Voices on the Wind (11 page)

‘You're leaving,' she said. ‘God, that's quick. He doesn't waste time, does he? You'll send your first message tonight. You're not scared, are you? You needn't be. You're in a marvellous safe place, miles away from anything.' She came up to Kate and kissed her. ‘Good luck,' she said. ‘We'll meet in a few days. Poor Pandora's down there looking like a lost soul. I'll go and find him.'

She was gone, as Kate heaved the suitcase up and started down the narrow stairs. Marcel and Jeanne were waiting for her in the little dingy hall. Each embraced her.

‘You'll be safe with him,' they told her. ‘He has a charmed life. It's an honour, my child, for him to take you to your safe house himself. Good night, God go with you.'

He was waiting for her outside. He took the suitcase from her and she followed him without speaking a word.

They travelled by bicycle, her case strapped to the back of her machine.

‘I can't take it,' he explained. ‘If we're stopped, Cecilie, they might wonder why I was carrying a case full of women's clothes. That would mean questions and we can't afford them. It's flat for most of the way into Nice.'

‘We're going to Nice? I thought this house was in the hills.'

‘It is,' he spoke over his shoulder. ‘But we can't get there by bicycle. It would take too long and sometimes they have patrols on the roads up there. We have another method of travel.' He grinned at her; he looked much younger, almost boyish. ‘You'll see. Just leave everything to me.'

They came into the town by the back roads. A few shops were open and some of the cafés were brightly lit. Kate realized that she was terribly hungry. There were bicycles everywhere, and a number of people strolled along the handsome Promenade des Anglais: groups of German soldiers, some with girls on their arms.

Most of the hotels were open; the Negresco and the Étoile d'Or were full of Germans. The lights were sparkling in the evening sunlight; sleek staff cars flying the swastika pennant crowded the forecourts. As they passed, Kate heard the hum of music coming from the Étoile restaurant.

‘They eat,' he said, ‘while we half-starve. They bring their fat wives and daughters down here and gorge themselves on French food and wine. They go back to Germany loaded with luxuries, half of it stolen from the Jews who've been arrested. And there are Frenchmen and women as guilty as they are. Filling their pockets out of the misery of France. Those are the ones I want to see punished when this war is over. I have a list of my own. Turn right down here.'

They stopped at a little grocer's shop. The window was half-empty. Dulac looked round.

‘Bring the machine inside,' he said.

A young woman came to meet them. She looked thin and hollow-eyed, and from a room in the rear a baby cried fretfully. Dulac placed a hand on her shoulder. Kate saw the look of devotion she gave him.

‘I've brought a friend,' he said. ‘We need to go out to Valbonne tonight.'

She said, ‘I'll close up.'

Dulac went through to the back of the shop, Kate following. They found themselves in a kitchen, stone-floored and lit by one ceiling light that cast a modest glow over the old-fashioned scrubbed table. A baby whimpered in a cot in the corner, and something cooked on the big iron stove. Nappies dried by the side of it and a basket full of clothes waited to be ironed. Kate had left her bicycle in the narrow passageway. She went to the baby. It was small, and hiccuped from crying. She began to rock the cot. Dulac watched her and lit a cigarette. He felt suddenly very tired. He sat down at the table and smoked, watching Kate soothe the baby until it fell asleep. It was so long since he had seen a woman who moved him to anything but simple sexual appetite. She had beautiful eyes. Green and blue that changed in the light until they looked like a summer seascape. Dark hair with flecks of red in it. She left the child asleep and came to sit beside him. He felt exhausted but peaceful, not saying anything while he finished his cigarette. The young woman came in and he looked up.

‘You'll need some food,' she said. ‘I'll make something. There's wine on the shelf there.'

‘I'll get it,' Kate said. She filled three glasses.

‘Not for me.' The girl shook her head. ‘I'm feeding and it doesn't agree with Louise.' She nodded towards the cot.

‘Thank God she's asleep now. She cries all night sometimes.'

Kate said, ‘How old is she?'

‘Four months.' There was a flat despair in the voice. ‘They took my husband away last August. Some labour camp in Germany. I've only had one letter since. He didn't mention Louise, so I don't know when it was written. He may be dead.'

She was putting out sausage and bread and a slab of home-made cheese on the table. Her movements were listless. As she leaned over him, Dulac put an arm round her.

