White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

  Much later I was told that the Third Secretary had advised the manager and the waiter to forget the whole affair, adding, ‘Do you know that just a few weeks ago this woman was killing Germans who would make mincemeat out of you two?’

  It’s therefore easy to understand why I was never again given a table near a servery and why that waiter disappeared. Perhaps he joined his friends in Germany.

  Hubert had taken up his appointment and as he was to be in London for several months before being posted he asked if I would lend him my little flat which was near his office. I agreed to do so and of course it was given rent free. I didn’t hear from him for months but upon returning to London I soon discovered the reason for his silence.

  He had lived in the flat while he was in London and on being posted overseas had sub-let it to a colleague of his at the War Office. I telephoned this gentleman who at least had the courtesy to call on me and offer his apologies. Hubert had assured him it was his flat and pocketed the money. A couple of weeks later his mother called and asked when she could take possession of her son’s flat as the one she was occupying was too big for her.

  People have often asked me what happened to Hubert. I would imagine, if he has any sense at all, he is still keeping well out of my way.

  It had been arranged that in January 1946 Colonel Buckmaster would present a Lysander aircraft to the French Government, on behalf of the British Government and SOE. It was to be a memento of the operations carried out by this tiny aircraft between the two countries during the Occupation of France.

  At that time I was in a depressed state of mind and refused the invitation to attend the ceremony in Paris. However, Harry Peuleve, a close SOE friend, and Denden came round to my flat and begged me to accept. The celebrations would go on for three days and many exciting reunions had been arranged. They both said it would be good for me. Actually I think they were both worried about me as it was unlike me to be down in the dumps.

  They both promised they would find me some gorgeous Frenchman to cheer me up and Denden went as far as to say that if they did not succeed he would put himself at my disposal. The picture of Denden putting himself at my disposal made me roar with laughter as he had never had an affair with a woman in his life. But I agreed to go to Paris, much to their delight.

  There was a thick fog over the London area the morning of our departure and we were delayed at our assembly point just around the corner from my flat. As the early editions of the afternoon newspapers came out I thought Denden looked a bit worried. When still another delay was announced he suggested some of us should return to the comfort of my flat until the fog lifted.

  Denden had been to a party the night before. He had got carried away and announced that he was the one who was going to present the Lysander to the French Government—and there it was in black and white in huge headlines. No wonder he was nervous and afraid to run into the Colonel in case he had also seen the article. We all knew Denden so we could see the funny side of it. Eventually our flights were cleared and we flew off to Paris.

  Food was very short in France so I had purchased a raw goose from a friendly restaurant-keeper in London to take to the Tardivats. It was heavy and by the time we landed it was falling out of the paper wrapping. The first person I saw as I stepped out of our plane was an old friend, Bernard Gohan. Bernard had walked over the Pyrenees with me, and had been cross when he thought I was stingy with my lavatory roll. He had joined the Fleet Air Arm in England but was back with Air France. He couldn’t come over as he was waiting to take off but that didn’t prevent him from yelling out a few witticisms about bare bottoms and lavatory paper, much to the amusement of everyone within earshot.

  Our accommodation had been reserved at a good hotel on one of the boulevards. We were each given the number of our room—mine contained twin beds—and I unpacked. Every now and again Denden would appear, look at the number on the door and then hurry away, mumbling to himself all the time. He came back with Harry and the reception clerk who checked his reservation list to find that Captain D. Rake and Captain N. Wake had been allotted the same room. They had assumed the slight difference in surnames had been a typing error and had thoughtfully put the two ‘brothers’ in the same room. Denden actually screamed, to the astonishment of the reception clerk, and fled down the corridor as if a whole brigade of Gestapo agents were after him!

  There were no official receptions that night so I went over to the Tardivats and returning to the hotel about 3 a.m. I happened to notice Denden getting out of a taxi. I hid in the shadows and just as he came through the revolving doors I whispered, ‘Denden, my darling, I’m waiting for you.’ Remembering his rash promise made in London, he bolted and crashed into the glass doors, cutting his forehead as well as breaking one of the doors. Although we gave him first aid treatment, for three days, every time he took his hat off he removed more skin and his forehead was completely raw. Harry, who was as fond of practical jokes as I was, told him it would have been easier to get it over with and save his skin.

  No one in the world can outshine French hospitality at its best and those days in Paris were no exception. In spite of the difficulties still encountered when catering for large banquets the French had lived up to their reputation.

  Although my friends did not find me the gorgeous Frenchman they had promised, I completely recovered from my brief spell of depression.

  Taking part in the victory parade in London on 8 June 1946 was a thrilling experience. The atmosphere in the capital during the whole week was electrifying: there was so much excitement and happiness in the air. In spite of the tragic loss of life during the war years one could not quell the exuberance of the fortunate people who had been spared. To watch thousands and thousands of Allied servicemen and women as well as Great Britain’s own Armed Forces, and a multitude of civilian services, was a sight never to be forgotten.

