White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

  We were both sad when we had to leave. Having seen Stephanie at home with her family I felt I could understand her complex nature more than I had before. To my surprise her mother took me in her arms, kissed me on both cheeks and made me promise to return. A promise I could not fulfil, as the war on the horizon changed the destiny of each of us.

  Paris was looking beautiful when I returned from my holiday and it was fun to meet my friends again and catch up with the news. The contact to whom I had been introduced in Tarbes was due to arrive any day and we were looking forward to receiving the latest news of the conflict in Spain.

  While I’d been away the most extraordinary man had appeared at our favourite café and cottoned himself on to our little group. He had an aristocratic-sounding name but we all called him Count Gonzales. He was good-looking, tall and slim with thick wavy black hair. Although he was Spanish he had a fair complexion and hazel eyes, which was most unusual. Unlike us, he appeared to have money to burn. He was flamboyant and always dramatised the topic of conversation. We did not take him seriously but we found him entertaining with his stories of intrigue, smuggling, crime and even would-be murder.

  Gonzales appeared to know everyone in the limelight at the time and we concluded he was either extremely well connected or the world’s biggest liar. It was not long before he tried to engage me as his courier, promising me a huge salary which he increased every time the offer was renewed. There was never the slightest chance I would accept the job as I only felt safe with Gonzales when surrounded by dozens of people and the bright lights of Paris. Anyhow, I only spoke about twenty words of Spanish.

  Our contact from Tarbes duly arrived. We were all sitting in the café listening to the latest and alarming news from Spain when Gonzales sauntered in and sat down at our table. Our new friend looked at him and instantly changed the subject. It was some time before we could get rid of Gonzales without making it too obvious, but when we did we were not at all surprised to be told that he was suspected of taking money from both political sides in Spain and that he could not be trusted under any circumstances. After a reasonable interval we found another meeting place and saw very little of Gonzales, but he was not a fool and probably realised we had been warned about his shady activities.

  On the whole they were a mixed bunch from Spain and not all of them inspired confidence. The politicians amongst them seemed to be on both sides of the fence. Others were obviously professional smugglers and guides. They would sit in the cafés discussing the problems in Spain and offering their own particular solution until the early hours of the morning, when they would disappear into thin air. There were certainly others of a more serious nature but I seldom met them.

  1936 would bring four significant events. In March, Hitler remilitarised the Rhineland without any reaction from England or France. It was several months before British Prime Minister Baldwin admitted his error in not giving credibility to Germany’s rearmament. The Deuxième Bureau were equally aware of the German rearmament but seemed powerless to put their knowledge to the benefit of France, no doubt because their country was riddled with French collaborators in high places, already in the pay of the Germans.

  In May, Italy annexed Abyssinia. The Popular Front won the elections in France and the threat of the Spanish Civil War became a reality in July.

  Early in 1936, I was going to London for a week and invited Stephanie to come with me. She spoke six languages but not one word of English. In all the years I knew her she never expressed any desire to see England or learn the language. She refused my invitation point blank, saying, ‘Ma petite, with all the men in Europe, why would I go to England where they [the men] are so cold and correct?’ So both England and Englishmen missed a golden opportunity to show her that things could be otherwise. Looking back, I can see that Stephanie would have made some psychiatrist very happy. She was such a complex person with some very unorthodox views. Little by little I was able to piece together some parts of the life she led after she first married and before we both met, but it was not very easy and I found myself writing little notes whenever any new clues came to light. Ours was a wonderful friendship, and although we were complete opposites in many ways I don’t think I have ever laughed so much as I did in those days with Stephanie.

  Some time after her first husband divorced her Stephanie married the co-respondent and went to live in Turkey, but to her dismay he left her stranded in a remote part of the country two years later. She then wrote to her first spouse, begging forgiveness. Not only did he forgive her, he took her back and married her a second time. But for ever after, if she misbehaved, he would wave her letter in her face and remind her that she had begged to be reunited. Subsequently she paid a professional letter-writer a small fee to write her love letters, so that she’d never again be trapped by evidence written in her own hand.

  With tears in her eyes she would say, ‘Ma petite, say what you like to them, especially on the pillow, but never put it in writing, otherwise they will get you.’ A piece of advice which made me shriek with laughter.

  Many foreigners think Paris and the Parisians are typical of France. They are not. Paris is the most beautiful city and Parisians are delightful. I love the city for all it represents and all it has given the rest of the world, just as I love Parisians for their charm, wit and culture. But there is another France as I discovered when I travelled all over the country, not as a tourist, but as one of the people.

  Most visitors went first of all to Paris and then down to the Riviera, that impressive coastline stretching from Marseille to Genoa, but when I went south I went further afield off the beaten track to meet, and eventually become accepted by, people who had never seen a city, let alone Paris. During the thirties, very few tourists bothered to pass through the Camargue on their way south, which was a pity because only fifty kilometres west of Arles, once the seat of the Roman Emperor Constantine, lies the fascinating home of the French cowboys. They always look so picturesque in their cream breeches, colourful check shirts and black felt hats, riding their splendid white horses. Here too are the famous black bulls bred for the bullrings of Nîmes and Arles.

