The Paris Affair

8 Lisette

8

Lisette

May, 1942 – Paris

Seraphin visited Lisette’s apartment again a week later. His face looked haggard, as if he’d been up most of the night, grey smudges under his eyes.

He hadn’t brought any food this time. Instead, he handed her a matchbox and a tiny key. ‘You’ve seen one of these before?’

‘Of course,’ Lisette replied. Weapons training had been standard at Arisaig. It was a mini incendiary device hidden inside a fake box of matches. The key was used to wind up the clockwork mechanism that ticked down and then, after a few minutes, activated a striker to ignite the box.

‘I need you to deliver it to an agent at the le parc des Buttes-Chaumont. She’ll be waiting on a bench with her baby in a pram.’

‘I could operate it myself, you know,’ Lisette said. She twisted the silver key in her hand. ‘Imagine if I offered to light Otto Horcher’s cigar with this.’

‘A compelling thought,’ Seraphin said with a rueful smile, ‘but I won’t let you jeopardize your position at Maxim’s. It may yet prove useful.’

‘It hasn’t so far.’ Lisette rarely got the chance to venture out into the pleasure-soaked dining room where Nazi officers ordered bottles of champagne by the dozen and girls danced around the tables.

‘Be patient,’ Seraphin countered. ‘An opportunity will present itself.’

‘I’ll follow your instructions, don’t worry,’ Lisette said. ‘I know how important it is.’ She slipped the fake matchbox into her bag.

‘Can you ride a bicycle?’ Seraphin asked.

‘Of course.’

Johnny had taught her. He’d lent her the bike he used for paper rounds and taken her to a quiet lane where no one would see her wobbly efforts. He’d been so patient, so encouraging, cheering her on when she finally managed it herself.

‘A bike will be waiting outside Maxim’s tomorrow when the head chef sends you to buy apples,’ Seraphin said, interrupting her thoughts of Johnny. ‘Get to the park and back as quickly as you can.’

Lisette nodded. Every small task was a chance to prove her worth.

The next day, Lisette felt a nervous twinge every time she thought about the incendiary device in her bag.

Her task at work today was to make tartes tatin. She took the puff pastry she’d made the day before from the refrigerator and went to look for apples. As planned, there were none.

She approached the head chef. He was a small, wiry man who never gave the slightest hint that they were working together against the Germans.

‘ Excusez-moi ,’ Lisette said.

He looked up from filleting salmon and frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘There are no apples for the tartes tatin,’ she said.

‘Then you’d better go and get some,’ he replied curtly, ‘and be quick about it.’

Lisette went to get her bag. Her heart thudded as she approached the back door. Seconds later, she was out in the delivery yard, and there was the bicycle, leaning against the wall. She arranged the bag over her shoulder and across her body and set off.

She pedalled unsteadily on to the rue Royale and headed down the rue de Rivoli alongside the Tuileries. The street was almost deserted. The porticoes along the H?tel Le Meurice were spiked with flagpoles, thrusting out over the pavement, red-and-black Nazi flags wafting in the breeze. Lisette tried to avert her eyes, but it was hard not to stare. It was disturbing to see the buildings branded by the enemy.

As she turned eastwards, and along the rue des Petits Champs, Lisette passed a line of women queuing for meat, despite there being none in the window. Children sat waiting on the kerbside, drawing on the pavement with chalk, their clothes threadbare. She’d only been here a few weeks, and already the city felt oppressive. What must it be like for Parisians, who’d spent months enduring the subjugation of their once proud city?

By the time she crossed the canal St Martin, Lisette’s legs were growing tired. Thank goodness it wasn’t much further. She sped up, readying herself for the final push, when suddenly, the pedals began to spin out of control. The chain had come off.

This was the last thing she needed. Luckily, Johnny had taught her what to do.

Lisette wheeled the bike on to the pavement and turned it upside down so it rested on the saddle. She glanced at her watch. If she was quick, she could still make it to the park on time. She tried to wiggle the chain from between the chainwheel.

‘Can I help you?’

Lisette took a deep breath and turned around. A German soldier stood watching her. He must have been only seventeen, judging by the soft hair above his upper lip and gawking expression. His colleagues stood by the corner, watching him, smirks on their faces.

