Margaux came later that evening, with news.

‘I called the hospital, someone I know. Jacques is fine. He is recovering well. The bullet was removed and he is in a private room on the first floor of the hospital. I have arranged everything. I have already handed out several hundred Reichsmarks worth of wine to hospital staff and they will turn a blind eye to what is to happen tonight. He has a guard from the SS with him in the room twenty-four hours a day. Tonight, that guard, after being fed his supper by the hospital staff, will feel very sleepy and in fact he will fall asleep. A friend will enter the room and inform Jacques of the plan. He will be helped through the window. There is a drainpipe outside that room he can climb down.’

‘That is – wonderful – well done! And there was no problem, bribing the staff?’

‘If you ask me I almost did not need to bribe them. They are French – Alsatians. They hate the Boche as much as anyone. They are Resistance fighters as much as anyone. They know Jacques is not a terrorist. Jacques’ father was operated on here a few years ago. Some of them even know Jacques. We Alsatians stick together!’

‘It’s just odd that the Germans would put him in such a low-security hospital.’

‘It is the only hospital. Though it was officially Germanised, it is still run by Alsatian staff. They do have a small military hospital but it is for the military, not for prisoners.’

‘And the prison?’

‘The prison does not have its own hospital. When a prisoner needs treatment he is sent to the local hospital with a personal guard.’

‘Well – anyway. It sounds like a good plan if we can make it work.’

‘We can. Pierre is willing to be the one to go in to Jacques and help him escape. It will be easy. And in the morning the guard will awake after a deep sleep and wonder what happened. Never mind. He, too, will have a glass of Château Laroche-Gauthier with his supper. I’m sure it will be much appreciated. But you: you cannot come. It is too dangerous. They do not suspect you yet. You must stay out of it.’

‘Too late for that.’ Sibyl told her about the visit of the SD officers.

‘They came to Château Laroche-Gauthier too and searched but did not find the radio; they were looking for Jacques, not an object. And of course Maxence’s place. We are now all under suspicion. You cannot take that risk. You must stay out of it. For you, the stakes are too high. They will execute you if you are caught.’

Sibyl shook her head. ‘They’ll execute you, too, and anyone else they catch.’

‘But you: as an agent…’

‘It’s dangerous work, we all know that and still we take the risk. I’m coming tonight. We must be all the more careful.’

‘If you insist.’

‘And when we have freed him, where will he go?’

‘I will be waiting in the van nearby, with you. Pierre will bring him to us.’

‘I mean, where will he stay afterwards? He cannot go to your place. That is the first house they will search and you are already under suspicion, as his friend.’

‘He must go to a safe house. He will know of someone who will put him up.’

‘But I’ve been thinking. There’s an alternative. I know where he could stay, without putting anyone in danger at all.’

‘Where?’

‘You’ll see. Let’s get him out first.’

---

Sibyl crept down the stairs and out the back door at one that night. The moon was still new; the surrounding buildings were dull black, the sky luminous black, and Sibyl herself a black shadow from head to toe. She sidled along the buildings, turned into the cobbled road outside the courtyard, and kept going at a quiet jog until she had reached the appointed place where Margaux and her van were waiting.

‘If the SS stops us now, we’re done for!’ said Margaux, but so carelessly she might have been telling a joke. ‘Nobody with honest intentions drives around at this time of night. Not in a battered old wine van.’

‘It feels odd, not having a cover story. But I suppose they won’t be on the prowl any more now they’ve caught him. Not at night, at least.’

‘Once out of town we’ll be safe. I’ll park in the same place as last night. Pierre parked a bicycle near the hospital and will bring Jacques.’

She took a turn down a quiet lane that seemed to lead to a farm, then down another lane into a wooded area.

‘The hospital is about two kilometres away. If all goes to plan they should be here in about an hour. Now it’s just a matter of waiting. Have some wine.’

She pulled the cork out of a bottle and handed it to Sibyl. She pushed it away.

‘How can you drink at a time like this?’

‘How can you not drink?’ Margaux took a slug from the bottle, wiped her mouth on her sleeve. ‘Just don’t let me overdo it. I can’t afford to have an accident, tonight of all nights.’

