by Mary Nichols
The searchers were thorough. They pulled all the covers off the bed and turned the mattress over; they emptied every cupboard in the kitchen and pulled every book from the bookcase in the drawing room, piling some of them up to take away. ‘Banned,’ they said before turning their attention to her desk. She held her breath. Had she left anything in there to connect her with France Vivra? Or notes about BBC news they meant to copy and print? Her diary was in there but she had been very careful not to put anything in it about her clandestine activities and appeared unconcerned when they added it to the books, along with her small portable typewriter.
‘What are these?’ the sergeant demanded in guttural French, pulling out a pile of school exercise books.
‘My pupils’ exercises. I am a teacher.’
He thumbed through them. ‘They are in English.’
‘Yes, I taught English before the war. The lessons have been discontinued since Marshal Pétain took over the government.’
‘You are an Anglophile?’
‘No, simply a linguist. I also teach French and Italian.’
‘Deutsch?’
‘Sadly, no. It was not taught at the school I attended.’ She did have a smattering of German but decided not to admit it.
The books were added to the pile to be confiscated.
Then, with a cry of triumph, they produced a bottle of ink she had bought for the school’s Roneo machine. ‘What’s this?’
‘Ink, by the look of it.’
‘Yes, ink for a duplicating machine, no?’
‘Yes, it says so on the bottle.’
‘Where have you hidden the machine?’
‘I don’t posses one.’
‘Then what is this doing here?’
‘I told you, I am a teacher. We have a machine at school and I sometimes need to copy lessons for my pupils and I provide my own ink. There’s nothing wrong in that, is there?’ It was taking all her self-control to keep answering their questions, while all the time she was listening for Max returning. She prayed he wouldn’t come, though there was no one she needed more at that moment.
Having turned the apartment upside down, they turned their attention to the rubbish bin. And here they found a page of France Vivra she had used to wrap some fish bones she had boiled up to make soup. It had not been a good copy, the ink had smudged and it had been rejected. ‘What’s this?’ the senior of the two demanded, holding it up between finger and thumb.
‘It looks like a sheet of newspaper.’
‘An illegal one. What were you doing with it?’
‘Someone put it in my shopping basket when I wasn’t looking. I don’t know who.’ She pretended to laugh. ‘You can see what I think of it, only fit to wrap fish bones.’
He folded it inside a clean piece of paper and added it to the items they were taking away, then they picked them up and escorted her back to the car.
They didn’t take her back to rue des Saussaies, but to the Prison du Cherche-Midi, where she was locked in a tiny cell. It had a bed with planks instead of springs topped with a straw mattress and a filthy blanket, a small table on which stood a cracked enamel bowl and beside it water in a chipped jug. In the corner was a slop bucket with an ill-fitting lid. Daylight penetrated through a fanlight high up on one wall and there was a naked electric light bulb dangling from the middle of the ceiling. The walls had been whitewashed, but they were filthy.
‘May I have pen and paper to write to my principal to tell him why I am not in school?’ she asked the Frenchwoman who had taken over from her escorts and was obviously in charge of the female prisoners.
‘Not necessary. He will hear soon enough.’ And with that she left, banging the door shut and turning the key in the lock.
As soon as she heard the footsteps of her gaoler receding, Justine collapsed onto the bed, every jangling nerve and sinew suddenly released of tension. The almost inevitable had happened and she had been arrested. Everyone had been told what to expect if one of their number was picked up. As soon as the news was passed round, all evidence of involvement with the Resistance would magically disappear and people like Max, his wireless operator and courier would scuttle under cover into safe houses and everyone else in the circuit would go about their normal business. She hoped they managed to do that. But the reality was hard to come to terms with, especially now, when she and Max had only just discovered their love for each other. She had to keep him safe, safe from the attentions of the Gestapo, safe to carry on with the work they were doing, safe to be reunited with her at some time in the future. She prayed for it, prayed, too, that he would do nothing impetuous to try and free her and put himself and the whole circuit in danger. She was on her own and had only her own inner resources to call on, because this was not the end, far from it. She would be in for more interrogation and she had to hold out as long as possible to give everyone else a chance to escape.
Max had left the apartment building just in time to see Justine being hustled towards the police van by a French gendarme and a German sergeant. He hesitated only a second while he debated whether to run after them and protest her innocence, but then his meticulous training came to the fore and he had turned and gone back into the apartment. He had removed all trace of his own presence, the used cups and wine glasses, the ashtray with its cigarette stubs. He went through Justine’s clothes and papers to make sure there was nothing suspicious to be found and took the scruffy black coat and hat she sometimes used for a disguise, and put them with all his own clothes into a kitbag, topped it with his colour charts and, throwing it over his shoulder, once again left the building. He was stopped once, but his forged papers and colour charts stood up to the test and he was allowed to go.
He had worked methodically, trying to keep a cool head, trying not to think of what Justine might be going through, but as he walked down the street, he felt as though he were abandoning her to her fate, a terrible fate if her captors took it into their heads that she was part of a resistance movement. He could not leave her to suffer that. Was there any way he could effect her release? Even if it meant his own life was forfeit? Love and duty were certainly in conflict now and he was being torn apart.
