White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

  Nancy Wake left Australia in her early twenties and settled in Paris where she worked as a freelance journalist. For her outstanding work during World War II she was awarded the George Medal; the Croix de Guerre with Palm and Bar; the Croix de Guerre with Star; the Medaille de la Résistance; and the American Medal of Freedom with Bronze Palm; and she was made a Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur. She died in mid-2011.

  First published 1985 by Sun Books

  This Macmillan edition published 2011 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © Nancy Forward 1985

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Wake, Nancy, 1912–2011.

  White Mouse/Nancy Wake.

  ISBN 978 1 7426 1075 7 (pbk.)

  Wake, Nancy, 1912–2011.

  World War, 1939–1945 – Underground movements – France.

  World War, 1939–1945 – Personal narratives, Australian.

  940.5344092

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  This electronic edition published in 2013 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © Nancy Forward 1985

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  The White Mouse

  Nancy Wake

  EPUB format: 9781743346372

  This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About Nancy Wake

  Title page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Part Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Part Three

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Four

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Index

  PROLOGUE

  29 February, 1944:

  As the Liberator bomber circled over the dropping zone in France I could see lights flashing and huge bonfires burning. I hoped the field was manned by the Resistance and not by German ambushers. Huddled in the belly of the bomber, airsick and vomiting, I was hardly Hollywood’s idea of a glamorous spy. I probably looked grotesque.

  Over civilian clothes, silk-stockinged and high-heeled, I wore overalls, carried revolvers in the pockets, and topped the lot with a bulky camel-haired coat, webbing harness, parachute and tin hat. Even more incongruous was the matronly handbag, full of cash and secret instructions for D-day. My ankles were bandaged for support when I hit the ground.

  But I’d spent years in France working as an escape courier. I’d walked out across the Pyrenees and joined the Special Operations Executive in England, and I was desperate to return to France and continue working against Hitler. Neither airsickness nor looking like a clumsily wrapped parcel was going to deter me.

  The reception field in operation that night was too small for the arrival of two agents. My co-saboteur, Hubert, jumped first. By the time I landed, my parachute had drifted over to the adjacent field, and I landed in a thick hedge. My parachute was tangled in a tree.

  Everything around me was dark and silent. I couldn’t see any lights or fires. I quickly detached myself from my parachute, removed the bandages from my ankles, took off my overalls and ran away to crouch behind some bushes.

  Then I heard Hubert’s voice in the distance and someone else said, ‘Here’s the parachute.’ I ran towards them and forced myself through a hedge to find myself face to face with a good-looking young Frenchman. Being typically French he proceeded to make some very gallant remarks: ‘I hope all trees in France bear such beautiful fruit this year.’ I took this with a grain of salt. After all, I had lived in France for ten years, and was married to a Frenchman.

  However, he scored the first point. He refused to let me bury my parachute, which I’d been trained emphatically to do without fail. Once he had retrieved it he folded it up very neatly and put it under his arm. (Much later, sleeping in the forest, I was grateful for those nylon sheets.)

  The Frenchman’s name was Henri Tardivat and we were destined to become life-long friends.

  Relieved that we’d landed safely, Hubert and I were whisked off almost immediately to a little village where we were to stay at the home of some friendly Resistance people until our contact arrived.

  Two mornings later my hostess invited me for a stroll around the village. It was a beautiful sunny day so I accepted. Hubert had not recovered from the strain of the previous forty-eight hours and he declined the invitation to accompany us. I was relieved he stayed behind, as it soon became apparent the whole village knew about the parachutage from beginning to end. However, they had only expected one agent and when a second one turned up, and a woman into the bargain, it was more than our hosts could stand. Hence the stroll!

  Having lived in France since before the beginning of the war, I understood how these incidents could occur during the Occupation. Security-conscious Hubert would have been horrified to see me standing in the village square, shaking hands with the entire population. Nevertheless my old ‘brain box’ was already thinking of ways and means to find a safe house as soon as formalities would allow.

  The point was that during the Occupation the majority of people (unless of course they supported the Germans) got such a thrill when something good for the cause happened they would simply let their exuberance overcome their sense of security. I did not mention my unofficial reception to Hubert at the time as I did not want to depress him any further. Our arrival and the fanfare which followed had been the direct opposite to any of the exercises included in our training programme in England. Hubert was also having language trouble, as his otherwise excellent French was too academically pure for easy conversation with these country people. Secretly I sympathised with him but I also believed we should not overlook the fact that we were strangers here and that our own reactions in the first vital days would be repeated by word of mouth, and our behaviour quickly summed up by the French people we were hoping to work closely with.