‘You mustn't say that, Beatrice,' he said. ‘Pierre isn't dead. They're losing the war and they know it; they won't bother with letters. He'll come back to you and Louise when it's all over. You must believe that.'

She managed a thin smile. ‘I believe it when you're here,' she said simply. ‘But not when I'm alone. I think, he's dead and I'll never know how or where. Louise will grow up without a father. The Germans will close down the shop, or the van will get stopped on the way to Valbonne and they'll come breaking the door down in the middle of the night. I'm such a coward, Jean, when you're not here, you wouldn't believe it.'

She brushed a tear off her face, and turned back to the stove. ‘I have some sort of coffee, if you can drink it,' she said. ‘The wine is better. I wish it didn't give her so much wind.'

‘One glass won't hurt her,' Jean Dulac said gently: ‘and it will do you good. Come and eat with us.'

Without him, Kate thought, that poor girl would have probably killed herself by now. He's actually keeping her and that pathetic little child alive, by giving her hope. No Hollywood hero-type indeed, with grenades at his belt and rifle raised on high. The kind of man that really wins guerrilla wars, because he cares for his people and they'd follow him anywhere.

When they had finished, she got up and cleared the plates. ‘You sit down, Madame,' she said. ‘I will do the washing-up.'

She was quiet and efficient in a strange kitchen, he thought, remembering his mother's dictum about girls. You don't marry the face and the body, my son, you marry the cook, the mother and mathematician who knows how to run a house. He had never married. He practised law in his tiny office in the centre of Nice and he ran the most successful Resistance network in the Midi. He had women, but nobody he loved. And no woman for a long time. It was too dangerous.

He said, ‘What time does the van leave tonight?'

Beatrice looked at the clock on the dresser. ‘In half an hour. Always the same time, just before curfew. They've got so used to it, they don't bother about it now.'

‘Is it yours?' Kate asked.

The girl laughed bitterly. ‘Mine? I don't own luxuries like vans. I couldn't drive it anyway. My husband drove our van. When he went a friend bought it. The friend lives in Valbonne and brings his produce down to sell. I buy from him sometimes. He goes back every evening and comes in after curfew in the morning. He'll be here soon.'

They put Kate's machine in the back of the rickety old lorry that stood outside. The suitcase was hidden with it and lastly Kate climbed in and was concealed behind a wall of empty crates and boxes. The inside smelled pleasantly of vegetables and fruit.

Dulac said, ‘I'll travel with our friend. Try and sleep a little; it'll take us a while to get there. Don't worry; if we stop, just stay perfectly quiet.'

She didn't mean to fall asleep. She was cramped and uncomfortable on the floor, and the old van bumped and jolted when they left the good road surfaces. She wedged herself into a corner and immediately slept. She woke when they pulled the barricade away and shook her.

‘We're here,' Jean Dulac said. ‘Come and meet Ma Mère. This will be your home while you're with us.'

It was a moonlit night and she could see the outline of the low Provençal farmhouse and smell the scented pines all round them. The driver guided them along a narrow path, more like a track, until they reached the back door. When it opened there was a gleaming light that framed a small round female figure. Kate felt herself drawn forward and embraced and then the door shut and they were all inside, crowded into a narrow hallway lit by oil lamps. A woman was smiling up at her, a white-haired, withered little grandmother of a woman, with bright dark eyes.

‘Welcome,' she said. ‘This is your new home. Come inside. Janot, bring the case and bicycle. I will show you where you sleep, my child. How young you are!' She clicked her tongue in disapproval, but the smile belied it. ‘So young and so pretty. And so tired! You'll find the bed is good. We've been expecting you, you see – what is your name? Cecilie? Very good. Very good indeed. Come with me. Janot, be careful of that case. He's clumsy, my son, but he's a good boy. You'll like him. Jean, there is food and wine for you in the kitchen.'

‘I've eaten, Ma Mère,' he called after her.

‘With poor Beatrice? Pig-swill is all she has – go and eat and don't argue. I'll bring Cecilie down in a minute.'

The room was in the attic, but unlike the last one the windows were open and the night air was sweet. There were sheets on the small bed and they smelt of dried lavender. Kate had never seen anything more tempting in her life. There was an oil lamp on the table and a washstand with a jug and basin. Janot came in with the suitcase and lifted it on to the bed.

