33. Angelique
February 1944
France
“Areyou sure you are up to doing this, éve?” Lise’s astute blue eyes drop to my swollen belly, visible under the brown cotton of my dress. I close my valise, which only has a few items of clothing in it, and lift it from the bed.
In the two months since I left Dr. Hubert and Rosita’s home, the baby has grown considerably. But due to the constraints of the occupation, the bump is smaller than it should be for a woman in her early third trimester. Fran?oise, the midwife who is monitoring my pregnancy, has reassured me my baby is fine.
“I’m positive,” I tell my flatmate. “The Germans are less likely to pay attention to a pregnant woman.”
A fair number of pregnant women are walking around Poitiers these days. A good proportion of the pregnant bellies are the result of liaisons between German soldiers and French women or are the product of rape. I embrace for a moment the memory of the man my heart still beats for. I can guarantee none of those soldiers abandoned their unit to join the maquis because of the new life they had created.
“Delivering propaganda is about the only thing I can do these days.” I lovingly caress my belly, letting my baby know I do not resent her for that. She is my precious world. One of the few people I live for.
Lise knows the truth about my relationship with a German officer and how he helped me escape after the Gestapo arrested me. She hasn’t asked me many questions about my time in the Cashmere network. She only knows that one of our own turned on us.
After I left Dr. Hubert and Rosita’s home, I headed south to where Lise had been assigned. It took me two weeks once I arrived in the city, but I was fortunately able to track her down. We have tried to find news about Johann, but so far there hasn’t been any.
I keep busy so I don’t have to think about how much I miss him. Some days it’s hard to breathe, wondering what happened to him and where he is. I try not to think beyond that. Try not to think beyond surviving each moment. But at night, when my mind refuses to sleep, memories of our time together, the way he made me feel when he made love to me, slip in.
And that only makes me miss him more.
“Alright, if you insist,” Lise says. “But you really shouldn’t press your luck for much longer. The baby is due in just over two months. You need to take things easy.”
“What my daughter and I need is for the war to be over.” And for me to locate her father. “That won’t happen if I’m dillydallying in your flat and not doing my job.”
“What will happen if a German officer inquires to see inside your valise?”
I walk to the hall mirror and check my brown wig is secure and my stage makeup makes me appear five years older than my true age. Well, more like five years in addition to the five years this war has added to my age of twenty-nine. I celebrated a birthday last month. “It hasn’t happened yet. Most seem relieved it wasn’t their seed responsible for the baby in my belly. They treat me as though I am an incubator for a deadly disease and they don’t want to risk touching anything I’ve come in contact with.”
Lise shrugs on her coat. “When are you planning to tell Baker Street you’re pregnant?”
“Maybe they already know. I told Allaire.” What we don’t know is if he communicated it to London before the Gestapo captured him or if he never had a chance to relay the information. “I haven’t confirmed with them exactly what they know about it. I’ll do that soon.”
“Soon?” She shriek-whispers. “Your baby will be born here if you’re not careful.”
“Just a few more weeks. I promise. It’s probably too late for them to get me out of France now. And I certainly won’t be able to waddle over the Pyrénées.”
Lise chuckles, though the worry doesn’t leave her eyes. “That would be a sight.”
“I’m just lucky Fran?oise is a midwife.” Who also works with the local resistance circuit. I can only hope she is not out blowing up railway tracks when I go into labour. “I should get moving.”
“I’ll help you with the valise.”
We leave the flat and walk downstairs. Nosy Madame Blanchet peers out her front door. I’m positive she is a Nazi collaborator. She has asked me more questions than I would like, including ones about the father of my baby. My new cover has me as a widow again, only this time my husband was ineligible to fight in the war and recently died due to his declining health, but not before he got me with child. Lise is my cousin.
Outside, I walk one way, carrying my valise. Lise heads in the opposite direction for her meeting with the leader of the Pirouette network. I haven’t met him and likely won’t. They don’t want to take that risk after what happened to the Cashmere network. I have no idea if he’s aware of my impending motherhood or if he’d even care if he did know.
