by Larry Loftis
With his languages, athleticism, and diplomatic calm, Churchill was a natural for the Special Operations Executive, and Odette couldn’t have asked for a better supervisor. He had aced all aspects of SOE training and had already made two tours of France. Dropped by submarine at Antibes in February, he had delivered two million francs to Resistance groups in Cannes, Lyon, and Marseille. After sneaking across the Pyrenees to Spain, he made his way to Madrid and then hid in the trunk of a diplomat’s car to slip into Gibraltar. A second trip at the end of March was equally successful, although Peter narrowly avoided death when a French destroyer running with its lights off came within a hair of ramming the surfaced sub he was on.
Captain Peter Churchill. ALAMY
In every respect Peter Churchill was the consummate leader: intelligent, quick witted, and even-tempered. His cover identity was “Pierre Chauvet,” but he was to be addressed as “Michel” or “Raoul” when among network agents. Unbeknownst to Odette, Peter had already earned somewhat of a reputation at Baker Street. He was “here, there and everywhere,” Buckmaster said of him, “testing our methods of introducing our men into France, recruiting new units and encouraging existing ones—in short, doing the work of ten men.”
Peter made a few remarks to the group and then instructed Marsac to take the men to the Villa Isabelle, a luxurious residence owned by Baron Henri (“Antoine”) de Malval,11 temporary headquarters for SPINDLE, the code name of Peter’s circuit. Introducing the ladies to Suzanne, he suggested that they freshen up and join him for lunch. In the meantime, there was wine and cake in the kitchen, he said, for a small reception party.
As the women mingled and made their way to the kitchen, Peter considered the recruits: a grey-haired woman of about fifty-two who spoke too much English for his liking; a woman around twenty-seven who seemed too refined for the business; and the one called Lise, whom he estimated to be twenty-five. She had fair skin, light-brown hair, and discerning eyes. She also had a determined look about her, suggesting that she feared neither the Gestapo nor the concentration camp. This could be a problem, he thought, if her iron resistance led her to skip precautions necessary to avoid arrest.
But what captured his gaze were her hands; hands such as he had never seen before. They were long with slim, capable fingers, and as he watched her holding a wineglass, he noticed the expanse between her thumb and forefinger; it was a sign denoting extravagance, generosity, and impetuosity.
After lunch Odette waited until the other women retired to bed and then approached the handsome captain. The reception was nice, she said, but she was anxious to get on with the job and go to Auxerre, her first stop.
Peter acknowledged Odette’s assignment, but told her that crossing the border was no mean feat. The demarcation line was heavily patrolled by German guards, he said, often with dogs, and she would need a passeur: a guide who specialized in helping people cross. Unfortunately, one wouldn’t be available for a day or two. He told her to relax for a while and suggested that maybe she should nap with the other women.
“I don’t need any rest, thank you.”
“Well, I’m afraid I have one or two things to attend to, Lise, so you’ll have to excuse me.”
Peter played the part of the strict commanding officer, but it was difficult; there was no denying that this young woman was attractive and alluring.
Before heading off to Antoine’s to visit the men, Peter went to see his radio operator to have a message sent to London. Adolphe Rabinovitch—code-named “Arnaud”—was a twenty-six-year-old Russo-Egyptian Jew with the temperament of a wolverine. As Leo Marks, SOE’s chief cryptographer and cypher instructor, put it, Arnaud could and did swear in four languages. His angry eyes and cynical mouth warned that he didn’t suffer fools lightly—or anyone, for that matter—and that the slightest offense would trigger his wrath.
And Arnaud was built to deliver: he reminded Peter of a Hercules who moved with the ease of a panther. To be expected, Arnaud had a background in fighting, having been a junior wrestling and boxing champion. When he and Marks disagreed during cypher training over heavyweight boxing champ Joe Louis’s best punch, Arnaud had sought to settle the matter by demonstration. “Rabinovitch swung his giant fist at my jaw,” Marks recalled, “and pulled it up a microdot away just as Buckmaster walked in.”
