Code Name

by Larry Loftis

  She would have none of it.

  “You asked me that before,” she said, “when I first came in. I told you then that there can be no compromise for the members of the French Section. That is still true. Being here has made no difference to me at all. Thank you for asking me, but I prefer to stay here.”

  * * *

  NEAR THE END OF August a guard took Peter to the sergeant’s office. There, beaming beside Colonel Henri, was Charles Fol. The elegant businessman was holding two large holdalls, one for Peter, one for Odette.

  “Monsieur Fol has very kindly agreed to arrange for fortnightly parcels to reach you and Odette,” Henri said. “They will come in small suitcases and when these are empty you will be able to place your dirty laundry inside them. This will be washed and returned to you with the subsequent parcel.”

  Peter didn’t know which man to hug first, but there was more. Henri and Charles had also devised a plan to sneak Peter out later that week for a nice lunch at the Fol residence.

  It seemed impossible but if anyone could pull it off, Henri could.

  Days later Peter was called from his cell and taken downstairs, where Henri and a number of Germans—apparently Gestapo—awaited. Henri told the men he was taking Peter away for interrogation. The request was unusual as the secret police and Abwehr were out of the picture once a spy was taken to prison; Fresnes was the jurisdiction of the Gestapo.

  That Henri slipped Peter out—uncuffed—was a testament to his credibility and persuasiveness. But one risk remained.

  As the Citroën rolled through the gates, Henri said, “Now, Pierre, it would be a simple matter for you to bash me over the head whilst my hands are on this wheel, so I must ask you for your parole for the whole period of the outing. If you were to do the dirty on me, I should probably have to pay for it with my neck.”

  Peter gave his word.

  The emancipation, even for a few hours, was surreal. The soft air, the parade of buildings, sunbeams trickling through tree-lined streets bustling with life—it was like bathing in champagne, Peter thought. Shopkeepers, pedestrians, cafes filled with patrons—this was life on the other side.

  As they drove, Henri mentioned that Peter would soon have another interrogation. The Gestapo had gleaned nothing to send to Berlin from the first, he said, and wanted another go at him. Fortunately, the man doing the second interview was a dull spark and Peter should win the battle of wits.

  They continued on and Peter noticed that Henri was not headed in the direction of the Fol residence, but down Avenue Foch. Was the next interrogation so soon?

  Henri made a turn and parked on rue Pergolèse, two blocks from the SD office. They went up a flight of stairs and Henri unlocked apartment 56. The living room was large and decorated like something from a lifestyle magazine; forty cushions adorned seats lining the perimeter. Adjacent was a finely furnished drawing room—appropriate for discussing Proust and Flaubert and Saint-Exupéry.

  This was Henri’s flat. He had brought Peter here, he said, so that Peter could bathe and freshen up before lunch.

  Henri introduced his French mistress, Suzanne, who would be joining them for the luncheon, and then showed Peter to the bathroom. Opening the tub tap, Henri set out his shaving kit.

  Teutonic hospitality.

  * * *

  THEY ARRIVED AT 8 bis Chaussée de la Muette and Charles and Biche Fol—together with Biche’s American mother—welcomed the Englishman, German, and Frenchwoman. Charles fetched a tie so Peter would not feel underdressed; never mind his laceless shoes.

  The party conversed a few minutes and then made their way to the dining room. It was a marvelous group—conspirators, imprisoner, prisoner, traitor—all under the watchful eye of mother-in-law. Eating and drinking, the party fellowshipped with the happy tension of a family reunion.

  Coffee was served in the salon, where two grand Steinbachs proudly defied war and occupation. Knowing that Biche was a concert pianist, Peter asked her to play and the room came alive as she entertained with her favorite melodies. After several pieces she motioned to Peter.

  “Now your turn, Pierre.”

  Peter surprised himself that he could still play. His fingers—even the broken ones—seemed to manage their way over the ivories as if he were still at Cambridge. On his second tune, he heard Biche join in on the other piano, harmonizing seamlessly. He swung his head to smile at her and gaped.

  It was Henri, grinning like a schoolboy over the grand. He played magnificently, offering a descant to everything Peter played, in any key. Here they were, captor and captive, German and English, entertaining the French in their own salon.

  Recognizing Henri’s superior talent, Peter stopped and let the spy-catcher at it. Henri didn’t disappoint. Little did the guests know, Hugo Bleicher’s greatest ambition as a young man was to become a concert pianist. For years he had practiced in the family home at Tettnang, only to fall short. While his talent was immense, in a country which had produced Bach, Handel, Beethoven, and Brahms, Hugo’s aspirations were a bar too far. With great disappointment, he abandoned his dream and commenced work as a banker’s apprentice.

  But here—in the company of friends, foes, and Fols—the passion he once savored had been stoked. For half an hour Henri performed, entertaining the awed guests with Viennese waltzes.

  The gaiety was genuine but Peter remembered Henri’s line to the Gestapo; they had left Fresnes under the auspices of an interrogation. It was now half past five so he suggested to Henri that Cinderella should be getting back to the castle soon.

  Before they left, Suzanne gave Peter two large bunches of grapes—one for Odette—which Henri would have to sneak in.

