Violins of Autumn (21 page)

Marcus pats me on the back. “Bravo, Adele.”

I spread the photos across the tabletop. “I took these the first time I visited the area. They show the grounds and the building’s access points. I know the location of the assembly areas, the metal presses, the transformer hall, and even the night watchman’s room. I wasn’t able to take notes during the tour. That would have looked too suspicious, but I have it all up here.” I tap my temple. “I’ll write up notes before I return to Paris this afternoon. And I’ll draw you a map to use with the photos.”

Pierre picks up one photo after the next, studying them closely.

“What do you think?” Marcus says. “Can we do it? Can we destroy the factory?”

Pierre’s satisfied nod fills me with pride.

“Yes, Marcus, we can do this.” Gathering the photos into a pile, Pierre says, “Adele, this will require heavy explosives. Are you still in contact with a wireless operator? She can transmit our list of requirements to headquarters?”

“Yes, I can give the list to the girl I dropped in with. Her name is Denise.”

Pierre closes our conversation with a sharp nod and he strides away from the table.

I bite my lip, wondering what to do next, rapidly deflating over his lack of enthusiasm for my hard work. I put my neck on the line to get him that information.

Midway to the tent, Pierre spins around. With a shake of his head, as if he’s coming to his senses, he says, “Great work, Adele.”

“Thanks.”

Outside the tent’s canvas flaps, he spins around once again.

“New men have recently joined us. They desperately need
training. The weapons that come in with the drops are unassembled, and if they are not cleaned and put together properly”—he smirks—“well, you know what could happen.”

“Yes, the person standing behind the weapon is in greater danger than the person standing in front of it.”

“That’s right. These men are more liable to shoot each other than the enemy. Would you mind giving them some instruction?”

Pierre wants me to train the new men. Did I hear him correctly?

“I don’t mind at all,” I say, grinning over my hard-won promotion. “I’d be happy to train them.”

A group of fifteen men have assembled in the large field within walking distance of the camp. They huddle into a tighter bunch when I begin the lesson, giving me their rapt attention as I show them the proper way to clean and assemble a Sten gun.

As I disassemble it for a second time, I say, “You see, because it is such a light, simple-machined weapon it can be stripped down like this and easily concealed.”

One of the Maquis, who refused to take part in the training when I introduced myself as their instructor, lets out an audible harrumph. “Go back to your kitchen where you belong, woman.”

Ignoring him is difficult, but I bite my tongue and move on.

On a fully assembled Sten, I display the cross-bolt button near the trigger. “With this control you can select your firepower—single shots as well as automatic fire. In a close-combat fight the key is to have great speed and accuracy, so it’s best to fire single shots. You’ll have more control that way. Because it’s so light and simple, the Sten can be raised and fired quickly. It can be an excellent weapon, but you must keep it clean. I can’t stress that
enough. It has a long opening, which can allow foreign objects to enter.”

I don’t expect the man in back to have a sudden change of heart, but his rude howl of laughter sends a jolt of anger buzzing through me, like an electrical charge. If he doesn’t want my help, why doesn’t he just leave?

“As I was saying, this can be a good close-range weapon.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “But if it’s dropped while cocked it can go off on its own.”

Clutching his ample midsection, laughter nearly fells my tormentor to his knees.

My cheeks flare hotter. My lips press tight.

A burly man who introduced himself as Big Edgar peers down at me, his eyes sympathetic.

“And as I mentioned it can be prone to blockages, so keep those drawbacks in mind. Should the gun jam you may be able to clear it by tilting it this way to clear the rounds”—I exhibit the motion—“and recocking.”

I pass out a Sten gun to each of the men. Almost in unison, they raise the weapons—without first checking to see if they’re loaded—and take aim.

During my training in London, the first time I held a weapon in my hands I made every mistake in the book. The moment I set foot in the long practice corridor, the target—a life-sized figure in a trench coat—popped out and sped at me. I brought my gun up to assume the position I’d seen in films. In my ear, the instructor didn’t offer the glowing words of praise I was expecting. He burst my confidence with a sharp, “Right, then. You’re dead.”

