White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

  Then the reminiscing commenced. While all this was going on the women were standing up and I asked them why they did not sit down. The farmer butted in immediately and said they preferred to stand. I laughed and asked if ‘Women’s Lib’ was unknown in France. When the farmer went out to milk his cows the womenfolk told me they didn’t need Women’s Lib as they were the bosses even though the men did not or would not believe it. I could well believe it of the country folk because during the Occupation I never once met a farmer who did not confer with his wife before making an important decision.

  Once the women and I were alone we sat around the kitchen table and the conversation was very touching and feminine. They took this opportunity to ask me questions of an intimate nature that often puzzle women when they meet a member of their sex who had lived so close to so many men for any length of time.

  I told them how London would drop personal parcels for me with the arms and money. There was usually face cream and other little luxuries as well, and sometimes a note from SOE friends.

  Looking back at World War II, I think the seeds of the Resistance may have been sown after the Fall of France, but it took most people some time to digest the humiliating details of their defeat. The main danger for all was the ever-growing risk of confiding in the wrong person. I was one of the fortunate ones. I was surrounded by friends I could trust and who never failed me on the occasions I appealed for help.

  The Germans had made an astute move when they established Marshal Pétain as the head of the newly created Vichy Government. Throughout France he had enjoyed a huge following since World War I and the Germans used his name to their best advantage. The Father of France image was rammed into us until all but the very loyal (and there were many) were sick of the sight of him and the sound of his name.

  There were, of course, many people in France who could have helped the Resistance and failed to do so. There were others who worked willingly for the Germans or the Vichy authorities. There were others who sat on the fence. Thousands were waiting for the day General de Gaulle would appeal for their support. Some would help the Allies but steered clear of their own countrymen. Others would not lift a little finger to help a Jew. Some would denounce them. Hundreds of farmers in the north risked their lives and the lives of their families by helping Allied airmen who had been shot down during the bombing raids.

  The Corsican gangsters from Marseille made a mint of money for themselves and the Germans by organising huge black-market and take-over deals. It was not just black market to survive, it was for profit, and the stakes were enormous. In Paris anyone connected with the Germans made money, although they were not always Parisians. It was heartbreaking to witness French people betray their compatriots, sometimes for money and at other times out of spite or jealousy, or to avenge a past grievance. But there are traitors the world over—and in peacetime.

  The German propaganda machine worked full-time. They did not miss a trick. They used the French whenever they could. They managed to sow a seed of doubt in the minds of anyone who listened. They were good at their job. They were professionals. It was deplorable to see so many citizens selling their souls and their country for filthy lucre. Thousands of Jews were betrayed but not before they had been fleeced of everything they possessed.

  I was only forty-eight hours in Occupied Paris and in that short time I was sickened to see the ‘kept women’ displaying their finery in the company of their benefactors. Sadly, quite a number of women belonging to French society were also enjoying the favours of the enemy. It was not a happy sight. Some of them paid for their folly but too many escaped punishment after the Liberation. I could go on and on, but it is all so much water under the bridge.

  I have not been able to establish the exact percentage of French people who collaborated with the Germans at the expense of their compatriots. Many people were employed by the Germans—sometimes by force—but managed to remain loyal to their country. Some of the wealthy families, afraid for their estates under a communist regime, turned towards the extreme right-wing groups and by the time they woke up to the hard, cold truth of where they were heading, it was too late to retreat.

  France has always been hospitable towards refugees and the White Russians were no exception. Yet when the Germans promised to return their estates in Russia once they had won the war, many of the refugees believed the Germans and turned against their hosts.

  The formation of the Milice in early 1943 must remain forever a deplorable blot on the pages of French history. They behaved like the savage dogs they were. They were every bit as brutal and uncivilised as the Nazis. They gloried in their work. Several times while I was in central France they drove away in their trucks singing, laughing and shouting with delight, because they had just killed, or burnt alive, some of their fellow countrymen. Too many of them escaped justice.

  For my part I will always remember the loyal French citizens with affection and admiration. They faced a heavy penalty for resisting the enemy or for helping the Allied airmen. Yet time and time again, they were there with their support. If they were caught it generally led to a concentration camp or death—or both. It was a heavy price to pay.

  I remember the wives of the prisoners of war who were left to fend for themselves those long years; the hunger some people suffered; the bitter winter months with no heating; the curfew; the cunning propaganda in the newspapers and on the radio; the forced labour camps; the turmoil the innocent remark of a child could bring; the horror of seeing family and friends rounded up and shot; the burning of the farms and villages and the people within. Yet in spite of all the atrocities the majority of French people did not collaborate.

  The generosity of some French families impressed me many times. People who had very little themselves were willing to share what they had. I collected a young American pilot at a railway station one day. His plane had been shot down in the Champagne area and he had been separated from his aircrew. An old farmer had found him hiding behind a hedge and had taken him home although the area was thick with Germans searching for the airman. The farmer had heard rumours of an escaping network but had no means of contacting them and as the mayor of the village was a known collaborator he was afraid to confide in the local authorities. He and his wife looked after the pilot for over two months when he eventually, through sheer perseverance, found a lead to the network.

