Young, Brave and Beautiful Page 7

  5

  Train to the Unknown

  10 April 1944, Easter Monday

  After the midnight high mass at the Sacré Cœur and meeting with André Malraux, a good sleep till mid-morning was in order. Then it was time to prepare for her journey the next morning and gather together the few things – some useful and some rather nice that Violette had bought in Paris to further establish her cover stories. Monday morning was windy, and somewhat chilly. Violette decided to take the train to Rouen from Gare Saint-Lazare, walking there so she could steep herself just one more time in the atmosphere of wartime Paris.

  Silk scarf tied tightly over her ears and knotted under her chin to keep the chill at bay, Violette slipped on a light brown coat over her French long-jacketed navy-blue suit, slung her bag over her shoulder, and picked up a canvas bag – a gift from Tante Evelyn – in her left hand and her battered suitcase in her right. She looked like a thousand other young French women returning home at the end of the Easter holidays.

  She had decided that she would walk along the quais of the Left Bank, ignoring the many uniformed and civilian Germans who were swarming through the streets of the Rive Gauche. Alone now, she felt distinctly uncomfortable. She saw only enemy faces and suddenly realised just what a dangerous position she was in. In the relative safety of the farm, then with Philippe and finally with Tante Evelyn to cushion her first days in France, imminent danger did not seem to raise its ugly head. Even the incidents in the train journey from Valençay to Paris had caused her to laugh rather than to fear.

  Now the enormity of what she was embarking upon struck Violette like a sledgehammer. What had possessed her? What on earth did she think she could possibly do that would be of any consequence? And what if she caused danger and death to others through her mismanagement of awkward situations that would surely arise? Fear of failure now gripped her whole being and she felt truly faint. But she walked gamely on, shooing away such thoughts and gathering her courage with each step; she smiled sweetly at the passers-by while checking each scene for signs of danger. There seemed to be none.

  Arriving early at the station, as she had intended, she went to buy her first-class ticket to Rouen. She whiled away the time in the station café, contemplating the scurrying masses before her, ordering an ersatz coffee and croissant at an exorbitant price with her forged ration card. It was a pause to gather her wits and stifle the fear in the base of her stomach. Doing these ordinary things here, where danger seemed a little more distant, was practice that might make it very slightly easier in the zone interdite.

  ‡

  While drinking her coffee, she went over her plans. Once in Rouen, her main task would be to discover what had happened to the Salesman network so assiduously set up and run by Philippe from April until November 1943, when he was recalled to London, leaving the network in the hands of his Rouen lieutenant, Claude Malraux. She wanted to discover as much as possible about Claude, not only for her London masters, but now also for André Malraux, his half-brother.

  Violette also had other work to do. One task was to persuade the remaining resistance in and around Rouen and Le Havre to sabotage the Barentin viaduct. There were other tasks too: to find out about preparations in Normandy for launching what we now know were the V1 and V2 flying bombs aimed directly at the heart of London. Before leaving his aunt’s apartment on Good Friday, Philippe had once again gone over everything with her.

  ‘You know, Corinne,’ he had said, using her cover name, ‘that I brought back extremely disturbing information about runways being constructed all along the Channel coast in northern France, opposite the English coast. And also about the new weapon the Germans are constructing – some kind of rocket, and possibly a second, more powerful one.

  ‘The launch bases are concrete. To mix the concrete, lorry loads of sand and cement are required. Luckily for us, there are many, some from my own Salesman circuit, who are only too happy to sabotage them. Simple but effective sabotage, very hard to trace. For example, when he can safely do so, the man bringing the sand sabotages the runway by mixing iron filings with it. Often, too, prisoners making the base throw shovelfuls of iron objects into the cement.

  ‘It seems the rocket or torpedo, or whatever the damned thing is, is equipped with a compass so the Germans can aim it towards its target, but as the compasses are sensitive to metal, particularly iron, the rockets are easily sabotaged by disorientating them magnetically so they go off course and explode well off target.’

