White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

  Whether or not it was my imagination, I thought our phone made unusual noises. When I picked up the receiver I could hear a faint click. Claire caught a man going through our mail-box downstairs. A series of events took place until it became obvious that someone was interested in our apartment.

  The proprietor of the café bar on the corner of our street had been a soldier in the First World War—he hated the Germans. He was also a ‘letter-box’ for a Resistance group. We were good pals and I used to call in every day when I returned from shopping and have a little gossip. This particular day he said he did not want to alarm me unnecessarily but he thought I had been followed when I had left that morning.

  I had no desire to leave Henri, Picon and my home but on the other hand I was not anxious to become a guest of the Germans or even worse. It was decided I would leave for England via the Pyrenees, immediately.

  When the war was over I learnt the truth. The Paris Gestapo was looking for the White Mouse, but they did not have my identity. The Marseille Gestapo and the Vichy police were watching me to see if I was involved in subversive work. But before the Marseille crowd would come out in the open they hoped to catch other people in the net. Had Paris and Marseille worked as a team and not as individual departments my story would have had a different ending.

  I did not sleep at home any more. We knew all about the midnight arrests when people were half asleep. I packed all my best clothes in a big trunk which Ficetole and the horse took to Thomas Cook’s in the Canebière after I had left Marseille. He labelled them: ‘Nancy Wake, care of Thomas Cook, Madrid’. Unbelievably, they were waiting for me intact when I finally reached Madrid. Ficetole had cut out capital letters from newspapers. When pieced together they read ‘LOVE FROM HENRI’. I found them in the bottom of the trunk. I had been wearing the same clothes for three months and could not wait to change into something fresh.

  It was a traumatic farewell. Henri and I had to act as if nothing unusual was happening. We were very aware of the Vichy police commissioner opposite. So I just sauntered outside the front door and called out, ‘Back soon.’ Unfortunately Picon understood and was howling his head off. Once around the corner I cried until I reached the station.

  O’Leary managed to join my train somewhere along the line and on arriving at Toulouse he took me to the Hôtel de Paris, a haven for Resistants. He probably could see I was very depressed and invited me to a black-market restaurant for dinner, which was unusual for him. I’m afraid I was not good company. Everything had happened so fast, but there was no going back.

  The weather was shocking in the Pyrenees and surrounding countryside, and although I made three attempts to leave for Spain I was turned back each time because of the weather. The third time proved to be a disaster. I was returning to Toulouse from Perpignan when suddenly the train stopped just before the station and we were completely surrounded by armed police and garde-mobile who proceeded to bundle us on trucks standing by. I fled down a side street but got caught between some demonstrators and the police who threw me into a truck, along with others, and took me to the police station.

  The Vichy police interrogated me. I had been travelling with my real identity card except that it stated I was born in Nice. I couldn’t give them the address of the Hôtel de Paris and I was unable to tell them what I had been doing in Perpignan. So I pretended I had been with my husband on a business trip to Perpignan and that we had argued on the train and now I didn’t know his whereabouts. They put me in a cell and pretended to ring Marseille. According to them, there was no one named Fiocca in Marseille.

  That night they accused me of blowing up the cinema in Toulouse, which had been showing a film starring Tino Rossi. He was a Corsican singer who had an unsavoury reputation at that time as he was suspected of associating with the Corsican gangsters in Marseille. Probably some Resistance group was responsible for the bomb.

  Next morning the police said I had been recognised as a prostitute from Lourdes. I denied this and got a slap on the face. After that the vice squad came in, dragged me into another room and one man picked up the phone and asked for a number in Lourdes. He gave my description, had a long conversation on the phone, then slammed the receiver down. He told me I had been identified and I might as well confess I was a prostitute in Lourdes, and I had also been involved in the bombing episode. When yet another so-called vice squad inspector from Lourdes identified me I decided there was not much point in trying to get fair treatment as they were determined to make me a scapegoat. I had never been to Lourdes in my life.

