Initiation

by S C Brown

  She thanked her pilot over the crackly intercom and saw him raise his hand in reply as they trundled further along and stopped.

  The canopy opened and Eve suddenly a man’s face appeared to her left. Whoever he was, he was saying something but Eve could not hear him. She passed out her suitcase and a small bag before hitching up her skirt a little and throwing a leg out over the cockpit and onto the ladder. She felt hands guide her hips downwards until her feet hit the ground. Eve smiled mischievously, thankful for the darkness that preserved her modesty. At least she had returned to France without showing her knickers, she thought.

  Suddenly, and still unable to hear over the noise of the engine, a man grabbed Eve’s arm and led her away from the aircraft which, once she was clear, revved up and taxied away. Eve saw two huddled figures clamber into the aircraft; as soon as they were seated, the engine revved and in no time took off. Eve watched the black underside of the aircraft silhouetted against the deep blue of the winter night and the luminosity of the moon. And then the aeroplane, her only link with Britain, was gone.

  But it was good to be back.

  * * *

  Paris. The buildings were in many ways as grey as London’s but this was where Eve had grown up. After an uneventful journey from Chartres, Eve allowed herself to forget for a moment the purpose of her visit and instead breathed the air of her favourite city once again, tainted as it always had been with the sweetness of tobacco. The suitcase holding her radio hung heavily by her side. The streets were familiar, as were the sounds but the people looked thinner with deepened eye sockets, their wooden soled shoes clip-clopped across the pavements. There were fewer cars than she remembered. Almost all the men were wearing a German uniform.

  As she passed a café, some Germans stopped talking to watch Eve walk by. Despite herself, Eve gulped. She turned the first available corner and let her suitcase land heavily on the pavement, leaning forward to breathe. For a moment, she thought she was going to be sick. She was going to have to get used to this, she thought.

  ‘Are you all right, Mademoiselle?’ a voice asked from behind. Eve started and looked around to see an old lady, slightly hunched. Eve paused.

  ‘All right?’ the old lady asked again, urging an answer.

  Eve pulled herself together. ‘Yes, Madame, I must have had a funny turn and my suitcase is heavy.’

  ‘You girls couldn’t travel light even if you knew how to, could you?’

  Eve, pale as she was, tried to smile.

  ‘Do you have much further to go?’

  ‘No, I am staying in the 6th, so I’m nearly there.’

  ‘I am walking that way. Give me that other bag. You can carry that suitcase yourself.’

  The old lady gave Eve a suspicious look as she used two hands to lift the suitcase up. ‘What have you got in there?’

  ‘This? Oh, all sorts, I sell medicines, so lots of heavy bottles.’

  ‘Well, let’s go before your arms grow longer under the strain.’

  And with that, they set off. It was easier to take the looks of German soldiers as she walked past them with this old lady beside her. Eve avoided too much conversation in case she began to sound like the person she was – someone returning to Paris after nearly five years.

  Eve realised she was already getting better at walking past Germans, it was going to be a key to her survival – looking like she had lived with all this since 1940, not just the last few hours. More confident with someone else by her side, Eve began to enjoy herself again.

  With one shoulder raised against the weight of her suitcase, the two women walked towards Eve’s address. Getting close, Eve said that she was almost there and did not want to divert the old lady any further. She said thank you and took back her smaller bag. They parted company pleasantly and Eve navigated her own way to the safe house. 181 … 183 … 185 … 189.

  Eve exhaled a little too loudly for her own liking as she placed the suitcase down on the pavement, selected the doorbell labelled Agard and pressed it. She smoothed down the front of her coat, checked her hair, pursed her lips and waited. From upstairs, Eve could hear footsteps getting gradually closer. Eve looked left and right, there was no one watching her. The footsteps shuffled closer still.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked the rasping, wheezy voice of an old man.

  ‘I am here to visit Melissa. Gerard sent me. It’s about the flower print.’

  ‘Is Gerard still smoking a pipe?’

