Once, on the stairs, Teddy was introduced to Jeanne’s sister, Pauline. She was a small wiry woman, very busy and efficient, who worked for the Red Cross. Her husband had been killed flying reconnaissance in early 1940, in the drôle de guerre. Jeanne had explained that Teddy traveled in cosmetics and had difficulty in getting ingredients. Pauline was just saying she thought she knew someone when Xavier had come out of the apartment—the complete zazou—on his way to a cafe. Jeanne had let loose a torrent of criticism and exasperation. His aunt had been more tolerant. She said, “His energies have to go somewhere. It’s harmless enough, if he isn’t too cheeky with it.” But Teddy knew that they worried he might be picked up in a street rafle. There was no peace of mind.
Pauline had been there earlier this week when Teddy had visited the Chevillon apartment, by invitation. Jeanne had returned home in the evening at the same time as Teddy. They had met in the hallway:
“Come in for a tisane,” she said. Then, once inside: “I know you don’t have a radio down there. Do you want to listen to … you know … the BBC? Everyone does it. They know we do it.”
But they weren’t lucky, the reception was very fogged, impossible to decipher. Then some anxious knob twiddling brought, loud and clear: “Sie hören die Deutsche Rundfunk.”
“Merde,” Jeanne said. Pauline also. She struggled with the set but with no success. Daniel chanted, “Rundfunk, rundfunk,” and roared with laughter. Jeanne cuffed him. “T’es dingue …”
The circuit to which she was attached for her work met in different places, cafes as well as each other’s homes. Her apartment was seldom or never used —particularly as there was no exit other than the front door. They were a small group. Jean Luc, their organizer, had strong views on this. Paris had had enough trouble. A chain, he said, precious cigarette dangling from his lips, was only as strong as its weakest link. Painfully obvious, and yet …
Jean Luc was a railway inspector for the SNCF, and so, helpfully, was able to travel about easily. In the ’14-’18 war he had rescued a German from a burning house near Amiens, and had been awarded an Iron Cross. He wore it now in his lapel. “What could possibly make me safer?” he would say. “They daren’t insult that”
Teddy had said the first time she met him, “Perhaps they’ll think you bought it?” He’d shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
“And what about other Frenchmen? Mightn’t they misunderstand?”
“I’ll worry about that when it happens.”
Then, she hadn’t yet realized what a subtle art blending in was. How to seem to be collabo, the better to take advantage …
Another agent, code name Olivier, was a librarian. He was one of those who had a laissez-passer to travel after curfew, that much-sought-after permit with its Gestapo stamp of lovebirds. (When Teddy had first heard it described, memory had played a trick, sending her from one war to another: she and Gib in Brighton, 1917. Watching the lovebirds at the Metropole. “That’s us,” he had said.)
Olivier and his Breton wife, Annick, lived on the Ile de St. Louis. Annick cooked wonderfully, and one of Teddy’s real pleasures since coming back to Paris had been eating with them, Annick managing always to get hold of something both substantial and mouth-watering.
There was also Claude, a radio technician, and Marc, a postal worker. Besides Teddy, the only other British person was their wireless operator, seconded from the RAF. Code name Vincent, he had been trained before Teddy so that she had not met him at any of the schools. He had a French mother and had grown up bilingual. Shortish, with already receding hair and a dry sense of humor, he was very quiet. Everyone liked him.
Then there were the subagents scattered about the countryside, every one a possible weak link, or a great strength. Some Teddy marveled at, such as the bee farmer in Normandy who moved his bees about, ammunition hidden in the hives. What official would be brave enough to examine a hive of bees?
Tonight they were arguing, as they did so often, now that the Allied invasion, the Second Front, could not be far away, about the best way of doing everything. To go in for large-scale sabotage before, or after, the landings? Already they’d been successful with small efforts, stage-managed by Jean Luc. Sometimes nothing more dramatic than altering a lading bill so that goods went to a wrong destination. At other times a line put right out of action. Jean Luc didn’t approve of the RAF bombing, and would try to needle Vincent. He argued, rightly Teddy thought, that a small bomb in the right place, planted by the Resistance, could do more damage than fifty hit or miss.
