by Kit Sergeant
This time, however, the cell that she was crammed into was nothing more than a barred cage set in the middle of the police station. Odette’s throat was burning with thirst, but there was no sink or even a toilet in the cage.
She lay on the stone floor in between the other two occupants, who were loudly snoring. Odette held her hand over her eyes to block the naked electric bulb overhead, which still blazed at this late hour. She heard the faint buzzing sound of an airplane, and hoped it was a British bomber returning to blow this horrid place into oblivion.
The next morning, a guard put a large bucket of raw potatoes into the cell. The other two women each reached for a potato with their grimy hands and began to peel it.
“You help,” one of the women told Odette with a toothless grin.
Odette completed three potatoes and then quit.
“Guard!” the first woman shouted as the other woman stared at Odette with dull eyes. The first woman pointed a trembling finger. “The Frenchwoman stopped.”
Odette crossed her arms over her chest. “I have peeled three potatoes because that is enough for me to eat. I am a political prisoner and decline to do anything more than my fair share.”
“If you refuse, you will be taken before the Chief of Police,” the guard threatened.
Odette wiped her hands on a towel before replying, “Let’s go.”
When she was brought before the chief, she was informed that she was going to be transferred again, this time to Halle, and then on to the Ravensbrück Concentration Camp.
“Good,” Odette told him. “Anything’s better than here.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he cackled, throwing his head back and revealing yellowed teeth. “I’d tell you to report back to me in a month to see if you still think so, but you won’t be alive.”
She shrugged and allowed the guard to lead her away.
This time she was taken to an attic and shoved into a stifling, windowless room. She could hear the sound of many bodies breathing raspily, and when her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she saw that there were some forty women lying in various states of exhaustion on the floor. Odette saw with horror that the women had relieved themselves wherever they found convenient, and the room reeked of body odor, urine, blood, and excrement.
The Germans had strewn sand all over the floor to hinder fires if the Allies dropped bombs upon the attic. It got into Odette’s eyes as she marched over to one of the most cognizant-looking women.
Odette tried introducing herself to the woman, but she shook her head and replied something unintelligible in a scratchy voice. It might have been Ukrainian, Odette decided. Nonetheless, she took the woman’s skeletal arm and led her under the skylight. She got down on all fours and then gestured for the woman to do the same. Odette stood up and took off her shoe before mounting the woman’s bony back. She slammed her shoe into the glass with all her might, noting with satisfaction as it shattered around them. The little breeze whipped more sand into Odette’s eyes, but she managed to take in a much-needed breath of fresh air.
Even with the occasional gusts from the broken skylight, the attic was boiling hot and Odette spent yet another sleepless night crushed between atrophied women’s bodies.
In the morning a bucket of soup was placed in the sand and the women became snarling, clawing beasts as they thrust their hands into the bucket. Odette turned away, trying not to think about the contaminated, thin soup, no matter how much her stomach growled. Instead, she stood under the skylight and breathed in the morning air.
Once the bucket had been licked clean, the women went back to their spots and lay down. Odette curled up in a corner and tried to sleep. In the afternoon, bread was thrown into the attic and the horrid scene from the morning played out again as women snatched sand-covered stale bread from one another.
As dusk fell, the door opened again and a man’s voice called up the stairs. “Frau Churchill? Ist Frau Churchill hier?”
Odette got unsteadily to her feet, wondering if the time of her execution was upon her. At this point, she almost welcomed it. She crept over the Ukrainian women and went down the attic stairs holding tightly onto the banister.
“I am Mrs. Churchill,” she told the man, a portly shadow against the light of the hallway.
She felt a whoosh of air and then a crushing blow landed squarely on her mouth, causing her to nearly tip over.
“That’s for Winston Churchill!” he shouted before he slammed the door so hard it shook the walls.
Chapter 69
Didi
The new wireless operator, Maury, found another place in Le Vésinet, a western suburb of Paris, to transmit from, though he warned Didi that the reception there wasn’t the greatest.
One warm afternoon in early July, Dumont-Guillemet gave Didi an urgent message to send to London: he had discovered his friend, Sidney Jones was now in the hands of the Gestapo. “Tell the SOE that one of their men, someone named Bardet, has been working with the German Secret Police for the better part of a year.”
Didi sighed. “I guess that explains the rise in missing agents.”
“Yes.” Dumont-Guillemet’s normally ebullient tone was subdued. “But don’t go back to the Dubois house,” he cautioned. “It’s not safe.”
She nodded and took the message before letting herself out of the safehouse.
Luckily Maury had already set up the wireless in the new place, so she wouldn’t have to move the suitcase across town. Didi perused a Metro map and started to find Le Vésinet with her finger, but then paused as a thought occurred to her. Maury also said the reception was poor at the new house. What if she couldn’t communicate Bardet’s betrayal right away? What if her transmission was garbled by Morse mutilation? In the time it took to solve the indecipherable, Bardet could betray even more agents.
This will be the last time, Didi promised herself as she boarded the train for Bourg-la-Reine.
