Je suis Sabine ValThis is happening, this is really happening. Oh God, what would they do with her?
The part of her training she didn’t want to put into action.
Wake up, wach auf, wach auf.
What had they told her? How was she to behave? What if she’d missed one vital piece of information, the piece of information that might keep her alive?
Don’t let your guard down, they won’t always resort to violence. Sometimes they will be gentle and persuasive.
Je m’appelle Sabine Valois Je m’appelle Sabine Valois Je m’appelle Sabine Valois Je m’appelle Sabine Valois Je m’appelle Sabine Valois Je m’appelle Sabine Valois Je m’appelle Sabine Valois
She just had to stick to her story. It would keep her safe. They’d planned it out for her, gone into great detail, made it watertight.
She had to trust it. Trust those who had created it for her.
It was designed to keep her alive.
Wasn’t it? Or was it just designed to keep their secrets safe? Maybe her death was a regrettable consequence of war. To win there had to be casualties along the way.
George.
No, if she thought like that she had no chance of surviving this.
It was all very easy telling her not to speak, to stick to the story, but they weren’t here now, handcuffed in the back of a Gestapo car. Where were they taking her anyway? Paris?
Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.
J’ai vingt-et-un ans.
J’ai été malade.
Try to stay strong, at least for the first twenty-four hours. This will give the other members of your network time to escape.
D’accord.
She would try and hold on for at least twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four hours.
She wouldn’t allow herself to think any further ahead than that.
Just survive for one day, then we’ll take a rain check. See where we are. How Sabine is holding up. Maybe Marièle will make an appearance after that.
MarieNoNoNoNoNo
Don’t even think of that name.
Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.
Sabine Valois.
Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine Sabine
... .- -... .. -. .
... .- -... .. -. .
... .- -... .. -. .
... .- -... .. -. .
Try to stay strong, at least for the first twenty-four hours. This will give the other members of your network time to escape.
What others? Who was left? Alive or dead.
Maybe the game was already up?
Had someone betrayed her? She had lived alongside them, thought they were her friends, but could she really trust a friendship based on lies?
No matter how tempted you may be, no matter how close you get, don’t give anything away about your real life.
All that time she’d spent with Alex, Sebastian, Madame. They didn’t even know her real name.
She was good, she hadn’t let them in. She stuck to the rules. Even with Madame, she never let her guard down.
Madame.
Oh God, her face. Her face as she came out, as they shot her, as she lay there on the floor. Oh God, when Sabine closed her eyes she saw Madame’s face.
And Sabine could have saved her. If she’d said run, told her to run. So what if it was a false alarm – at least she’d be alive. Instead of that face. That face on the floor.
And Alex. Alex lying…
Oh God, she couldn’t think of them, if she did, she’d crack. She had to force the images away.
Je m’appelle Sabine Valois. Je m’appelle Sabine Valois. Je m’appelle Sabine Valois. Je m’appelle Sabine Valois. Je m’appelle Sabine Valois. Je m’appelle Sabine Valois. Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.
.. / .- -- / ... .- -... .. -. . / ...- .- .-.. --- .. ...
.. / .- -- / ... .- -... .. -. . / ...- .- .-.. --- .. ...
It was no use though. They flickered in and out, stamping themselves on her thoughts, blocking out everything else.
Madame.
Alex.
Madame.
Alex.
Madame. Alex. Madame. Alex. Madame. Alex. Madame. alexmadamealexmadamealexmadamealexmadamealexmadam
God, they were so vivid, like a scene from the pictures, she couldn’t make them go away.
Madamemadamemadamemadamemadamemadamemadamemadame
She could have saved her.
Sabine’s head rocked to one side, her forehead hit the car window. She slumped forward. The soldier, the one sitting next to her, he’d hit her, slapped her across the face.
She hadn’t seen it coming, unaware until it had happened. She was at their mercy, but she relished the pain, the throbbing. It took her mind off Madame and Alex, brought her back to the present, the now.
‘Try to control yourself,’ the soldier said.
Tears prickled behind her eyes, she could feel her throat swell. She didn’t want him to see her cry. She hung her head, looked down at her feet. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She could feel a pulse beating in her eyelid, twitching her eyelashes, sticky with dried blood. The pain spread out and she became aware of everywhere she ached. Her shoulders, arms, wrists, back. She stretched out her fingers, tried to circle her hands, loosen them off inside the handcuffs.
She breathed in and out through her nose.
In. Out. In. Out.
Calm, calm, calm.
Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.
Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.
Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.
Paris.
She hadn’t been there since she was a little girl.
Mariel…
Non! Sabine. Sabine was from Paris.
.. / .- -- / ... .- -... .. -. . / ...- .- .-.. --- .. ...
She still recognised it.
Recognised it despite the changes. The twinkling café lights and tall apartment blocks, the intricate black ironwork of the balconies, the Eiffel Tower. They were all in shadow now, lights out.
The white brick buildings glimmered out from the darkness, in defiance: we are Paris, you cannot hide us.
