Escape by Moonlight (22 page)

Max had left the apartment building just in time to see Justine being hustled towards the police van by a French gendarme and a German sergeant. He hesitated only a second while he debated whether to run after them and protest her innocence, but then his meticulous training came to the fore and he had turned and gone back into the apartment. He had removed all trace of his own presence, the used cups and wine glasses, the ashtray with its cigarette stubs. He went through Justine’s clothes and papers to make sure there was nothing suspicious to be found and took the scruffy black coat and hat she sometimes used for a disguise, and put them with all his own clothes into a kitbag, topped it with his colour charts and, throwing it over his shoulder, once again left the building. He was stopped once, but his forged papers and colour charts stood up to the test and he was allowed to go.

He had worked methodically, trying to keep a cool head,
trying not to think of what Justine might be going through, but as he walked down the street, he felt as though he were abandoning her to her fate, a terrible fate if her captors took it into their heads that she was part of a resistance movement. He could not leave her to suffer that. Was there any way he could effect her release? Even if it meant his own life was forfeit? Love and duty were certainly in conflict now and he was being torn apart.

He went to his rendezvous with Etienne at an apartment overlooking the Montparnasse cemetery where Etienne set up his radio and reported what had happened to London and asked for instructions. As soon as the transmission was acknowledged, he pulled in the aerial and packed everything into its suitcase. He had to move quickly before the detector vans fixed his position. ‘Cheerio for now,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at the Chateau Mollet, if you want me.’ And with that he and his incriminating equipment were gone.

Max looked round checking everything was as it should be and left too. He had to alert Giles at the school.

‘I know about it,’ Giles said, when he found him tidying his office, picking up papers and books strewn about the floor. ‘A Vichy policeman and a German sergeant were here half an hour ago. You only just missed them.’

‘Did they find anything?’

‘They were very interested in the Roneo machine and wanted to know what it was used for. Luckily there was nothing to connect it with
France Vivra
and they seemed to accept that it was only used for schoolwork, but they warned me I needed a permit to own one and took it away until such time as I was provided with one.’

‘And Justine?’

‘They asked a lot of questions about her and I gathered
from that she had been arrested.’ He grinned. ‘I said: “So that’s why she didn’t turn up for work today.” Then I grumbled about being left short-handed and having to teach her class myself. They asked if I knew she carried a pistol in her handbag and I denied all knowledge of the contents of her bag.’

‘Will they let her go?’

‘I doubt it. They’ll have her for the gun if nothing else. But if that is all they can find, the circuit should be safe.’

‘I wish I’d never given her that damned pistol. It’s all my fault. I dragged her into this …’

‘She was already in it, before you came,’ Giles said. ‘She spent hours typing out BBC news and de Gaulle’s speeches, helping with the duplication and distribution, beside taking escapees down to Dransville. It was her choice.’

‘Dransville,’ Max said suddenly. ‘Do you think they will hear what’s happened?’

Giles shrugged. ‘No reason why they should. The only person who could possibly tell them is Roger and he wasn’t here.’

‘He knew I’d given Justine the gun, though. If he—’

‘Hold on, my friend, let’s just wait and see, shall we? We’ll lie low for a bit until we know.’

‘If they force her to talk …’ Max stopped with a shudder; that didn’t bear thinking about. How strong would Justine be in the face of torture? ‘I’ve alerted London and asked for instructions. Maybe we could find some way of getting her out.’

‘Antoine, she knew what she was risking, we all do. I know how you feel about her—’

‘You do?’ he asked in surprise.

Giles laughed. ‘All but a blind man could see it. But
you mustn’t let it come between you and your duty. We keep our heads down and do nothing. While she’s in Cherche-Midi, we can’t attempt an escape without risking goodness knows how many lives. We’ll have to wait until she’s moved.’ He paused. ‘Where are you going to stay? You can’t go back to Justine’s apartment; I don’t doubt there’ll be a watch on it. If nothing untoward happens and she’s sent down for the pistol and nothing else, she might serve a short sentence and be with us again sooner than you think.’

