To her horror, she discovered on her first evening that she would have to learn to ride a bicycle. After overcoming her embarrassment at showing most of her legs, she soon came to love her bike. Night after night she cycled around Bastia’s streets with Jules in a basket tied on the back.
The following week was devoted to communications. Learning the Morse code was simple for Sybilia. She could rely on her excellent memory. The radio transmitter proved more difficult to master, but by the end of the month she was adept at everything she had to know.
One of her duties was a nightly radio communication with Free French forces in Algeria. ‘No invasion as yet,’ she would tap out at fifteen words a minute. ‘Resistance forces have been set up in each mountain village. Approximately ten thousand able-bodied men are available to fight, but we are untrained and badly equipped. Send us arms.’
Two weeks later she received message that a small consignment of arms was available, to be collected from Algiers.
Smuggling was a traditional Corsican passion. It was not long before Uncle Pierre and his colleagues were gunrunning on a nightly basis, using their fishing as a cover and delivering precious supplies of arms and explosives from the Free French.
On the first day of November Sybilia began work at the Bastia International Hotel, an old but impressive institution known for its excellent seafood cuisine and good service. Because it was the best hotel in Bastia, it was assumed that it would be requisitioned for middle-and senior-ranking German officers. Sybilia was to work three hours a day while Granny Gaffori minded Jules. She was to play the role of an ignorant, part-time char woman, keeping her eyes open for discarded information in the bins and using her knowledge of German to eavesdrop.
On her third morning she had to help at the breakfast table, and she received five francs in tips. Sometimes she lingered after lunch and watched the dansant — afternoon dancing that was the craze all over Europe. One morning a group of German officers arrived on the ferry from Marseilles and spent half an hour inspecting the rooms, the menus, and the service, all of which she reported in her nightly transmission.
Was this war? she asked herself daily. Her days were varied and stimulating, but at night she tossed restlessly beside Michel. Like everyone else, she was living in a state of nervous tension. Everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before Axis troops overran southern France and with it Corsica. But when would they come?
Chapter 29
11 November 1942
It was a sunny morning on the balcony of the apartment house. The baby, Jules, now nearly a year old, played happily in his cradle, while Sybilia sat at her sewing machine, humming an old Corsican ballad as she stitched a floral dress.
The reflection of the sun first caught her attention. She paused in her work and peered out to sea toward the fishing fleet. Far above, tiny pinpoints of light in the luminous blue turned and hovered, dived and soared. Quite odd, really. She put down her work, wrinkled her forehead, and screwed up her eyes to see better.
There was a faint humming noise in the air. The sea around the tiny boats was suddenly white instead of blue.
Shiny, malevolent bees were diving at the fishing boats. Then they came on, growing in size and stature. At the precise moment when they became visibly man-made, the air was filled with the sound of church bells and sirens.
‘Uncle Pierre,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, Lucilia. Does she know? Was it the Boche? Or the Macaronis? Oh, God — it’s come!’
‘Dear God, save Uncle Pierre,’ she whispered, remembering how often she had begged him to learn to swim.
Why are they bombing us? This can’t be happening. Insane! She remained at her sewing machine, rooted to the chair with shock.
It happened so quickly. By the time she had risen to her feet the first bombers were approaching Bastia in formation. Then the bombs were falling in lines, like skittles flung from a gigantic crate in the sky. Planes were screaming overhead, and the bombs kept falling — on the harbour, the central city, and the houses.
The sound of the explosions was like nothing she had heard in her life before. It felt like a simultaneous blow to her head and kick in her stomach. She reeled from the shock of the noise but stood there still, feeling overcome with bewilderment and fear.
Jules was wailing. That noise, more than anything else, brought sanity surging back. With a cry she grabbed her baby and fled through the living room to the staircase. By now the old house was vibrating with the shock of falling bombs. There was one ear-splitting crash. Surely the house had been hit. Plaster fell around her, and glass crashed from every window.
