Young, Brave and Beautiful

by Tania Szabô

  They walked into the wide station hall and entered the brasserie. A waiter approached and with a wink directed them to a bench table in a corner behind the semi-circular zinc counter. Once seated, Marcel excused himself saying he wished to make a telephone call to a friend.

  While Violette sat there, discreetly observing everything around her, Marcel made a call on an internal, seemingly secure, phone to a room above. He asked to speak to Jacques, the maître d’ of the brasserie whose brother was the stationmaster. Both worked for the Résistance. Marcel told Jacques that he had the most beautiful girl in town downstairs looking for an uncle who had gone missing in Rouen. Could he help? Although the line seemed secure, he never spoke about Résistance matters on it, using code or cover stories. They had already spoken about la fille anglaise who had parachuted into France. Jacques said he would come down in a few minutes to see this vision of loveliness. If the line were bugged, or if someone nearby had overheard Marcel, then the conversation that had taken place sounded quite innocent and supported Violette’s cover story.

  Meanwhile, a Wehrmacht colonel had approached Violette. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. Do you remember me from the Paris–Rouen train? You most charmingly shared our carriage.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ replied Violette, aghast at being recognised, but smiling nonetheless.

  ‘So, what are you doing here? Waiting for a boyfriend?’ Colonel Niederholen asked with a paternal smile.

  ‘Oh no, an acquaintance. He’s gone to make a call.’

  ‘I see. Is he helping you?’

  ‘Well, I hope he’ll be able to, sir. About my uncle, missing in Rouen. This gentleman has a friend in the Préfecture who might be able to throw some light on those missing or those who’ve died here. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.’ She smiled sadly at the colonel.

  ‘Permit me, Fräulein, to give you again my card, and if you have not luck, please I shall be entirely at your disposal to help further. Why not come to lunch with me tomorrow and we can talk about it. Say midday at that fine place in rue Grand Pont?’

  At that moment, Marcel returned. Violette introduced him to Colonel Niederholen as Marcel, apologising for not remembering his surname and explaining to Marcel she had met the colonel on the train and he had kindly offered to help find her relative.

  Marcel had overheard the colonel’s invitation and having thought very fast, said to Violette, ‘That’s very kind of the colonel, Corinne. And some more good news: my friend Paul Beaupuits wants us to look at some records tomorrow around midday to see if they help – you said your uncle was helping the authorities with something, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Oh, right. And thank you both so much. It is so kind. Colonel, thank you for your card. I shall certainly keep it close by – and for the invitation to lunch tomorrow. Unfortunately, I cannot miss the opportunity of meeting Monsieur Belpoil tomorrow,’ she went on sweetly, purposely getting the false surname wrong to confuse the colonel’s memory.

  ‘Of course not, Fräulein. May I extend during this time to you my sympathies for your distress? And my offer is open to you at any moment, if I can be of service, Fräulein. Auf wiederschauen.’69

  ‘Merci, mon Colonel, et au revoir,’ said Violette with great politeness and respect.

  The colonel walked away thoughtfully. What an appealing young woman. She seemed genuine, but who knew these days with so many pesky troublemakers about? He would do a little discreet checking. He did not want the German security services or Milice getting involved. Nasty thuggish bunch of good-for-nothings, he thought, as he rejoined his table.

  ‡

  ‘Phew,’ breathed Marcel with relief. ‘You handled that admirably. I especially liked what I presume was your deliberate confusion over Paul Beaupuits and Belpoil. Anyway, it’s not Paul’s real name but it’ll do for the moment. I want you to meet him and his wife, Marielle – not her real name either.’

  Violette voiced her concern that the colonel would take the matter further. They talked until the waiter, Yves, came over to take their order of cassoulet à la Normandie70 and half a carafe of watered-down red wine. There were even a few slices of baguette to accompany the meal. Nothing like a good dollop of fear and adrenaline coursing through the body to build a healthy appetite.

