by Sharon Maas
‘Indeed! So do I! What kind of books?’
A second’s pause as her brain worked at top speed searching for a more elaborate answer, an explanation. I’m a student and they are textbooks. A history student. No, literature. No, she was a writer herself and the books were for research. No, they were antique books and she was a collector. All nonsense. She simply loved reading. Keep your cover stories simple, as near to the truth as possible, Vera had said. She was indeed an avid reader.
‘Well – mostly novels. Literature. French literature and – and German literature, of course.’
Damn. She should not have mentioned French literature. What if he insisted on confiscating it, here and now? As for German literature: while she knew the names of some of classical German authors – Goethe, Mann, Hesse – she had not actually read any of them. She was more familiar with French and, of course, British literature, but whereas a love of French authors was plausible, Jeanne Dauguet being French, she could never mention Dickens, Elliot, Hardy, Bronte, Austen to a German officer. But what if he asked her, now, about Goethe or Mann? Why had she lied?
She was caught out. Not even an hour in Colmar and already knotted in a web of lies, contaminated, exposed. He was going to insist she open the case, show her the ‘books’. She was finished. He’d blow a whistle and they’d come running to arrest her. The Gestapo. Lock her up. Interrogate her. Draw out her secrets. Forty-eight hours, her trainers at Beaulieu had said. Stay silent, or at least distract them, for forty-eight hours to give her team time to escape. Thank goodness she was new on the job and so had few secrets to be extracted if they tortured her. They already knew about Jacques. He was wanted anyway, for desertion from the German army. He was on the run, knew how to hide. He’d be safe.
But she’d have to talk about the ruined castle, try to indicate its location, the store of explosives, guns, grenades. Thank goodness she didn’t actually know where they were. She had not seen the location on a map; all she knew was that it was hidden in the vast Vosges foothills, in a forest. It would take time for them to find it and by then, hopefully, the maquisards would have removed the supplies, the weapons and the explosives, and hidden them elsewhere. That was the first thing Jacques would do when he heard of her capture.
As for the maquisards: she had no idea of their real identities and that was a good thing, only first names. They were safe. But what about Oncle Yves? It would be obvious that he was an accomplice. He’d be arrested too. Perhaps he knew vital secrets and they’d torture him to extract them. He was contaminated, and she hadn’t even met him yet. Don’t panic, Sibyl! But she was panicking.
So much for her much-lauded calmness under pressure; the reason they’d recruited her in the first place. Gone with the wind! Calmness under pressure was easy as a nurse. Not so much as a spy, an agent in enemy territory. As a nurse she was a professional. As an agent she was a hopeless amateur, and right now she was exposed, and frantic. She had to control her body; it was trembling. No, it wasn’t. That was just her mind, her imagination, trembling. Her thoughts. It wasn’t real. Maybe, even, it didn’t show. Calm down! Breathe deep. It’s all right. He’s not a mind-reader. He’s just a man trying to impress a woman. Just a man. That’s all.
That entire inner meltdown occurred in a fraction of a second. Now, in real life, von Haagen was speaking again.
‘Indeed! I myself prefer poetry to fiction. Perhaps we can have a discussion on the relative merits of both forms of literature at a later date.’
‘That would be – interesting.’
‘Of course, for all my love of poetry, I readily admit that music is actually the highest of all the arts. “A higher revelation than all wisdom & philosophy,” according to the incomparable Ludwig van Beethoven. And, of course, among all the composers, the Germanic ones are by far the best. Johann Sebastian Bach, the aforementioned Beethoven, my own namesake Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Speaking of Mozart, do I detect a slight Austrian accent? I must say, your German is excellent, unlike most of the citizens of this town, who speak it only falteringly. Where did you learn to speak so fluently?’
Damn it! She was supposed to have eliminated that telltale accent during her language refresher course at Beaulieu. Obviously, she had not succeeded.
‘My grandmother taught me. She was Austrian.’
Stick to the truth as much as possible. It was unlikely that he would investigate Jeanne Dauguet’s fictitious Austrian grandmother.
‘Indeed! Where was she from in Austria?’
‘From Salzburg.’