The cellar. I’ve got to get Jules to the cellar.
Somehow she managed to cushion Jules in her arms and keep on her feet as she raced down. She was dimly aware of people ahead of her, but she could not see through the fog of dust and plaster. She almost knocked Madame Gaffori down as the old lady hobbled on her bad leg. Pausing for a moment to cough out the dust and regain her composure, she grasped the old lady’s arm.
‘Lean on me, Granny,’ she gasped, ‘but hurry. Faster! The roof — the plaster -I don’t know how long… ’
They reached the basement after what seemed an hour’s struggle. It was filled with the screams of children, and the moans of frantic praying.
‘What is it? What’s happening? Who is doing this thing? What does it mean?’ The cries echoed around the cellar.
it means we are being invaded,’ Sybilia called out. ‘The Italians are bombing Bastia.’
The fascists! Those bastards!’
‘They want to frighten the shit out of us,’ an old man said. He was the butcher’s delivery mart.
‘What cowards we are to wail and cry and shiver in the cellar,’ Granny shouted. ‘We’re behaving more like Italians ourselves.’
There was feeble laughter. Mothers began to calm their children. ‘Stop snivelling. Be brave. You want something to cry for? Here’s something to cry for! Not the Macaronis. Corsicans don't cry for Macaronis!’
The children were soon quieted, but the bombing continued. Unbelievably, their house was still standing. Suddenly, Sybilia realized she shouldn’t be shivering here with the women when she had work to do. Thrusting Jules into Granny’s arms, she ran out of the basement and up the stairs.
The dust was settling; the floors, ledges, and furniture were white from a thick covering of plaster dust. It hung in the air like smog. After a fit of coughing she tied her scarf over her mouth. There was a strong smell of garbage, mixed with damp plaster and dust. The city sounded very silent.
Suddenly the church bells began ringing again, but whether they were signalling the end of the raid or the start of another one she did not know. Her heart was fluttering with fear as she rushed breathlessly up the stairs and out onto the balcony again.
A trolley bus was winding off into the residential area, but otherwise the streets were as deserted as an early Sunday morning. Searching the skies, she saw the planes disappearing into the haze toward Italy. They seemed to move so slowly across the sky. As she unfastened the straps of the suitcase containing her transmitter, groups of men came running down the street toward the bombed-out buildings. The sound of the ambulances and the fire brigade could be heard simultaneously. The shock was over. People began milling into the street, waving their fists at the sky, cursing the fascists.
There were only two burning houses in their district. A crowd was milling around them. She saw a man in police uniform race out of the flames and smoke, with an unconscious child in his arms.
‘Oh, those swine,’ she gasped, forgetting her duties as she watched more limp figures being carried out by firemen.
Cold anger set in as she began to send her message in Morse code. Ten-fifteen, Italian bombers raided Bastia. Two buildings burning in the old city. Raid lasted approximately ten minutes. There must be more damage. She would have to go out and see. She added: Further bomb damage estimates follow shortly. She stopped and looked up in surprise. On the horizon she s
aw a massive fleet of boats materializing out of the haze. So did the crowds. They gathered on wharfs and jetties, squares and corners, and cursed the incoming flotilla. Then they went back to work, reluctant to appear overtly interested in the invaders.
Sybilia was watching anxiously for the fishing fleet to return, counting the boats as they docked one by one. They had thrown their fish overboard for extra speed. Uncle Pierre was safe, and Sybilia thanked God, but two of their neighbours’ boats were missing.
At noon the first troops came ashore in their landing craft and found the city back to business as usual. The Italians were largely ignored by the population except for rude comments by cheeky children who threw a few stones. They marched smartly to police headquarters and took control. By nightfall they had commandeered the best buildings and houses, imposed a curfew, banned fishing, and taken over the principal services and roads.