He went to his rendezvous with Etienne at an apartment overlooking the Montparnasse cemetery where Etienne set up his radio and reported what had happened to London and asked for instructions. As soon as the transmission was acknowledged, he pulled in the aerial and packed everything into its suitcase. He had to move quickly before the detector vans fixed his position. ‘Cheerio for now,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at the Chateau Mollet, if you want me.’ And with that he and his incriminating equipment were gone.
Max looked round checking everything was as it should be and left too. He had to alert Giles at the school.
‘I know about it,’ Giles said, when he found him tidying his office, picking up papers and books strewn about the floor. ‘A Vichy policeman and a German sergeant were here half an hour ago. You only just missed them.’
‘Did they find anything?’
‘They were very interested in the Roneo machine and wanted to know what it was used for. Luckily there was nothing to connect it with France Vivra and they seemed to accept that it was only used for schoolwork, but they warned me I needed a permit to own one and took it away until such time as I was provided with one.’
‘And Justine?’
‘They asked a lot of questions about her and I gathered from that she had been arrested.’ He grinned. ‘I said: “So that’s why she didn’t turn up for work today.” Then I grumbled about being left short-handed and having to teach her class myself. They asked if I knew she carried a pistol in her handbag and I denied all knowledge of the contents of her bag.’
‘Will they let her go?’
‘I doubt it. They’ll have her for the gun if nothing else. But if that is all they can find, the circuit should be safe.’
‘I wish I’d never given her that damned pistol. It’s all my fault. I dragged her into this …’
‘Dransville,’ Max said suddenly. ‘Do you think they will hear what’s happened?’
Giles shrugged. ‘No reason why they should. The only person who could possibly tell them is Roger and he wasn’t here.’
‘He knew I’d given Justine the gun, though. If he—’
‘Hold on, my friend, let’s just wait and see, shall we? We’ll lie low for a bit until we know.’
‘If they force her to talk …’ Max stopped with a shudder; that didn’t bear thinking about. How strong would Justine be in the face of torture? ‘I’ve alerted London and asked for instructions. Maybe we could find some way of getting her out.’
‘Antoine, she knew what she was risking, we all do. I know how you feel about her—’
‘You do?’ he asked in surprise.
Giles laughed. ‘All but a blind man could see it. But you mustn’t let it come between you and your duty. We keep our heads down and do nothing. While she’s in Cherche-Midi, we can’t attempt an escape without risking goodness knows how many lives. We’ll have to wait until she’s moved.’ He paused. ‘Where are you going to stay? You can’t go back to Justine’s apartment; I don’t doubt there’ll be a watch on it. If nothing untoward happens and she’s sent down for the pistol and nothing else, she might serve a short sentence and be with us again sooner than you think.’
‘I pray you are right. I’ll join Etienne at the Chateau Mollet, then I’ll be on hand when we hear from London.’
Chapter Twelve
The cell had no heating, and in spite of having an overcoat and scarf, Justine was so cold her fingers and toes were numb. She wrapped herself in the coat and the smelly blanket, but dare not shut her eyes in case she talked in her sleep. Sleep was difficult in any case because every hour during the night, the light, which had been turned off at six, was switched on again and the guard peered at her through the spyhole in the door. Nevertheless she must have dozed because she woke so stiff and cramped it was some time before she could get her limbs to work. She stood up and began running on the spot, banging her arms against her sides to warm herself. She could hear the sound of heavy boots and doors being opened along the corridor.
When they came to her she was breathless, but a little warmer. The woman warder pointed to the slop bucket. ‘Bring that.’
She was led to a drain where she was invited to empty the bucket, then taken back to her cell. ‘I have no toiletries,’ she said. ‘How am I to wash?’
‘Send home for things.’ The woman laughed. ‘Oh, I forgot, you are not allowed privileges.’ And with that she left, locking the door behind her.
Justine broke the ice on her water jug, washed and dried herself on the rag that hung on a nail beside the basin; it made her feel fresher if not cleaner. Then it was back to jumping up and down to keep warm while she recited all the poetry she could remember. Tiring of that, she pulled the table under the fanlight, climbed on it and found herself looking out onto the street. There were people out there coming and going. Could she get a message out? But she had nothing with which to write and nothing to write it on. She tried shouting, but was ignored. No one wanted to know or help a prisoner for fear of being tainted.
She heard the heavy footsteps again and scrambled down so that she was facing the door when it was opened. She was handed an enamel plate containing a crust of bread. She ate it voraciously, washing it down with water from the jug.
Her head was full of questions she would have liked to ask: Did anyone know where she was? What was going to happen to her? How long was she going to be kept prisoner? When was her trial? Would she be allowed a defence lawyer? Could she have a book to read, pencil and paper? She would not give her gaolers the satisfaction of knowing they had worried and frightened her, so she kept silent.
At midday she was given a small cup of soup and half a small loaf of brown bread, and in the middle of the afternoon was taken to the rue des Saussaies again and confronted with the same Gestapo major who had questioned her before. There was a typewriter on his desk which she immediately recognised as her own. It took a monumental effort not to appear agitated by this.