  A small wiry man came to the table as they were finishing their meal and drinking the last of the wine. ‘Bonjour tous les deux,’ he said amiably.

  ‘Bonjour,’ chimed Violette and Marcel.

  After introductions, Paul Beaupuits joined them for coffee and they talked inconsequentially, giving Paul and Violette a chance to size one another up while Marcel surveyed the brasserie customers with care. The colonel had returned to his table and was laughing and joking with his compatriots. He glanced toward their table a few times in friendly fashion. He seemed a decent sort. If he took the matter any further, he would do so through his own channels, not those of German security forces, thought Marcel.

  As they broached the reason for Violette’s presence, Paul conducted them upstairs to the clandestine meeting rooms, where they could talk without being overlooked or overheard. Violette reiterated her wish to access those in financial need and her instructions to gain more intelligence on the new weapons and launch sites. Philippe and other agents had informed London, she told them, that it seemed there were four different types, probably rocket launchers. She also wished to impart the instructions she had brought over to make preparations for the Allied invasion, wherever and whenever it might take place, and to discuss what effective sabotage could be done to the German secret weapons on French soil.

  Violette also passed on to Marcel and Paul an important message to be murmured in the first place to a trusted few – a rumour with no discernible source but spread quietly about. Since January, the aerial bombardment of Rouen and its suburbs had increased. Many strategic points were hit, among them railway and road bridges, as well as several communes where constructions were under German military control. Fortunately, houses in the old parts of Rouen had domed cellars which the Défense Passive designated ‘caves-abris’ – basement shelters. The rumour to spread was that the Germans had indiscriminately bombed parts of Rouen while putting the blame squarely on the Allies. The two men found this a comical and very effective way to sabotage German propaganda. It also happened to be true. Violette wanted to reiterate in the strongest terms the warning that the Allies would soon shell Rouen so people would flee the town until it was over. They were aware that, although the bombing would be strategic, there was no way of ensuring its accuracy. Navigators could and did get it wrong, targeting could be hit and miss and the weather unhelpful. She concluded that citizens should keep listening for BBC messages to that effect.

  The meeting ended and Marcel decided to take Violette to visit the Vincent family. Just for a chat. The opportunity was there for Violette to meet some involved in the Résistance, while giving her an hour or so to relax. They left their bikes at the station and walked.

  The Vincents were having a party for their eldest son’s twenty-first birthday; family, cousins and distant cousins, friends and fiancés were all there. Violette was warmly welcomed and immediately felt at home. The children were all over her, bewitched by her carefree smile and quiet poise. She asked lots of questions on how they were all coping, and talk of cellars arose again.

  Jean, a lad of sixteen who was intermittently helpful to the Résistance explained that people did not like entering the shelters as people are reluctant to go into caves whenever there was bombing. They were always afraid of being smothered or crushed so they also had trench shelters. There was one in place Saint-Gervais, which was where Jean went whenever he could.

  All schoolchildren, Violette learned, were advised to take a small satchel with a sponge in it in case there was a gas leak. But it seems no one knew what to do with it in such an event. A little girl of ten, Alice, told Violette as they sat around the table that she would probably wet the sponge and put it over her nose. Violette smiled at her in
telligent remark.

  Alice’s friend Claude, a girl from the other side of Rouen, explained that everyone was very organised, going into the shelter when there was an alert, but her father insisted she, her mother and brother get under a big solid oak table in the café where they lived. If bombs were not falling on Rouen, then Claude and her brother would get up on the flat roof of the small building that housed their café and home. There they sat watching planes pass overhead. The DCA71 or anti-aircraft guns would shoot up into the sky to bring down the bombers, they explained to Violette, having no clue she had been a trained and experienced predictor operator in London.

  Violette was aware that worse was still to come. In fact, Allied bombing raids would last until June as a prelude to the Allied invasion. Not knowing exactly when it was to happen, she had been instructed by London to warn people to get out of town for their own protection. She asked Marcel to pass this on to the party in the Vincents’ house. He explained that many had already left and were, indeed, expecting more bombing raids. He continued that, from the gardens at the rear of the building, it was possible to access shelters in various basements of the Hôtel de Ville. People made their way to bomb shelters there and to the northern heights where more shelters existed under high hills overlooking the town. Violette was relieved to hear it.