  It was easier for me. I had witnessed the Occupation from its inception. Furthermore, I had lived in the country so long I could think like them and feel instinctively how they would react to ce
rtain situations. In a nutshell, I was French, except by birth.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  This is the story of a naive and rather sensitive young Australasian romantic who arrived in Paris in 1934 determined not to be uncouth, and of how her experiences made her the woman who K.O.’d a waiter with her bare fist in a Paris club in 1945.

  I was born in Wellington, New Zealand, in 1912. Both my parents were New Zealanders but our family settled in Sydney, Australia, when I was about two years old.

  As a child I had always dreamt of seeing the world and in particular New York, London and Paris. Then one sunny day in December, 1932, my dreams became reality and I sailed out of Sydney Harbour on my way to Vancouver, New York and Europe. I still remember the feeling of exhilaration that ran through me as I stood on the deck looking out to sea and wondering what the future had in store for me.

  I found New York to be an exciting city and in retrospect I think I was very fortunate not to get into too much strife because I certainly went to places that were dangerous even in those days. Prohibition was in full swing but I had never consumed so much alcohol in my short life. People used to make it in bath tubs. I was young and my liver was in good shape but when I sailed from New York my voice was decidedly hoarse.

  We docked at Liverpool. It was a gloomy, foggy day and the city looked dirty and black. As the boat train slipped into London I looked through the window and there again the city was dark, gloomy and foggy.

  I went to live in a cheap boarding house and enrolled in a college specialising in journalism. I hoped this profession would also be a means of travelling.

  The months flew by in London. I grew to love the city and made many friends. Europe was in the throes of a depression and although my friends were struggling to make ends meet we were a cheerful, happy-go-lucky crowd and we enjoyed life to the full. Somehow or other, in between studying and pub crawls, I managed to see something of the countryside and when I at last obtained a job in Paris I was almost sorry to leave England.

  Although I was ecstatic to be working in Paris I was also very worried about my job. I had been taken more or less on six months’ trial as a freelance reporter. As it turned out I became friendly with some of the older journalists and they never failed to help me with their good advice. I owe them all a debt of gratitude.

  There was something magical about living in Paris in those days. Parisians would tell me how wonderful the city had been before and after the Great War—‘la Belle Epoque’, as they called it—but to me it was the most glorious place in the world and I adored working and living there.

  I always feel that Paris is a woman’s city, full of thrills, intrigues, gaiety, beautiful clothes and beautiful jewellery. Life there can be so exciting and amusing, but it can also teach one to appreciate things of value. In all the years I have known Paris I have never tired of wandering along the boulevards, sometimes window-shopping and frequently discovering something new, perhaps a little side street or an alleyway. This is one of the delights of Paris. It is full of surprises. Just to sit on the terrace of a café and watch the crowds pass by is in itself an entertainment.

  I stayed at the Hôtel Scribe for several days when I first arrived, then went hunting for accommodation. Through a French acquaintance I was given an address in the rue Sainte-Anne and to my delight the concierge had known an Australian soldier after World War I and she had never forgotten him. It may have been a case of reflected glory as I became the tenant of a tiny flat on top of the building. I was in seventh heaven. There was no bathroom but she let me put a bath in the kitchen, and forever afterwards in the quartier I was known as the mademoiselle with the bath.

  I learnt to shop in the little markets scattered around Paris. I learnt to appreciate my food and wine and, better still, learnt to cook. Even today nothing would give me greater pleasure than to prepare a dish or a meal for someone who appreciates fine food, but alas, outside Europe and especially France, connoisseurs are few and far between.

  At twenty-two, my life in Paris was carefree once I realised that with the help of my more experienced journalist friends, I could make a living. I wrote articles and did interviews, and sold them to press agencies, mostly the Americans. Travel was cheap, and we used to sniff around the country, usually by train, in the hope of an article. Rents were low, and paid twice-yearly. Although those two payments caused some sleepless nights, for the rest of the year all my money could be spent as frivolously as I cared to. Although I was much younger than most of my friends I enjoyed their company and I know they enjoyed mine. When I was young I did not mix easily with people of my own age. Most evenings we would congregate on the terrace of one of several cafés we patronised. Money was scarce but whenever one of us had a windfall we would share our good fortune and have a good meal with several bottles of wine followed by a pousse-café if the purse strings would stretch that far.