After transferring from the French Foreign Legion to the SOE, Arnaud had been parachuted in September near Grenoble with orders to proceed to Paris; his Polish pilot, however, missed the drop zone by twenty miles. Arnaud hid at a local farm and eventually connected with a Resistance agent, who took him to Cannes and introduced him to Peter.
When they first met, Peter had looked beyond Arnaud’s gruff personality to see a man who was highly competent, fearless, and deeply committed to the cause. Peter suggested that Arnaud work for him, and the blunt radioman said London would never approve it. Peter asked if he would care to bet and they did, to the tune of 50,000 francs. London approved, and Peter now had one of the best wireless operators in France
Adolphe (Arnaud) Rabinovitch. IMPERIAL WAR MUSEUM
Peter told him of the arriving felucca and Arnaud asked what the new agents were like.
“Very tired,” Peter said. “One of them—Lise—disapproves of the whole setup. She is like an angry gazelle.”
* * *
THE FOLLOWING DAY PETER returned to Suzanne’s flat. He knew Lise would be disappointed when he told her that he couldn’t borrow a guide from André (“Carte”) Girard, leader of the adjacent CARTE circuit, and wasn’t surprised when she asked for something to do.
He thought a moment. First assignment for the angry gazelle.
“I want you to go to Juan-les-Pins,” he said. “When you get there, leave the Provencal Hôtel on your right and go straight up to the top of the hill. Just over the brow you’ll find a sharp right-hand turn. Take it, and four hundred yards down on the left you’ll see a villa called Les-Jonquilles. Ask to see Carte, tell him who you are—he’ll recognize you from my description. Give him these messages, which you must hide on you, and wait for the answers. It’s about seven kilometers each way.”
He asked her to repeat the instructions and Odette recited them virtually word for word. He asked if she could ride a bicycle and she said that she could. There was a bike downstairs, he told her, and Suzanne could tell her the best way out of town.
Odette left and another agent, Jacques Riquet—a twenty-five-year-old former French air force sergeant—came in. As they were conversing they heard a loud crash, followed by the feeble ring of a bell.
Peter looked to the door. “What was that?”
“That,” Riquet said as he peered through the window, “was Lise and her hoop. She’s dusting herself off . . . She’s dabbing her knee with a handkerchief . . . Blood! . . . She’s gripping the handlebars sternly . . . We’re off! . . . We’re on . . . We’re off! . . . We’re on again. She’s swaying . . . she’s round the bend.”
In the afternoon, Arnaud came by and began lingering by the window.
“Very restless today, aren’t you, Arnaud?” Peter asked. “You’ve been hanging around that window as though you expected the Queen of Sheba to pass.”
“And so I do. I can hardly wait to see this Lise.”
“You may have to wait several days if I’m any judge of trick cyclists.”
Arnaud asked if she was staying with the group and Peter said that he knew very well that she was going to Auxerre.
“I seem to remember I was going to Paris, once,” Arnaud said, grinning. He peered again through the window. “My God! There’s a walking dead coming through the gate and trailing a heap of scrap iron.”
Peter glanced out. “The Queen of Sheba herself. Arnaud, don’t go all goosey when she comes in. I tell you, this girl’s dynamite. One moment of weakness and she’d have any man climbing Everest for a sprig of edelweiss.”
Odette came in and the men pretended to be preoccupied. “Ah, Lise,” Peter said. “You’re back all right, t
hen. Lise, this is Arnaud. He works the radio.”
Arnaud mustered up a charming smile and offered his hand. “Enchantè, Lise.”
Odette went to change her torn stockings and over lunch asked for another job. Peter mulled the request. It was clear that his clumsy but fearless courier would take any assignment, regardless of danger, and would likely be insulted if the task wasn’t somewhat complicated.
He had in mind a job—a dangerous mission even for a man—which wouldn’t be for the faint of heart. But should he send Lise out on such an assignment so fast? he wondered. He tossed the idea around in his head a day or so and on November 6 called her in.