  ‘No, cigarettes - and only after lunch.’

  The door flew open with an energy that did not match the frailty of the voice. The old man stood to one side. ‘Welcome. Come in.’ The man’s voice was hushed and hurried. Eve picked up the suitcase and walked in.

  ‘You have made good time and you match the description … perfectly,’ smiled the man, clearly approving of his new arrival. He noticed her shuffle uncomfortably and shot out a hand in welcome.

  ‘I’m Eve,’ she blurted. ‘Pleased to meet you. I was a little nervous there, to tell you the truth. I haven’t done this sort of thing before and whilst I was pretty sure I was in the right place, I couldn’t be certain. It’s been a few years since I was in Paris last and not allowed to write down any addresses, so I was a little panicky.’

  ‘Well, you made it and you are safe and you are welcome.’ Edouard, in a moment of chivalry and hospitality stooped to pick up the suitcase, felt its weight, then let go and stood up slowly. His crinkled face rested somewhere between a smile and a grimace.

  ‘I have carried that thing for miles, so a few more steps won’t hurt,’ said Eve, putting on a brave face.

  Eve looked up the staircase to hint that now would be a good time to get away from the door.

  ‘Yes, indeed. Follow me.’ Edouard started a slow ascent of the stairs.

  ‘Is it good to be back in Paris?’ he asked, just a little out of breath.

  ‘Always. It’s funny how you remember streets that you know you haven’t walked in years.’

  ‘The old…’ Edouard stopped walking to think of a word, ‘…vibrancy has gone. Sure, the Germans traipse around as if they are on holiday but it can be miserable here. Everyone’s a potential spy, everyone’s a potential informer.’

  He stopped on the first landing to catch a few breaths before continuing on. Eve shifted the suitcase from one hand to the other.

  ‘And the coffee’s no good,’ he said after a few more steps.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I don’t know what the Germans have done with it or to it but it’s not the same since they arrived. George runs the Tabac across the road there, says that they have had to change suppliers.’

  ‘Really?’ Eve was getting bored already. She wasn’t expecting coffee to be second highest on the agenda in occupied Paris.

  ‘No one believes me, my dear, but I reckon that’s the truth.’ He stopped and then walked past another apartment door.

  ‘They’re all empty, you know. All these apartments. Occupants left some time ago. Now it’s just me, Helene my wife - and now you. You have the apartment on the top floor’ we are in the floor below you.’

  Looking up glumly, Eve braced herself for another two flights of stairs, carrying the suitcase in front of her, held with both hands now.

  ‘So why don’t you move downstairs? Surely it would be easier to live on the ground floor?’

  ‘No, the old occupants’ furniture is still there and they may well come back one day. Anyway our home has been on this floor for years, and we have no intention of leaving. Also, it gives us plenty of time to tidy anything incriminating away should we get, ahem, unexpected visitors.

  ‘Ah, here we are, this is our place, as I say, you live on the next floor up but before I take you there, how’s about a sit down, a chat, meet my wife and drink some bloody awful coffee?’

  ‘How could I refuse?’ Warmth radiated from Edouard’s now open apartment door. The suitcase landed heavily on the floor in the hallway.

  * * *

  As soon
as she heard the dogs, Madame Morneau knew that it was all over. Listening again over the noise of the rain pattering against her kitchen window, she could hear them – dogs, lots of them. She took off her apron and dried her hands, the kitchen chores would just have to wait. Madame Morneau walked slowly across to the kitchen door, hung up her apron and then checked her hair in the small mirror hanging off the doorframe. Satisfied with her appearance, she stooped through to the cold living room to look onto her favourite photograph of her husband, resplendent with optimism in his uniform. Not long now.

  A truck pulled up outside. Madame Morneau watched the soldiers dismount and spread out. A staff car wound its way up the track. Out stepped the one man she did not want to see. Ritter.

  And so it begins, she thought. ‘My name is Violette Morneau, wife of Victor Morneau. This is my farmhouse,’ she said.

