by Alex Gerlis
The Best of Our Spies
Alex Gerlis
Published by CB Creative Books
Copyright ©Alex Gerlis 2012
Alex Gerlis
Born in Lincolnshire, Alex Gerlis was a BBC journalist for more than twenty five years. He left in 2011 to concentrate on writing and freelance journalism. ‘The Best of Our Spies’ is his first novel and he is represented by the Curtis Brown literary agency. He is a Visiting Professor of Journalism at the University of Bedfordshire. Alex Gerlis lives in west London with his wife and two daughters. ‘The Best of Our Spies’ is published as part of an initiative between Curtis Brown Creative and Amazon.
www.alexgerlis.com
CHAPTER ONE
Northern France
May 1940
The first time they saw German troops was around eight hours after they had left Amiens.
Fear had swept through the twenty of them, mostly strangers who had silently come together by happening to be on the same road at the same time and moving in the same direction. ‘Don’t head north,’ they had been warned in Amiens. ‘You’re walking into a battle.’
Some of the original group had heeded that advice and stayed in the town. A dozen of them had carried on. They were refugees now, so they kept moving. It had quickly become a habit, they couldn’t stop themselves.
A tall, stooped man called Marcel had assumed the role of leader and guide. He was a dentist, from Chartres, he told them. The rest of the group nodded and were happy to follow him.
Marcel decided that the main road would be too dangerous, so they dropped down to follow the path of the Somme, passing through the small villages that hugged the river as it twisted through Picardy. The villages were unnaturally silent, apart from the angry barking of dogs taking turns to escort them through their territory. Anxious villagers peered from behind partially drawn curtains or half-closed shutters.
Occasionally, a child would venture out to stare at them, but would quickly be called home by an urgent shout. Some villagers would come out and offer them water and a little food, but were relieved to see them move on. Refugees meant war and no one wanted the war to linger in their village. In a couple of the places, one or two more refugees joined them. No one asked to join, no one was refused. They just tagged along, swelling their numbers.
On the outskirts of the village of Ailly-sur-Somme a middle-aged couple came out from their cottage and offered the group water and fruit. They sat on the grass verge while the couple appeared to be arguing quietly in their doorway. And that is when they called her out.
‘Madame, please can we have a word with you?’
She was sitting nearest to the house, but was not sure that they meant her. She looked around in case they were addressing someone else.
‘Please, could we speak with you?’ the man asked again.
She walked slowly over to the doorway. Maybe they had taken pity on her and were going to offer a meal. Or a bed. She smiled at the couple. Behind them, in the gloom of the hallway, she could make out a pair of piercing eyes.
‘Madame. You seem to be a very decent lady. Please help us.’ The man sounded desperate. ‘A lady passed through the village last week.’
There was a pause.
‘From Paris,’ his wife added.
‘Yes, she was from Paris. She said that she had to find somewhere in the area to hide and she asked us to look after her daughter. She promised she would be back for her in a day or two. She said she would pay us then. She promised to be generous. But that was a week ago. We cannot look after the girl any longer. The Germans could arrive any day now. You must take her!’
She looked around. The group were getting up now, preparing to move on.
‘Why me?’ she asked.
‘Because you look decent and maybe if you are from a city you’ll understand her ways. Are you from a city?’
She nodded, which they took as some kind of assent. The woman ushered the girl from inside the cottage. She looked no more than six years old, with dark eyes and long curly hair. She was dressed in a well-made blue coat and her shoes were smart and polished. A pale brown leather satchel hung across her shoulders.
‘Her name is Sylvie,’ the man said. His wife took Sylvie’s hand and placed it in the woman’s.
‘But what about when her mother returns?’
The wife was already retreating into the dark interior of the cottage.
‘Are you coming?’ It was Marcel, calling out to her as he started to lead the group off. His voice sounded almost jolly as if they were on a weekend ramble.
The man leaned towards her, speaking directly into her ear so that the little girl could not hear. ‘She won’t be back,’ he said. He glanced round at the girl and lowered his voice. ‘They’re Jews. You must take her.’
With that, he quickly followed his wife into the cottage and slammed the door behind them.
She hesitated on the doorstep, still holding the little girl’s hand. She could hear the door being bolted. She knocked on the door two or three times, but there was no response.
She thought of trying to go round the rear of the cottage, but she was losing sight of her group now. Sylvie was still holding her hand, glancing up at her anxiously. She knelt down to speak to the little girl.
‘Are you all right?’ She tried to sound reassuring. Sylvie nodded.
‘Do you want to come with me?’
The little girl nodded again and muttered ‘Yes.’
This is the last thing I need. She thought of leaving her there, on the doorstep. They’ll have to take her back in. She paused. I need to decide quickly. Maybe as far as the town, there’ll be somewhere she can go there.
By the time they had walked down the path and started to follow the group, the shutters in the cottage had been closed.