  The Special Forces manned four jeeps, each one carrying four SOE agents, one of whom was a female; we followed the jeeps of the Special Air Service. The other three girls and I had slept at the Albany Street Barracks the night before as we were due to assemble in Regents Park early in the morning. We were late leaving our starting point and there were delays all along the route the mechanised columns were taking.

  We were held up in Whitechapel and when the residents noticed our parachute wings they ran around calling out to their neighbours to come and look at the girl parachutists. In a flash dozens of people came running out and handed us glasses which they kept refilling with beer. It was very welcome as we were all in a delicate state of health owing to the celebrations the night before. We were at the receiving end of some good-natured banter from the SAS boys as we were the only ones getting any attention, or beer.

  As we approached the heart of London we could hear the cheering of the crowds and it was deafening. From Parliament Square to Buckingham Palace all the public buildings were decorated with large flags representing both the fighting and civilian services. Along the Mall there were over a hundred masts bearing the flags of the services, dominions, colonies or fighting allies, each one indicating the name of the service or country represented.

  The saluting base was opposite Marlborough Gate. We saluted the late King George VI who was taking the salute, surrounded by the royal family, officials and dignitaries. After the procession came the spectacular fly-past, over a dozen types of aircraft being included in the formations.

  The well-known palaces and buildings were floodlit for a week. From ten that night there was a searchlight, aquatic and firework display centred on the Thames between Hungerford and Vauxhall Bridges. There was dancing in the famous London parks to the music of the military dance bands. It had been a wonderful day and a wonderful week was to follow. The city of London had hosted magnificently.

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Denden was finding it just as hard to settle down as I was. He came to lunch one day with the exciting news that he had been employed by the Passport C
ontrol Office and was being posted to their visa section at the British Embassy in Paris. He begged me to apply for a similar appointment, at the same time giving me the name and telephone number of the person who had interviewed him.

  I had been endeavouring to find a suitable job but so far no one had expressed any interest in a woman with my background. There were thousands and thousands of men and women in the same boat in Great Britain at the end of World War II. Unfortunately, Britain has never been noted for looking after her loyal citizens once the hostilities are over.

  This time I was lucky. My interviewer at the Passport Control Office was a charming and friendly woman—Miss Southam—and within two weeks I was off to Paris to work in the same office as Denden. I would have accepted a posting anywhere but to be actually paid to live and work in my favourite city was the most fortunate thing that had happened to me for some time.

  On the whole the staff at the visa section were easy to get along with, especially those holding temporary appointments as Denden and I did. Some of the permanent civil servants took themselves a little seriously and obviously considered they were superior in every way. I was appalled to witness how some of them looked down on our foreign applicants. However, the head of our department, Sir Robert Mackenzie, was one of the most considerate and compassionate men I have ever met and it was a pleasure to be associated with him.

  Denden, Ian Marshall and I formed a close-knit little group. We often dined together, discovering masses of little bistros in and around Paris. It was a happy time, especially for me as I could keep in touch with many of my Resistance friends.

  Picon followed me wherever I went—even to the toilet; he would not let me out of his sight. He slept by my desk at the office and knew Paris as well as we did. When he became ill late in the winter of 1947 the veterinary surgeon diagnosed dropsy. I had the liquid drained from his stomach twice. After each operation he jumped up and down and ran all over the place just like a young dog, but after ten days or so his stomach would be bloated again. The vet told me I was being selfish and it was cruel to keep him alive. I had to make a dreadful decision and have him put to sleep—he was just over thirteen years old. I was utterly miserable. The last link with my youthful care-free days of the thirties had gone forever.

  The following summer I was posted for several months as a relieving officer at the visa section of the British Embassy in Prague.

  Prague may have been an enjoyable city to live in before Hitler cast his eye on the Sudetenland—it was certainly beautiful—but when I was there in 1947, although the Russians were not visible, the majority of Czechs I met used to walk around looking over their shoulders in case someone was listening to their conversation.

  The senior passport officer in our visa section was a peculiar man. Unbeknown to me, my war record had reached Prague before I did. He seemed determined to convince me that he had also suffered during the hostilities in Europe. He told me a pitiful tale of the harrowing life he had led when he was posted to the British Embassy in Istanbul. I failed to see how he could have experienced much anguish while being employed by, and under the protection of, the British Embassy there.

  He was a naturalised British subject and, strange as it may seem, he went around Prague discussing all foreigners in a derogatory manner. When the Czechs came into our office he tended to look down on them in much the same way as some of our officers had treated the applicants in our office in Paris. I found this attitude in a British subject distasteful, considering the lack of support, moral or otherwise, Czechoslovakia had received from Great Britain, amongst other nations, in the pre-war years when Hitler was installing himself in Europe. I was glad I had only been posted to Prague in a temporary capacity as I hated the atmosphere in our office which was due solely to this naturalised Britisher. He did not know the meaning of the word compassion.

