White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

  I had discovered much earlier on that O’Leary, who was actually Belgian, did not appreciate the subtle innuendos of the French language as did my friends in the Midi. One day I had mentioned the fact that an evader had left our safe house for several hours and that his absence had caused a certain amount of unrest to all concerned. He informed me the offender was a Belgian prince—the Prince de Mérode—and he did not intend to reprimand him in any way. I never believed we should favour any of the men, either because of birth or rank—to me they were all equal. He was visibly horrified when I added that the prince was only saved from being a merde by the letter ‘o’. O’Leary’s seriousness may have been because he was worrying about facing up to Henri. Here I was, wandering around the countryside, when I should have been thousands of kilometres away.

  My departure having been decided upon, Françoise took my shoes to the cobbler and my costume to the cleaners while I washed my underclothes and wandered around in a sheet until they were dry. The next morning, 2 March 1943, at ten, O’Leary kept an appointment with a fairly new recruit who had been engaged by his lieutenant in Paris. The recruit had asked to meet that amusing girl from Marseille he’d heard so much about in Paris. Pat had no intention of taking me along, and in any case I had no clothes. As O’Leary sat down at the table the Gestapo arrived and he was arrested. The recruit from Paris was agent number 47 of the Gestapo. His name was Roger. He was French and was also known as the ‘Légionnaire’. O’Leary went to Dachau.

  Françoise and I were alerted soon after the arrest. We were both convinced that Roger was the informer although this was not confirmed until later. Now everything fell into place—the arrests in the north, the mishaps on the Spanish frontier, the train trip to Perpignan when we had luckily been saved by the railway employee who tipped us off that the Germans would search the train. It all added up.

  The apartment had to be evacuated immediately. Françoise was taking her boarders to another town far away where they would lie low for the time being. Unfortunately I could not accompany her. My shoes had been retrieved but my costume was not ready and I could hardly travel in my underclothes, even though I had a top coat. Bernard Gohan arrived. He had been an Air France pilot before he joined our organisation. He wanted to make sure we had received the bad news, and offered to take me to the home of a pilot friend of his where he was sure I could stay the night. It was agreed that he would escort Francoise and her party to their destination, return the following day, retrieve my costume, then collect me, and we would go to Marseille to warn the other members. At the same time we would pick up some airmen we knew to be hiding in a flat at Marseille.

  Bernard was sitting in the train when he remembered that the name and address of the pilot in whose home I was hiding was in his address book in the desk in his room. If the Gestapo got hold of it I would be in grave danger. I will be forever in his debt. He returned by the first available transport and collected me, and we made tracks for Marseille. Fortunately, although I had lost my handbag and its contents, I still had some money Henri had given me and which I’d stashed in my brassière. I hate to think what would have happened to us if we had been stranded without any money.

  As we approached the railway station I received a terrible shock. Standing on the platform, straight in front of us, was one of the policemen who had pushed me around so unceremoniously weeks before. I turned to Bernard quickly and whispered a few words. We hugged each other and kissed and acted like two lovesick people. I was wearing dark sunglasses and noticed the policeman was looking at me curiously. I muttered to Bernard, and we stopped and kissed and sauntered on. My heart was in my mouth and afterwards Bernard said he had been scared stiff. However, the acting on our part seemed to work, and we had no further trouble as we made our way to Marseille.

  We informed some of our people in Marseille of O’Leary’s arrest, and taking two airmen with us we made our way to a Madame Sainson in Nice. Not only was she a good friend of mine, she was also a member of the escape-route organisation, and I’d taken delivery of many escapers at her home before delivering them myself to the next contact.

  We discussed the latest disaster with her at length. The three of us decided that Bernard should return to Toulouse and evaluate the situation to establish whether there had been further arrests and whether members had been compromised. He was able to contact his pilot friend and found the Gestapo had not been to his home, nor had they been to Bernard’s. He collected my costume—I had been travelling with only a blouse and underwear under my coat, which I had to clutch tightly whenever I sat down or walked. Together with the fact that I did not possess any identity card, this had put me in a dangerous position.

  We now decided that we would make for Perpignan and trust to luck after that. By now we had one New Zealander and two Americans, one of whom proved to be a real menace later on. Bernard had decided to come to England with us. I took the airmen to a large store in Nice where we had our photographs taken; it was an automatic machine, ideal for people on the run. Our source in Nice issued our identity cards and we went on our way. We had been with Madame Sainson for three weeks. She had been a wonderful hostess and had taken a delight in all the intrigues that had been going on in her home.

  Bernard had been able to inform two Frenchwomen that we were going to try to cross the Pyrenees. One of them was the wife of a man who had been denounced to the Germans by Roger, and the other had been the assistant to O’Leary’s radio operator, Tom Groome, who had also been arrested. We made contact with them but neither Bernard nor the two women knew where or how to contact the man who arranged the guides for our organisation, besides which we did not know the password. One woman was openly pessimistic about our chances of finding him, but she always tended to look on the gloomy side. I did not know his name but I had an inkling of where he lived because once O’Leary had left me on a corner with some evaders while he went to see the man.

