Violins of Autumn (13 page)

“I am, sir. But I no longer have a bicycle. I gave it to the Germans.”

“That’s a lavish gift. Before the war I could have bought
myself a car for less than the cost of a bicycle now. For what reason did you give yours up, girl?”

“Well, I wanted to live, sir.”

“That’s reason enough, I suppose. We’ll give you another. Please try to hold on to this one for more than a week’s time.”

“I will.”

“I move quite frequently,” he says. “However, I will give you the addresses of an apartment where I can occasionally be located for orders and a letter-box where you can drop messages if you need to get in touch with me.”

I nod, already apprehensive about dropping off covert messages with the contact Cammerts has assigned to be his “letter-box.” I’d rather keep the list of people who know my real reasons for being here as short as possible. Everyone I make myself known to is one more person who can potentially lead to my arrest down the road.

“After memorizing these addresses, please do away with the papers as you would any other message,” Cammerts says. “Burn them.”

“Rendezvous”—such a fabulously foreign and mysterious word—that is, until I meet Cammerts again a day later to receive the details for my first rendezvous. Then, it becomes much more than just a word.

My orders are to contact a woman code-named Anna. Blank identity cards, forged ration cards, and a large sum of money intended for the Resistance are sewn into the lining of the jacket I’m to deliver. I don’t know what Anna looks like, apart from Cammerts’s description of older and a little homely.

I leave the Metro in an area of Paris that was a quaint village
once before the city swallowed it up. The directions to the park, our prearranged meeting place, run through my head like a catchy tune so I won’t forget them.

Everywhere I look there are soldiers; a few loiter on the corner, a trio walks toward me, more sit at a bistro. I picture how I must look from their perspective, face tensed, eyes darting about, a lumpy jacket clutched to my chest. Concentrating on each and every step only makes my movements awkward, as if I’ve forgotten how to walk properly.

I try to ease my shoulders lower, casually slinging the jacket over my arm. Palms sweating profusely, I hold my head high.

With a smile, the first soldier in the approaching trio says, “Good day.”

As if it has a mind of its own, my throat snaps shut. An unintelligible mumble replaces my greeting. My God, what’s wrong with me? I simply have to act naturally, the way I do every day of my life, and now when it matters I can’t even do that.

The park comes into view. I’d love to run the rest of the way, but that will draw attention to me. I have to look calm and collected while feeling like a top spinning out of control.

My orders are straightforward. Anna will be waiting on a bench near the fountain, reading a book called
Le Petit Prince
. I will hand over the jacket and leave.

When I finally reach the park’s wrought-iron entranceway, relief and panic collide. In imagining how the rendezvous would play out, I created an idyllic setting—an overcast and secluded park, one bench, no bystanders, and a woman who would initiate contact with me first. If only.

The majority of the people in the park are older women. Of the women seated on benches near the fountain, only one removes
herself from the running straight away by knitting. The other three hold books. Potential Annas abound!

I have limited time to choose the correct woman before the rendezvous blows up in my face like a ticking bomb. A commotion of thoughts roars through my head, refusing to line up in a logical sequence. Hot sweat trickles down my neck. I’m exposed. Thrust onto a stage. The sun bursts out from behind the cloud cover, beaming like a spotlight.

This rendezvous is serious business. Anna awaits an agent with maturity and experience. The kind of agent who wouldn’t have second thoughts. Is she watching me, dismayed to realize the immobile girl gripping a jacket isn’t at the park to gossip with friends or pour her heart out to a diary—she is, in fact, the contact? I feel as though I owe her an apology.

I edge closer to the fountain. I have to be sure of her location. One chance is all I’ve got. I can’t swap benches and seatmates until I get it right. It’s practically impossible to study a person at close range and be inconspicuous about it. My head pounds from the stress of it all.

A woman to my right raises her book higher as she reads, exposing the cover. We make eye contact over the binding.

Taking in the sights, as if I’m out for a leisurely day at the park, I stroll to the bench. My roaming gaze locks on the book for a split second. There are the words I’m looking for,
Le Petit Prince
.

