Voices on the Wind (27 page)

Eilenburg knew the meaning of that message of defiance. He pushed back his chair. ‘I will have your wound properly dressed,' he said. ‘And then I shall put you in the hands of a fellow Frenchman, André Melier of the Milice. I think you know what to expect from him.' He got up and said, ‘Take him upstairs and let the doctor look at him. Give him some coffee and a cigarette. Time enough to think, and if he still won't answer, bring him back down here. I'm going home; you can get me there.'

Jean Dulac's mind was perfectly clear. His arm was properly bound up and in a sling. The pain was a separate entity with a fearful intensity of its own. He drew on the cigarette they had given him; it was possible to feel pleasure in such a small thing at such a time. Jean Dulac. He spoke his own name in the secrecy of his thoughts. Jean François Marie Dulac, aged thirty-six and four months, unmarried. Able to smoke a cigarette and enjoy it. He was sitting down, watched by the two impassive SS guards who had stood silently while their SS doctor patched him up for the Frenchman Melier to tear to pieces. Yes, he said in his inner conversation, I know who he is, and what will happen in the hours ahead. And I know what I carry inside me; the one secret that he must never know. Not my name. Not the name of my dead comrades, or even the safe houses, because I could tell him those. The dead are out of reach and the safe houses will be empty by now. No, my beloved Cecilie, they won't find out through me where you are hiding. He said, ‘I feel dizzy. Can I have some air?' He let them support him the few steps to the window. When they opened it, he breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. He said, ‘That's better,' and stepped back. For a split second he sent his mind in search of God, and on that prayer he flung himself forward and through the window. He fell from three floors on to the paved patio where the old owners used to sip their cocktails before dinner, and died instantly.

People whispered about what had happened. A terrible business, they said, watching their companions' reaction. Dozens killed and others captured and sent to the Villa Trianon for questioning … some wounded, too. There were casualties among the staff on night-duty at the power station … some of the wounded were in the hospital here in Nice. Julie listened; bought the newspapers, read the headlines condemning the outrage, realized that no editor dare call it anything else, noted the casualties in hospital, some hadn't been identified. And the murmur that was spreading through the shops and cafés, fuelled by the official radio and press, that there was no Allied Invasion, and the whole thing had been a rumour started by the Resistance to bring the people out into civil conflict with the police and the German authorities.… She spent a long time sitting with a cup of coffee, and longer still going from one kiosk to another, trying the two telephone numbers she knew of her old safe house and one of her contacts in Cannes. Neither answered. They'd packed up and fled, she thought. Nobody can tell me whether Fred is alive and in that hell hole of a villa – Oh God, don't let me think of that – or one of the men in hospital that they haven't identified, or among the dead … most were killed, the papers said, calling them terrorists and Communists. The time passed. She sat on in another café, lighting cigarettes with a hand that wouldn't stop shaking, and thinking over and over again that Fred might well be in Nice hospital, and couldn't say a word to help himself.

The day became evening. Kate sat under the tree in the villa garden and pulled up blades of grass, one by one, and split them and threw them away. She didn't eat; she felt suspended in time, breathing and aware, but without hope. Here they had talked of marriage; she could remember that and think about it. He seemed very close at times, as if she might turn and see him sitting there beside her. ‘We'd be so happy here, my darling.… You will marry me, won't you?' And her own answer, ‘yes', knowing it would never happen because the course was set for tragedy and nemesis was called after a clown. Birds sang in the garden and a large bright butterfly settled close at hand on a flowering bush and opened and closed its wings in ecstasy. It was sundown when she went back inside. The house echoed, smelt empty and disused again. And she walked upstairs to the room they had shared and lay on the bed where they had slept in each other's arms after their supremely happy lovemaking. She realized by the time it was past curfew that something must have happened to Julie.

There was nothing she could do but wait. Wait for someone to come who was a friend, if there were any left. Or take her transmitter and go to the factory and send them one last message.

There was no one in the street; she walked slowly, carrying the suitcase, pushed the broken door and slipped inside. Up the stairs, finding the case so much heavier than usual, into the room where they had embraced and cried out in joy because they believed they would soon be free. The marks of their feet were still in the dust. Kate sat down, opened the case, set up the radio and began to transmit.