I go through the group, showing each man how to properly hold the Sten at his shoulder, in line with his eyes the same way
my instructor did. These men will require quite a lot more training if they expect to survive firefights with German soldiers who lie in wait and kill with precision. But I can’t give up on them now that I’ve stepped up to train them. My instructor made sure no one left our class a bad shot, because every student’s life depends on how well he or she has been taught. If one of these men dies because I failed him in training, I would never forgive myself.

“The gun is like an extension of your body. Feel the trajectory, as you would your pointing finger. You don’t need to look at your feet to know where they’re headed; you can envision it in your mind. If you practice enough, firing your weapon this way will become automatic.”

Only Big Edgar watches me without skepticism.

“After you fire one round, immediately fire off a second. Both rounds should strike within one to two inches of each other to be most effective.”

The man who refused to take part leans against a tree, one hand on the trunk and the other at his waist, giving me an arrogant once-over. “Impossible!”

To the men, I say, “Accuracy might be more difficult with a submachine gun than with a pistol, that is true.”

I exchange the Sten for a pistol and take aim at a circular knothole in the center of the tree trunk. At this distance, there’s no chance I’ll miss. But the jackass propped against the tree doesn’t know that.

I fire off two rounds before he has time to react. The bullets hit the knot exactly where I wanted them to, within millimeters of each other. I watch the man slowly come around to what just happened, his body leaping to action one flabby bit at a time in a comic, erratic dance.

“You crazy woman!” he hollers, red with rage. “You could have killed me!”

I finally turn to address him. “No, I’ll leave that deed to the Germans.”

He points a threatening finger at me and storms off into the woods.

Picking up where I left off, I say, “But with practice either weapon will get the job done with speed and accuracy. That is called the double tap.”

At the end of our hour-long training and target practice, Edgar gives me a sheepish grin as he hands over his weapon. “You were good.”

“Thank you, Edgar. That means a lot to me.”

“Will you train us again?”

“That’s up to Pierre, I suppose.”

His eyes go wide as he notices a change in scenery over my right shoulder.

Without turning to look, I know Pierre is on his way. He’s probably been made aware of my unconventional teaching methods. I prepare myself for a humiliating lecture. Looks like I won’t be training Big Edgar again, after all.

“Adele did a good job!” Edgar calls out in my defense, before rushing off.

Pierre comes up beside me. “I spoke with Charles. You shot at him?”

“Pierre, I didn’t. He insulted me, so I shot the tree to scare him. He wasn’t in danger.”

“Okay.”

“What do you mean? Do you believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you. I told him he should have followed your
instructions. I chose you to train the men. By disregarding your training, he also disregarded me.”

“Thank you, Pierre.”

He extends his hand. “Apparently you did a good job. You’re welcome to come back.” The corners of his lips tweak into a smile as he says, “Next time you can teach the proper use and handling of explosives, so the men don’t blow each other to bits.”

It isn’t an outright apology for his “flimsy little girls” remark, but it’s much better than nothing. From Pierre, it’s probably as good as I’m going to get.

I press my sweaty palm to my skirt before taking his hand. “I’ll come back,” I say, as we shake on it. “You can count on that.”

Twice in the next week, Cammerts met with Denise and me for drinks at Le Colisée, in the middle of the afternoon. A dangerous move, I thought, to lump several agents together in the open like that where we could be watched, followed, or nabbed all at once. Both times, I patiently waited for the perfect opportunity to speak up about this security risk, but it never arrived, and before I knew it we were shaking hands good-bye.

“He’s not alone today,” I tell Denise while we park our bicycles next to the terrace. “Looks like he’s brought new agents to meet us.”

Denise grumbles, “Rookies.”

Cammerts and a lithe young man with elfin ears stand when we join them at the table. The woman, whose perfume I smell from yards away, remains seated.

“Adele and Denise, this is Agnes Purdon and Benjamin Baker.”

Denise and I say hello to the new agents as Cammerts excuses himself to order lemonade inside the café.

Agnes has a kind smile that shows a lot of teeth. She’s probably a nice enough person, but when her wide smile parts, English words come out her mouth.