  A couple of hours later, Violette and Marcel moved on to a small hotel where the proprietor was a Résister. Violette was now meeting a good number of people seriously committed to liberating their country. All seemed casual and relaxed but she understood how worried they were by the danger of betrayal. She had some serious thinking to do and was looking forward to getting back to the seclusion of her room. She needed to make a report, turn it into code for transmitting to London, but first she needed to make her rendezvous with Philippe.

  Lucien, just arrived, had gained access to a local French wireless operator and said that Violette could use it to send her report the next day. Marcel also arranged contact with some women involved in one of the Maquis groups in a small village some distance from Rouen. She could cycle there independently and was actually looking forward to getting out of Rouen and onto the open road. Good progress so far, thought Violette.

  ‡

  All in all, things had gone well, and a while later Violette walked back to the station and collected her bike to cross back over the river to meet Philippe. She cycled to Saint-Sever station, where she picked up intelligence from new timetables of trains and destinations. From notices and talking to ticket sellers and railway workers, she discovered what trains would be transporting goods and which ones would have troops, when one company of troops would leave and another would replace them and who their commanding officers were. This was done so casually that not one person she talked to realised they were giving her invaluable intelligence regarding enemy movements. She acted the worried young lady needing to find out how she could get to Le Havre, or possibly where else to seek her uncle. She even found out a little detail on ‘her’ colonel and felt he could perhaps be useful at some time.

  As it was getting late, Violette made for place des Emmurées and her meeting with Philippe.

  ‡

  At the appointed time, Violette parked her bike by the corner pillar of the market in Place Emmurées and waved to Philippe, who was already sitting at a window inside Brasserie Marigold. Pulling off her scarf and pushing her fingers through her hair, Violette entered and joined Philippe at his table. ‘Bonsoir Charles, ça va?’

  ‘Oui, everything’s fine, Corinne. What will you have?’

  ‘Their magnificent omelette as you suggested, Charles. Ham, if they have it. And a salade verte to start with.’

  ‘Okay. Gui, deux omelettes au jambon et deux salades vertes. Any wine?’

  ‘Yes,’ the waiter replied, ‘some table white just came in. It’s not too bad. Bit watered down, but better than nothing. Carafe of water, too?’

  ‘Please.’ Philippe turned to Violette. ‘I’ve got some pretty bad news, I’m afraid. In one sense it’s good, I suppose. You won’t get into Le Havre, after all.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Violette concerned. ‘I’m quite prepared to go. On the other hand, it’ll give me more time to get things moving from here. But tell me, Charles, what’s happening?’

  ‘In Paris I met René Charles. He told me the situation in Le Havre. The members of Le Havre Hamlet sub-circuit, my offshoot of Salesman, are dead, imprisoned or scattered to the four winds. It’s just so dangerous there now. His family live just outside Le Havre and he went to visit them for family business, saying he’d be back in Paris in three or four days. So I thought it’d be a good idea to ask him to check out Le Havre. Four days later we met again in Paris. He reported there have been seventy-four arrests, including Roger Mayer, my lieutenant, which we already knew. A complete disaster. It must’ve been through collabos or infiltration, or an unknown mistake by any one of them, including Roger himself.’

  ‘You know, Charles, I get the distinct feeling this whole disaster from Rouen to Le Havre is linked with a much larger disaster. I don’t think the treachery, if that’s what it is, is local, in the first instance, at least. I think it goes higher up the hierarchy. It seems one of the culprit organisations is the OCM. I’m going to be asking some discreet questions. Bet I find out something, too.’

  ‘Right. But don’t get too cocky – otherwise you’ll get too dead! René reckons that there was nothing and no one left worthwhile for any work to be done.’