  Minutes later, she lay dead, her blood pooling with the rain in puddles. Ritter looked out of his window as the car slipped back towards the road. What he had learned confirmed what he already knew: a large band from the Resistance carried out the attack on the railway. They were based somewhere outside the town. What had surprised him a little, but it was obvious now he came to think about it, was that there had been a British agent among them.

  * * *

  It was dark by the time Michel and Paul approached Yvette Lavier’s cottage for the second time in a week. One of Paul’s men walked up to talk to them and handed Paul a package, which Paul placed into his pocket.

  ‘There are four of us dotted about, we’ve been watching the house and there are no Germans in the area. These houses are not under surveillance, well, except by us. We watched Yvette in her garden earlier this afternoon, taking her washing in. Apart from that, nothing. There is a light on in there but that’s about it. No one else has come in or left. You can go in. I will knock on the door if anyone approaches.’

  Paul thanked his man and they approached the house. Michel knocked. It was the same style and number of knocks as last time but this time there was no answer. In the gloom, Paul and Michel exchanged enquiring looks before Michel knocked once again. Still no answer. The house beyond the closed door seemed very quiet.

  ‘Shall I knock again?’ asked Michel.

  ‘No,’ said Paul nervously, ‘Push it in, we have little time.’

  Michel looked around and, satisfied that all was quiet, was about to put one of his shoulders to the door when Paul interrupted. ‘Wait.’ He tried the latch and the door swung open.

  Smiling, Michel and Paul were quickly in the house with the door shut behind them. It was dark inside and they struggled to see in the gloom. They both walked forward with their arms outstretched, groping forward, banging quietly into tables, chairs and a small toy.

  Michel came to a sudden stop with a short yelp.

  ‘What?’

  Paul could hear Michel fumbling in the gloom.

  ‘She’s here.’

  ‘What? Yvette?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ said Michel slowly.

  Paul reached out to push the front door open a little more and in the new light hung Yvette, her body swaying a little. The rope creaked against the beam it had been clumsily tied to. He dropped his head forward and breathed out.

  ‘Now we will never know what she told them,’ said Michel wearily.

  ‘At least I won’t have to kill her,’ whispered Paul, tapping the parcel in his pocket.

  Michel’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘She’s an informant now, Michel, we would have to have taught her a lesson.’

  Dumbstruck, Michel reached out to touch Yvette’s hand apologetically. ‘They’ll still think we did this, you do realise that,’ he said at last, slowly.

  ‘So be it. Talking gets you killed.’ Something in Paul seemed to snap. ‘Right now, you and I need to go to ground. Both of us. Her killing herself is proof enough that she talked and she would have almost certainly have given our names. We are in trouble here.’ Paul swore. ‘We have to go to ground and steer well clear of everyone, just in case we’re followed. You with me?’

  Michel was watching, his hand on Yvette’s arm.

  ‘You listening?’ hissed Paul.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘We have to, just have to get out of sight. Go to ground and not go anywhere near the others. Understand? Don’t go back through the village. Take the long route home.’

  ‘Yeah, I get it,’ said Michel distractedly. ‘It’s just that there are no marks on her body. Look, no sign of torture. She’s clean.’

  ‘So?’ asked Paul, quickly.

  ‘We went to school with her, remember? I never thought she would be the sort to go to the Germans. Think about it. Look at her, Paul, I mean it. There’s no bruising, no cuts, nothing. She’s intact. Maybe she didn’t talk. Maybe she just wanted to be with Luc.’

  ‘We can’t take the risk,’ said Paul, his voice betraying his uncertainty. ‘Don’t forget, we know she talked to Ritter. We have to assume she told them about us. Have you got somewhere you could go?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Michel. ‘I will go back to my house, pack and be gone before dawn.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Michel, don’t go home at all. Go now and be gone. Then wait for two or three days before getting back in touch.’

  ‘No need. I think we’ll be fine, you and me, Paul. Don’t shrug your shoulders at me. I will of course go to ground and I’ll be gone by dawn. I promise.’