“I want you to take those four new men to Marseille tomorrow,” he told her, “and see them on to their connections. Three of them are English and naturally feel a bit strange out here.
“Now, Lise, Marseille at the moment is an ugly town, full of traps, raids, and other disagreeable surprises. You’ll find the Gare St. Charles swarming with whole companies of the Afrika Korps, but you needn’t pay any attention to them. The people you must be on your guard against are the armed Vichy troops in blue uniforms who stand by the exits with German uniformed soldiers of the Security and RTO Units. However, these uniformed men fade into insignificance beside the glowering gentlemen in civilian clothes who are liable to be checking papers. These are the Gestapo.”
Odette nodded. “Fine.”
“Having got rid of your charges,” Peter continued, “walk along the side of the station until you come to a vast flight of steps leading down to the town. Go down them on the left side and stay on the left-hand pavement so as to avoid the Hôtel Splendide opposite. It’s the H.Q. of the Gestapo. Go down to the Canebière—the main street—and turn right. Stay on the right-hand pavement, and after passing some stalls you’ll find the Hôtel Moderne. Go up to the first floor where there’s a fat, blowsy woman sitting inside a glass cubicle. Ask her if Monsieur Vidal is in.”
Peter didn’t mention that “Monsieur Vidal” was General Charles Delestraint, a recently retired commander who had led the counterattack against the Germans at Abbeville in 1940, and who had been chosen as commander in chief of de Gaulle’s secret army.
If Vidal was in, Peter said, Odette was to give him the password greeting: “Je vous apporte des nouvelles de Monsieur Ternier, Monsieur Ternier de Lyon.” In return, Vidal would ask, “C’est de Monsieur ‘Jean’ Ternier que vous parlez, Madame?”
Odette asked if this was the man she had seen at the felucca reception with Marsac, and Peter confirmed that it was.
He explained that Vidal would have a suitcase full of clothes and that she was to bring it back. “When you’ve got all that tied up, I want you to go back into the Canebière, turn left along it until you reach the Vieux Port and then right, where you’ll find a glass tram terminus. Catch the No. 3 tram. It goes to Aix-en-Provence, twenty-nine kilometers away. When you get there, you go to the Boulevard Zola which is road 96, and almost on the corner is a blue-painted garage. Ask for Monsieur Gontrand.”
Odette blinked. This was her first field test: memorizing a massive amount of information upon hearing it once. But it was the life of the courier, she knew, and lives—particularly her own—depended on accurate and instant recall of details.
Peter handed her 50,000 francs—petrol money for Gontrand to hold five hundred liters—and asked her to repeat the instructions. Odette fired back with the speed with which he had delivered and missed only a couple details. Peter corrected the discrepancies and Odette was ready. She left with the men the following day and they arrived in Marseille without incident.
* * *
MARSEILLE WAS INDEED DANGEROUS, as Peter had warned, but it presented tremendous opportunity. A valuable port city with an unruly population of a half million, Marseille had a tradition of rebellion and an extensive underworld. In addition, Baker Street had just posted three agents there for sabotage and training, including H. M. R. Despaigne, Peter’s backup radioman.
With her companions discharged, Odette went off in search of Vidal. She followed the serpentine directions and found the Hôtel Moderne. As Peter had said, the blowsy woman was at the reception desk, but Vidal was out. The lady said he’d likely return about six o’clock, and Odette said she’d come back then. The schedule would be tight, she knew, since the last train to Cannes left at 7:10 P.M. If she missed it, she’d have to find a hotel and be off the street by curfew at ten.
She left and found Gontrand at the garage and gave him the petrol money. Now free until six, she took in a movie and strolled through town to kill time. On every street corner, it seemed, were German warning posters. In French, they read:
It is forbidden to conceal, befriend or aid in any way persons who are part of the Army of the enemy (particularly members of air crew, enemy parachutists and enemy agents). Whoever contravenes the above order exposes themselves to being brought before a military tribunal and there they will be punished with the utmost severity, in some cases the pain of death.
Pain of death. Marseille, however, was a warren, and the Resistance rabbits had long since gone to ground.