‘Fascinating! Like the great Mozart! I myself am from Munich, in Bavaria just across the border from Salzburg. What a fortuitous coincidence! And where are you going to? I assume you are coming from the station – judging from the suitcase. Are you in Kolmar for the first time? Or are you returning after a visit elsewhere? I see you are wearing a ring on your engagement finger – yes, I admit I was curious enough to steal a look – perhaps you were visiting your fiancé?’
Mind your own bloody business, she wanted to say.
What she actually said was, ‘I’ve come to stay with my uncle for a while.’
Jeanne Dauguet would never instigate a quarrel with a German officer, never be brash, never rude. Especially one who kept mentioning suitcases. Keep your head down, Vera had said. Forget pride. Jeanne Dauguet is modest and compliant.
He towered above her, which was in itself intimidating; his stride so long she had to quicken hers to keep up; although he noticed and slowed down. But the sense of intimidation persisted, emphasised not only by his physique but the entire military manifestation, in itself designed to evoke authority and respect. It worked.
He wore knee-high black boots, polished to a flawless shine, over wide-flapped jodhpurs of grey gabardine, topped by a single-breasted jacket (with its long sleeves, highly inappropriate for the warm June weather, but for that very reason asserting superiority) buttoned up to a high upright collar, smartly tailored with a wide belt at the waist. She scanned the jacket for Nazi symbols, swastikas or the double runes. At least there was that; he was Wehrmacht, not Waffen SS. Several medals decorated the jacket, and the oak leaves of merit adorned the collar.
Blond hair showed beneath the peaked cap, a wide-winged German eagle insignia on the soft grey fabric above the shiny black visor. As for his face: he was handsome, in a chiselled, cold, Germanic way: clean-shaven, square-jawed, narrow-nosed. His wide, thin-lipped smile did not reach the icy blue eyes.
He was also persistent.
‘And your fiancé? Where is he?’
‘He – he was in the French army. I’m afraid he was killed in 1940, soon after the invasion.’
A fictitious fiancé, it had been decided, would offer some protection against courtship attempts. It wasn’t working.
‘Ah. I see. My condolences. As you still wear his ring I assume you still have – feelings for him. But I think, after four years – well, life goes on after death and now you have come to Kolmar it’s a good time to let go of the past. And… oh, may I help you?’
Sibyl had stopped to remove something from her shoulder bag. It was the sketch that had accompanied Oncle Yves’ welcoming letter, showing her how to walk to his cobbler shop from the station. It would take a good ten minutes, he’d said.
Sibyl did not want to spend the ten minutes in the company of Major von Haagen, being grilled in a probing but outwardly informal interrogation. But how to get rid of him? He seemed bent on chivalry; now he had taken the sketch out of her hand, frowning as he inspected it.
‘Gerechtigkeitsgasse. I don’t know this street. But your uncle has indicated quite well the way you are to walk. We must turn right at the next corner, and then left again. It’s in the centre of the Altstadt, the old town. A beautiful part of Kolmar, I have to say.’
He launched into an admiring description of Colmar’s architecture, including several details about the history of the town and its changing status from German to French and back again, and how this had af
fected its character. He insisted that it was the prettiest town in Alsace, if not the whole of France, but not quite as pretty as the picturesque villages of Bavaria and Austria.
They walked on, Major von Haagen still loquacious, Sibyl still reticent, only half-listening as her mind worked strenuously trying to figure out how to get rid of him once she arrived at the cobbler’s. What if he insisted on delivering her safely into the hands of Oncle Yves? How well would Oncle Yves play his part? She had to get rid of him at the door – but how? How to shake him off?
But it was too late anyway. They turned a corner and a sign in spiky German script indicated they had arrived at Gerechtigkeitsgasse, Justice Lane. It was hardly more than a passageway, so narrow only a single vehicle, if it were not too wide, could pass through. It was a pretty cobbled street lined by narrow half-timbered houses on both sides, many of them with pots of flowers in full bloom flanking the doorstep or brilliantly red geranium boxes hanging from the windows. All of this leant a quaint, fairytale character to the road that belied the stiff and pompous name the conquering force had bestowed upon it. She wondered what the original name was; she knew that all French street names in Alsace had been abolished and replaced with German ones. She might have asked the Major, if it were not for the fact that she simply had to get rid of him. They walked on.
