Liberation Page 12

  She opened her eyes, one at a time, to find herself dangling in the air, like a fish on the end of a lucky angler’s line. She could smell the smoke of the signal bonfires, but even twisting on the end of her cords, she could see nothing but pinched and branching darkness.

  “A parachute, over there!” a French voice said.

  “Merde,” she hissed. Strange how even her mind switched back to French as soon as she took a lungful of the air of her adopted home. A light was approaching up the track. Friend or foe? She reached into the side pocket of her coat and closed her fingers around the grip of her Webley revolver. If it was a German patrol she was dead, but she’d take at least one of the bastards with her. Still, the voice sounded pretty relaxed. Maybe a German patrol happening on a landing site would sound a bit less… casual. Whoever was coming up the track seemed to be coming at an easy stroll too.

  The torch paused under her tree and she heard a low laugh. A French laugh.

  “The trees in France bear beautiful fruit this spring,” the voice said. Very funny.

  “Oh, just cut out that French shit and get me down,” Nancy said, releasing her grip on the gun. The torchlight panned down from her feet to the forest floor. Less than ten feet. She sighed and pulled the chute’s release mechanism, managing a landing which didn’t snap her ankles or roll her into a thorn bush, at least.

  The man with the torch shone it toward his own face briefly and Nancy saw a youngish man, good looking in that classically French long-nosed, high-cheekbones sort of a way. He put out his hand and helped her to her feet.

  “My name is Tardivat.”

  “Nancy Wake.” Tardivat’s grip was firm and cool. “Is Southgate here? I was told he’d be picking me up.”

  “One moment.”

  As soon as Nancy was on her feet, Tardivat passed her the torch and clambered into the lower branches of the tree. He moved easily, pulling himself up from branch to branch until he could get to work on the cords of her parachute.

  “Shine the torch here,” he said, and began to gather the silk into his arms, taking care not to tear it or leave any telltale scraps of cord in the branches. The night seemed very still, and Nancy could smell the soil in the thin high air, the fresh growth of the spring pushing through the rotting leaves of last year.

  “Southgate was picked up by the Gestapo a week ago,” Tardivat said.

  “Betrayed?”

  “Only by bad luck,” he continued. “He was caught with forged papers. Once we have doused the signal fires, I am to take you to Gaspard, he’s the head of the Maquis here.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

  He gathered the parachute under one arm, then jumped lightly to the ground, his fingertips brushing the soil as he landed. “What have they told you about him?”

  Nancy examined his face in the glow of the edge of the torchlight. Maybe she’d not tell him exactly what Buckmaster had said.

  “A good fighter, but arrogant.”

  Tardivat nodded slowly. “True. Did they tell you he hates the English too?”

  “Well, I’m Australian.”

  He snorted. “I don’t think he’ll see the distinction, Madame.”

  He opened his pack and began to stuff the parachute inside. She took a step toward him.

  “Hey, we have to bury that! And it’s Captain.”

  Tardivat carried on. “Forgive me if this is just more ‘French shit,’ but I was a tailor before the war, Captain. I will not bury silk like this. I shall make something pretty for my wife so I can remember the days before the Germans started taking everything fine and handsome for themselves.”

  Hell. She’d only landed on French soil five minutes ago and here was trouble already. It was driven into them every day through training—bury the parachute, bury the parachute. But on the other hand, if Southgate was in the Gestapo cells and Gaspard was as much of a bastard as Buckmaster had said he was, Nancy was going to need as many friends as she could get.

  “Fair enough. How do we get to Gaspard?”

  “We’ll have to walk. The trail is about eight kilometers and rough.”

  Nancy sighed and began to unwrap the bandages from around her ankles; under them she wore silk stockings and high heels.

  Tardivat began to laugh. “My God, you jumped into France in those?”

  Nancy fished a pair of walking shoes out of her backpack and carefully wiped the forest mulch off the polished leather of her good pair before slipping them into the pack and doing it up.