‘I am Ma Mère,' the old lady said. ‘Everyone calls me that, so you must do the same. You will find that this room is very good for your transmissions. We are well clear of the trees and quite high up. When you have arranged yourself, come down. Janot, don't stand there with your mouth open. Leave Cecilie to herself.'

The door closed and Kate was alone. She went to the window and looked out. Never mind the view down to the coast, she told herself. Never mind the clean, pungent smell of pines and wild thyme. It's a perfect location for an illegal transmitter. Hidden and high up. Open the case and get to work setting it up. Then go downstairs and remember that you have to make your first contact with London. And you can't afford mistakes, however tired you are. She turned back to the suitcase and unlocked it.

Colonel Reed was drinking coffee and reading the evening newspapers when the call came through from the radio room at Baker Street. He spent most nights in the building when an important mission was in train. His father lived in Montpelier Square, but the Colonel had persuaded him to store the furniture and close up the house during the air raids. He was comfortably settled in an old friend's house in Surrey. All they saw of the war were the vapour trails of fighting aircraft during daylight attempts on London. Now those had stopped. The Luftwaffe were shot out of the skies; when they came now, it was by night.

He sprang up and hurried down in the lift. The duty officer met him at the door. ‘There's a message come in from Cecilie, Sir. It's being decoded now. I thought you'd like to see it.'

‘I would indeed.' He spoke to the radio officer who had taken the signal. ‘You recognize the sender?'

‘Yes, Sir. It's Cecilie. No doubt; she's got a very distinctive touch.'

For weeks during her training at Beaulieu Kate had been transmitting to the operators at Baker Street. After a time the style developed and became so distinctive that the receiver could identify who was transmitting. Not all were proficient or even good; some were known by a pattern of mistakes. Kate by a combination of speed and lightness on the keys.

‘Here's the decoded signal, Sir.'

Colonel Reed took the paper. He sat down and studied it for a time.

‘Thank you, Banks,' he said, folding it and slipping it into his pocket. He said to the duty officer, ‘See if Major Wheeler's in the building, will you? If he is, ask him to come up to my room.'

Eric Wheeler was his assistant and friend of long standing. They had both joined the army at the same time, the Colonel leaving a City merchant bank and Wheeler a university career.

While he waited, Reed studied the message again. There was a knock on his door and Eric Wheeler came in.

‘I was on my way home,' he said. ‘What's up, Sir?'

‘Cecilie's made contact from Dulac,' he answered. ‘Here, see what you think.'

After a pause Eric Wheeler said, ‘A bit ambitious, isn't it? A convoy of fresh troops, heavily protected, no doubt, and escorting some senior officers from the Italian front? Why not stick to the power station; it's more their line.'

‘He likes taking risks,' Reed remarked. ‘And so far he's got away with them. The drop is the decider, I think. We'd better send a message back telling them to wait till we hear from supplies and the Air Ministry. You know how beggarly they can be with their aircraft.' He yawned. ‘And we'd better put a call through to the General's aide. They'll want to know about this. It's right in their man's territory.'

Wheeler hesitated. ‘I don't see why they don't do their own bloody dirty work,' he said. ‘And let us get on with ours.'

Reed said quietly, ‘My dear Eric, so long as we tell them some things, that keeps them happy. This isn't important; but it makes it easier to keep other activities over there to ourselves. Get hold of that chinless idiot and tell him we want the General's opinion.'

Standartenführer Albert Stohler had entertained his successor to lunch.

They drank a fine Sancerre with some freshly caught
loup de mer
baked to perfection by the Standartenführer's French chef. A dish of potatoes, stewed in butter and herbs, melted in the mouth. Fine white bread and creamy butter tempted the appetite, normally starved of both. A vintage champagne was served with the lightest lemon sorbet. Though his guest refused, Stohler ordered a rare Armagnac with the coffee – which was real. Stohler had grown heavy during the year he had been at his post in Nice. His belly bulged under the black tunic, and there were veins on the surface of his cheeks. He had lived very well, as he explained to the young officer sitting opposite to him. Bled the French and the Jews milk-white. Fattened the SS funds. Kept the Maquis out of Nice, holed up in the mountains. And earned the civilian population's cooperation. He laughed contentedly.