‘You can’t afford to have an accident at all, Margaux. You really should…’

‘Now don’t you start lecturing me about my drinking. Yes, I know I drink too much. Yes, I know I need to slow down. But on a night like this? I need it, Sibyl, I need it. I’ll give up wine tomorrow.’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you will.’

‘Are you doubting me?’

The banter, sometimes light-hearted, sometimes serious, continued as the minutes crept past. Why is it, Sibyl asked herself, that when you were on edge and desperately nervous, that was when time slowed down to an impossible crawl? And when you were happy and enjoying yourself, it flashed by in a wink? The repartee was distracting but it did not speed up time nor lessen her nerves, which were sharpened to the point of fraying. Margaux, meanwhile, had finished the bottle and Sibyl was seriously worried about her ability to drive afterwards. Yes, she herself could drive instead, but only back to Colmar. After that it would have to be Pierre at the wheel. Though Margaux did not appear drunk; the only evidence of the emptied bottle was a slightly slurred voice.

An owl hooted. An animal squealed in the undergrowth. Margaux jumped.

‘What was that?’

‘Just an animal.’

‘I thought…’

‘We’re both jumpy. You’re sure Pierre knows where to find us?’

‘Yes, yes. Of course. He found me yesterday, didn’t he?’

‘It’s just that…’

‘Shhh! Listen!’

It was unmistakeable. A sort of vague whirring noise, and growing louder. They both jumped from the van, one on each side, and peered into the lane leading through the forest. A dark lump could be seen approaching, the whir of the bicycle wheel growing louder.

And then they were there, Pierre, slowly sailing up with a squeak of brakes; braking further with his feet and dismounting cautiously, supporting the bicycle as Jacques carefully slid off the crossbar and stood on one leg.

‘Jacques! Jacques!’ Sibyl’s arms were around him as she whispered his name.

‘I made it, Sibi. I made it!’

‘Come on, you lovebirds, get in the van. Pierre, put away the bike and get in the back. And now, Sibyl, you kindly tell us which way to go. Where is this wonderful hiding place of yours?’

‘Back to Colmar.’

‘Back to… are you out of your mind?’

‘Maybe a bit. But we can risk it. Nobody’s about yet – or still. They’re not looking for Jacques. It’s not like last night. They don’t know he’s gone.’

‘Yet.’

‘Just drive, Margaux. Trust me.’

Margaux trusted her, and drove; following directions.

‘Nearly there! Turn left here.’

‘But Sibyl, this road drives right past…’

‘I know. Gerechtigkeitsgasse.’

‘Sibyl, you must be mad. You can’t put him up in your own home!’

‘I’m not. I won’t. This is better. Stop here. Pierre, I’ll need your help – Jacques, get down carefully… that’s right… arms around our shoulders. Margaux, you can come too, to unlock the door. The key’s in my pocket.’

They drove into the cobbled courtyard at the back of Gerechtigkeitsgasse.

‘Sibyl – this is insane. You can’t…’

‘I’m not, Margaux. I said, trust me, and get that damned key.’

Margaux fished in her pocket as they walked, Jacques hobbling between Pierre and Sibyl, arms around their shoulders. They walked right past the back of the cobbler’s shop.

‘Where…?’

‘Right here. Open that door.’

They had stopped in front of the back door of a house four doors down from Uncle Yves.

‘Whose house is this?’

‘It’s no-one’s. Though I suppose the Germans think it’s theirs. It used to belong to a Jewish violin-maker. Now it’s empty. Oncle Yves was his friend and had a key. It’s the safest place he could possibly be. And best of all: I’m four doors down. I can dress his wounds, bring him food and drink…’

‘Bien, I get it. It is brilliant, Sibyl. Now let’s get him upstairs. I think we will have to carry him.’

‘I’m not an invalid, and I’m not dead yet! Stop talking about me in the third person; I’m right here and I can get upstairs – ouch – with just a little help.’

Jacques tried his damaged leg but stumbled; he caught himself and, holding the banisters, managed to lever himself up one step.

‘We’ll carry you. What you need are crutches. I’m sure Oncle Yves can make them for you. He’s got enough wood.’