Chapter Seven

George traced a line along the cell wall with one finger, feeling the contrast between the smooth texture of the whitewashed brick and the rough groove of the mortar and wondered just how many other people had lain here on this bed doing the same thing. She had spent hours like this in the past few days trying in vain to think of anything that might distract her from the reality of her situation. The confines of these four bare walls, the nauseating aroma of cabbage and urine that permeated the prison and the constant disquieting noise made it difficult to free her mind from the fears that had accompanied her since that moment on the bridge in Varennes. Night was the worst time as sounds echoed through the hallways and the vast empty spaces of the cast iron galleries. The shouting, crying and sometimes even screaming of inmates having nightmares or simply finding the incarceration too much to bear, haunted George as she lay in the darkness. At night she put the pillow over her head and tried to shut everything out by concentrating on thoughts of life beyond these walls.

For the first time in weeks George had allowed herself to think of her family in Manchester and wonder what they might be doing at this moment. In her mind's eye she could see her father and mother sitting quietly in the back parlour, drinking tea and listening to the wireless and her two younger sisters reading magazines, laughing, joking, chatting about the handsome American film stars they had seen at the pictures or humming along to the latest dance tunes. They were simple pleasures but the thoughts of home brought tears to her eyes and she was glad that her family had no idea where she was now. In contrast, Emile knew exactly where she was and as thoughts of him floated through her mind she tried to cheer herself by recalling him throwing her one of those cheeky grins, the type that had infuriated her so much only a few days ago but unlike then she knew she would give everything now to hear him tease her or to feel his arms around her. At this moment the thought of not seeing him again was harder to bear than she could ever have imagined and despite her attempts to keep her spirits up she had shed a tear or two in the darkness at the thought that it might not come to pass.

Lying with her back to the room and staring at the wall of her cell was also a convenient way of avoiding conversation with her cell mate, a hard-faced, bleached blonde of indeterminate age called Edith who had been arrested for trading in black market goods and seemed entirely unrepentant. George had no sympathy with her plight and it must have shown in her face as when Edith enquired about George's reason for being here and was told it was due to an irregularity with her identity papers, Edith had scoffed, "Pull the other one, love. If you've got false papers you must have been up to something dodgy."

George was wary, having been warned about stooges and plants at the 'Finishing School'. She had no idea if her cell mate was a genuine inmate or not but she wasn't taking any chances.

"They're not false papers and I haven't been doing anything wrong."

Compared to this woman she believed she was right and made sure she sounded indignant at the suggestion. It was a tone of voice she had almost perfected during the past four days.

From the moment the gendarme at the bridge checkpoint had held on to her papers a little too long she had begun to fear that something was wrong especially when he asked her where she had obtained the permit.

"From the issuing office at Sainte Martin," she had said affecting a look of innocence mixed with confusion at the question.

"You're sure of that?" the gendarme had asked.

"Yes," George had replied with a shrug, "Where else would I get it?"

He had stared back at her for a few seconds as if weighing something up before continuing, "I think you may have obtained them somewhere else, Mademoiselle."

George shook her head, "No, I assure you, I haven't."

The gendarme had called over a colleague and shown him the papers, pointing to something on the page of the work permit.

"Step this way, please Mademoiselle Aubert." The first gendarme had taken hold of her upper arm and pulled her to one side so that the queue of people behind her could continue to move.

"Please," George said turning what she hoped was a pleading look upon the officer, "I must get to work. My employer gets very annoyed if I'm late and I've been told off twice this week already."

The gendarme nodded. "This would be an imaginary employer, Mademoiselle?"

George had shaken her head, "No. I don't understand. Please, tell me what the problem is."

To her dismay George noticed a German soldier from the group near the checkpoint heading towards them and was desperate to deflect his interest from whatever was wrong with her papers.

The gendarme looked her in the eye and she saw he wasn't taken in. "These papers are false, Mademoiselle, and I think it would be a good idea if we discussed this in more detail at the police station. You're under arrest."

Without any further warning, George found herself caught between two gendarmes, with each of her arms securely held by them as they marched her across the bridge towards the town. A million thoughts were going through her mind and already she was trying to form the story of Louise Aubert but all the time she was fighting the urge to struggle and pull away from these two men. Her common sense was telling her there was still a chance that this might just be a mistake and she might be able to talk her way free but it didn't look hopeful. Then she saw Emile sitting at the table outside the café exactly as they had planned. His face was impassive, betraying nothing to anyone around him but she knew his thoughts. She also knew he could do nothing to help her and she didn't blame him. She tried to look away, to give no hint that she knew anyone here. Emile was the Circuit Leader, he was important and he mattered to so many people. He mattered to her most of all. It was only when they drew immediately level that she allowed herself one brief sideways glance and his eyes met hers. She couldn't lie to him, not anymore. She was afraid but she could sense that he was afraid too and she knew that no matter what happened in the next few hours or days she wasn't alone. He cared about what was happening and she needed to trust that he would do his best whatever that might be.

