“There is no doctor in this building.”
“I have been very unwell,” I said, dropping my eyes to the ground as I forced another miserable cough. “It is the scarlet fever, my mother thinks.” I didn’t miss the way both Germans took an automatic step back away from me. I raised my eyes to them now, trying to channel my genuine fear into artificial tears. “None of the doctors in Bougival could determine a cure. I’m staying with an aunt who tells me she was treated by Dr. Le Lievre at this address when she caught the fever herself in her childhood…” I let my voice trail off. “She did say it was many years ago and he might have retired…”
The men conversed quietly, but I caught enough of the conversation to know they were immediately in agreement that they should get me out of the apartment as quickly as possible. I tried to imagine myself through their eyes. A small, rail-thin woman with bags under her eyes—a woman who was genuinely shaking now, although in fear, not because of sickness. I was starting to look ill again—something I loathed but had so far been powerless to change. Fresh food in Paris was so difficult to come by. My faked ration card entitled me to purchase a small allotment of bread and cheese each day and a small portion of pasta and margarine once a week. I didn’t dare eat a bite of any of that so had been swapping this food on the black market as much as I could. The trouble was there wasn’t much worth swapping it for.
“Do you know Raimund Leandres?” one of the Germans asked. Raimund Leandres was the cover name of the courier I was due to meet, and my heart broke for him, knowing he was likely somewhere in a cell, facing unimaginable torture. “I don’t know anyone in Paris except my aunt, officer,” I said hesitantly. I’d be done for if they insisted on verifying my story with this “aunt.” To my relief, they gingerly passed me back my papers and dismissed me.
Just a few days later, a message came from Veronique, one of César’s w/t operators. Baker Street was alarmed at the way the circuit was crumbling and was recalling him to London immediately. Our new circuit leader would arrive within days.
I was waiting at the entrance to the Gare Saint-Lazare, pretending to read a newspaper. This was my third day waiting and I’d continue returning each day to meet the 2:00 p.m. train until the new circuit leader arrived. I knew only that he would be wearing a green tie, and he would be looking for me by my beige blouse.
I was eager to meet our new circuit leader to hear his plan to stabilize the situation. Even in the days since César was recalled, there had been more arrests of local resistance contacts. The network felt like an unstable floor beneath me, planks giving way just as I reached for them.
A fresh wave of travelers emerged from the station as the 2:00 p.m. train departed and I straightened, scanning the crowd until it thinned to a trickle. I was almost ready to go back to my room and try again the following afternoon, but then a familiar face appeared. I struggled to contain my surprise as my gaze dropped to the green tie against his chest. He nodded subtly, to indicate he’d seen me, and I began to walk in the opposite direction, knowing he would follow.
Once I was safely in the laneway, I tried to make sense of it. Mr. Turner? Here in Paris? It seemed a desperate and risky move for the organization to send one of its most senior officials. Things must have been even more tenuous for the circuit than I’d realized.
“Sir,” I breathed when he finally joined me. “Is it true? Are you the new circuit leader?”
“Difficult times call for extraordinary measures and I convinced the others that I could manage things best from here.” His eyes were kind as he smiled. “So here I am, back on home soil—as you are, Miss Barre.”
“I have adopted an alternate cover story,” I told him. “I had a close call last week. I’m now Honorine Deschamps.”
“A close call?” he repeated, frowning. His gaze scanned me from head to toe and he asked, “Are you quite alright?”
“I went to a meeting and…” There was something strange about the way Mr. Turner was reacting to this news—as if it was especially shocking, or of unique concern. The miserable reality was that for someone in my position close calls were inevitable and Mr. Turner knew that as well as anyone. He had been part of the training regime that had taught me to expect it. “Sir, it doesn’t really matter. I talked my way out of it and I’m fine. But we never quite know what to expect when we go to meetings in Paris now. You must know agents are dropping like flies.”
“It is a concern,” he said, still staring at me intently. “Listen to me, Chloe. We are going to work very closely together now. You are vital to my plans to restore stability here, do you understand? Take no unnecessary risks.”
I gave him the address of a safe house where he could shelter for the night, and we agreed we’d meet the next afternoon once he’d secured a longer term apartment.
It was such a surprise to see Turner in Paris, but it was also a relief. He’d always taken a special interest in my training—offering an extra level of support and advice along the way. Mr. Turner was almost a father figure to me, and it was reassuring to know that once again, I’d be working with someone who knew me. Someone who genuinely cared about my welfare. After the loneliness I’d felt in those early weeks in Paris, that was an immense comfort.
Turner had been in Paris for a month and it had quickly become apparent that he was going to have to operate under his real name. His family was renowned in the city, famous for the expansive furniture business he managed until the occupation began. Everywhere he went, people knew who he was.
In training, they had warned us that if we found ourselves in a place we once called home, we were to refrain from meetings or accommodation in any areas we had previously frequented. That was easy for me—I’d lived most of my life on two blocks of the 18th Arrondissement, with forays to the Sorbonne while I was studying. It wasn’t nearly so simple for Turner. The more I thought about it, the more shocked I was that he’d decided to return at all.
“It’s a complication, but I do think it may be a blessing to be so well connected,” he told me, the first time he showed me around the apartment he had rented. It was unusually plush for an agent, on the fifth floor of a large apartment block, featuring several living spaces and multiple bedrooms. It seemed excessive to me that one agent would opt to rent such a place, but Mr. Turner was an expert in SOE procedure. If he was able to rent the apartment cheaply through an old friend, and he was confident there was no risk in that, who was I to question the decision?
We established a system where, if he needed to see me, he would put a particular vase between the drapes in his living room—a window I could easily see from the street below.
“Walk past thrice daily,” he instructed me.
“And how will I know where to meet you?” I asked.
“To start with, we’ll meet here.”
“Here?” I said, eyebrows high. “But…”
“This building is secure,” he assured me. “It will be perfectly safe.”
“Sir, my cover story is that I’m a nurse who works night shifts,” I said uncertainly. “I need to maintain that so I can be on the street after curfew when you need me to work late. If I’m picked up or questioned, what will I say if they ask why I’ve been coming here repeatedly?”