All day Sybilia reported the news to headquarters. Later she was joined by Jean, who brought her more statistics. The bombers had been two squadrons of Caproni CA-135 bombers. ‘Naturally they will use their obsolete craft since they know we are undefended,’ he told her bitterly. They had dropped approximately fifty bombs each of two hundred pounds. He had exact details of the damage. They had avoided hitting the harbour. It was merely a punitive raid to set the tone of the invasion.
By evening Sybilia packed to leave. She knew that by now Michel would have joined his guerrilla band in the mountains, as had most other able-bodied men in Corisca. She, too, had a job to do, but first she must take Jules back to Maria.
She felt no regret as she glanced around her apartment. A home without love is not much of a home, she reasoned. Her sadness over Michel now seemed trivial compared to the threat to her country.
She bolted her shutters, but she could not drown out the sounds of the invaders: marching feet, shouts, and whistles, an occasional gunshot, and the distant strains of a brass band coming from the harbour — all this served to intensify her feeling of humiliation and despair. The rape of her island would be avenged, as would the deaths of her neighbours. The brutality of bombing the defenceless population of Bastia heightened her determination. To a Corsican, life without freedom or dignity was not worth living.
Part Three
Robin’s Story 1942-1943
Chapter 30
11 December 1942
The flight from Yeovil aerodrome was short and uneventful. The Lancaster flew smoothly at fifteen thousand feet, until they reached the French coast. Then the flak began, and they pitched and rolled, rose and fell.
Captain Robin Moore curled up in the corner among the containers and tried to ignore the gaping hole through which he would have to jump soon. He was a tall man, twenty-five years old but looking older, with dark red hair, a muscular physique, and a suntanned, freckled skin. He was not handsome: his face was too square, his chin too blunt, his nose, which had been broken twice, was slightly askew. But his blue eyes were extraordinarily expressive. They normally glowed with good humour and warmth. Consequently women thought of him as good-looking. At the moment his eyes were shut, and his body swayed like a sack to the pitch of the plane. It was midnight. He had eaten a huge farewell dinner at the American mess, and he was tired. For his entire twenty-four-hour leave, he had been holed up with a Parisian typist attached to American headquarters in London. He knew he would never see her again. It was just one of those wartime interludes. Right now he was hoping he would be able to get a good sleep when he reached whatever accommodation the Corsicans had planned for him.
Corsica! Christ! He would laugh if it weren’t so damned annoying. He relived the briefing with his immediate superior in London forty-eight hours ago. ‘You’re going to a holiday camp,’ Major Ronald Hartman had told him. ‘It’s called Corsica. An idyllic, island in the Mediterranean, renowned for the beauty of its scenery and its women. You deserve a rest.’
He hadn’t joined up for a rest. He wanted to fight the enemy. He’d done this successfully in 1941 with the Yugoslav patriots in June 1942. They had needed his particular skills in demolition and operations behind enemy lines. Other than a couple of skirmishes with fellow officers in various schools, his record was exemplary. So why this assignment so far from the front line.
‘Because you have no equal in demolition, because your French is good, and because we have no one else available here and now,’ the major had explained. He had gone to some trouble to explain why it was necessary to send an agent into Corsica at all:
‘Eighty thousand Italian and ten thousand German occupying troops haven’t been able to penetrate the interior of this island. The Corsicans are ferocious fighters. All able-bodied men took to the maquis as soon as the enemy invaded.’
‘Maquis?’ Robin had queried.
‘That’s what they call the junglelike scrub that covers half their island. Hence the term “Maquisards,' which the French adapted from the Corsicans. The partisans appear without warning, inflict as much damage as they can, and disappear. Once in the maquis, no one can find them.
‘The only decent roads in Corsica are around the coast, linking the main coastal cities. Roads into the interior are few and far between. Most Corsicans keep donkeys to travel the narrow, winding tracks up precipitous slopes. High, inhospitable mountains, dense scrub, good visibility to see approaching enemies — all that has made the island well-nigh impregnable.