When they arrived at the police station she had been handcuffed to a chair in a busy office for at least half an hour before the officer returned to interview her. She repeated her details exactly as they appeared on her identity papers. The address was false, of course. It was the biggest hole in her story and when they checked they would discover that she didn't live there. She would have to make up an excuse about moving and not having had time to notify them. It wouldn't wash but it would delay for a while. Once the basic details were completed the questions began.

"I'll ask you again, Mademoiselle Aubert, where did you obtain this work permit?"

"From the issuing office in Sainte Martin."

The officer tilted his head on one side as if trying to make her out, "Well, I put it to you that you're lying."

"No. I've told you the truth," George maintained trying to impart a hint of indignation.

"Perhaps it would interest you to know that I've recently transferred here from Sainte Martin and I'm very familiar with these permits." The officer informed her. "In fact, they were widely used and abused by a group of black marketeers in the Sainte Martin area, so much so that four months ago the permits and the stamps were changed. No one has issued any permits like this from that office since then but strangely your permit is only dated a month ago. Can you explain that?"

George now knew exactly where the blame for this error lay and why she had been caught although bad luck had played its part as well. However, she had no choice but to maintain her story. "There must have been a mistake."

The gendarme nodded in agreement, "Yes, someone has definitely made a mistake and it seems you will be paying the price, Mademoiselle."

There had been no way back from this revelation and George knew she had no hope of evading prison. Her papers were incorrect because they were out of date and it was obvious she could only have obtained them by illegal means. The officer no longer seemed interested in getting George to admit the error and focused his attention on finding out who she was working with. She realised quite soon that he was on a quest to break down another black market racket and he thought she was involved. This theory was not without problems but it was preferable to the truth and the longer spent on this line of enquiry the better but at the back of George's mind was the ever present fear that they would eventually discover that she had other reasons for carrying false papers.

When the gendarme had eventually grown tired of questioning George about her papers to no avail, she had been charged with possession of illegal documents then transferred to the prison while further investigations continued and told she could eventually expect a court hearing. On arrival at the prison her own clothes had been taken away and she had been given a standard drab, grey prison dress that hung like a shapeless sack and chafed her under the arms as well as being issued with a metal cup, plate and spoon. Now dressed and equipped like every other female inmate she had been marched along a corridor into the cathedral-like heart of the building which was three storeys high with cells to the left and right on every level accessed from iron gantries. Feeling daunted by her surroundings, she had gazed up to see skylights in the vaulted ceiling high above her, caught a glimpse of blue sky and the world beyond and taken it as a small sign of hope. Four days later with no idea of how long she would remain incarcerated here, stuck in the monotonous routine of long hours locked up and interspersed with only brief periods of food or exercise and with no idea of her eventual fate, her only consolation was that at least she was not in the hands of the Germans.

X-X-X-X

Pierre Dubois stood nervously before Emile, twisting his beret uncomfortably in his hands. He could tell by the expression on the Circuit Leader's face after he had imparted the latest news of Madeleine and the reason for her arrest that it had come as an unwelcome shock. It hadn't been easy for Pierre to come by the information as he didn't work in the main office of the prison, however, a few black market cigarettes had loosened the tongue of one of the men who worked in the Records Office, the one who Pierre had seen flouting the rules about smoking and judged to be more susceptible to persuasion than some of the older men. The casual conversation at lunch time, some shared banter about the young women prisoners seen passing through the exercise yard and he'd admitted that the best looking new arrival was a dark-haired girl called Louise Aubert who the police suspected of criminal activity within the black market as she had been arrested for carrying a false permit.

Emile swung around to face the other three men assembled in the room for the hastily convened meeting. It had been an anxious four days since that disastrous moment at the bridge when Emile had seen George arrested. He had followed at a discreet distance hoping there might be some way of wrestling her free from the clutches of the two police officers but to no avail. The streets had been busy and they were heading straight for the police station only a short distance away. He had watched them march her inside and knew then that any chance was gone. He had taken the risk of immediately calling Jacques at his bakery, conscious of the telephone lines being insecure and the ever present danger of listeners on the line and advised him that, "My sister has been taken ill." Jacques had comprehended his meaning at once and replied with concern, "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it something contagious?" Emile had weighed this up wondering just how much of a danger George's arrest posed to the rest of the circuit given that she appeared to have been taken to a police station rather than arrested by the Germans.

"It's too early to say. It may just be a localised infection. I think a doctor needs to do some tests and find out. Can you recommend anyone?"

There had been a pause on the line and then Jacques had said slowly, "Yes, I think I know of someone who could help. I'll call them for you."