  “And under this stupid tin hat, my hair is very nicely styled. Now shall we get going?”

  They went in darkness. Tardivat extinguished his torch as soon as they were sure they’d left no sign of Nancy at the drop site. At first Nancy was just getting used to being off that damn plane, then she began to feel the thrill of having French soil under her feet. Not that this steep path through the woods was much like Paris or Marseille, of course. But it still felt like home, somehow. An image of Henri turning from the windows in their bedroom in his white dinner jacket flashed into her mind so strongly it was as if she had seen a ghost.

  “What’s the news here?” She spoke in a whisper.

  It was too dark to see it, but she could hear the shrug in Tardivat’s voice.

  “People are beginning to feel their blood and courage rise. We French have always known what happens to armies who try to invade Russia. The Germans are starting to learn that lesson at last.”

  That had been the moment, Nancy thought. She remembered when she heard the news, crouched over the radio, Henri’s hand squeezing her own in excitement. Every kid in France knew what happened to Napoleon when he tried to take Moscow, but apparently no one had told Hitler. The day he launched his surprise attack on the Soviet Union in the summer of 1941 was the first day anyone in France dared to hope. It also meant all the French communists were finally free to pick up their weapons and start fighting back.

  Then the Führer lost an army at Stalingrad.

  “We have gained many men this year,” Tardivat said. “The young men who refuse to work in Germany come to us. It is good, but it has made problems too.”

  “What problems?”

  “We are many. At first there were enough abandoned barns and farms for everyone. Now it is harder to find a place, and to keep moving so the police cannot find us.”

  “What else?”

  “We fight, but we fight among ourselves too.” Tardivat sighed. “There are feuds between villages and families here that go back to the Revolution. Some use the Gestapo to attack their enemies, some use the Maquis. Not all the scores being settled are against the invader.”

  Great. Politics. Not Nancy’s strong point.

  “And Gaspard lets this happen?”

  “He lets his men raid the farms of his enemies.” Tardivat paused in the darkness, then, as if guided by some invisible hand, headed off again. The path got steeper and narrower.

  “That’s not going to happen while I’m here,” Nancy said firmly. Perhaps all that bloody physical training had been a good idea after all. It sounded better, saying stuff like that if you weren’t panting.

  They reached the edge of the tree line and the first light of dawn showed shadows in gray and silver as the night retreated.

  “We’ll pay for what we take,” Nancy said. “And this is a military operation now. That means rules. We’re not the Germans. We’re the good guys and we’re going to act like it.”

  Tardivat sighed. “Whatever you say, Captain.”

  Nancy turned away from the view. He could have his parachute, but she was damned if she would let him take that tone with her. She breathed in, ready to explain that to him in short, sharp sentences. Too late she saw his eyes flick up as he caught a movement over her shoulder. She began to turn, then something struck her across the head and everything went dark.

  23

  Not dead. That was her first discovery. The dead felt no pain, and Nancy was in agony. She opened her eyes. She could see a littl
e light and she smelled straw and chaff. Someone had put a feed bag over her head. She tried to move. No joy. She was sitting upright on some sort of chair, and her hands were tied behind its back. It was the pain of the howling muscles in her arms that had woken her. Her ankles were bound too and they’d taken her shoes; under her silk stockings she felt a hard earth floor. She lifted her head and breathed in slowly and carefully. Cool air. Wind in the trees. So she was still in the mountains, still in the countryside, and this was a barn, the outbuilding of some farm, not Gestapo headquarters in Montluçon.

  Voices outside, echoing as they entered. Men, of course, and more than one, though only one was doing the talking—the rest were just laughing and agreeing.

  “Looks like our little guest has woken up.” He spoke in French, his voice low and rasping.

  OK. Nancy. It’s show time.

  The bag was ripped from her head and she found herself looking up at a smooth-shaven, round-faced man. He wore an eyepatch.

