Churchill's White Rabbit

by Sophie Jackson

  Back in his cell he was once again set on the chair with his hands cuffed behind him. It was unbearable not to be able to put his head down and sleep for even a moment. With usual Forest stubbornness, he determined to free himself from the chair at least and by rocking and trying to stand he eventually flung himself forward and wriggled his arms from the back of the chair.

  It was far from easy to struggle the chair back onto its feet and then to somehow position it so he could sleep on it, with his arms still firmly behind his back the whole time. Eventually he managed a position resting on the chair with his head propped against the wall, and even dozed. But his reprieve was all too short lived.

  * * *

  Notes

  1. Marshal, Op cit.

  2. Seaman, Op cit.

  3. Ibid.

  – 13 –

  The Endless Nightmare

  RUDI AND ERNST HAD tired of interrogating Forest and had relinquished their prisoner to two new officers, neither of whom felt inclined to reveal their names to him. They were new faces in the ordeal, but when Forest was brought before them he discovered that he was to endure the most horrific déjà vu as the two men repeated the process Rudi and Ernst had so generously initiated him into. First there was the firing of questions, and thankfully even a sleepy Forest could recall his cover story, but all too soon they were at an impasse, as once again he was demanded to tell them the location of the resistance arms dump.

  Then it was a return to the bath, though apparently it was too late for the female personnel to attend, or perhaps they had lost interest in this particular victim. There was little that Forest could do but hold on to his stubbornness and his breath. He endeavoured to reduce the torment by kicking violently when his head was first immersed in the water and then, just as he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness, allowing his body to go limp making it seem he had blacked out a little sooner than he really had. Even so it was a nightmarish struggle: his body constantly fighting between life and death, his stomach filling with hastily swallowed water and his lungs burning from the effort to breathe. It lasted an hour, at which point he feigned complete collapse and was dragged back to the interrogation room, where he was forced to watch his anonymous questioners eating a leisurely breakfast of croissants and coffee. Despite his injuries Forest could still feel the pangs of hunger this induced, but for his breakfast all he received was another beating until he was virtually insensible, then the Germans left.

  For a brief spell Forest was alone with his thoughts and his pain. Throughout the corridors of the building screams rang out as new victims received the Gestapo treatment. Forest could only close his mind to the sounds and hope there was no one he knew in those other rooms. He was still unaware that Brossolette had been a victim of the regime and had killed himself a mere hour before Forest had arrived at the house.

  Then Rudi and Ernst were back and Rudi was feeling vengeful for the false errands he believed he had been sent on the day before. Perhaps Forest felt a tinge of amusement that Rudi failed to realise that he had stood in a genuine resistance safe house, before the usual round of beating and bathing continued.

  By the afternoon however, his captors were getting a little desperate at the stubborn silence Forest maintained. He was driven to 84 avenue Foch with two SD men. This was one of three houses acquired in the grand residential boulevard connecting to the Arc de Triomphe by the Gestapo. They used it for various operations, including counter-intelligence and the orchestration of the ‘wireless’ game they played with SOE.1 It is one of a few places in Paris synonymous with the dark secret police, but its fame was of little comfort to Forest as he was escorted to a first-floor interrogation room.

  Awaiting him in the room was a bespectacled, humble-looking man at a typewriter and an SS giant, watching over him like a chained bear. They were a bizarre match, but this was a trick the Gestapo had learned from the British and tried to use to their own ends. For a long time the modest fellow at the desk studied Forest, giving the agent a chance to study him back. As no names were offered, Forest began to think of him as ‘Professor’, as his appearance gave him the semblance of an intellectual. Slowly, Professor inserted paper and carbon into his typewriter and the interview commenced.

  ‘I am not like the others,’ he confided in very correct French. ‘I shall not hurt you. If you are sensible we shall be good friends. Come now, you will do yourself no good by obstinacy. You’ve had your flutter and you’ve lost. Now all you’ve got to do is answer my questions.’

  The unnerving calmness of the man and the lack of the violence Forest had come to expect when he failed to answer questions disturbed him more than the torture Rudi had inflicted and with good reason. It was British intelligence that had first used the ‘subtle’ method of interrogation. They were helped by early German propaganda that was distributed to troops, which inflated ideas of extreme British torture. This was designed to make Germans so desperate not to be captured that they would die first. It backfired. German soldiers, sailors and airmen were taken and after they had stewed for a while over the idea of being horribly tortured they were brought before a man like the ‘Professor’ who would talk to them as a friend, a comrade, a fellow soldier and almost invariably they would be so relieved that they would break.

  So now Forest sat before an interrogator using the ‘British method’ and asking quiet questions and typing up whatever was said without comment. He later wrote: ‘I found his calm way of examining me much more disturbing than the brutal methods of “Rudi”. His very calmness and detachment seemed much more ominous. He was more subtle, maybe less brutal, but quite possibly more cruel. It was like being in the presence of a big spider, and feeling a web being coiled around me.’2

  It was while he was calmly typing that the Professor dropped his first bombshell.

  ‘You know Cadillac?’ he enquired smoothly.