Despite my winter coat, the cold February wind bites at my skin. The coat was far from new when I got it, the fabric worn in places, but it’s better than nothing. Even prior to the war, it would have been big on me. Now, it drowns my slight frame, but it has the additional benefit of hiding my pregnant state, if I wish.
I keep walking along the cobbled street, ever vigilant of my surroundings. I have always been that way since coming to this country, but after my arrest, I’ve become even more so. It is one of the few times when I don’t let my thoughts drift to Johann and how much I miss him.
I disappear down a side street that sees little foot traffic and continue until I get to the third door on the left—the back door to a business that was abandoned a year ago due to the war. I glance around the area. Reassured I haven’t been followed or watched, I unlock the door and slip inside the building.
I descend the dingy stairs to the basement where the printing press is set up. The room is dimly lit and cold, and no less depressing than the world outside the brick walls.
“Bonjour,” I say to Armand as he looks up from the machine. As always, Conrad is standing guard in the doorway. The tall, imposing man doesn’t talk much. He gives me the standard nod in greeting.
“I have a new leaflet to be printed.” Leaflet writing is one of my tasks in the Pirouette network, along with distribution. I slip a sheet of paper from the secret compartment in my handbag and hand it to Armand.
He reads it. “Alright. I’ll do that now.” He gets to work setting up the printing press that creates the propaganda leaflets.
“How are you doing?” he asks after a few minutes. His gaze lands briefly on my belly hidden under my coat. He is one of the few people in the network who knows about my pregnant status—that I know of.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Why don’t you sit down? Rest while you can. You won’t have the opportunity once the baby is born.” He knows what he’s talking about. He has a toddler.
“Thank you.” I sit on the wooden chair a few feet from the press and wrap my coat tighter to myself. The basement isn’t any warmer than it is outside. I can’t imagine many buildings are much warmer, given the lack of heating these days. “Is there any news?”
He doesn’t look at me, his attention on the metal letters he’s placing on the press. “I’m sorry. Nothing substantial. There are whisperings about a man who could fit the description you gave me. And if it is him, then he’s alive. But that’s all I know. I sent a message to him that you are safe. I have no idea if he received it.”
“Thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
“You care about this man, non?”
I rest my hand on my belly. “Very much.”
“Well, I hope you get to see him again soon.”
All I can do is pray the man he’s talking about is Johann and my love is doing well. But that is the problem with rumours. They can fill you with hope and they can take it away, but at the end of the day, it’s hard to know if there is any truth to them.
I’ve reread Johann’s letter so many times in the past two months, I am surprised the ink is still readable and the paper doesn’t disintegrate in my hands.
I glance at Conrad, but he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to our conversation. The only thing I know about him is that he’s a communist and barely escaped from being rounded up as a political prisoner. The fate of an English operative and a political prisoner is the same once caught by the Milice or the Nazis. Neither of us will get to live to see the end of the war if that should happen.
If I am caught again, I won’t be as lucky as I was last time. I flex and extend the fingers of my damaged hand, reminding myself how fortunate I am. If not for Johann, the least of my problems would be how badly my hand aches in the cold weather and how much dexterity I have lost.
Armand prints the leaflets for me.
“Thank you. And this…” I remove another piece of paper from my handbag and pass it to him. “This is to be included in your next newspaper.”
He reads the article, which contains an update about the war, and nods. “I should have room for that.”
I place the leaflets in my valise and cover them with the few pieces of clothing in there. The clothing won’t deceive the Germans should they stop me and search the valise’s contents. But the clothing is enough to deceive the Germans should they only give the contents a cursory glance.
Armand gives me a copy of today’s newspaper. This isn’t the version he prints, with the truth about the war and the Allies successes. This newspaper is filled with Nazi propaganda.
I put several leaflets inside it, placing them far enough in so they’re secure, and slip the folded newspaper into my handbag.
I leave the basement room and head for the university library. Like earlier, no one appears to be following me. I slip into the building and go to the science section. A few people are in the area, sitting at the tables, but no one seems to pay attention to me or my valise. Had this been Paris, my bags would have been searched before I was permitted to enter the building.