‘I pray you are right. I’ll join Etienne at the Chateau Mollet, then I’ll be on hand when we hear from London.’

The cell had no heating, and in spite of having an overcoat and scarf, Justine was so cold her fingers and toes were numb. She wrapped herself in the coat and the smelly blanket, but dare not shut her eyes in case she talked in her sleep. Sleep was difficult in any case because every hour during the night, the light, which had been turned off at six, was switched on again and the guard peered at her through the spyhole in the door. Nevertheless she must have dozed because she woke so stiff and cramped it was some time before she could get her limbs to work. She stood up and began running on the spot, banging her arms against her sides to warm herself. She could hear the sound of heavy boots and doors being opened along the corridor.

When they came to her she was breathless, but a little warmer. The woman warder pointed to the slop bucket. ‘Bring that.’

She was led to a drain where she was invited to empty
the bucket, then taken back to her cell. ‘I have no toiletries,’ she said. ‘How am I to wash?’

‘Send home for things.’ The woman laughed. ‘Oh, I forgot, you are not allowed privileges.’ And with that she left, locking the door behind her.

Justine broke the ice on her water jug, washed and dried herself on the rag that hung on a nail beside the basin; it made her feel fresher if not cleaner. Then it was back to jumping up and down to keep warm while she recited all the poetry she could remember. Tiring of that, she pulled the table under the fanlight, climbed on it and found herself looking out onto the street. There were people out there coming and going. Could she get a message out? But she had nothing with which to write and nothing to write it on. She tried shouting, but was ignored. No one wanted to know or help a prisoner for fear of being tainted.

She heard the heavy footsteps again and scrambled down so that she was facing the door when it was opened. She was handed an enamel plate containing a crust of bread. She ate it voraciously, washing it down with water from the jug.

Her head was full of questions she would have liked to ask: Did anyone know where she was? What was going to happen to her? How long was she going to be kept prisoner? When was her trial? Would she be allowed a defence lawyer? Could she have a book to read, pencil and paper? She would not give her gaolers the satisfaction of knowing they had worried and frightened her, so she kept silent.

At midday she was given a small cup of soup and half a small loaf of brown bread, and in the middle of
the afternoon was taken to the rue des Saussaies again and confronted with the same Gestapo major who had questioned her before. There was a typewriter on his desk which she immediately recognised as her own. It took a monumental effort not to appear agitated by this.

The major stared at her long and hard before speaking. ‘Is this machine yours?’

She hesitated. ‘I don’t know, I can’t tell. There must be hundreds like it.’

‘But not hundreds with a faulty letter E.’ He stood up, came round the desk and poked his finger hard into her breast which made her gasp. ‘It was used to type these lies.’ He turned and picked up a copy of
France Vivra
and waved it under her nose. ‘Do you deny it?’

‘What is it?’ She pretended to be curious.

‘You know well what it is. Subversive literature, lies to undermine the morale of the population, to cause dissent and unrest.’

‘It has nothing to do with me.’

The blow he dealt to her face rocked her head on her shoulders. Her arms were pinioned to her sides by her escorts and she could not lift a hand to touch her face, nor ward off the next blow. ‘We know exactly what you have been up to. We have your accomplices and they are prepared to talk.’

‘Then you had better ask them how they came to borrow my typewriter,’ she retorted, wondering if what he said was true. Had others been arrested? ‘I am a schoolteacher, nothing more. All I want is to be allowed to get on with my job in peace.’

‘You have had many visitors to your apartment, they come and go at all times of day and night.’

She wondered who had told him that and immediately thought of the concierge. She was old and they would have frightened her. ‘Then perhaps one of those borrowed my typewriter.’

‘Men visitors. I hardly think they came to learn to type.’

‘So? Is there a law against that now?’

He snorted with laughter. ‘Against the oldest profession in the world? No, I do not think so, but why do you not extend your favours to German soldiers? I am sure they would be very generous.’

‘There are enough ladies of the night catering for their needs without me adding to them. I am fussy whom I entertain.’