Jacques, appreciating the urgency and seriousness of the situation, had been as good as his word and knowing that anyone arrested and held by the police would eventually be sent to the prison in Varennes, had contacted Pierre who was employed as a mechanic in the garage there servicing and maintaining the prison vans. Fortunately, in these difficult times he had also become a jack of all trades, turning his hand to many other repairs in the building. He wasn't ideally placed to find out the details of individual arrests but he had a relative degree of freedom to move around the prison and Jacques knew that he might be able to make discreet enquiries.

Now that Emile had heard the details of George's arrest he took in the concerned expressions of Jacques and Sebastian but his eyes rested squarely on Bernard.

"Where did you get those permits from?"

Bernard shrugged and looked away.

"Where?" Emile demanded without attempting to hide his anger.

"From a business contact who swore they were legitimate. Proper documents issued by the permit office."

Emile didn't like the sound of this. He could tell Bernard was hiding something and he suspected that he had gone beyond the tried and trusted sources they normally used and it had backfired to George's detriment. "How much did you pay?"

"Not as much as he will when I find him again," Bernard muttered and Emile rolled his eyes in annoyance, trying hard to resist the urge to grab him by the throat and make sure he knew just how stupid he had been but he settled for verbally venting his anger.

"You've put everything at risk." It was George, not everyone else he was thinking about at that moment but he couldn't let them see that.

Jacques intervened, "However stupid Bernard was to trust this contact, the fact remains that Madeleine was caught with an illegal permit. How long will it take before her story collapses under questioning?"

Emile took a deep breath and tried to detach himself from the feelings of desperation that rose each time he thought of George locked up and under interrogation. His only small comfort for now was that she was in the hands of the French police.

"Why shouldn't her story stand up?" Bernard asked. "If the police think she's involved in the black market they won't be expecting her to tell them the truth about anything so she'll be acting true to form."

"But they'll have sources in that world," Emile interrupted. "And none of them will know her. In the end her story won't add up on any level. What then?"

There was silence in the room as they each contemplated George's current situation. In the end Emile voiced his true feelings, "We've got to get her out." He turned to Pierre, "Is there a way?"

Pierre shrugged. "I'm not an expert on how the prison operates. I just don't know, not immediately."

"Well, think about it," Emile urged none too patiently causing Sebastian to speak up for the first time.

"Phillipe, surely the fact that no one knows who Madeleine is or has connected her with this circuit means it's safer for everyone if she stays where she is…for now." He looked at Emile with emphasis and Emile realised he was thinking about the imminent operation that he didn't want to mention before Pierre. "If we spring her, we're just drawing attention to who and what she is not to mention the risk of others being captured in the process. There's too much to lose."

Emile knew that Sebastian was right. He had only been here a few days but he knew his business and spoke a great deal of sense and Emile felt he was a man whose opinion he could respect. Furthermore, Sebastian wasn't suffering from a conflict of interest. Emile was torn between his love for George and the duty he owed to everyone else.

"Maybe," Emile reluctantly conceded, "but we're still gambling with Madeleine's life."

No one spoke and Emile realised that they were waiting for his decision. He could go against them and demand that they take some sort of action and he knew by now that they would do as he asked but it could prove disastrous. The thought of inaction was anathema to him but Emile reluctantly felt that he must accept the advice that had been offered even if it went against every inclination to the contrary.

"Very well. Madeleine stays where she is." He turned to face Pierre and looked him in the eye, leaving him in no doubt that what he was about to say was serious. "If anything changes, anything at all, you must let us know at once, Pierre. Understood?"

Pierre nodded. They shook hands and he left. They heard the front door of the house open and close and saw his shadow pass the window. Confident that he had now left and they could talk freely, Jacques spoke up.

"I know it's not what we want but it's the right thing to do, Emile. We need Madeleine to stay where she is until the operation is over. It's only a few more days and it's safer that way. At least she doesn't know the details. What she doesn't know, she can't tell."

Emile swallowed hard, his conscience pricked by the recollection of his conversation with George in the forest after the training exercise. He glanced around the room at the faces of his leaders. They seemed accepting of the situation and somehow confident that everything would turn out well. He knew instinctively that they weren't going to like what he had to say but he had no choice.

"Actually, there is something you need to know."

X-X-X-X

Hans Weber leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms out in front of him and interlaced his fingers hearing his knuckles crack as he sought to relieve the tension in his shoulders and neck caused by many hours hunched over his desk. He took a deep breath and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost six in the evening and he'd been up since five this morning co-ordinating a raid on the house of suspected resistance member. It had proved fruitless. The bird had flown thanks to forewarning or possibly poor intelligence in the first place. They'd had a run of bad luck recently, not least of which was the anonymous tip-off about a weapons drop to the resistance several days ago. They had been at the right place but unfortunately, not at the right time or at least not early enough to apprehend anyone despite sighting some suspects and carrying out extensive searches in the area.