But mostly they saw eye to eye. All were in equal danger from the Gestapo—the dreaded Geste. She and Vincent faced possible torture, deportation, death. So, if discovered, did the rest—but they involved their families. The punishments for sabotage were fierce: all male relatives over eighteen, sons-in-law included: shot; women, sent to forced labor in Germany. Children taken away—God knew where.
How to live, she thought, as we all must live, with this ever-present threat. And if caught—to give nothing away. Or at the least to hold out forty-eight hours so that everyone concerned could go to ground. To fear for yourself, that you might be the one to break down and “finger” a colleague … Tales of the dreaded water torture alone had given her nightmare upon nightmare, of drowning, of suffocation.
Four days later the weather turned cold and sharp. In two weeks it would be Christmas. If anyone had told me last year that I should be in Paris …
Tomorrow she had a long train journey to Limoges. She would be alone both going and returning. How tired she had grown of station officials, French gendarmes who weren’t too bad, milice who were despicable, Germans—including sometimes the Geste—all looking inside her samples case, that pathetic collection of ersatz cosmetics. The coarse rachel powder, the hard lipstick, crudely scented creams. “Yes, I make some of them myself.”
It was just after midday. She put some bean soup on to heat. She thought she felt hungry but wasn’t sure. Perhaps what I really need is a good cigarette. She heard clumping on the stairs. A snatch of song, “Où es tu, mon Espagne,” in a nasal voice. Then a knock at her door.
Three guesses.
“Come in, Mme. Chevillon. No, of course you don’t disturb me.”
There was a faded torn leather armchair which Teddy never sat in, finding it uncomfortable. Mme. Chevillon settled into it at once. She asked Teddy, “Did you see Xavier just now? Rushing out just when his mother told him to be in—and going without his lunch. You’d think, a growing boy … Jeanne had some escalope de poisson, I queued for it—she won’t keep his for him if he’s not back.”
Better, Teddy thought, not to offer her an apéro, even some nonalcoholic grenache, or her tongue would become even more loosened. “Excuse me,” she said now, “something on the stove—”
“The trouble my daughter-in-law has with that boy, you don’t know. But it’s how they have to be when they’re growing up. My son after ’14-’18— the wild ideas. Now it’s his son. Oh, he says, Grandmère, I’m terriblement swing. He thinks it’s smart to talk like that. They all do. They get together in these places. I passed and saw him once, in the Select Bar, with all the pansies. I don’t know where they get the clothes, they oughtn’t to be allowed…”
Teddy, from the kitchen, made the right noises.
“I’ll tell you a secret—Jeanne, she’d be so angry if she knew I was up here gossiping—‘You’ve to stop talking all over the place, she told me’—little Gabrielle—she goes out with German officers. And her with an angel’s name too. My daughter-in-law, naturally she doesn’t approve, but with a girl like that, and so tall she looks twenty-two, what can you do?”
As old Mme. Chevillon tut-tutted behind her pebble glasses, Teddy remembered she had been frightened just to see the uniform. The girl and the German, there in the hallway, out of sight of the concierge, embracing, then breaking off hurriedly as Teddy came in sight.
“Perhaps she has other friends who do it, and she doesn’t want to be left out
?”
“Oh, you young mothers—you’re too easygoing. I’ll tell you something, I know how it’s going to end. A girl like that and a handsome Siegfried, one and one can make three all too easily, and then where shall we be? It’s the same whenever there’s a war. A young aunt of mine in ’70 when the Prussians came … If anything happens, I told you so, I shall say to Jeanne. Over eighty thousand babies so far, they say.”
She eased her feet deeper into the slippers. “To tell the truth I’m more afraid for Xavier, thinking how they might pick him up just for being odd. He’s a saucy one, he’ll give some answer he shouldn’t and find himself behind bars, and then who knows?”
It was only necessary to listen.
“I wanted to try and borrow a little pink cotton thread from you, just to mend this old camisole, but the truth is I like a little talk—hearing your news, I’ve always had this interest in other people’s lives, stuck as I am in that apartment all day.”