  I had an Irish pound note which they had not found. It had been given to me by Flight Lieutenant Paddy Treacy when he was in Marseille. It had been signed by dozens of airmen, and was my good luck keepsake. Paddy was an exuberant Irishman, and we had a lot of fun. Henri would say it was useless to try and curb Paddy’s and my high spirits when we were together. Eventually Paddy got back to England, but he was shot down and killed on a later mission.

  After twelve hours my captors in Toulouse allowed me to go to the toilet; while there I managed to eat it without any ill effect, although I have not become addicted to such a diet. I was dragged out from my cell after four days during which time I had not been given anything to eat or drink. They told me to sit on the floor in the corridor until the interrogator was ready for me.

  I happened to look up and a few yards away O’Leary was standing between two policemen. I thought he had been arrested and when he smiled at me I was furious and ignored him. He disappeared, came back and smiled again. I felt like braining him. I had made up my story and, besides, I was in enough trouble without being connected with him. He said something to the police, came over to me and said, ‘Smile, you fool, you are supposed to be my mistress.’ I gave him a sickly, toothy grin, convinced as I did so that it was the end of me. Not long afterwards he returned with a covered plate of hot steaming food and whispered, ‘Don’t worry, Françoise sends her love.’ I was too tired and cold to fathom the mystery. I just set about enjoying the delicious food.

  Shortly afterwards I was escorted politely into the office of the commissioner. Up until then they had amused themselves by pushing or throwing me in whatever direction they wanted me to go. To my complete astonishment he lectured me for having lied to him and dismissed me into O’Leary’s charge. He now took my arm and walked with me to freedom. For once in my life I was speechless, but not for long.

  When we were well away from the gaol, O’Leary related the story. When I had failed to return to the hotel, knowing that I had been unable to leave for Spain, they guessed there had been some catastrophe. Someone they knew had a brother-in-law at a police station. He made discreet enquiries, learnt of the raid on the train and traced me to police headquarters. From the beginning O’Leary said he was sure I would not involve any of the organisation and when after three days I had not compromised anyone he decided to try and rescue me.

  One thing O’Leary didn’t know about me, and which I’d almost forgotten myself, was my clash with authority at an early age. When I was seven a girl at school had told me a witty rhyme about a little bunny whose Mummy wiped his bummy. I’d thought it the funniest thing I’d ever heard, and the height of wit. I copied it down.

  Naturally, my mother found it, and immediately marched me to school and demanded I be punished. I was dragged out in front of the class by the head teacher and given a lesson in humiliation. I was only seven. To my eternal shame I denounced the girl who’d given me the rhyme in the first place. I hated myself so much for giving her away that I vowed I’d never dob anyone in again. The whole episode made a tremendous impression.

  To be able to rescue me in Toulouse, O’Leary was first of all assured by a well-informed source that Laval, Pétain’s vice-president, was in Berlin. Masquerading as a member of the Milice, O’Leary requested an interview with the commissioner, thereafter appealing to him as one Frenchman to another. He explained that my husband had never left Marseille. I was his mistress and we had been travell
ing together. This was the kind of story that was not only acceptable in France, it was appreciated.

  O’Leary then produced the fake papers he possessed claiming he was a member of the Milice, adding at the same time he was a close friend of Laval. Although the commissioner began to change his attitude at the mention of Laval, he was still not convinced and prepared to telephone Laval’s office to verify the story, whereupon O’Leary pointed out the fact that Laval was in Berlin and he was sure his friend would be most annoyed if Madame Fiocca was inconvenienced any further. Once released, I exploded. I wanted to know why he had kept my identity card if I was innocent, and I was all for going back and claiming it. O’Leary talked me out of it and promised to make me a better one!

  I went to stay with the Françoise who had sent me her love and that delicious meal. She was a wonderful person and I loved her dearly. She was very ugly. It was hard to tell her age as she did absolutely nothing to improve her looks. Actually I thought she looked very much like an old-fashioned German woman the way she dressed her hair in two plaits. I never told her this because she hated the Boche so much I thought she might have a stroke if she thought she resembled the enemy.