It was as they left the next village that they came across the Germans. They emerged from behind the trees one by one, with their grey uniforms, black boots and oddly shaped helmets, not saying a word. Slowly, they circled the group, which had come to a halt, too frightened to move. The German soldiers moved into position like pieces on a chessboard. They waved their machine guns to herd the group into the middle of the road.
She was terrified. They are going to shoot us. The little girl clutched her hand.
She breathed in and out deeply. Remember the training they gave you, she told herself:
When you are in a potentially dangerous situation, do not try to be anonymous.
Never look away, or at the ground. Do not avoid eye contact.
If you are in a group or a crowd, avoid standing in the middle, which is where they would expect you to hide.
If you fear that you are about to be found out, resist the temptation to own up. It is a fair assumption that the person questioning you or searching you will miss the obvious.
She heard some shouting from behind the trees and over the shoulder of the soldier nearest to her she spotted two officers emerging. One of them was speaking loudly in bad French.
‘We are going to search you and then you can move on. Are any of you carrying weapons?’
Everyone around her was shaking their head. She noticed that Sylvie shook hers too.
He waited a while in case anyone might change their minds.
‘Are there any Jews in this group?’
There was silence. People glanced suspiciously at those stood around them. At the word ‘Jews’ the little girl’s hand had tightened its grip on hers with a strength she could not have imagined. She looked down and saw that Sylvie had her head bowed and appeared to be sobbing. She realised the extent of her predicament. If they caught her looking after a Jewish child, she would have no excuses.
‘My men will come and search you
now. I am sure that you will all co-operate.’
Too late.
The soldiers spread the group out along the road and began searching people. Marcel was close to her and was searched before her. The soldier searching him gestured to him to remove his wristwatch. Marcel started to protest, until one of the officers walked over. He smiled, looked at the watch that had been passed to him, nodded approvingly and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Along the line, members of the group were being relieved of possessions: watches, pieces of jewellery and even a bottle of cognac.
The soldier who came to search her appeared to be in his teens. His hands shook as he took her identity card. She noticed that his lips moved silently as he tried to read what it said. One of the officers appeared behind him and took the identity card.
‘You’ve come a long way.’ He handed her identity card back to her.
She nodded.
‘Is this your sister?’ He was staring intently at the little girl.
She gave the faintest of nods.
‘She is your sister, then?’
She hesitated. She had not said anything yet. She could do so now. They wouldn’t harm a child. The little girl now placed her other hand round her wrist, stroking her forearm as she did so.
‘Yes. She is my sister.’ She had replied in German, speaking quietly and hoping that no one else in the group heard her. Trying to appear as relaxed as possible, she smiled sweetly at the officer who was probably in his mid-twenties, the same age as her. She threw her head back, allowing her long hair to settle over her shoulders.
If you are an attractive woman – at that point the instructor had been looking directly at her, along with the rest of them – do not hesitate to use your charms on men.
The officer raised his eyebrows approvingly and nodded.
‘And where did you learn to speak German?’
‘At school.’
‘A good school then. And does your sister have an identity card?’
It was too late. She should have realised this would happen. Does he suspect something? She doesn’t look anything like me. Her complexion is so much darker. She had lost the chance to tell them the truth.
‘She lost it.’
‘Where?’
‘In Amiens. A Gypsy stole it from her.’
The officer nodded knowingly. He understood. What do you expect? Gypsies. Don’t we warn people about them? Thieves. Almost as bad as the Jews. Almost.
He lowered himself down on his haunches so that he was at eye level with the little girl.
‘And what is your name?’
There was a pause. The little girl peered up at her for approval. She nodded and smiled.
Tell him.
‘Sylvie.’
‘Sylvie is a nice name. Sylvie what?’
‘Sylvie.’
‘What is your surname – your full name?’
‘Sylvie.’
‘So, your name is ‘Sylvie Sylvie’?’ The officer was beginning to sound exasperated. Sylvie was whimpering.
‘I’m sorry, sir. She is frightened. It’s the guns. She’s never seen any before.’
‘Well, she’d better get used to them, hadn’t she?’ The officer was standing up now. Not satisfied.
From the east there was a series of explosions followed by an exchange of rifle fire.
The officer hesitated. He wanted to continue with the interrogation, but the other officer was shouting out urgent instructions to the soldiers.
‘All right, move on,’ he said to her.
It was only when the soldiers disappeared back into the woods and the group moved on that she realised how petrified she was. Her heart was ramming against her ribs and cold sweat was running down her back. The little girl walked on obediently beside her, but she could feel and see her body trembling.
As the group walked slowly along the road, she realised that she was stroking Sylvie’s hair, her trembling hand cupping the child’s cheeks, wiping away the tears with her thumb.
Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, she had surprised herself.
ooo000ooo
They had walked for another hour. Marcel had dropped back at one stage and sidled up to her.
