Dad continues on toward Liverpool after that. I settle in the back seat and try to figure out how to talk to him. Finally I decide that nothing I say is going to make things any better, but I can at least express my support.
“I know that was intense, Dad. And maybe not at all what you expected. I hope you’re okay.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I’m not convinced by this at all because his shoulders are up around his ears.
“The agent… Fleur?” I say hesitantly. “Was she your friend?”
“I barely knew her. We had a mutual friend.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Dad.”
“You weren’t there,” Dad snaps, and I look at him in surprise. I expect him to immediately apologize, but he’s still staring at the road. “You have no idea what was or wasn’t my fault.”
I leave it after that. We drive in silence for some time until Dad says quietly, “Your mother was so wise, wasn’t she? She was always so sure I should never look back at my SOE days. Perhaps I should have thought some more about that before I started all of this.”
C H A P T E R 14
ELOISE
Paris, France
March, 1944
Three weeks after I left Paris, I returned to Madame Célestine’s apartment. I dropped my bags to the ground and tapped the cast-iron knocker against front door, aching with exhaustion from head to toe.
It had been the longest weeks of my entire life. I was arrested twice—that first time for my missing permit, the second time a random detainment, but I once again played the part of innocent fool and was released within hours. They were difficult days, but every day in Rouen was difficult. In the end, with Nathalie’s help, I did find the tattered remains of Basile’s circuit—a handful of citizens still free in the community, some still bearing the bruising from their arrests. Through them, I connected with what was left of the wider resistance community in the region—other independent resistance organizations, and a few Marquis groups that existed outside of Basile’s orbit.
It was clear that every group had been ravaged in that spate of recent arrests, and not nearly enough operatives remained at Rouen to rebuild any meaningful resistance efforts, especially if the D-Day landings were, as expected, to take place over the coming summer, just a few short months away.
I knew that Basile would be shocked by my findings, and I fully expected him to argue that things couldn’t nearly be so bad. That’s why, in the hidden compartment of my shoulder bag, I had folded two Wanted posters—one that bore his likeness, and another that noted he might be using the names Basile or even Henri Edgar Pueyrredón. Was that his real name, or one of his cover names? In any case, it was clear that the Germans knew exactly who he was. I was dreading delivering the news to Basile that his once-proud network had been reduced to rubble, even though the handful of operatives remaining had done him proud in their efforts over that past two weeks.
We didn’t waste a moment of my time there and my mind was bursting with new information to report to Baker Street. I’d identified a series of bridges, munitions factories and warehouses that might be vulnerable to air attack. I could report in detail on the rapid increase in German security efforts in the region over the past few months. Those who’d been arrested and released all told me the same story—their interrogation was almost entirely about preparations the resistance was making in readiness for a coming landing.
In addition to all of that, I managed to get close to several of the mysterious rocket sites. Nathalie kept watch for patrols while I crept through the fields around each site, to peer through perimeter fences or scale trees for a better view through the binoculars she had secured for me. I could not make sense of what the sites were intended to do exactly, but it seemed clear enough that this new technology was close to ready: all of the locals who worked on the initial construction had been laid off and were prohibited from returning.
I managed to get to within just a few dozen feet of one of each type of site, both the long runway style platforms, possibly designed to launch some kind of “air torpedo,” and the square “launch pad” infrastructure, which was believed to be for a larger, more powerful explosive device. I had managed to record enough detail to memory that I felt certain I could sketch out the layout of each once I was back in London.
In the end, I left Rouen in a rush, two days earlier than planned, and I would not be returning. I had moved around during my stay as Basile had instructed me to, but at the last boarding house I stopped at, the host was known to be an ally. When I emerged from my room that very morning for breakfast, she pulled me into the kitchen and let me know she’d had a visit from the Gestapo.
“They are going door-to-door along the street, asking if we’ve seen a woman from out of town, possibly named Fleur,” she told me, dropping her voice. “They described you to a tee, mademoiselle. They said there may even be a reward for any information about your whereabouts.”
She helped me cut my hair right there in her kitchen, until the lengths that once reached my shoulders now sat roughly below my ears. She gave me some of her clothing—a hideous felt hat, several layers of undershirts to hide my shape, covered by a cotton dress that smelt strongly of mothballs. I wore deeply unstylish, handmade leather shoes that she’d worn for so long the stitching on the sides was coming undone. She secured some sponges, which I fashioned into inserts to rest against my bottom teeth to make my cheeks look fuller. I’d washed my mouth with iodine to temporarily stain my teeth yellow.
The sum of all of these efforts was that the woman who stared back at me in the mirror seemed decades older, especially once I adjusted my posture to stand with a hunch and made an effort to walk with a stiff limp. We learned such disguise techniques at “finishing school,” and in this case, they were a temporary measure, designed to last just long enough for me to leave Rouen.
Within an hour of that shocking conversation in the kitchen, I was limping my way to the train station, and just three hours later, back in Paris. I walked around the city for hours after my arrival, checking and double-checking that I wasn’t being followed. My contingency plan loomed large in my thoughts—if I saw even a hint that anyone was tailing me, I’d have to find somewhere else to sleep for the night, then to begin the mammoth task of trying to figure out how to reach help in Spain.
By the time dusk was falling, my feet were aching from the dreadful shoes and my back was aching from the artificial stoop, but I’d seen no sign at all that anyone was following me, and so I had finally been reassured enough to go to Célestine’s house.
The door opened, but the woman who greeted me was not, as I’d expected, Madame Célestine. Instead it was my old training partner and roommate Chloe. For a moment, we just stared at one another, then she squinted at me.
“Fleur?”
“Yes!” I said, laughing as I recovered from the shock. “What on earth are you doing here? Are you staying here?”
“I am!” she said, stunned, and once the door had closed behind us, Chloe threw her arms around me. I’d never been much of a hugger, but Chloe was, and over the months of our training I’d grown to love our embraces. Embarrassing tears filled my eyes at the sheer relief I felt at seeing a friendly face, and when she released me, I tightened my arms around her for just a few extra seconds.