  Françoise was a chain smoker. She was never without the bamboo holder and cigarette in her mouth. She used to drink black coffee all day long but managed to put the holder to the side of her mouth and drink at the same time. I don’t know if she undressed at night because she always appeared in the morning looking exactly the same as she did the night before. Her only living relation, a nephew, was a POW in Germany. She adored him and used to spend days preparing food parcels to send to him. She would cook all day and solder the tins of food at night. She also adored her cat, Mifouf. I often heard her telling Mifouf what swines the Germans were. Without a doubt Francoise was one of the most fantastic personalities I have ever met and I was very sad when she died years after the war.

  For several weeks I attempted to cross the Pyrenees. Every time I failed. The Germans and the Milice were causing havoc all over the country, taking particular interest in the Spanish border. There were so many arrests that most of the contacts and guides were in hiding. Nevertheless another attempt was going to be made in a couple of days and I was to be included in that group.

  At this stage, however, Françoise announced that she was going to organise an escape from the prison at Castres, which was not far from Toulouse. This meant that our journey would be postponed so that the ten prisoners she hoped to rescue would be able to escape with us. A guard from the prison had agreed to co-operate on condition he was assisted in escaping himself. Françoise knew a friendly chemist who mixed a tasteless but potent sleeping draught. The guard poured it into a bottle of wine which he gave as a present to the chief guard on duty. Wine being in such short supply, he drank it all and fell fast asleep. Having all the necessary keys, our accomplice took charge of the breakout, closing the main gate behind him. The plan was a masterpiece.

  The ten men were soon smuggled into Françoise’s flat. Except for the guard they were in a filthy state. For days I washed and scrubbed their clothes. They were so dirty a laundry would have been suspicious. Françoise would come back from her shopping expeditions and give us a rundown on the local gossip. Naturally Toulouse was a hive of activity—Milice, police, gendarmes and police cars with sirens screaming, chasing all over the place for the ten men, nine of whom were sitting in Françoise’s flat in their birthday suits, wrapped in blankets or anything that would keep them warm, while I washed and scrubbed day after day. Those days with Françoise were hilarious. That was one of the reasons we got on so well. We never shunned hard work, however disagreeable, but we always had time for a laugh. It does not matter how serious a situation can be, so often there is a funny side. The days we spent with these men were no exception.

  In the group of escapers there was one Canadian, one American and several Frenchmen, one of whom—Gaston Negre—had lived in Nimes. He had been arrested when he was caught red-handed assisting in the reception of an Allied parachute drop. I knew Gaston well and had been entertained lavishly by him in his home. He had taken the huge key of the prison gate and wanted to keep it as a souvenir but Françoise begged me to try and persuade him to give it up. It took some talking on my part but he agreed eventually and I threw it into the river. I hated to do so as it would have made a sensational showpiece after the war.

  The Canadian had been in prison for some time and was well aware of the plans. The day before the escape the American arrived. The guard went to a lot of trouble to talk to him and invited him to come along with the others, whereupon the American said he did not want to escape. He was happy where he was. Nothing the guard said succeeded in making him change his mind. At the flat the American had us in fits of laughter as he related his side of the story. Before the war he had been in some kind of a racket in Chicago. Therefore he was wary of all policemen. He had been shot down in Germany and without any knowledge of German or French had made his way into France, only to be caught accidentally by the Vichy police on the day the Germans entered the Free Zone. He was imprisoned and several days later was asked by his cellmate if he would like to escape. His answer was affirmative and he handed the chap some money he had hidden on his person. The guards came and beat him up—it had been a trick. He was transferred to another Vichy prison and almost the same thing happened. This time he was put into solitary confinement. When he arrived at Castres there was no way he wanted to escape! It took the Canadian hours to convince him it was all above-board. He was an amusing man and kept us entertained with his stories of Chicago. He walked around the apartment, wrapped in his rug, laughing all the time about his twenty-four hours in Castres prison.