  Chaussée de la Muette, Paris. CP ARAMA

  “I’ve got a transmitter tucked away somewhere,” Henri said during the drive. “Why don’t you come out with me one day and send a message to London asking for a Lysander to come and pick us up on any field you like? If you consent to do this, I can get you out on some pretext or another and we’ll return to London together.”

  Peter replied that if he were responsible for the capture of a Lysander and pilot he couldn’t live with his conscience. Besides, if Henri really wanted to get back to England, he could go with Peter to the Pyrenees and cross the frontier.

  Fine idea, Henri said, but they couldn’t get past the military Controls en route.

  “A pity, Henri. Then I must simply sweat it out inside.”

  The Citroën passed through the gates.

  Peter reclined on his bed that night but sleep wouldn’t come. Who was this man who had arrested him, turned him over to the Gestapo, felt remorse over doing so, risked his skin to bring food, doubled the danger with the Fol outing, entertained with Viennese waltzes, and then asked for a Lysander?

  * * *

  A FEW DAYS AFTER the Fol luncheon, Henri returned to see Odette.

  “I’ve decided,” he said, “tomorrow I’m coming to fetch you very early in the morning, take you to Paris for the day, bring you back at night about ten o’clock. You can have a bath, you can have a good meal, you can wash your hair.”

  “Are you,” she replied. “If you ever do a thing like that, I am going to scream so loudly that everybody will know that I’m taken out of this place by force. I will not go to Paris with you, not friends or anything. I will have no contact with anybody and you cannot take me away without people knowing that you are doing it through brute force. I will not go.”

  It wasn’t that she thought Henri was going to trick her. She had heard about Peter’s outing at the Fols’ and that it went well and that Peter had come back with a parcel. It was a matter of discipline and integrity—she wasn’t going to have any compromise with the Germans.

  * * *

  AS AUTUMN USHERED IN the winter chill and leaves began to fall, Odette’s health followed suit. She acquired a cough and a gland on the side of her neck swelled. Going months on 175 grams of black bread and a thin bowl of cabbage soup a day—apparently the minimum to kee
p one alive—her body was eating away at the little muscle she carried.

  On October 15 the captain of the guard moved her to a new cell—number 337—on the third floor. It would be warmer, he said, and she would have two fellow prisoners to keep her company. Before the transfer she was allowed a special treat: a shower.

  It was the first she’d had since her capture in April.

  Odette’s cellmates were appalled at her condition. Simone Hérail testified after the war that when Odette came to live with her, “her health was seriously impaired by this inhuman procedure [solitary confinement] so dear to the Nazis; her weakness was extreme: she could no longer even eat the small amount of filthy and repugnant food which was given to us. On some days she had not the strength to leave her paillasse.”30

  Simone noticed something else, too: notwithstanding Odette’s sickness, “at no moment did her courage or her determination to struggle to survive falter.”

  From Odette’s standpoint, her cellmates offered a unique benefit: information. As they were taken to Avenue Foch for their own interrogations, they brought back comments about what they’d observed. Her other cellmate, Lucienne Delmas, thought it strange after one visit that an Englishman was there. Odette asked for a description and the woman described Emile.

  He was a prisoner there, she said. The Germans were keeping him close at hand, Emile had told her, because he had a wireless set and they could get news from England before anyone else.

  News.

  They had turned his radio.

  * * *

  AS DAYS PASSED THE effect of slow starvation—going on five months now—exacerbated Odette’s ill health. Her cough worsened, the gland on her neck swelled to the size of a grapefruit, and she developed pleurisy, a painful lung-related inflammation that restricts breathing. The prison captain requested that Odette be sent to a Paris hospital but the Gestapo refused. The only other thing he could think of was to allow her time in the prison sewing room. It would be warm, spacious, and permit greater freedom of movement. He presented the idea to her and she asked what they sewed.

  They mended the uniforms of the prison staff, he said.

  Odette voiced her disdain for patching the pants of Germans. She would be delighted, however, to make dolls out of any odd material she could find.

  “Frau Churchill, I must remind you that this is a prison, not a toy factory.”

  Odette was firm. Dolls or nothing.

  The following morning she thought of her girls as she began crafting rag dolls out of unused scraps of cloth. After that, she created a unique gift for Peter. Worried that he might be cold, she made him a sleeping gown and embroidered his initials on the breast pocket.

  Faithful Trude made the secret delivery.

  Odette wanted to do something else, too—something for prisoners most in need of food. As she was working one day she noticed a fuse box, apparently the power center for the entire wing. It would be a long shot, but what the hell. She spoke with the other girls and collected names of prisoners dying of starvation.

  The following morning she wandered over to the box and cut some wires and jammed scissors into fuse holes, blowing the circuits. Summoning guards, she gave them her list of starving prisoners; these were electricians who could restore power, she told them. When the inmates arrived, Odette slipped them food.

  Other prisoners noticed Odette’s altruism and were touched. But what could they do for her?

  Near the end of the month, opportunity arose. One afternoon Odette heard shouting from other women in the block. They were shouting at her.

  Odette! Odette! . . . Pierre!