Catch us if you can.
Shortly after six Odette was back at the hotel, but Vidal had yet to arrive. The receptionist said he was expected at any moment and Odette took a seat in the hall. At a quarter to seven a tall man in a dark suit came in.
Odette stood. “Monsieur Vidal?”
“Oui, Madame.”
“Je vous apporte des nouvelles de Monsieur Ternier, Monsieur Ternier de Lyon.”
Vidal paused and then asked, “C’est de Monsieur ‘Jean’ Ternier que vous parlez, Madame?”
“Oui, Monsieur. Précisément.”
He nodded and asked if she’d join him for a drink. They strolled to a nearby cafe, and Odette placed a folded newspaper on the table and mentioned that it was money from Raoul.
Vidal quietly thanked her and slipped the paper into his pocket. He said that one of his couriers—a man named Bernard—was meeting him at the cafe, and if Odette could wait a few minutes, it would be helpful if they could meet.
Odette inquired about finding a hotel where no questions would be asked, and Vidal said that Bernard could recommend such a place. The man arrived moments later and suggested that they order dinner. Odette asked again about a hotel, and Bernard said it would be no problem; after the meal he’d take care of it.
At nine o’clock—one hour before curfew—Odette reminded Bernard about the hotel. He apologized and said he’d do it now and slipped away. Fifteen minutes later he returned and said that all of the hotels were booked. Not to worry, though; he knew of another place where no questions would be asked and she would be safe.
They walked toward the Vieux Port for several minutes and Bernard abruptly stopped.
“Here I leave you. It is better that I come no farther. Go down this street until you come to the sixth house on the right. Push the door and it will open. Inside is a woman. Tell her that you come from Monsieur Bernard and that you want a room for the night—a room with a key in the lock. She will understand.”
Odette wondered why Bernard couldn’t come with her. “What is the place where I am to sleep?”
“It is the only house where you will be absolutely safe in Marseille tonight. I am sorry, Lise. It is a German soldiers’ brothel.”12
Odette asked if it would be possible to sleep in the waiting room at the train station. Bernard acknowledged that she could, but that it would be unsafe. The Nazis had a habit of raiding the waiting rooms,13 he said, and transporting the passengers to petrol factories in Germany.
It was an understatement. France was now Germany’s vassal, and the suzerain regularly plundered the country for livestock, steel, textiles, corn, coal, and wine to feed and supply the fatherland. In similar fashion, it requisitioned homes for German officers and was deporting millions for forced labor in Germany.
Bernard assured her the brothel would be safe and said good-bye.
Indeed, b
rothels for Germans were considered the safest of safe houses because they were never searched; who would be found at a German brothel but Germans? At some, a room or two would even be kept vacant for escaping agents or aircrews.
It was now minutes before ten and the streets were deserted and dark, like a necropolis at midnight. Odette made her way down the sidewalk, counting houses. Everything was quiet save her footfalls, which echoed as a ticking clock. At number six she pushed the door and it opened. A middle-aged woman sitting at a table looked up.
“Que désirez-vous, Madame?”
“I come from Monsieur Bernard. He said that . . . he said that I could have a room here tonight, a room with a key.”
The woman stared at her. “You know what manner of house this is?”
Odette said she did.
The madam gave her a key and assured that she would not be disturbed.
Room 10 was decrepit but seemed safe enough. Tired lace curtains hung before closed shutters and a tarnished brass bed with a single grey blanket stood in the middle. A divan rested against the wall next to a wardrobe and armchair. Beside it was a small cabinet, on top of which was an ashtray with a stubbed-out cigarette and three hairpins. There was a smell Odette couldn’t place—maybe a cheap Parisian perfume—and a dirty dressing gown rested inside the wardrobe.
Odette dragged the divan in front of the door and placed the chair on top of it. Turning out the light and taking off her shoes, she reclined on the bed fully clothed and dozed off.
* * *
VOICES.
It was three in the morning and there was a clatter of boots around the building.
The brothel door opened and a man entered, followed by several more.