The Spark of Resistance: Women Spies in WWII

by Sergeant, Kit

  “Save me from what?”

  “Whatever the Gestapo have the mind to do to you: prison, forced labor camps, death by firing squad or hanging.”

  Odette couldn’t help from swallowing audibly.

  He looked over at her. “Did you want to reconsider?”

  “No.” I’m only committing to the training, she reminded herself. Surely the Gestapo couldn’t do anything to trainees.

  “And your husband, does he approve of this?”

  Odette leaned forward, her feathers unexpectedly ruffled by this energetic man. “My husband is stationed in North Africa. I didn’t have time to ask his permission, but, once he receives my letter, he will be made aware of my decision.”

  “Well, if you say so.” He jumped down from the desk and dug through a drawer. “You are going to need an alias.” He pulled out a file and flipped through it. “What about Céline? We like to give our agents at least a semblance of familiarity about their codename, and seeing as how it’s your middle name…”

  “Céline will do just fine.”

  He nodded before shutting her file. “Then I believe it’s time for you to meet Miss Atkins.”

  “Miss Atkins?”

  “She’s in charge of the ladies of F Section.” He motioned for her to follow him down the hallway. His walk was predictably jaunty. “You’ll like her,” he called over his shoulder. “All her girls do.” He paused at yet another door, knocking twice before opening it.

  Miss Atkins was tall and slim, of a seemingly indeterminate age, though her hair held only a hint of gray. She carried herself across the room with great dignity, her grayish-brown eyes warm as Buckmaster introduced her to Odette.

  “Please have a seat,” Miss Atkins told her, gesturing toward a sage-green armchair. Her accent was so perfectly English that it almost sounded foreign.

  Odette nearly sank into the overstuffed chair.

  “She’ll take good care of you,” Buckmaster said. He gave a little wave before shutting the door.

  Miss Atkins lit a cigarette before turning to Odette. “So you grew up in France?”

  “Yes. In…”

  “Amiens.” Miss Atkins blew out a ring of smoke. “I know all about your background.”

  “Oh,” Odette replied. Unlike Jepson and Buckmaster, Miss Atkins had no need for a file folder to remind herself of the facts of Odette’s life.

  “And your girls, have you made arrangements for their care while you will be away?”

  “Yes, I’ve enrolled them in boarding school. Should the training extend to their school breaks, they will stay with family.”

  “Your husband Roy’s I presume, since your mother is still in France and your father is deceased.”

  It was not a question, but Odette answered in the affirmative anyway. “With Roy’s aunt and uncle.”

  “Good.” Miss Atkins put out her cigarette, her rings flashing in the dim light. “If you need any help finding suitable schools or childcare, I’d be happy to assist. I’ve also arranged lodging for you in London before you leave for training.”

  “If you’ll pardon me, Miss Atkins,” Odette leaned forward. “I was wondering how I would explain…”

  “How you will explain your new position to your daughters?” She let out a tinkling laugh after Odette gave an astonished nod. “Yes, you cannot disclose to them that you are working for the Special Operations Executive.” She got up and opened the closet door. Her voice was slightly muffled as she continued, “You can tell them you are employed by the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, or FANY.” She reappeared holding a khaki-colored dress. “The higher-ups love creating acronyms for anything having to do with the war. There’s the SOE, the FANY, the RAF, and their counterparts, the WAAF.”

  Odette accepted the proffered dress. “The WAAF?”

  “The Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. A few other women have been recruited from there, as well as the real FANY.” She handed a red beret and black belt to Odette. “I suppose Buck told you that the FANY is a civilian unit. Since that is your cover, if you are caught as a civilian engaged in sabotage behind enemy lines, you will be punished as such. Not that those Nazi fools pay much attention to the Geneva Convention, anyway.”

  “I understand.” Odette fingered the cloth of the beret. “Miss Atkins, do you mind explaining to me exactly what the F Section—and the SOE for that matter—does? No one really told me what it is I’m actually expected to do in France.”