  ‘Two sources, unknown to one another, both talked about catapulting. My source on the runway talked about it being of the right dimensions to take a contraption to catapult some machine into the air. And then another of my sources, who had worked on the launch system, mentioned a torpedo with wings that could be catapulted – their words – from runways and sent over England to wreak havoc on civilian populations. Now then, Corinne, and this is important: most of the information came from the Préfecture de la Seine Inférieure, from which I’ve only ever had absolutely reliable information. The French workers were all dismissed once the runway was completed and have not been allowed near it since December. This line of runways, each about ten kilometres apart, is pretty well parallel to the coastline, extending at the very least from just north of Rouen south-west to Cherbourg, including Auffay and Tôtes.’

  ‘I remember now, Charles. You told me that three of the French workers described exactly the same construction: a concrete runway about ten metres long, exiting from the ground with a 7 per cent slope upwards. But we don’t really know what the walls or sides of the runway were like. Concrete, I expect.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t forget that, at the rear, descending deep into the ground, was a ten-metre square chamber. There seems to be some sort of cavity to hold something on three of the sides – the fourth being the opening leading to the start of the runway – entirely lined with concrete. All a bit vague, I’m afraid, although I visited the Tôtes one at the beginning of November and estimated the runway to be about three to four metres wide, emerging from the ground into an open field. This is on the Normandy plain. A flat plain with a few wooded clusters – not uncommon in the area, but I guess the copses could conceal runways as they’re being built. Easy to dig, as it’s fairly dry chalk terrain. The riverbeds are about thirty metres lower than the plain. There’re no odd buildings or abnormal activities in the vicinity. What I found strange was that there was no steel construction on top of the concrete and nothing suggestive of anything like an underground airfield. So, if you can shed any light on these and their exact positions or persuade any Rouen or Le Havre network groups to do a little sabotage on them, you’d really be doing something.

  ‘I first heard talk of fusées – rockets – not torpilles or torpedoes. You can see the danger to the southern and eastern coasts of England and London itself. Perhaps, if you can dig up sufficient information, it’ll be enough to go in and bomb the bunkers to smithereens.’

  ‘Well, you know I’ll do my damndest. Didn’t you say that, although you couldn’t take any precise compass bearings because there were Germans around, you thought the runway was facing north – which it must be anyway, logically, to attack England?’

  ‘Right! But last August I didn’t see any runway being constructed in Auffay. Still, the Germans work damn fast when they need to. I also don’t know whether any rocket parts have arrived in northern France, but if they have they’re probably about ten metres long and one and a half wide. It seems the rocket is in three sections. The first is the projectile, weighing around ten tons. The two motor parts are, I’ve been informed, being built in France by French workers while the runways have been constructed by forced labour.

  ‘In early 1943, the Nazi Todt Organisation32 looked for somewhere with a good electricity supply for oxygen compressors, and these two areas certainly had that. It seems the motor parts are in cast iron and the rear part falls to earth roughly fifty kilometres after the rocket’s been fired. Certainly, the actual contents
of the projectile are made only in Germany. It also seems that it’s directed by some sort of magnetic or radio device with about a twenty-kilometre margin of error – so, if it’s aimed at London it could fall somewhere even ten kilometres from the outer edges of London.

  ‘So you see, Corinne, again, it is imperative that you try and shed any light on these and their exact positions, or persuade Rouen or Le Havre groups to sabotage them in some way.’

  ‘For sure, Charles!’ Violette’s eyes hardened into angry pinpricks as her face took on a stubbornness that family and friends had always had the good sense to steer clear of, as she thought of the danger to them – never mind the devastation that would be wrought on the population and infrastructure of London. After all, London and England were as much her home as any town in France. She would not have it! Such damage wrought on her beloved England from sites in her beloved France.

  ‘I’ll damn well start something in Rouen if it kills me. There must still be Résistants as angry as me; in Le Havre, too. If I’m still free, and have the time, I’ll find out what Tante Marguerite, the Chorlets and her friend, maybe husband by now, Victor Hoëz, are up to. I’m pretty sure they’ve continued to be involved in some kind of resistance – probably across the Belgian border.’

