“Logan, please! There must be some way out of this!” cried Allison.
“Oh, if only there were, my darling,” sighed Logan. “But you know what they do with captured spies.”
“Spies?”
“I’ve been part of the French underground all this time, acting as a German double agent. They just discovered my identity a few days ago. They grabbed you so they could lure me out of hiding. But having seen you again, and knowing that you still love me, I think I can now face death calmly.”
Allison threw her arms again around Logan, her tears flowing freely.
“And our daughter—” Logan went on. “I wanted so much to have the chance to be the right kind of father to her. Please at least tell her that, as miserable a fellow as her father was for a while, he loved her, and . . . Allison, what’s wrong?” As Logan spoke, Allison suddenly let out an anguished sob, pressing a hand against her mouth.
“Oh, I wasn’t going to tell you now,” she wept. “I didn’t want to add even more to your grief, but . . . but . . .”
Again she broke out in a mournful cry.
“Please, Ali, share your pain with me. Whatever it is, I’ve got to know.”
“Oh, Logan, it’s not just my pain!” she sobbed.
“What is it?”
“Oh, Logan, little Joanna—she’s . . . she’s dead, Logan! She was with Mother; there was a bombing . . . the train was half destroyed! I’m so sorry to have to tell you!”
Logan was silent a moment. Then he said, “And Joanna . . . ?”
“She had to be hospitalized,” replied Allison, trying to calm herself. “But nothing serious. She’s all right.”
“Oh, Ali . . . if only I could have been more to the two of you!”
He wanted desperately to take her in his arms, but his hands were cuffed. He wrenched at them in frustration.
Allison held him in her arms instead as much to comfort herself as him. Neither spoke for several moments. Never before had they been closer than during these several silent seconds that passed. But their unity did not stem so much from their shared grief—though that had perhaps given focus to it—but rather from the mutual turning of their hearts at last to the God whose desire had always been to bring them together as one. Each was praying for the strength of the other for the trials they knew were coming.
Soon their quiet was interrupted by a sharp tap on the door.
“Two minutes,” called Neumann.
Logan shook his head toward the door with a sigh. “I must tell you something else,” he said. “I haven’t even given you a chance to talk, but I think I know now what you might have said to me, and that will have to be enough.”
“This war seems so unfair,” said Allison.
“We’re in God’s hands, Ali. Lady Margaret would say nothing happens by accident.”
She smiled. “I love you, Logan. And you’re right—I can just see her saying that very thing.”
“I love you, my dear Ali—more than ever!”
He paused, with another sigh, then continued almost begrudgingly. “Oh, how I hate to spend our last moments on business. But even if my fate is sealed—”
“Logan, I won’t accept that! There must be some way!”
“If only there were! But please . . . listen to me. I must know that you’re going to be safe. That’s all I have right now. I’m pretty sure von Graff will let you go. I dropped some hints to him that you knew more about the underground operation than you do, so he’ll cut you loose, hoping you will lead him to my associates. There’s no way to eliminate the danger. Just be careful, and warn the others that you are probably being followed. But it’s the only way I can be sure you’ll get home safely. Now, go to the hotel on—”
“No, Logan! I don’t want to go! It’s all too complicated! Let me stay here and die with you!”
“Allison, please. Don’t you see? I’ve failed as a husband. My own foolish life has gotten me into this mess. I have nothing left but to try to save you, and to die with honor. That’s all that can now give meaning to a past life that has been anything but heroic. I have to know that I have not given my life in vain, that you will live on and maybe remember me once in a while as a man in the end you could be proud of.”
“Oh, Logan . . . I am so proud of you!” But Allison could say no more through her quiet weeping.
“Now, in the morning go to the Hotel de Luxe on the rue Saint Yves. Do you have that?”
Allison nodded, but Logan was not sure. Her mind hardly seemed focused on the details. The Lord would have to bring it all back to her—there was no time to say it all more than once.
“The rue Saint Yves. Remember . . . it’s important. Hotel de Luxe. There’s an old woman out front who sells flowers. Buy a bouquet from her, then go to the little park on the corner and sit on a bench. You should arrive by ten a.m. A friend of mine will contact you—he’ll know you by the flowers. You’ll know him when he uses the name L’Oiselet. He will get you out of France.”
“Let me stay with you, Logan,” Allison pleaded. “I’ve waited so long for us to be together.”
“Dear . . .” He kissed her gently. “Don’t you see? The only way I can face what’s ahead is to know you are safe. If you remained here, they could use you as leverage. They might torture you to get information out of me. I could stand anything but that. I knew that risk when I turned myself in. But I had to see you. And I had to hope that my gamble with von Graff would pay off and that he would release you. I know they’re going to kill me in the end, but if your life were in the balance too, I might betray friends and cause much suffering. With you safe, I can be strong . . . and keep silent.”
“Logan! I can’t . . . I can’t face life without you!” sobbed Allison.
“You will, dear Ali. God will give you strength. He is with me, and He will be with you. You can trust me to Him without fear.”