  For weeks now I had been subjected to more than my fair share of drama. I had been forced to flee from home, separated from my beloved husband and my darling Picon, made six fruitless journeys to the Pyrenees, been thrown into prison and kicked around, jumped out of a moving train, been fired at by a machine-gun, sprinted to the top of a mountain, lost my jewellery, walked for five nights, been starved for eight days, and infected with scabies. There was no way I was going to let the little matter of a password deter me at this stage of the game.

  I confided only in Bernard. I told him of my plan and recommended that if I did not return at a specified time he should leave Perpignan the best way he could. I ambled around the town, looking in shop windows until I was sure no one was following me. Then I made my way to the street where the man lived. I studied the house which I thought was his, and made a snap decision. I crossed over the road, went up to the front door and knocked. A man opened it and immediately I said, ‘I am Nancy Fiocca, you are in charge of our guides, I work for O’Leary, so do you, I want to go to Spain, I’ve had enough trouble getting here so don’t give me any crap.’ All in the same breath. He laughed and invited me inside, saying he thought I deserved a drink. I agreed. After the war when I lived in Europe I used to see him often. He was a charming man and took a delight in joking about my unusual approach. Personally, I did not mind if everyone laughed at me, it had been successful. Although he survived the Occupation his attractive little wife was not so fortunate.

  Arrangements were made for us to commence our long journey immediately. We walked for hours in the dark and then settled in a quiet spot to wait for the coal truck which was going to take us through the military zone. On each side of the frontier between France and Spain was a forbidden zone, twenty kilometres in France and fifty in Spain. All the local residents were required to hold a residential permit, which of course we did not possess.

  In due course the lorry arrived. We were bundled into the back and completely covered with empty sacks and loose coal. The lorry was checked several times en route but fortunately the cargo was no
t, and we reached our destination safely although extremely grubby. It was a sunny day and we were grateful for the warmth of the sun as we lay in a secluded part of a wood waiting for sunset and our guides.

  They arrived right on time, both Spanish—Jean, who was in charge of the expedition and Pilar, a good-looking young woman who was accompanied by a dear little mongrel terrier. We removed our shoes and put on our espadrilles, and were soon on our way. The guides always used the high peaks of the Pyrenees, harder for walking but safer from the Germans who used to patrol the lower routes with police dogs. We wore the rope-soled espadrilles because they were soft and silent to walk in.

  A trip like this usually took about forty-eight hours. After marching for two hours there would be a rest period of ten minutes. The guides always insisted that everyone in each group remove the wet socks, put on dry ones—everyone had been warned that an extra pair of socks was needed—then change back into the wet socks when the march continued. Some of the men used to complain about the procedure, but it was to prevent frost-bite. In any case it did not matter who you were, in the Pyrenees the guide’s word was law.

  The American whom Bernard and I had picked up at Madame Sainson’s complained bitterly about everything. He had moaned non-stop all the way from Nice. It must have been embarrassing for his compatriot, who was a pleasant young man. We had been walking about twenty-four hours when the unpleasant American refused to walk any farther. I had not done this trip with Jean before but he knew that it was not my first experience of the Pyrenees, and he more or less put me in charge of the group while he walked well ahead and Pilar brought up the rear. I walked beside the American and told him quietly that if he was not careful he might find himself falling over a cliff. That kept him silent for a couple of hours. But it was too good to last. He finally sat down and refused to budge. There were two solutions: leave him to freeze to death in the snow, or force him to continue. I whispered to Pilar and she went on ahead. I had lost all patience with this chap. After all, we were all suffering, but we were determined to carry on. I dragged him to his feet, he sat down again. This time I dragged him along by his hair until he begged me to stop. He stood up and told me that as soon as he reached the American Consul he was going to report me. I don’t know if he did, but I heard no more of this objectionable fellow. Not that I was worried about any consul, not after all I had been through.

  We were caught in a frightening blizzard. We could not stop and shelter because there was no shelter, so we carried on and at last we crossed our final mountain. Jean led us into a hut and lit a fire, and we dried our clothes. One river to cross and we would be out of German-controlled Europe. That night we crossed the river and left the forbidden zone of Spain behind us.

  As was usual after a mountain crossing involving our organisation, Jean continued on to Barcelona to warn the British Consul of our arrival. Pilar took us to the farmhouse where we were expected. We were given a delicious meal, after which we slept for hours while our clothes were being dried. At dawn we were escorted into the fields, where our breakfast and lunch were served, keeping out of sight until nightfall when we returned to the farmhouse for our evening meal. The farmer and his wife were kind and did everything they could under the circumstances to make us comfortable.

  Jean returned with good news. We were to be picked up by car the following morning. He seemed a little uneasy and suddenly advised us we should sleep in the barn rather than in the house. Immediately we trooped out and climbed into a haystack, except for Bernard and one of the French girls. Before we had left France we had eaten some black-market meat which must have been tainted, as we had all suffered from dysentery during our trek. I had almost recovered but Bernard had not, and when he asked me for my toilet roll I only gave him a few sheets as toilet paper was nearly as rare as gold dust in those days. He grumbled as he went on his way, assuring me that the ‘man upstairs’ would punish me for my stinginess. I laughed and snuggled into the hay.