  Forest froze for a second, having thought he knew all that the Germans wanted from him (arms dumps locations and contacts), he was shaken by this new attack. Cadillac, as he was well aware (and as the Professor seemed to be) was one of Bingen’s codenames. It shouldn’t have surprised him, knowing the insecure methods his French colleagues were using, that the Germans should be aware of such a significant figure by his alias, but it still unsettled Forest. He feigned ignorance. The Cadillac was a type of American car, wasn’t it?

  The Professor, typing diligently, was unimpressed.

  ‘And Pic? Do you know him?’ he asked.

  Pic was one of the less imaginative codenames for Pichard, who had also provided Forest with the services of Antonin. Knowing Antonin was in the clutches of the Germans and experiencing the same ordeal as he was, Forest was certain the young man had talked and the Professor was already well aware of the connection between himself and Pichard. Lying was pointless; instead Forest ventured to misdirect his captors.

  ‘Yes I know Pic.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  Forest gave an imaginative and completely fictitious account of Pichard’s appearance, making every detail the complete opposite of what it really was. The Professor typed quickly.

  ‘It’s just as well you told us the truth,’ he said as his fingers moved. ‘You see, we arrested Pichard yesterday.’

  Forest had to resist smiling; if that was the truth his interrogator would have been well aware that he had just lied to him. But it was a brief triumph as the Professor turned his attention back to the ‘Cadillac’ issue. Once again Forest denied any knowledge and the Professor issued a weary sigh. The German patience for the ‘British method’ was depressingly short and with a single telephone call the Professor abandoned Forest back into the world of torture.

  A giant German thug appeared, punched Forest without a word and then dragged him from the room. The relatively peaceful reprieve was over, and the next torture he was to experience was one of the worst the Germans had in their repertoire.

  He was escorted to a room with a hook on a chain hanging from the ceilin
g via a pulley. His handcuffs were fixed to the hook and then the giant hauled on the pulley and Forest’s arms were brutally pulled back and up as his feet left the floor. The handcuffs instantly bit into his wrists, but it was the agony in his shoulders that consumed his mind, and for the first time Forest let out an involuntary groan, much to his torturer’s amusement. Unconsciousness came blessedly quickly, but was not total, and throughout the next few hours he hovered between reality and oblivion, the pain overtaking him far greater than he had previously experienced.

  It wasn’t until nightfall that he was released from the hook and collapsed onto the cell floor. As he awoke from his pain-induced daze, he could only think of the blistering agony in his shoulders, almost dislocated by the ordeal, and the burn in his wrists where the handcuffs had bitten into his arms and cut off his circulation. The long-term effects of the hanging torture could be horrendous: previous victims had lost the use of a hand or arm, sometimes both, and if nerve damage had occurred the mutilation would be permanent. Forest didn’t know it, but he would be one of the lucky ones who did not suffer such debilitating long-term effects, though it was little consolation at the time.

  Forest was close to defeat. There was only so much a man’s body could endure and the fact that he had come this far was remarkable, but he was well aware that he was at his lowest point, and that he could not take much more. He wanted to talk and it was only because no one asked him a question at that moment that he remained silent.

  Yet again his stubbornness had worn out his interrogators and a rest interval was necessary. Forest persuaded his guards to take him to the toilet, where he had to endure the humiliation of being watched while he struggled with his numb hands to perform his ablutions. Finally he was taken to another room and chained to a settee.

  The long night was almost unbearable. Aside from a glass of water, his guards provided him with no sustenance and any time he dozed off a menacing NCO shook him awake. Sleep-deprivation was yet another torture and his guards knew it, though it was as much a hardship for them as for Forest, and eventually they submitted to sleep themselves, giving their prisoner a chance of forty winks. But sleep was far from easy when surrounded by the horrors of the Gestapo. Forest was cold, hungry and in bitter pain. He wished for Barbara and he wished for freedom, even if it came after the release of death. He knew he was virtually broken, and there was no point pretending to himself that he could endure any more suffering. As the darkness slowly ebbed into dawn he felt his dread of the next day almost engulfing him as his tormented imagination summoned nightmarish images of what the Germans might do to him next. There was only one solution.

  Morning found Forest in another office, battered, bruised, bloodied and facing another interrogator. This one did not have the charm of the Professor and the usual round of assault and questions began. He wanted to know about Cadillac and revealed that he knew Cadillac was really Bingen. Realising there was no point maintaining a pretence that was so obvious Forest finally admitted he knew Bingen but that he did not know of his codename Cadillac. The German was surprised, but they quickly moved on to how to find Bingen. Again Forest denied that he knew. He was amazed that despite thinking he was about ready to give in, his stubbornness still wouldn’t let him talk. He lied and denied, but his usually quick mind was muddled and he stumbled on his own half-truths and gave the interrogator too many opportunities. Even so he managed to keep from revealing anything important.

  He was always aware that time was running out for him; he was finding it harder to play dumb and was giving too much ground. Forest’s eyes slipped longingly to the window and, like Brossolette before him, he contemplated leaping out. They were on the fourth floor, so a fall might not kill him, but he would be badly injured and would have to stay in hospital for some time. Hopefully, by the time he was sufficiently recovered his comrades in the resistance would have filled the gap he had left and the Germans would have no further use for him.

