by Libby Cone
He looked sheepish. Suzanne stared at him. Then she began to laugh. And laugh. She had to grip the bedframe. The advocate stood stiffly, waiting for her to compose herself.
Finally, out of breath, but with eerie politeness, she said, ‘No, Monsieur Giffard, we are not making any property deals.’
He looked ashamed. She made no effort to make him feel differently.
‘No,’ she said, ‘it is all right. I know you don’t want to spend time in this smelly prison.’
‘No, mademoiselle, it isn’t.’
‘Just make sure she gets the note, please,’ she whispered, not looking at him.
He called for Otto. He managed to dry his tears before the big German made it down the corridor.
Otto took him down the dark stairway to Lucy’s cell.
‘Kleine,’ he called as he unlocked the door, ‘I bring you a visitor.’
Lucy was lying down; she did not get up when Giffard entered. The cold and semi-starvation, along with an inability to digest the prison food, forced her to husband her strength. Giffard glanced back at Otto, who was paying no attention and was already leaving the cell, and rushed up to Lucy’s side, pressing Suzanne’s note into her raw and bony hands.
‘Mademoiselle, this is from your friend,’ he whispered.
Lucy sat up and looked at the folded note, then stuffed it under her shirt. Giffard took another handkerchief from his jacket pocket and gave it to Lucy, who stuffed it, too, into her shirt. Then he fished in another trouser pocket and came up with more cigarettes, matches, pencil, sweets. These were taken greedily and stuffed under the straw mattress.
‘Did you just find out we were here?’ she asked.
Shame rose in his throat like acid; in a small voice he said, ‘No, mademoiselle. As I was just telling Mademoiselle Malherbe, I am here on a property matter brought up by the Bailiff.’
‘Property?’ She wasn’t laughing.
‘I’m sorry. Yes, uh, because of your sentence, the Germans need to make sure that your real property is not up for sale or, as they say, “hypothecated”.’
She looked much more openly angry than Suzanne.
‘Oh, is that why you came, then? You think I have the deed under my mattress? Could I be smuggling notes out to agents in my slop bucket? No, monsieur, it is not “hypothecated”, as you put it. It is not.’ She rubbed her back, looked at him with irritation. ‘So, they want us to die very tidily, then?’
He felt the tears again. ‘Oh, mademoiselle, I am sorry! I know you are not thinking of such things at this time! I pray for you! It is all so miserable!’
‘Come on, Giffard, straighten up! The war could end before they kill us!’
‘Yes, it could,’ he managed to say. ‘I will try to visit you again.’
She refused his hand. ‘Thank you.’ She looked exhausted just from the short time of sitting up.
He called for Otto, who looked soberly at Lucy as he let Giffard out. Giffard shook hands with a surprised Otto, who found a cigarette and a fifty Reichsmark note in his hand.
‘Please take care of them,’ Giffard whispered.
Otto handed back the note, kept the cigarette. ‘I already do, Herr Advokat.’
Otto walked slowly back to Lucy’s cell and let himself in. This gave her plenty of time to hide Suzanne’s note; he wouldn’t bother her about the sweets.
‘Miss Schwob,’ he began.
‘Yes, Otto?’
‘You are looking ill. You always stay in your bed. I am going to bring the doctor to see you.’
‘Are you afraid I will die before I am executed?’
‘Please, Miss Schwob.’
‘By all means, Otto, fatten me up for slaughter.’
Otto sighed and closed the door softly behind him. Lucy rolled onto her side and rubbed the scabs on her back, the result of skin and bones lying on thin straw. Otto was such a strange mixture of traits, she thought; he adhered fairly strictly to the rules, and was always impassive in demeanour, but displayed great solicitude toward his charges. All in all, the best traits for survival in a fascist state. His superiors considered him to be loyal, and he considered himself to be kind; his conscience was untroubled.
