The Tiger Claw (8 page)

“If you are sure, we can pop you in there to join our agents a few weeks earlier. But you must be sure—if your heart isn’t in it, you’ll do a bad job of it.” Colonel Buckmaster was looking at her, then at her file, then back again as if expecting her to decline.

“Sir, I am ready to go when ordered.”

Find out what they expect; perform better than they expect
.

The Colonel closed Noor’s file, passed it over his shoulder to Miss Atkins. “Miss Atkins will help you prepare. Cover story, that sort of thing. We are confident you will conduct yourself well. We will rely on you as we rely on the good conduct of all our colonials.”

A glance at the documents from the Battersea Reception Centre in her file would have told the Colonel she was classified as a British Protected Person, not an Indian colonial; a refugee, like everyone else who had fled the Germans. Abbajaan was from the Princely State of Baroda, whose rulers had never been conquered in war by either the East India Company or the Raj. Baroda was a British ally, subjugated yet independent, and Noor could describe herself similarly. But Colonel Buckmaster wanted a pliable, eager woman, bilingual in French and English, with harnessable energy; he wasn’t interested in the rest of her life, talents or languages.

The Colonel said, “Major Boddington will provide you with funds sufficient for your personal expenses and for members of your network.”

The Major was gazing at Glory Hill, one hand tapping against his thigh as if he had more important things on his mind.

“Nick?”

“I’ll keep an eye on her, sir,” said Major Boddington. He turned and gave Noor a looking over. “I’ll be out to see you as necessary. And may I say, my dear, you seem quite the perfect candidate for this important mission.”

CHAPTER 4

Pforzheim, Germany
December
1943

A
BBAJAAN USED TO SAY
every debt must be paid before one can set out on the path of realization, that obligations to every person must first be met. I felt his words in the bone the years in England, and reproached myself every waking moment for being unequal to the obligations of love. And so my zikr, when I was supposed to be in remembrance of Allah, was a remembrance of Armand
.

How should I describe my beloved—your father? He is more than the sum of his actions, his likes and dislikes; attributes give little of his essence. Taller than most Frenchmen, he has long arms and legs, supple fingers. His eyes—a soul-piercing blue. Hair lighter than mine, wavy brown. But describing his face tells nothing of his spark, his irrepressible humour or generous spirit. He delights in reading and chess, and is impelled to translate beauty and pain alike to boundless music. He always sees a larger world than the one we live in, and when I am with him, we are almost there
.

Music chose Armand early, and he is gifted before the piano, whereas I am most comfortable behind the veena. Your father is that graduate of the Conservatoire de Paris whose every composition has an underlying swagger, whereas I passed my music examinations at the École Normale each year because not passing would have
disappointed my family. Like Stravinsky, like Abbajaan, Armand’s prelingual rhythms are Eastern. Notes in groups of five, seven, ten-eight time. And he’s a performer who brings life to each note. Once, he played a Brahms concerto and I felt he had reached through my ribs and taken my heart in his hands
.

Alone here in my cell I wonder why he never said I wasn’t worth the waiting, the furtive meetings, the many lies. Many girls in Paris were less difficult to bed or marry than your mother, girls who might have converted to Judaism had he asked it, who would be better wives and mothers than I. Yet Armand—who could say when embarking on a new composition, “An artist can’t wait for someone to give him permission, he must just take it”—spent years waiting with me for Uncle or Kabir to give his permission for us to marry. Love is inexplicable, but he did say once that, when he was with me, he felt close to something sacred
.

The last time I saw your father, ma petite, was on May 2nd, 1940, two days before his thirtieth birthday. It was the last day of his leave, before he returned to the front
.

Everyone knew German boots were marching towards us. Once Hitler had taken Austria, invaded Czechoslovakia and betrayed France by signing a pact with that other shaitan, Stalin, Armand’s mobilization number was posted. By May 1940 he’d been with the 3rd Light Mechanized Division nine months, and was home on his second ten-day leave
.

On that May day before he returned to war, we met in the Bois de Boulogne under the locust trees. He had made arrangements, he said, to evacuate his mother, your grandmother Lydia, if the Germans came too close to Paris. Madame Lydia was born Catholic in Russia but converted to Judaism when she married your grandfather. People who were Jewish had more reason to fear the German invasion than anyone else—and they still do
.

“Just a precaution, Noor. The Germans aren’t very well equipped, I’m told. They won’t get all the way to Paris.”

My uncle Tajuddin and Kabir were debating evacuation for our family each day, as both held British passports. I told Armand
I would remain in Paris waiting for him at Afzal Manzil even if my family left
.

He would not hear of it. A shadow played over his face. “I never thought I’d say this, but I agree with your brother,” he said. “We cannot be together without marrying—your reputation must be considered. And Noor, this is no time to marry a Jew. There can no longer be any promises between us. You are—you must be—free. Free to marry someone else.”

He felt that what he was would harm me, that I would be safer without him. But he couldn’t foresee the consequences of our separation. There were bombs in London too
.

No one is safe from powerful men anywhere
.

I said, “I will remain with you, I must be with you now,” but he insisted
.

“Je t’aime, je t’adore.” He said those words as a reminder of all the love he had for me. He did say them. He held my hands to his heart, raised my lips to his, and we parted
.

