The Paris Apartment, page 10
“Who?”
“People.”
Sophie tipped her head. “This conversation is some sort of test, isn’t it?”
“They said you were intuitive.”
“They?”
“Also that you were clever with numbers, organized, punctual, polite, but socially reticent.” He ignored her question. “‘Standoffish’ might have been used.”
“I didn’t come to Bletchley for the taverns and ale. I came to fight the only way I know how.”
He didn’t seem offended at her tone. “You applied to Bletchley as Sophie Kowalski.”
“Yes.”
The brown-haired man plucked a leaf from the bush nearest him and twirled it between his fingers. “Kowalski is a Polish name, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“You were married.”
“Yes.”
“Ah. So you are a widow. I wasn’t entirely sure.”
She clenched her fist, Piotr’s ring cutting hard into her finger, but kept her face a mask of impassivity. He had tricked her into admitting something that she had told no one here.
“Why not apply as Sophie Seymour?”
Sophie stared at him in shock.
“Ah.” He chuckled. “You didn’t expect me to know your name.”
She shrugged, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
“Someone recognized you here,” he continued, sounding amused. “As Sophie Seymour. Late of Warsaw, Poland.”
She relaxed her hand where it was still clenched at her side. In hindsight, she supposed that it had probably only been a matter of time. At the beginning, she hadn’t deliberately set out to hide that information but then it had simply become far easier to avoid questions that would inevitably become probing. And painful.
“You used to work at the Foreign Office,” he continued. “As a very talented linguist.”
“My past employment has no bearing on what I do now at Bletchley.”
“See, now I might disagree. You concealed important information.”
“I took all the required tests and filled out all the required forms related to this job. I was hired as a translator, and no one has had cause to complain about my work. So you can save your accusations. Or put them in my file and let me get back to work.”
The man exhaled in what might have been amusement. “Ah, yes, your file. I’ve read it, even if no one else has. And then I went and tracked down the file the Foreign Office has for you—when you were still Sophie Seymour. And there were curious things that were not in that file. The Foreign Office had no travel records for you. No marriage records. No records at all after August of ’thirty-nine. In fact, Sophie Seymour was written up as deserting her post and then, later, presumed dead.”
Sophie had died. Just not how this man meant. “Paper records have never fared well under German bombs.”
“Neither did your family, as I understand.”
The words were gentle but it was like he had punched her. The air whooshed out of her lungs, and she nearly doubled over.
“Your parents are recorded as having perished in the raids last year. Your twin brother, a pilot with the RAF, shot down on a bombing run before that.”
“My brother is missing, not dead,” she managed roughly.
The leaf fell from his fingers, spiralling to the ground. “I admire your optimism.”
“I will mourn my brother when there is a body.”
“How pragmatic of you.”
Sophie didn’t reply.
“Aside from the London address in your Foreign Office file—the address that, regrettably, no longer exists—there was a Norfolk address. My lieutenant, when tasked with investigating, discovered that the staff in your family’s employ at that address currently believes you to be dead.”
Sophie looked down.
“I’m not judging,” the man said. “Merely curious as to your motivations.”
“Motivations?” she asked dully.
“To remain here, anonymous.”
“I will return when my brother returns,” Sophie mumbled. “And then I won’t have to explain why I was the only one of my family who deserved to live.” Or face the crushing guilt that came with that acknowledgement.
“Mmm.” The man considered her for an uncomfortably long minute. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he finally said. “For the loss of your family.”
“Everyone here has lost someone.”
“Yes,” the man agreed, and there was a genuine note of weary sadness to his reply. He extended his hand. “Major James Reed. I’m here on behalf of Colonel Maurice Buckmaster, from London. Forgive my lack of introduction earlier. As well as any offense I might have inferred regarding your loyalties.”
“Don’t be coy. You fully intended offense.” Sophie looked up and shook his hand briefly. “It was part of your test.”
“Perhaps.” Reed was still studying her. “Tell me about Poland.”
“What about Poland?”
“Tell me how you got out.”
“Is this another part of your test?”
“Perhaps,” he said again.
Sophie suddenly felt exhausted, trying to find the words that wouldn’t betray the terror and grief that had accompanied her every step of the way. “North. Gdynia to Copenhagen. Then to Gothenburg. Then Edinburgh. Then London.”
Reed studied her. “You make it sound easy.”
“It wasn’t,” Sophie replied flatly. “It was months of waiting for opportunity. It was lying constantly, pretending to be a more believable persona whenever necessary. It was depending on people for generosity or stealing from them when you couldn’t. It was accepting that desperation always trumped morals. It was putting trust into strangers and their homes and barns and trucks and fishing boats, knowing at any moment you might be betrayed and that there was little you could do to stop it.”
The major was still watching her keenly. “Indeed” was all he said.
“There are a great many people who loathe the Nazis and everything they stand for. They just don’t say it out loud and instead let their actions speak for them. The trick is to find them.”
