Chapter 35
A week later, Jacques was limping about the house and chafing at the bit.
‘I can’t stay here any longer. I mean, it’s wonderful being near to you and seeing you every day, every night – but I need to get out. Do something. I’m wasting time. Why aren’t the Allies here yet?’
She shrugged. ‘They’ll be here in their own time. Where will you go? I won’t let you go to Margaux.’
‘I’ll find a place. Don’t worry. I just need someone to drive me out of Colmar and set me down in the countryside. Perhaps around Türckheim. I know people there – a farmer – it’ll be safe.’
‘If you insist. I still think you’re safest here.’
‘My safety – what about the safety of Alsace? I need to be with my men. I need to know what’s going on. You can’t keep me for yourself all the time, you know!’
His eyes twinkled; he drew her close. She laughed, ran her fingers through his hair, nuzzled into his chin. It had been a wonderful week, a week of much needed respite: no plans for bombings or dangerous drops, for Jacques, no hiding from the Gestapo. For him, just rest and recovery. For her, just looking after him and his wound, and being with him at night. Sneaking down the back stairs and into the courtyard and up his backstairs, like a student nurse with a secret boyfriend, courting behind Matron’s back, climbing through the downstairs window after curfew. You could even forget there was a war on; that the war was slowly creeping towards Alsace. You could almost forget it. But not quite. Again, weeks passed; for Sibyl, weeks of stifling uncertainty. Her next scheduled call with Acrobat brought no relief, no news and no instructions. She gathered that the Allies would, at some point, arrive to take back Alsace; but no details and no date were forthcoming. It could take forever, and here she was, in Colmar, with nothing to do but polish shoes and take orders for the resoling of German boots or – more and more – orders for cloglike footwear for the locals. Food shortages grew more severe; and everyone, it seemed, looked forward to the wine harvest. So did she.
And then the wine harvest, the vendange, was upon them. Margaux paid her a surprise visit, inviting her to come and help. ‘You must, my dear, you must. It will cheer you up. It will cheer us all up. Regardless of the war, we must have wine. The harvest is the one bright spot in the Alsace year in these dark times. You will stay at my place.’
‘But, you know, your association with Jacques? It is known. I shouldn’t risk it.’
‘Pfft! Do you really think the Boche care about Jacques any more? About some possible British agent? Darling, they have bigger problems. Did you know that the Americans are right now in the Vosges, fighting for the freedom of Alsace? And the Free French Forces up north, fighting for the liberation of Strasbourg? This is a harvest of celebration. It is the last harvest of the war. Everyone knows it. Alsace will the very last corner of France to be liberated, but we will be liberated. It’s a matter of weeks. Les Américains will sweep through and drive away the Boche as if they were swatting away flies. And our own army is motivated as never before and there will be triumph and rejoicing.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘The grapevine, the radio, the BBC. It is common knowledge.’
‘I can hardly believe it. It’s so quiet here in Colmar…’
‘They are pissed afraid in Colmar. Hitler is pissed afraid. They are all terrified of les Américains. They are all hiding in Colmar. And what about your majeur? No news of him?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a word. I believe that episode is over.’
‘Your people in London, this Acrobat fellow, will be disappointed. I think he was expecting great things from your liaison.’
‘We all thought that. It’s not to be. What happened to Jacques?’
‘Jacques? Oh la la, Jacques. My golden boy Jacques – well, as you know, he was hiding out in Türckheim and then he came home. You cannot keep Jacques hidden away for long. Especially when there is a harvest on the horizon. Yes, my dear, Jacques is home and it is he who is organising our vendange. He has grown a beard and dyed his hair jet black but otherwise – well, Jacques is Jacques. The Boche have more serious problems than to come looking for him. So, I take it you will come to help?’
‘I will have to ask Oncle Yves to give me some days off. But if he does – yes, of course!’
That harvest, the harvest of 1944 at the Château Gauthier, was the most glorious of them all. For the locals, the Alsatians, there was, at last, hope. Yes, the war had come to Alsace and soon there would be freedom. Margaux’s words – they will be swept away like flies – was repeated and passed on and improved upon: the Boche will be sucked up like ants by the American vacuum cleaner! They will be devoured by the American fire-breathing dragon! They will be crushed underfoot like under the boots of a giant! And so the people rejoiced and passed through the vines plucking and laughing and cracking jokes; bursting with hope as the grapes were bursting with juice and goodness; and Sibyl and Jacques worked together, laughed together, hoped together, planned together. It was just a matter of weeks. Alsace was on the brink of freedom. It would be French again. The Boche would slink off like a defeated beast with its tail between its legs. Sibyl believed it all.