  Unfortunately, the network could not collect the pilot for ten days and in the meantime it became imperative to transfer him as the Germans began searching all the outlying farms. The farmer, who was not rich, moved heaven and earth to find another farmhouse near their local railway station. He purchased a railway ticket and put the pilot on the train, giving him the instructions needed as he had to change trains twice before he caught the express, which it was hoped would deliver him into my hands.

  I had to laugh as the airman stepped off the train. He was dressed in an old-fashioned black and white pin-striped suit. It was probably the suit the farmer had been married in and which he wore to weddings, funerals and christenings. He had a black beret on his head and he was wearing the farmer’s gold fobbed watch. He had to know the exact time when he was changing trains and as he only had an airman’s wristwatch they had exchanged timepieces.

  On arriving at the safe house we offered him a drink. All he wanted was pure water. The farmer had given him French champagne with every meal as he said the drinking water was not fit for human consumption.

  The story had a happy ending. After the war the pilot returned to the farmhouse and to the delight of the dear old farmer, an official ceremony was held at the Town Hall, where the previous mayor was no longer in office.

  I am one who believes fervently that the French Resistance played a major role in the Liberation of France. Whatever their shortcomings, they were a permanent thorn in the side of the Germans, thus preventing them from putting all their strength into fighting the Allies during and after D-day. Furthermore, I have no doubt at all that the Allied offensive wo
uld not have progressed as rapidly as they did had the Germans not had to contend with the numerous Maquis groups who attacked them continuously from all sides.

  In earlier history when groups of people declared war on each other the leaders always led their troops into battle. It is a great pity we do not have the same system today; perhaps our politicians would think twice before they gambled with the lives of their people.

  I have been guilty of doing most things high-spirited young people do but to my knowledge I have not hurt anyone but myself. I have been shown the romantic moon from every angle and from a variety of deserts. Inevitably there have been times when cars have run out of petrol in unexpected places. I always accepted a dare when I was young, which was why I entered the kasbah in Algiers at the top end and came out unharmed at the other end to claim my £10.

  If I could relive my life I would probably do most things all over again. If World War II had not come along I may have tried to become a good journalist, but I doubt it—I was too romantic to remain unattached. I have never regretted the stand I took against the Nazis. My only regret was the fact that my association with the O’Leary organisation obviously led to the death of Henri. But I realise now that if I hadn’t been involved with the escape network I would eventually have found some other worthwhile cause. I could never have submitted to the Germans.

  When one remembers all the events in the 1930s which led to World War II, and to the victory which we were promised would bring peace and make the world a better place to live in, one can only wonder if it was all worthwhile. We have only to look around us and see the same thing happening all over again. An old French saying can best express my sentiments.

  Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

  * * *

  In 1984 a Sydney TV channel was thinking of producing a mini-series based on Russell Braddon’s book about me. I went to France with the proposed scriptwriters to look over some of the places I’d known during the Occupation, and to try and give them some idea of the spirit of those times.

  I’d met the two writers, Moya Wood and Michael Brindley, briefly and I wondered how the three of us would get on in France. As it turned out, we had a wonderful time.

  We flew to Paris and stayed there overnight. I took Moya and Michael to meet Micheline Kenny, and we had an agreeable evening in Montparnasse. Micheline had been part of my life for fifty years. I admire her tremendously because she has great courage. Life has not been easy for Micheline, but she always comes up smiling.

  I seemed to have lost contact with Madame Sainson after I returned to Australia. I heard conflicting rumours: she had disappeared—she was in New York—she was ill and not expected to live. Then out of the blue came definite news that she’d been seen in Nice. I wanted to write but couldn’t remember her address.

  Moya, Michael and I left Paris for Nice where Michael had organised a hire car. In Nice we stayed in a hotel in the rue Gounod. For some reason the name seemed familiar, then I remembered it was the street I used to walk down when I went from the station to Madame Sainson’s. We found the little street where she lived. Her name was still on the letterbox, and outside her apartment building was a plaque in memory of her husband who had been arrested by the Gestapo, and never returned.

  As I knocked on the door my heart was beating fast. The door, secured by a chain, opened slightly and a gruff voice asked, ‘Qui est là?’ I said, ‘Madame Sainson, c’est moi, Nancy l’Australienne.’ The door slammed, the chain rattled, and then the door opened wide and after thirty years we hugged each other hard. It was a wonderful moment.

  I introduced Michael, who’d come with me, and told her why we were in Nice. All she said was that the TV series was long overdue! Michael raced back to the hotel for Moya, and at 10 a.m. the four of us celebrated with French champagne while Moya and Michael joked about the toughness of their assignment.

  Madame Sainson had indeed been to New York, but only on visits to her daughter who had married an American. And she had been very ill, but told us that St Peter hadn’t been ready for her.