Lucy sat up in bed and took out the piece of paper. There were two drawings on it; one of a baby bird’s open beak, a playful sexual symbol they had always shared. The other was of a tortoise with the head and tail of a happy, chubby cat. Both had been drawn quickly and expertly; Suzanne, who could express herself with root vegetables, found paper effortless. There were also some lines: ‘My love, I am well. I hope Giffard delivers this, and delivers us. Your little bird-mouth, Suzanne.’
CHAPTER 66
St Brelade
Winter 1944–45
They had gained a BBC station in Normandy but were losing their food supply. Milk was left out for them, but no bread or swedes. It was getting very risky to try to dig up crops in abandoned fields because the German soldiers were there, doing the same thing, even though it was under penalty of death. They were still moving around at night, foraging, eating, and taking advantage of the warmer daylight hours to sleep.
Marlene had dismissed her inner lower court after it had found her not guilty. Her internal prosecutor was appealing to another court to overturn the verdict. The trial sessions went on most of the days when she could not sleep. Tinkering with the wireless was a better diversion. She had managed to get her hands on a telephone receiver and make another earphone. The broadcasts on the BBC were more encouraging, the ones from Germany more desperately cheerful. She had discovered she had a talent for wiring up the little crystal sets, and was able to build a second one so they could both listen at the same time, even to different stations. It was funny to think that they had the luxury of two sets amid the squalor and starvation of the shed. They had already eaten one rat, roasted during a firefight when nobody would notice the flame. More would probably follow. Peter could differentiate her moods of guilt from her moods of self-confidence and tried to act accordingly. She was able to wake him from his nightmares (he mumbled in Polish and broken Spanish), to hum his favourite music, to love him with an empty belly.
In January, when they were giddy with hunger, food began to appear. A Red Cross ship had finally been permitted entry, bearing sorely needed provisions. They ate tinned peas with stone-hard cheese grated on the ragged lid, mixed powdered milk with water and crumbled biscuits, smelled tea longingly with no way to brew it.
On one of her trial days Peter presented Marlene with a piece of chocolate.
‘I don’t deserve it,’ she said, starting to cry.
‘Yes, you do. Please have it, Marlene. You deserve everything.’
He dried her tears, fed her, and kissed her chocolatey mouth.
CHAPTER 67
Gloucester Street Prison
December 1944
The doctor looked like Goebbels, thin and menacing, but had a smooth, low voice. He smelled of coltsfoot cigarettes. He did a perfunctory examination, listening to Lucy’s chest, looking at her tongue, taking her pulse.
‘I believe you are anaemic, Fräulein Schwob,’ he pronounced. ‘I will give Otto pills for you to take with meals.’
She smiled to herself. What meals? Gruel, a swede, a half cup of skimmed milk? Of course I am anaemic! Do they want me to waste away and spare them the bullet? No, they want me to die officially; that is how they are.
The doctor was ushered out. Otto tossed a half-slice of potato bread onto her bed as he swung the door closed; it looked as though it had come from his pocket. She would not die on his watch! Or maybe he did feel for her, did not want her to suffer beyond what she was ordered to suffer.
The pills made her sick; she vomited most of her meals. The doctor with the scary face and soothing voice was called again; he said that the pills were perhaps too strong for her and gave other pills for her to Otto; she refused to take them, refused most of her food, refused cold drinks, stayed in her bed. He brought her a cup of ersatz coffee, steaming if
not very fragrant; this, she drank. Otto looked relieved. He began to bring her plates of food reserved for the jailers and officers: bits of potato, cut-up pieces of horsemeat, stewed beans. He looked pained and sad when she refused these delicacies. She grew weaker, told Otto her only desire was for rice and tea.
‘Rice and tea? That’s impossible!’ he wailed, plainly showing his frustration.
He disappeared for a few hours, returning with a small cup of rice and a half-mug of real tea. He fed her like a bird. He began to bring her a quart of hot water every morning, which she would drink plain, or, when the weather got colder, pour from the pan into a milk bottle and wrap with her blanket to make a hot water bottle. She began to regain some strength as Christmas was approaching. Otto or one of the Russian trusties continued to bring her a daily pan of hot water and occasional morsels, which she began to be able to swallow.
