The Paris Affair

10 Lisette

June, 1942 – Paris

Lisette climbed the stairs in the apartment block, her bag heavy on her shoulder. It had been two weeks since she’d cut her hand. The wound had healed, leaving a red line on her skin. Every time she caught sight of it, she thought of the soldier at Maxim’s. It had been foolish to treat him so brusquely; he could have severely reprimanded her. She’d heard of others being punished for less. But the sight of him watching while she fumbled with the bandage had inflamed her. She needed to be more careful in future.

Two flights up, she reached the flat she had been told to visit. She knocked on the door.

‘What do you want?’ a voice said.

‘Cloves to make a dish fit for a king,’ Lisette replied, using the line the head chef had given her. The door swung open.

A woman stood in the half-gloom of the narrow hallway. ‘I may have a few,’ she said.

Lisette closed the door behind her and followed the woman in. The flat was like Lisette’s: empty and impersonal. The cloves were a pretence. Lisette had come to deliver a bag of flour. She took it out and put it on the table.

‘Would you like a drink?’ the woman asked. Lisette nodded. The woman handed her a cup. ‘Ground acorns, I’m afraid. There’s no coffee anywhere.’

Lisette sipped the brown liquid and screwed up her face.

‘There’s no food either, except in the restaurants,’ she said. ‘How are you managing?’

The woman’s face was thin.

‘I get by,’ she said. ‘The loneliness is the worst. But now you’ve brought me this gift’ – she gestured to the flour on the table – ‘I’ll take a trip to see my aunt …’

There was no aunt; they both knew that. An agent was waiting for the radio crystals in the flour.

‘Well, I’d better call it a day,’ Lisette said.

‘Be careful as you go.’

Lisette passed a child on the stairs on her way out. She was playing with a tin of buttons, putting them in order. She smiled at Lisette, content in her own little world.

Out on the street, Lisette breathed a sigh of relief. She’d accomplished yet another delivery, without a hitch this time. She was about to cross the road, taking care to look left first, when a voice stopped her.

‘ Halt und stehen bleiben! ’

She turned round. A German soldier was staring at her.

‘Who are you?’ he barked.

‘Sylvie Dubois,’ she said, trying to keep calm. These were just routine questions.

‘Where do you come from?’

‘Saint-Quay-Portrieux. I’m in Paris to work.’

‘Show me your papers.’ She handed him the counterfeit papers, hoping they were as good as Seraphin claimed. ‘Hmm, they seem to be in order,’ he said.

He gave her the papers back. Lisette began to breathe more easily. Nearly done.

‘And what are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘ Je fais des courses .’ Her hands shook as she lifted her bag.

‘Empty it, please.’

‘It’s just vegetables …’

The soldier grabbed the bag and tipped it upside down. The contents scattered over the cobbles. Make-up, compact mirror, the cigarette box, followed by the recipe book. Julia’s composure faltered. She shouldn’t have brought it with her today but she never liked to leave it in her room.

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. ‘ Was ist das? ’ He reached down and picked the book up, frowning at the French and German writing. ‘ Bist du eine Spionin? ’

‘No, I’m not a spy. Je suis un chef. Maxim’s,’ Lisette said.

The soldier frowned. ‘What’s this then?’ He pointed at the German writing.

‘My grandmother was from Alsace-Lorraine. She spoke French and German,’ Lisette said desperately.

The soldier didn’t believe her. He grabbed her arm. ‘You’d better come with me.’

‘No, please, it’s the truth …’ She didn’t feel calm this time. The grip of his hand was tight. She’d been caught.

People were staring, pity in their faces. They knew what was going to happen to her, but they averted their eyes and hurried on. She didn’t blame them. No one wanted to be hauled down to Avenue Foch.

The cell was cold and damp. The hard bench made it impossible to sleep. Moans and screams from the other cells interspersed the night. Lisette lay awake, filled with terror.

She went over her SOE training. Have a simple, straightforward story and stick to it. And above all go on denying at any price. She needed to be Sylvie with every fibre of her being: an innocent French girl who aspired to be a chef.

