White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

I wandered up and down the narrow alleys and passageways, sometimes peering into the courtyards or casting a glance at the prostitutes plying their trade. Strangely enough, I have never been afraid in Marseille. In later years I was destined to know it well and I would walk alone in the most insalubrious areas.

  As I retraced my footsteps to the Vieux Port I could smell the saffron in the air—the little bistros and restaurants were preparing their fish soups and bouillabaisse. It was early yet but the spicy warm odour of the saffron was too much for me and I entered a small bistro right on the Port, took a seat at a table on the terrace and ordered the only aperitif possible in Marseille before bouillabaisse, a pastis. It was a fine, pleasant day and I soon began to feel that life was really worthwhile. The meal was excellent and I washed it down with a bottle of my favourite rosé, a Tavel. Louis XVI and I certainly had something in common, I told myself as I finished the wine.

  I made my way to the Canebière and took up my position on the steps of the Bourse to watch the King go by. The crowds began to cheer as the carriage approached but then came the sound of shots being fired. Someone shouted that they had shot the King, and then all hell broke loose.

  Marseille crowds are never very orderly when things are normal, but let someone loose with a gun and they become more dangerous than the person with the gun. I put on a performance that would have done credit to an Olympic runner and reached my hotel in record time. I headed for the American bar, which I guessed would be a pleasant enough corner in which to take up a defensive position.

  The lobby of the hotel was seething with people running all over the place, but all was calm in the bar as the head barman looked after the requests of his clients. I rang through to Paris with my story as soon as a line was available and then proceeded to enjoy the scene in the lobby from my stool at the bar. Police were everywhere. Everyone was shouting and waving their arms in the air. I had already noticed in France that it was generally the person who shouted the loudest who won the floor. It had absolutely nothing to do with being right or wrong. Nevertheless, this spirit appealed to my exuberant nature.

  Very soon the police shouted for me. My name was on the hotel register and I was a foreigner into the bargain. It’s really extraordinary, but in every country in the world, foreigners are always suspected before anyone else.

  The barman had looked after me exceedingly well and I felt sure I could cope with the situation. Besides, I had experienced months of shouting in Paris and no Marseille flic was going to outshout me. After a short session of witty repartee the policeman calmed down and dismissed me with a snort. Since arriving in France I’d learnt my French by trial and error. Making mistakes is the best way to learn—you’re determined not to make the same mistake again.

  The barman was impressed by my performance and insisted on buying me a drink, then I bought him one and then all the staff on the ground floor joined in the fun, until the scene was reminiscent of a Marx brothers’ comedy. By this time we had been told that the King was dead and that a French cabinet minister who had been travelling with him in the carriage was either dead or dying.

  From that point on things became a little blurred but somewhere along the line the beautiful woman from the train appeared in the bar, where she had a terrible row with her companion and threw a jug of iced water over his disappearing figure. I was the only one remaining in the bar besides the barman (the others having fled when the row started) and she proceeded to tell me the story of her life. If this had happened a few hours previously I might have been interested, but French hospitality had taken its toll and all I wanted to do was sleep. Anywhere. However, I did gather that she was Yugoslavian and had just returned from South America with her husband, who was very jealous. And her name was Stephanie.

  Before I could withdraw or retire to my room the husband reappeared. There was another discussion between the two and after bursting into tears they both hugged each other. The barman and I were both spellbound. We were just about to congratulate the couple on their reconciliation when, with a scream worthy of a fish wife, Stephanie threw the only remaining jug of iced water at her husband.

  This left me with a fresh glass of Ricard and no iced water, and I expressed my displeasure in no uncertain terms, whereupon she let fly at me in a French that was new to me. It was a formidable and enlightening performance because very little she mentioned was in my dictionary or my book of French phrases for the tourist. Then abruptly she left her husband standing in the bar, soaking wet, and swept out through the lobby towards the door, only to be stopped by a policeman who demanded to see her papers.