  She listened carefully . . . Peter is in the exercise yard!

  She raced to the window—yes, it was him! She couldn’t shout to Peter because, like her prior cell, her window didn’t open. But a woman in another cell opened her window and shouted, “Pierre, Pierre, votre Odette est ici!”—“Peter, Peter, your Odette is here!”

  Peter stopped and searched to find the woman shouting.

  Odette pulled her chair to the window and grabbed a paper. Near the ceiling was a small, secondary window, partially open. Maybe, just maybe. She jumped on the seat and began waving the paper, shouting to him.

  “Can you see her waving the paper?” the woman hollered to Peter.

  Odette continued to wave. Did he find her? Yes! But he couldn’t hear a word she was saying.

  “She sends you her love and says ‘Courage,’ ” the woman yelled.

  “Tell her to listen,” Peter shouted back, “and I will sing her my reply.”

  Odette could vaguely hear him. He was singing—in French—Richard Tauber’s “You Are My Heart’s Delight”:

  You are my heart’s delight,

  And where you are, I long to be

  You make my darkness bright,

  When like a star you shine on me

  Shine, then, my whole life through

  Your life divine bids me hope anew

  That dreams of mine may at last come true

  And I shall hear you whisper, “I love you.”

  * * *

  HUGO BLEICHER, MEANWHILE, TENDED to his work with a new assistant. Roger Bardet, the erstwhile CARTE operative, had thrown his lot with the Germans and become a full-fledged agent under Hugo’s supervision. Working simultaneously for the Abwehr and SD, Bardet assisted in dismantling the INVENTOR circuit led by Sidney Jones.

  Through Bardet, Hugo learned that Sidney’s courier, Vera Leigh, lived in a flat on rue Marbeau—a block from his own on Pergolèse. Hugo watched her movements for a few weeks and on October 30 arrested her.

  * * *

  ON NOVEMBER 11, REMEMBRANCE Day, Odette was summoned again to Avenue Foch. The interrogator placed several photographs before her and asked if she recognized any of the men. She knew two of them—operatives from other circuits—but told him she didn’t recognize any. He asked what she thought of Colonel Buckmaster and she gave no reply.

  After an hour of questions and answers which ended in cul-de-sacs, Odette was put in an adjacent room and left until evening. At ten o’clock she was taken to a car parked in front of the building. Inside were two men in uniform and a third in civilian clothes—the Frenchman with the pretty face and Faustian scar on his soul.

  “Since you are such a devotee of your country,” he said, “I thought you’d like to go to the Arc de Triomphe on the event of November and see the German guards standing there.”

  Odette let it go.

  They left and the car circled around and around the Arc, its eternal flame at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier flickering in defiance of the occupation.

  “Look well, Frau Churchill,” the man said, “because I don’t suppose you will ever see this again.”

  Odette sneered. “I shall see the Arc de Triomphe again, Monsieur, but without a German soldier. And when I see it, I shall be in uniform, in British uniform.”

  The man cursed at her and instructed the driver to return to the prison.

  “You like what you are doing,” she said to him, “the job you’re doing. You’re a sick man.”

  The Gestapo, meanwhile, had no interest in holidays or field trips. It was time to say au revoir to the grey eminence of SPINDLE. Odette Churchill had refused to provide information, even after torture, and proved to be more trouble than she was worth.

  She was summoned to 84 Avenue Foch one more time and escorted upstairs to a large drawing room guarded by two SS. Inside she was seated at a small table without further instruction. Unlike the room of her interrogations, this one was quite elegant. Trickles of light danced from a cut-glass chandelier—a Quatorze or Quinze, she thought.

  Ballroom party or Gestapo pedicure?

  Large double doors opposite her suddenly were flung back and Odette looked up at a panel of uniformed officers staring at her. The SS guards flanked her and one of the officers barked out: “Frau Churchill.”

  At first it seemed like the beginning of another interrogation, but what of the fo
rmality? A smartly dressed man began addressing the panel in German and at once the purpose of the proceeding was evident.

  This was a kangaroo court.

  The man speaking—a senior Gestapo official—was the prosecutor; the officers, the judges. There would be no defense counsel and the proceedings would be conducted entirely in German.

  Odette remained silent as the prosecutor read the charges and the judges deliberated. After some time the man in the middle—a colonel decorated with the Iron Cross—stood and began pontificating.

  Odette interrupted to say that she did not understand German.

  In French he said, “Madame Churchill, you are condemned to death on two counts. The first is because you are a British spy and the second because you are a Frenchwoman. Heil Hitler!”

  The second charge, she assumed, meant that she was guilty of being a member of the French Resistance. Silently, she laughed. For which country shall I die?

  So this was it. Here she was, alone, her brother in a camp and her lover in the clink and the free world clinging to the Old Man’s “fight on the beaches” charge. She wouldn’t live to see Hitler’s demise, no, but at least she’d go to her Maker knowing that both Churchills were proud of her. Sadly, though, three little girls in London would learn the hard way for whom the bell tolled.

  She flashed a patronizing smile. “Gentlemen, you must take your pick of the counts. I can only die once.”