The major stared at her long and hard before speaking. ‘Is this machine yours?’
She hesitated. ‘I don’t know, I can’t tell. There must be hundreds like it.’
‘But not hundreds with a faulty letter E.’ He stood up, came round the desk and poked his finger hard into her breast which made her gasp. ‘It was used to type these lies.’ He turned and picked up a copy of France Vivra and waved it under her nose. ‘Do you deny it?’
‘What is it?’ She pretended to be curious.
‘You know well what it is. Subversive literature, lies to undermine the morale of the population, to cause dissent and unrest.’
‘It has nothing to do with me.’
The blow he dealt to her face rocked her head on her shoulders. Her arms were pinioned to her sides by her escorts and she could not lift a hand to touch her face, nor ward off the next blow. ‘We know exactly what you have been up to. We have your accomplices and they are prepared to talk.’
‘Then you had better ask them how they came to borrow my typewriter,’ she retorted, wondering if what he said was true. Had others been arrested? ‘I am a schoolteacher, nothing more. All I want is to be allowed to get on with my job in peace.’
‘You have had many visitors to your apartment, they come and go at all times of day and night.’
She wondered who had told him that and immediately thought of the concierge. She was old and they would have frightened her. ‘Then perhaps one of those borrowed my typewriter.’
‘Men visitors. I hardly think they came to learn to type.’
‘So? Is there a law against that now?’
He snorted with laughter. ‘Against the oldest profession in the world? No, I do not think so, but why do you not extend your favours to German soldiers? I am sure they would be very generous.’
‘There are enough ladies of the night catering for their needs without me adding to them. I am fussy whom I entertain.’
It was unwise of her to say that and it earned her several more blows. He picked up another piece of paper and placed it on the desk nearest to her, then he dipped a pen into an inkwell and offered it to her. ‘Sign this.’
‘What is it?’
‘A statement.’
She glanced down at it and realised it was more confession than statement. ‘Certainly not. It is in German. I will sign nothing I cannot understand.’
He shouted for a clerk and gave instructions for the document to be translated and then waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Take her away. Let her reflect on her situation for a few more days.’
With her head reeling and her face stinging, she was taken back to Cherche-Midi and locked once more in her cell where she did, indeed, reflect on her situation. Now she was in more trouble than the possession of a pistol. What was going on outside? What was Max doing? And Giles and all the others? Had they gone to ground? Did they know where she was? Had the Germans discovered who had blown up the railway line? Had there been reprisals? Were her friends safe? Were they all going about their business as if nothing had happened? And her family? Thank God they were in the Zone Libre. But not Max. Max was out there somewhere, probably worrying himself sick about what had happened to her, perhaps in danger himself. How long before her captors put two and two together and realised she was implicated in blowing up the ammunition train? How long before everyone in the circuit was rounded up?
She stopped herself dwelling on the dreadful things that might happen and concentrated on recalling happier times. Spoilt by her parents and older brother and sister, her childhood in the mountains of Haute Savoie had been idyllic. The Great War, with its millions of casualties, had hardly t
ouched the child she was. She remembered the little lamb she had hand fed when its mother rejected it and how dejected she had been when it was taken away from her; and being carried on the shoulders of her father when the whole family had attended the agricultural fair in Annecy. And there was Pierre’s wedding to Jeanne and being a bridesmaid at Annelise’s wedding. What a day for celebration that had been! Only nine years old, she had not understood the cloud that had hung over her sister, but which disappeared on the day she was married. Everyone liked Charles, though Jacques was wary of him and hid behind his mother’s skirts whenever his new stepfather approached. Charles had simply laughed it off.
She hadn’t realised at the time how important Charles was, not until she was old enough to accept his invitation to visit them in England in 1931 as a twenty-first birthday treat. He was a baron, something like a French count, and her sister was Lady de Lacey and they lived in a mansion of enormous proportions with dozens of servants. Jacques had become Jack and a proper little English boy. And there were three more children: Elizabeth, Amy and four-year-old Edmund, all adored by both parents. She was taken to see all the sights: the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace and they caught a glimpse of King George and Queen Mary as they left in a carriage. They went to Norwich and Cambridge where they punted on the river, and to Wells on the north Norfolk coast, where they gathered cockles which Mrs Baxter boiled up for tea to be eaten with brown bread and butter. She had returned home to Dransville full of happy memories.
Annelise had not been spoilt by her elevated status; she was still the same loving sister she had always been and had often brought her children to Dransville for holidays before the war, where they were allowed to run wild about the meadows and hills. They had all, except Edmund who hadn’t been born until 1927, attended the Winter Olympics at Chamonix in 1924 and she had boasted she could ski as well as any of the contestants. There would be no more holidays like that until the war was won. How long would that be? She could see no end to it. Whenever her present situation threatened to intrude, she forced herself back onto a happier plane, but in the end even that did not work, and she was thrown into despair. Her relationship with Max could spoil other people’s happiness; people, like Lisabette, who did not deserve to be made miserable, but how could she let him go? But then, she might have no choice; she would be shot and that would be the end of it. But she would have the memory to take with her to the grave.