Christmas Eve arrived. Evelyn gave Lucy some sweets and bright butterflies made of paper. Suzanne, forever pacing, stopped when she heard tapping on her floor. She went over to the corner where the water pipes came through. A little piece of rolled-up lavatory paper was dancing up and down through the opening. She grabbed it, whispering a ‘thanks’ to Evelyn below. She unrolled it and smiled to see Lucy’s handwriting:
December 23, 1944
I have nothing to offer you for Xmas but a dream I had around 4:00am. It is actually more of a restitution than a gift, for it really looks like a plagiarised version of the dreams you recount to me at times. It has the charm of being totally impersonal. I woke up with the impression that I had just read the page of a book: War causes disorders which are not discussed. Thus, around the equator, where the earth is closer to the sky, the friction caused by this excessive agitation caused a great number of stars to become undone. These can be found dead or dying along the railways. From looking at the sky, there are so many left that it can’t be noticed, and men hope that God will not notice. But it’s nonetheless wise to clean up any traces of this accident. So they dug two big pits, and, just like a dishonest servant puts in the ground broken dishes, they buried the dead stars. And so that their children forget what they contain, they gave those tombs incomprehensible names. The one which is to the south of the equator is called, ‘The Voice of the Elements’ and the one to the north, ‘The Virgin’s Mouth.’
Merry Xmas ‘Anyway’!
Evelyn tapped again and passed her a thin paper parcel of sweets, cigarettes, and butterflies.
That evening, after a trip to the lavatory, Suzanne’s jailer, one of the trusties, forgot to lock her cell door. She waited until midnight to enjoy her freedom. She slipped out of her cell and walked down the hallway. A man sat on the steps; she had not seen him before. He was an American pilot, a Lieutenant Haas. His cell, too, had been left unlocked, perhaps due to holiday-season laxness, perhaps on purpose. He had been given the best cell, the one reserved for German officers. He was young, open.
‘Don’t worry, Mademoiselle Malherbe,’ he boasted, ‘I’ll get a message to my colonel here before we break out. He won’t let anything happen to you. He’ll get back at -’
‘Quiet,’ Suzanne urged. ‘You shouldn’t let on what you think or plan, or anything. They will find out. You should just be good and quiet and make your plans secretly.’
‘Yes, ma’am. That is good advice. Anyway,’ he lowered his voice further, ‘I want to collect information from prisoners to use against the Krauts when they surrender.’
‘Please, God, let it be soon!’
‘Yes, ma’am! I think it will be. Things are not going well for them in the Ardennes.’
‘Excellent! I can get you something.’
They chatted awhile, then Suzanne went downstairs to Lucy’s cell, feeling her way in the darkness. She rapped softly on her door.
‘Cherie,’ she whispered, ‘I have come to visit.’
Lucy was not asleep and jumped off her bed with as much agility as she could muster. She hurried to the door and pressed her fingertips under the door. They were answered with Suzanne’s, which were warm.
‘Oh, Suzanne, cherie, what a Christmas present!’
‘Yes, they forgot to close my door.’
‘Did you get some sweets and butterflies?’
‘Yes! I think we are getting some Christmas parcels tomorrow. Our friend Edna may also bring something, if she has anything. Listen, I met an American officer upstairs who wants to escape.’
‘Wonderful!’
‘He is very young and sweet. I told him to be cautious. I think he wants to collect testimonies. Shall we send him off with a note?’
‘Yes! Can I get it to you tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘My wolf, my little bird-mouth, I miss you!’
‘I miss you terribly. I received your poem. I loved it.’ Suzanne fished around in her pocket and came up with a sweet. ‘I cannot kiss you, but here is a sweet for your lips.’
‘Thank you, my love.’
The cold fingers grasped the sweet, pulled it in, then returned to touch Suzanne’s.
‘Listen, cherie, I am told by this young man that the Germans are having trouble in the Ardennes.’
“That is so good! The problem is that one does not know if they will get more lenient as their time runs out, or more desperate.’