  Miss Atkins lit another cigarette. “They never do. They’re full of secrets, Jepson and Buckmaster. My lips are also supposed to be as tight as a clam but,” she opened her mouth wide and let out a wreath of smoke, “I can clarify the essential information.”

  She sat in the armchair across from Odette, her legs primly folded in front of her and showing not a hint of ankle. “Prime Minister Churchill saw the need to build a network of insurgents in German-occupied territories to sabotage the Nazis, to—as he put it—‘Set Europe ablaze.’ This type of guerilla fighting was not something the British military was willing to commit to, so the SOE was established as a sort of clandestine army to create secret soldiers.” She leaned over to ash her cigarette. “The Resistance is young, but it’s thriving. Our network of agents has thus far recruited hundreds of members, blown up communication towers, and bombed munitions factories.”

  “I’m not sure I’m capable of any of those things.”

  She laughed. “The women of the F section are usually used for couriers or wireless operators. Besides, none of us are exactly military, except for Buckmaster, of course, who was on one of the last boats out of Dunkirk. Jepson was a mystery writer, I was a secretary, and many of our male operatives were lawyers, doctors, even scientists.”

  “And I’m just a mother,” Odette replied with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “No, don’t say that.” Miss Atkins gave her a searching gaze. “Jepson is a master at judging people in the first minute he meets them. He thinks you have great potential, and so do I, by the way. In the assessment he gave me after your interview, Jepson stated, ‘God help the Germans if we can ever get her near the Nazis.’”

  “He said something similar to me.” Odette didn’t feel the need to explain she’d never actually be going to France. She was certain that Buckmaster and his ilk, including the hospitable Miss Atkins, would soon realize that Odette wasn’t F Section material and would release her from training as quickly as they had hired her.

  That night in her hotel room, Odette stood in front of the mirror, outfitted in her new uniform. Even to herself she looked different, older, more severe somehow. The cut of her cheekbones stood out in her normally round face and there was a tenacious look in her eyes she’d never seen before. Gone was Mrs. Sansom, the wife and mother. In her place was Céline, the FANY recruit. She looked like the person Miss Atkins and Captain Jepson claimed would be a threat to Germany.

  What if I really could do it? Odette put her hands together and pointed her fingers like a gun before aiming at the mirror. Once she’d regained her eyesight, she’d been a crack shot with a pistol as a girl. Surely that could be useful. Maybe Captain Jepson was right about her senses being more keen because of her blindness. And of course she was familiar with the French countryside and could speak the language fluently.

  She straightened the red beret and then tightened the belt at her waist. God help the Nazis… I will be going to France. Her reflection grinned back at her, making her cheeks round once again.

  Chapter 6

  Mathilde

  In no time, Mathilde managed to find a spacious apartment in Paris’s Étoile district that was perfect for their new line of work. She showed her French Red Cross papers to the landlady, explaining that she and her “cousin” would be renting it. It had two bedrooms, but Armand installed himself in the main one, along with Mathilde. He did not have many belongings save for the same bag he’d brought to Vichy, and a seemingly endless supply of maps, which he hung on every available wall space.

  Ma
thilde did her best to make the apartment look cozy, though Armand would have been content for it to resemble an office at Army headquarters. The first night after they moved in, she went out to buy a bouquet of dried roses. She wasn’t usually the type to appreciate flowers, but for the first time since she’d stopped being a nurse, she felt as if she had a purpose, that she was contributing to the war effort. And she wanted to celebrate. Armand had yet to mention the fact they were trying to erect an espionage network to cover the whole of Occupied France with practically no money, and, on Mathilde’s part, very little experience. He was full of enthusiasm and ideas and Mathilde squashed her doubts, refusing to make him forfeit either in the face of their enormous undertaking.

  When she returned, Armand was sitting at the wobbly table he’d rescued from the garbage and now used as his desk. A blank pad of paper sat in front of him. He dipped his pen in ink thoughtfully as Mathilde asked what their first task would be.

  “To recruit agents, of course,” he said, scribbling something on the paper. “That will be your mission.”

  “Mine? How will I know they are friendly to our side? And why would they listen to a woman, for that matter?”

