The Paris Agent(87)
“Nacht und Nebel,” I whispered. “I know it’s ‘night and fog.’ What does that mean?” It was well and truly obvious to me by that point that being an “N&N” prisoner was no positive thing, but I was still curious about the term.
“It’s just a designation of political prisoner,” she said. “Come.”
She led me patiently through the long corridors of the prison, stopping automatically when I slumped against a wall because my muscles were too weak to hold me up. I was exhausted from the effort of carrying myself upright for the first time in months even though I was grateful that Hertha did not manhandle me like the male guard did.
Most of the cells we passed were empty, but I saw hundreds of female prisoners outside in the yard through the windows. When Hertha pushed open a door and I saw long rows of showers inside, I could not help but to weep. I was still wearing the same outfit I’d been in when I was arrested five months earlier and had not bathed since that day. My clothes were so stained with blood and dirt and sweat that most of the fabric was stiff.
Hertha went back to the door and peered through the small window, looking back into the hallway, then she reached into her pocket and handed me a slip of soap.
“Thank—” I started to say, but she cut me off with a low hiss and shook her head. I nodded in understanding—she was obviously concerned she’d get in trouble for helping me—but I was certain my gratitude showed in my eyes.
The water in the showers was icy cold, but I didn’t care one bit. I washed every inch of my body with that soap. To pull on even that stiff prison uniform, after months in the same filthy clothes, was one of the most pleasant sensations I had ever experienced.
Once I was dressed, Hertha took me back through the prison block, all the way to the front office, then down another corridor. Here the doors were much closer together, but unlike the main dormitory, each cell was enclosed. She stopped, unlocked a door and swung it open. I gasped in surprise. This space was much larger than my previous cell, with two chairs and a low table, and a cupboard, and even a bed with a straw mattress on it. A woman lay on the mattress, facing the wall so I could not see her face.
Perhaps other prisoners would not smile at a shared cell with a single bed, topped by a thin, filthy mattress that was already occupied. But there was so much for me to be excited about in that room. Human company! Soft furnishings! A toilet and even a sink!
Oh, even if I could just drink as much water as I wanted, I would be in heaven.
Hertha motioned for me to step into the cell, and the prisoner rolled over on the bed and sat up with a start. As the door slammed closed behind me, I wondered if I’d finally lost my mind.
“Chloe? Is it really you?”
“Fleur?” I croaked. She rose from the bed and rushed to my side as my knees gave way, catching me just in time to help me to the bed. My whole body shook with sobs, but she held me close, and rubbed my back.
“Eloise,” she said firmly. “They know my real name, so it only seems fair that you do too.”
“I’m Jocelyn,” I wept. How had I survived for so long without so much as an embrace? Now that I was hugging a friend again, it seemed as vital to my survival as air or water and food. “My friends call me Josie.”
“…so, Veronique and I decided that was enough, we’d alert Baker Street. But as we were preparing the transmission, the Gestapo arrived…” I swallowed roughly. “She took an L pill. The last time I saw her, they were dragging her outside to try to force her to vomit. I have no idea if she survived.”
Eloise listened silently as I explained about the circumstances that led to my arrest. I could not bring myself to explain the torture I had endured at Avenue Foch. Even bringing it to mind was enough to make me weep.
I was distracted pushing those memories away for a moment but when I looked at Eloise, I saw that she had wrapped her arms around her chest and was trembling, staring at me with sheer terror in her eyes.
“Turner is the double agent,” she choked.
“Yes,” I said gently. “It’s shocking, I know.”
“You don’t understand,” she whispered. “I trusted him to arrange care for my son. He’s the only person who knows where Hughie is.”
There was nothing we could do from the prison cell. No way to raise the alarm, no way for her to check on her little boy’s welfare. All I could do for her was to hold her while she rode the wave of panic and frustration. And later, when I tried to talk about the five months I’d spent in solitary confinement but the words just kept sticking in my throat, she held me too.
All we had was that we were together. Regardless of how dire our situation was, I knew we were blessed to have that.
C H A P T E R 24
CHARLOTTE
Liverpool
July, 1970
A few strange days have passed since my conversation with Aunt Kathleen. I’m trying to find the courage to ask Dad about Josie Miller again. This time, I plan on asking him straight—were you really in love with her? Could you have fathered a child with her? But before the opportunity arises, Theo calls, and he does not sound like his normal self.
“I’m sorry to ask this,” he says, his voice high and a little strained. “Perhaps you could come to my flat? There’s something I need to show you.”
“There’s something I should talk to you about, too,” I say, although I’m still not sure if I should tell him about Aunt Kathleen’s suspicions about Dad’s relationship with Josie. I don’t want to get his hopes up that we might have stumbled upon his mother and his father in one fell swoop. I make the trip over to Manchester right away and find Theo a ball of chaotic energy. He tells me to take a seat at his little dining room table, and he bustles about the kitchen, making cups of coffee and chatting nervously about the cricket game he watched with his friends the previous night.