“And you did. You found your way back.”
Sophie looked up at the sky, buoyant white clouds dotting the blue expanse. “Not in time.”
The major didn’t offer platitudes this time. Instead he only regarded her with an intense expression. “Mmm.”
Sophie suddenly wanted this conversation to end. It was everything she could do not to simply bolt from the overgrown garden. “Did I pass your test, Major? Can I get back to my work? Unless you know something I don’t, there is still a war to be fought, and I intend to keep fighting.”
Reed might have smiled. “Tell me, Sophie, would you be willing to go back to France? Or even Poland?”
Sophie felt her jaw slacken. This conversation had taken an abrupt turn that she had seemingly missed. “What? Now?”
“No. There would be matters to be sorted first. Many phases of training that you would be required to undergo. Many more tests for you to pass.”
“You mean here? At Bletchley?”
Reed shook his head. “Not here.”
“Then where?”
“Surrey to start. Hampshire eventually, if you make it that far.”
“That tells me nothing,” Sophie said in frustration.
“That is rather the point.”
“Why me?”
Major Reed glanced down at the paper he still held in his hand but didn’t answer her question. “I think, Sophie Kowalski, that you are fighting the wrong battle in this war,” he said.
“I am only a translator. I don’t have any other special skills,” she blurted.
The major’s lips twisted. “I disagree.”
“But I can’t just leave my position at Bletchley.”
“You can.” He looked at her and handed her the paper. “You’ll stay on at Bletchley for a bit but, once the wheels are in motion, you won’t be back.”
Sophie glanced down at it. Inter-Services Research Bureau was neatly printed across the top. She’d never heard of the bureau. “What is this?”
Major James Reed did smile then. “An opportunity to do more.”
Chapter
8
Estelle
Paris, France
15 July 1942
Estelle watched the travellers as they exited the train station, each moving with a grim swiftness that she had never seen before the war had started, because in the cheerful morning sunshine, the Gare du Nord was a terrifying place. It was a locale where the grey blight converged, a morass of Wehrmacht, SS, and Gestapo uniforms, all peppered with black spots of police. It was a place where tragedy and casual violence struck when one least expected it.
To avoid attention, those who flowed around the occupiers were careful to keep their gaze on the ground, answered questions with single syllables only when necessary, and had their papers in a place from which they could be produced without delay. Only misfortune came from lingering in and around a Paris train station these days.
Estelle adjusted the bright red flowers affixed to her hat and glanced casually at her watch as she did so. She strolled along the pavement in front of the station, her heels clacking unhurriedly, scanning the thinning crowd. There. Right on time. A familiar man in a threadbare suit, emerging from the station and walking deliberately toward her, a paper folded under his arm. A discreet distance behind him would be the airman.
Estelle slowed even further as he approached. Jerome walked by her, meeting her eyes for only a fraction of a second with his own. Estelle stopped and opened her handbag, pulling out her compact as though she was fixing her hair. In the mirror, she saw Jerome veer off toward the row of makeshift cabs that lined the street.
No more than five feet in front of her, another man in another threadbare suit had emerged, an identically folded paper under his arm. He stopped and glanced up, blue eyes clashing with hers before he looked away almost as quickly as Jerome had. Estelle frowned. Beneath the battered hat he wore, his face was ashen, his expression strained, bruised shadows under his eyes. He was ill. Or, more likely, injured. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do about it now. He had survived the train journey from Belgium—he would need to survive just a little longer, and then she could deal with whatever ailed him.
Estelle resumed her unhurried walk, angling west, away from the station and toward the streets. She checked her lipstick one last time, the reflection in her mirror confirming that the man with the bright blue eyes was walking behind her. She dropped her compact back into her handbag and picked up her pace. Every minute that she was exposed with a man who likely did not speak a word of French was a minute too long.
She wound her way through the streets, Sacré-Coeur intermittently looming up on its hill to the north between buildings. Here, away from the train station and in the labyrinth of streets lined with apartments and shops and cafés, Estelle relaxed fractionally. This close to her flat, each corner was familiar.
At the boulangerie on the corner, the queue was already long, hunger and weariness etched on each face. A Jewish family passed her, the yellow stars bright against their clothing. People on bicycles wove through the street, dodging the occasional pony cart. It wasn’t often she saw vehicles anymore, unless they were military, and the little red-and-black flags affixed to each were a constant reminder of the evil that had consumed her city.
Estelle continued walking, and her stomach rumbled as the scent of baked bread broke through the heavier smells of horse manure and dust. She had eaten last night but nerves had kept her from dipping into her dwindling rations this morning. This was far from the first time she had collected an Allied fugitive, but the fear of discovery never went away. If anything, she’d become more anxious over time, though she supposed that wasn’t a bad thing. It had kept her alert and careful, and she was still here when others had ominously vanished.