  Her apartment hadn’t changed, with its artificial flowers still prominent. I’d always teased her about them as fresh carnations were so cheap in Nice.

  My little bed was still there—everything I looked at brought back memories of the past; the airmen she’d hidden, so many of them, the good fun and laughter we’d shared in spite of all the danger. We’d both persisted in defying the enemy, and we’d both survived.

  We left the next morning for Marseille, where friends had warned me I’d find a big change. They were right—it was ghastly and sordid, the main streets full of shops that looked like cheap Arab bazaars. Everything looked dirty.

  We stayed at a hotel on the Vieux Port, and the view of the harbour was spectacular. Michael took pictures of the Fort Saint-Jean where the British had been interned, and the Fort Saint-Nicolas where Garrow had been in solitary confinement. The picturesque stalls where we’d enjoyed all sorts of seafoods had disappeared from the Vieux Port, and had been replaced by Chinese take-aways. We left the next morning and I have no desire to see Marseille again.

  Travelling north, we went to Chaudes-Aigues which is a seasonal resort. The hotel we’d lived in in 1944 was closed, but we were made reasonably comfortable in another one nearby. We took pictures of everything—Fournier’s house, the hot springs, the river Truyère which I’d crossed after the big battle when we were escaping from the Germans. We went up to the plateau where the arms were dropped by parachute, and to Fridfont and Saint-Martial where Gaspard had his headquarters.

  I showed the scriptwriters along the road where I’d been chased by the German plane. One little village had disappeared and although parts of the plateau were now cultivated, everything was easy to recognise. We found the cemetery in Lieutades where Denis had found me sitting on the wall soon after I’d parachuted into France, and we went to Mont Mouchet to take pictures of the monument there which commemorates the Resistance, the Maquis d’Auvergne and Gaspard.

  At Cerilly we stayed at the hotel where Tardivat had organised the reunion luncheon several years before. The innkeeper and his wife were still there, and the food was as fabulous as ever.

  We went to Montluçon, but couldn’t identify the bridge where Hubert and I had been fired on by the Germans when Tardivat had occupied half the German barracks. Then we found the Château de Fragnes, and to my delight the new owner was in residence. Her young grandson was astonished to hear that two men had parachuted on to the front lawn. The chapel was still intact although the organ Hubert used to play was broken in pieces.

  Michael and Moya were anxious to retrace my famous bicycle ride from Saint-Santin to Châteauroux. They didn’t know how I’d survived the ordeal and, looking back, neither do I.

  Unfortunately the Tardivats were in Switzerland, but their daughter Nancy and her family were home when we called. We went to Vichy and took photographs of the monument there which honours all who died for France. It is beautifully kept and surrounded by lovely gardens. I recalled the day in 1944 when I was told so abruptly that Henri Fiocca was dead.

  I parted company with the others in Paris, and they went back to Sydney. I stayed a little longer in what will always be my favourite city, where I still have so many beloved old friends.

  When I left Madame Sainson in Nice I promised her I would return with my husband the following summer. I kept my word. In spite of her age (85) and ill-health she was a wonderful hostess. We had intended to stay in a near-by hotel but she insisted we be her guests.

  Her grandson Alain, who lives in New York, was staying with her for the summer holidays. He enjoyed listening to us reminiscing about the Occupation although he had heard some of the stories from his mother.

  Nicole and Claude Sainson had only been young children when I first knew them. Although they had been aware of the intrigues taking place in their home during the Occupation they had never divulged the presence of the evaders. A remarkable achievement for two yo
ung children.

  Madame Sainson had heard conflicting reports about the whereabouts of the traitor Paul Cole. I was happy to be able to assure her that he was dead and buried. He had survived the war and was living with a lady friend in Paris after the German surrender. Gendarmes making a routine search for German deserters called at her apartment. Cole opened the door, fired his pistol and wounded one gendarme, only to be shot dead by the other one.

  The weather was perfect and Nice looked particularly beautiful. The holiday crowds added a happy relaxed atmosphere to the sea-front which we passed on the way to the centre of the town. I took the same route I had taken many times during the Occupation, when followed by several evaders I escorted them discreetly to the photographer.

  Everything around me brought back memories both happy and sad. Henri Maffet, my doctor friend in Bar-sur-Loup, and his wife, Raymonde, had been killed in a car accident after I had left France. He had been of tremendous help to me during the Occupation. I will always remember how they both motored over to Marseille in May 1945 so I would not be alone when the end of the war in Europe was announced.

  So many of my old friends were dead or had disappeared. For years I had tried to trace Stephanie but I am convinced she is dead, otherwise she would have tried to contact me.

  But the biggest blow I received that summer was the death of my old friend Henri Tardivat, after a long illness. It came as a great shock but I had to face reality—I would never see him again. We had been through so much together—so many adventures, so many happy times.

  In Paris we stayed at the apartment of Patrick Kenny—that intrepid young voyager of the 1940s! He has a family of his own now but I can still picture him sun-bathing in the little bath tub on the deck of the ship that took us to Greenoch.