by Sharon Maas
He parked at the edge of the market square and once more took her hand as she stepped out. Always the gallant charmeur, he never missed an opportunity to be the epitome of German chivalry; a knight, thought Sibyl, smiling to herself, in shining armour. Were she not a spy she might have fallen for it. Now, his attentiveness took the form of offering her a guided tour of the village. The thieves’ tower, the church, the medieval fountain: everything was described to her in meticulous detail. She listened attentively, nodding appropriately, commenting now and then, and all in all doing her best to conceal her exasperation.
She saw other things. Yes, she remembered Riquewihr well. But she remembered it without those gaudy oversized banners displaying the black swastika against a white circle and a red background, hanging, it seemed, from every second building. The charming wrought-iron shop signs had all been crudely painted over. The bakery was now the Bäcker. The butcher was now the Metzger. The candlestick maker – well, there wasn’t one of those, but there an Antiquitätenhändler had morphed out of the quaint little antique shop where her mother had sometimes liked to pick up ornaments to add to her collection, all of which were shipped over to England and now adorned her home in Three Bridges.
‘Interesting,’ Sibyl said. Ghastly, she thought. Not only the banners and flags and German signs distorted her memory of the town, but the soldiers; soldiers, standing in groups near the fountain, two of them walking slowly down the middle of the road, three of them in a parked jeep near the church. They were everywhere.
‘Why do you need so much military in the village?’ she asked. ‘It’s such a quiet, peaceful place, why?’
‘To supervise. The moment we turn our backs they revert to French. We are here to ensure the complete Germanification of every Alsatian town and village. And as you know, we Germans are particularly thorough.’
‘I noticed that.’
Sibyl noticed something else, something not as obvious as the inescapable military presence. It was an atmosphere. A sense of menace, a feeling of fear, a mood of sullenness that soaked the very air of Riquewihr. She remembered this place; she remembered the freshness, the friendliness, the good humour of the Riquewihr citizens. Aunt Margaux had known practically every shopowner, and walking down the street had been a relay of handshakes and greetings and smiles: Buschur! Güata Tàg! Göte Tàij! Little chats along the way, invitations to drop in, inquiries as to health and children and old parents and the farm and the harvest and the grapes and the weather. Now there was only silence and glum faces. Nobody looked anyone else in the eye; and they avoided von Haagen and Sibyl altogether, sidling out of the way for them, and at least once, even crossing the street to avoid them. Though von Haagen was not in uniform, his aura was quintessential Wehrmacht; he reeked of it and the Riquewihrans caught whiff of it and skulked away; and as for Sibyl, she was guilty by association.
That guilt permeated her. She wanted to scream: I’m not! Not really his girl! I’m on your side! I grew up here! I’m only doing a job! I’m helping to free you, for God’s sake! But the scream remained silent and her mien remained bland, the way she had trained it to be, and only her eyes could speak, if someone would take the trouble to look into then; but no-one did, and she remained a stranger in those cobbled streets, an alien, an enemy.
Her eyes took in another thing; at first, only in her peripheral vision, but then she began to look closer, and the closer she looked the more concerned she became. A poster, pasted on a few lantern posts, on random walls, even on shop windows. A face. Big black lettering: WANTED! She would have stopped to read the writing more carefully, but didn’t dare; what interest would Marlene Schuster have in a wanted man? But she recognised the faces, for there were two, side by side. She had seen those men.
They were maquisards. Jacques’ boys, or Henri’s.
Yet she had to know, and so she asked. ‘Who are those wanted men? What have they done?’
‘Oh, they are terrorists. They tried to bomb one of our outposts up in the Bas-Rhin area. Luckily they were extremely incompetent. We initiated a hunt for them and we were successful. We caught them yesterday. The posters will come down next week.’
‘Oh! And what will become of them?’
‘They will be sent to prison, probably at Natzweiler-Struthof in Alsace, or else sent to Germany for trial and conviction.’
