3 Lisette
3
Lisette
May, 1942 – Normandy
The Lysander bounced over air currents above the English Channel, flying south towards the coast of France. In the breast pocket of Lisette’s jumpsuit was the obligatory silver compact case, a tiny shield across her heart, and, in her suitcase, the ‘L tablet’, a cyanide pill sewn into the hem of her skirt, just in case. Lisette hoped she would never need to use it.
Lisette wasn’t her real name – that had been buried months ago – Lisette was the name used by her handlers and other agents.
That evening’s dinner churned in her stomach. If she’d been cooking, she would have made her grandmother’s favourite supper: soufflé and green salad. As her grandmother was French, the art of making a soufflé was in her blood, and she’d not rested until Lisette had mastered the recipe. Instead, Lisette had been served tough beef and carrots boiled to mush in the airbase canteen.
She took a deep breath as the plane turned eastward.
‘We’re over France,’ the dispatcher shouted, a short, stocky man who’d introduced himself as Harry on the airstrip at RAF Tempsford. He poured Lisette a hot toddy from a flask. ‘Ten minutes until the drop.’
She smiled her thanks and swiftly downed the drink.
The plane started to descend. Lisette swallowed to ease the pressure in her ears. She’d trained for jumping at RAF Ringway, but this time she’d be landing behind enemy lines in occupied France.
Harry hitched the static line of Lisette’s parachute on to the hook. ‘Are you ready?’
Lisette nodded. This was it. No going back. Harry opened the hatch in the fuselage. Air rushed in. The earth looked nearer than she’d expected. She sat, legs dangling over the empty space. Down below, a tiny light flickered.
‘There they are. We’ll send your bag down after,’ Harry shouted. ‘On the count of three. One, two … three.’
The engines cut out for a second and suddenly Lisette was falling into darkness. Wind rushed up her nostrils. The line went taut and then the parachute opened. Lisette’s armpits burned with the pull of the harness. She spun round, trying to find the lights and steer the chute towards them.
Without warning, the ground rushed up. She tumbled on the rough earth, the parachute tangled around her legs. She heard the thud of her suitcase a few metres away. Gradually, the plane’s engine grew faint.
A flashlight bobbed towards Lisette and shone in her eyes.
‘ Bonjour. Un bon vent pour une chasse au sanglier ,’ a man’s voice said.
‘The last time we hunted we caught two,’ Lisette replied in French. This was the answer she’d been taught. She wriggled out of the parachute strings.
The man dropped the torchlight towards the floor, casting a soft light. Without the glare, Lisette saw a tall man with a pair of piercing blue eyes gazing down at her.
‘I’m Seraphin,’ he said, handing over her suitcase. ‘Welcome to France.’
The instructions from London had been clear. No personal effects could be brought on the mission; it was too dangerous. Lisette’s suitcase had been checked twice while she waited in the anonymous, bare room in Baker Street.
But she couldn’t leave England without her notebook full of recipes. At the last minute, she had extracted it from the waistband of her trousers and slipped it into the suitcase between her dress and nylon underwear.
Now, in the attic of the farmhouse where Seraphin had brought her last night, Lisette opened the suitcase and took out the recipe book. She’d given up so much to come here, including her identity, but she couldn’t bear to give up the one thing she treasured most: her grandmother’s recipes. Lisette had written them in the book while sitting in her grandparents’ kitchen at the scrubbed wooden table in their house in Normandy.
She leafed through the pages. Her grandmother had grown up in the Alsace, speaking French and German, before moving to Gerberoy when she got married. Mathilde, Lisette’s mother, spoke German and French too, a gift she’d passed on to Lisette. Lisette’s father, Albert, a British soldier who she’d met during the Great War and settled with back in England didn’t approve, instructing his wife to speak only English.
On cold nights, Mathilde had slept in Lisette’s bed, the covers pulled up over their heads to keep in the warmth, whispering stories from the past in the forbidden languages. The happiest moments of Lisette’s life were visits back to her grandparents’ house in Gerberoy.
No, she could never have left the recipe book behind. Besides, it fitted with her cover identity. While she was called Lisette by the agents and handlers, she was to be known as Sylvie, an aspiring cook, to the outside world. These were the two sides to her new persona. The recipe book, Lisette had reasoned, was an integral part of who Sylvie was. By day, she’d weed the vegetable patch and cook. By night, she’d help the local resistance against the Germans.