This will soon be over.

Anna makes room for me. I sit with the jacket between us, overlapping Anna’s own belongings, an umbrella and a handbag. With that out of the way, I want to immediately free myself from the jacket, Anna, and the park. Not to mention the women on the other side of the fountain whose obliviousness to my presence is
either genuine or a ruse. Good German spies would behave the same way.

I count the passing seconds of one minute to give my cover some validity. Turning slightly away from Anna, I watch the street beyond the fence, acting as though I’ve come to the park to meet someone who hasn’t yet arrived. One minute becomes two. Why isn’t Anna slipping away with the jacket? Something is wrong.

Then, like a cuff across the head, the answer hits me. I didn’t give her the code word. Not only that, I can’t for the life of me
remember
the code word.

Anna closes the book, gathers up her handbag and umbrella, and then she’s gone.

The rendezvous has been called off. Anna couldn’t take any chances. Without the password, I came across as a phony agent sent by the Germans to catch her.

I fold the jacket across my lap. Boy, I’ve made some bone-headed mistakes, but this outdoes them all. My first rendezvous could have gone worse only if I were captured.

I scour my memory for the code word, which is about as helpful as flipping open a dictionary and hoping for the best.
Gamble, gravel, gabble, rabble, amandine …

In no time flat, Anna crosses to the far side of the park, using her umbrella for a walking stick.

I squeeze the wool jacket, woozy with panic. How frustrating to sense the word on the tip of my tongue. Word upon word leads me to
Aberdeen
, and that finally does the trick. Jogged from memory, the code word blares through my mind like a victorious bugle call.
Gabardine!
It wasn’t at the tip of my tongue after all, but at the tips of my fingers.

I return to the entranceway, humiliated by my terrible first impression. I messed up, but I’m not incompetent. I tried my best to be professional. I can’t let her get away, doubting me. What if she thinks my age prevents me from doing this job well?

I walk a parallel course to Anna, keeping her umbrella in my sights. Somehow, we must meet in a new location far away enough to elude witnesses of our original contact.

Evenly spaced shade trees border the park. I stay behind them to break up my movements and become less noticeable. Better yet, the trees along the back of the park aren’t well tended at all. I’ll run to the other side, relatively out of sight, and cut Anna off before she leaves. When I reach the corner post, I set off through thick weeds and vines, shoving branches out of my face. The anxiety of not knowing Anna’s whereabouts pushes me to run faster. After several minutes, I slide through a slick patch of grass and tumble into open air in a secluded clearing by a stone archway.

Too preoccupied with catching my breath to explain, I thrust the jacket out when Anna comes into view. I expect her to bolt, but she walks straight over.

“Madame, you forgot your
gabardine
jacket at the park.”

“I can see that.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “And you followed me from there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s a surprise.” She takes the jacket from my hand. “Thank you for returning this. It would have been a shame to leave without it. However … I don’t expect something like that could happen again. Do you?”

“No,” I assure her, as she exits through the archway. “It definitely will not.”

I may have mucked up my first rendezvous with Anna, but in the five days since, our meetings have gone by the book. I’m finally getting some real work accomplished.

What a different week it’s been, compared to my first days in Paris. I’m surprised by how comfortable I am in the city now. I have a nice place to stay and friends to spend time with. It’s made all the difference. I don’t feel like such an outsider. I have a daily routine that I’m quickly growing to love.

But it’s the routine of someone living a double life.

Inside Estelle’s apartment, I’m a regular girl. In the morning, I eat my bread, vitamin biscuit, and coffee with Marie. We wash up and tend to the radishes and lettuce growing in her window boxes. We read books and magazines. We knit. We talk about movies. We laugh. A lot.

When I leave the apartment, I am Adele the spy. I meet with Anna to exchange passwords. We hand over encoded messages,
or radio parts hidden beneath the false bottom of shopping bags, or huge sums of francs stuffed into jacket linings. I receive orders from Cammerts and deliver messages to his “letter-box,” an older gentleman who runs a garage on the outskirts of the city. I courier messages bound for London to Denise, so she can transmit them to headquarters. I hatch a plan to spy on and sabotage the factory. I take food, toiletries, fresh clothes, and playing cards to the pilot I’ve promised to protect.