She had heard of Natzweiler-Struthof. Halfway between Strasbourg and Colmar, it was more, far more, than a prison. It was a concentration camp, the only German concentration camp in France, a name that evoked horror in the minds of maquisards for, if caught, that was where they ended up, sentenced to hard labour, starved, and, quite often, executed. It held tens of thousands of prisoners, all former Resistance fighters from all over France. And now, her fighters were behind its walls? Why had she not been told? Why had Jacques not immediately informed her? What was going on? Now she had no option but to keep questioning von Haagen. Wolfgang. The name tasted bitter in her mouth. She had still not offered Marlene in reciprocation; she still could not bear it, and probably it was a good thing. Marlene was hard to get, which only improved her chances.
‘Do you have many terrorists in Alsace?’
‘Unfortunately, it’s a plague that has worsened in the last few months. At first it was just a few isolated and amateur incidents, which the police could easily deal with. But now, well, there is evidence they are receiving outside help from enemy sources. Their weapons are more sophisticated, their methods more – shall we say, more proficient. We have had to employ Gestapo agents to deal with them. But never fear, they will all be caught, one by one. The Gestapo, the Secret State Police, will make short shrift of them.’
Sibyl could actually feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She shivered, but only internally. Outwardly, she continued in the manner of a naïve but inquisitive girl making small talk with her boyfriend.
‘Really! So the Gestapo is here, among us, in Alsace?’
‘Indeed! They have been here since the beginning of the war but in the last few weeks they have increased their presence. They are among us, but you can’t tell. See, even that man over there might be Gestapo: who knows!’ He chuckled, and indicated a man reading a newspaper on a bench near the fountain.
‘Oooh! I hope he doesn’t arrest me!’
She giggled. He chuckled, laid a protective arm around her. She let it be.
‘I will not let that happen, my dear! I will protect you with my life; even the Gestapo will find a formidable enemy in me!’
‘I have to say, it is all quite scary. It was even worse in Paris; that’s why I was happy to come here, to Alsace. I thought it would be quieter. I wish the war was over and we did not have things like terrorists and Gestapo agents crawling about the place.’
‘The war will be over, sooner or later. As we discussed earlier. And if all goes well –well, I have my cherished dreams. As I suppose you do.’
‘I suppose we all have dreams. But in times of war we must all be realistic. Even in times of peace few dreams can be realised.’
‘Still, we can work towards their fulfilment, and as long as we are not too demanding, not dreaming the impossible, then why not? Now, I told you my dream, earlier; you did not tell me yours. May I ask?’
‘Of course, and I will tell you that it is all very vague. How can it be other than vague, since we do not know how it will all end? But one hopes for the best, and the best is a quick end to the war.’
‘And when the war is over, then what? Have you dreamed further?’
‘As I said, very vaguely. A husband, I suppose; a home, children. The usual things.’
‘Then our dreams are very similar. Perhaps…’
‘Herr Major – Wolfgang – please. I think that is enough of dreaming. Maybe it’s time to go home.’
Chapter 27
Just as von Haagen was reversing the car on to the street for the return journey, Sibyl caught a glimpse of another car, a battered green pick-up, one that she immediatel
y recognised. And she recognised the driver. Had she been Sibyl Lake, and not Marlene Schuster, she would have cried out, Aunt Margaux! and leaped from the Mercedes. As it was, she was condemned to watch as her beloved aunt, the person she would most like to see in all the world, if given the choice, parked, opened the driver’s door, descended into the street and walked away.