Hours later, she was hauled into a bare room with dark stains on the floor. She shivered in the chilly air. The interrogator was a short, bald man. There were no introductions. He slapped the recipe book down in front of her.

‘ Vous êtes une espionne, n’est-ce pas? ’ he said. He spoke French with a heavy German accent. ‘We know everything. You’ve been taking notes in this book.’

‘It’s my grandmother’s old recipe book,’ Lisette said. ‘Nothing more.’

‘You were seen coming out of a building on rue des Renaudes,’ the man said.

In the long hours of waiting in the cell, Lisette had prepared for this.

‘The head chef at Maxim’s often asks me to go on errands. I source ingredients. Today he wanted cloves.’

‘Cloves?’

‘I heard a man in rue des Renaudes could get us some.’

The man curled his lip. ‘Black-market ingredients.’

This was a crime, but a lesser one than being a spy.

‘ Bien s?r ,’ she said, risking a smile. ‘We need to ensure we’re only sourcing the best for our clientele.’

‘Hmm.’ He glanced at the scar on her hand. ‘What happened?’

‘I cut myself when I was sweeping up some broken glass a few weeks ago,’ she said. ‘Please, I’m just a chef – we’re always covered in injuries from the kitchen. It’s the mark of our trade. I’m supposed to make soup today . Pommes de terre et oignon .’

He sniffed. ‘I prefer German food.’

‘I know German recipes too. Sauerkraut. Page twenty-three. Simple, and so delicious.’

The man flicked to the page and perused the recipe. His face gave nothing away. ‘You speak German?’

Lisette pursed her lips. Should she tell him? The SOE manual said: If you speak German, provided such knowledge agrees with your cover, it is probably best to admit you understand a little. Lisette decided to risk it.

‘My grandmother taught me a little, just enough to read the recipes.’

‘Hmm,’ the man said. ‘I’ll cross-check what you’ve told me. Until then, you’ll remain here.’

‘And my book?’ Lisette asked.

‘Confiscated as evidence.’ He clasped the recipe book in his hand. ‘We searched the building you visited on rue des Renaudes. A woman was arrested. They found wireless crystals in her flour jar. Her name’s Hélène. Do you know her?’

He slid a photo across the desk. It was her. The woman from the flat.

The sight of the photo sent a jolt through Lisette’s body. She tried not to let the mask slip.

‘I’ve never seen this woman before. It’s just a coincidence,’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘I was looking for cloves. I told you, I’m a cook.’

The man folded his arms. ‘And this man who sold cloves, did you find him? There was no mention of any cloves found in your bag.’

Lisette moistened her lips. At Beaulieu, SOE agents had been trained how to cope under questioning. She’d already thought this one through.

‘No, I didn’t find him. The address must have been wrong. It’s like that on the black market. Rumours of where ingredients can be obtained often turn out to be false.’ Lisette’s stomach clenched. Hearing the words she’d prepared out loud, they sounded unconvincing.

The interrogator frowned. ‘Indeed. Well, let’s see. Perhaps when we interview Hélène, she’ll be able to shed more light on things.’

Back in the cell, Lisette’s strength faltered. The walls were black, the air thick with fear. What if Hélène told the interrogator that Lisette had brought the crystals? She stuffed her fist against her mouth to stop from crying out. Terror gripped every part of her being. She felt along the hem of her skirt. There it was, the tiny bulge of the L tablet. One bite on the capsule and she’d be dead in two minutes. She prayed she wouldn’t need it. She wouldn’t let them break her.

Lisette closed her eyes, visualizing each recipe in her mind, her grandmother’s steady voice as she dictated them, in the hopes that it would calm her.

She took a deep breath and thought of the soldier, standing obediently behind the Kommandant at Maxim’s. It wasn’t right that men like him were still alive. Not when Johnny and her grandparents had died. Tomorrow, she’d give nothing away and would stick to her story, no matter what they did.