Before the war, the vineyards, including Château Gauthier, had employed itinerant workers who came from far afield to pick the grapes. Since the war, this was no longer possible; and so people came from the villages and towns to help: women and children and older men, as all the young men had been conscripted. The vendange must go on! Sibyl worked side by side with Jacques. Around her people laughed and joked; they spoke French, they wore berets, they sang French songs of freedom and revolution, and she sang with them.
And then, out of the blue, it was there: an ugly grey army truck embellished with swastikas, and a swastika-embellished soldier standing on the back with a megaphone, and the strident announcement, in German, of course: ‘All wine-pickers to leave the vineyard. All wine-pickers to come to the road and stand with your hands behind your heads. There is to be an inspection of identity documents. Once you have been inspected you are free to continue picking. All wine-pickers to leave the field. All wine-pickers must immediately come to the road.’
‘Merde!’ cried Jacques, and he ran. In the opposite direction to the truck, away from the road, towards the forested hills where the vineyard ended. At first the man on the truck did not notice, but from his vantage point he did no doubt notice a turbulence in the steady line of people walking towards him; and he raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, and let out a shout. Soldiers jumped from the truck’s cabin and rushed into the vines, pushing their way past the pickers, shoving them aside.
Sibyl looked behind her, in the direction that Jacques had run. She could see his head, bobbing above the vines, speeding towards the forest. A shot rang out; the head ducked and Jacques was no longer visible, just neat green rows of golden vines. Her heart throbbed violently; a soldier bumped into her, threw her aside. Pickers blocked his path.
‘Geh weg! Aus dem Weg! Aus dem Weg!’ he cried, but it seemed that the pickers were doing the opposite; they crowded together to create obstacles. They bent down as if to tie their shoelaces. They blocked his way as best they could. This was happening in all the rows. The soldiers cursed and shouted; a few shots rang out. But their pursuit was hampered and by the time they reached the forest Jacques would be well on his way; and Jacques knew these forests like the proverbial back of his hand. He was gone. He would be safe, God willing, but only for today. They had all been far too optimistic, underestimating the determination of the Gestapo to catch their escaped terrorist.
Sibyl reached the road along with the other pickers. She did as she was told; stood with hands behind her head, as did the others, a row of them along the road. Officers with swastika bands on their arms walked down the row, stopping at each picker, asking questions, inspecting their ID cards, sending them back to the vines. The vendange must go on.
When it was Sibyl’s turn the inspecting officer looked at her ID and then at her face.
‘You! I know you! You are the cobbler’s girl!’
Indeed: it was the Gestapo officer who had come after the break-in.
‘That is right.’
‘What are you doing here? This Château Gauthier is well known as a hideout for terrorists. Do you know Madame Laroche?’
‘I know of her. She owns this vineyard, does she not?’
‘Don’t be cheeky. Why are you working for her?’
‘For the same reason as all the other pickers here: because she pays well.’
‘It’s a long way to come from Colmar. Why did you come here?’
‘I told you: because she pays well. Better than my uncle the cobbler, so I took a day off. Many people here are from Colmar. Madame Laroche sent a vehicle for us.’
He snorted and handed back her ID. ‘I will be keeping a closer eye on you. Something is not right. You may go and continue picking.’
Sibyl tucked her ID back into her pocket and returned to the vines. But the joy had been sucked from the vendange. It was not over yet, she realised. The war is still with us, and Alsace is still under the German thumb. It is too early to celebrate.
When she returned to Colmar this was confirmed. There was no sign of defeat on the part of the Germans stationed there. If anything, their presence seemed even more permanent, and more sinister. She avoided as a matter of course the centre of town, where they stood around and sat around and stared; but now she spotted them even in the quieter streets, strolling along the cobbled lanes, incongruous in their grey-green uniforms. She saw them knocking at doors, no doubt checking that Germanisation was satisfactory. She was stopped once, cycling home from a visit to the market, and asked for papers. An aura of suspicion and fear hung in the air – it gave her goosebumps. Something was wrong.
And then von Haagen was back, standing across from her in the shop, in his hand a somewhat bedraggled bunch of roses. He held them out to her.
‘They are from the climbing roses at the Villa Schönblick,’ he said. ‘I thought of you right away. Fräulein Schuster, here I am again, at your service.’
He gave a little bow and Sibyl had to swallow and take a deep breath before she could reply and take them from him.
‘Oh – they’re lovely! Thank you so much!’
‘Now tell me, beautiful woman – did you miss me as much as I missed you?’
‘I missed you, yes, of course!’
‘There’s that English saying, “absence makes the heart grow fonder”.’
It was a shock, hearing the English words, and she looked up.
‘That’s certainly the case with me! Do you understand?’
She shook her head and he translated the idiom into German.
‘I didn’t know you spoke English,’ she said.