  ‘Well, Charles, I’ll still try to get there through some of my contacts here. At least I could give some financial assistance to those stranded by arrests or where the breadwinners have fled to the Maquis. They’ll be in desperate straits right now and it’s the least we can do. You must agree.’

  ‘Well, I’m not so sure, Corinne. Perhaps you’re right. But be damned careful and don’t spend too much time there. I’m rather pleased to know you still have some of the dosh.’

  ‘Nope! Spent most of it in Madame Sueur’s shop right here in Rouen!’ she smiled provocatively, then continued, ‘Don’t worry, I know just how important this cash is – London has sure given me enough – I’m going to make jolly sure it goes to the right places.’

  The waiter came laden with their meal, real bread and wine. ‘Your omelettes, messieurs-dames.’

  ‘Merci.’ Philippe waited until the waiter had moved away and then continued, ‘I’m back in Paris tomorrow to link up with a couple of circuit leaders east and south-east to sort out where to set up a new circuit that’ll be of maximum impact. I’ve plenty of contacts there and wider afield, especially the south. My wife’s safe, I hope, way down in Antibes and not averse to giving a helping hand every now and then.’

  ‘So, no network to resuscitate in Le Havre. Just like here. That gives me an easier time in one sense as it’s a new start, with different people. With this bike, I can travel fair distances to see people. Should leave me time to get to Le Havre, if not Calais.’

  ‘You did well to get that bike, girl. Looks perfect for what you need.’

  ‘Yep, no more blisters, either! I can get anywhere I need, but perhaps I will go to Le Havre by train and then on foot and use tramways there. The only contact you gave me was the professor, Roger Mayer. As he’s been arrested, I’ll need to meet up with his wife, start from scratch, building a small group of two or three.’

  ‘Right. Good thinking, as always, Corinne,’ was Philippe’s satisfied comment. ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

  She told him she was going to have a message sent next day to London, about the ‘wanted’ posters of him and Bob plastered all around town. ‘Before I leave Rouen for Paris – obviously not a moment sooner – I shall take a couple of them and bring them back to London. You really look funny with what looks like a beard drifting round your face. You look like some petty criminal, maybe a crooked accountant.’

  ‘Well, at least it’s not a giveaway of me, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, I
suppose so. But you really do look funny.’ And her eyes sparkled in wicked merriment, laughter tinkling over the table. Philippe found it impossible not to join in.

  ‘Charles, I think you should leave early tomorrow morning. It’s too late tonight to get to Paris. Curfew and all that. But I know there’s a train around half past eight in the morning taking workers to various stations on the Rouen–Paris line from Saint-Sever.’

  ‘Du café, messieurs-dames?’ interrupted the waiter.

  ‘Oui, deux grands, s’il vous plaît,’ ordered Philippe. ‘You’re pretty busy tonight, Gui.’

  ‘Oui, monsieur. We’re doing quite well.’

  At that moment, two German officers walked in, passing from one table to the next, inspecting each person’s identity cards.

  Violette’s merriment evaporated. She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. Not again. She pulled out her papers and rather sullenly pushed them at the officer when he came over telling him she was fed up with always showing her papers, complaining it was the fourth time that day Then she smiled at the officer, and he, smitten, could only nod that everything was in Ordnung and that she enjoy the evening. After having cursorily checked Philippe’s papers in the name of Charles Beauchamp, with the fictitious profession of accountant on secondment from a firm in Lyon, the officer collected his colleague. They both smiled at Violette and then they were gone.

  Violette and Philippe sighed a great sigh of relief. He was a wanted ‘criminal’ with a price on his head, but under the names of Clément and Charles Staunton, and they were relieved that the name of Charles Beauchamp had not appeared on the posters. Violette presumed that was why he was able to come into this particular district and feel secure. Nobody here had informed on him. Tonight, he was clean-shaven and looked every inch the neat professional accountant on important business, enjoying a pleasant evening in delectable female company, as fitted his cover. Nevertheless, they were taking a risk.