It was unwise of her to say that and it earned her several more blows. He picked up another piece of paper and placed it on the desk nearest to her, then he dipped a pen into an inkwell and offered it to her. ‘Sign this.’

‘What is it?’

‘A statement.’

She glanced down at it and realised it was more confession than statement. ‘Certainly not. It is in German. I will sign nothing I cannot understand.’

He shouted for a clerk and gave instructions for the document to be translated and then waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Take her away. Let her reflect on her situation for a few more days.’

With her head reeling and her face stinging, she was taken back to Cherche-Midi and locked once more in her cell where she did, indeed, reflect on her situation. Now she was in more trouble than the possession of a pistol. What was going on outside? What was Max doing? And Giles and all the others? Had they gone
to ground? Did they know where she was? Had the Germans discovered who had blown up the railway line? Had there been reprisals? Were her friends safe? Were they all going about their business as if nothing had happened? And her family? Thank God they were in the
Zone Libre
. But not Max. Max was out there somewhere, probably worrying himself sick about what had happened to her, perhaps in danger himself. How long before her captors put two and two together and realised she was implicated in blowing up the ammunition train? How long before everyone in the circuit was rounded up?

She stopped herself dwelling on the dreadful things that might happen and concentrated on recalling happier times. Spoilt by her parents and older brother and sister, her childhood in the mountains of Haute Savoie had been idyllic. The Great War, with its millions of casualties, had hardly touched the child she was. She remembered the little lamb she had hand fed when its mother rejected it and how dejected she had been when it was taken away from her; and being carried on the shoulders of her father when the whole family had attended the agricultural fair in Annecy. And there was Pierre’s wedding to Jeanne and being a bridesmaid at Annelise’s wedding. What a day for celebration that had been! Only nine years old, she had not understood the cloud that had hung over her sister, but which disappeared on the day she was married. Everyone liked Charles, though Jacques was wary of him and hid behind his mother’s skirts whenever his new stepfather approached. Charles had simply laughed it off.

She hadn’t realised at the time how important Charles
was, not until she was old enough to accept his invitation to visit them in England in 1931 as a
twenty-first
birthday treat. He was a baron, something like a French count, and her sister was Lady de Lacey and they lived in a mansion of enormous proportions with dozens of servants. Jacques had become Jack and a proper little English boy. And there were three more children: Elizabeth, Amy and four-year-old Edmund, all adored by both parents. She was taken to see all the sights: the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace and they caught a glimpse of King George and Queen Mary as they left in a carriage. They went to Norwich and Cambridge where they punted on the river, and to Wells on the north Norfolk coast, where they gathered cockles which Mrs Baxter boiled up for tea to be eaten with brown bread and butter. She had returned home to Dransville full of happy memories.

Annelise had not been spoilt by her elevated status; she was still the same loving sister she had always been and had often brought her children to Dransville for holidays before the war, where they were allowed to run wild about the meadows and hills. They had all, except Edmund who hadn’t been born until 1927, attended the Winter Olympics at Chamonix in 1924 and she had boasted she could ski as well as any of the contestants. There would be no more holidays like that until the war was won. How long would that be? She could see no end to it. Whenever her present situation threatened to intrude, she forced herself back onto a happier plane, but in the end even that did not work, and she was thrown into despair. Her relationship with
Max could spoil other people’s happiness; people, like Lisabette, who did not deserve to be made miserable, but how could she let him go? But then, she might have no choice; she would be shot and that would be the end of it. But she would have the memory to take with her to the grave.

She deliberately put her mind to recalling every detail of that long, lazy morning of lovemaking: his hands exploring her body, his lips caressing her, his murmured words of love and her own uninhibited response. They had forgotten all about the war, forgotten they had just blown up a train and taken soldiers’ lives, enemy lives it was true, but lives just the same, forgotten everything in the joy of finding each other. They had even forgotten about Lisabette. Would she find out about her and Max through someone else? If only she could get out of this place …

Her last meal of the day, another cup of thin soup and some dry bread, came at four o’clock and then at six the light went out and she was left to endure a second night of misery. She had never felt so cold and so hungry. If she had not had her overcoat, she would surely have frozen to death. Perhaps that would be the easier death. Why was she thinking of death? That was defeatist and she wasn’t beaten yet.

