White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

  That summer, I had been seeing a lot of an American who lived in Paris, and he had arranged to spend a couple of weeks at Juan les Pins while I was there. He was a fantastic dancer and enormous fun, and while we were clutched in each other’s arms in the throes of a romantic tango at one of the night-clubs I happened to notice a man in the shadows who appeared to be watching every move we made. When the lights went up I saw it was a man I had met now and again at Marseille. His name was Henri Fiocca. He came over to our table and said ‘Hello’, and then disappeared with his companion, an attractive blonde.

  The following week, my American friend returned to Paris and at the weekend who should turn up in Juan les Pins, by himself this time, but Henri Fiocca, the man from Marseille. I found he was an industrialist, and wealthy. I also found he was charming, sexy and very amusing. But I did not take him too seriously. I was too experienced to want anything but play from a playboy, and besides, I was somewhat of a playgirl myself, although of course on a much humbler economic level than Henri Fiocca. We had a wonderful time while he was there and when he left I had agreed to see him when I came south again. From then on my friends in Paris were forever ragging me unmercifully because of all the excuses I made to go south.

  When I returned to Paris the news, both world-wide and local, was so depressing that I was grateful for the mad, frivolous holiday I had enjoyed in the south. In common with many others I feared war was inevitable and then where would we all be? When would laughter end and the tears begin?

  The civil war in Spain was still a matter of great concern in France. Nevertheless there were countless ugly rumours of illegal and dishonest transactions going on between the two countries which in France involved prominent people. It was unfortunate that these rumours could not be confirmed at the time. Ever since the Stavisky scandals in 1933–4, when the ‘greatest con-man of the century’ (as he became known) was finally exposed, together with a number of influential citizens, the French people had become disenchanted with the establishment. It had become a matter of public knowledge that Stavisky and his accomplices had been guilty of a staggering number of high-powered but shady deals.

  When he was exposed there was a mad rush by his associates to leave the sinking ship. To make matters worse, when he was finally run to ground near Chamonix in the Haute Savoie, his publicised ‘suicide’ did not convince the vast majority of French people who thought it was more likely to have been a case of murder.

  Remembering all this, the man in the street did not know whom he could trust and if, indeed, he could trust anyone. When the war came, this distrust made most of the general public very cautious about becoming involved in anti-Nazi activities. A chance remark to an acquaintance who might be a collaborator would land you in a lot of trouble.

  Early in 1939, Henri Fiocca asked me to marry him. The proposal came as a surprise because although we had been having a fabulous time since we had started going out regularly whenever I was in the south, I had always been aware of the reputation he had with the girls. Any time I had run into him in the past he had always been with a different girl, sometimes three or four the same day. I used to be pop-eyed at his stamina! I kept him dangling several days, remembering all the good advice my friend Stephanie had given me over the years.

  Henri had arrived unexpectedly in Paris the previous November and found me surrounded by men, young and old and of several nationalities, including the American, drinking and making merry at our favourite bistro. I had introduced him to everyone and we all lunched together. He had not referred to the incident when we dined on the night he proposed, but after he had waited for my reply for several days he suddenly mentioned that day in Paris. I was absolutely stunned when this ‘ladies’ man’ told me he was jealous and hated the thought of the life I was leading in Paris. We were dining at Verduns, our favourite restaurant in Marseille. Of course I accepted after such a declaration on his part. Joseph, the maitre d’hôtel, was the first person to be told our exciting news and he immediately offered us a bottle of Krug champagne. There was just one hitch: old man Fiocca, Henri’s father, had purchased a battleship in Toulon, hoping to sell it as scrap iron and make a fortune. Instead, the bottom fell out of the market and he lost his money. It was left to his son to put the firm back on its feet and make up the losses. Henri hoped everything would be finalised by the beginning of 1940 and asked me if I would wait until then to be married. We eventually settled for May 1940, and I stipulated that the wedding breakfast would take place at the Hôtel du Louvre et Paix.

  As far as I was concerned there was another big hitch. There was no way I was going to stick to the rules of the game and pay for the wedding, and I told Henri so over the bottle of Krug. I thought Joseph would die laughing. Anyhow, I always remember Henri’s reply. He said, ‘Never mind, Nannie, I’ll pay for it—but don’t tell Papa.’ As if I would. Our marriage followed the pattern we set that night at Verduns—we made our own rules, kept our mouths shut, and went on having a marvellous time.

  The Spanish Civil War ended in April 1939 and General Franco took power after the murderous fighting in which a million Spaniards died. The threat of war was always hanging over Europe and it obviously had a disturbing effect on everyone. But in spite of all the apprehension we felt, our group continued to live and act as if nothing unusual was happening.

  I was just living for Easter as Henri was coming to Paris. Funnily enough, now we were going to be married he didn’t seem to mind all my friends, and instead of taking me away from them he seemed happy to join the circle. They all liked him, he was an amusing man and, if he liked a person, generous to a fault. We had discovered how much we enjoyed each other’s company, which is quite separate from being in love. We laughed at the same things and he pretended to be long-suffering about my outspokenness. We’d both met our match and knew it.