How she had changed! Sibyl remembered her as a soft, round, maternal figure, with a face that smiled constantly, a large and bouncy bosom, and solid legs. The woman who now walked away towards the town centre wore threadbare dungarees that hung on her frame as on a wire effigy. She must be half her size now – reduced, like so many, by the war. But it was her face that had gone through the most alarming transformation. It was haggard. The bones, once nicely packed in the flesh of softly rounded cheeks, were now sharp promontories above hollow valleys. The lips were stiff, unsmiling; in fact, the entire face seemed carved and contoured by an underlying anguish, a blend of despair, capitulation and sheer exhaustion. She wore a headscarf tied behind her neck, out of which fell lank tendrils of grey, greasy hair. So forlorn, she looked, shoulders rounded, gait slow as if in considerable pain, as she walked away from Sibyl. No comparison to the bundle of energy that Aunt Margaux had been.
Yet she was unmistakeable; in the split second as Aunt Margaux turned her face while parking to look behind, Sibyl had known. No recognition had flashed in the older woman’s eyes; not surprising, as she was obviously preoccupied with pressing burdens, and Sibyl was not only the last person she’d expect to see, but was now a grown woman instead of a twelve-year-old girl.
It cost Sibyl all her strength not to fly out the door, run after Aunt Margaux, fling her arms around her, and beg for sanctuary. Beg for refuge, refuge from all this. Beg for a return to home, to normality, to the place where she belonged, the only place on earth she had ever felt happy, and the people who had helped that happiness to flourish.
As ever, the demands of reality restrained her. But she was thankful that, on the return journey to Colmar von Haagen remained silent, deep in thought himself. She kept her head slightly turned from him, her gaze fixed on the vineyards flashing past, because she feared the tears that might moisten her eyes; that he might see beyond the mask.
This excursion back into the past had agitated her more than she had expected. The vineyards, so brilliant green in the summer sun – the memories they evoked! Of halcyon days with Jacques, in the fields and in the forest and in the vines. Aunt Margaux, the good spirit and pulsing heart in the warm brick walls of Château Laroche. Marie-Claire, Leon, Lucien, Victoire, the laughter that echoed in every corner of that home! Yes, it was home, home in a way the house in Three Bridges had never been and never would be.
Her mother had torn her away from that home just as she was blossoming into womanhood, and deep inside Sibyl had never forgiven her. Not that she had gone through life resenting Kathleen for making that crucial move – even at the time, she had been mature enough to recognise that her mother needed to build a life of her own, find a love of her own, return to her own roots, which were in England. The threat that Germany had posed even then leant an even more compelling argument to the decision. But with Kathleen returning to her own roots Sibyl had lost hers, and had had to build a new life from scratch with only wonderful memories as a foundation. Nursing had provided an escape from that life, a reason to give herself to something bigger, grander; to align herself with France, with Alsace, with home.
And now here she was. In an Alsace that was not Alsace, but an Alsace owned by Germany. Living a false life under a false name, the false girl of a false German major. Because yes, everything about von Haagen was false. He had shown his true face today. Which meant she was doing her job well.
As a nurse, Sibyl had learnt how to handle men. All men, in all shapes and sizes, in all varieties. She had learnt what made them tick, what lay beneath the so-tough exteriors; the little boys that hid behind the arrogance and the bluster and, as was so often the case, the bullying. She had seen it all; men screaming with agony with half of their skin ripped away by burns, or limbs hanging on by mere ribbons of flesh and skin. Men who took their rage and their despair out on her, because she happened to be there, caring for them, touching them. She had sometimes wrestled with men as they resisted treatment; men who kicked and fought and hit and spat and called her all manner of hateful names. But most of, she listened. Listened as they talked. When the bluster left them, how they talked! She knew what moved men. She knew that at the moment when death is hovering as a shadow in the wings, all façades drop, all masks, all pretence, and they become vulnerable and small and needy. Putty in her hands, both as a nurse and, now as an agent. And that was why she had never been deceived by von Haagen, and would never be deceived by any man. She knew the truth of their being. In the end they all grovelled for love.
Von Haagen lay in the palm of her hand. Marlene Schuster was no more than a shadow, a superimposition; all of Sibyl Lake’s skills were at her disposal, and all she had to do was to play her cards cleverly. But now, at the very moment of most promise, had come the moment of most danger.