Estelle entered her building, glancing behind her as she pulled open the door. Blue-eyes was still behind her, though his gait was decidedly uneven. She would need to get him upstairs as quickly as possible. She paused at the bottom of the stairs to listen for the sound of footsteps but only silence met her. She was always cognizant of those who came and went—one could never become too comfortable, even here.
A minute later, the door swung open again, and the airman staggered through. His face was tight with pain, his breathing shallow.
“Can you make it up the stairs?” she asked in French but got only a blank look in response. She asked again in English.
He nodded, gripping the railing hard enough that his knuckles were white.
“There are three flights.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Estelle put an arm around his waist.
The pilot resisted and tried to pull away.
“Save the heroics for when you’re back in the air, yes?” she whispered harshly. “I can do a lot of things but carrying you up the stairs if you fall is not one of them.”
He nodded, leaning on her shoulder. They navigated the stairs up to her apartment, and she maneuvered them inside, closing the door firmly behind them. “This way. Almost there.”
She led him through the living area and all its ostentatious furnishings, around the long dining table, and into her bedroom. She opened the wardrobe and released the catch at the back. “Through here.”
The hidden door swung open to reveal the concealed room.
“You’ll stay here and rest until the next portion of your journey,” she told him, helping him step up into the wardrobe and into the diminutive space.
Lately, too many of the network’s agents had had their private, barricaded apartments raided and their fugitives caught with nowhere to hide. Since she had started smuggling Allied airmen, Estelle had done the opposite and made a point to invite people in at carefully selected intervals—acquaintances, Vichy officials, and once even a Wehrmacht officer who had insisted on walking her home so that, if ever questioned, they would all say the same thing. Mademoiselle Estelle Allard was merely an endearing ingenue surrounded by the spoils of old money, a vapid product of constant indulgence and flattery. She had nothing to hide from anyone.
And the Gestapo couldn’t take what they couldn’t find.
“It’s cramped, I know, but you will be safe here,” she told the airman.
He collapsed on the bed, breathing hard as she lit a small lantern.
“Ill or injured?” she asked, bending to retrieve his hat.
The man gestured vaguely at his left hip. “Shrapnel wound. Not quite healed yet.”
“May I see?”
He hesitated. “Are you a nurse?”
“At the moment, I am everything you need me to be. Beggars can’t be choosers, yes?”
The pilot closed his eyes and nodded. With practiced hands, Estelle removed the man’s coat. She felt for his papers in his coat pocket and retrieved them, holding them up toward the light. They were good, she acknowledged. Whoever was putting together the papers on the Belgian end these days was talented. Blue-eyes had been assigned the name of Jean-Phillipe Brossoit, born in Bruges. And they’d used proper Belgian photos this time, not the photos that the Allied air forces provided their pilots with. The Nazis were getting smarter about details like that.
“Where are you from?” she asked, setting his papers and coat aside.
“Nova Scotia. Canada.”
Estelle gently pulled the hem of his shirt from the waistband of his trousers and frowned. The bottom of his shirt, along with the side of his trousers, was soaked in blood. She shoved his shirt up his torso. He’d been bandaged crudely, a length of linen wrapped around his hips, and blood had saturated the entire side. She loosened the waistband of his trousers and peeled the bandage to the side.
“Jesus.”
“That bad?” The airman tried to sit up.
She pushed him back down, still frowning. What had Jerome been thinking? The wound was deep, and blood seeped from a tangle of torn stitches that looked as though they had been executed by a child. More blood had run down his leg and soaked into his trousers, and only the dark color had prevented her from noticing earlier. There was very likely damage to one or more of the significant vessels that ran through his groin and into his leg. He needed a doctor. A real one. “This is a mess.”
“You should see the plane,” he joked feebly.
“You’re not ready to travel. The journey from here to the Spanish border only gets worse.”
Again, she wondered what had happened that had made Jerome feel like he had no choice but to travel with a wounded airman. With Jerome back and forth between Belgium and France, she barely saw him anymore, other than brief glimpses like the one just outside the train station. There was little chance she’d get any sort of explanation, but she’d have to let the network know that the man in her apartment would not be ready for further travel for a while. Provided he didn’t die on her first.
Estelle was certainly adept at basic first aid but this was beyond her. A wound like this if not dealt with properly…infection or gangrene would be quick to follow if he didn’t simply bleed to death first.
“Did they say anything to you? Before you got on the train for Paris?” she asked.
He grimaced. “I didn’t understand much of what was being said, but there seemed to be a rush to leave Brussels. I couldn’t stay.” He looked up at her. “Can you fix it?”
“I don’t know.” She snatched a clean towel from the table and folded it square, pressing it to the wound. “Hold that there. Firmly.”
“I need you to fix it.” His other hand gripped the side of the bed. “Please.”
Estelle made a decision and ducked through the little door. “I’ll be back. Wait here.”
“Where are you going?”
She paused. “Save your breath. I will never answer that question. You will never know where I am or when I might be back. You can’t tell what you don’t know. It is safer that way. Now wait here.”