Eilenburg was having lunch when he was given the message that his prime prisoner had committed suicide by throwing himself out of the window. He didn't speak for so long his frightened assistant thought he had hung up. He gave a brief order and then replaced the receiver on its hook. The guards who had permitted him to escape interrogation were to be held in close arrest before a court martial for negligence. He went back and finished lunch with Antoinette. It was a glorious day and the garden was shady and delightful. She loved the flowers and spent hours arranging them in the house. He said, ‘I can spend the rest of the day with you, darling. What would you like to do?'

They returned later from a two-hour drive round the coast, stopping at the Hôtel du Cap where German officers rested after combat, where they drank English tea, and he allowed her to amuse and enchant him so that he forgot what had happened that morning at the Villa Trianon. Thrown himself out of the window. How disappointed that little pig Melier would be – he held Antoinette's hand and thought how happy she made him. The message was there when they came home. A woman had been arrested at Nice hospital, where she'd been caught enquiring after the casualties brought in from the power station. She was waiting at Gestapo Headquarters.

Richard Wroxham was working late that evening when his friend Colonel Reed was shown into the office. ‘I've brought this,' Reed said. ‘You can doctor it up for your General.' He sat down and sighed. ‘Before you read it,' he said, ‘it's as well to remember what was at stake. Sometime in the next three weeks we launch Overlord. After all the years of planning and the bloody mess-ups like Dieppe, it'll be the real thing. Have you been down to the South Coast?'

‘Yes,' Wroxham answered. ‘I went last Thursday. It's building up every day. What's happened, Jim?'

‘Read it for yourself.'

The radio operator known as Cecilie had told of disaster with economy of words. The Maquis and the Dulac network had responded to London's last message. They had been wiped out as a result.

Wroxham said, ‘What message did you send?'

Reed stood up. ‘The candle of the wicked shall be put out,' he said. ‘It was the only way to stop that hothead from attacking the troops going to Antibes. You know what it would have meant if he'd captured or killed your German General and his friends. Hundreds of thousands of men will be fighting in a short time. If we've reduced those casualties, then it's justified. It's no good thinking about it, Richard, the man got out of control. I had to take drastic action. Can you come out tonight? I think I'd like someone to get drunk with.'

‘Sorry,' Wroxham answered after a moment. ‘I'm going out to dinner. I wish I could get drunk with you. Thanks for coming over yourself, Jim.' He came to the door and laid a hand on the Colonel's shoulder. ‘You were right to do it,' he said. ‘We both know that. Good night.' Wroxham went back to his desk and sat down. He read the brief, sickening message once more, and then folded it and put it in a drawer. He phoned his wife and told her to go on to their friends and he'd join her later.

Then Wroxham drafted a report for his General, assuring him that SOE had put its house in order and prevented a serious setback to Allied plans by a piece of adroit deception. He didn't say against whom. The General wouldn't ask. He wasn't concerned with details, only the success of the tremendous strike against German-occupied France. Wroxham sat on alone and did the one thing he had always advised others not to do, when engaged in similar work. He thought about the men and women in the field. He phoned his wife again and made an excuse not to join the party at all that evening. He cleared his desk, locked up and left the massive bomb-proof building, coming up into the clear air of Whitehall. He set out to walk towards his London house in Kensington. It would take time, and he wasn't in a hurry to get back there and be alone. He was at the Knightsbridge end of Piccadilly when the girl stepped out of a doorway and accosted him.

He was so startled he stopped, and she stood cheekily in front of him, smiling and asking if he'd like to go home with her. Home. No thank you. He was very polite. She looked disappointed, and shrugged. She'd make it nice for him, she said hopefully. Ten quid, and anything he liked. Wroxham said suddenly, ‘No thank you, but I'd be glad if we could go and have a drink and a chat somewhere.' That would earn her the ten quid. She knew just the place. They went off in a taxi that was lurking nearby. She wasn't surprised. A lot of men settled for that and paid for it too. They stopped in Wardour Street, and the girl led the way into a club that was so dark and smoky Wroxham could hardly see where he was going. A three-piece band played dance music at the far end and a few couples circled round a tiny square of dance floor, clutching tightly at each other. The girl was well known. She was given a corner table, and a surly waiter asked what they would like to drink.