  Coming back from lunch one day, I found a man and woman with two little children waiting in the grounds of the villa which the visa section occupied. I was unaware that they had called at the office before the luncheon break but had been sent away by the unsympathetic senior passport officer. When he saw them waiting in the queue that afternoon he asked me to deal with their case. I soon found out why he had palmed them off on to me; first of all, it was a tricky case and secondly, he was hoping I would not be able to cope.

  The man had been in the Free Polish Forces and while in Scotland had married a young Scottish girl. After the war the Poles were given a choice of remaining in the United Kingdom or returning to their homeland. Perhaps his wife influenced his decision to return to Poland. She probably thought it would be exciting to see Warsaw, having always lived in a remote part of Scotland. Once they had settled in her husband’s country she found the conditions were not as glamorous as she had hoped and they decided to return to the United Kingdom. Then he found he could not obtain an exit permit.

  They had walked many kilometres through Poland and crossed both frontiers illegally, eventually reaching Prague. When the children were too tired to walk he carried them, and in removing his coat during the hot midday sun, he had dropped his wallet containing his money and identification papers.

  Our unsympathetic passport officer would not lift a finger to help them, because it entailed a lot of extra work and because he did not want to be involved in case the story proved to be untrue. However, I have frequently found that many civil servants who are chosen for their initiative seldom use it. Luckily for that family, I was not worrying about my job or my pension.

  I requested permission to see the Ambassador and, after explaining the case, added that I was sure he was a Pole and his wife was from Scotland; furthermore I was 95 per cent certain they were telling the truth. I also guaranteed to refund the Embassy the cost of sending them to England if they were refused permission to land. He allowed me to continue.

  From then on it was marvellous to see how everyone tried to help this little family. Our chauffeur and his wife lived in the lower part of our villa and they agreed to look after them until I could arrange their departure. The chauffeur’s wife found new shoes for them as their own were falling to pieces. They were given comfortable beds and plenty to eat—they had to remain indoors because we would have been in serious trouble with the Czech authorities if their presence had been discovered. It was almost like being back in France and working for the escape routes.

  I typed out a temporary travel permit and covered it with the most impressive official stamps I could find. The Belgian Legation was very helpful and issued a transit visa as we were sending them back via Belgium.

  When all the formalities were completed, our chauffeur and his wife drove them to a railway station away from Prague, where they were sure there would be no police control when they boarded the express leaving Czechoslovakia. I had given them a covering letter for the immigration authorities in England. Presumably they arrived safely. I am sure our senior passport officer would have informed me if there had been any repercussions at the other end.

  The shortage of food was acute in Prague. As I had diplomatic status I was able to buy little extras now and again at Lippert’s delicatessen which was full of imported biscuits, chocolates, tinned meats and fruits, plus a multitude of other luxury items from various European countries. We were given coupons for twenty-eight eggs per month whereas the long-suffering Czechs only received two per month.

  As I could only afford one good meal per day, with two on Saturday and Sunday, I determined to make good use of my rations but without the use of a kitchen it was not easy. The hot water service at the hotel was excellent and to my delight I found that if I put an egg in the hand basin and ran the hot water over it continuously for ten minutes it was almost like a three-minute boiled egg.

  I did not have any regrets when I left Prague and returned to Paris. Czechoslovakia was an unhappy country. For years it had been riddled with Nazi spies, greedy, unscrupulous politicians and ambitious traitors.

  Before I said goodbye to the beautiful ci
ty I wandered over the Charles Bridge and made my way to the Russian tank which had been left by the Soviets as a reminder to the Czech people that they had liberated the country from German oppression. Yes, the Germans had gone, but who would liberate the country from the liberators?

  The year 1948 in Paris was a very social one for me. French people were recovering gradually from the effects of the Occupation; most political prisoners who had returned from Germany were slowly regaining their health and good spirits; and there were countless reunions and get-togethers to which I was invited. I saw the Tardivats regularly. Poor Tardivat was having a lot of trouble trying to get used to the loss of his leg which had been amputated right up to the thigh. They had a beautiful little daughter whom they wanted to christen Nancy in my honour. The priest pointed out that it would be impossible as it was not the name of a saint. Henri replied that she would be christened Nancy or not at all. Faced with such a truculent parishioner the priest displayed great wisdom and understanding, and so the christening took place.

  The late King George VI was ill, so many of the investitures, including mine, were held at the British Embassy in Paris. I saw many familiar SOE faces as I waited my turn to be decorated.

  The Americans also organised an investiture with great pomp and ceremony. The guests were entertained by a very good military band prior to the official proceedings. My decoration came as a surprise but was of course appreciated.

  The best dinner party of the year was given by Hector, the SOE agent who should have been our link to Gaspard when Hubert and I arrived in France. He had been arrested by the Germans shortly afterwards and spent the rest of the war as their guest in a concentration camp.

  During his captivity he had planned the dinner party he would host if he survived Buchenwald. He had thought of everything he was going to have on the menu, right down to the finest detail. As soon as he was declared medically fit he put his plans into action.