Marie
France, 1944
In the predawn stillness there was a scratching sound outside the shed. Marie sat up, terrified and exhausted. She had spent the night half sitting, half lying against a rough wooden wall. Her bones ached from the cold, hard ground, and there was a wet spot on the seat of her dress where the dampness of the earth had soaked through.
The noise came again, like the rustling of deer that poked at the garden each summer she and her mother had spent outside Concarneau when she was a girl. This was not a deer, though; the footsteps were heavier, crushing twigs beneath them. Marie leaped to her feet, imagining a German on the other side of the door. She tried to remember from her training what to do. Her skin prickled.
But then a key turned in the lock and the door opened. It was the tall, angry man who had brought her the previous night. Marie smoothed her skirt, embarrassed at how the shed reeked now from the spot in the corner where she had tried discreetly to use the ground as a toilet. She hadn’t wanted to, but with the door locked and no facilities, there really hadn’t been a choice.
The man did not speak, but gestured for her to follow. She obeyed, working her dishwater-blond hair into a low knot as she stepped from the shed. Her mouth was sour and her stomach gnarled with hunger. Outside the sky was pink at the horizon, the air damp. Since he had brought her to the shed in the middle of the night, she couldn’t have been there for more than a few hours. But the time waiting and worrying about when he would come back and what she would do if he did not had seemed like much longer.
She could see that the shed was sunk in a ravine behind a row of poplar trees. “You managed all right?” the man asked in English as they climbed up the hill, his voice so low she could barely hear it.
“Yes. No thanks to you,” she added, too loudly, her annoyance at how she’d been treated bursting forth.
He turned back. “Quiet!” he commanded in a low, gravelly voice, grabbing her wrist so hard that it hurt.
“Don’t touch me!” Marie tried to pull back, but his iron-like grip held her fast.
His eyes blazed. “I’m not going to get arrested because you can’t keep your mouth shut.” They stared at each other for several seconds, not speaking.
The man started onward once more, leading her through the forest in a direction that seemed different than the way he’d brought her the previous night, though she could not tell for certain. As they walked, she studied him out of the corner of her eye. His hair was close-cropped and his jaw square. Though he wore the trousers and shirt of a French peasant, his too-straight posture and gait suggested he was military, or once had been.
The trees broke to a clearing and on the far side sat a small, unmarked rail station scarcely bigger than the hut where she had been forced to sleep the night before. The man looked in both directions expertly, like one who had spent much time ensuring that he had not been detected or tracked. Then he grasped her arm once more. Marie pulled away. “Don’t touch me again.” The unwanted hands of strange men always transported her back to her childhood, where her father’s painful grip was always followed by a slap or strike.
She waited now for the courier’s rebuke. Instead, he nodded, a slight assent. “Then stay close.” He started across the clearing and walked behind the station, where a lone bike sat. “Get on,” he said, gesturing to the crossbar. She hesitated. The early morning sun was well above the trees now. Riding openly across the French countryside seemed foolish and sure to attract attention. To refuse would mean angering this man further, though, and she knew nothing in this country but him and that miserable shed. He steadied the bike as she climbed on the crossbar and then he mounted the bike, encircling her with his long, broad forearms to reach the handlebars. She shifted, uncomfortable at being so close to a man she didn’t know. He began to pedal over the uneven ground down a narrow path.
They reached the edge of the clearing and the path gave way to a country road, flanked on either side by a low wall of crumbling stones. A valley unfurled below them, the quilt of lush green and neatly tilled fields, dotted with red-roofed cottages and the occasional château. The rich scent of damp chevrefeuille wafted upward. They were in the Île-de-France region, she guessed from the gently rolling hills and the route the Lysander had taken the previous evening, somewhere northwest of Paris and deep in the heart of Nazi-occupied territory.
They passed a farmhouse, where a young woman was hanging clothes in the yard to dry. Marie seized with fear. Until this point, she had been shrouded in darkness. Now they were out in plain sight. Surely something would give her away. But the woman simply smiled, taking them for a couple out for a morning bike ride.