Jeanne rushed in, agitated, full of apologies. “Really, Belle Mère,” she could be heard saying down the stairs, “you must not make a nuisance of yourself.”
26
41 Valley Mount, Harrogate.
Saturday, 18 December 1943
Dearest Jay,
This will have to be my Happy Christmas letter to you. I wish we could find a way to spend some time at Xmas together. I’ve got lots to talk to you about, and things to ask you. You’re a wonderful listener—although when you do the talking, you’re awfully bossy, so there—that’s to stop you getting a swollen head!
Well, 1943 is nearly over and the best thing that’s happened in it (apart from my being an aunt!) has been you coming back from North Africa, safe and sound. Why do you have to be up in wild, wild Wales where I can’t see you, why can’t you get yourself stationed in Yorkshire? (Don’t get sent abroad again just yet, please!)
The latest is that I’m going to spend Christmas with Diana and her family. It’s the first since her brother’s death, so it’s really a sad occasion. She has been quite a lot better just recently, but this holiday will open up all the wounds.
She has a different Pole now. This one is really super and I think it may be serious. Her parents have met him and like him a lot. He was almost a lawyer before the war.
She sends you her love. She thought you enormous fun when you were here, but says we’d look better together if you were a bit taller. (Moral—I shouldn’t have worn my smart new Joyce wedges!)
Isn’t it lovely—I’ve had a letter from Aunt Alice! It was brought over by a major who escaped through Switzerland and who’d been staying with some people who have a daughter in my aunt’s convent —work that one out! Of course it isn’t the same as seeing her and talking to her (we used once upon a time to have such lovely family talks), but after the long silence it feels awfully nice and warm.
She said something so touching in the letter, Jay. It was to do with her early life. She told me lots. Things I never knew—like about marrying Gib, Teddy’s husband, and how she had been afraid of marriage (though she didn’t say exactly why), and that maybe that was why it had all gone wrong—that she’d perhaps not really been ready to accept it. But she said that now God had helped her to understand. And then this illness she’d had, when she’d written me rebellious letters that I never got. Now that was over, it was as if she could suddenly see clearly. That everything was for the glory of God, and she was doing now what she was meant to be doing. Even her photography that she’s taken up again—she’s finding a way to use that to help others, and to glorify God. She sounds so happy, Jay. And I’m so happy for her. I do love her.
There’s been one letter from Teddy since I saw you. But it didn’t say anything and it didn’t answer any of my questions or say anything about my news. It’s a bit fishy, a mon avis. I wish I had an exact address in Scotland. I wonder if it’s remotely near Michael? My geography was always terrible, and anyway I don’t believe the postmark is where she actually is. If it didn’t worry me so horribly it would make a nice bit of detective work. Makes me a bit Orphan Annie, if I didn’t have Michael and Jilly and you (and my nephew! by the way, Jilly says he’s beginning a tooth already! Is this a record?!).
I nearly forgot. Weren’t Diana and I lucky!! Glenn Miller came to play at the U.S. camp in Pennypot Lane. And we were there! We had a really wizard time.
There’ve been two letters so far this month from Christopher—I get that sinking feeling every time the newsreader says Sicily. Worrying, it’s a habit isn’t it? and how could I not? I think of darling Mrs. Hawksworth and her other son going all those years ago. Oh Jay! Now do tell me I’m just silly when I wonder if they brought you back from Sidi Rezegh so you could go to France for the Second Front? (Which must come next year, mustn’t it?) Try and stay a long time in Welsh Wales.
You don’t mention any girls at all—are you losing your touch or won’t they go out with you anymore? Please give me a proper account of how many Welsh beauties you’ve charmed. After all, I tell you everything!