  The policeman was indeed fortunate that there were no more water jugs at hand; as it was, Stephanie hit him on the head with her handbag (and they were large that year) then disappeared through the revolving doors followed closely by the red-faced policeman. Her husband checked out of the hotel with his suitcase half an hour later. The barman and I just looked at each other; we could not believe it had all happened. My sleepiness had gone. We had just settled down when in swept Stephanie, escorted by the policeman with whom she had disappeared. They both looked calm and he bowed as he put her in the lift.

  The drama was becoming too farcical for words when down came Stephanie looking for her husband. He had gone. He had taken her at her word and left for a warmer clime. I feared the situation might never improve and decided the only safe place for me in my state was in bed behind a locked door. After all, it had been a very long day. I awoke with the dawn. I had been dreaming I was dying of thirst and it was not long before I realised I was not well enough to think about the events of the previous day so I determined to put them out of my head for twenty-four hours. I also decided to take the first express train to Paris as that might give me enough time to recuperate and get over the shock of the Latin farce.

  I said goodbye to all the staff, promising to come back whenever I could. (I kept my promise and when I married in 1939 the reception was held at the Hôtel du Louvre et Paix.)

  I settled down in a window seat in an empty compartment, and slept for hours. When I awoke for a few seconds I thought I was dreaming. Sitting by the corridor diagonally opposite was Stephanie. I shut my eyes quickly and tried to gather my thoughts. There was no doubt about it, I would have to find another seat. But when I showed signs of moving she came over and apologised for her bad behaviour, adding that she had been a little upset. As far as I was concerned that was the understatement of the year but when I was young I was of a forgiving nature. Before very long we adjourned to the restaurant car for some refreshment as we were both a little under the weather. It was the beginning of a long and deep friendship which although hectic in varying degrees was never dull or boring. She made me familiar with a side of life I had never before encountered and I always held for her a special affection.

  By the time I had reached Paris I had invited her to stay with me until she could find a place of her own, and as she had no friends in the capital she was happy to accept my invitation. We got on very well in the little flat. She was fun to live with and had lots of good points. She was scrupulously clean and tidy, always willing to do her share of the work, but best of all she had a delightful sense of fun.

  We both loved our food and we liked cooking but we seldom ate at home. We were young and full of the joys of spring. Life was cheap in Paris and in any case we were never short of escorts. Nevertheless, I had resolved to keep her away from my journalist friends. I was enjoying my job and our shared activities, and every time I thought of Stephanie let loose amongst them I would get cold shivers up and down my spine.

  When I was free Stephanie and I would arrange a foursome and do the rounds of the amusing restaurants and go on to a cabaret or night-club. Sometimes just the two of us would go to a music hall or theatre. There was so much to do in Paris that winter. Mistinguette was in a revue at the Folies-Bergère and Cecile Sorel was opening at the Casino de Paris in a revue for the first time after having been with the Comédie Française for over
thirty years. Josephine Baker was on the scene; so was Jean Sablon, who made all the girls swoon with his hit, ‘Je tire ma reverence’. I met Harry Bauer and he invited us to The Trial of Oscar Wilde, in which he was playing the lead. We sobbed all through his performance and when he took us to supper at La Rue after the show we were still weeping.

  Stephanie was always falling in love. I was not in love with anyone in particular so I was not going through the agonies most young lovers do. I was in love with life but most of all I was in love with Paris. I learnt how to make pastis and we turned a little corner in the kitchen into our distillery. The strong odour of aniseed wafted out to the courtyard, but the concierge loved our brew and was more than delighted to watch us swindle the government out of a few francs in tax.

  I was enjoying the best of two worlds—my journalist friends on one hand, and my French friends and Stephanie on the other. I went on working, and I went on having fun. I was not to know then that the ease with which I could run two or more parallel lives successfully would be useful later. Similarly, my train and bus trips around France on assignment gave me a familiarity with provincial public transport which was important on more dangerous trips in the future.