A few minutes later the man turned the bike off the main road so abruptly that Marie nearly fell. She grabbed for the handlebars as he pulled up in front of a château. “What are we doing here?” she ventured to ask.
“One of our safe houses,” he explained. Looking up at the stately home with its steeply pitched roof and dormer windows, Marie was surprised; she had expected caves and woods, or at most a shed like the one where she’d spent the night. “The house is abandoned. And the Germans would have taken it except for this.” He gestured toward something lodged between two of the paving stones in front of her. Ordnance, she recognized from training. A bomb that had been dropped by the Germans ahead of the occupation, but had not detonated. “There are another half dozen in the garden.”
Inside, the mansion appeared untouched, fine linens and china intact, furniture not covered. In the dining room to the left, Marie could see a table set, as though company was expected anytime. Whoever had lived here had gone without notice, she thought, recalling l’exode, the flight of millions of citizens of northern France four years earlier ahead of the advancing German army. A thin coat of dust on everything was the only sign that the house was vacant.
There came a scratching from above, the faint titter of laughter. The man took the wide stairs two at a time without waiting for her and she hurried to follow. He opened a door to reveal what had once been a study. A handful of men, all about her own age, were gathered around a broad oak desk that had been pressed into service as a dining table. The heavy curtains were drawn and several candles flickered on the table. Overflowing bookshelves climbed to the ceiling.
In an armchair by the window sat Will, the pilot who had flown her here the previous night. Marie was surprised to see him and wondered what had kept him from flying out of France after the Lysander had taken off from the field. He was the only familiar face in the room and she started toward him. But closer she could see that he was dozing, eyes closed.
Marie stood uncertainly on the edge of the room. The group had presumably assembled on the upper floor of the abandoned villa to stay out of sight. Yet they laughed and joked as easily as though they were in a Paris café. The air was warm with the delicious smells of coffee and eggs. Remembering the cold, dark shed where she had spent the past several hours, Marie was suddenly angry. She glared in the direction of the courier, who was now standing across the room by the window. He might have brought her here the night before. But he had not. Perhaps it had been some sort of a test.
One of the men seemed to notice her then. “Come, come,” he said with an accent she recognized as Welsh. He had a wide moustache, ill-suited to fitting in among the French. “Don’t wait for an invitation. Have some bacon before it’s all gone.” Marie was certain that she heard him wrong. There hadn’t been bacon back home since before the war. But here it was, thick and crispy on a nearly empty plate, calling to her. The man held out the plate. “Go on. We don’t eat like this every day. One of the lads was able to buy a rasher off the black market near Chartres and it all has to go. We’ve got nowhere to store it and we can’t risk taking it along.” She moved closer. The table bore an odd assortment of food that might have not gone together in other circumstances: a bit of baked beans (far too English, she could hear Eleanor criticize) and some bread, cheese and fruit.
Marie’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she had not eaten since yesterday. She reached for the bacon the man held out. Searching for a fork and finding none, she popped the piece in her mouth as neatly as she could.
The man with the moustache poured her coffee. “I’m Albert,” he said, holding out his hand. She reached to shake it, mindful of her newly greasy fingers.
But Albert took Marie’s hand and kissed it. Her cheeks flushed. “Bonjour,” she offered back, wondering he if was flirting with her and not entirely sure how to respond. “Enchanté.”
His eyebrows raised and she wondered if she had done something wrong. “Your accent is perfect. Are you French?”
“Half, on my mother’s side,” Marie replied. “I was raised in England, but spent summers in Brittany when I was younger.”
“That’ll be useful. Most of us speak French abysmally.”
“Speak for yourself,” retorted the ginger-haired boy next to Albert, who had not introduced himself.
“You’ll be a courier then?” Albert asked, ignoring him.
“Non!” she blurted out, alarmed. The idea of messengering all over the French countryside, constantly risking arrest, alarmed her. “Radio operator.”
