The Tiger Claw (52 page)

“How could Archambault have prevented his code and message books from being taken with his transmitter? We leave our books hidden with the transmitter. Being caught with them at a checkpoint or in a search would be a disaster. And even if the transmitters were discovered, the Germans would need our encryption keys to decode the messages. They would need to know our code names and true names to know who was being discussed in the messages or to transmit and receive. And besides, they’d have to know our addresses so the Gestapo could arrest us. All this requires
someone like Gilbert. Gilbert who meets us as we leave the plane, asks question after question and escorts us to our safe houses.”

“A most interesting speculation, Mademoiselle Régnier. Quite the
roman à clef
. You write fiction, am I right?
Children’s
fiction? Aired a story on the BBC, as I recall? I’m told you’re quite accomplished. But I assure you, HQ has done its own thorough background check on Gilbert, and we are quite satisfied.”

How the imperial “we” or Major Boddington could investigate Gilbert’s actions when the transmitter beneath Noor’s bed was the only remaining secure radio transmitting from northern France was the question. No messages concerning Gilbert had been received or sent by her. No, London hadn’t investigated Gilbert. At most, Major Boddington had asked an acquaintance at his club if Gilbert was a good egg.

Major Boddington waved his fork. “This
poulet
would cost a fortune in London. That’s if you could find one. Do you see, old girl? There are alternative explanations for every allegation you’ve pinned on poor Gilbert. Keep in mind that, thanks to the Luftwaffe, skilled pilots are scarce. Gilbert can assess a field in an instant, make sure there’s enough taxi length, persuade each farmer that he should allow a foreign power to land its planes on his property. We can’t sacrifice Gilbert on the hunch of a young miss.” He dabbed his mouth, but a few morsels had already dropped on his tie. “And may I remind,” he added, “it would do your brother’s career no good if you were to do something disruptive.”

Noor blinked, surprised. “Sir, there’s no need to threaten.”

“Not at all, my dear, not at all. Making a prediction, nothing more. We need you here—right skills, right time, right place and all that—but do me one favour, old girl: do curb your curiosity about the larger scheme of affairs. We absolutely must operate on a need-to-know basis.”

The word “dismissed” seemed to dangle somewhere overhead, for having disobeyed Major Boddington’s direct order to get aboard the plane. “Dismissed” was a good word, as was “discharged,” a great deal better than “deserted.” Life would be simpler; leave
her here in Paris to begin a life of her own, forget the betrayals of her family, become mistress of herself. She’d return to Drancy, find work as a nurse, make Anne-Marie Régnier a permanent being. But Major Boddington didn’t seem inclined to dismiss her.

“Try the Black Forest cake,” he suggested. “Tell you what: I’ll suggest to HQ, just so you don’t become hysterical again, that you be set up with Marc. He’ll be your air movements officer when you return.”

Relief.

But Major Boddington hadn’t mentioned when she was to return.

It was all right, really. He would continue to send money to Mother, and he’d have to provide francs for her survival expenses during the remainder of her mission in France.

Should she mention the diamonds? Tell him Prosper didn’t have them when he was arrested, and that meant the Gestapo didn’t have them either? She had transferred the leather pouch to the lining of a new valise; the diamonds were safe at Madame Aigrain’s home. But something about the Major wasn’t right. The syrup-shine eyes behind his glasses as he perused the menu?

Major Boddington wished to operate on a need-to-know basis. He didn’t need to know, and she didn’t need to tell him.

“Oh, and Madeleine—you may as well know, to show our appreciation for his courage and loyalty to the Crown, I’ve recommended Gilbert for the DSO.”

The Distinguished Service Order? For Gilbert?!

His finality closed the subject.

“Please excuse me,” said Noor. She shoved her chair back and picked up her handbag.

With the door of the WC shut tight, she gripped the sink as if to pull it from the wall and gulped back sobs. Anger flashing—no, rage. A decorated Gilbert would be trusted with more agents. So many more would be captured, many more tortured. Their beloveds wouldn’t even receive censored postcards smuggled out
of Drancy. Spies disappeared, spies were executed; all her warnings couldn’t prevent it.