‘I think it will be the former, at least for civilians. Have you heard anything about our case?’
‘Nothing definite, though I thought I heard Lohse mention Giffard’s name the other day.’
‘That is encouraging. Maybe the old man isn’t the con we thought he was.’
‘I hope you are right.’
‘Cherie, I should probably go back now. I don’t want to be punished for being out of my cell. Perhaps they will let us see each other tomorrow.’
‘Yes, cherie, we should not take chances. Goodnight, my love. Courage!’
The cold fingers pressed the warm ones intensely, then withdrew. Suzanne tiptoed upstairs and returned to her cell. In the morning, the jailer said nothing as he turned the key to let her out for a wash and found the door already unlocked. Lucy busied herself with a short note; she put an address in liberated Paris on the back and managed to slip it to Evelyn, who got it to Haas. The rules continued lax for Christmas. Lucy did not meet Haas, but she was able to see Suzanne in the hallway and give her a brief congratulatory hug. Everyone doted on the lieutenant in the cell upstairs, sharing their little Christmas cakes and milk with him, and passing notes to take with him on his inevitable escape.
In early January, on the brink of starvation, with no more butter, sugar or salt available, and only a quarter-pound of meat per month, the Germans finally allowed a Red Cross ship, the Vega, in from Lisbon. Its contents were quickly offloaded. The Germans did not interfere with any of the packages except for the baby clothes, whose English-newspaper wrappings were confiscated (and no doubt read by the confiscators). All civilians, including the prisoners, each received a parcel with 6 ounces of chocolate, 20 biscuits, 4 ounces of tea (!), 20 ounces of butter (!!), 6 ounces of sugar, 2 ounces of dried milk, a one-pound tin of marmalade, a 14-ounce tin of corned beef, a 13-ounce tin of ham or pork, a 10-ounce tin of salmon, a 5-ounce tin of sardines, an 8-ounce tin of raisins, a 6-ounce tin of prunes, a 4-ounce tin of cheese, a 3-ounce bar of soap, and an ounce of salt and pepper. Everyone in prison made a little cupboard, almost a shrine, out of the box to store these luxuries. A can opener made the rounds of the cells. Often a trusty could be relied upon to heat something up in the little jailers’ kitchen. Fortified by the food, Lieutenant Haas made his escape on 8 January.
For Lucille and Suzanne, January lurched on as they waited for their lives to be ended by execution or saved by Allied victory; it was like waiting for the flip of a coin.
The news of the war was getting better; more German retreats. The Germans were getting harder and harder on their own, executing soldiers without trial for the merest intimation of mutiny or other infractions.
Otto did his
best to keep all his prisoners healthy, ferrying tidbits and cigarettes back and forth among the squalid cells, still vigilant, however, to any passing of notes.
Suzanne paced and slapped her arms against her body to keep warm; Lucy hugged her little makeshift hot water bottle and sang with the downstairs crew during the long nights. They weren’t getting much milk any more; the bounty from the Vega kept everyone from starving.
Lucy wrote on toilet paper to Suzanne:
Obscure dreams, crushing and putting back together always The sovereign waves of our strange slumbers.
January 25, 1945
(six months in the can!!)
CHAPTER 68
Gloucester Street Prison
19 February 1945
Suzanne paced her cell, more conscious of the stone floor under her feet, the dim sounds coming from the outside, the rustle of mice. This might be her last night. They were to appear before the ‘court’ the next morning. They couldn’t just be shot quickly; they had to make a ceremony out of it.
A length of toilet paper was folded close to her heart; Lucy had got it to her that evening.
Lullaby
To a woman on death row
In a white cell
It’s the eternal Sunday
Of which never does a Monday
Interrupt the boredom
In the courtyard where I am walking
The old tired wall
Does not even have room to lie down.
In the courtyard where I am walking
In the uneventful hallway
Everywhere here, spaces
Are vertical
Words are strange to us
Like the language of angels.
Friends, what is
The horizon?
These eternal Sundays,
And on the beds made of boards