  Unlike my Parisian friends, I enjoyed the provinces, and was independent enough to travel around on my own. I learnt a lot about country people, an education perhaps begun with Stephanie’s family in Yugoslavia. I have always been interested in other people, how they live, what they think, but I’ve never been too curious. Looking back, it was probably my friendliness which made me accepted. Later, of course, during the war, the less you knew about your comrades the better.

  The Camargue is a vast expanse of saltmarshes, wild and dramatic, with ponds and plains where herons and ibises nest, and where they can be seen wading frantically for fish. It is also a refuge for flamingoes and beavers. Sometimes you see an egret performing a kind of war dance or running around like a drunk or fluffing out its feathers at the neck, looking like a ‘Beef Eater’ at the Tower of London. The tall reeds of the Camargue seem to moan and groan when the Mistral sweeps down from the Rhône valley, leaving an eerie impression upon a visitor. But when the air is still and balmy, it is a mysterious place full of unexpected surprises.

  Legend has it that the ‘Holy Marys’, Marie Jacobs and Marie Salome, landed at the seaside village of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, with their negro servant Sarah, after having been adrift for some time on the Mediterranean. Two days have been set aside in May, the 24th and 25th, to commemorate this religious event, and a visit to the area at that time used to be well worth the effort. On the first day of the religious fête, the gypsies take the statue of their black patron saint Sarah from the church down to the sea, whence they say that she came, hoisted high on the shoulders of the believers. Camargue cowboys line the path she takes, forming a guard of honour. It is a strange sight, definitely resembling pagan times and rites. The gypsies shout ‘Long live Sarah’ and the priests and believers respond by shouting ‘Long live the Holy Marys’.

  The following day th
e Holy Marys are paraded down from the church to the sea supported by the priests and believers all shouting ‘Long live the Holy Marys’ and many ‘Ave Marias’, with the gypsies putting in a last good word for Sarah. It may start off by being a religious ceremony to be taken seriously, but I’ve been to this fête several times, and each year the unexpected has happened and the atmosphere has become hilarious.

  The first year I went the gypsies became intoxicated and dropped Sarah. Then a cowboy who had started celebrating too soon passed out during the procession, tripping up a priest who was so busy singing ‘Ave Maria’ and raising his eyes towards the heavens that he did not notice the cowboy fall off his horse until it was too late. Another year I was invited to take part in a water sport, the name of which escapes me. One stands up in a little boat holding a long pole and another team does the same in their boat. I never did understand the rules of the game and the sea has never been my forte, so everyone ended up in the water and my team would not speak to me for ages.

  I thoroughly enjoyed these little distractions at Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, and happened to be laughing about our escapades with Stephanie not long after she had refused to go to England with me. In a flash she said we would go back the following May and nothing I said would make her change her mind.

  The fête that year was unbelievably informal, to say the least. The cowboys had never seen anyone like Stephanie, even though the area has always been noted for beautiful women. But Stephanie was different. Not only was she the most beautiful woman there, but she was determined to conquer the cowboys of Camargue, even if it meant separating them from their horses.

  For forty-eight hours chaos reigned. Cowboys were fighting each other, horses were shying, even the dogs seemed to be growling at each other. There were domestic problems blowing up all the time. Things went from bad to worse until finally I pretended I had not known her beforehand. I can still remember how relieved I felt to leave the village behind and arrive safely back in Paris.

  When Japan attacked China in July 1937, it seemed to pass unnoticed in France, probably because the Spanish Civil War was drawing all the attention. Early that summer Stephanie and I were sitting with our boyfriends on a terrace of a café near the Madeleine when Gonzales walked by. We had not seen each other for ages as I had been avoiding him, but he came up to our table. Obviously I had to introduce him to my companions. He was delighted when Stephanie spoke to him in Spanish, and they chatted together for ages. I asked her later what they had been talking about and she replied with one word, ‘Spain’, which was not very informative.

  Several weeks passed before friends told me she had been seen dozens of times with a tall, good-looking Spaniard. One did not have to be clever to guess that her companion was probably Gonzales. When I tackled her about the subject she told me to mind my own business. I felt as a friend I should warn her not to become too involved with him, and pass on to her the information we had been given about his suspected activities. She refused to hear one bad word against him. So I left it at that. After all, she was a grown woman who had more experience than I had, and it was her life. She became very secretive after this discussion. When eventually she told me she was going to live with Gonzales in Biarritz and act as his courier until such time as they could marry, I was almost glad to see her go. I was so worried about her plans that I actually confided in an old friend who was always willing to listen to my tales of woe, but he advised me to let well alone, pointing out that Stephanie was over twenty-one.

  The flat seemed empty without her. Then out of the blue came an invitation to spend Christmas and the New Year with her in her new home, and I accepted ‘post haste’. She was at the station to meet me and we went straight away to her apartment, which she was anxious for me to see. It was the most sumptuous apartment imaginable, furnished most luxuriously with everything a woman could possible desire. Gonzales was literally showering her with money. She certainly seemed very happy.