There would be no change in policy towards a man Major Boddington had introduced at his club and recommended for a DSO. Certainly not on the basis of accusations by a radio operator, a mere girl with colonial antecedents.

When the pale oval in the mirror had composed itself to mask the disturbance within, Noor drew herself to her full height.

Return to the table. Smile and thank Major Boddington for lunch, the francs, the ration tickets, the new safe house. Think
.

Even if Major Boddington didn’t intend to investigate Gilbert further before pinning a DSO on his chest, surely Colonel Buckmaster and Miss Atkins would.

Gilbert’s duplicity would be discovered, his treachery exposed. Allah would see to it.

This game was being played with rules she could never have anticipated. She would adapt, move accordingly.

I have not had strength or will to write to you again till now, ma petite, though I have had pen and paper since February. From the tapping in pipes that pass between the walls, I learned it is the first day of June, and the autobahns are still choked with refugees from air raids on Munich
.

I spent three weeks in the dungeon, fed soup once every three days and water each day. By the time I was carried back to my cell, I had lost most of my strength, but the words I’d scratched on the cell wall renewed my courage—“I resist, therefore I am.”

Vogel came to visit me. He was travelling back to Paris from Munich, having attended the tenth anniversary celebrations of the Nazi organization for Mothers and Children. He brought more paper, a new fountain pen and ink. He was shocked by my state
,
though it was caused by his orders. He ordered soap, a toothbrush, a larger ration of soup, toilet paper, even sanitary towels should I need them. And weekly changes of prison uniform, weekly exercise in the courtyard
.

The governor of the prison approved. He came to inspect me with Vogel, and I heard him mutter in French, so he meant for me to know, that he’d never kept any woman in the dungeon before, never kept anyone enchained, not even a murderer
.

The guard had to comply. I could see she didn’t want to
.

And today another of Vogel’s monthly visits, more regular than the curse. He sat beside me on the cot, and I wondered how he could stand my odour. He put his arm across my shoulders. I wished my lice would crawl into his black uniform
.

“Your new uniform looks very smart, Herr Vogel.”

I couldn’t say he looked smart, so I said the uniform looked smart. He looked pleased
.

“I have been appointed an honorary member of the security police. I can arrest anyone for defeatism.”

“There is defeatism in Germany, Herr Vogel?” I said sweetly
.

“Call me Ernst,” he replied automatically. “No, no defeatism, except from the weak—there are severe penalties for it.”

Vogel should try selling pork sausages to hadjis! Hitler can’t outlaw his people’s feelings. Even Vogel’s certainty wavers these days, or he wouldn’t keep me as a hostage to be traded for his safety if—when—the Allies are victorious
.

“How is your wife, Herr Vogel?”

I emphasized the word “wife” slightly. He grew immediately morose
.

“I found an apartment where she can live temporarily. The entire building crumbled. It was the only one left on Rosenstrasse after September’s bombing—and after this raid it fell as if something devoured it from inside. How some suffocated and others were crushed! We are still searching for bodies. I am lucky my children are alive. Schwein! Flying above, dropping bombs on civilians! The Führer should come and see us, see for himself what is happening.”

“You started it,” I wanted to say. I had been one of the civilians on whom the Germans dropped their bombs during the Battle of France. But I didn’t. The man who had sent me to the dungeon for a small remark seemed to be criticizing his führer for ignorance, though absolving Hitler of any responsibility for rapacious aggression
.

Vogel can show anger about injustice to Germans; they alone upon the planet are “people.” Perhaps the bombs that destroyed his home were from your uncle’s Lancaster. I do not know, but the possibility made me culpable for his family’s homeless state. I am the eldest and always feel responsible for Kabir, for the actions he has committed and those he may have
.

Vogel drew a picture of his wife and two children from his pocket. I have seen them before—his blonde wife who looks as beatific as a student “discovering” Sufism, his cherubic boys in short pants. Twins. Ten years old, as you might be today, ma petite. He said the one who looks like him is a naughty fellow, while the other is doing his part in the Hitler Youth
.

“How can you tell them apart?” I asked
.