  ‘OK, that’s agreed provided you’re out of that house by dawn. Remember, they always come –‘

  ‘- Half an hour before sunrise. I know.’ Michel paused for a moment before looking down once again. ‘What should we do about her?’

  ‘Nothing for now. I will tell the boys outside to arrange a friend to come and visit and find her, all innocently. One thing’s for certain, you and I need to be well away from here before that happens.’

  * * *

  Michel woke with a gasp as his bedroom door was kicked open. A bright torch was shone straight into his eyes. In German, a voice said quietly: ‘That’s him.’

  Michel was lifted out of bed and, with his arms gripped tightly behind his back, carried along the landing and then pushed to the stairs. Michel tried to swing around but was punched in the back of the head. He tottered for a moment before being shuffled downstairs into the arms of two more grim-looking soldiers.

  Someone punched him again. The strength went from Michel’s legs. It was difficult to see who in this dark, the torches went to only one face - his. Michel’s head slumped forward as he was dragged outside and thrown into the back of an Army lorry, where another two soldiers waited. He lay sprawled on the floor as the tailgate of the truck was quickly fastened and the engine coughed into life. Michel lay helpless on the cold metal floor as the truck drove off.

  ‘Halb vier,’ said one of the soldiers straining to read his watch in the gloom.

  Michel cursed his own stupidity. It was half past three in the morning, not half an hour before sunrise.

  Chapter Five

  Thank you for coming to visit me here, I’m Eve.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Eve and Oberon shook hands formally.

  ‘Your hands are warm,’ said Eve welcomingly.

  ‘I’m sorry?

  ‘I thought your hands would be cold having come in from outside.’

  ‘I have spent some time downstairs chatting to Monsieur Agard and his wife. There were a few things that I wanted to attend to there first. As well as that, I wanted to make sure that you have been well accommodated and that there has been no undue interest in your sudden arrival.’

  Oberon was trite, formal, and remote. His fingernails were bitten down to the quick. Eve gestured towards the kitchen where she poured out coffee, placed the cups on a tray and led Oberon to the dining room. Throughout, Eve could sense the tension in this man, a man who was either rude and incapable of holding down polite conversation, or a man who said nothing in order to give away nothing.

 
‘You have been stuck here for two days now and I think that it’s fair to say your presence is quite unnoticed. But I don’t like it, you’re too new to be launching into an operation so soon. Too hasty usually means too prone to make mistakes. It’s no secret I don’t like you being here at all and I certainly don’t like you working from here. The Agards have supported me so well for years and the slightest slip from you may see them strung up.’ Oberon’s delivery was like a pre-prepared speech on a bad school prize-day.

  ‘I have no problem with London or you knowing that I do not want you here. Your mission is too important to give to an inexperienced little girl like you. It makes no sense. If anyone should be tracking your target, it should be me.’

  Eve took an immediate dislike to Oberon. Yes, she was inexperienced but Smithens had selected her for the job. But then Eve thought, as she poured coffee, what was upsetting Oberon the most was that he was looking for the prize of tracing Berner, not handing it to some novice girl. Yet Eve decided to keep up the pretence: the more wary of Eve Oberon was, the more likely he was to stay away. Eve kept her voice calm:

  ‘I agree that I am quite new to this but my superiors in London thought that firstly, this job would be an unwanted distraction for a man like you and that keeping tabs on someone in Paris is a relatively simple task. If Berner arrests me, no one will care, if Berner arrests you, on the other hand…’ Eve left that hanging a moment for effect. ‘Anyway, I know Paris very well. I grew up here.’

  Oberon struggled to keep his eyes from looking down. ‘Your accent is perfect, that’s for certain,’ Oberon replied tersely ‘but you are going to be depriving me of six men at a time when I want to be gathering as much intelligence as possible. These are men that I can ill afford to spare. What’s worse is that I have had to completely separate them from the rest of my network. It’s as if they no longer exist for me. They’re gone.’