Sandbags towered up, makeshift walls surrounding the buildings deemed to be important, the monuments. She turned her head so she could see out the window; despite the darkness she could make out shapes. Some of the buildings were in rubble. The allies, the side she was fighting on, bombing Paris.
Flags hung from windows, the black, red and yellow of the German flag. The Swastika. Yes, even in the blackout, she could make out the Swastika.
The men around her shifted, she felt their anticipation. They knew they were almost home before the car began to slow. They held the power.
The car stopped and the men got out, doors slammed around her and for a moment she was alone. She breathed in, then out, embraced the split second of calm before the door on her side was pulled open.
‘Raus!’ The man who had hit her dragged her out by the elbow. She stumbled out of the car, fell onto the pavement.
‘Komm mit, schnell. Quickly!’
‘Je ne peux pas me lever,’ she replied, unable to push herself up without the use of her arms.
‘Steh auf!’
She lay there, her face against the cold concrete until one of them grabbed her under the armpits, lifted her onto her feet. She felt a gun prod into her back.
She climbed the steps leading into the building. Another swastika flag draped over the doorway. She stopped at the entrance, looked up at the sky.
Stars. She could see the stars. So the blackout had its advantages. She could see the stars over Paris.
If she was going to die inside these walls, then she chose this memory as her last.
The stars over Paris.
The gun prodded her in the back, pushed her inside the doorway.
21 October 1945
Miss Downie acted with extreme courage and bravery under very trauma
tic circumstances. She did not reveal any secrets and continuously referred to her alias Sabine Valois and the cover story created for her.
Sabine lay on the floor of the cell, a bowl of soup and a piece of bread next to her. Someone must have left them there while she’d been unconscious.
She couldn’t eat.
She couldn’t eat.
She was hungry but she couldn’t.
Just the thought of eating made her queasy. She tried to lie as still as possible. If she moved the cramps in her stomach increased, travelling up and down her body in waves. She hadn’t had a proper meal since the night of the drop. How long ago was that now? She’d lost track of time.
Her fingers throbbed, dry blood crusty on her hands. There was blood on the floor too, it had dripped from her fingers, stained the concrete. She couldn’t pick up the bread or the soup; her hands didn’t work anymore.
She kept her eyes closed most of the time, had done since they’d dragged her in here, dropped her onto the floor.
How long ago was that?
She’d curled up in a ball in the corner, no blanket to keep her warm, wearing the same clothes she’d had on when they picked her up. She drifted in and out of consciousness. It wasn’t sleep, it didn’t feel like sleep. She didn’t dream. No Morse code, dot dot dashing in her head the way it had before.
- .- .--. / - .- .--. / - .- .--. / - .- .--. / - .- .--.
She tried to focus on the Morse alphabet. Run through it in her head.
.-
-...
-.-.
What was D again?
She had to get her brain working. They could break her body but she wanted to keep her brain.
-.-.
-..
.
The monotonous running through the alphabet fixed her mind on something that wasn’t pain, hunger, cold, sickness. Occasionally the repetition would send her off into one of those black-out periods, like counting sheep.
..-.
--.
Those blessed moments of release. Until she came round, automatically opened her eyes. Remembered where she was and shut them again.
.-
-...
-.-.
Someone had been in there with her for a while. At least she thought they had.
She was sure someone had spoken to her, gentle words, pulled her hair back, laid a cool hand on her clammy forehead. She wanted Mama, she’d kept her eyes closed hoping it was Mama.
Do not trust anyone if you are arrested by the Germans. It could be a stool pigeon.
Words were carved on the wall, just in front of where she lay. Someone else had crawled into this corner. The words flashed, a closed-eye hallucination.
Vive la France
Vive la France
Vive la France
Vive la France
Vive
Vive
Vive
BG YI AC ID KJ EM
BG YI AC ID KJ EM
Who had written it ? Another prisoner, like her? Were they alive or dead? They must have had the use of their hands. She couldn’t pick up a piece of bread, let alone carve defiance into the crumbling plaster.
She opened one eye, felt her stomach clench, closed it again.
Vive, vive, vive, vive, vive, vive.
BG YI BG YI BG YI BG YI BG YI BG YI BG YI
The word flashed on the back of her eyelids like those other images that wouldn’t go away. That haunted her.
Madame.
Alex.
Madame.
Alex.
JC JD TM CA DY JC JD TM CA DY JC JD TM CA DY
JC JD TM CA DY JC JD TM CA DY JC JD TM CA DY
Her stomach lurched and she swallowed the sickness back down, felt it burn the back of her throat.
.-
-...
-.-.
-..
She couldn’t move. It was worse if she moved. She would be fine if they just left her here, a ball on the floor.
She dreaded the sound of footsteps approaching. The clip, clip, clip, clip of those leather boots. Please, just leave me alone. Just leave me here alone. Here alone. Leave me here. Alone. Alone.
She woke later, hours, days, minutes, she didn’t know. Her fingers still beat with pain, her nails were still gone. Maybe she could gauge time by her fingers? Measure it by the length of her fingernails.