She clenched the book tightly. German bombs had killed her grandparents and sunk her fiancé’s ship at Lazaire. A fire rose in her throat as she recalled Johnny’s words the last time they’d said goodbye. ‘I’ll be back,’ he’d promised her. But now he was gone.
Lisette tucked the recipe book back into her suitcase. That’s why she was here in France. To avenge them all.
The farmer’s wife tossed shallots into a deep-bottomed pan. The oil fizzed. A brace of rabbits lay in a metal tray on the table.
‘ Puis-je vous aider? ’ Lisette asked, coming down the stairs.
‘ Non merci ,’ the woman said.
‘I know how to prepare rabbit,’ Lisette said. The woman ignored her. ‘I’d recommend roasting it with rosemary. I can skin it for you if you have a knife.’
This time the woman looked up. ‘ D’accord. Très bien ,’ she said.
Lisette deftly sliced the skin and pulled it free of the carcass. Next she made a neat cut along the rabbit’s belly and scooped out the innards, then she rubbed butter and herbs into the pink flesh and placed it on the tray with a sprig of rosemary from the bunch that hung above the stove.
‘ Merci ,’ the woman said with a quick smile.
Outside, under the pump, Lisette cleaned her hands. The blood from the rabbit washed away, soaking into the mud.
‘I hear you’ve been helping in the kitchen.’ Seraphin came outside, a camera case slung over his shoulder. He leaned against the stone wall and smiled. ‘She’s impressed with your culinary skills.’
They’d told Lisette in London that her handler in France was experienced. Glancing at Seraphin now, his eyes astonishingly blue in the sunshine, his gaze friendly and open, Lisette knew instinctively she could trust him.
She shook her hands dry. ‘Well, I have my grandmother, catering college and an apprenticeship at the Savoy to thank for that.’
Seraphin smiled. ‘I hear that’s how the Special Operations Executive found you. Talking French and German like a native to a table of Swiss diplomats.’
Lisette had been explaining the complexities of quail consommé to the diners. She hadn’t realized anyone else was listening. A man had approached her after her shift with the offer of translation work. During the interview in Baker Street a week later, she’d found out that the role involved much more than that.
‘I was eager to come,’ Lisette said.
‘And we’re glad to have you,’ Seraphin replied. He took out his camera. ‘Now, stand just there, by the whitewashed wall. I need to take your picture.’
Lisette did as she was told.
‘All done,’ he said. ‘I’ll get these developed for your identity papers.’
‘Are you a photographer?’ Lisette asked. The camera looked very professional.
‘I was before the war,’ he said, putting the lens cap back on. ‘Now it’s my cover. Weddings, christenings: one click, and I record the memories.’
‘I don’t really like being photographed,’ Lisette said.
Seraphin smiled. ‘Neither does my daughter. She wriggles off her mother’s knee every time I try to take a picture.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Listen, I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lisette frowned. In the barn, she could hear pigs rootling in their trough.
‘You’re going to Paris. We need an agent to make deliveries and listen out for information.’
‘Paris?’ Lisette said. ‘I thought they wanted me to blow up train lines.’
‘An opening has come up in a restaurant. The head chef is sympathetic to our cause. He’s agreed that we can place someone qualified in the role,’ he said, gesturing towards Lisette. ‘Only the Germans and collaborators dine out in Paris now. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to be our eyes and ears.’
Paris. The very centre of the German occupation of France.
‘Which restaurant?’ she asked.
‘Maxim’s. Have you heard of it? The Germans can’t get enough of the food there, and when the wine flows, they talk.’
Of course she’d heard of it. Maxim’s was one of the best restaurants in Paris. In normal times, working at Maxim’s would have been an opportunity for her. But this was war. She wouldn’t be there to learn from some of the best chefs in the world, she’d be there to cook for the Germans.
‘I thought Horcher was in charge of Maxim’s now,’ Lisette said.
It’d been the talk of the Savoy kitchen: how the Nazis had ousted the owners, the Vaudables, and appointed the acclaimed German restaurateur, Otto Horcher, in their place.
‘Indeed,’ Seraphin said, ‘and that’s what makes Maxim’s so interesting to us. It has protected status.’
Lisette swallowed. It wasn’t the kind of war work she’d imagined, but it was exactly what she wanted: to be at the very heart of things and make a difference.