by Mary Wood
A tug on her arm heightened her fear. Looking round, she had to lower her head – it was a child, clutching at her sleeve with pleading eyes. Taking her purse out of her bag, she gave him the coins she had. A tear plopped onto his cheek. No words came from his dry lips as he turned and scurried away.
At her hostel, she enquired of Madame Joules. The girl looked at her with suspicion but fetched Madame to her. ‘Madame, it is a cold day today.’
‘Yes, but soon it will be warmer.’
This was the contact code, word for word. Now she could relax. ‘Madame, before we go any further I need your help.’
‘I can see that. You were not followed?’
‘No. I did have a problem on the train, but I have taken every care.’
‘I am not surprised, as looking like you do you are a target. Are you sure you were not followed?’
‘Certain.’
‘Okay. Come to my apartment and I will make you blend in better. Philippe is to meet you in La Cage de Perroquet Café on L’avenue de la Bourdonnais in one hour.’
Philippe would not be the contact’s real name, but his code name. This matched what Pierre had told her. Oh, Pierre, if only these were better times . . . But no, she must stay focused. Thoughts like these could undermine an agent’s resolve.
Emerging a few minutes later in an ill-fitting brown coat tied with string, a headscarf and well-worn boots, her perception of her surroundings changed. Now she could feel the atmosphere, and merge into it.
The cafe told a story of days gone. Its cast-iron window frames, arched and ornate, still showed traces of the gold-leaf paint. The curtain covering half of the window, though worn in places, had the look of expensive lace as it hung in symmetric folds, thick and luscious with a woven-in palm-tree design.
Opening the door brought back a host of memories as the aroma of good coffee tinged her nostrils. How, she wondered, had they managed to obtain such fine beans? The reason became obvious as she went through into the salon. Germans! The place was full of them, and they had clearly made sure that their favourite haunt had supplies. But why did Philippe want to meet here?
A dozen pairs of eyes turned on her. Her legs tingled with the trembling that had set up in them. The women in here looked as she had done: prosperous and fashionable. Thinking quickly, she went up to the counter. ‘Monsieur, avez-vous du pain rassis? J’ai faim.’
‘Sortez! Pas de mendiants!’
The group of Germans nearest to her laughed. One of them threw her a coin. ‘Here, go to a downmarket café and ask for bread. You can pay for it with this.’
She caught the coin and went to leave, but one of them rising froze her with fear. But he only said, ‘Or this . . .’ And made a motion as if to undo his fly, pushing his hips forward in a thrusting movement.
‘Ha, Hans, she looks like she is familiar with that, but I would not fuck it. She is unclean. Get out of here, vagabond.’
Their French was good. They must have been here a while, but then they were young. The young picked up languages easily.
The laughter of the soldiers and the women gave her peace as she left as it meant they were not curious about her. But what was the point of Philippe sending her there?
Before she had time to mull this over her arm was once more in the grip of another, but this time it was a firm, bruising grasp that made her cry out.
‘Quiet! Here, mademoiselle, follow me.’
Shadows darkened the alleyway as the low sun cast the elongated shapes of the chimneys across it. A smell of urine permeated the air, telling of many a glass of wine pissed up the wall. Rubbish was trodden underfoot, squelching in putrid piles that she could not avoid. Ahead, she could see the light of the end of the alley, but before she reached it she was turned into an open gate. The yard she stood in had to be the backyard to a cafe, with its empty food boxes and pig-swill bin. The kitchen they went through had that steamed-cabbage smell mixed with garlic. Maybe they never really cooked cabbage, but somehow such places always smelt as if they did.
Entering the eating area, with its wooden table covered in grubby-looking gingham cloths, she saw a man sitting in the corner. His beret was pulled forward, hiding his eyes, and smoke curled up from a stub of a cigarette in his mouth. His dark coat had the collar upturned.
The man holding her pushed her towards the table. A low voice said, ‘The coffee in here is good.’