The soldier came over.

‘Where is your tag?’ he said, speaking French with a German accent. He glanced at the rear mudguard.

Damn. The yellow tag, that showed the bike was registered, was missing. Julia smiled nervously.

‘ Pardon ,’ she said, ‘it must have come off. This bike is practically falling apart.’

The soldier hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Put it on as soon as you get home.’

He wrestled with the chain, spinning the chainwheel until it slotted back into place.

‘ Merci ,’ Lisette said, smiling deferentially.

She bent down to turn the bike over. The soldier helped her.

As they twisted the bike the right way up, a matchbox slipped out of Lisette’s bag. Before she had time to see which matchbox had fallen out, the soldier grabbed it in his hand. Her heart froze. Which one was it? The one containing matches or the incendiary device?

‘ Darf ich? ’ he said. With his other hand, he took a cigarette from his jacket pocket.

Lisette watched in horror as he put a cigarette between his lips and slid open the matchbox. Lisette still couldn’t see which box he had. She should run, but her legs were rooted to the spot and a strange calm settled over her, a willingness to accept her fate.

But to her relief, the soldier took out a match and struck it against the box. Thank God. The matchbox with the incendiary device was still in her bag.

He offered the cigarette to Lisette, but she shook her head, her mind spinning at how near the precipice she’d been. She had to get away.

‘ Merci ,’ she said again, gesturing to the bike. She gripped the handlebars to hide her shaking hands and climbed on the saddle.

‘ Au revoir ,’ the soldier said with a wave. Then, as she cycled off, he called out. ‘ Fr?ulein . You’ve forgotten your matches . ’

‘Oh,’ Lisette called, ‘you can keep them.’

She kept cycling, willing her legs to bear up, not daring to look back, half terrified, half elated, at this lucky escape.

Thankfully, the woman was still at the parc des Buttes Chaumont when she got there, sitting on a bench, a pram at her side. Lisette glanced into the pram, seeming to admire the baby, then slipped the incendiary device under its blankets.

‘Your baby is charming,’ Lisette said with a smile, before casually walking on.

She got on the bike and cycled back to Maxim’s, stopping off for apples on the way. Her heart was still pounding but, somehow, the near-escape had given her courage. She hadn’t buckled or panicked. Instead, she felt invincible.

Seraphin shook his head when she told him what had happened. ‘Christ, Lisette, you must be more careful.’

They were sitting outside a café not far from the Moulin Rouge. The street was busy, people hurried about doing their errands in the last hour before the curfew’s black pall fell on Paris.

‘The strange thing was, I was ready for whatever came.’

Seraphin took a sip of red wine. ‘Just because your fiancé is dead, that doesn’t mean you have to be sans c?ur ,’ he said firmly.

‘I do have a heart,’ Lisette protested, trying not to show how the harshness of his words had affected her. ‘The fact that I’d be willing to die for France proves that. Anyway, how do you know about my fiancé?’

Seraphin sighed. ‘I always ask the SOE what an agent’s weakness is. It’s more important than knowing their strengths. In your case, do you know what they told me?’

Lisette shook her head, curious to know.

Seraphin leaned forward; his gaze fixed on her. ‘They said your weakness is how much you hate the Germans for what they’ve done to your family.’

Lisette frowned. ‘But you hate the Germans too. Isn’t that the point?’

Seraphin leaned back. The wicker chair creaked and settled. ‘No,’ he said, ‘because hate blinds you to the cracks that every heart contains, even German ones. It’s those cracks that we must find and exploit. Remember that.’

Later that night, her cheek against the rough pillowcase, listening to a baby wailing on the floor above, Lisette thought about what he’d said. German hearts . The phrase was a contradiction in terms. Johnny and her grandparents’ deaths, the starving faces of the Parisians, the Jews who’d been sent away, the hundreds of buildings bombed, and all the people killed in the Blitz: they all proved this. She clenched the sheet, fire rising in her chest. If she was sans c?ur , then so be it. Being heartless was the only way to fight an enemy that appeared to lack all humanity.