“Ah, a pianist.” The term sounded strange. But she remembered someone referring to the wireless set as a piano once during training. “With your language skills, keeping you inside seems a waste,” he lamented. “But I suppose Vesper knows what he is doing.”
“Speaking of Vesper, I was wondering if you could point me in his direction,” Marie said. Albert’s eyebrows raised. “I’d like to speak to him about the courier who met me last night and brought me here this morning.” She spoke in a low voice so that the courier himself would not hear.
“Courier?” Albert threw back his head and chortled so loudly that the conversation around the table ceased. “Courier?” He tilted his head in the direction of the man by the window. “Oh, love, that is Vesper!”
The others joined, laughing with him at her mistake. The man who had left her in the shed and brought her here wasn’t merely some courier after all, but Vesper, the legendary circuit leader Eleanor had spoken about. She looked in the direction of the courier whom she now knew was Vesper, certain he had heard the exchange. Embarrassed by the gaffe, Marie felt her cheeks burn. But how was she to have known when he hadn’t told her?
“Shh!” Vesper hissed suddenly, raising a hand. Their merriment ceased and Marie heard a high-pitched keening noise coming from outside the château. Sirens. The agents looked at one another, their hardened expressions suddenly clouded with concern.
Only Albert looked unworried, waving his hand dismissively. “When Kriegler and his louts come for us,” he said calmly, “they won’t announce themselves with sirens.” A few of the men laughed uneasily.
The sirens rose to a pitch as they neared. One second passed then another. At last, they began to fade as the police car raced by the château, chasing other prey. “I heard there was an arrest in Picardy,” one of the men offered when the sirens had faded into the distance. “Two agents, picked up at their safe house.” Marie shuddered. Picardy, the region just to the north, was not far from here. She wondered if the arrest had taken place at a too-nice safe house like this, and whether the agents had been laughing and enjoying one another’s company just before it had happened.
Albert waved his hand. “Don’t speak of such things.” As though the bad luck was contagious—and might rub off on them.
But the other man persisted. “They must have been careless.” Heads nodded in agreement, wanting to differentiate and distance themselves from those whom ill fate had befallen.
“Don’t be too certain.” Vesper spoke sharply. Marie hoped he would dispel the rumor of the arrest, but he did not. His heavy brow was furrowed, expression grave. “Those were some of the best agents we had.” She could tell from his voice that the loss had been personal and hard for him. “It can happen to anyone, at any time. Don’t ever let your guard down.” Vesper turned away and the others sat around the table, now quiet and somber. One of the men lit a cigarette and its ominous burning filled the air.
Suddenly there was a clattering at the door. Albert leaped to his feet and across the room Vesper’s hand dropped instinctively toward his waist, as though reaching for a gun. Marie froze, remembering his warning seconds earlier that arrest could come anytime.
The door flung open and a woman entered the room, smartly dressed with a Sten gun tucked neatly under one arm like a purse. It was Josie.
At the sight of her friend, Mare’s heart leaped. She had not expected to see Josie again, maybe ever, and certainly not so soon. Marie stood, nearly calling out, before remembering that she should not.
“Bloody hell, you gave us a scare!” Albert exclaimed. “We weren’t expecting you back for another two days.”
“We received word that the Maquis training grounds in the forest were compromised,” Josie said. “It was no longer safe. We had to disperse.”
Marie hurried to Josie, who had begun dismantling her gun on a low table by the door. There was a faint smell of burning powder and Marie wondered why the gun had been fired. “Josie.”
“Hello.” Josie looked up and smiled warmly. She kissed Marie on the cheek. “I’m glad you arrived safely,” Josie said. Her nose wrinkled. “There’s a toilet if you want to freshen up.” Embarrassment rose in Marie, followed by defensiveness: of course she was a mess—how could she be otherwise when she had spent the night in that awful shed? But Josie had been in the field weeks longer and her hair was well coiffed, dress freshly pressed. Her shoes were slingbacks, and bore no trace of dirt or wear. Even her nails were perfect pale pink ovals. “You’ll want to look proper before you head out,” Josie added. Where, Marie wondered, would she be going?
