The Tiger Claw
The Giller Prize Finalist
“
The Tiger
Claw is a first-rate spy thriller and also first-rate literature. Set in the 1940s in Occupied Paris with haunting similarities to the world today, this is a novel that reminds us that sometimes only fiction can really tell us the truth. …The story of one woman’s courage in the face of racism, betrayal and hypocrisy on one hand and the evils of war on the other. It is also a love story between Muslim and Jew told in a language that resonates with mysticism and romance—yet it is brutally honest in its assessment of motives and ambiguities.”
—Giller Prize judges
“Baldwin finds a Muslim woman who has much to teach our own time. …She becomes more ambitious with every book. …Years of careful research on three continents, as well as extensive contact with her subject’s extended family, result in a portrait of Noor Inayat Khan that explains why she did what she did in compelling, convincing ways.”
—
The Globe and Mail
“A stirring tale of love and betrayal in a foreign land. Like the troubadour, [Baldwin] has the natural gift of pinning you to the window of her imagination until you hang by her each word and every twist and turn of the tale, begging for more.”
—
India Today
“
The Tiger
Claw brilliantly reveals the shifting sands of allegiance in times of war and the duplicity required for survival when all who are operating underground are interdependent but no one can be trusted fully.”
—
The Gazette
(Montreal)
“I only had to read the novel’s first line to know what was in store. … A fascinating portrait of a legendary woman and a novel that, in turn, examines love, religion, nationalism and sacrifice.”
—
The Sun Times
(Owen Sound)
“It’s a fiction closer to truth than any authorized account. …Baldwin’s ability to bring her characters to life has never been in question and it reigns supreme now.”
—
Outlook
(India)
For
David J. Baldwin
Remember, even though I have done terrible things
I can still see the whole world in your face.
—R
UMI
(K
ULLUJAT E
S
HAMS
, Q
UATRAIN
1110)
Two hands, two feet, two eyes, good,
as it should be, but no separation
of the Friend and your loving.
Any dividing there
makes other untrue distinctions like “Jew”
and “Christian” and “Muslim”
—R
UMI
(K
ULLUJAT E
S
HAMS
, Q
UATRAIN
321)
The Tiger Claw
is inspired by the life and times of Noor Inayat Khan and the non-fiction accounts of many other resistance agents of WW II. Many historical people are mentioned in this book, but no living person is portrayed. A few new characters have been substituted for historical persons and some names have been changed. Most transliterations are from Urdu, some are from Arabic.
The first non-fiction biography of Noor,
Madeleine
, was written in 1952 by Jean Overton Fuller. William Stevenson summarized and embellished this account in
The Man Called Intrepid
. Later non-fiction writers commented on Noor’s story, like Rita Kramer in
Flames in the Field
. Noor’s brother, Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan, offered his tribute to Noor in his book
Awakening
. Noor is mentioned in footnotes to biographies of Hazrat Inayat Khan and discussed in books by retired agents of the Special Operations Executive (
SOE
). Recently, her story was presented with more context in
Women Who Lived for Danger
by Marcus Binney.
For me, these non-fiction accounts raised more questions about Noor than their facts could answer.
My depiction of Noor begins from fact but departs quickly into imagination, bending time, creating characters around her, rearranging or inventing some events to explore as if through her eyes, to feel what may have been in her heart.
PART ONECHAPTER 1Pforzheim, Germany
December 1943
D
ECEMBER MOVED IN
, taking up residence with Noor in her cell, and freezing the radiator.
Cold coiled in the bowl of her pelvis, turning shiver to quake as she lay beneath her blanket on the cot. Above, snow drifted against glass and bars. Shreds of thoughts, speculations, obsessions … some glue still held her fragments together.
The flap door clanged down.
“Herr Vogel …”
The rest, in rapid German, was senseless.
Silly hope reared inside; she reined it in.
The guard placed something on the thick, jutting tray, something invisible in the dingy half-light. Soup, probably. She didn’t care.
She heard a clunk and a small swish.
Yes, she did care.
Noor rolled onto her stomach, chained wrists before her, supported her weight on her elbows and knelt. Then shifted to extend the chain running between her wrists and ankles far enough for her to be seated. The clanking weight of the leg irons pulled her bare feet to the floor.
She slipped into prison clogs, shuffled across the cement floor.
A pad of onionskin. A scrawl that filled the whole first page. It said in French,
For Princess Noor—write children’s stories only
. Signed,
Ernst V
.
She had asked Vogel for paper, pen and ink, but never expected to receive them. “Everything in my power,” Vogel had said.
She tucked the pad under her arm, then tested the pen nib against her thumb. She reached for the glass jar. Dark blue ink. She opened it, inhaled its metallic fragrance.
She carried the writing materials back to her cot. She lay down, eyes open to the gloom, gritting her teeth to stop their chattering. Mosquito thoughts buzzed.
Do it. Shouldn’t. Do it. Shouldn’t. Do it
.
Use initials, think the names, use false names, code names
.
She caterpillar-crawled to the edge, turned on her side to block the vision of any guard and examined the leg of the cot. A pipe welded to the metal frame. Hollow pipe with a steel cover.
If I can hide some of my writing, I will write what I want
.
She pressed a chain-link against the steel cover. Was it welded? Cold-numbed fingers exploring. No, not welded. Screwed on tightly.
Push, push with the edge of her manacles. Then with a chain-link. She wrapped her chain around the cover like a vise. It didn’t move. She pushed and turned in the dimness for hours, till she was wiping sweat from her eyes. She froze whenever she heard—or thought she heard—a movement at the peephole.
Deep breath. Attack the hollow leg again.
Night blackened the cell. Baying and barking outside, beyond the stone walls of the prison. Twice, the rush of a train passing very close. Noor grimaced and grunted on.
Finally, the steel cover moved a millimetre along its treads. By dawn, it loosened. She lay back, exhausted. Then, with her back to the door, she rolled up half the onionskin, poked it down the pipe-leg and, with an effort, screwed the cover on again.