  “What a pretty little bitch they’ve sent! Much better looking than that shitbird they’re beating in the cells right now.” Does he know about Henri? No, get it together, Nancy, he’s talking about Southgate. “They’re hoping your tits will save your neck, are they? Come to try and make us Frenchmen scurry around and do England’s bidding, cunt?”

  She looked him up and down. Some of the men behind him shifted uncomfortably.

  “That’s right, Gaspard.” She kept her voice cool. “They even told me to fuck you if I thought it would help. But you know, I can’t decide between that and the cyanide pill at the moment.”

  A couple of the men grinned. Whatever they’d been expecting from a woman sent by the English, it wasn’t that sort of language coming out of her pretty mouth in fluent demotic French. Gaspard—yeah, this was Gaspard all right—twitched. Time to press home her advantage.

  “But I can offer you support from London. Honest aid. Guns, money. Whatever you need to win your country back.”

  “Bullshit. You want our land. You want us to dance to your tune.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “A deal with the devil. You’re worse than the Germans, you lying cunt.”

  He leaned over her and she could smell his sweat, the sour smell of unwashed clothes. She let a sneer creep into her voice.

  “Christ! That’s your favorite word, isn’t it? Does it give you a bit of a thrill? Not seen the real thing for a while?” Some of the guys behind him were smirking now. “If you can get your head out of my crutch for a moment and listen, I’m telling you I’m here as an ally. Guns. Money. Help for your families and intelligence from London. As to the rest, you’re looking at the White Mouse of Marseille and as fierce a patriot for France as any one of you… bastards.”

  The blokes behind him were ready to burst out in applause, she could feel it. She could work this crowd. She watched their reactions out of the corner of her eye and felt the corner of her lips twitch. Big mistake.

  The second she took her eye off him, Gaspard kicked the leg of the chair out from under her and she went down, heavy and hard on her shoulder. The air was knocked out of her lungs and the pain blossomed in her side.

  “Lying bitch! I know about the White Mouse of Marseille. Got her men shot while she pranced around spending all the money she got from her rich old husband. No one in Auvergne is going to pay for you to get your hair done and play at soldiers.”

  She tried to breathe. “My husband is a hero, you sack of shit.” She didn’t have breath to say it loud enough.

  Gaspard was looking at something in his hand. He crouched down and showed it to her. Her wedding ring.

  “So why is this in your bag and not on your finger?”

  “Give it back!” Now she sounded like the kid getting bullied in the playground. “I took it off so I wouldn’t get my finger ripped off jumping from a fucking plane, you moron.”

  She kicked out hard, but he saw it coming and stepped aside, kicking away the upended chair at the same time. She was on her back now, her hands still tied behind her. She pulled her legs up, ready to push herself up onto her knees, but he straddled her, his weight heavy over her hips. She blinked. She could feel a warmth on her face. Blood. From that blow she’d taken over the head earlier. It ran into her eye, blinding and stinging.

  He leaned in close, holding her wedding ring between thumb and forefinger. “What’s to stop us just killing you now? We can take that nice stack of francs sewn into the lining of your handbag, bury you under the floor and say you never made it. Looks like you brought a nice fat wad with you. We might even send this ring back to Marseille. If your poor little husband survives maybe he’ll find someone even prettier to give it to.”

  He shifted his weight and she felt the flesh of his thighs pressing against her hips. She drew in her breath and spoke loudly enough for his men to hear.

  “It would be the last money you ever get from London if you do. They know I landed safely, I signaled from the ground that I’d made my rendezvous. If you want guns, if you want more than the loose change I carry in my handbag, you’ll have to deal with me. Now, why don’t you just fuck off and let me do my job? If your men don’t want machine guns, army boots and more cigarettes than they can smoke, I reckon there are others who do.”

  He glanced up, looking at someone she couldn’t see.

  “Is that true? Did she signal the plane?”

  Damn. Tardivat was in the room. He knew bloody well she hadn’t sent a signal. He’d been with her every second since she’d landed in that sodding tree.