  Carefully Philippe and Violette went over all the contact details three more times to ensure Violette knew perfectly everything possible about the people, streets, environment and problems she would come across – and how very wary she must be walking into a nest of intrigue and informants.

  Again Philippe reminded her, ‘When I went there for the first time to start the Résistance group, I was sure of one contact. I had Claude Malraux – known either as Serge or Cicero. But you’ll have no contacts at all and not even a wireless transmitter to keep you in touch with London. I’ve prepared this list of people who used to be in the group – but we have no idea if they are still there or, if they are there, still with us. You’ll have to memorise all this and destroy it. You can’t take it with you. All that you can be sure of is that you’re going into great danger. You’ll hardly be able to move without being watched and followed. It’s a pity you have to go alone. But if I came along, it would only increase the danger.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’ve memorised it all a dozen times with nothing on paper. I’m not daft and I did learn a little at “finishing school”, you know!’ retorted Violette somewhat heatedly.

  How brûlé was the Salesman network? Who remained, and amongst those, who could be trusted and then relied upon to push forward any possible action before and in concert with the Allied offensive? Finding out was Violette’s main task.

  ‡

  Violette was both delighted and terrified to be here, waiting for her train to Rouen. Young, brave and beautiful, still only twenty-two, on her own, with an important job to do in France. She enjoyed the bad coffee and minuscule croissant, knowing she looked the picture of youthful, innocent womanhood, pretty and neatly dressed, legs crossed demurely with her leather suitcase at her feet and bags on the chair beside her. Yet she felt a shard of icy fear in her abdomen, thinking what her suitcase and bag held: forged documents and coupons, counterfeit French francs and a few marks. And in her head, vital plans to impart to Résistants to assist the invasion to come.

  Smoke poured from trains along the platforms into the main area, up into the rafters. Whistles blew, doors slammed, steam hissed and people milled around. Organised pandemonium reigned. Violette moved unnoticed – except for some admiring glances – through the crowds to her platform and train.

  The distance to Rouen was some seventy-five miles but would take roughly two to three hours by what would be a lanterne33 train even if there were not too many unscheduled stops along the way. Her first-class ticket ensured her a seat but the platform was very crowded. She knew that some of the first-, second- and third-class compartments were reserved for German military personnel and Gestapo.

  As she passed one of the first-class compartments, she was stopped by a German officer who, bowing politely, uttered in very guttural, slightly imperfect French: ‘Mademoiselle, je vous prie d’y entrer. Vous trouvez aucun autre place dans ce train, je vous assure.’

  Surprised and not a little confounded, she noticed his braiding with two gold pips; she had learned in training under Paul Emile that this was the rank of Oberst, a colonel. Violette wondered if she was about to be searched or questioned. Shocked, she kept from revealing the stab of fear and politely thanked him, as she followed the colonel’s direction and took the proffered seat.

  All the other carriages were already packed. The corridors of the second- and third-class carriages were overflowing with luggage and soldiers’ war-stained green duffle bags. The stale smell of old food, old beer, sweat and cigarette smoke permeated every corridor and every carriage. German military were moving about the corridors, peering through dirty windows, smoking and shouting in German at one another or dozing wherever they could.

  Civilian passengers were mostly French labourers returning with their special passes to jobs in the forbidden zone – jobs to keep German communications in good repair and operating as smoothly as possible. The train shunted and rumbled out of Paris, slowly building up speed, its smoke trailing behind, its whistle imperious in warning of departure.

  This particular first-class carriage was full of Wehrmacht34 officers returning to Rouen and Le Havre after leave in Paris. They were in markedly jovial spirits and much enjoyed the presence of this lovely young woman. Having all jumped up to offer her their seat and vying to place her luggage in the rack above her head, they made room for her to settle in the window seat, her shoulder bag firmly tucked in beside her. If it, or her luggage now out of reach, were searched, it would be very interesting.

