Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
L izzie woke and went downstairs to find Jeanne, who rose at dawn, brewing coffee.
‘Sit down, and tell me exactly what happened,’ Jeanne said when she saw her guest appear in the doorway.
Lizzie had stumbled back to the cottage in the middle of the night, and Jeanne was surprised by her return. Lizzie explained briefly that the pickup had been aborted, and they had both flopped into bed exhausted, promising to catch up first thing.
The coffee helped revive Lizzie, and she told Jeanne about the soldiers shooting at the plane.
Jeanne snorted. ‘ Sales Nazis !’
Lizzie shuddered at the thought of how close she had come to being caught by the German soldiers.
‘You are a brave girl,’ Jeanne said. ‘Your parents will be proud of you.’
‘I did the only thing I could,’ Lizzie said.
‘Trust me, if you did the only thing you could, you wouldn’t be in France in these terrible times.’
Lizzie told Jeanne a little about her parents and how worried they would be if she didn’t return home by the end of the week. ‘They think I’m on a translation course.’
Jeanne patted her hand and promised that between them they would figure out a way.
‘You really are most kind,’ Lizzie said. She was more scared about being stuck in Reims than she had let on, but she was also scared for Jeanne’s safety. ‘It is you who is the brave one. I know you are taking an enormous risk sheltering me here, especially now I’ve stayed much longer than planned.’
‘I am happy to do it,’ Jeanne said. ‘It makes me feel useful. I can’t just sit by without a fight whilst the Nazis take over France.’
Lizzie guessed Jeanne must be around her mother’s age, and her encouraging words reassured her she would somehow find a way home.
‘Well, I’m here now, so I may as well do what I can to contact the Resistance and complete my mission. Hopefully, they will help me request another pickup.’
Jeanne got up to make toast, and as she pottered about, she said, ‘As much as I hate to say it, it may be too late for dear Alice. She undertook a lethal assignment, and the chances are she was caught. Otherwise, she would have made contact again. She asked for someone to meet her and collect information, didn’t you say?’
Hannah’s official cover name was Alice which is how Jeanne knew her.
‘Yes, that’s why I’m here. Some time ago, she said she had vital intelligence to pass on, but she didn’t make the meeting point, and then she went silent.’
Jeanne laid two small plates on the table with a thin piece of dark toast on each one, and Lizzie thanked her and bit into hers hungrily. Running about all day and much of the night had taken its toll on her and she was flagging .
They agreed Lizzie would walk into the city again, but rather than go to the café and risk arousing suspicion, she would queue up at the shops nearby and try to get some supplies. That way, she could observe the café and see if anyone appeared to be trying to make contact.
‘There is a slim possibility that Alice has made it back and hasn’t been in touch again yet,’ Jeanne said.
‘I hope that’s the case,’ Lizzie said. In her training, she had learnt that a Resistance fighter might observe a meeting point for several days as a precaution before reaching out. That’s why Jack had given her four days.
Later that morning, Lizzie waited in the long line outside the butcher’s shop, which comprised mostly women, and moved at a snail’s pace . There were a few beaten looking men in line, most of them elderly.
Every few minutes, she let her eyes stray towards the café across the square. She could see the outdoor tables clearly and had a good view of the entrance, so she could keep watch on who came and went. Unlike the others in the queue, she wasn’t impatient for it to move faster.
So far, she had seen no one who fitted Hannah’s description. Jack had shown her a photo of a beautiful young woman, her hair pinned back off her face in a glamorous roll and curls caressing her bare shoulders. Hannah had golden hair and piercing blue eyes. He said her eyes were so startling that the Resistance almost rejected her because she was too striking and would attract attention.
When she asked why the Resistance changed their minds, he said that Hannah was so dedicated to the cause, they realised they would have been stupid to turn her down. ‘Women like her are one in a million. She looks pure German—Aryan—but has the motivation of a Jew.’
Hannah had proven to be brilliant at carrying out many dangerous missions that others were too afraid to lead. At that point, Jack stopped talking and wouldn’t elaborate.
Lizzie was in awe of the legendary Resistance fighter and wondered if she might one day be such an asset to SOE that other agents would speak her name in hushed tones of reverence in the way Jack and Val spoke about Hannah.
The queue inched forward, and Lizzie did her best to blend in and avoid eye contact with other shoppers. It was almost noon, and the sun blazed on her head and people were growing hot and restless, with no shade.
Many of the women were elegantly dressed in the typical style of the French, if a little shabby, despite wartime rationing and the shortage of new clothing. Lizzie thought this was their way of making a bold statement and using fashion as a form of resistance against the Germans.
Lizzie wore one of Jeanne’s dresses. Jeanne had pointed out that if she wore the same clothes day after day, she would stand out like a visitor with no change of wardrobe.
‘Besides, this outfit needs a good wash.’ Jeanne confiscated her dress on the spot for laundry. She really was a godsend and fortunately they were of a similar build, so the summer dress Jeanne laid out on her bed fitted Lizzie reasonably well.
Lizzie squinted in the sun with one hand over her eyes as she read a poster in the butcher’s shop window—something about the latest ration laws—when she heard the unmistakable stomp of rhythmic boots on cobbles.
The instant charge in the air was palpable. Lizzie observed the faces of the waiting shoppers, and saw that some showed unconcealed contempt, some were plain terrified, and others wore masks, revealing no emotion.
She tried to emulate the third group and looked on as a swarm of impeccably uniformed German soldiers marched through the square like they belonged there, to the backdrop of the Nazi banner. The vision was menacing, and Lizzie fought to stay composed.