  We were just dropping off to sleep when we heard men shouting and women screaming in the farmhouse. Then silence followed by the tramping of feet coming into the barn. They were Spaniards, but I could not understand what they were saying. Suddenly, Pilar let out a blood-curdling yell, jumped out of the haystack over all the machinery in the barn and out of the window, followed closely by her little dog. The barn was full of carabineros. They tried to catch her but she had vanished into the darkness. They had been searching for contraband or food destined for sale on the black market and had stabbed her in the rear with a pitchfork. It was pointless to remain in the haystack so we came out, one by one, to the utter astonishment of the carabineros, who stood there gaping.

  We were rounded up and marched to a little village called Besalu a few kilometres away. We sang rude songs in French and English, and made the task of our escorts as tough as possible. Some of us were filled with bravado as we were sure the British would come to our rescue soon. We would sit down suddenly in the middle of the road and when they threatened to shoot us we gave them raspberries. We would stop and have a little waltz or a tango, or play leapfrog. In short, we behaved like a bunch of lunatics, and I am sure they were relieved when we arrived at Besalu.

  The gaol was on the top floor of an old dilapidated building. Our cell was only about two metres by three. It was already occupied and with our group that made seventeen prisoners including three women. There was a hole in the middle of the cell floor which was supposed to be a toilet. It was freezing cold and filthy, and stank like a sewer. As I sat on the cold stone floor and contemplated, I thought of Bernard and how he would laugh while he was driven in luxury to Barcelona next morning. Perhaps he’d been right after all about the man upstairs.

  We were locked up for three days with nothing to eat or drink. Jean explained that as they were celebrating an important religious festival in Spain it was unlikely the British would succeed in contacting us, as all government officials would be on holiday.

  On the third afternoon I was taken downstairs and chained up, and they commenced interrogating me. All I would say was that I was Nancy Farmer and I was American. The Spaniards had been known to throw a female British subject into prison, where she remained for several months. I knew that Spain was short of wheat and flour and that the United States had either shipped, or was in the process of shipping, a large quantity of wheat to Spain. In view of this I hoped the Spaniards would hesitate before throwing me into some dungeon. I also hoped that in the meantime the British would be looking for me and guess my reasons for changing my surname and nationality.

  A little later on they introduced me to a local tailor who had lived in Brooklyn for many years. He was to be my interpreter but I refused to elaborate on my story. However, I did tell him ‘in strict confidence’ that when the American authorities did trace me I was going to complain about the bad treatment I had received while in captivity. He betrayed my confidence, as I knew he would, and soon after I was offered something to eat and drink. I would only accept their hospitality if they unchained me and brought down the rest of the group to join me. We were all offered a whisky. Unfortunately we drank two bottles between us. It was labelled ‘Pure Scotch Whisky Made in Spain’. We returned to our cell and were all sick, one after the other, in the hole in the floor. It was a pity because the food they cooked for us was excellent.

  I was very lucky. They came and fetched me in the middle of the night and installed me in a hotel; in a lovely, big, warm, soft bed. They took the precaution of placing two guards outside the bedroom door. It was most unnecessary as I had no intention of escaping. In the morning I was able to have a quick word with Jean. We were being sent by bus to Gerona. He was very worried as he was wanted for murder by Franco’s government and once inside an important gaol, with an administrative wing, he would be doomed. He needed our help badly.

  He was going to try to enter the bus first and take his seat. All I had to do was sit in front of him with one of our group and we were not under any circumstances t
o look around if we heard a noise behind us. All went well. Jean took a window seat. A Belgian priest sat beside him. We sat in front and when we were all seated each couple was chained together by the wrists. The guards sat at the back and front of the bus. Now and again the one in front would look behind to check. I could hear Jean fiddling with his chains. It was hard not to look back to see how he was progressing.

  The guards on the back seat were busy chatting amongst themselves. Suddenly the one in front looked back to check on his charges and to his horror saw an empty seat. Jean had fled after managing to slip out of his chain and prise the window open. It was one of the funniest sights I have ever seen. The guards were all screaming and grabbing their rifles and trying to run after Jean. They did not have a chance. We could see Jean in the distance making for the hills. The guards fired a few shots and staggered around in the field in the cumbersome boots and their ridiculous-looking hats and came back to the bus looking sheepish. The rest of us continued to cheer and laugh all the way to Gerona. I saw Jean after the war. He got back safely to Perpignan and continued his work, but by another route. So did Pilar and her dog.

  I appeared before the governor of the prison and was charged with illegal entry. He was a great big obnoxious-looking man. The trial was a farce from beginning to end. Mr Rapley, the British Vice-Consul, had warned me to be tactful, but when the governor enquired as to whether I had been well treated I said no and complained about the cell. I got an anxious look from Rapley so I immediately changed my tune and said that it had all been lovely. I was dismissed with a snort. It had cost the British Government £1,000 and a gold bracelet in bribes.