This afternoon, Anna and I have a prearranged meeting in a park to swap encoded messages. We’re two contacts in a long chain of couriers. We don’t know the entire route the messages travel or what information is contained in them. It’s safer that way for both of us. All we have to do is hand them over and leave.

At the park, Anna is nowhere to be seen, which is unusual. I normally spot her on the fringes of our meeting places, chatting with women in the market stalls or pretending to window shop. I sit on the park bench to wait.

When three minutes pass and Anna still hasn’t arrived, I try not to panic. Two Gestapo officers stroll past my bench and stop within three yards of me. My fingers grip dry wood. A splinter eases into the flesh of my palm. With my feet set in an imaginary starter’s block, I wait for something to happen. The soldiers light cigarettes and continue on their way, paying me no attention.

I promise Anna one more minute. When every minute counts, sixty seconds seems like plenty of time for the Germans or French police to question what I’m up to.

In the heat, the stiff fabric of my pale-gray dress sticks to me like glue. I scratch an itch on my neck and glance at my watch as I lower my arm. By now it must be glaringly obvious that I’m waiting for someone. I have no choice but to call off the rendezvous.

Before I can move, a figure steps into my peripheral vision. Dark trousers, black overcoat, the brim of a hat pulled low over his eyes. Clearing his throat, he sits next to me. I put space between us on the bench. He ventures into it.

My heart thumps wildly. This is it. I’m about to get nabbed. I have to leave in a way that doesn’t arouse suspicion. I can’t appear to be fleeing the scene, when that’s exactly what I have to do.

Somewhere between a walk and a sprint, I blaze a path toward the safety of the Metro. If the man in the trench coat follows, I’ll jump on a train and quickly leave it before it pulls away.

And follow he does. Heavy breathing and disorderly footsteps hunt me.

“
Mademoiselle, attends!
”

Wait for him? So he can escort me to 84 Avenue Foch, Gestapo headquarters, at gunpoint? I will do no such thing.

I speed up when the first Metro sign comes into view, putting greater distance between us. Soon, I no longer hear his footsteps and wheezing breaths. I skip down the stairs, bobbing and weaving, and board the train without incident.

Then suddenly, he appears at the bottom of the stairs. I lean across an unoccupied seat to get a better look at him. Seeming to be midway through an asthmatic attack of some sort, he clutches at his chest. His red cheeks puff out.

I almost feel sorry for him, gasping away as he is, like a fish out of water. Nothing about him sets off my intuitive alarm. And the Gestapo and French police usually travel in pairs or groups. The man following me is alone.

He recovers quickly and runs straight for the train. Not anticipating this, as I should have been, my next move is delayed. I
leap to the platform. My timing’s bad. I leave the train while he stands within a crowd of last-minute passengers. Spotting me immediately, he comes at me from behind when I turn to run. He seizes me by the arm.

Even unarmed, I can get myself out of this. Fingers gouged in his eyes or a swift chop to his windpipe, and he’ll drop from the pain. Certain blows or kicks to vulnerable spots have the power to kill. My instructor’s words during training were, “This is
war
, not sport. Your aim is to kill as quickly as possible.” I will be finished with this man before preoccupied crowds have time to form an accurate picture of me in their minds. It’s him or me. If I don’t react, it will be me losing this fight. So why am I getting cold feet? I practiced this same scenario over and over until it felt routine. But this is no training session and the man gripping my arm is no straw-stuffed training dummy. He’s a real, living, breathing person. How can I be responsible for taking away his last breath?

His fingers relax and fall away. “Excuse me, miss. I apologize if I hurt you.”

Sweat trickles from his forehead, down the bridge of his mountainous nose to the tip, where it pools before plummeting off the peak.

“You were at the fountain the other day—” He reaches inside his overcoat. I take a step backward; the first of the all-important fifteen-stride lead needed to effectively escape an enemy. “I saw you drop this.”