The arrest of two men from the Maquis. Who were they? How much did Jacques know? How much did they, the men, know, and might reveal under Gestapo interrogation –which, in the end, meant torture?
The orders were clear. The moment one of them was caught, contaminated, the network had to dissolve. Go into the underground.
If that was what she had to do, she knew exactly where she would flee to. She had seen and recognised her refuge, just minutes ago, and longed for it. But stronger yet than that longing was the need to fight.
She had to report back to Acrobat. This was an emergency. But first, she had to contact Jacques.
Chapter 28
‘Why didn’t you tell me? It’s been a whole week since it happened and not a word from you. Jacques, that’s not how it’s done! You know that! Who are these men?’
It was the first time she had ever rebuked him, but it had to be done. The capture of a saboteur was a serious matter, especially an amateur saboteur who had not been trained, as she had, in the methods of interrogation and was not prepared for torture and did not carry an L-pill.
‘They are idiots. Remember the fools who ran off with rifles and hand grenades? Henri’s men? That’s them. Raoul and Gaston. They broke into a sausage factory, imagine! It was all about food. And a factory near to where they are originally from, in the Bas-Rhin, so the guard they tried to shoot – and missed – recognised them and snitched to the Boche. They got away. There was a huge police action with posters all over the place and eventually they were caught by the local gendarmes – Alsace police, born and bred Alsatians – to be held until the Germans could talk to them. By that I mean the SS. But you know how it is. The Gestapo had to come from Strasbourg and by then news had spread that local boys were in the local prison. Henri bribed one of the guards and they organised a staged break-in. The boys are free again and in the underground, like the rest of us.’
‘Still, you should have told me right away. I need to be informed…’
‘Told you, how? I only heard myself three days ago when I saw the posters. I thought it was more important to call a meeting with Henri and that was the right thing to do because that was how we got them out of jail.’
‘Von Haagen said they were sent to Natzweiler.’
‘He lied to you. It’s just the usual German bluster, showing off. That’s where they would have been sent once the Gestapo got to them but they never got that far. Your German boyfriend would never admit to you that they actually escaped from custody! He would never admit any Boche failure, would he?’
‘Actually…’
‘So how are things going with your boyfriend?’
‘Please don’t call him that. You know very well that it’s just a job.’
‘I hope so. But these German officers – I don’t know.’
‘Jacques, jealousy doesn’t suit you. Don’t worry abo
ut me, worry about yourself. Because the bigger message is that the Gestapo have increased their presence in Alsace and are suspecting British involvement. SOE involvement. That means we need to lay low for a while. No more attacks for four weeks. They’re all over Colmar. They wear black uniforms and just the sight of them gives me the creeps. And not all of them are in uniform. They could be anyone. So, my instructions are that. Keep to the hills in the next few weeks.’
‘I’ll tell my boys that. But for me, it’s different. I am still investigating the bridge situation. There are two supply bridges in the Alsace, at Chalampé and Brisach. The Brisach one is the more important – it’s a railway bridge that connects Colmar with Freiburg and the southern state of Baden. I need to get that bridge. Once I have destroyed that, I will bomb the Chalampé bridge.’
‘You cannot do it alone, Jacques. I would do it with you but even I have never blown up a bridge of that size before. I think it’s better I request an expert from headquarters. You cannot risk it. Especially with reinforced SS activity all over the place.’
‘You’re telling me to back off? Sibi, this has been my dream for months, if not years! The main ambition of my life!’
‘All your dreams and ambitions are of no account here. Do not place your personal fulfilment at the centre of this because it is bound to go wrong! Why do men like to measure themselves by their achievements? “I need to blow up this bridge to prove myself.” That’s what I’m hearing and it’s nonsense. You’re not to do it, Jacques. I’m going to get in an explosives expert to figure it out and do the deed. It’s not your place.’