Josie and I quickly came to an arrangement where I’d eat the bread, and she’d eat her fill of everything else. She had been thin even when we were training, but since her time in the prison, she was all but skin and bones. I was happy for her to have more than her share.
The thought of being moved on, and maybe even being separated from Josie again, filled me with dread. She was so worn down, I already feared I would wake up one morning and find her dead.
C H A P T E R 26
JOSIE
Karlsruhe Prison, Germany
October, 1944
Eloise and I were woken by the sound of thumping on our door before dawn one morning. We’d been at Karlsruhe for a few weeks and the routine had been much the same day to day, until that early-morning wakeup call.
“Come,” Hertha called. “You need to take a shower.” There was a strange tone in her voice I couldn’t quite identify.
“Why?” I called back. It wasn’t Sunday.
“You’re being transferred,” she said. This time, her tone had a strange lilt to it—like a note of forced positivity. I was confused, but translated for a sleepy Eloise, just as Hertha opened the door. She was carrying a pile of folded clothes in her arms, two fresh pairs of prison espadrilles on top. The rest of the prison was still quiet and still as we followed her to the shower block.
“Here.” She handed us the clothes, then reached into her pocket for a full block of soap and a comb. “Make yourself as neat and tidy as you can.”
More soap, and this time, a comb! I stammered my thanks as I took it into my shaking hands.
The skirt she’d given me was far too big and kept slipping down over my hips, so Eloise helped me tie a knot in the waist so it would stay on. The blouse hung on my frame, but I had a lovely knitted cardigan to wear over it. Eloise gently pulled the comb through my wet hair until it was smoother than it had been in months, and when I looked down at myself, I felt beautiful and feminine, a far cry from the ragged mess I’d been in solitary confinement.
Soon, we were led to the prison’s administrative block. Hertha sat with us, tapping her foot against the floor as she stared at the door.
“Is everything okay?” I asked her. Her gaze slid to my face but she didn’t say anything. “Hertha?” I prompted. She cleared her throat.
“It’s all fine,” she said, then more firmly, “Everything is just fine.”
“Do you know where we’re being transferred?”
“The warden has been very concerned that this situation is so unorthodox,” she explained. “We do not have enough staff or the space to care for political prisoners like yourselves and she fears that while you are here, we are vulnerable to Allied air attack. It has been distressing her more and more and she insisted some of you be moved.”
“So where are we going?” I repeated.
“It’s a farm,” she said suddenly, then she forced a smile. “Just a work farm. Lots of fresh air and hopefully much better food! This is a good thing.” But her voice was laced with guilt. She was lying, but why? My heart sank as Eloise leaned toward me.
“What is she saying?”
It was my turn to force a smile. There was no point worrying Eloise given we were entirely powerless to change our situation anyway.
“She said we are being moved to a work farm.”
“Oh!” Eloise said, brightening. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
Two other female prisoners joined us then, their hair also wet and freshly combed. Hertha and another guard led us through the front door where a transport was waiting in the soft predawn light.
I caught Hertha’s eye just as she pulled the zipper down to close the canvas at the back of the truck. The other guard was back further, out of sight, so I mouthed thank you. As Hertha looked away, I saw the unmistakable sheen of tears in her eyes.
Eloise began chatting with the other women in the back of the truck right away. Wendy Jones and Mary Williams were also SOE agents. They had trained together but had been arrested separately and only reunited when they arrived at Karlsruhe, just like me and Eloise. Wendy’s reception party was ambushed by the Germans so she’d been taken straight in the minute she landed. Mary was a wireless operator, and she was arrested a few weeks after arrival when a D/F van tracked her down. Both had been imprisoned for just a few weeks.
“We’re going to a work farm,” Eloise told them.
“Oh, good,” Wendy said, exhaling with relief. “It was all a bit strange there, wasn’t it? I had the sense the jail didn’t know what to do with us. Maybe it will be better at this new place.”
As we boarded the train for Strasbourg that day, I could not stop thinking about the distress in Hertha’s face as that truck pulled away, but I let Mary and Wendy and Eloise enjoy their optimism. There would be no harm in a moment of peace and positivity, even if it turned out to be unmerited.
C H A P T E R 27
CHARLOTTE
Liverpool
July, 1970
I’ve been sitting on the park bench under the tree outside of Professor Read’s office for three hours when he finally walks along the path past me. When I call his name, he startles, as if he hadn’t noticed me there.
“Oh, hello there,” he says, brows knitting. It’s clear from the puzzled look on his face that he recognizes me but can’t quite place me, so I leap to my feet and rush to fall into step beside him as he walks toward his building.
“Charlotte Ainsworth,” I remind him. “Noah Ainsworth’s daughter?”
“Of course,” he says, momentarily relieved before wariness crosses his features. “Did I have a meeting booked with you and your father today?”
“No, sir,” I say politely.
“Ah, well, Mrs. White is on vacation at the moment but she’s back next Monday.” That explains why no one answered the phone during my dozens of attempts to get through yesterday. He looks at me hopefully. “Perhaps you could call then and make an appointment…？”
“This won’t take long, Professor,” I say firmly. It’s a hopeful lie—the truth is I have no idea how long it’ll take. Read sighs and rests his briefcase on the ground as he pulls a large ring of keys from his pocket and unlocks the door to his building, then motions for me to step inside first. We walk in silence up the stairs toward his offices, and I hold his briefcase while he unlocks the next door. The smell of Mrs. White’s cigarettes lingers heavily.
“Come right through,” he sighs again, and I follow him down the long corridor to the next locked door. Inside his office, I take the seat opposite his desk and wait while he stows his briefcase beneath the desk. He looks at me expectantly.
“I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the SOE agent Jocelyn Miller,” I say, and he frowns, but not before a split-second expression of surprise crosses his face.
“It should be abundantly clear to you by now that I’m constrained by the law when it comes to discussing the details in classified records,” he says, pursing his lips.
“I know,” I say hastily. “It’s just that… I came across her mother, and—”
“Her mother?”
“That’s right, and—”