“It’s a thrill to meet you,” she says, smack-dab in the middle of the crowded bistro. It stuns me like a slap.

It won’t be such a thrill to meet Denise and me if we clobber her.

“How are you finding Paris?” Benjamin asks. He speaks French, at least, but not well. No dialect like his exists in any region of France, or anyplace else for that matter.

“It’s a beautiful city.”

Generic answers are all he’ll get from me. I sure hope he takes the hint and doesn’t try to carry on a full conversation. Whatever draws attention to him draws attention to me. And to Denise.

Agnes slips her long dark hair behind one ear. “You must be forever on the go. You’ve been to the Louvre? The Eiffel Tower was splendid.” Again she speaks in her native tongue.

Flabbergasted, I stare at her. It’s a good thing Denise isn’t too dumbstruck to put Agnes in her place.

“Speak to us in French,” she whispers. “Your carelessness is not appreciated.”

Agnes blushes. “
Je m’excuse
.”

Cammerts returns with our drinks. Along with my lemonade, I receive an envelope, which he slides across the table. “Adele, this letter came for you.”

A personal letter. I look to Denise, and she looks back with a hint of a grin.

“Thank you.” I set it on my lap, unopened.

Like bumps on a log, Denise and I drink our lemonade, without adding a single thing to the conversation. Benjamin’s god-awful French accent grates against my ears. The odd English word pops up here and there.

Was I naive to assume that agents are taking matters of security as seriously as Denise and I are? That only the cream of the crop passed training and agents who muck up will be dealt with? Agnes and Benjamin are a rude, almost frightening, awakening. Are Denise and I kidding ourselves, buying into a promise of covert professionalism that doesn’t even exist?

“Adele, I can’t have Benjamin and Agnes residing in the same house,” Cammerts says. “Agnes will spend a portion of her time with you.”

My head snaps up. The agent who spoke English in a public place is going to stay with me? I wouldn’t dream of putting Estelle and her family’s lives at risk. Not for anyone or anything, but especially not for this careless woman I just met. She is not my problem and not my responsibility. I have to draw the line.

“No,” I tell him.

“Pardon me, Adele?”

“I won’t do it. Everyone makes mistakes, but I don’t think Agnes will learn from hers. I can’t take a chance on someone who’s not cut out for this.”

Agnes’s rouged cheeks tremble as she fights back tears. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, I really don’t, but it’s the truth.

My words warble as I force them out. “She can find her own way. As we have.” I bend the envelope in half and tuck it in my brassiere for safekeeping. “C’mon, Denise. We’re done here.”

Denise appears lost in thought with her lemonade. For a split second, I wonder if she’s about to jump ship and leave me.

“Good day to you all,” she says. Handshakes go round the table. “We’ll keep in touch, I’m sure.”

At our bikes, I give my head a shake. “What did I just do?”

“Should I start calling you Boss?”

I climb aboard my bicycle. “It’ll wind up being the right decision.”

“No argument here. As I see it, Agnes is behind bars within the week, and if Benjamin lasts even that long with that pathetic accent of his, then I’m a monkey’s uncle.” She belts me a good one on the arm. “With those freakishly long toes of yours, you’ll make a splendid monkey’s aunt.”

I laugh and stick my tongue out at her.

Pedaling away, she says, “What kind of mad world are we living in, where you and I are the experienced ones?”

“I’m as baffled as you are, believe me.”

We ride side by side through the sunny streets.

Too many shops display signs that they have no merchandise to sell. A sign in a restaurant window proclaims the establishment off-limits to dogs and Jews. Makeshift street signs in German point the way to Denise’s district. A cluster of women lower their heads and skitter away down an empty alleyway, illegally dragging bulky tree limbs behind them, fuel for their cooking fires.

“Who do you suppose the letter’s from?” Denise asks when we turn the corner onto her street. “Do you think it’s from him?”

“I don’t know.”

The letter could have only come from one person. My aunt, the other choice, doesn’t know my whereabouts; another one of those security measures that are supposedly vital to follow.