The Paris Apartment, page 19
In the shadows of the trees, the silence was unnerving, broken only by a tentative rattle of the leafy branches above her head as the breeze meandered through. Sophie strained her eyes but nothing moved. She whistled, two descending notes that should have identified her to the reception committee, but there was only more silence in answer. As the minutes ticked by, she wondered if she’d been dropped in the wrong spot. Or if she had somehow drifted far, far off course.
But staying here, crouched in the damp and the dark, was accomplishing nothing. She couldn’t still be here when the sun came up in a few hours. She stuffed her parachute and helmet under a low bush and stripped the supporting bandages from her ankles, adding them to the concealed pile. Then, as silently as possible, she struck out toward the building she thought she’d seen on her descent.
An owl hooted in the distance, the eerie call echoing through the trees. Sophie focused on keeping her breathing quiet and even and her footsteps deliberate and careful. A thick layer of damp and rotting leaves muffled her footsteps as she moved forward until she arrived at the edge of what looked like an abandoned farmyard. Was this the right farm? Was she even near Gasny?
Closest to her, a small cottage squatted, its windows boarded up, the door drawn tightly closed. There was no telltale smoke curling from the chimney nor laundry hanging from the empty line to the side. Beyond the cottage, the larger outline of a barn loomed. Sophie crouched low and hesitated, unsure if she should approach—
She froze as a glimmer of light appeared beneath the cottage door. It was snuffed out almost as quickly as it had appeared but Sophie knew that she hadn’t imagined it. She was not alone. Again, she hesitated.
It was possible that it was a trap. It was possible that there were ranks of Gestapo or gendarmerie hidden in that building like a ravenous spider waiting to devour prey that ventured too close. Waiting to ensnare the unwary into their web of torture and depravity.
She frowned. Given the number of canisters that had been dropped prior to her own jump, given the time her descent had taken and the time she had been exposed on that field, hiding in an abandoned cottage seemed an ineffective way to hunt. More likely the people whom she would find assistance from were hidden within.
Sophie moved out from the protection of the trees, hurrying across the open expanse of farmyard. She ascended the cottage steps, the tired wood creaking beneath her weight. Very slowly, she lifted the latch of the door and pushed it open. There were no shots, no shouts, and no one appeared to challenge her. Sophie stepped forward into the cottage, purposefully leaving the door open to facilitate a quick escape, and tried to see into the darkened space.
For she wasn’t alone. The scent of unwashed bodies was detectable under the mustiness of a building closed for too long. Someone coughed in the darkness, the sound small and frail. Sophie fumbled in her coveralls pocket for her small torch. She flicked it on and nearly came out of her skin. At least two dozen pairs of eyes gazed back at her, set into gaunt, pale, terrified faces, and not one older than the age of ten.
“Are you here to take us to the funeral?” The question was thin and reedy and had been asked by a small girl who crept forward a step.
“The funeral?” Sophie repeated. What the hell had she stumbled into? “Are you here alone?” she asked the group, trying to understand what was happening and who these children were. “Where are your parents?”
The girl scuttled away back into the safety of her comrades, what looked like fear stamped across her features. One of the smaller children started to cry.
“Do you need help?” Sophie tried. “Can I—”
“Who are you?” The demand came from the open door, a figure in a bulky coat silhouetted against the pale light of the moon outside. He was holding a gun—Sophie could see the dull gleam of the barrel.
“You first.” Sophie switched off her light and slid in front of the children. She adjusted her grip on the torch. Not much of a weapon but it was better than nothing. She’d worked with less.
“Get back against the wall.” The gun barrel twitched toward the side of the room. “Now.”
“I’m not moving—”
The girl who had asked the question suddenly detached from the cowering group of children and threw her arms around the man’s waist with a torrent of barely comprehensible words.
The gun in the man’s hand remained pointed steadily at Sophie. “How many of you are there?” he demanded.
“What?”
“I said, how many of—”
“Georges, put the damn gun down.” A new voice interrupted him.
Another torch flickered on, aimed at Sophie, and she winced, holding her hand up against the disorienting glare.
“Merde,” the newcomer muttered. The light was extinguished, and he whistled the two descending notes that Sophie had tried in the trees. “You were supposed to wait for us outside.”
Sophie repeated the whistle and then said, “I did wait.”
“You know this woman?” the man named Georges asked angrily, though he lowered the gun.
“No. Yes.” The newcomer waved his hand. “She is on our side.”
“Hmph.” Georges grunted. “She shouldn’t be in here.”
“Yes, yes.” The reply was weary. “I will remedy that immediately.” He stepped to the side, his silhouette merging with the fluid blackness inside the doorframe. “After you, Madame.”
Sophie glanced once more at the small girl still clinging to the man with the gun, her face a pale oval in the meagre light. “Apologies,” she whispered and then retreated back outside the cottage.
The door shut behind her, her escort at her heels as if afraid she’d turn back.