Her heart hammered as she scanned the rows of soldiers advancing like clockwork. She wished this was just a nightmare and she would awaken to find herself lazing on the golden sands at Seagrove, waiting for the tide to wash in on a perfect summer’s afternoon.
No such luck. The Nazis were here, and they meant business. Just as she was about to turn away, sickened by their arrogant manner, one of them caught her attention. Immediately, she realised it was the soldier who had called out to her a few days earlier.
It was too late to avoid his glare—he stared at her intently as he marched, and then he winked.
Lizzie shook as flames of fear licked through her. She told herself she was doing a poor job of going unnoticed in this small city. This was the second time he had made advances to her and if she wasn’t careful, she would be in serious trouble.
Jack had warned her to avoid contact with authority figures at all costs. ‘You have good identification papers and a plausible cover story, but avoid putting yourself into situations where your papers will be under scrutiny. Only use them when absolutely necessary.’
And here she was, admittedly through no fault of her own, attracting a young German soldier who was obviously set on flirting with her. She didn’t want to risk drawing any more attention to herself, or incurring his wrath, but there was also significant danger of being seen to collaborate with the occupiers.
She met his eyes briefly, and her lips formed into a small stiff smile which, by no stretch of the imagination, could be deemed as encouraging.
His eyes burned into hers as he marched by until she could see him no more. Lizzie slumped where she waited in the never-moving queue in the burning hot sunshine, her heart palpitating and her throat parched.
One of the older women who had already been served paused beside her. ‘They have some nerve, don’t they? I saw him wink at you like that, the insolent bastard.’
Lizzie inclined her head and smiled politely. It was getting more difficult to avoid conversation with the locals.
‘I worry about my daughter. She must be around your age. The Boche have no respect for our young women. No decency at all. My husband would turn in his grave if he could see them marching around France again like they own it. It makes me wonder what the first war was for!’
The woman was in full flow, and Lizzie let her talk, making suitable noises of agreement, hoping she would let off steam and be on her way soon.
‘You’re not from these parts, are you?’ she said suddenly, studying Lizzie’s face as if it might reveal her birthplace.
‘I’m here visiting a friend.’
‘Ah, that explains it. I know most families around here. My family has lived in Reims for four generations, you know.’
Lizzie smiled again, but cursed inwardly. She’d somehow fallen into conversation with a woman who clearly loved to gossip. ‘That’s nice,’ she said, trying to think of a way to change the subject so the woman wouldn’t question her about which friend she was visiting and why.
‘It was heaven here, before this occupation,’ she said, shaking her head, malice glinting in her hard eyes.
Mercifully, someone further along in the queue waved to the woman who bustled off to talk to her. Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief. Looking across the square, she checked out the café. There was no one out of the ordinary as far as she could make out, but with mounting frustration she remembered the Resistance would aim to blend in .
Unless Lizzie could recognise Hannah from the photo, or whoever came for a rendezvous identified Lizzie by her yellow silk scarf, she was on a fool’s errand. Jack had told her the local Resistance network may have been compromised and perhaps no one would show up for fear of being arrested.
Jeanne had also laid out a colourful scarf to match the dress, not knowing how critical it was that Lizzie wear the yellow.
Hours passed and Lizzie’s feet ached, and she grew more restless with every passing minute. Eventually it was her turn to be served, and the butcher took a ration ticket, and then shrugged his shoulders and handed her a tiny package.
It must be ham because it was the only meat he had left, and if she had arrived later, that too would probably be gone. One piece was all they were allowed for the week.
She accepted it with thanks and sped out of the shop, avoiding anyone else’s eyes on the way out. Lizzie couldn’t bear the hopeless expressions on people’s faces as it dawned on them—they were probably not going to get any meat today. It was a blessing she would have something to contribute to Jeanne’s household. Her host had generously shared her own meagre rations with her for days, and she felt guilty.
By now, the sun was high in the bright blue sky, partially covered by a patch of white fluffy clouds, but the heat was still oppressive, and she was thirsty. Lizzie was about to leave the square when, on impulse, she walked past the café again.
The proprietor wasn’t behind the counter and someone else Lizzie had not seen before was working. She was dying for a drink, and yearned to make contact with someone who could connect her with the elusive Hannah, so she decided to risk it.
Taking a seat at a small table under the shade of the awning on the terrace, she ordered a coffee when the server appeared. Her stomach was rumbling, but she couldn’t afford food with her dwindling funds.
A coffee would bolster her energy for the long walk back. She would eat some of the ham with Jeanne in the safety of the cottage that evening, and the thought of sharing a modest meal with her new friend lifted her spirits.
Lizzie sat there for about ten minutes, reading a discarded newspaper she found on the table. It was full of Nazi propaganda. The French newspapers were heavily censored, but she passed the time sipping the coffee and scanning the pages to see if she could find anything of interest. When she looked up, preparing to leave, she felt someone’s eyes on her.
An attractive woman with straight jet-black hair was seated at a table further along the terrace. There was an open book on the table beside her. The woman cleared her throat and appeared to study her.
Lizzie looked back at her hesitantly and waited. What if the woman wasn’t a Resistance member and was merely curious? Lizzie shifted in her seat, unsure what to do next.
The woman picked up the book and began reading. Lizzie was relieved she had said nothing to arouse suspicion and her heartbeat slowly steadied. She could kick herself for being such an amateur.
She jumped when the woman spoke. Her head was buried in the book. ‘Your yellow silk scarf is very chic. Where did you get it?’