  The intrigues within Spain at this time extended to their embassy in Paris and a variety of strange Spaniards could be seen calling on their officials, although it was not easy to identify them. Actually, some of them were so flamboyant it was hard to take them seriously. As in any big city gradually filling with refugees, and with impending disaster in the air. Paris was full of rumours. At times it was difficult to know what to believe. However, a fairly reliable source informed our little group of journalists that several Spaniards were involved in smuggling arms and ammunition from France into Spain. Furthermore, according to our informant, certain officials in the French Government were well aware of these activities.

  A scoop like this was bound to interest any journalist so three of us left immediately for Biarritz where we were friendly with a knowledgeable local businessman. It turned out to be a wild goose chase, although some months later we were convinced there had been a lot of truth in the rumour.

  I had a good friend in Tarbes who had been involved in tobacco smuggling for years, and I was not in a hurry to return to Paris. I decided to pay her a visit, hoping she could give me a lead on the illegal traffic that was obviously going on between the two countries. I took a bus to Pau passing through very beautiful countryside. At Pau I resisted the temptation to visit Lourdes, a decision that was to have some significance years later when I was arrested in Toulouse, and could truthfully say I had never been to Lourdes.

  I wandered around the town for a couple of hours waiting for my connection, then sat on the terrace of a bistro. I could see the spectacular Pyrenees from there. Little did I know that a few years later I would know those mountains better.

  My trip to Tarbes was a success. My friend introduced me to a Spanish Nationalist who appeared to be heavily involved in many Spanish intrigues. As in Paris we were anxious to obtain first-hand information on the political situation I felt he might prove useful to our little circle of journalists.

  Shortly after my return to Paris I paid another visit to Vienna, where there had been a steady deterioration of the political situation. There were endless strikes, street demonstrations, police violence and, worst of all, Austrian denouncing Austrian. Inflation was ruining the economy. Previously Vienna had resembled Paris in many ways, but now it was just another city where fear had swept into the lives of the people. Like London it had been a paradise for the eccentric, but now it was fast becoming a hell on earth for all who were not Nazis. The fortunate ones escaped and some of them came to Paris, but as always with the Gestapo countless innocent citizens fell victim to their atrocities. Every year Paris would be filled with rich tourists from all parts of the globe, and the spring and early summer of 1935 was no exception, but now it was not unusual to see little groups of refugees huddled together on the café terraces. They contributed a little more to the already cosmopolitan air of the city.

  My admiration for these refugees from Germany and Austria grew and I would seek out their company. I have always been a good listener and those years were interesting and informative ones for me. I was able to hear the views of some brilliant men, experienced in the ways of life. Irrespective of their background they were united by their principles. They accepted me because I too believed in freedom. I was young but I already knew the horrors a totalitarian state could bring, and long before the Second World War was declared I also understood that a free world can only remain free by defending itself against any form of aggression. I knew too that freedom could not be permanent. It has to be defended at all cost, even if by doing so part of our freedom has to be sacrificed. It will always be in danger because, alas, victory is not permanent.

  In August 1935, most people who could leave the city were making for the sea, the mountains or the country. My holidays were due and Stephanie was taking me to her home near a little village about eighty kilometres inland from Split in Yugoslavia. As far as I know I was the first friend of hers to visit her parents, and I was looking forward to meeting them. I knew from Stephanie that they were a simple peasant couple and I had always wondered how they could have produced such an exotic creature.

  We travelled south on the Blue Train, shopping and visiting friends for two days, then, went on to Split and wandered around exploring before catching our bus into the country. Soon after we arrived at the little whitewashed cottage. Stephanie’s mother came in from the fields to greet us. She hugged her daughter several times and shook hands with me but never once gave either of us a welcoming smile. I was frankly amazed at her appearance. I knew she had to work hard so I was prepared for wrinkled and gnarled hands, but she was so unlike her daughter it was hard to believe they were of the same family.