  “She was signaling when I met her.” Tardivat’s voice sounded neutral, bored.

  “Bitch,” Gaspard said. She saw him pull back his fist. She could not defend herself. Another explosion of pain, then silence.

  Tardivat was there when she woke up. They were still in the barn, but the daylight had faded. She noticed old packing cases and broken furniture round the walls. So this was the place where broken and useless things went to die. Someone, Tardivat probably, had untied her wrists and ankles and put a blanket over her. When he saw her eyes open, Tardivat handed her his canteen and she drank greedily. She thanked him and passed it back. He took it with a nod then reached into his top pocket and took out her wedding ring.

  Nancy put out her hand and he dropped it into her palm. It had taken a fight with a beardless lieutenant and a hatchet-faced secretary to bring it with her. Thank God Henri hadn’t got it engraved or bought anything too flashy. Her engagement ring, swollen with emeralds, she had lost escaping from the train. But this plain gold band she had kept on her finger. She remembered the touch of his long cool fingers as he slipped it over her knuckle in the town hall at Marseille, that look of affectionate amusement in his eyes. She put it on again. Perhaps they shouldn’t have married. In the early days they had lived together, and she had been Madame Fiocca to their servants and acquaintances. They had said they’d wait until the war was over at first, then they had become impatient, set the date and arranged the party. Why? They were listening to the BBC reports about the ferocity of the struggle in Russia, and she’d just had a near miss carrying papers from Toulouse. They hadn’t dared wait.

  “I can get you to a farmhouse where they can give you a bed for the night,” Tardivat said. “And I know of a radio operator in Clermont-Ferrand. He should be able to get a message to London for you. Arrange your escape.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere, Tardi.”

  “They’re just going to kill you some other way, Captain Wake. Make up another story—yes, she got here, but she was murdered by a patrol or something.”

  “Call me Nancy. Where’s my pack?”

  He nodded toward it. She got to her feet and fetched it. It had been ransacked and roughly repacked. Her handbag was still there and so was the money. Strange. She guessed Gaspard wanted to work out his new plot before he did anything. She took everything out then carefully repacked again: two embroidered nightdresses, a red satin pillow, then th
e usual changes in underwear, a simple outfit suitable for an Auvergne housewife of moderate means, her high heels for if she needed to take a train or go into one of the local towns, her hairbrush and makeup. She began to make herself look respectable. A bit of water from Tardivat’s canteen and her handkerchief got rid of the blood. The cut on her forehead was long but shallow, and just under the hairline. No need for stitches.

  She was applying her V for Victory lipstick with the aid of Buckmaster’s compact when she noticed Tardivat was at work at the silk of the parachute.

  “Making something for your wife?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you feel guilty, leaving her alone while you fight?”

  He didn’t look up from his stitching. “This is the second world war in twenty years. We are all guilty.”

  She lifted her chin and bared her teeth to check for lipstick. All in order. “How do you suppose they mean to kill me?”

  “They know you are trained. Probably they will pretend to be friendly and kill you in your sleep.” His voice was conversational.

  “Are there other groups of Maquis near here? Another leader I could talk to?”

  “A man named Fournier, up on the plateau near Chaudes-Aigues. The other side of the valley. He and Gaspard are not friendly. But he had only thirty men and they live wild up there.”

  Nancy rolled her shoulders. Her arms still ached and she could feel bruises coming on her side. Her brain felt sick and swimming. Sod them.

  “Will you take me to him?”

  “Now?” he said, and began to pack up his sewing.

  “In a minute. I want to have dinner with my hosts first.”

  Around a hundred Maquis were gathered around a central fire pit, bent over billycans of some sort of foul-smelling stew being served from an improvised cauldron. Gaspard was sitting in the firelight, perched on a packing crate, while his men gathered round him like disciples. He saw Nancy at once, and gradually all other eyes turned toward her too.