Some of the buildings had shops on the ground floor, large picture windows cut into the thick stone walls. A bakery – Bäckerei, the sign outside declared – with an empty shop-window. A charcuterie, Metzger, with two or three limp sausages on display. A haberdashery: Kurzwarenhändler. One sign read Geigenbauer, violin-maker, but the window was roughly boarded up and the word Jude scrawled crudely in huge red letters across the wooden panels. And, finally, at number fifteen, a large sign announced, in jagged German script, Schuster. Cobbler.
Sibyl stopped and held out her hand for her suitcase.
‘Thank you for your help, sir,’ she said. ‘Here is where my uncle works and lives. Auf Wiedersehen.’
Perhaps now, at least, he would deposit the case on the pavement. Her hand remained outstretched, empty.
‘But I won’t hear of it! I would be less than chivalrous if I did not deliver you safely into the hands of your uncle. I will put this suitcase into his hands, and his alone. Now, do you want to enter first, or shall I? The shop seems to be open.’
Indeed, a sign hanging inside the window read Ouvert.
‘Also, I need to have a word with your uncle. That sign must be changed to a German one.’
Sibyl shrugged; there was nothing to be done. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. A bell jangled. She entered the shop; to find a narrow space no more than four meters in width, divided down the length by a counter, with standing space for customers on one side and shelves along the wall on the other. On the shelves rested the odd pair of shoes or boots, as well as shoe paraphernalia: a few boxes of shoe polish, packets of shoe laces, brushes and leathers and soft cloths for cleaning shoes, random heels, and a few leather pouches and bags.
Von Haagen was right behind her. Breathing down her neck, in fact, in the narrow confines of the shop. She had no idea how to get rid of him.
A door at the back of the shop opened. A man in his late seventies or early eighties, white-haired, bent, bespectacled, and wearing a rather soiled full-length apron, peered out from what was apparently a work-room at the back; he came in wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes lit up when he saw her, but, as his gaze wandered further, and he took in the tall uniformed man standing behind her, they widened. It was the moment Sibyl had been dreading. But the next moment Oncle Yves, after his initial inner leap of shock, landed on his feet.
‘Jeanne?’ he whispered, ‘C’est toi?’
‘Bien sûr, Oncle Yves, c’est moi.’
He opened his arms. Sibyl rushed into his embrace. He hugged her as if she were, indeed, his long-lost niece. Further words of endearment followed: How you have grown! Let me look at you! You are so pretty! It’s good to see you, Uncle! Maman sends her love!
Von Haagen coughed, interrupting the welcome love-feast. He had, at least, set the suitcase down on the wooden floor.
‘May I remind you to always speak German? I intend to oversee this error in view of the situation but from now on I expect you to speak German. Remember there is a fine of five Reichmarks for speaking French.’
His voice, so solicitous and obliging while speaking to her, had turned harsh and demanding.
Oncle Yves adopted a humble mien and replied,
‘My apologies, Herr Major; you must forgive an old man. It is true that I spoke German in my youth, before the Great War, but I am afraid since then my brain has grown somewhat rusty and I am not as fluent as I might be. Again, my sincerest apologies and I will of course comply with the rules.’
He spoke in perfect, if excruciatingly slow, German, and Sibyl detected an undercurrent of satire behind the words. Von Haagen, though, seemed not to notice; obviously satisfied with the simpering apology, he nodded smartly and said,
‘Major Wolfgang von Haagen. I found your niece struggling along the street with her suitcase and assisted her in transporting it to this address. I find it very interesting that you are a cobbler, Herr Girard. I am sure you have already noticed with your professional eye that my own marching boots are in a deplorable condition.’
‘I have not inspected your boots as yet, Herr Major. But yes, I can see that they could do with a complete resoling. Unfortunately, though, leather is very expensive at this time due to scarcity. Many of my customers therefore elect to resole their footwear in wood.’
‘Wood! Do you think I am going to march in clogs, like a Dutch peasant?’
‘I certainly did not intend to suggest that, Herr Major. I merely indicated the realities of war. Unfortunate but true: many Colmar residents have resoled their shoes in wood. My former leather supplier in Paris is no longer accessible to me since the annexation, and I have not yet been able to find a supplier in Germany, unfortunately.’