  ‘Vous fumez, mademoiselle?’

  As beautifully hand-hammered gold, silver and fine kid leather cigarette cases were quickly offered, she picked a cigarette from an old silver case covered in embossed trailing flowers, reminiscent of one her father had, and replied: ‘Oui, merci bien, monsieur.’

  Then out came the cigarette lighters. She took a light from the nearest one, belonging to an Oberstleutnant der Abwehr, a lieutenant colonel in the Abwehr, the German military intelligence organisation.

  Violette nodded her thanks to the Oberstleutnant. She could not help smiling at the sheer absurdity of the situation and what her family and friends in London would say if they knew. But for all the amusement she experienced at the German officers dancing attendance upon her, she reined in her impulsiveness, keeping a sharp hold on her tongue. Fear simmered not far below the surface but her face transformed it to the natural reticence of a young woman among so many men. She spoke little, answering in monosyllables whenever possible to the inquisitive questions thrown at her. She adroitly turned the conversation around to themselves and their families. Out came the photos of wives and sweethearts, children, parents and a few massive dogs.

  As the suburbs and small townships gave way to open country, the train clattered ever on, mile after mile. A church with two spires caught her attention as the train sped by. The Seine appeared alongside the railway line at regular intervals with willow trees bending at the water’s edge. The river was an opaque green dappled by the shadows falling across it. The occasional house and farmstead lay along the line or further out towards the distant hills. Some distance away, dark green and brown hills kept the landscape snug within their contours while poplars stood at attention in long green lines, hinting at roadways.

  At one point, a Gestapo officer entered to check identities. On seeing two full-blown Wehrmacht colonels, he eased himself out after a cursory glance and perfunctory ‘In Ordnung.’ It jolted Violette to remember the danger inherent in finding herself casually chatting with the enemy. Her uneasiness evaporated once the officer had saluted and left the carriage. The journey was passing more quickly and pleasantly than she could have imagined. And then Colonel Niederholen, who had first approached her and seemed to tak
e a proprietarial interest in her, tried to strike up a conversation. Prickles of fear stabbed behind her eyes.

  ‘And, what is your name, mademoiselle?’

  ‘I’m Corinne Leroy.’ Worried, but smiling. A trickle of sweat rolled down her back. Fear or the heat of the carriage?

  ‘Do you live in Rouen?’

  ‘No, actually, I don’t. I live in Le Havre, but I’ve been in Paris for Easter and now I’m spending a few days in Rouen before returning home.’

  ‘I see. You must have family there, then.’

  ‘No, not really. A distant uncle is missing from his family and I was asked to see if he is in Rouen. He’d gone on business there as a supplier and there has been so much bombing by the British that we are concerned for his safety.’

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ Niederholen said, ‘Here is a card for my hotel in Rouen; I stay there for a few days. Please do not hesitate to contact me if I can be of assistance to you in this worrying matter.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ replied Violette, as coolly as she could. Her stomach had contracted with anxiety under the gentle questioning, but she kept her voice level and smiled politely.

  She hoped her mentioning the bombing by the British would be taken to show her loyalties did not lie with the Allies. As the train rumbled on towards Rouen, her nerves gradually settled down again. Desultory conversation in the carriage was muffled by the chugging locomotive. Violette joined in whenever a remark was directed at her.

  She was surprised that she was not filled with overwhelming hatred towards these enemy officers. Her cold, implacable hatred was for the horrendous Nazi regime that had so easily taken sway in Germany and Austria and overrun so many countries with great cruelty. Most of these military men were not of that ilk, of that she was sure. Yet Violette knew these were the same fighting men who had killed her husband, Étienne. Were they really the same species who flew over her London, trying to bomb it out of existence and causing so much distress, death and destruction? The same human beings who were collecting those they considered undesirables, then sending them to death camps? Well, she thought, it’s quite possible this colonel could have been in the desert in 1942, commanding his men to attack the legionnaires south of El Alamein. There were no SS or Gestapo in the carriage.