  Henri and I went to Cannes for the summer holidays in 1939. We had a wonderful time and lived for every moment. Like most people, we shut our eyes to the inevitable. We were making the most of those weeks because we were afraid that not only might it be the last summer before war, it could also be our last summer.

  Cannes was very sophisticated and expensive, and it must have been one of the liveliest night spots on the Riviera. Sometimes we would walk along the Croisette past the luxury hotels on one side and the Mediterranean on the other, towards the Port. After admiring the yachts moored in the wide bay, we would choose a bistro where we would indulge in our favourite pre-lunch pastime—drinking pastis.

  We went further afield to country villages and towns, and to Saint-Tropez, a typical Provençal village. Everyone dines as late as possible and crowds fill the bars or wander through the maze of narrow, twisted streets until the early hours of the morning, breathing in the night air, warm and scented. Wherever we went we had fun. We were always laughing.

  Henri and I had discussed the future during our holiday. War seemed inevitable although everyone was hoping it would not come to that. Nevertheless, I had agreed to give up my flat in Paris and come south. In the meantime I was going to England for a month as I had already reserved a room at Champneys, a health resort in Hertfordshire. The resort was fashionable at the time. For some reason, before I finally married in France, I wanted to spend some time in England.

  I left Henri in Marseille and managed to get a seat in the Paris Express. It was crowded with soldiers who had already received their call-up papers, and with the civilians trying to return to their homes in the north or in England. Paris was in uproar. I cried when I said goodbye to my little flat, the first real home of my own. My concierge took me in her arms and wished me luck, and we both cried. She was going to stay with her sister in the country until such time as war was declared or otherwise. I never saw her again. She was killed in an air raid by our bombers.

  I had a farewell dinner with Stephanie in a little restaurant near Pigalle. For once in our lives we had nothing to say to each other. She had found a little place of her own for the time being and
was glad of the little bits and pieces I could give her from my flat in the rue Sainte-Anne.

  The crossing from France over the Channel was ghastly and so was my arrival in London. I had booked a room at the Strand Palace Hotel for a few days, then I was supposed to be going off to Champneys. I found the hotel full of the most depressing European refugees and was sorry I hadn’t bothered to find a more congenial place.

  I had a very good friend in Cannes, Andrée Digard, whose daughter Micheline was a student in a convent in Weybridge in Surrey. In spite of the difference in our ages, Micheline and I were close friends and have remained so all these years. Micheline was to spend Sunday with me in London, so I caught an early train, picked her up at her convent and we made our way back to London. At Waterloo station we noticed abnormal activity, people rushing all over the platform, troops everywhere, and women and children crying. It was 3 September 1939. War had been declared while we were on the train.

  We were both absolutely stunned. Of course I had been half expecting a war but when it finally came it was a blow to me as it was to millions of others. I immediately cancelled the booking at the health resort, convinced that with such a war the starvation diet would come soon enough. In any case I hoped the money I saved would keep me in London until I had planned my immediate future. Poor Micheline was just a kid and she was afraid to be left behind in Weybridge, as she hated convent life. When I left her at Weybridge that night she was sobbing her heart out and begging me not to leave her behind in England.

  I felt terribly lonely that night and found it hard to arrive at any solution. The next morning I went to a recruiting office and made enquiries about joining one of the forces. They were as disorganised as I was and suggested I work in a canteen. Needless to say I was not impressed. Quite suddenly I made up my mind to return to France and to hell with the consequences.

  The next morning I received two messages relayed through semi-official circles from the British Vice-Consul in Cannes. The first one was from Henri, urging me to return to France where he would arrange to have our wedding brought forward. The second one was from Andrée Digard, begging me to bring Micheline back with me. The wedding news was wonderful but unfortunately we were not able to leave immediately as the Mother Superior at the convent insisted on receiving a written authorisation from Madame Digard before she would allow me to take charge of Micheline.

  Finally, after a long delay the authorisation arrived and Micheline was installed in my hotel, but then we had more problems. New travel restrictions were in force and we had to queue every day for a whole week at the French consulate before we received our permits. The crowds at the consulate were unbelievably disorderly; most of them were Italians trying to get back to their country. We concluded the French Government was very short of money as they made us pay a shilling for every form we filled in. Then more queues for the British exit permits. But the British were more generous than the French—the permits were gratis.

  With all these delays and the extra expense of looking after Micheline my money had dwindled dangerously low. I was beginning to worry when out of the blue came money from France. Henri or Andrée or both had remembered us in London.

  The day of our departure eventually arrived. The Channel ferry was blacked out, and England was stoically and methodically preparing for war, but as we approached Boulogne sur Mer the city was ablaze with lights. We looked at each other and roared with laughter and Micheline said, ‘Voilà la France.’

  After that, there was utter confusion: troops moving in all directions, crowded trains and absolute chaos. Somehow we managed to reach the south of France. Micheline went to her home in Cannes and I to marriage and my future life in Marseille.

  I had left Picon with Henri when I went to England and as it was the first time we had been separated for such a long period he was overcome with joy to see me return. Henri and I planned to marry on 30 November and the wedding reception was to be held at the Hôtel du Louvre et Paix, where I would stay in the meantime.

