.
Might not stay that way for long. She was mopping the last of her soup out of the bowl with the last of the bread – as Suzanne Tanguy would have.
Come on, Giselle, come on…
The cigarette tasted foul, when she relit it. She’d shifted her chair slightly – moving it out from the table, a slight disengagement from these newcomers, and at the same time turning it so as to face directly away from the Germans. Who did seem to have given up, now; although they’d ordered more beer.
Must have some purpose in hanging around, she thought again. Meeting friends here, perhaps. Or for ‘friends’, read ‘tarts’.
>
‘Was the soup to your liking, Mam’selle?’
‘Very good, thank you.’
‘Can I get you something else?’
‘No – thank you. Except a bill, please. I have to wait for the telephone, but then—’
‘Oh, stay as long as you like.’
His manner had become fatherly. Approving her aloofness to those creatures, no doubt. But he hadn’t understood – and with the Germans listening she didn’t explain – that she wanted to pay her bill because when the call came she might want to leave at once. She got a bill from him, anyway. And the phone did ring again, but it wasn’t for her. She lit yet another cigarette. Thinking that a waiter, however good-hearted, would be in a difficult position in a situation of this kind, and he’d certainly done his best. But these others, who’d had soup and cheese, were just about finishing; and without having to look round, she knew the Germans were still there. She leant back – so that the woman was between her and them – exhaling smoke, gazing down through it at her suitcases. When these two left, that bastard would try again, she felt sure.
Looking up then – over to the doorway. Some customers had been leaving, and the last of them, a man, had hung back, holding the screen door open for someone else to enter first. A girl – who’d just appeared. Blinking at the light, and giving him a small smile of thanks. She was tall, perhaps in her late twenties, with dark hair and contrastingly pale skin, a figure like a mannequin’s. She was wearing a loose-fitting coat, but that was one’s clear impression. She’d stopped a few paces in from the door: looking around quickly, even urgently, narrowing her eyes to peer through the layers of smoke. Giving that up then, turning towards the bar, seeing Madame there gazing at her, and starting over towards her. Rosie at this point realizing – in shock, almost – that she knew her. At least – had seen her before. That long-legged stride – and her stance, style – unmistakable, now. She’d seen her on a beach: moonless night, an island called Guenioc – the pinpoint which had now closed down. She’d gone to her, touched her arm, wished her good luck, and the tall girl had murmured thanks but only briefly – curtly, even. Needing her solitude in that darkness, with the wash of the sea and pounding surf as background – in her first moments in France, or back in France, whichever… She – Rosie – had been on her way out, about to be rowed out to the gunboat from which that one had just landed.
Chapter 3
‘Giselle – don’t you know me? Your own precious cousin Zoé?’
Giving her the clue: she wouldn’t have known they were supposed to be cousins or near-cousins, as Rosie had told Madame they were, earlier. The beach-girl had caught on, anyway… ‘Zoé, darling!’
A slightly oriental look. High cheekbones, and a slant to the eyes. She was examining Rosie too, meanwhile: both of them laughing – happy, even if meaningless laughter that rang true – reflecting old times, the fun they’d had together, plus a tinge of self-consciousness. In this line of work you did become something of an actress. The proprietress put in, ‘Glad you found each other, anyway. One needs all one’s friends – eh?’
‘How right you are.’ The tall girl nodded to her. ‘And thank you, Madame.’
‘You’ve been in before, of course.’
‘Oh, yes. I know you too, Madame.’
‘Come again. And that nice – companion. The artist – huh?’
Rosie had brought the cases over with her: she’d excused herself to the couple at her table, hadn’t even glanced at the Germans. Not then, even less now, heading for the street door: but conscious that they’d be watching.
‘Giselle’ had taken the lighter of the cases from her.
‘Giselle—’
‘Élise, or Lise.’
‘I thought you’d phone me here.’
‘Would have, but – problems… Here we go.’ Pulling aside the blackout screen, adding as they went through, ‘It’s not much of a trek, you’ll be glad to hear.’
To wherever she lived, presumably. Rosie told her, ‘I have a bicycle here.’ Letting the screen door clash shut behind her. ‘Hang on, have to unchain it. Bikes vanish, don’t they… Is there somewhere safe for it overnight, where we’re going?’
‘Of course. And the sooner we get there…’
Her French was that of a Parisienne bien elevée. Looking around in the three-quarter darkness while Rosie crouched, clumsy for a moment in finding the keyhole in the padlock. There was a moon behind the clouds, some filtered radiance. Empty, wet street, wet-black pavements, glistening granite-walled buildings. The whole of this town was granite. A group of old folk who’d helped each other across the road were debating whether to go in for a coffee: deciding against it, shuffling on. Élise asked her, stooping to pick up the other case, ‘How did you know me?’