  Stephanie was the most magnificent creature I had ever seen. I have never known anyone so beautiful. She had large, slightly almond shaped eyes the colour of the deepest blue hydrangea, soft golden hair with a natural wave, dimples in her cheeks and a tall willowy figure which never varied in weight one single ounce.

  Stephanie was anxious to show me all over the cottage where she had been born. We went out to the well where as a child she had drawn the water; the stream where she had washed the clothes; the cellar where they distilled their slivovitz (plum brandy) and where she had stolen her first tipple. It was with positive pride she pointed out the fields scattered around the immediate area where they grew their crops. The kitchen was enormous and it contained the largest kitchen table I have ever seen. It must have been assembled in the room as it would have been impossible to put it through the doors or windows. It was scrubbed twice daily and was spotlessly clean. There was a big black pot dangling on the end of a long chain fastened to the top of the chimney. Underneath, a fire was slowly burning, and the most delicious aroma was filling the kitchen.

  That evening we sat down to a table laden with food. The Yugoslavs have absorbed into their own national cooking many dishes from neighbouring countries and when I saw the assortment of food I knew why Stephanie had such an enormous appetite. Everything they consumed was grown or produced on their land. On the table were tiny skinless pork sausages, meat patties made with pork and veal, several dishes of assorted vegetables, some in brine and some in oil, field mushrooms marinated in oil and herbs, a funny kind of homemade bread which was flat and spongy and was excellent for mopping up sauce, a huge smoked ham which one of the daughters cut in thin slices, smoked eels, poached river fish in sauce and a large mound of butter wrapped in vine leaves.

  Then along came a chicken soup with herbs that were strange to me and thickened with egg yolk and sour cream. In between courses we downed small glasses of slivovitz to aid our digestion and with our food we drank lashings of local wine. Stephanie’s mother hovered around the table making sure we had enough to eat, but never once did she or her husband exchange a word. The rest of the fami
ly, Stephanie’s brother and two sisters were boisterous. The big black pot was pulled over from the hearth and placed on a wooden stool next to the table, and the mother served us each in turn as we passed our plates. It contained an assortment of green, yellow and red peppers, stuffed with minced pork, veal, beef, rice, mushrooms, parsley, cheese and herbs. They had been simmering all day in a delicious sauce made with pounds of tomatoes, onions, garlic, paprika, herbs and white wine. I had never tasted anything like it in my life and I made a mental note to lock Stephanie in the kitchen when we returned to Paris.

  We finished the meal by drinking thick, sweet black coffee which should not be stirred because of the sediment in the cup. Then more slivovitz in an effort to make room for the assorted pastries which followed.

  When the rest of the family had retired for the night Stephanie and I gave the bottle of slivovitz another little nudge and I asked her why her parents did not speak to each other. She replied quite casually that they all hated their father so much that no one bothered to talk to him unless it was absolutely necessary. When he drank to excess he became violent. He had broken her mother’s jaw and smashed her teeth during one session, and this was the reason she never smiled or spoke in front of strangers. Stephanie had offered to pay for her mother’s dental treatment many times but the poor woman was petrified at the thought of a dentist and so remained toothless until she died. The children adored their mother and protected her from the father as much as they could. If he so much as raised a hand to her they would beat him with the first available weapon. I was not surprised that this had made him bitter and twisted.

  In spite of this extraordinary domestic situation I enjoyed my holiday with Stephanie’s family. It was unbelievably cold but sometimes if the sun was warm we would sit outside in the middle of the day. The cottage was surrounded by olive groves and hundreds of grape vines which seemed to grow in rocky soil. Several nights we roasted a whole lamb on a spit outside the kitchen door and ate it with our fingers. If Stephanie dropped a piece on the ground she just picked it up and ate it but she always swallowed a drop of slivovitz afterwards, being a firm believer in this beverage and maintaining it was also a good disinfectant.