5 Lisette
5
Lisette
May, 1942 – Paris
Lisette sat in her room on the rue de Vézelay and watched the morning light seep through the curtains. During her SOE training in Scotland at Arisaig House, she’d been taught how to endure periods of waiting. Huddled behind lichen-covered boulders on the hillside, rain pouring down, she’d learned to keep her mind alert. But somehow, in Paris, it was harder to bear the quiet.
At least she had work to keep her occupied. Her shift at Maxim’s started at noon every day. Until then, it was simply a matter of passing the time, trying not to think about her fiancé, Johnny.
That was easier said than done. She had nightmares about Johnny flailing in the icy Atlantic waters, sinking out of sight. She woke unable to breathe, struggling to accept that he’d really gone.
She’d known Johnny her whole life. He was the only child on the street who didn’t tease her for having a foreign mother and a funny English accent. They’d spent hours playing at the playground, building dens in the hedges and climbing trees. Best friends, that’s what she told herself. Until one day not long after her sixteenth birthday the playfighting had turned into something else, infused with a physicality that was both exciting and frightening. It was a journey they’d taken together, allowing friendship to blossom into something more. A journey that the war, and the Germans, had ended for ever.
Lisette went to the window, wiping away her tears. Use the anger, and let go of the grief, she told herself. She took a deep breath, glancing outside. There was no sign of the famous sights from here. Just the grimy windows of other apartments and the iron fire escape leading to the courtyard.
A rapid tapping at the door made her jump. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
‘ Oui, qui est là? ’ she said.
‘It’s me,’ came the voice from the other side, ‘and I’m hungry.’
Seraphin. Lisette hadn’t seen him since they’d parted at the Gare du Nord. It was a relief to hear his voice.
She opened the door. He came in and handed her a parcel. ‘Smoked haddock,’ he said with a wink. ‘Don’t ask me where I got it. I’m hoping you can turn it into something edible.’
Lisette smiled. ‘I’ll make you a fish cutlet.’
She placed a dollop of cooking fat, purloined from Maxim’s, into a frying pan. Reaching into her bag, she rummaged for a box of matches, pulling out a packet of cigarettes, a compact mirror, her papers, a needle and thread, and a ball of string before she found the matches at the bottom.
Seraphin smiled. ‘You’re just like my wife,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t travel light, either.’
‘You never know when these things might come in handy,’ Lisette said.
‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘I don’t, but Baker Street insisted on the French cigarettes for authenticity. Help yourself, if you want one.’
She lit the gas and placed the pan on the hob. Then she sliced a stale roll to make breadcrumbs as best she could. Seraphin watched her, his cigarette smoke curling up towards the ceiling. She covered the haddock in rough breadcrumbs, wishing she had an egg to make them stick properly, and fried it. Seraphin stubbed his cigarette out on the windowsill, and then they sat down to eat at the wooden table.
‘This isn’t too bad,’ Seraphin said.
‘ Merci . It should be served with mustard, but I don’t have any,’ Lisette said, sitting opposite him. ‘I used to make this for my father when he had a hangover. Sometimes he ate it, sometimes he threw it at the wall.’
Seraphin glanced at her. ‘That doesn’t sound very appreciative. My daughter, Estelle, once made me some eclairs. The pastry was undercooked, the cream overwhipped and the chocolate overheated. I ate the lot.’
‘Estelle is lucky,’ Lisette smiled.
Seraphin put his fork down. ‘I have a task for you. Look out for consignments of flour in the coming weeks. The head chef will give you instructions.’
‘What’s in the flour?’
Seraphin leaned closer. ‘Radio crystals. They need to be delivered to radio operators near here.’
Lisette folded her arms. ‘I’m capable of more than just deliveries, you know.’
Seraphin smiled. ‘I’m sure you are. You come very highly recommended. But in France, where an agent can expect to last a few months, I want to make sure you’re one of the survivors.’
Lisette clenched her hands. ‘I want to do more. One of my colleagues at the Savoy had escaped from Poland. He told me about the ghettos, surrounded by walls and barbed wire. Thousands are dying. I want to be involved in helping them.’
‘It’s worse than that. There’s a death camp too,’ Seraphin said with a tired look on his face. ‘Last week, the underground Polish Socialist newspaper Liberty Brigade reported that tens of thousands of Jews are being gassed at Chelmno.’
‘My God.’ Lisette’s blood ran cold. ‘We have to stop this.’
‘I know,’ Seraphin said quietly. ‘I look at my daughter and wonder how any man or woman could treat another human being like that. But we can only do what we can.’ He sighed heavily and stood up. ‘I must go. Keep making those splendid desserts at Maxim’s. The head chef says he’s impressed with you.’
Lisette shook her head. ‘After what you’ve just told me, making desserts seems a poor way of fighting the Germans.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance. You must stay strong. We can’t let the horror of what the Nazis are doing paralyse our resolve.’
Lisette opened the door for him. ‘Where can I find you if I ever need to?’
‘Café Lille, on the Left Bank. I’m there most days.’
After he’d gone, Lisette wrenched open the window, sick at what Seraphin had told her about the camp, desperate to do more. The lack of action was frustrating. All those months training with the SOE, only to be doing the same job she’d done at the Savoy.
Unfortunately, the Special Operations Executive manual was unequivocal: It is essential to security as well as to efficiency that an agent should obey his chief’s orders exactly and without dispute. For now, Lisette would have to do as she was told.
Lisette arrived for her daily shift at Maxim’s. It had been a few days since Seraphin’s visit and the news of what was allegedly happening at Chelmno was still etched on her mind. The head chef came over as Lisette was hanging up her coat.
‘There’s a café on rue des Ursins,’ he said, placing a packet on the table. ‘They’re short of flour. Go now, before you start cooking. Tell him you’ve brought the ingredients for the cake.’
With trembling hands, Lisette placed the packet of flour in her bag. It was going to be heavy, with all her other bits and bobs in there, including the recipe book, which she didn’t want to risk leaving at the flat. This was it. Her first delivery.
The street was busy. A group of grey-clad soldiers whistled as she crossed the road. Lisette kept her eyes on the pavement: attention was the last thing she needed.
A man at the street corner gazed intently when she walked past. Could he see inside her bag? Her clammy hand gripped the strap. The Special Operations Executive manual warned: Some agents are inclined to relax their precautions. That is the moment to beware of. She nodded at the man, determined to stay focused, and walked briskly past.
Eventually, Lisette reached rue Clémentine and rang the bell. Two soldiers strolled by on the other side of the road. She stiffened, certain that her duplicity must be written all over her face. But they didn’t stop. The heat in her cheeks subsided. At last, the door opened, and an old man appeared.
‘I’ve brought the ingredients for the cake,’ Lisette said, using the phrase she’d been told.
‘ Merci ,’ the man said. ‘Come in.’
He led her down a narrow corridor and out into a small garden.
‘Any trouble on the way?’ he asked.
‘None at all.’ She handed him the bag of flour.
‘This will come in useful,’ he said.
‘Pray God that it does,’ Lisette replied.
Minutes later, she stepped back on to the street. Her heart was racing. She’d done it. Her first delivery. She lifted her chin and set off back to Maxim’s. Hopefully, in time, Seraphin would be able to give her more than just deliveries to undertake.