“Sometimes it’s difficult even for me to know which is which,” he acknowledged. “I’m sending the younger one east to stay with a cousin, for the summer till we parade to Buckingham Palace. He’ll be safe there. They had a small raid last February, but that must have been a mistake—there’s nothing worth bombing in Dresden. The elder must stay to protect his mother from looters. They are everywhere now, many of them but a few years older than my son. Orphans of the war, most of them.”

He showed me a copy of Munich’s National Zeitung
.

“We do not need more of Herr Goebbels’s fairy stories, Princess. Here the Führer himself says soon London will be ashes.”

“What will you do after that?” I asked, feigning concern for him, trying not to think of London in ashes
.

“Return to Munich. The bank where I worked was owned by Jews, but now, Heil Hitler, it’s back in German hands. They will give me a new position when we win the war.” He had been listening to Nazi speeches again
.

He said “Heil Hitler” the way I say “Peace be upon Him” for the Prophet, and to him there was nothing blasphemous about it. He believes Hitler is another messiah, whose only problem is the quality of his apostles. Fearing the dungeon again, I said nothing
.

He said roughly, “Gilbert sends you his regards,” and waited, watching my face
.

I wanted to scream “Gilbert is a salaud! Un vrai con! Une ordure!” but I couldn’t admit to knowing him. I turned a waxwork face to Vogel
.

He slapped his gloves on his knee. “Read aloud, Princess.”

I began reading the stories I’d written on onionskin. Vogel closed his eyes and I felt the one-second lag as he translated from English to German. It was a retelling of el-Rifai’s “Wayward Princess,” in which a king imprisons his daughter in a small cell to prove his will and law sufficient for justice and happiness to prevail
.

“Gutt, gutt.” Vogel swayed
.

I wondered, as I told it, if his twins will ever understand the meaning of that tale
.

Then I read a fable of my own, in which caged rabbits avenge themselves on rats, and another in which an Indian princess turns into a tigress and slays all the trappers who hunt her tiger for his claws
.

Vogel listened, purblind to allegory, metaphor and symbol. He didn’t count the sheets before he took them
.

What fable will he fashion about his actions in this war?

Locked in my cell, once again I cannot celebrate Id-ul-Fitr with my family. I thank Allah he told the Prophet there need be no fasting for the ill. For I am ill indeed
.

I should be celebrating—the Allies have invaded at last. The news came hidden in a basket of laundered clothes brought to a prisoner by her daughter. Tapped in Morse, it crossed lead pipes between cells. Whispered down air vents, it must even have percolated to the poor woman now consigned to my dungeon cell. Emboldened, we shouted the news from one cell to the next. We
sang, we hooted, we spat at the guards. My chains were of gossamer that day. The Germans feared we’d riot; the food trolleys didn’t come that day. By nightfall we sobered
.

The English, English colonials and once-colonized Americans invaded on June 6, 1944. D-Day—our Dream Day. I don’t know where they landed, but it is not, as the Germans expected, at the Pas de Calais. Messages racing in the walls say the Germans were surprised, overwhelmed; we hear they are retreating. I think of Prosper, of Archambault, of all the agents who gave so much for this day. Of Émile, who begged me to tell Colonel Buckmaster and Churchill that the Allies would have to invade and fight on the ground, not from the air. Is this Allied landing the crucial moment I felt coming?

No, it is only the beginning of a new phase of war
.

News comes so slowly here. Our Morse messages say the Japanese invaded India two months ago, in March, using an army of Indian resistants led by Subhas Chandra Bose. Once upon a time Bose came to Afzal Manzil, to raise money to fight the British from “rich émigrés outside India.” But Bose was an idol-worshipping Hindu, Uncle said, so Bose left him empty-handed
.

Can we last till the Allies reach us? Where are the children of the mother who weeps for them each night? What will happen to the woman who worries for her old father, and the one who, like me, longs for her husband’s arms?

Ramzaan should be the month when forgiveness is implicit in embrace, the month of repair, when wayfarers return home for Id, when one’s load is shared with others by action or telling, and nightly the Tarawih prayer heightens the force between us and our creator. It should be a time when the weary stop to remember how it felt to be safe, when hope in humanity is replenished. At this time last year I took the Lizzie from Tangmere—so full of hope, I might have been flying a magic carpet
.