“Who are these children and why are they here?” she demanded.
“That would be none of your business. Why were you even in that cottage?”
“Looking for you, obviously.” She stopped, refusing to move until she got answers. “If you mean those children harm—”
“Harm?” The man sounded indignant. “I can assure you, Madame, we’re not harming them.”
“They’re so thin. One of them sounded ill.”
“That’s what happens when you’ve survived this long hidden in attics and ghettos.”
“They asked me if I was here to take them to the funeral,” Sophie pressed. “I want to know what you are going to do with them.”
The man cursed under his breath but answered her. “We’re taking them out of France.”
“How?”
“Not in a cattle car to be exterminated,” he hissed in a low voice.
“How many children?”
“As many as we can.”
“And the funeral they spoke of?”
“It’s one of the ways Georges gets them across the Swiss border. Dress them up as mourners.”
“Then what happens to them?” Sophie demanded.
“Merde.”
“What happens to them?” she repeated.
“They are placed with families who can look after them. Satisfied?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I am not saying anything else on the matter, for my safety, your safety, and theirs. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.” He stepped in front of her. “Our business is in the barn.”
Sophie did as she was bade.
“I am Henri,” he said as they skirted the cottage. “You are Celine?”
At the sound of her code name, a sudden, unexpected relief flooded through her, making her almost giddy. Relief that she had survived the jump, relief that she was where she needed to be, relief that she was not alone.
“Thought there was supposed to be two of you,” Henri said.
“There was. Is. He jumped too soon.”
“Did you see where?”
“To the east.” Sophie repeated what the bomber’s crewman had told her.
A low curse was uttered. “Your parachute?”
“In the trees under a bush along the field.”
“I’ll send someone to fetch it. Follow me.”
Sophie followed Henri as they crossed the farmyard with its empty paddocks. The carcass of an ancient tractor had been abandoned in the center of the yard, and even in the dim light, its plundered innards were visible where they spilled out onto the ground. As they drew close to the barn, Sophie could now see the faintest line of light coming from beneath the wide door.
Her guide lifted the latch, pulled it open, and ushered Sophie inside. The door closed behind them silently on well-oiled hinges. Sophie blinked in the low lantern light and looked around. The barn was devoid of livestock, its windows boarded up, the floor littered with dusty straw. A sturdy ladder led up into the hayloft, where two men were winching a cylinder that had been in the plane with Sophie up into the darkness.
“You got them all?” Henri pushed past her to address the two workers.
In the light, Sophie could now see that Henri was no more than thirty, with curly brown hair escaping at the edges of a cloth cap pulled firmly down over his forehead. He had dark, intelligent eyes set into a broad face and was dressed in the rough clothes of a labourer or farmer, his coat patched at the elbows and collar. He moved with the ease and efficiency of an athlete, his questions clipped but not rude.
“Last one,” the taller of the two men told him, glancing at Sophie. “Explosives are at the rear, away from the guns and ammunition.”
“Good.”
“Her things are down there.” The man gestured to the side of the barn where the light didn’t reach.
He did not introduce himself. Sophie likewise volunteered nothing.
Henri turned back to Sophie. “You can take your coveralls off here. We’ll get rid of what you don’t need.”
Sophie nodded and extracted a packet of papers from the deep pocket of her coveralls, her identification and ration books all wrapped securely in oilskin. She set the papers aside and shrugged out of the heavy coveralls, balling them up into a tight bundle.
The men in the loft had finished their duties and climbed down the ladder. They had a brief discussion in low tones with Henri before departing. Once the door had closed behind them, Sophie reached under her sweater and pulled out the stacks of forged currency that had been strapped to her waist, dividing it according to the instructions she had been given before they had boarded the bomber.
“Georges is a good man.” The comment came from behind Sophie, and she spun, finding a petite schoolgirl with twin braids and dressed in boy’s clothes watching her. She was leaning against a rough post, a worn canvas satchel strapped across her chest and an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips.
No, Sophie realized. Not a schoolgirl at all. Cigarette aside, the steady brown eyes that looked back at her were much too old, cold cynicism where youthful innocence should have been. Sophie had no idea where she’d come from.
“I don’t know who or what you’re talking about,” Sophie replied.
“Hmm.” The girl considered her. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
Sophie set the stacks of currency on a rough table.
“Nothing wrong with your type being in places you aren’t supposed to be so long as you don’t get caught,” the girl said. “If you want to live to see the end of this war, you should try to avoid discovery in the future.”
“Noted.”
“Good, you’ve met.” Henri appeared behind the woman, heading toward the far side of the barn where the lantern sat. “Celine, Vivienne. Vivienne, Celine.”
The tiny woman nodded, and Sophie nodded back.
“You can give Vivienne whatever money London has sent,” Henri instructed in that brisk way of his. “She’ll get it where it needs to go. She also gets information and messages where they need to go. She’s in and out of the city twice a week for us.” He continued toward the side of the barn.