  Eventually the clothes were clean enough, but they had to be dried—a long process without heating and in secret. Françoise and I used to play cards with the men until the early hours of the morning, drinking pints and pints of black coffee. The police activity in Toulouse appeared to have subsided and the guard left for his safe house, wherever that was. Gaston had already arranged to stay with a friend so we said goodbye to him. The rest of us were divided into two groups and we proceeded to make our separate ways to Perpignan. I was travelling with O’Leary, a French Resistance radio operator, a New Zealand airman and a Frenchman who had been in the police force.

  As the journey seemed to be going so smoothly I settled down to smoke a cigarette. Suddenly a railway official threw the compartment door open and shouted that the Germans were going to check the train. Almost immediately the train started to slow down, although there was no station. O’Leary shouted to jump for it. I pulled my window down and jumped and as I did so I heard machine-gun fire. I heard him tell me to make for the vineyards and the top of the mountain. I could feel the bullets whizzing by and I ran harder than I’ve ever run, before or since. When I reached the top of the mountain I was out of breath and collapsed. The ex-policeman was the first to arrive; he was surprised to see I was already there, but there is nothing like a machine-gun being fired at your rear to make you get up speed. O’Leary had been trying to see if the other party had made it and he arrived a little later.

  The policeman volunteered to look for the other group. The unfortunate man did not return. He was arrested and died of typhus in a concentration camp. He was in his twenties, and left a widow and child.

  When I had recovered I found to my sorrow that I had dropped my handbag, either jumping through the window or afterwards running through the vineyards. Probably the Germans found it and gave the jewellery to their wives or girlfriends. But it was too dangerous to go back to try and find it. Nevertheless I felt like sobbing my heart out. I had been fond of my jewellery. Apart from their value every item recalled some sentimental occasion that Henri and I had enjoyed together. My engagement ring was a flawless three-carat solitaire diamond, and I’d had a diamond eternity ring, a diamond watch, a diamond brooch in the shape of a little wire-haired terrier, another like a spray of flowers with diamond and ruby-s
tudded buds. There were gold bracelets and some dress rings. I missed them already.

  But at least I was still alive.

  We stayed for two nights in a deserted barn. It was freezing cold and we couldn’t sleep although we huddled together to try and keep warm. Each man took his turn to watch for any sign of danger. On the third day we started to walk to Canet-Plage, which was near Perpignan and was where O’Leary had a safe house. We all looked so dirty that we could not take a train. The police always suspected travellers who were not clean and neatly dressed. Soon we had to rest during the daytime and walk through the night, as not only were we approaching farms and small villages, but it was too cold at night to remain stationary for any length of time. We were all starving. Passing a field one night I jumped over the wall, against O’Leary’s advice, and pulled up the nearest plant. Fortunately it was a lettuce. I hurried to catch up to the others and although I offered to share my find, they refused. I was not so fussy; I ate it, dirt and all.

  It took us five days and nights to reach Canet-Plage. By this time we had not eaten for eight days. We had slept in sheep-pens on the way and we all caught scabies. Treatment by a strange doctor was out of the question so I had to suffer the indignity of standing in a basin and being scrubbed all over with a hard domestic scrubbing-brush dipped in disinfectant. It was an agonising treatment, but cured the scabies.

  We were in a disreputable state when we arrived at the safe house, and completely exhausted. After a short rest and an attempt to make ourselves look less conspicuous, we took the train to Toulouse and Françoise.

  Personally I was convinced that someone close to the organisation was in league with the Germans, and Françoise was of the same opinion. At first O’Leary, whether it was by wishful thinking or otherwise, was disinclined to agree. But he was, after all, an astute person, who had the activities of his organisation at his fingertips, and before long he admitted our assumption could be correct. Although O’Leary was trustworthy and intelligent, he did not have the keen sense of humour of my French friends. During his conversation with Françoise concerning the mishaps we had been having, he seemed to be using the word si (if) continually. Irritated, I said ‘Si, si, si. Si ma tante en avait, elle serait mon oncle. [If my aunt had any she would be my uncle.]’ Françoise roared with laughter, but O’Leary looked quite shocked.