When he had first arrived in this posting several weeks ago Weber had shaken a lot of things and a lot of people up. The previous post incumbent had been moved on to a less salubrious appointment thanks to his unenthusiastic attitude to his work. Weber, by contrast, had gone about his work with gusto, carrying out an immediate review of all the processes in place, identifying weaknesses, tightening up procedures and making some new appointments and the increase in activity levels had produced results. There had been more intelligence gathering and more arrests but in the last two weeks things had started to slow. They had been trying to track down a wireless operator in the area using their detector vans. The listeners were sure it was the same person. They knew the signature rhythm of his transmission and told Weber that he had a light hand but he was moving around, keeping the transmissions short and they couldn't pin him down to any area for long enough. However, Weber was sure that he would slip up eventually and they would get him. It was just a matter of perseverance like the failure to overrun the weapons drop site in time. It hadn't worked this time but the next time they might be luckier.

However, not everything was a matter of luck. Hard work had its part to play too and Weber believed in leaving no stone unturned. He cast his eye over all the reports that came into the office, kept detailed notes and files on anything he thought might be relevant and liked to review police reports and arrests in the area. His adjutant had placed a file of the latest police reports on his desk several hours ago but he had put it to one side, delayed by a series of phone calls and a particularly tedious meeting with one of his Gestapo colleagues who had no appreciation of the techniques he was employing in this role and seemed intent on riding roughshod over his plans. It irked him somewhat to work with such people and it took all his powers of diplomacy to keep his cool and stick to his chosen course of action. They were supposed to be on the same side but it didn't always feel that way.

Weber caught sight of the Police reports file to his right and reached out for it but was interrupted by the telephone ringing. He picked up the receiver.

"A call from a Mademoiselle Henry for you, Sir."

Weber couldn't help but suppress a smile. He had been right about the attractive blond woman from the bar last night. From the moment he had offered to light her cigarette and buy her a drink he had sensed that she was not really playing at hard to get and did not object to his company. He had behaved like the gentleman that he considered himself to be and it appeared to have worked.

"Mademoiselle Henry, I'm delighted that you called."

He hoped that he sounded as though he meant it considering it had been a long day but he was rewarded by hearing her accept his invitation to dinner. He glanced at the clock again and arranged to meet her at seven thirty. There should be sufficient time to return to his quarters to wash and change before heading out. If he had read her right it might well turn into a long night. He put down the receiver and considered calling it a day and going for a drink in the officer's mess to relax him before leaving but then he caught sight of the police file again and with a small degree of reluctance picked it up. He could scan through most of the summary sheets in ten minutes or so. He had become accustomed to sifting the wheat from the chaff and there was seldom much wheat to be found.

He opened the file and ran his finger down the list of arrests over the past few days. Most were for petty crimes: a few black marketeers caught selling their wares, a case of being drunk and disorderly, an assault following a dispute in the street and then one case that caught his eye in particular, a young woman arrested for carrying a false work permit. He flicked through the documents behind in the file looking for the details of the case and pulled out a charge sheet for the woman. Her name was Louise Aubert. She was twenty two years old and had been arrested early in the morning four days ago at a checkpoint on the bridge at Varennes. The date held his attention. He turned the page. A photograph was attached to the sheet. An attractive dark-haired young woman stared out at him and he realised with a sudden start of recognition that they had met before.

"Louise Aubert?"

He couldn't contain his surprise, even here on his own. He had seen her before but she had called herself Yvette Laurent on that occasion on the train. He could still recall his humiliation when he had turned up to call on her that evening with the intention of inviting her to dinner and found the white house in Courcelles occupied by an elderly couple who had no idea who Yvette Laurent was or why he was there.

"Well, Yvette, Louise or whoever you are, you're clearly up to something." He couldn't help rubbing his hands together at the thought of meeting her again but this time he was sure he would get her to do a lot more of the talking.

Weber picked up the telephone and rang through to his adjutant.

"Baumann, I need a French prisoner transferred here from the prison at Varennes. Louise Aubert."

The adjutant hesitated for a second, "Immediately, Sir?"

Weber realised that his adjutant was concerned that it was already late and would take time to get the paperwork together. Nothing happened without the right paperwork and it had been a long day for all of them. In any case Louise Aubert was going nowhere in a hurry. He was also conscious that time had run on and he was meeting the delectable Mademoiselle Henry in little more than an hour.

"Tomorrow will do, Baumann. Just send over the movement orders."

"Very good, Sir."

Weber put down the receiver, leaned back in his chair and smiled. His hard work was paying off. However, whilst Louise Aubert could wait until tomorrow a good dinner and even better company could not.