Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
J eanne didn’t need her bicycle and told Lizzie she could borrow it for her cathedral rendezvous.
‘Remember, don’t tell her anything you don’t have to,’ said Jeanne. ‘That’s the sure-fire way to get yourself killed.’
Lizzie nodded. ‘Don’t worry. They taught me that in training. I’ll hold my tongue.’
Jeanne frowned. ‘I wish I could go with you. The idea of you doing this alone is worrying.’
‘But I won’t be alone,’ said Lizzie, in between mouthfuls of dry black bread. ‘I’ll be meeting the contact from the café, which is what we were hoping for all along.’
Jeanne reminded Lizzie of her mother—always looking out for her.
‘You must miss your daughter very much,’ said Lizzie.
‘Yes, I do. I haven’t seen her since before the war started. She’s in the Free Zone with my granddaughter. How I wish they had come to stay with me. So much for the free zone,’ she said disparagingly. ‘It’s nothing but a bunch of Nazi collaborators. ’
‘Is she able to write to you?’ asked Lizzie, thinking that her family was in a similar situation and how much she missed her grandparents.
‘The last letter I received from her was months ago, and it didn’t say much. The mail is heavily censored, so I was just relieved to hear from her. Lord knows where my poor son-in-law is—in a labour camp in Germany probably, or worse.’
Jeanne dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, suddenly overcome with emotion. ‘I’m surprised I have any tears left,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d cried them all for my dear Auguste.’
Auguste was Jeanne’s husband who died tragically at the Battle of the Somme in the First World War.
The previous evening after their illicit high of tuning into Winston Churchill, Jeanne had poured them each a glass of eye-wateringly strong homemade wine. She confided in Lizzie that Auguste was the reason she helped the Resistance. ‘What was it all for? He can’t have died for nothing,’ she said, shaking her head.
It was heartbreaking. Lizzie didn’t know what to say, so she squeezed the older woman’s hand and kept her company as they sipped the wine. Jeanne reminisced about her life with Auguste before the war so cruelly tore them apart.
They had an extremely happy marriage, but for years struggled to have children. Fortunately, after several miscarriages, Jeanne gave birth to a daughter in 1912. ‘She was the light of our lives. I thank God that Auguste got some precious time with her before he left for the Front. My daughter doesn’t remember her father at all, and now the same pattern is repeating itself all over again with my granddaughter and her father.’
They both grew sentimental with the wine, and Lizzie thought of this generation of young men who were fighting for their lives. She thought of the women they left behind fighting their own war on the home front. Mothers like her mother, doing their best to get through each day, trying not to think about whether their boys were lying dead in a ditch or in a prisoner of war camp somewhere. Wives and fiancées like Juliet, pale and sick to the stomach as they worry about what has become of their men.
‘War is a cruel business,’ said Lizzie. ‘Let us hope this really will be the last one.’
Jeanne shook her head. ‘The Germans love picking a fight for one reason or another. They’re not happy unless they are trying to dominate the world. Where this will all end, I don’t dare to think.’
‘Think of the Allies as victorious. Think of our young men coming safely home. It is the only way to think, or we shall drive ourselves insane,’ Lizzie said.
Jeanne assessed Lizzie. ‘You’re a wise young woman. Much wiser than your years. You’ll make some lucky man a fine wife, one day—when Europe stops burning and this Nazi madness is over, that is.’
Jeanne had brewed a pot of tea and Lizzie watched as she poured the aromatic water into two fine gold rimmed cups. Lizzie settled back against the sofa to enjoy hers.
‘Wait,’ Jeanne said, touching Lizzie’s wrist when she stood to clear the cups away.
‘Flip your cup like this.’
Lizzie watched as Jeanne slowly swirled the remnants of the tea from left to right around the base of her cup in a hypnotic fashion. She repeated the ritual twice.
‘Three is a magic number, so I do it three times. Now you do the same with yours,’ she said.
Lizzie did as Jeanne instructed, holding her cup out in front of her. ‘Like this?’
Jeanne nodded. ‘That’s it. Look, do you see how the leaves form patterns? These patterns can help us understand the past and see into the future.’
Lizzie was mesmerised as she studied the glossy dark patterns pooling in the bottom of her cup. All kinds of shapes had formed, and she wondered what they could mean. She’d heard about tea leaf reading but had never seen anyone do it.
‘It’s all about energy and intuition. Tea diviners say it opens the soul, you know,’ said Jeanne with an air of mystery. ‘The ancient art of reading the leaves is called Tasseography.’
‘Do you know what the patterns mean?’ Lizzie asked. The tiredness that had been creeping over her evaporated as she peered into the cup.
‘My mother knew how to interpret the leaves. She was a psychic and people used to come from miles around to this very cottage for her to do readings for them.’
‘How fascinating. Did she teach you?’
Jeanne reached over for Lizzie’s cup. ‘Yes, a bit. Let me see what message there is in the leaves for you.’
Lizzie leaned closer and stared into the cup.
‘What do you see there?’ Jeanne said, pointing her finger towards a pattern. ‘It’s on the side of the cup, which means this is a sign of something for you in the near future.’
Lizzie studied the dark pattern. ‘It reminds me of a black bird.’
Jeanne nodded. ‘Me too. My intuition tells me it’s the symbol of a black raven, which is a good omen. You are a lucky girl. You have a sacred messenger watching over you.’
‘What a mysterious message.’
‘It’s a good job you have a protector, for you will need one.’
‘That sounds ominous,’ Lizzie said, shivering.
‘Don’t be afraid. All will be well if you trust the black raven. ’
Lizzie went to bed and thought no more about it after deciding it was just an old wives’ tale and not worth brooding over. Her last thought before she fell asleep was of Jack, and she wondered where he was now.