  It took all his remaining strength to throw himself from the chair and headlong into the window. Somehow he managed to miss the table in his dive and smashed the bottom pane of glass with his head. His shoulder slipped through the opening but his momentum had been curtailed and a pair of muscular hands grabbed his ankles and pulled him back. His interrogator only seemed amused by Forest’s efforts and he was secured to the chair by chains.

  ‘You’re scared,’ mocked the interrogator. ‘So now you will talk.’

  But Forest didn’t, he didn’t even dare open his mouth, because he knew if he did the words that would stumble out would be pleas for mercy and he desperately didn’t want to beg from a German. The interrogation ended abruptly and Forest was driven back to the site of his first torments. Rudi was waiting for him.

  ‘Now you are going to talk. You’re scared – it’s now or never.’ He grinned, but Forest resolutely remained dumb.

  Infuriated, Rudi sent for five Gestapo thugs. They hauled Forest onto the table, chaining his ankles apart and to the table legs, then they beat him with rubber coshes, concentrating on his exposed genitalia, though not ignoring his head and body. The new pain was horrendous and Forest screamed but to no avail, as there was no mercy in the minds of his tormentors. His only relief was when unconsciousness overtook him.

  Several hours later he awoke in another unfamiliar cell. His body was racked with pain and he retched drily, only causing more stabbing agony to shoot through his system. Tears finally came to Forest’s eyes and he sobbed miserably. His mind was no longer sharp or even coherent – that was a penalty of torture, victims became muddled and confused. For Forest everything was a jumble in his head, he could no longer think clearly or understand what was happening. The next few hours fell into a perpetual fog in his memory and with only snatched moments of lucid thought.

  One of these moments involved the interrogator Ernst Misselwitz,3 the man who had been with Brossolette and Bollaert on their journey from Rennes to Paris. The new Ernst was more inclined to cunning than cruelty and opened his interrogation by pointing out that he already knew where Forest lived. Forest disbelieved him.

  ‘I’ll prove it. Just circle the district of Paris you live in on this map and I will point out your address.’

  Forest grudgingly outlined a circle on the map with his finger that took in a quarter of Paris. Ernst laughed.

  ‘You live at 11 rue Claude Chahu, and you aren’t the only one.’

  Forest was stunned; the address was that of Suni Sandoe’s flat. Tucked beneath the floorboards of that apartment were the identity discs of ‘Kenneth Dodkin’, and if these were found they would only implicate him further as an enemy agent.

  ‘So you see I know a lot about you. If you tell me the names of those who sheltered you I promise no harm will befall you on my word of honour as a German officer.’ Ernst spoke casually, ‘Perhaps you don’t believe me. There’s an English prisoner here who’ll tell you that we keep our word.’

  Marched into the room was fellow SOE man Captain John Starr. Starr has come to be remembered as a controversial figure. After his arrest in 1943 he was a permanent resident of 84 avenue Foch, where he was regularly wheeled out to talk to new prisoners and convince them to talk. It was never obvious which side Starr favoured, and, heavily inclined towards his own self-preservation, he came dangerously close to collaborating.4 But whatever later generations chose to believe about Starr, Forest viewed him as an ally, and while he spoke of how the Germans were pretty good to him, he interspersed his words with meaningful glances that the Nazi words of honour were not to be trusted.

  How much of this was a genuine attempt by Starr, or Forest’s addled mind seeing what it wanted to see has to be left to personal judgement.

  Events now began to slip into a blur. Forest still refused to talk, though by now this was in part due to the deteriorating mental state that left him unable to formulate answers. He didn’t recall being dragged from Ernst’s presence, though he must have been because suddenly Rudi was slapping him. Then there
was another sallow-faced interrogator who wanted to know about resistance sabotage plans. Once again silence was followed by a trip to the bathroom, where Forest only had vague impressions of being stripped and then immersed in the freezing water. The horror of semi-drowning was only made worse by his dazed and dream-like state.

  Forest’s resolve was dying; every time he was left alone to contemplate his situation he was convinced he would talk, yet every time he sat before an interrogator again his pride and stubbornness kicked in and he would remain silent despite the abuse inflicted on him. He just wondered how much longer it would be before the Gestapo got tired of him and shot him. It was the only thing he had to look forward to.

  The next interrogation was conducted by a duo: a middle-aged man and a younger officer wearing glasses. It was back to sympathy and kindness to induce him to speak.

  ‘They’ve been rather unkind to you, I see. It’s unfortunate, but that’s war for you. I expect you’re rather hungry.’

  The younger interrogator undid his cuffs, brought his hands forward and re-secured them, though looser so he might eat.

  A tray was brought to him with sausage sandwiches and a jug of hot soup. Forest’s first thought though, was to look at his arms. They were mangled-looking things. His wrists were slashed open from the edges of the cuffs, which were red with blood. The wounds were tinged purple and his left arm was swollen up to the elbow. Seeing his injuries made him realise how bad a state he was in, but he had to shove that aside and eat while the opportunity was before him.