  Armand’s pen paused. “They’d probably rather listen to a woman than a Pole. Not to mention you speak French much better than I.” He resumed writing. “There is a man I was told to contact by the name of Maître Brault, a prominent lawyer. We will pay a visit to him tomorrow. But, ma petite chatte, we are going to need a lot more people. Do you know of anyone else?”

  Mathilde thought fast. “René Aubertin. He’s a childhood friend, and I believe he’s back in Paris.”

  Once again, Armand stopped writing. “Do you trust him?”

  She nodded. She had run into René on the street in Orleans just after it had been rumored that the Germans were pushing toward Paris, when the city had been filled with French troops and refugees. Mathilde had been ordered to help establish a new hospital there and René was a lieutenant in a tank battalion. They’d found time to meet for a drink, where they had, of course, discussed the war and the threat of an armistice between France and Germany. René had stated that he believed what Churchill promised: that the Allies would conquer Hitler in the end.

  A niggling concern now popped into Mathilde’s head and she voiced it aloud: “How do you know this Maître Brault will listen to us?”

  Armand reached into his briefcase to display a white envelope before tucking it back inside. “He will.”

  Maître Brault had a friendly, wide face and graying hair. He admitted them into his office without hesitation, but frowned when Armand announced their business. “That sounds awfully dangerous. If the Nazis get wind of what you are doing, they won’t hesitate to imprison or even murder you.”

  Armand remained unconcerned. “That’s only if they catch us.”

  Maître Brault’s lips turned up in an amused smile. “I can see that you are determined to establish this so-called network of yours. What is your ultimate goal?”

  “Why, to overthrow Hitler of course,” Mathilde replied. “To see our respective countries liberated.”

  Maître Brault’s smile faded, and Mathilde felt as though she had said the wrong thing.

  Armand must have sensed it too. “Don’t you see?” He spread out his arms. “The Nazis might be winning right now, but it won’t always be so. The SOE has been tasked by Winston Churchill to ‘Set Europe Ablaze.’ Interallié will be that spark, the one that will light the fire of Resistance. Eventually we will have enough flames to consume Germany and set France free.”

  Maître Brault leaned forward. “How do I know that you aren’t a Nazi yourself, trying to recruit me so that you can arrest me?”

  Mathilde awarded him a mental point. How can you be sure anyone is who they say they are these days?

  Armand pulled out the white envelope he’d shown Mathilde the night before and handed it to Maître Brault. “You can trust me.”

  Maître Brault opened the envelope and scanned the letter inside. “This is from my nephew.”

  “I met him in Vichy,” Armand replied. He pushed forward a small picture which had fallen out. “As you can see, this photograph is of his wife and new baby.”

  Maître Brault’s face softened. After he’d examined the photo, he tucked it and the letter back into the envelope. “All right. I will help you. I am going to Bordeaux in a few days. I know some contacts there who will be of use to your network.”

  “Thank you, Maître Brault,” Mathilde replied. “You will not regret this.”

  He carefully placed the envelope in his desk drawer. “I hope not.”

  That night Armand took out a marker and divided his map of France into seven sections, labeling them A-G. “We will need to find leaders for all of these sectors as well as agents to work under them.”

  Mathilde frowned. “You’re talking at least fifty men, or women.”

  Armand put the cap on his marker. “It won’t be that difficult. Like Maître Brault, each man will have his own contacts, and they will know of some more, who will know of some more. It will grow organically.” He reached out to help her up from the couch. “You’ll see.”

  He led her into the bedroom. His lovemaking had changed since Vichy; it had always been passionate, but now it seemed even more energetic and intense.

  Afterward she lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, wondering if she could sync hers to his. Soon he was snoring, and Mathilde sat up to light a cigarette. Maurice, her husband, had always wanted to cuddle for hours after sex, and it was usually she who went to sleep, if only to get him to stop talking.