‘So while the interior has remained free, civilians in the coastal cities have to live with the restrictions and humiliations of the Axis occupation: curfew, rationing, and the brutality of the hated OVRA — that’s the fancy title of the Italian secret police. They are every bit as ruthless as the German Gestapo.
‘There are several Resistance groups, chief of which is the National Front, led by Xavier Rocca. The Resistance have established several first-class supply routes between themselves and Algiers, as well as a clandestine radio link. This is reportedly operated by a woman. I don’t know why they couldn’t find a man for this job. I’ve heard she’s a relative of Rocca’s.
‘It’s only a month since Corsica was occupied, but General de Gaulle and General Giraud are finding it increasingly difficult to hold back these men from a major commitment against the occupying forces. Uprisings, battles, and partisan raids are taking place without planning or permission. This is sparking off a major row at headquarters. The Corsicans couldn’t give a damn about Allied strategy. They just want the fascists out of their island. Strange people. You’ll find that once they set their minds on a target, they have no concept of self-preservation. They just go for it.
‘The Corsican Resistance numbers about ten thousand untrained and badly equipped men, all of whom are determined to evict the invaders at once, by any means. The different groups are at loggerheads. Some are communists. There’s no discipline, no order. Just about every shepherd who can pick up a gun is determined to do his bit.
‘Essentially the Corsicans should understand that the Resistance is small business: damage the enemy’s equipment, steal their arms, and harass their men. Their job is to goad the Germans and Italians beyond endurance. Any attempt to do more than that is doomed to failure. Just remember, Moore, keep the Jerries guessing, keep them worrying, but above all, keep them there… You hear me?’
‘Sure I hear you. Can’t say I like what I’m hearing.’
‘Right. Now a word of warning, my friend.’ Hartman who had grinned to take the sting out of his words, hadn’t been able to disguise the anxiety in his voice. ‘Touch one woman and you’re dead. I guarantee it. They’re worse than Arabs about things like that.’
‘Christ! No women, no action. Just boring months of acting wetnurse to a bunch of unruly shepherds. This isn't why I volunteered.’
‘It’s no good beefing, Moore,’ the major, who was also his friend, had said. ‘You’re going to an area with a dangerous history. This time your allies are likely to be more dangerous than the enemy. They don’t like foreigners, particularly if you throw your weight
around. You did well with the Slavs, so maybe you’ll be lucky again. Just guard your back and use some tact.
‘The truth is, that’s why you were brought back from North Africa. You’re known as a sweet-talking Yankee, so get out there and use your charm.’
Robin had felt offended. He still felt sore, remembering Hartman’s gibe. He was not a phony. He just liked people. At one stage he had thought of entering the church, but in his teens sex had entered his life, and he’d decided there were other ways of interacting with humanity.
Robin was brought back to the present by the dispatcher, who was shaking his arm.
‘Hey, you! This is where you get off. Unoccupied territory, and the hunting’s superb. I was there on holiday once. Have a good war, pal.’
Through the hole, Robin saw the ground shimmering white in the moonlight. The twelve canisters were being thrown down. One of them contained his radio transmitter. Robin saw the parachutes floating past beneath his feet. He was next! Suddenly the dispatcher’s hand dropped. The word ‘Go!’ was like a blast in his eardrums.
The next second he shot through the hole. For a moment there was nothing to see but the aircraft passing above him. Then his parachute opened.
Shortly afterward he was swinging from nylon ropes that gleamed in the moonlight. All he could see below him were snowy peaks like giant’s teeth. He was miles off course, but that didn’t matter, since the enemy was nowhere around. As he floated down he felt relaxed enough to notice and enjoy the scenery. He was passing over a frozen mountain lake ringed by snowy crests on the roof of the world. There was a wooden chalet, surrounded by clumps of pine trees. It looked incredibly beautiful in the moonlight, like a backdrop to Swan Lake. He’d come back here, he promised himself… one day.
The Corsican Woman Page 16