All at once the door burst open and the guards clattered into the room. Neumann held the door while the other marched abruptly up to Logan, grabbed him by the arm, and jerked him to his feet.
“I love you, Ali!” he called hurriedly as they yanked him away. “Be strong . . . the Lord will watch over me!”
“I love you, Logan!” cried Allison through tears of agony. “I will always love you!”
She watched helplessly as he disappeared from sight and the heavy door was thrown shut and bolted after him.
Thirty minutes later, Allison’s tears of anguish had spent themselves. She took several deep breaths in an attempt to regain her control, then slowly sat up. She would be strong! She would honor his memory by carrying out his last wish. She would remember all he had told her, and would do as he said. He deserved that much from her. She would be brave and strong . . . for his sake! Could she do anything less for such a courageous husband? If he were to die with honor, then she would honor him in life. She would not even let the Germans follow her! She would do her best to protect his friends!
Allison sank to her knees beside the bed.
“Oh, Lord,” she prayed quietly. “Give me the courage to be strong. Help me to trust you . . . and to trust Logan to you. Give him grace to endure, Lord. Protect him in your love.”
72
L’Oiselet
The woman appeared so old and frail, it seemed a miracle that the biting November wind did not whisk here away. She glanced up at Allison, and her wrinkled, brittle face cracked into a toothless grin. Even if Allison had not been instructed to purchase a bouquet from her, she would have done so merely from pity. She took a coin from her purse and bought a bunch of brown and orange mums.
“Merci beaucoup!” said the old flower-lady, nodding profusely.
“De rien, je vous en prie,” Allison replied, trying to recall some of her French from school. But thank you and you’re welcome were about the extent of it.
As she continued on her way, she noticed the man in the black jacket. He had followed her last night from S.S. headquarters, and there had been another man standi
ng in front of the hotel. Logan had been right—they were keeping an eye on her. She had made a few vain attempts last night to lose the man. This morning, feeling gradually braver, she determined to do better.
Did they really think she would lead them to the underground? General von Graff had been most gracious about releasing her, even offering to call a hotel. She told him she preferred to stay in a hotel she had used before the war. He made a vague noncommittal reference to her returning to London, but she said she wanted to be near her husband. He said he understood, and she would be welcome in Paris as long as was necessary, pretending that their “little difficulty” with Logan would soon be resolved. She knew he was lying, but said nothing.
As she walked away from the front of the Hotel de Luxe, Allison tried to think of what she might do so as to be alone when she reached the park. Above all, she did not want to endanger any of Logan’s friends. Her one possible advantage would be that the man shadowing her would never expect any sudden moves. If she acted quickly, the element of surprise would be on her side.
But what could she do? She knew nothing about this sort of thing.
Ahead she spotted several shops, a cafe, and another hotel. As she approached, she stopped to look in one of the store windows. Yes, the man was still behind her, about half a block away. She could see his reflection.
She turned and continued on. On the other side of the hotel stood a small motion picture theater. That might be a possibility. Back in London, such places always had rear exits. And it was open—a matinee was playing! Without thinking further, she ducked inside, bought a ticket, and hastened into the darkened auditorium.
Now came the moment she had to act quickly. By the time the man behind her bought a ticket, got inside, and became accustomed to the dim light, she would be long gone!
She ran down the right aisle, spotted at the far end the emergency exit, and without a hesitation tried the door handle.
It opened! She stepped through it, closed it quickly behind her, and suddenly found herself in an outside alley that ran behind the hotel. She ran to the end, glanced up and down the street, turned to her left, ran the half-block to the next intersection, turned left again and ran all the way to the next cross-street, where she crossed the wide boulevard and turned up the street to the right. At last she paused to catch her breath.
If that man can find me now, she thought, he deserves to know where I’m going!
Nearly an hour later, Allison, by many circuitous routes, finally arrived at the park Logan had told her about. It was thirty minutes past the appointed time and she hoped she was not too late. The day was a chilly one, but the park was still filled with people. The sun was shining brightly, and that was apparently enough to entice the Parisians out-of-doors. She had not seen her German tail since the theater, but still strolled about for a while, trying to make it appear that she was here for no specific reason, just in case any unwanted eyes were still upon her. She was certain Logan would not lead her into danger. She had the distinct impression, as she recalled his words, that he knew exactly what he was doing in setting up this meeting.
She found a bench and sat down, idly watching some children playing ball, trying very hard not to glance about.
In five minutes an old gentleman ambled up and seated himself on the bench that backed Allison’s. Before long he began reading a book—Allison could not see his activity, for she still sat facing the opposite direction, but she heard him leafing through the pages. Then she heard his soft voice. At first she thought possibly he was mumbling or reading to himself. Then she heard:
“Madame Macintyre—do not turn or speak.”
The urge to do just those two things was nearly overwhelming. But Allison managed to complacently keep her gaze on the children.
“I know you by the flowers,” the man went on in English, though with a heavy French accent. “You will know me by the name L’Oiselet. Listen closely. In a few moments lay down your flowers and freshen your lipstick. Then rise, leave the flowers behind you, and walk on.”