Relief flooded her. ‘I have heard so, monsieur.’
A face, unexpectedly handsome and grinning, looked up at her. ‘Lydia? I am Philippe. Please sit down. We have much to discuss.’
They were in an upstairs room of the cafe now. The coffee they had shared had indeed been good, making their contact code a truth. She could still taste the lingering flavour of it. She did not ask how they got it, but had savoured the warmth of it and allowed it to soothe her. His ploy at sending her to the previous cafe had been his way of testing her ability to handle unexpected situations. He was pleased with her, and listening to him she knew she was with friends – well-organized friends who were on the same side.
Assembling the radio didn’t take long, and the signal was good. It worried her that they thought it okay to transmit from here, just around the corner from La Cage de Perroquet Café, but she trusted them.
Broadcasting her poem first and receiving recognition, she went on to tell of the supplies they would need. Philippe had approved the drop arrangements she had made, and had dispatched a messenger to the area to gather men to be ready to meet the plane when they received word of the delivery. ‘Now, we must go ourselves. I am the only one who can set the charges. Come, we will beat the curfew if we hurry. We will go our separate ways. We will rendezvous eight kilometres from the port of Lorient.’
‘Lorient! But that is in Brittany!’
‘Yes. The bunker there is the largest and is our target.’
‘But, I thought . . .’
‘Many things are told as red herrings. Lorient has U-boats in the harbour at this moment. They are to be destroyed.’
U-boats meant Germans – hundreds of them! Then why the drop only fifty kilometres from Paris?
‘Monsieur, you have kept me out of the loop. I am very angry. I have given false information to my command!’
‘C’était nécessaire! We have to dupe even those who work with us to remain safe. Those that matter know the truth.’
‘But does Pierre know?’
‘He will know.’
‘How will you transport . . .?’
‘Farmers. Farmers will hide it in bales. They are ready. It will go from farm to farm. The details are of no use to you. Just make sure you are in Lorient in five days’ time.’
Theresa had thought the cold of Paris biting, but it was nothing to the Brittany coast. Standing outside a baker’s shop facing the sea, she huddled up against the wall trying to glean some warmth from it. The family she was to stay with hadn’t answered her knock on their door, and this worried her. They knew of her impending arrival, so where were they? Neither had she been contacted by any of the group.
Worry churned her gut. Something was wrong. The darkness clawed at her. Curfew approached, but where could she go? A lorry came up the road towards her. Her body stiffened. She pulled herself even closer to the wall, squirming her body along to try and reach the alley between this building and the one next door. She groped with her hands behind her back to guide her. The lorry kept coming, its lights dim and its windscreen impenetrable in the darkness.
Fear skimmed her heart, stopping its rhythm as a sudden dazzling light held her illuminated in its glow. ‘Einhalt zu gebieten. Hände in die Luft!’
Before she could raise her hands as the command had asked of her, soldiers surrounded her. A kick to her stomach bent her double. Vomit projected from her mouth. Her legs gave way. Oh God . . . No . . . No!
The rough pebbles scraped the skin off her knees, cutting and tearing the flesh as they dragged her to the lorry. Throwing her inside she landed on feet
– feet clad in German-soldier boots, and feet clad in peasant sandals. These last were clamped in irons. Looking up, she saw Philippe and two of the others sitting on the bench. These two looked at her but showed no sign of recognizing her. One of them spat on her. Did he think her the traitor, or was he trying to disassociate himself from her? Philippe still didn’t look at her. The lorry started to move. They are going to leave me here on the floor! One of the Germans lifted his boot and slammed it down on her back. The breath left her again. She gasped under its weight, trying to draw in air, but couldn’t.
‘Wir wollen sie lebend!’
The soldier removed his foot. Theresa wasn’t sure she should be glad that he had been told they wanted her alive, but her relief at taking a breath gave her those feelings. But then, alive for what? Torture? Oh, please God, no.