What if they never grew back? When they tidied the garden, Father always told her to make sure she got the weeds out by the roots.
So they would never grow back.
Had they pulled the roots out?
The pain had to stop sometime, she could measure time by how bad the pain was.
‘Steh auf.’
She opened her eyes, looked up, didn’t move.
‘Stand up! Steh auf!’
The soldier bent over, pulled her to her feet. She swayed from side to side, leant back against the wall to steady herself.
She noticed the German wipe his hands on his tunic after touching her. Was she that distasteful?
She looked down, felt the floor slope away, then rush towards her. Her clothes were creased and stained. She couldn’t remember using the bucket recently. She must have wet herself at some point. She had a vague recollection of the shame, of the warmth spreading over her thighs. Had she imagined it?
Making the horror worse than it actually was.
The man in front of her was smart, well-presented. Pressed uniform, polished boots, slicked hair, shiny buttons and belt buckle.
MEINE EHRE HEIßT TREUE
My honour is loyalty
How to recognise the different ranks of German soldier.
Gefreiter
Leutnant
Oberleutnant
Hauptmann
SS Hauptsturmführer
SS Obersturmführer
‘You are leaving us,’ he said as he led her out of the cell and along a corridor. She floated alongside him.
He was new. Hadn’t been there before, when they’d...
Young. Maybe he was newly promoted? Learning the ropes.
Well done, here’s your lightning flashes and your pliers.
January 2009
Hannah Dives Under The Knife
British swimmer Hannah Wright is to go under the knife in a bid to save her sinking swimming career. Hannah has floundered recently due to a recurrent shoulder injury and, despite undergoing intensive physio- therapy, hasn’t seen any improvement.
‘The operation was always a last resort, but unfortunately the injury has turned out to be worse than we first thought,’ said Hannah. ‘I’m hopeful that this will sort things out though and I’ll be back in the pool in no time.’
21
‘I don’t hold any animosity for her, she was young and she fell in love. She thought he would marry her once the war was over. And she was punished, they called it a collaboration horizontale. They shaved her head, made her parade through the village. Not the Germans, you know? The French did that to her.’
I tuck the blanket round my feet. How many times has she done the same? Snuggled up under this blanket while she read a book or watched TV. The old woman who sat on this sofa, the girl I’m reading about.
The Germans waited until the drop was over and the members of Sand Dune had returned to their respective homes before they made their move. Most of the circuit were in bed, giving the Germans the element of surprise and terror that they used so often to their advantage.
‘I knew something was wrong that night, I could feel it. I ran all the way home. But when I got there, Madame was okay, everything was as it should be. I let my guard down, I went to bed. There’s not a day goes by when I don’t curse myself for falling asleep.’
After helping with the drop, Marièle returned to the house she lodged at with Madame Poirier. Alex went to confront Natalie.
‘I told him to be careful. That was the last time I ever saw Alex. I never found out what happened when he went to see Natalie. He must have discovered we were to be rounded
up. He tried to warn me. He might have escaped if he hadn’t come to warn me.’
Marièle was in bed when they arrived at the house she shared with Madame Poirier.
I put the book down, try to slow my heart rate, my breathing, get it back to normal.
(resting heart rate)
I’m scared to keep reading but there’s a morbid curiosity compelling me to go on. It’s like watching a horror movie, I know something’s coming.
Something bad. I can’t look away.
She was awoken by gunshot outside her bedroom window. Realising her escape route was cut off, she tried to get out through the front door but was intercepted. She was arrested and taken to Gestapo Headquarters in Paris.
Eleven members of the Sand Dune network were killed during the raid, including Alex Sylvan and Madame Poirier. Sebastian Tholozan evaded capture and continued to work for the resistance until the end of the war. He committed suicide in 1950.
Fuck sake.
Marièle.
She must have been so scared. They killed her friends and dragged her off in the middle of the night.
Marièle. Marièle.
A complete stranger, the old woman who collapsed in the shop, my fake aunt.
This incredibly brave girl.
I know people did stuff like that in the war, acts of bravery which they never bragged about, but I didn’t realise she was one of them. Her story reads like the plot of a film, not real life. It feels so far removed from my life to be real. But she did it. This was her. This was her life.
Marièle.
Marièle was held by the Gestapo in Paris, where she was beaten and tortured while being questioned. Despite being subjected to extremely brutal treatment at the hands of her captors, she maintained her story, vehemently denying all knowledge of the circuit and maintaining that she was Sabine Valois, sent to live in the country to recuperate from a bout of Rheumatic Fever.
‘Apart from Alex and Madame, I didn’t know what had happened to the rest of them. I was on my own most of the time I was held. I don’t remember much about it, to be honest.’
A report written after Marièle’s return to the UK stated that she ‘acted with extreme courage and bravery under very traumatic circumstances.’ During her time in captivity, she was repeatedly submerged in water, as well as having her fingernails forcibly removed.
Swim Until You Can't See Land Page 21