‘We met on Guenioc. Remember? I was on my way out and you’d just landed?’
‘Oh. Oh…’ A pause… Then: ‘You wished me bonne chance, I remember.’
‘But you were – preoccupied.’
‘Well. Sniffing the wind – you know?’
‘Yes. Indeed…’ She’d got the chain off. Getting to her feet: ‘Not far, you said?’
‘A few hundred metres. I didn’t see any patrols out, on my way here. What’s in this one – bricks?’
‘Guess.’
‘Yes. Well… And I’m lumbered with it. Never mind… Listen – we can’t afford to be stopped – I mean, especially in present circumstances. God knows, I hope he isn’t, but Hector might be talking his head off. And he’d know about you, wouldn’t he?’
‘Hector?’
‘Ah. You didn’t know. I’d wondered… You do know who I mean, by “Hector”?’
‘Air Movements—’
‘Right. He was arrested, yesterday afternoon, in Le Mans. We only heard this morning, didn’t know about your reception, you see, whether still to expect you, or—’
‘Christ.’
‘What I was starting to say – in case of – you know, emergency – field names and what we should know about each other. I’ll kick off. My name you know – Élise Krilov. As it happens, it’s my real name. I’m a portrait painter. I am, it’s true. Well – after a fashion. I’m also working with this guy Noally. Alain Noally – heard of him?’
‘He a painter too?’
‘Sculptor. He’s been doing it a long time, he’s quite well known. Where I came into it is that we met in Paris three years ago – I was a student then. And – well, last year he sent for me. Needing – you know, someone to clean up for him. But I have time for my painting too. This will be your first meeting with him, won’t it – I wasn’t seeing much of him in those old days. In fact I was in awe of him. He’s older – and quite famous, really… Anyway – when we wrote to each other I had a room at the Trianon – which you knew, of course, that’s how you tracked me down – but since then I’ve moved in, I live with him. Where we’re going now.’
‘Live with him in the sense that—’
‘In the same house. Live and work. You wouldn’t know more than that.’
‘All right… But when you arrived from England—’
‘I arrived from Paris!’
‘Of course.’
‘As I said, he sent for me. D’you know I was having to work as a waitress then?’
‘As well as painting.’
‘As well as trying to paint.’
‘I have a boyfriend who does that. Talks about it like that, anyway.’
‘In England, a real one?’
‘Oh, very real!’
‘Don’t tell me anything about him, then. What’s your story as I would know it?’
A gazo passed. Pale, shaded lights barely a glimmer on the roadway: but there was another coming the other way now. She’d put a hand on Rosie’s arm, steering her and the bike around a corner to the left. Narrow, empty street: both looking back to see that one’s lights pass. The exchange of backgrounds was in case they were stopped and questioned: hauled in, put in separate rooms, questioned again. If
you had the surface details right and they matched whatever was in your papers, and your story didn’t conflict with the one they were getting in the next room, you might not be held for more prolonged and detailed interrogation leading eventually to Ravensbrück.
Although with Hector arrested… Well, if the arrest had been faked – which it might have been – they’d know everything he knew, at least.
Élise shouldn’t have come to the café, Rosie thought.
‘Zoé?’
‘Suzanne. But just a minute.’ She raised her voice a bit. ‘At least it’s not raining, like it did all day. Did where I was, anyway. And my God, the state of some roads…’ Chattering, while two men on bicycles rode past rather slowly… Then: ‘I’m Suzanne Tanguy. I’ve been in Paris, in the house of an old friend of my late mother’s – that’s where I was when I wrote to you – and now I’m on my way to take up a job as assistant to a doctor in his country practice – somewhere in Brittany is all you’d know – or assume. I was a student nurse, you see.’
‘Perhaps that was when we met. Was it in Paris, your training?’
‘Yes. Until they sent me to a hospital in Toulouse.’
‘I was at the Sorbonne, you see. Let’s agree we knew each other then. Until you departed for Toulouse, eh? I paint as Lise Krilov, by the way. Incidentally, the Krilov is because Papa is Russian. White Russian, of course, he detests the Bolsheviks. Which made him acceptable to the Nazis, of course – once Hitler had ratted on the Nazi-Soviet pact. You’d know this, I’d imagine.’
‘But I don’t need to have met your parents. Only to know of them. That your father’s White Russian’s about enough. Mother French?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘They still around?’
‘In Switzerland. I refused to go with them. For a painter, the only place to work is Paris.’
‘Or Rennes?’
‘Well – force of circumstances. You don’t have to know it all inside-out, after all.’
‘No. About me, though, what you might also know is I’d nearly finished the training course when my fiancé was killed in a bombing raid on Brest. He was a naval engineer. I had some sort of breakdown, and Mama’s old friend took me in. And it’s she who’s found me this job I’m going to.’
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