1963
‘You alright, love?’
Lizzie slammed the book shut. The voice and the face seemed alien, an intrusion catapulting her from the horror and fear that had gripped her. Her mind wouldn’t process where she was.
‘Lizzie? Are you alright? It’s me, Harri. You haven’t forgotten me already, have you?’
‘Oh, Harri.’ Without her knowing they would, tears tumbled from her eyes and her breath caught in her lungs in a sob that wrenched her very soul.
‘Lizzie, love. Eeh, lass, cry it out. Me mam always says as that is best. We keep forgetting that what is a relief to us is a loss to you. Rita and Ken were your family – and your dad . . .’
‘You must think me a baby. I seem to have done nothing but cry since you met me, but I am quite strong really. I have come through a lot, and . . .’
‘Even the strongest of us have a point that is one too far for us to cope with, love. And, no, I don’t think of you as a babby. You’re a very brave person. You just need a little more support at the moment, but we’ll give it. I’ve come to help you to dress. I’ve brought some stuff for you. It’s mine, so it should fit, and some toiletries – shampoo and stuff. Come on, you’ll feel better after, and then Mam and Dad are taking you home with them. Me and Ian are staying another day while Dad arranges to have Patsy moved to the hospital in Leeds.’
‘Oh, Harri, can’t I wait for you and Patsy? I wouldn’t be any trouble.’
‘No, love. It will be best if you go. Mam will take care of you. I can’t, not in a hotel room, I can’t. Everything will be made right for you at home. We have a room on the corner of the house, next to the downstairs cloakroom, which has a toilet and hand basin in. There’s a French door as opens onto the patio at the back. It’s lovely and just right for you. Dad has arranged for me brother David as you haven’t met yet to get a bed in there for you. You’ll have an easy chair and a television. But, of course, You’ll not stay in there all the time. You’ll live with us as part of our family. Your room will just be a place you can retreat to, sleep in, and get to without assistance. So you have your independence.’
‘Thanks, Harri. I – I’ll get meself sorted. Yer won’t have to put up with me for long.’
‘Eeh, you daft ha’p’orth! You can stay as long as you need to, and I reckon it will be a while afore you won’t need our support. you’ve a lot to face, love.’
‘Harri, I’m worried over Rita’s funeral, and Ken’s, if they find him . . . I – I have no money to see to them.’
‘Me dad’ll sort it, though it’s unlikely as they’ll release Rita’s body for a while. They said they need to do further autopsies. And as soon as they allow anyone in your flat, he’ll see to it that everything you want is brought to you and the rest is disposed of. So, are you ready? If you get into your chair, I’ll take you to the bathroom.’
It was the kindness that got to her. She’d never known a family like this. It seemed they’d taken Patsy in without question when she’d come into their lives, and now they were ready to do the same for her. But at least Patsy was related to them – well, to Harri, anyway. But her? A disabled girl from London who they knew nothing of? It was hard to believe there were such people left in the world.
Twenty
Jacques – A Sadness Beyond Measure
1963
The application for the passports and visas for Verkona and Gustov were proving to be anything but straightforward. Jacques had taken them along to the municipal office, thinking it a matter of filling in a few forms and the officials making some checks, and that would be that. But he found that the regime was rife with corruption, and a lot depended on whether you were willing to grease a few palms to get what you wanted. None of this sat well with Jacques. With his ambition to take up a career in the law, it was alien to him to work on the other side of it.
‘It is how it is, and why only those in favour or who have the means to pay can achieve anything here. Communism! Uh! I spit on it. It is meant to be an ideal that is one for all and all for everyone, but it is far from that. Look how we live, and yet in this quarter where we are now, the standard of living is one hundred times better. It is oppression of the worst kind. The people work for the good of the state while having very little for themselves.’
After listening to Verkona interpreting this speech of Gustov’s, Jacques asked, ‘So, you think the only way we are going to get the necessary papers and permission is to pay over sums of money other than the normal cost of what we want?’