In the water closet, Marie smoothed her hair as well as she could and washed her face, noting with dissatisfaction that the strong camphor soap had turned her cheeks bright red. The travel and night in the hut had left her skin sallow, with dark circles under her eyes.
When Marie returned from the bathroom, Josie had finished disassembling the gun and was cleaning the pieces expertly with a soft white cloth. Marie studied her friend. “You’re well?”
“Never better.” Josie looked invigorated. There was a healthy blush to her cheeks and her eyes were bright. “I’ve been traveling the countryside, arming the partisans and teaching them how to use our weapons.”
“You aren’t on the radio then?” Josie had been so good at transmitting in class at Arisaig House; it would be a waste not to have her working with one. Of course, she had been good at everything else, too. Marie saw then what an asset her friend must be to the circuit, and felt her own inadequacies grow by comparison.
“At times I am,” Josie replied. “But everything is more fluid in the field. We must do what is needed.” Josie sounded years older than when Marie had seen her last, more confident than ever. The work here clearly suited her. Marie was not at all sure she would feel the same.
“You’re Tuesday-Thursday on the skeds,” Josie said. That meant the days Marie would broadcast and send her messages back to London.
Marie pictured Eleanor waiting to receive and hoped her typing would be good and clear enough. She wondered what she would be asked to transmit. “Do I broadcast from here?”
Josie shook her head. “From wherever you’ll be staying. You’ll have to ask Vesper.” Marie’s eyes traveled across the room to where Vesper stood, studying him closely. He was a few years older than the rest of them, she guessed, with high cheekbones and cerulean-blue eyes. Some might call him good-looking, including herself, if she hadn’t disliked him from the start. “He controls everything for the operation in Paris and the northern part of France, dozens and dozens of agents and maybe a hundred local contacts.”
Marie was puzzled. They had learned in training that the work in France consisted of small groups of agents, usually working in threes, a circuit leader, a radio operator and a courier. They were separated because if one was compromised, it wouldn’t taint the rest. But here Vesper was in charge of it all. Was it really safe to have one man know so much?
Across the room, voices rose. At the table, Vesper stood huddled over a map with Albert and Will, who had awoken during the earlier commotion of Josie’s arrival. A disagreement had erupted among the men, their voices rising so all could hear.
“Cousins,” Josie said, tilting her head in the direction of Vesper and Will. Marie was surprised they looked and acted so different. Will’s devil-may-care style and gentle demeanor seemed in sharp contrast to his cousin’s sternness. “You wouldn’t have guessed it, I know. Keep an eye out for that one,” she added, nodding toward Will. “Not hard on the eyes and a total ladies’ man to be sure. He’s got girls everywhere, they say, including at a cathouse in Paris.”
“Josie!” Marie brought her hand to her mouth, surprised.
Her friend shrugged. “These are long, lonely months out here and things happen. Just keep your head about you and don’t get distracted.”
“I thought Will returned to England.”
Josie shook her head. “He had mechanical troubles after taking off. So he had to land at another one of our fields. We towed the plane to one of our safe sites for repair.” Marie shuddered, grateful that they had landed safely before the plane broke.
The men at the table grew louder. “We need to find another safe house near Mantes-la-Jolie,” Vesper said.
Will shook his head. “It’s too much, too soon. After the other arrests, we can’t ask the locals to chance it. We need to tighten our ranks and lay low for a while.”
“Impossible!” Vesper flared. “We’ve got orders to take the bridge within the month. We need to be ready.”
“Then at least warn the locals what is to come, so they can get their families to safety,” Will pressed.
“And risk leaking word of the operation?” Vesper countered.
Marie turned to Josie. “What are they fighting about?”
Josie shrugged. “Those two are always like that. Best not to get involved.”
But Marie moved closer, too curious to help herself. “What is it?” she asked, surprised at her own audacity.
Vesper looked in her direction, clearly annoyed. “No questions. The less you know, the better for you—and for all of us.”