I keep putting off writing the serious bits. I’m still worried about not having said Yes (or No) to Christopher before he went. If I said Yes, and then had to write that I’d changed my mind, that would be a terrible thing to do to someone under fire. I suppose I sort of said No. I mean, he knows he’s quite free. It’s just he so very much wants to marry me when, and if, he gets out of all this. And the trouble is, Jay, some days I really think it would be all right. I know they say if you have to ask if you’re in love then you’re not (If I didn’t have you, Jay, I’d seriously think of writing to a magazine—Evelyn Home or something, because Diana’s no help. She just thinks I’m mad not to say Yes. Stark staring!). But sometimes it feels like love, and sometimes it doesn’t. I feel all of a muddle. I hope being 21 in the summer will help. The awful thing is I wouldn’t die of misery if he married someone else, I think I’d just feel hurt. So that doesn’t sound like love. And—off we go again! What does Jay say? Tell me what you think. Honestly.
Now, dearest Jay, thank you very much again for all the shoulder to weep on you’ve given me for five years now if you count it starting in 1938. I don’t know how you managed to cope with my ravings when you were fighting a war in Africa.
If I’ve left it to the end to say anything about you looking for my father, it’s not because I’m not grateful. I am, Jay, I wouldn’t have known where to start. Now, if you say the Medical Directory is a dead duck and the Medical Register only gives qualifying dates and all that, where do you go next? The 1935 Cox and King’s address you wrote to, I awfully hoped for something from that. Did it really just come back Gone Away, are you sure it didn’t say Deceased? I know I’m always expecting people to die and I know it’s silly. Sorry. I feel altogether I’m asking you something really difficult Except you suggested it, you said, “I could maybe find out something for you or I could maybe help—if you wanted it.” And when I asked how, you said, “Where there’s a Jay there’s a way.” (You do make the most awful puns, Diana remarked on it!)
I’m just off to the movies now, we’re going to a matinee. Someone famous is at the organ all this week, Reginald Foort I think. The film is Deanna Dustbin—Hers to Hold.
Lucky you getting that parcel from your parents. Gosh, it’ll be wizard if they really mean to send Diana and me one too. Thanks for arranging!
Lots of love, and a big kiss,
Willow the Wisp.
27
Teddy sat in the crowded railway carriage. She decided that while they talked around her she would sleep. She’d long ago lost fears she might sleep-talk in English.
She had been reading, nose buried in Vialar’s La Grande Meute, hoping not to be spoken to. Now she shut her eyes. Her spectacles lay on her lap. (Would they ever seem anything but a nuisance? That time they had needed to be mended and the optician had said, “But, madame, they are hardly worth the wearing, such a weak prescription—it would be better for your eyes if …”)
She dozed, the train
swayed. Opposite her was a thin dark man in a beret who had in the rack above him, from the smell, some cheeses, as well as meat and wine, from a visit to the country.
The talk washed over her. It was almost predictable what people said, now that she traveled so often.
“Everyone will be a gaulliste soon.”
“Nothing’s going to make me, I can tell you. What is he? He’s just an arriviste. “
“The Maréchal’s done his best. He’s an old man. If you’d been there in ’14-’18—”
“Running late again. These trains. All we need now is for the Allies to bomb us.”
“All we need …”
“It says here, the GA ticket, it’s worth twenty-five grams of oil.” “What are we meant to do with that?”
“My little grandson—he’s hardly grown a centimeter this last two years, and we’re a big family. Big bones.”
“… and with the cold we’ve been having.”
“They were pruning these trees near the Chaussée and René got a lot of firewood. Everyone was after it.”
“People ought to pray more. He says it’s because France has turned away from the Sacred Heart …”
“No—from the Blessed Virgin. It’s the Blessed Virgin we should be praying to.”
The fat woman beside her shifted her weight, pushing against Teddy. Eyes half opened, she glanced away from the window and toward the corridor. A man walking down it carefully as the train swayed. His head turned, idly looking in the compartments. Ferdy!
Ferdy saw me!
She closed her eyes again quickly. Feigning sleep. The door slid open. She tried not to hear it. I shan’t open my eyes. By not a flicker shall I show fear.
His voice. “Teddy, what a surprise! Wake up, didn’t you see me?” The fat woman’s voice. “Someone’s speaking to you, madame.” He persisted. “Didn’t you see me? Teddy, it’s me, Ferdy.” She opened her eyes, looked at him coldly.
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