‘Yes. It is as Gustov says: one rule for the officials and one for us. They have all the power. No one will listen to us. If we speak out, we are classed as dissidents. Anything could happen to us. And now that we have put in the application, we are trapped. Unless we go ahead and follow the unwritten rule, we will be under scrutiny and our every move monitored. One foot wrong, or what they could interpret as wrong, and we will be thrown into jail.’
‘My God, I didn’t realize . . .’
Again Verkona told him Gustov’s reply to this: ‘I know, son. Those of you who live in the free world do not have an idea of what it is like. The real basis of Communism, the written ideal, is not a bad thing, but in order to have it work in reality? That can only be done by oppression and fear. That is what is happening here. There is no freedom of speech or religion. Everyone has to follow the party line.’
‘Then, Gustov, why not apply for political asylum when you get to America? I know you love Poland, but this is not the Poland you want and are in love with. Especially you, Verkona, as you are not of an age to do anything about it. You should stay in America until things change.’
‘We shall see. But first we have to get there.’
This he understood. ‘I’ll telephone Grandfather. He’ll advise us.’
‘Please make him see how it is. Our lives will change after this application if it does not go smoothly.’
Jacques looked around him at this from Verkona. The evidence of the inequality of a society and an ideal that was set up for total ‘equality’ was all around him. In this government officials’ quarter, the apartments were of a high standard. The air of prosperity could be felt in everything from the appearance of the housing to the cleanliness and general upkeep of the streets, and in the cars parked on the side of the road. Even though these were not luxury class, they were far newer and better than the scant few seen in Verkona’s street.
‘I will, Verkona. Come on, let us go for lunch. I’m starving, and don’t worry. I will get everything sorted.’
Getting through to his grandfather was proving difficult. On some of his attempts there was no connection available to the United States. On others, the phone rang but wasn’t picked up. By the evening of his second day of trying, worry was eating away at Jacques. Where could his grandfather be? He rarely went out these days. With no business to see to and not having many interests outside the home, he could usually either be found at home or down at the Polish club playing cards with his friends, but that only occurred once a week on a Thursday. Today was Wednesday.
At last in the evening when he tried for the umpteenth time he heard his grandfather’s voice. His ‘Hello, so
n’ held in it the difference of tone that he had heard last time they had spoken. A niggle of trepidation entered Jacques. ‘Is everything alright, Grandfather?’
There was a silence. It didn’t last long, but the hesitation deepened Jacques’s fear. ‘Grandfather?’
‘I’m okay, son. Just tired. How are things over there? I didn’t expect you to ring so quickly.’
After explaining, his grandfather had no hesitation. ‘Pay what you have to, son. Get them out of there now you have set the ball rolling. Has anything been done about the memorial?’
‘Yes. Permission has been granted. But again, there are people that Gustov has to pay . . .’
‘Whatever it takes. Is there an account I can pay into?’
‘Things are not done like that. Everything is cash. If you are in agreement I will draw the funds and make sure the right people are paid. The work will be done very quickly once those who sign on the dotted line are happy.’
‘That is what is important. Not the money, or who has it. But I want to know that it is done.’
‘Grandfather, is everything alright?’ Again the long silence. ‘Grandfather, are you there?’
‘Yes, son. Jacques, I need you to come home.’
‘What? Why? Grandfather, what’s happened?’
‘How soon can Verkona’s visa be ready?’
‘Once the bribes are paid, almost at once. It is just the printing of them. Probably about a week. Grandfather, there is something. Please tell me. We may lose our connection.’
‘Son. Last week I had a very strange thing happen. When I went to the toilet, it . . . well, what I passed was white in colour.’
‘But what does that mean? How could that happen? You never said when we spoke.’
‘I didn’t know what it was and I didn’t want to worry you if it was nothing. I went to my doctor yesterday. He arranged immediate tests. I – I have cancer of the liver.’