Oh Armand, forgive me for saying adieu. How bitterly I rue the word!

The next time Madame Lydia heard from Armand was on June 2, 1940—a telegram from Dunkirk urging her, urging all of us, to evacuate. The Germans had overrun most of northern France. It was a miracle Armand was alive to send that telegram and that it arrived at all; in two weeks France had lost ninety-two thousand men. All I cared was that it said Armand was awaiting evacuation along with his regiment from the dunes of Dunkirk to England
.

The Germans began bombarding Suresnes and the periphery of Paris the next day. In the morning there was no answer from Madame Lydia’s telephone. By noon Kabir had packed our Amilcar for Bordeaux, and Uncle had gone in a car full of other Indians heading to Marseilles
.

I thought Armand and I might, insh’allah, meet again in England, but when we got to London, I learned his unit had regrouped and returned to France
.

And as soon as Maréchal Pétain formed his Vichy government to sign the armistice with Germany, the news turned worse: anti-Semitic edicts, confiscation of Jewish property. I didn’t know if Armand was a German POW, or was in hiding, until a postcard from Cannes. For months preprinted postcards were the only communication the Vichy government would allow
.

When I was training at Wanborough and saw bombers flying towards the Channel, I worried my Armand was in their path. Three long years without even our secret meetings, and only two postcards to Miss Noor Khan care of the Sufi Music Centre, London, and I had learned of myself that Armand was as water to the root of a plant, as necessary as sun for growth. There have been loves like ours over the centuries: Nizami sang of Laila and Majnu, the bards of Abelard and Héloïse. But our love was ours and, to me, unique
.

Mother counselled never to love someone of another religion, someone different. She said nothing but confusion and pain come of mixing blood and religions, that she had often regretted taking the steamer out of Boston Harbor to follow Abbajaan
.

But I did what my mother did before me, then deserted my love when he most needed me
.

Abbajaan said we are being judged, all the time, by our Divine Selves. My Divine Self had judged me and already found me inadequate
.

CHAPTER 5

London, England
Monday, June
14, 1943

U
MBRELLA AND FANY CAP
tucked beneath her arm, breathless from running up Clarges Street, Noor surveyed expanses of cream-clothed tables at Pinetto’s. Too late to hope Miss Atkins wouldn’t notice her being “on Indian time.”

Miss Atkins was at a table in the far corner, sitting tall as if at her Baker Street desk. A cardboard-looking piece of whatever was passing for food today lay untouched on the plate before her. An overflowing ashtray and a mimeographed copy of
Tidbits
, the internal dispatch of the
SOE
, sat beside the silver cutlery.

Noor slipped into the vacant seat, smoothing her skirt over her knees. In England, being late was construed as disrespectful, much more than in France.

“Sorry, marm.” She launched into explanation: the tube had come to a halt at an air-raid warning.

“You’re here now.”

Miss Atkins let a man limping on his cane pass out of earshot. A waiter hovered. Miss Atkins ordered for Noor.

“Well, Nora, still sure you’re up to it?”

“Indeed, marm.”

“I should tell you we have received some rather alarming reports.”

“Alarming, marm?”

“In fact, two reports from your accompanying officers. Seems they don’t believe you’re quite the right material.”

A flush warmed Noor’s face. Being “the right material” could mean anything from the schools she’d attended to the shoes she wore. Miss Atkins seemed to be searching for flaws.

“May I ask why, marm?”

“Nothing specific, just that they feel you don’t react quite as expected.”

Days she’d spent on the range flashed to mind, hours before the looking glass—turn, draw, shoot. “I have very swift reactions.”

But Miss Atkins didn’t mean physical reactions. Couldn’t any woman, Indian or French, experience the need to act, act against tyranny and injustice against all people, not just Europeans, not only Gentiles? Was she to sing “Rule Britannia” and wave the Union Jack? Rave that she had experienced a call of duty to the
SOE
or England? Even without a siren call, it didn’t mean she wasn’t the right material.

“Perhaps the problem is their expectations,” she said.

A quizzical look came over Miss Atkins’s face. She leaned forward. “Perhaps. They do say you were most keen to take a French assignment, which makes them wonder—why? Why not Holland or Belgium, where no one would recognize you?”

“I speak no Dutch or Flemish. I’ve always wanted to learn Dutch, but somehow—”

“There is also the little matter of your War Office interview.”

Noor kept her face neutral.

Seven months ago, after the first interview at Baker Street, came a second before a board of bulbous-nosed, bewhiskered gentlemen—a retired Indian inspector general, a district collector and two deputy commissioners. What did she think about Indian independence? asked one. A vague question to which she answered that it was unconscionable that Mr. Gandhi, Mr. Nehru and thousands of others were wasting away in gaol, held without trial for months now. The eldest gentleman asked if she believed Indians should
be armed. Yes, said Noor, for their own defence against the Germans and Japanese. If allowed arms, she said, India wouldn’t have to pay the British government tons of rice and millions in sterling for its protection. India had numerous brave men and women who could defend its borders.

“They didn’t like what I said.”

“You must have sounded like a red-hot radical,” said Miss Atkins. “As if you agree with those who say East Indians could govern themselves.”