Wroxham said to her, ‘You order what you like.' She had a pretty face, coated with unnecessary make-up. There was a small lamp on the table with a red shade which gave a flattering light.

‘Champagne?' she asked.

Wroxham said, ‘Champagne, and make sure it is.' The waiter moved away.

She giggled. ‘He didn't like that,' she said. ‘If a client's drunk they bring any old cat's pee and charge double. Got a cigarette?' Wroxham gave her one. She watched him in silence for a moment, puffing greedily. ‘You look as if you've had a bad day,' she said suddenly. ‘Cheer up – here comes the shampoo!'

She was very young, he thought, seeing the childish mouth widen in a delighted grin when the cork popped. Eighteen at most. Younger than the girl who had sent the tragic message from France, but not much younger.…

‘What's your name, darling? I won't tell.'

‘My name is Richard,' he answered.

‘What's yours?'

‘May. Like it?'

‘It's very pretty. Like you.'

She laughed and sipped the champagne. It was very poor quality. ‘That's better,' she said. ‘Now, tell me about the bad day.' She settled back with professional interest.

He said quietly, ‘If I could tell you about it I wouldn't be here. So let's say it was bad, shall we?'

‘Okay,' she agreed. Then with a slight tilt of the head which made him immediately think of a curious sparrow, she said, ‘Somebody got killed? I met a man once who'd lost his wife and two kids in an air raid.… Sat with me all night getting drunk as a skunk, and crying.… Not that bad for you, eh?'

‘No,' he said. ‘Not a wife and children; not even people I knew. Knew personally I mean. But very dead all the same. Give me that bottle, will you?'

The girl poured for him. She bit her lip, and then said brightly, ‘Look, worrying won't do any good. If you didn't know them it can't be so bad. People get killed in wars.'

‘They do indeed. And a lot more will be killed before it's over. And because of these people who've died, a lot of others could be saved.'

‘Then that's how you've got to look at it,' she said firmly. ‘Think of the ones who'll be okay. Come and have a dance?'

‘No thanks,' he said. ‘You're a nice girl; where do you come from?'

‘Leicester,' she answered. ‘Bloody awful place to be; I left home and came up here to have a bit of fun.'

She had small hands, rather red and with bitten nails. They were twisting in and out when she talked about her home town. On an impulse he reached out and took hold of one. I can't do anything for Cecilie, facing the end in France, but at least I can be kind to you, you funny little thing … poor little devil.
Fun
. ‘May,' he said gently, ‘let's order another bottle of that stuff, shall we? And then we'll talk about something cheerful.…'

He got mildly drunk that night; she persuaded him to dance, and was surprised to find she liked him holding her. He didn't paw or nuzzle. He held her hand on the way to their table and said ‘thank you', which was so quaint she laughed. They came out into the street and the inevitable taxi slid up to the kerb. There was a regular trade outside the club and few people bothered to look at the meter. She lived in the Edgware Road; Wroxham got out and came to the door with her. It was a dingy building, composed of little flatlets. He opened his wallet and counted out ten pounds. The girl hesitated.

‘You can come in if you like,' she said. ‘I'd like it if you did, and that's straight.'

‘Not tonight, May,' he said. She looked disappointed, and suddenly he said, ‘When can I see you again?'

Within a month he had installed her in a flat of her own; it was a relationship that lasted for nearly twenty years, and he was with her when she died tragically young of cancer. She never knew, and he had forgotten, that it all began because she had helped him get through the worst night of his life.

Kate decided to leave the radio in the factory, hidden under a heap of mouse-infested sacking. She was safer without it; she could come back next day and radio in for instructions. Maybe she was frightening herself for nothing. Julie could have stayed overnight in one of the safe houses, caught by the curfew. She could come back in the morning. Maybe Jean was alive and in hiding.… Maybe. She didn't believe it for a moment. Instinctively she knew she was truly alone.