In the morning, Lizzie set off on Jeanne’s old bicycle. The black paint on the frame was peeling, and the basket was heavily worn, but she rattled along nicely, enjoying the breeze and sun on her face. The vineyards fanned out before her on either side of the track and filled her with a sense of possibility as she gazed at the patchwork vista of green and yellow fields on the horizon.
A church spire sparkled against the stretch of bright blue sky, which was interrupted only by the occasional wispy cloud. It was hard to imagine such beauty could still exist in this era of cruelty and evil, and this breathtaking countryside was merely the temporary canvas.
It would be harvesting time soon and as she whizzed past the hedgerows, clusters of plump, juicy grapes swayed on the vines. The Nazi high command adored champagne, and Jeanne said it was still very much in demand for their lavish dinners and parties, despite the misery permeating Europe.
The journey into Reims was much quicker on the bicycle. She had thought it would be, but didn’t want to risk being late in case she took a wrong turn. The country lanes were like a maze, and it would be easy enough to get lost, so she set out early, anyway.
Lizzie could not miss the meeting with the mystery woman under any circumstances. This could be her one shot at finding out about Hannah and what the Reims network needed from SOE to get back into action.
Lizzie arrived thirty minutes early, parked her bicycle on one side of the gothic cathedral, and pushed the heavy door open. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the nave, and as she walked slowly down the aisle, they were drawn magnetically to the famous Grande Rose, the medieval stained-glass circular window.
Looking around, Lizzie selected one of the many vacant, intricately carved wooden pews, about halfway along, and sank to her knees on the prie-dieu . She closed her eyes and said a quick silent prayer, asking that all would be well.
Her yellow silk scarf was askew from the ride into town, so she straightened it and made herself presentable. Glancing at her watch, the time seemed to trickle like treacle.
Finally, the hour hit twelve, and she was relieved that a few old women still lingered in prayer, so she wasn’t alone in the cathedral. It had occurred to her today’s rendezvous might be an elaborate trap—but how would the woman have known to remark on the scarf?
Unless Hannah had been tortured and revealed the code. Jack told her that the yellow scarf was one of the recognition codes he and Hannah had put in place in the early days before the Special Operations Executive was officially set up.
Lizzie shivered. The woman in the café had seemed genuine, so she dismissed the suspicion and turned her mind to a positive outcome. She heard the creak and bounce of the heavy old door, and the languid summer breeze rippled in to announce a new arrival.
Rising from her kneeling position, she sat on the bench and glanced over her shoulder to see only one old woman remained on her knees, her lips moving as she communicated with God.
The woman from the café wore a hat and her long jet-black hair was modestly concealed. Lizzie wondered whether it was to make her less memorable. The woman walked towards her, hips sashaying and heels tapping on the hard floor. She slipped into the pew behind her. Lizzie didn’t know what to do, so she waited in silence. Her heart raced, and she tried not to think about the terrifying Gestapo nightmare.
After what seemed like an interminable time, the woman spoke in a low voice. ‘I have a gift for you.’
Lizzie swallowed. Her throat was dry. ‘Is it what I came for?’
‘Yes,’ came the voice over her shoulder.
‘And is Alice well?’ Lizzie asked, using Hannah’s cover name.
‘I don’t know what has become of her.’
‘And the others?’
‘Nowhere is safe now. Take the gift and leave,’ she whispered. ‘ Bonne chance .’
Lizzie heard the tap of heels once more when the woman rose and walked out the way she had come. Then she heard the soft thud of the door closing behind her and she was gone. The meeting couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes.
Lizzie’s heart thudded erratically as she tried to understand what she was supposed to do.
She dropped back down onto her knees and as if she was praying. With one hand, she groped beneath the bench, her fingers exploring the cool floor around her.
Nothing.
Where was the gift?
Lizzie continued sweeping her hand along the floor, searching behind her until her fingers touched something. She stretched further back and pulled the object towards her.
In her hands was a small envelope with a remarkably good sketch of a black bird on the front.
Lizzie turned hot and cold as she remembered the raven Jeanne spoke about from the tea leaf reading. Was this the sacred messenger she had prophesied ?
She grabbed her thin summer raincoat, which she didn’t need in this heat but had brought solely for the purpose of hiding whatever the woman might bring her. Lizzie stuffed the envelope into a hidden inside pocket and looked around nervously. She would check the contents later when she was alone—now she must leave.
Only the old woman remained in the nave. Lunchtime for the French, even in wartime, was a sacred ritual, and most would try to get home to eat and rest during the hottest part of the day. She exited the cathedral without looking back.
The bicycle waited for her like an old friend, and she jumped on it and pedalled away as fast as she could without looking out of place.
Inside her raincoat, which was folded carefully in the bicycle basket, lay the envelope Jack had sent her to collect.
Lizzie weaved through the lanes and avoided the few brave souls she encountered who were doing their errands despite the relentless noon sun. As she reached the outskirts of the city, relief washed over her.
She had done it.
Soon she would be back in the peaceful cottage and could open the envelope and see what Hannah had discovered that was so vital to outwit the Luftwaffe.
It struck Lizzie that she still had no way to get back to England. There had been no opportunity to ask the woman for help.
Her only option was to risk being caught at the original pickup spot. The soldier had shot at the plane, but it had seemed more like a random act of aggression than an organised ambush. The soldiers were rowdy and sounded drunk. They had probably forgotten all about it by now, she consoled herself.
Lizzie’s mind ticked over as she tried to figure out what to do now that she had what she had come for. The priority must be to get the envelope into Jack’s hands as soon as possible. Her spirits were high as she turned the corner and took the road that wound through the vineyards towards the cottage.
Then she saw the soldier from the square watching her.