When Didi reached the Dubois house, she found that the suburb’s power was out. It didn’t come on for hours, forcing her to miss her evening sked. Still desperate to deliver the Bardet information as soon as possible, she decided to sleep in the attic and wait for her morning sked.
She awoke to the light of the small lamp next to the wireless. She hastily went to the small attic window and threw it open, noting a few more lights coming from the other houses in the predawn hours. The power was back on. She pulled the wireless case out from the pile of musty blankets beside her and assembled it. Once it was ready, she placed her finger over the Morse key and typed out her message.
From the open window, she could discern the sound of a car engine, but, as she was engaged in her task, paid little attention. She completed the message and then had begun dissembling the transmitter when she heard a car door slam.
She forced her trembling hands to set the Morse key down before once again peering out the window. Two white vans were parked across the street and another was pulling in. Her heart froze when she saw several men exit the vans, holding tracking devices.
The Gestapo. The moment she’d been dreading had come. She had only a few minutes before the Nazis would come knocking on the door of the abandoned Dubois house. Or, worse yet, bursting in.
She ran to the back window and frantically pulled down the aerial. She threw it into the case, not caring if she damaged it in doing so. She started to bury the case in its customary spot in the blankets, but, after a desperate moment, decided that was too obvious and hid it in a second-floor closet instead.
She continued downstairs to the kitchen, where she hurled Dumont-Guillemet’s handwritten message into the fireplace. She grabbed a set of matches from the mantel and struck one, but, because her fingers were shaking so badly, it refused to light.
After a few more tries, she finally got one lit, which she held to the message. To her relief, the paper quickly caught fire. She grabbed a poker and spread the ashes out.
Didi was moving so fast that it seemed as though the Germans were takin
g forever, but then a heavy hand knocked on the door. She stirred the ashes once more. The fire had mostly been extinguished, luckily after the evidence had been burned, but there was no explaining why she had chosen to light the fire on a sizzling July day.
She took in a deep breath, attempting to calm herself, before opening the door.
A man in plainclothes was on the other side. He lowered his gun before barking an order in German.
Didi shook her head.
She caught the German words for “search” and “house” before the man barged in.
I am Jacqueline du Tetre, a simple shop girl, she reminded herself. “Who are you and what do you think you are doing?” she demanded.
The German took one look at the still smoldering fire before sticking his head out the door and beckoning to his comrades, who were at the house next door.
Didi, knowing that her life depended on her demeanor, clasped her hands together in an attempt to still them.
A new man stepped into the living room. “We know that you have been using an illegal wireless set,” he told her in French. “You have been sending messages, which means you are working against Germany.”
Didi started to shake her head.
“Show us where the wireless set is.”
She finally found her voice. “What do you mean sending messages? Aren’t wireless sets used to listen?”
More men entered the house. Most of them were carrying guns, and Didi felt herself start to panic. She took in another deep breath. “I’ve never seen a wireless set you like what you say.”
The man in front of her frowned, and for a split second Didi thought he believed her. But then he nodded and his men began opening cupboards, tossing out whatever they found inside. Finding nothing of importance, they headed upstairs. Didi started to follow, but one of them told her to stay where she was.
“Hier ist es,” a triumphant voice called. A soldier walked downstairs, holding the wireless case in front of him.
He placed the case at Didi’s feet. “What do you think this is?” he asked in halting French.
Didi’s eyebrows rose as the soldier’s eyes narrowed. She thought about denying that she knew anything of the set, but then quickly surmised that the Germans would demand to know whose equipment it might be. Since she appeared to be alone in an abandoned house, she decided that the best solution was not to say anything at all.
The man who had brought down the wireless dug into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He slapped them over her wrists and then nodded at another man, who shoved her forward with the butt of a rifle.
She was under arrest.
Chapter 70
Odette
After four torturous days in the stifling attic, Odette and the Ukrainians were taken by train to Fürstenberg, where they were then unloaded and forced to hike three miles to the Ravensbrück Concentration Camp.
Odette had nearly nothing to eat for the past week and she walked slowly, both because she was feeling weak and because the gravel hurt her mangled feet.
The camp had been built next to a sparkling lake rimmed by a forest of dark-green trees. A few charming chalets were sprinkled along the shore, their windowsills brimming with white gardenias, whose scent filled the summer air. All in all, I can think of worse places to die, Odette decided.
A few people were lying on towels next to the lake, catching the last rays of sun. They did not look up as the morbid line of women straggled past them. Odette mused that they were probably guards off duty.
Soon monstrous towers came into view, and after that, gray walls at least five meters high. Feeling very small, Odette followed the Ukrainians through the mammoth iron gates.
The little group paused as a band of skeletons in black and white striped sack dresses marched past. With a start, Odette realized the skeletons were women. She imagined many of them had once been beautiful with womanly curves, but now their heads were shaved, their emaciated bodies marked by purple and yellow bruises. None of them made eye contact with the new recruits. Odette looked back to see the massive gates open once again to let them out. As one of them stumbled, the female SS guard behind them cracked her whip, landing on the back of the offender, who didn’t even cry out.