Sophie handed three of the piles of forged notes to the courier, and they vanished into her satchel. “I am to meet a woman in Paris.”
“I know,” Vivienne replied. “La Chanteuse.”
“Yes. Is she part of your network?”
“In a way,” Vivienne said.
“Do you trust her?”
Vivienne gave her a hard look. “With my life. I’ve worked with her since this nightmare started.”
“Mmm.”
“I will tell you how to find her. And I will also give you instructions on how to find me should you require. I deliver vegetables on a schedule,” she explained. “To the hotels and restaurants and cafés.”
“I see.”
“Will you require regular radio access to London while you are here?”
“No. Not right away, at least.”
“Do you know how long you will be in Paris?”
“We are to be flown out. This same location, next full moon.”
“I thought there were to be two of you. Where is your partner?”
“I’m not sure, exactly.”
Vivienne’s brows shot up her forehead. “You’re not sure? What do you mean you’re not—what are you doing with all that?”
Henri had returned just then with the lantern, a knife, and a long coil of rope that he had slung across his body. He exchanged a glance with Sophie. “We’re going to go look for a spy.”
Chapter
15
Estelle
Paris, France
20 August 1943
Estelle stood beneath the trees, just to the west of the wide stone staircase, looking for a spy.
Behind her, Sacré-Coeur rose up against a cloudless curtain of blue, impervious to the mortals suffering and surviving beneath it. The pristine, bulging white spires that reached to the heavens were bejewelled in dazzling sunshine, a peculiar juxtaposition against the worn, gaunt, and drab mass of humanity over which they presided. Atop the corner closest to Estelle, over the triple-arched entry, Joan of Arc sat frozen in bronze, clutching the reins of her horse in one hand and wielding her sword impotently in the other. Idly, Estelle wondered what Joan would think of what had become of her country. Her life sacrificed to chase the English out of France only to have them replaced by the Germans five hundred years later.
The basilica was crowded today, devout Parisians making the laborious trek up the long stretches of stairs to the top of their city to pray. Not that praying had seemed to have done the city or its residents much good these past years. The constant presence of the Geheime Staatspolizei that drifted around the cathedral grounds like an omnipresent miasma was testament to that.
Though today, there seemed to be more of them than usual, and Estelle didn’t like it at all. A week ago, Vivienne had told her to expect two Allied agents to make contact with her following the last full moon. That full moon had come and gone, and the agents had failed to materialize. It was likely that something had happened and their arrival had been aborted or compromised. London would try again on the next cycle, no doubt, and Estelle would wait here again, at the top of Montmartre, bright red flowers still tucked into the brim of her hat.
She’d stopped meeting couriers and agents anywhere near the train stations long ago. Train schedules had become increasingly erratic and unpredictable, and the stations themselves had become obvious targets of the Gestapo. She couldn’t risk being noticed and remembered. It was much easier, if it came to it, to justify regular sojourns to a basilica than to a train station.
Two Gestapo officers in their grey coats walked by, seemingly looking for something or someone. Estelle adjusted her hat, grateful for the wide brim. Time for her to go—
“Excuse me. Can you tell me what time mass is held in the afternoons?”
Estelle froze before she turned slowly. The question had been asked by a woman, dressed plainly in a deep green dress that might have been expensive at one time but was showing signs of wear at the hem and cuffs. Similarly, her shoes were of fine quality but worn noticeably at the heels, and the handbag she carried had a frayed strap. She was strikingly tall, with flaxen blond hair braided and secured on the top of her head in a very German style. Her complexion was flawless, her eyes a pale blue. She looked, Estelle thought, like a damn poster for the sturdy, wholesome maidens of the Bund Deutscher Mädel.
“Three o’clock, but only on Fridays,” Estelle said slowly.
It was the correct response for the correct question, but it had been asked by a single agent. Not a pair.
Estelle glanced about but there was no one nearby on the lawn next to the basilica. “You are Celine.”
“Yes. And you are La Chanteuse.”
Estelle stared at the blond woman, wondering where she was from. She spoke like a Parisian native. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where is your partner?”
“Dead.”
Estelle shifted the straps of her handbag uneasily. There were any number of reasons an agent might die, discovery and capture being the one that most concerned her. If the surviving agent hadn’t been careful, she could be being watched right now—
“He died from the jump,” Celine said, as if reading her mind. “Well, not the jump so much as the landing.”
Estelle couldn’t tell if the woman was in shock or if she was as unmoved at the disaster as she seemed to be. “The landing?”
“He missed his jump and landed in the trees. It took us hours to cut him down.” Celine’s explanation was made with no fanfare, merely a measure of regret.
Not in shock at all, Estelle decided. Simply methodical. A veritable ice princess. Estelle wasn’t sure if that reassured her or not. Involuntarily, her hand went to the pendant at her throat, the tiny, enameled locket lying warm against her skin.