Charles, in the MI6 communications room, was one of the first to hear of Justine’s arrest and the scattering of the circuit. It was news he had been dreading. He knew about the sabotage on the railway and coming so soon afterwards he could only assume it was not unconnected. What had happened? The radio message had necessarily
been brief and left him wanting to know more. What had she been charged with? Would she be able to hold out against prolonged interrogation? What was Max doing? Was Lizzie implicated? After all, she had been taking men over the Swiss border to freedom. How many people knew about that? Oh, how he wished he had gone over to France as soon as war was declared and fetched her home. And what was he to say to Annelise? Should he tell her? She would want to know how he knew.

‘There isn’t anything we can do,’ Buckmaster told him when the message was relayed to him. ‘Until we learn more details, we’ll carry on as usual.’

‘I’m also worried about my daughter and my wife’s parents.’

‘They’re not in Paris, are they?’

‘Not to my knowledge. But if Justine is made to talk—’ He stopped unable to put his fear into words.

‘We’ll know more when Etienne comes on air again this evening. Try not to worry.’

Try not to worry! How could he not worry?

He did not go off duty that evening, preferring to stay to hear the transmission, due at seven o’clock. Everyone was there: Major Buckmaster, Miss Atkins and several others, standing about waiting and hoping. They waited half an hour past the scheduled time, but nothing happened. Etienne was silent. ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ Buckmaster said. ‘He might have been delayed or had trouble with the wireless.’ The major was an optimist and disinclined to believe anything had gone wrong unless faced with irrefutable evidence. ‘We’ll see if he comes up in the morning.’

They dispersed and Charles went back to his London
flat where he lived while working in London. He rang Annelise as he did every evening, but said nothing of Justine’s arrest. He kept the conversation light, asked about what was happening at home and was Edmund behaving himself.

‘As far as I know,’ she said. ‘He’s at school.’

‘I forgot. Stupid of me.’

‘Are you all right? You sound distracted.’

‘Do I? I’m fine, darling, but missing you. I’ll try and come home for a few days soon. Have you heard from Amy? How is she?’

‘Swotting for exams.’

‘And Jack?’

‘I haven’t seen him since the New Year, but he writes. He’s on a course, learning to fly a different aeroplane. He’s not very communicative.’

‘Head full of Belinda, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Perhaps. Young Bernard is behaving very oddly, creeping about with a notebook and pencil and looking guilty.’

‘Have you asked him about it?’

‘No, I don’t like to pry, it’s probably some silly game he’s playing. He doesn’t seem to mix with the other children.’

‘Well, if you are really worried, try and get a look at the notebook. I’ll speak to him when I come home, if you like. The others are OK, are they?’

‘Yes, no bother at all. Cecily is a poppet and Raymond and Martin have joined the Boy Scouts; they are having great fun learning the Morse code and communicating in dots and dashes. I shall miss them when they go home.’

He smiled to himself as he rang off. His wife loved children, all children, it didn’t matter about their background. She would be worried sick if she knew what had happened to her little sister. Grown up or not, Justine would always be her little sister. He spent a sleepless night wondering if she ought to be told. If she found out later that he had known about it and said nothing, she would be more than a little miffed.

Bernard, who rarely let his notebook out of his presence, had left it on his bedside table. It was too good an opportunity to miss and Annelise, who had gone into his room to put away his clean laundry, sat on the bed to skim through it. What she read opened her eyes in astonishment. Here were the detailed movements of almost everyone in the village, where they went, whom they saw, even what they talked about. He seemed particularly interested in Albert Storey, and the transcription of the conversation between Frank Lambert and Mrs Storey was engrossing. Surely he had made it up? But why? She smiled to herself, catching sight of copies of
The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes
and
The Thirty-nine Steps
on his table. He had been reading too many detective stories, that was it. But she ought to warn him against intrusion. She could not imagine Albert Storey or Frank Lambert taking kindly to being followed.