‘If your only problem is to find a German leather supplier than that can be quickly solved. I and many of my fellow officers have had great problems with our boots. As you can see, mine are the original knee-high marching boots issued at the beginning of the war; now unfortunately the Wehrmacht issues shorter boots due to the scarcity of leather which you have mentioned. I take good care of these boots: a man’s character is after all reflected in the condition of his footwear, which must be immaculate at all times – excluding, of course, on the battlefield. I polish them black myself. But there is nothing I can do about the soles, which would require studs and steel caps to prevent wear and tear. Can you do this?’
As he spoke he lifted his left foot so that Oncle Yves could inspect the boot soles. He bent over to have a good look, before replying,
‘Yes, I can see they need work. Do you have a second pair as Ersatz? If you can indeed find me a good German supplier and have him send me the required material I would be happy to replace the soles, and of course I can add studs and toecaps, but you will need to have another pair to wear in the meantime.’
‘I have four pairs of boots altogether: two old-style tall pairs, which of course are my preferred boots, and two of the modern-style shorter ones. Only the tall ones – both pairs – need resoling. I can have them done one pair at a time. It would as well give me the opportunity to make the further acquaintance of your charming niece, who, I understand, is to take up work in your shop. In the meantime I will now take my leave as my fellow-officers are no doubt wondering where I have absconded to. Leben Sie wohl, Herr Schustermeister; we will meet again. Leben Sie wohl, gnädiges Fräulein Dauguet. Until we meet again.’
‘Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Major!’
Sibyl was so glad to see the back of him she almost stuttered over the words of farewell. She had placed herself protectively in front of the incriminating suitcase, pushing it slight back into a corner. She had feared that von Haagen would insist on opening it right th
ere searching for forbidden French books, or to instigate the threatened conversation on German classical literature. Thankfully, that was not to be.
Oncle Yves did not return the farewell. Once von Haagen had left the shop amidst a tinkling of bells, he glared at Sibyl and then, in fierce staccato German, faster than he had spoken before, said:
‘Das war aber eine schöne Bescherung! That was a nice present you brought along! Whatever occurred to you to pick up a German officer on the way? Are you off your head?’
‘I’m sorry! I didn’t pick him up – he forced himself on me and I couldn’t get rid of him.’
‘I think we can speak French again now that he’s swaggered off. Let me just check.’
He walked to the door, peered out onto the pavement and down the road, and then spat, loudly and ferociously, onto the cobbles on the street. Re-entering the shop, he slammed the door shut and locked it. His voice, as he continued to speak, was belligerent.
‘This is what comes when they employ young girls as agents. Whatever were they thinking? Colmar is swarming with single male officers. You’re actually lucky you picked up one who seems at least moderately polite and benevolent! Some of them are brutal!’
‘I didn’t…’
‘Never mind for now. That’s past. You need to think about the future. You can’t allow him to ride roughshod over you as you allowed today, and I mean that in a literal sense. You need to learn to act professionally. You have not seen the last of that man, I can tell you now. I saw the glint in his eye. Better figure out now what you are going to do about him. In the meantime follow me. This is my workshop…’
He led Sibyl through the door at the back of the shop. The room they entered was dark, lit only by a dusty bulb hanging from a rafter in the ceiling. The walls were lined with wooden shelves, on which lay tools and gadgets of all sorts: scissors, knives, measuring tapes, inner soles, lasts, rotary cutters, pliers, saws, and several gadgets Sibyl did not know the names for. On another shelf sat shoes in half-finished condition, shoes that seemed to have gone through the wars themselves. A basket in a corner contained shoes that, presumably, had been thrown away, judging by the condition they were in and the layer of dust that covered them. A box contained blocks of wood. Racks along the back of unshelved walls were filled with more shoes, and boots. In the middle of the room was a small, low table, also covered with tools, and a workbench, with a stool next to it, and on the other side an industrial-sized sewing machine with a foot-pedal. The smell was pleasant: a blend of rawhide, and ageing leather, linseed oil, and, yes, wood. At the back of the workshop was another door.