  We had a wonderful Christmas and New Year. Lots of parties, dozens of guests coming and going, and I enjoyed every minute of it. Yet when at last I was on my way back to Paris I still had very grave doubts about the integrity of Gonzales. The last thing Stephanie said at the station was ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be married soon and I’ll send you a telegram.’ Sure enough, the telegram arrived several weeks later.

  About the following Easter I picked up a French newspaper. On the front page was the horrifying story of a bullet-riddled body picked up in a gutter in a little village on the west coast of France. Several names and aliases were mentioned though none of them meant anything to me. However, I had an ominous feeling that all was not well with Stephanie. Several weeks later she appeared on my doorstep in the middle of the night. She was very distressed and looked terrible.

  The bullet-riddled body had been Gonzales. He was not dead when discovered and they had taken him to a private hospital nearby. The authorities informed several people whose names were in his diary, and Stephanie was also notified. By the time she arrived at the hospital Gonzales had been given the last rites and sacraments. Stephanie was not allowed to see him as his legal wife had arrived. He had married Stephanie bigamously.

  After the initial shock of his death and her bigamous marriage there were more unpleasant surprises in store. The rent was overdue, the furniture had not been paid for and bills were piling up fast. She was left with only the clothes on her back. She had borrowed her train fare from a sympathetic barman and had come back to Paris to her only friend, as she then called me.

  For hours she talked of the tragedy and the events leading up to it. I personally concluded that Gonzales had been taking money from both sides in Spain, without giving service to either one, and then eventually someone had caught up with him. It was May Day and a public holiday but I had to go to work for a short time and when I returned to my flat Stephanie was busy writing letters. I made her eat something and then she said she would try to sleep for a while. I worked on quietly for a couple of hours and then I had the strangest feeling. I crept into Stephanie’s room and found her lying on the bed asleep. Then I noticed the letters she had been writing, arranged on top of the chest of drawers. I picked one up; it was addressed to the Commissioner of Police, another to her mother. I began to feel sick in the stomach. One by one I looked at the envelopes. Six letters in all, but not one to me.

  I shook her violently but nothing happened. She had poisoned herself. I fled downstairs to get help. It was useless, everyone had gone out to enjoy May Day. There were no ambulances and no doctors. I raced out and phoned a young friend who lived on the other side of Paris. When he answered his phone I gave a sigh of relief as he was a final-year medical student. He told me to make her sick and he would be there as soon as he could.

  By the time I returned to the flat the concierge was back. Together we mixed a concoction of everything we could think of that was handy and forced it down Stephanie’s throat. Shortly afterwards the medical student arrived with a fully-fledged doctor friend of his. They both worked on Stephanie for two hours before pronouncing her to be out of danger.

  Now I knew she was not going to die I was livid with rage. Had she died I would have had endless troubles as I was a foreigner, yet she had not seen fit to write me one single word. I nursed her for several days and when she was well enough I told her our friendship was over. Stephanie convinced herself that I was unreasonable and we were not on speaking terms by the time she left, not that I worried. I was also convinced I never wanted to see her again.

  Three months later we met face to face in central Paris. Stephanie asked briefly if we were friends or enemies. I laughed and replied that we were friends.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the 1920s the Riviera had been a fashionable winter resort attracting royalty and rich, retired conservative folk. Now it had become popular for summer holidays. All along the coast the atmosphere was one of complete and utter irresponsibility. In 1936 I decided to go to Juan le
s Pins for my summer holiday. It was a mad, high-spirited resort which I was sure would suit the mood I was in.

  I arrived there about eight in the morning. As was usual at this time the streets were empty except for the tradesmen, workmen hosing the streets with perfumed water and the gardeners tending the beautiful little parks and flower-beds.

  Some mornings a few stragglers in evening dress wending their way back to their hotels would stand daringly in front of the hoses. It was always taken in good part, amidst peals of laughter. Then suddenly the beaches would be covered with sunbathers dozing and others swimming in the lovely blue sea. Late afternoon, as soon as the warmth had gone out of the sun, the beach would become deserted and it would be the turn of the bars and cafés to be filled with light-hearted patrons consuming their aperitifs. Just as suddenly as the beach had become deserted, so would the cafés and bars as everyone wandered home to change for dinner, and then the restaurants would be the scenes of activity.

  After coffee everyone would make a beeline for one of the two night-clubs that existed in Juan. Both were in the open air in romantic settings, with little tables scattered around the dance floor and low lights hidden in the branches of the trees which surrounded the entire floor. Before the night was out one could be sure that someone in each of the clubs would get up and head a long winding crocodile line and conga out into the streets, making their way to the other club.

  The waiters were magnificent—handbags, furs, scarves drinks or anything left behind would be returned to the rightful owners. How they sorted out the bills I don’t know, but they did. Perhaps the owners of each respective club had some secret agreement. Whatever it was, the organisation was fantastic and great fun. After a night out I used to love walking home to the hotel as the night air would be filled with the perfume of the exotic flowers, the shrubs and the trees. It was mainly a world of glittering wealth and false values; nevertheless, everyone added something to the character and charm of the resort.