  Shortly after Hitler came to power in 1933 more and more Germans were attempting to leave their country, either officially or unofficially, and thousands of those who succeeded in doing so came to Paris. There the majority hoped to obtain a visa for England, America or Canada. The ones I met were mostly academics and intellectuals, and many of them were Jews. We became friendly with several of the refugees and our little group expanded until we occupied several tables. Hitler had assumed the title of Reich Chancellor in 1933, and one of our new friends had been a Socialist member of parliament and was an escapee from that regime. He gave us first-hand information on the political side of life under the Nazis. He was fortunate enough to receive a visa for one of the South American countries. We managed to give him a great farewell party and literally poured him on to his boat train.

  A group of us decided to go and see for ourselves, and in 1934 we went to Vienna, hoping to be able to sell some articles when we got back. That trip was an important one for me, for it was in Vienna that I saw several groups of Jews being persecuted. I was horrified and revolted by the public scenes.

  People have often asked me how I came to work against the Germans. It was easy. It was in Vienna that I formed my own opinion of the Nazis. I resolved there and then that if I ever had the chance I would do anything, however big or small, stupid or dangerous, to try and make things more difficult for their rotten party. When war came to France, followed by the Occupation, I found it quite natural to take the stand I did.

  Some time after visiting Vienna, I went with a group of journalists to Berlin. The Brownshirts were everywhere. I remember one great fat Stormtrooper strutting around cracking a whip on the side of his long leather boots and alternately screaming and whipping at the Jewish shopkeepers. At the same time some of his colleagues painted the word ‘Jew’ in red paint on the windows and doors of the shops, and others threw out the contents to create huge bonfires.

  I felt sick witnessing such violence. I wanted to leave the city immediately. More than hatred or anger, I felt a deep loathing for the Nazis. I had never been interested in politics and although probably leaning towards being agnostic, I had always believed in freedom of religion and worship, so I was horrified to witness so many examples of the outcome of Hitler’s policies.

  Back in Paris I would think of all the chaos in Germany. But what could an inexperienced girl like myself do or hope to achieve when so many brilliant well-informed men had failed to make an impact on the outside world? Although by spring 1934 over 60,000 Germans had left their country, no one wanted to hear their stories of the New Germany. The majority of politicians and their leaders all behaved like ostriches whenever the subject of Hitler was broached. Alas, very soon the world was forced to admit the existence of a new word—GESTAPO—but it was too late and by the time the people took their heads out of the sand hundreds of thousands of innocent people had been slaughtered. My visits to Vienna and Berlin had sobered me, but back in Paris the old life continued. Two important characters now entered my life: Picon and Stephanie.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Fall
ing in love was bound to happen sooner or later. For many months I had been free to come and go as I pleased in the little flat in rue Sainte-Anne. I was in the habit of taking a brisk morning walk through the Tuileries whenever possible; not that I was a lover of exercise. However, I felt the clean fresh air counteracted to some extent the thick smoky haze of the previous nights.

  One day I crossed over to the rue de Rivoli, intending to window-gaze. Suddenly I had one of those queer sensations one can get at times. I looked, and there he was. Our eyes met and I hesitated for a second and walked quickly away. But something pulled me back and I stood staring at him for a few minutes. It was love at first sight for us both. I entered the shop and came out the proud owner of a wire-haired terrier barely three weeks old.

  He was named Picon by the barman at Luigi’s. A visiting clergyman from the States gave a short address and I promised to bring him up as a law-abiding citizen. We were inseparable companions. The concierge adored him, so did all my friends, and very soon he was a much loved guest of the many eating and drinking establishments I patronised. At night when I was ready to go out I’d say, ‘Picon, do you want to make the bombe?’ and he would rush to the door, ready to do the rounds of all the places in vogue at that time. Friends seeing him the day after would be able to make a rough guess as to what time I had retired the night before. After a night on the tiles Picon would just lie down and sleep anywhere, until it was time to start all over again.

  Then Stephanie came to stay.

  I was going to Marseille in October 1934, hoping to write an article on the visit there of King Alexander of Yugoslavia. As the Paris Express pulled into Cannes, I saw the most extraordinarily beautiful young woman standing on the platform with an older man. Later, they appeared in the restaurant car. I was intrigued, but soon forgot them. At Marseille, I booked into the Hôtel du Louvre et Paix, and explored the city on foot before the procession began.