  I was advised that as soon as possible I should proceed to obtain permission to marry. I will never forget the papers I had to complete, the forms I had to sign and the oaths I had to take and above all the stupid, idiotic behaviour of some Marseille officials. I had a valid passport, I was a citizen of an allied country, I had a birth certificate and an identity card. Furthermore, I was marrying a well-known businessman who had been born in Marseille. A German national could not have been faced with more problems than I was.

  The official in charge said I would have to have my birth certificate translated. When I returned with the translation duly legalised he informed me I would have to have an up-to-date birth certificate, even though the one I possessed was only three years old. I cabled Wellington, New Zealand, and when the certificate arrived and I presented it to the official I had seen the first time he said it would have to be translated. I ventured to point out that it was exactly the same as the first one except for the date of issue. He was adamant it had to be translated. This was all too much for me and as by this time I was seething with rage I said some very disagreeable things about his exalted office, adding a choice piece of advice as to what he should do with his papers! Back at the hotel I phoned Henri and said as far as I was concerned the wedding was off. Henri was by now quite used to my behaviour, and my sudden decisions, and what happened after that remains a secret between Henri and the Town Hall. All I know is that several hours later my papers, duly completed and legalised, were delivered to me at my hotel by a gendarme. It was not the last time Henri would make things easier for me, and I never asked how he managed it.

  Now that the drama of the unfriendly Town Hall official was over I could settle down and think of the wedding reception. Marius the chef and I conferred together for hours on end. We must have changed the menu dozens of times before we could make our final decision. So many of the ingredients had to be ordered from the north of France, and after all there was a war on!

  Once it had been confirmed that we could obtain some sole, I determined we should have one of Marius’s specialities as our fish course. He used to take the backbone out of the fish, fill it with the most delicate mousseline made with the flesh of oursins (sea urchins), then deep fry the soles until they puffed up, light and airy like a soufflé. They would be accompanied by a rich, luscious sauce made with oursins amongst other ingredients. For the first meat course we decided to serve loin of a special lamb—pré-salé, which Marius ordered from Normandy. It has a unique flavour because the sheep graze on fields near salt water. The cutlets were kept in one piece and Marius and his assistants managed to build little spits which revolved under the lamb with the aid of batteries. The waiters came in carrying huge silver trays which they held up high for everyone to see. The lights were dimmed and it was a wonderful sight. Immediately, all the guests stood up and applauded.

  Whole beef fillets were chosen for the main course, accompanied by the appropriate vegetables, just as the pré-salé had been. Here again Marius and his team worked for days preparing food that was not only delicious to eat but also a delight to see. Once more the course was served from big silver platters. The cooks had taken the crumbs out of sandwich loaves, crisped the shells and ingeniously had inserted lights powered from batteries in the hollows of each loaf. The light-bulbs were disguised and resembled a log-fire burning under the whole fillet. The lights were dimmed as the silver platters were displayed, but this time not only did the guests stand up and applaud, they stamped their feet and cheered.

  The whole feast and Marius and his kitchen staff were the talk of Marseille for a long, long time and it was probably many a year before anything like it would be seen again. The guests cheered Marius for having served gourmet dishes but the spontaneous acclaim was also to thank him for having been able to improvise in so many ways.

  I was not a Roman Catholic so we were married in the Town Hall at three in the afternoon and went straight back to the hotel to join our close friends, all steady im
bibers like us. A wonderful surprise awaited me in the hall—three journalists from Paris. Without telling me, Henri had extended an invitation to our little Paris group. Those who could not accept had sent presents with love. Henri’s thoughtfulness was very touching.

  Henri’s family, who rather disapproved of the marriage, and other conservative guests were invited for 6 p.m. and we had both instructed the barmen and waiters to lace their drinks with care. It proved to be a wise decision as soon, one by one, they forgot all about their inhibitions. Indeed, some of them remarked on the vintage of the champagne and the sweetness of the fresh orange juice, unaware that their respective drinks had been reinforced with Napoleon brandy or Grand Marnier. Henri and I were having such a wonderful time we refused to leave, and stayed on until the bitter end with the journalists, who, of course, were used to such unconventional behaviour.

  My father-in-law, who was very careful with his money, was positively glowing with happiness as his daughter-in-law had organised such a magnificent reception which had not cost him a single cent. Henri and I left for Cannes the next day. We both agreed that, in more ways than one, it had been a very unusual wedding.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We booked into the Martinez and on our subsequent trips to Cannes we stayed at this hotel, where we were always allotted a corner room facing the sea and the port, with the mountains in the distance. We could see everything happening on the Croisette and the lovely yachts sailing in and out of the bay. All of my married life with Henri was as beautifully organised. Money has never been important to me for itself, but Henri taught me how pleasant life can be if you have money and enjoy it. The weather was beautiful and it was hard to believe we were really at war. It was called the ‘phony war’ with good reason. Nothing seemed to be happening. As far as we could see Cannes consisted mainly of visitors who had been caught holidaying when war was declared, those who did not wish to return to their homes and others who were living by their wits.