‘And where did she come from?’ He gestured at Sylvie, who was still clutching her hand.
‘The couple who gave us water and fruit outside their cottage. The last village but one. They made me take her.’
‘You realise ...?’
‘Of course I do!’
‘Aren’t you taking a bit of a risk?’
‘Aren’t we all?’
Marcel had spotted a forest ahead of them and said that the deeper they got into it, the safer they’d be. But as she was beginning to realise was the case in the countryside, distances were hard to judge and the forest was not quite as near as it seemed and by the time they found a clearing, everyone was exhausted.
That night she found herself with Sylvie on the edge of the group, resting next to an old man and his wife. As the rest of the group slept the old man had given her his blanket, assuring her he was not cold. Sylvie was curled up alongside her under the blanket, fast asleep.
The old man had also given her the last of his water. He was not thirsty, he assured her. The moonlight poked through the canopy of the forest, the tops of some of the trees swaying very gently despite the apparent absence of any breeze. The old man moved closer to her and spoke quietly: he and his wife had lost both their sons at Verdun and had prayed they would never see another war. He had tried to lead a decent life. He went to church, he paid his taxes, he had never voted for the communists. He worked on the railways, but was now retired. They could not stand the thought of being in Paris when it was occupied, so now they were heading to the town where his wife’s sister lived, he explained. It was bound to be peaceful there.
‘You look so much like our daughter,’ he said, patting her affectionately on the wrist. ‘You have the same slim figure, the same beautiful long, dark hair, the same dark eyes. When my wife and I saw you for the first time yesterday – we both remarked on that!’
‘Where does your daughter live?’
The old man said nothing, but his eyes moistened as he held his hand over hers. The old man was kind, but there was something about him that unsettled her. As she lay down on the cold earth, a familiar yet unwelcome companion descended upon her. The memory. The old man alongside, she realised, reminded her of her father. He too worked on the railways. The same dark eyes that couldn’t hide the suffering. The same awkwardness. The reason why she was here now.
She tried so hard to forget her father, but now the dark memories were stirred, she knew she would be troubled for the rest of the night.
She slept in short, unsatisfactory bursts as she always did when her father came back to her. At one stage she woke with a start, aware that she must have cried out in her sleep. She looked round and noticed the old man’s eyes, glinting in the moonlight, staring at her. When she awoke in the morning she felt stiff and cold. As the group moved off, she fell in with the old man and his wife, but the kindness of the previous night had gone and he ignored her.
ooo000ooo
‘Come closer.’
It was later that afternoon and the group had paused at the edge of the forest, through which they had been walking all day. The old man who was calling out to her was now slumped at the base of the tree and had aged ten years in the past ten minutes. His legs were twisted under him and his skin was as grey as the bark he was resting against. His wife knelt by his side, anxiously gripping his right arm with both her hands. He held his other arm out towards her, fingers urgently beckoning her to him.
‘Come here,’ he called out. His voice was rasping and angry. The rest of the group were moving off, leaving just her and Sylvie with the old man and his wife.
She looked down the forest path, where the rest of the group were now disappearing beyond the sunbeams. They knew that there was nothing they could do for the man and they were
anxious to try and reach the town before nightfall. She could just make out Marcel, his short walking stick waving high above his head to encourage them along.
‘Leave him,’ Marcel had said. ‘I warned everyone not to drink from the ponds. This water can be like a poison. He took the risk. We must move on.’
She hesitated. If she lost contact with the group she could be stranded in the forest, but she had made the mistake of stopping to help when the man collapsed and it would seem odd if she abandoned him now.
She knelt down by his side. Around the tree was a carpet of bracken; green, brown and silver. His lips were turning blue and spittle flecked with blood was dribbling down the sides of his mouth. His eyes were heavily bloodshot and his breathing was painfully slow. He did not have long to go. She recognised the signs. She would soon be able to rejoin the group.
‘Closer.’ His voice was now little more than a harsh whisper.
With a shaking hand he pulled her head towards his. His breath was hot and smelled foul.
‘I heard you last night,’ he said. She pulled back, a puzzled look on her face.
He nodded, pulling her back towards him, glancing at his wife as he did so, checking that she could not hear. ‘I heard you cry out,’ he whispered. ‘I heard what you said.’
He waited to regain his breath, his whole body heaving as he did so. His reddened eyes blazed with fury.
‘This victory will be your greatest defeat.’
ooo000ooo
Later that afternoon she realised how soon you become inured to the sights and the smells of war. They have a tendency to creep up on you, allowing time for the mind to prepare itself for what it is about to experience. But not the sounds. The sounds of war may be no more shocking, but they have a tendency to arrive without warning, imposing themselves in the most brutal manner. You are never prepared for them.
So it was on that dusty afternoon at the end of May, where the Picardy countryside had begun to give hints of a nearby but unseen sea and where a small group of French civilians desperately trying to flee the war now found that they had walked right into it.