When the newcomers reached a sandy clearing about the size of a soccer field and void of any greenery, the guards stopped them and went into a little building, probably to announce their arrival.
Odette’s shoes sank into the sand as she paused to gaze around. The wall blocked them off from the pretty village, and had barbed wire on top, most likely electrified, judging by the stenciled skull and bones every 20 meters or so. A gravel alleyway lined with poplar trees led to the main part of the camp, where around 15 gray sheds formed right angles to the road on either side.
Odette and the Ukrainians were ushered down the trail to a cinderblock building. Inside were long pipes, interspersed with nozzles, running along the ceiling. The showerhouse.
Odette turned on a tap and was thankful to be confronted with a trickle of rust-colored water. She opened her parched mouth and sipped in as much water as she could, not even noticing that it tasted of copper. A guard informed them that the camp was over capacity and that they would be staying in the showerhouse until further notice.
Odette undid the little bundle she’d carried from Fresnes. Besides the somewhat tattered shirt and trousers she wore, she had the gray suit, a blouse, a pair of silk stockings and heeled shoes, and an extra set of underpants. She washed them all with a tiny piece of soap before turning to her own battered, shrunken body. After she was suitably clean, she spread her meager wardrobe out on the concrete floor to dry. Still dripping, Odette then lay down next to her belongings and fell asleep.
She awoke before dawn the next morning to a woman’s hoarse voice shouting, “Appell!” Odette splashed cold water on her face, noting that her companions had already left. Remembering the defeated, starved women from yesterday, she decided to cling to her femininity for as long as possible and put on her gray suit and red blouse.
She walked out into the cool darkness only to be greeted by another line of prisoners drifting slowly past, the whites of their striped dresses glowing in the electric searchlights.
She joined them in their ghastly march to the clearing in front of the gates. Thousands of wretched waifs in sack dresses were already lined up in rows, standing as still as possible, as both male and female SS guards marched up and down, taking roll.
“Achtung!” an obviously well-fed, heavyset woman shouted. “Ranks of five, hands by your side.” She carried a hefty accordion folder, occasionally thumping the women in the head with it if she felt they were not standing at attention.
She paused at Odette’s side, taking in her red blouse and shoes. “You are new?”
Odette nodded.
The woman called for another guard, who came over. “Take her to Sturmbann-Führer Sühren,” she commanded.
He looked at Odette expectantly. When she didn’t move, he got behind her and whacked her in the back with the butt of his rifle. “Los!” he shouted, hitting her again. “Get moving.”
Odette did as he told her, albeit slowly, walking on her heels as much as possible, but the gravel kept getting caught in her soles. As they approached the showerhouse, Odette paused. “Do you mind if I change my shoes?” She slipped her foot out of one to show the guard her disfigured toes.
His upper lip curled in disgust. “Klar,” he agreed. “Schnell, schnell.”
She went inside, where she brushed the dust off her gray skirt and coat with her hands and then ran her fingers through her tangled hair. If she was going to give the impression she was a Churchill, she’d better at least try to look the part. The familiarity of primping calmed her, and when the guard threw open the door, tapping his jackboot impatiently, Odette announced that she was ready.
With his predictably blue eyes and blonde hair, Sühren was as Aryan as they came. His face was round and his eyebrows were so lig
ht they were barely visible. He looked too young to be responsible for the fates of the thousands of prisoners that occupied his camp. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
Odette, musing over how ineffectual his voice sounded, replied that she spoke no German, and then half-heartedly added a “Monsieur,” at the end.
His forehead furrowed above those non-existent eyebrows as he looked down at the paper in front of him. “Frau Churchill.” He looked up. “You are related to Mister Winston Churchill?” he asked in halting English.
“My husband is a distant connection of his.”
He lifted a manicured hand. “Here in Ravensbrück you will no longer be Frau Churchill and will answer to the name of ‘Frau Schurer.’”
She recalled the slap she’d gotten in the attic simply for being a Churchill. “I have had many names in my life, monsieur. One more makes no difference to me at all.”
She could tell by his frown that he didn’t understand. “You have been condemned to death and will therefore be taken to the Bunker, the prison of the camp.”
She wanted to laugh at the term ‘prison’—as if the rest of the camp were a delightful getaway for those who had fallen on the wrong side of Hitler’s regime. “Very well,” she replied instead.
Sühren called for her guard. Odette was able to pick up the gist of his German commands: she was to receive the normal rations of the Bunker, no more no less, no exercise, no books, and no bath.
“Jawohl, Herr Kommandant,” the guard responded before leading Odette back out into the sunshine. They crossed the dusty grounds to an elongated L-shaped building. “Das ist the Bunker.” He knocked on the steel door and a short, dark-haired woman with a hawk nose nearly obscuring her receding chin answered. She barked something at the guard and then stepped back, indicating that Odette should walk inside.