That was all. The only other sound from the gentleman was that of another page being turned.
Allison followed his instructions, squelching the dozen questions that immediately rose to her mind. She laid the flowers down, took up her purse, added some fresh color to her lips, and, looking in the mirror of her compact, also gave her hair a quick pat. When she had satisfactorily given the impression of a woman fixing her face, she rose and started off. It was hardly the kind of meeting she had expected. She was leaving knowing no more than when she had come.
She had gone about fifty paces when she heard a child’s voice calling after her.
“Mademoiselle! Voici vos fleurs!”
Allison turned and a little boy ran up to her waving the bouquet in the air.
“Merci,” said Allison with a smile, taking the flowers. She turned and began on her way again. She felt rather than saw the paper wrapped around the stems of the flowers.
Fighting the urge to grab the paper and read the note she was certain would be there, she continued on. She couldn’t relax yet. It was entirely possible von Graff had put two or three men on her.
Allison walked straight to her hotel, climbed the stairs to her room, and, once inside, tore the paper off the bouquet. The message read:
“Spend afternoon shopping, with a casual stop at the bookstore La Librairie, 124 rue de Varennes, 3 p.m.”
73
Comrades
What the Germans would think of her shopping while her husband lay in prison a condemned man, Allison could hardly imagine.
Her follower, who had managed to get back on the trail when she returned to her hotel for a rest, would report that she had spent the afternoon distracting herself in the shops, a perfumer’s, a dress boutique, two or three bookstores, making a few idle purchases, not appearing to enjoy herself overly much.
At a few minutes before three she wandered onto the rue de Varennes and entered her third bookstore of the day. Her shadow paused outside across the street. The man behind the cluttered counter appeared about sixty years of age with a pleasant, friendly face. When he spoke, she realized it was the same man from the park, though she had not had so much as a glimpse of him then.
“Bonjour, Madame,” he said. “I see they are following you.”
“I tried to be discreet,” said Allison. “I gathered that to be the intent of your message.”
“He appears none too suspicious or concerned,” said Henri. “Michel has taught you well, eh?”
“Michel?”
“Your husband . . . oh, but I forget! I ought to get used to his real name—the pseudonym is of little use now.”
“He said you were a friend of his.”
“And I am honored to be counted as such,” Henri replied warmly, though a sadness crept into his eyes. “Come, let us browse among the books over here.”
He led her to a shelf toward the back of the store. “Your Boche might get suspicious if I took you into the back, so this will have to do.”
Suddenly Allison tensed. All at once she became aware that they were not alone in the small shop, and yet the man spoke freely and seemed to take not the slightest notice. A woman stood leaning against the wall between the high bookcases. When Allison came into view, she stood straight and faced her and Henri as they approached.
“Ah, Lise,” the old man said in a subdued tone, “she has come!”
He turned to Allison, motioning her to speak softly. “Madame Macintyre, may I present another of your husband’s friends from our small band? This is Lise, and I myself am called Henri. We are glad to have you visit us, though we wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances.”
“Bonjour, Madame Macintyre,” said Lise, stepping forward and offering her hand.
“I am happy to meet you, Lise,” said Allison, accepting the handshake. As their eyes met, the peculiar sensation pulsed through her that the sad, intense, beautiful eyes of the French woman were assessing her meri
t. She returned the look steadily, until Lise’s lips twitched into a half smile, and released her hand, apparently satisfied with what she saw. Allison returned the smile.
“Time is short,” said Henri, snapping Allison out of her momentary reverie, “for how long can one be expected to stand in a bookstore? Now, Madame, of primary importance—which Michel was most concerned with—is that papers are being printed for you and arrangements are being made to smuggle you out of the city and back to your home. After that—”
“What about my husband?” Allison cut in abruptly.
Henri shook his head regretfully. “Dear Michel,” he sighed. “We want nothing more than to help him, but he is under even closer guard than another of our number, Jean Pierre.”
“But you can’t just let them kill him!”
“Don’t you think we would get him out if we could?” rejoined Lise sharply. “But there is no possible way! We’ve already discussed everything!” Then she glanced away and appeared embarrassed at her outburst. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I did not mean . . .”
“We are all very upset by the situation,” said Henri.
But Lise would not accept Henri’s attempt to give her a reprieve. “If my English is better,” she said, “I am perhaps able to explain that nothing is more important to us than helping Michel.”
“Your English is fine,” said Allison. “I suppose since you are all strangers to me, it is hard to realize you can be as concerned for Logan as I am. I also apologize.”
“Your husband is a remarkable man,” said Lise. “He has sacrificed much for our cause, taken many risks. He is very brave, and has rescued countless Frenchmen and Britons and Americans from the Boche. But now that he comes to face the ultimate sacrifice, we must stand helplessly by. It makes our hearts . . . je ne sais pas quoi—” She stopped short, searching for the correct way to express her thoughts. “It is difficult,” she added at length.
“He made us swear that we would attempt nothing until you were safe,” added Henri.
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