  Mathilde ashed her cigarette, thinking that, for all Armand claimed to trust her, and she him, there was something he was keeping from her. Maybe he has a secret spouse somewhere as well. She glanced lovingly at his sleeping form. With the exception of his guttural snoring, he reminded her of a helpless little boy. As long as he is sharing my bed, I guess I can’t fault him for whatever his secret is. With that, she stubbed out her cigarette and then turned off the light.

  The next day Mathilde telephoned her friend René Aubertin, who agreed to meet her on a street bench near his place of work as a civil engineer.

  René was waiting for her when she arrived. After a warm embrace he sat down and patted the spot beside him. “What’s this all about?”

  Mathilde was too excited to sit. “Remember when we met in Orleans and talked about getting back at the Germans?” He gave her a blank look as she continued, “Well, I know how we can do that now.”

  “Mathilde,” René looked up and down the abandoned street. “What are you talking about?”

  She perched next to him. “I’m helping to launch a network of saboteurs.”

  He gave her a mocking smile. “Are you now?”

  She grabbed his arm. “René, I’m serious. Toto and I—”

  “Toto? As in the dog in the Wizard of Oz?”

  She dropped her hand. “No. As in a man. His real name is Armand Borni.”

  “Armand Borni,” René repeated. “Such a French name. Is he the man who is responsible for that glow I see now? Or is it this supposed network?”

  “Glow? Now it’s my turn to ask what you are talking about.”

  “I’ve known you since you were a girl, and while you’ve always been wildly enthusiastic, or even—” he gave her a knowing glance, “just wild, I’ve never seen you so confident before. It’s as if you’re ready to set the world on fire.”

  “No, just Europe.”

  He sighed. “Okay, Mathilde, tell me what you’ve got planned.”

  After she’d filled him in on her and Toto’s plans for Interallié, he gave yet another sigh. “While it certainly sounds unbelievable, I have no reason to doubt what you say is true. And I don’t think I could consciously pass up a chance to get back at the Boches.”

  “So you will join us?”

  He pointed a finger at her. “I’ll do even better than that. I know of a man,” he gla
nced around again. They were still alone, but he lowered his voice anyway. “A man by the name of Marc Marchal, a chemist, who has started something similar. I’ll bet he’d be willing to merge his men with your network.”

  “Oh René!” Mathilde couldn’t help clapping her hands like a little girl. “That’s wonderful!” She planted a kiss on her old friend’s cheek.

  He stood up. “I’ll get in contact with Marchal as soon as possible and meet you in two days’ time.”

  “I knew I could count on you!” Mathilde called before racing off to share the good news with Armand.

  True to his word, René contacted Marchal, who promptly became known as Uncle Marco, and who, in turn introduced Mathilde to his contacts, including a railway engineer with information on German troop movements and a high-ranking officer in the Explosives Service. Mathilde congratulated herself on the new recruits, but didn’t let herself rest until she had more.

  Procuring men off the street proved a much more difficult task. She never knew if the people she approached would be pro-Allies, pro-Vichy, or even pro-Nazi. For this, she relied on her training from Sardanapalus in Vichy. She’d bestow her customary smile on them and ply them with compliments and alcohol until she got them to confess their loyalties. If they declared themselves as “a de Gaulliste,” Mathilde would explain that Interallié worked directly with de Gaulle from his exile in London. If they said they were a pro-Briton, she would emphasize Interallié’s SOE contacts on Baker Street. And if at any time they hinted at sympathy with either the Vichy Government or the Germans, Mathilde would stretch her arms in a yawn, claim to be exhausted, and then take her leave. She never used her real name in case of just that scenario, telling her new acquaintances to refer to her as “The Cat” instead.

  Among the people Mathilde drafted by other means was Mireille Lejeune, who worked as a concierge on the Avenue Lamarck, and her police officer husband, Boby Roland, who was willing to supply them with blank identity cards to help ease the movement of their agents throughout the countryside. Perhaps their most unusual volunteer was a former officer of the French Air Force nicknamed Kiki. His source of income was not readily apparent, but Mathilde asked no questions when he offered to donate a large sum of money to Interallié. After that, he seemed to only have one idea in his head: to capture a German plane and fly it.