‘Oh yes, of course. English was a main subject on our curriculum – it’s useful to know a second language. It is an important part of the higher German education system. Didn’t you learn it in France?’
‘A little, just for a few years. I’ve forgotten most of it, though.’
An awkward silence fell between them, unusual for him. She decided to break it.
‘You’ve been away quite a long time. Did you have a good time in Berlin?’
Was that a shadow passing over his face? But it was just that: a passing shadow.
‘Yes, yes indeed, and I have some excellent news! I have been promoted to colonel! And after Berlin I went down to Munich as I have some leave due, so I went to see my parents; there was a small matter I needed to discuss. But now I’m here. But unfortunately I must be going – I just dropped in to let you know I’m back, and to ask you to meet me this evening for dinner. Is that possible?’
The hesitation was less than a moment.
‘Of course! I’d love to!’
He took her to the Rote Löwe. Von Haagen had reserved a table, a cubicle in a far corner, separate and somewhat private. A few tables were occupied: two with uniformed officers with Nazi armbands, one with a well-dressed couple. Sycophantic waiters hovered around them, shoving the table slightly so that Sibyl could slide in, and shoving it back again once she was seated, laying a serviette on her lap.
Von Haagen ordered lamb cutlets for them both, with potatoes and beans. It was the first full meal she had had since his departure to Berlin, and she told him so. It was necessary to make conversation. She couldn’t just sit there in silence, letting him do all the talking, which was her inclination. But how? Her own body refused to relax and just be natural, a young woman being courted by a handsome young man. She felt stiff and formal, and no conversation came readily to her lips. The rules of etiquette never told you what to do when the young man courting you represented the enemy, and you were the agent employed to betray and defeat that enemy; and your job was to be nice. She had told Acrobat that her agent role would be much like acting; it was playing a role. She had never expected the role to be that of leading lady in a romance; she had not studied for this part, she had not rehearsed. It was all playing by ear, and all with the knowledge that the romance was destined to be a tragedy.
‘It’s good, isn’t it? The lamb? So tender. It’s straight from a farm. We have a deal with the farmer. He keeps his best lambs for us. Though of course they’re not so young – it’s a summer lamb.’
‘Delicious. I haven’t eaten this well for weeks. Not since you left.’
‘Haha. That’s why I had to return, to feed you up! Can’t have you starving away! Now, my dear, you must tell me what you’ve been up to in the last few weeks.’
Under other circumstances she would have giggled at the irony. She would have said, oh, nothing much. Just helped a captured Resistance fighter to escape from German hands, hidden him in the empty house of a deported Jew, nursed him back to health, discussed the coming war in which the Allies will wipe out the Germans, picked grapes alongside him and watched him run from the Gestapo!
Instead, she played into the irony of the situation and, in all innocence, looked up at him and said, ‘Oh, nothing much. It was quite boring, actually.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. I wouldn’t have wanted to hear that you’d been living it up with my Kammeraden in uniform! I know any one of them would love to get their hands on you…’
She choked on her food and coughed; a piece of meat lodged itself in her windpipe. She coughed and coughed.
‘… are you all right? Herr Ober! Wasser, bitte!’ He held up a hand and snapped his fingers. The waiter ran up with a glass of water. Sibyl took several sips and a deep breath and at last she regained her composure. This would never do. Coolness under pressure. That was her strength, Mr Smith had said. Praise indeed; but entertaining a German officer required a far greater supply of coolness than did rescuing the wounded in the rubble of a Blitz bomb site.
Conversation continued; he told her about his parents, his home, his family. He spoke about the beauty of Bavaria, the mountain chalet where the family often went for weekends –before the war; we have not been for years – the wonderful castles and lakes in the vicinity. He made Germany sound like a holiday paradise, instead of a war-ravaged country on the verge, as Sibyl now knew, of defeat.
Dessert was served: Apfelstrudel. Not a bad effort, but Sibyl had tasted better. The pastry was soggy, and there was no cream. Cream, perhaps, was beyond even the influence of the German occupation forces.
‘Excuse me. I must… I’ll be right back.’
He stood up suddenly and strode off towards the toilets. When he returned he grinned at her and slid back into his seat.
‘Where was I? Oh yes. I’m a lucky man, Fräulein Schuster – did we agree that I could call you Marlene? Ja? Wunderbar. And I’ve been thinking so much about you when I was in Berlin that I knew, yes, I knew beyond a doubt, that you are the woman I have been yearning for. The woman to fill my heart. The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. And so –I brought you this.’
And before she could take another breath, say another word, he had whipped a little box from his uniform pocket – she had seen a little bulge there beforehand, and wondered –and was down on one knee before her.
‘Fräulein Schuster – I mean, my dear Marlene – would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’