I open the valise, grab a stack of leaflets, and slip them into random books throughout the bookshelf. All the leaflets I left here two weeks ago have been removed. Each was taken by a member of the resistance circuit in the area and contained information needed to execute the latest round of sabotage. Only members of the circuit understand the instructions. The leaflets are meaningless should they fall into enemy hands. The French Milice won’t have any idea where the attack will occur. They won’t be able to ambush the men and women executing the plans.
I repeat the same task in several other sections of the library. Afterwards, I walk towards my flat, stopping at a park on the way to sit and catch my breath. I find an empty bench overlooking a garden that currently lacks any sign of life. I unbutton my coat, revealing my rounded belly.
I don’t have to pretend that I am tired. The lack of food, my pregnancy, and the constant moving around my job entails takes a lot out of me. The amount of sleep I get each night isn’t ideal either. I no longer have nightmares about the Gestapo going after my sister. Now, I’m forced to relive my arrest, my nightmares twisting it into something more horrific.
A tiny hand or a foot pokes at my side. I rest my damaged hand over the spot and smile softly at my daughter, sending her all my love. Once she has settled again, I slip the newspaper from my purse and pretend to read a story on the front cover. Then I place the paper next to me on the bench and yawn.
“Beautiful day for a walk, isn’t it?” a familiar female voice says.
I turn to find Lise approaching the bench with a tall, good-looking man who appears as exhausted as the majority of French inhabitants. His blond hair is a little on the long side and he’s carrying a walking stick. From the way they smile at each other, I would think they were lovers. But I know Lise does not have anyone special in her life, neither here nor in England.
I push to my feet. It’s harder to do that now than it was a month ago.
Lise and I air-kiss.
“Henri, this is my cousin, éve,” she explains, introducing me to him with my new alias.
I recognise his name. The man is the head of the Pirouette network. And now he knows I’m pregnant. It’s unlikely he’s missed that detail.
“Enchanté, éve.” His gaze drops to my bump, now hidden under my coat, and his eyebrow raises in question. “Lise never mentioned you’re pregnant.”
Lise giggles, but I cannot tell if it is real or faked. “Oh, heavens. I cannot imagine how I forgot that little detail. Silly me.”
“Does Mother Goose know about it?” he asks, Mother Goose being our code name for Baker Street.
I shrug, the rise of my shoulders barely noticeable under my coat. “I did mention it to my friend prior to his disappearance. I don’t know if he told Mother Goose.”
“And the father?” Henri looks around as if expecting the man to magically appear. He shares a glance between Lise and me, waiting for an explanation.
“I don’t know where he is. It’s likely he has gone underground.” The last part is spoken quietly.
“Is he aware that he’s going to be a parent?”
“He is. He just doesn’t know where to find me. We got separated after he helped me with my situation.” I lift my bad hand, indicating what situation I’m talking about.
Henri was apprised of what happened to my hand when I first joined his network. I told Lise that Johann was the one who rescued me. She knows about our love story. I don’t know how much of it she has recounted to Henri.
I suspect he knows a lot more about the situation than he is letting on.
“You do live a complicated life, éve.”
A small smile curves my lips and heat flushes my wind-kissed cheeks. “I certainly do.”
“Lise and I should get moving. But you should know that Christian is no longer a problem. He was captured last week and executed.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, beaming broadly as if Henri just told us a great joke. I don’t feel an ounce of remorse at how Christian’s life ended.
“It was nice to meet you, éve,” Henri says, the signal we need to go our separate ways so not to draw the wrong kind of attention.
It’s also the perfect cover for forgetting my newspaper on the park bench.
A cut-out will pick it up shortly. Her job is to pass it to one of the resistance circuit members responsible for propaganda, who will distribute the leaflets inside the newspaper to the appropriate parties. It’s not blowing up railway tracks and tunnels or attending parachute drops like I was doing before, but it is still a necessary task in the fight for freedom.