Well, what was there to say? She was thrilled at the news. Beyond thrilled; Jacques, no longer a renegade, Jacques doing what he had to do, fighting for France, but now legitimately, protected by de Gaulle’s army, no longer on the run.

On the other hand, knowing what she now knew, knowing the strength of the forces he’d be facing, knowing that this was Hitler’s last stand, the fiercest battle with the strongest forces: it terrified her. We must fight to the death, von Haagen had said. To the very last man! That would mean, surely, to that last man on both sides?

If that was true, then Jacques was finished. Alsace was finished. France might have been cleaned of the Boche but Alsace was still well and truly in German hands. Fight to the death meant that Hitler would not surrender this last bastion. It would have to be wrested from him after the war as a whole was won; and who knew when that would be? And in the meantime, it was fight to the death. And there was nothing she could do but sit in her cobbler’s shop and wait for news: the fate of women in times of war since time began. Women, holding the world together while men slaughtered themselves, women, doing their best to maintain a world worth living in; women, their hearts ripped out as their menfolk fought like wild beasts, their own courage and stalwartness overlooked in the stories of bravery and valour.

She thought, now, of von Haagen. His breakdown had astonished her, but more important was the vital news he had passed on which she, in her turn, had passed on to her superiors. That was her contribution to the war effort, and hopefully it would be of use. Acrobat had been palpably delighted, as if, at last, her appointment was showing results. This was a matter for MI6, he’d said; it would be passed on to military intelligence, as that information went beyond the scope of Special Operations. She had passed it on and never once looked back; she had lived up to her promise that she would do her job no matter what. That she was not just a soft-hearted nurse too weak to make tough decisions. It had been no decision at all; and yet her concern towards von Haagen had been genuine. She had been touched by his confession, moved by his heartfelt cry for help. And yet, in the very next breath, she had betrayed him. Perhaps that was what it meant to be an agent.

But there was no time now for reflection. She had new orders: she was to be given a pianist, and had to arrange the parachute drop. And she had no-one to help arrange it, since, according to Margaux, all of the maquisards, except Pierre, had joined the Free French forces. She’d have to think of alternatives and, inevitably, that meant Margaux and Pierre. Together, they would receive the pianist, welcome him to the team. It would be done on the first of the three next moonlit nights – if the weather allowed.

---

It was, thankfully, a lucidly clear November night. The swollen moon was one night away from fullness, a yellow floating ball that seemed to be sailing, due to a few puffed clouds drifting past, blown by the cool night breeze. It was a chilly night, and the three of them were dressed for the cold in sheepskin jackets, woolly caps and gloves. The lanterns were filled and waiting to be lit; no need to waste fuel. As ever, the wait seemed endless; they had chosen exactly the landing place at which Sibyl herself had come down so many months ago. Only months. It seemed like years. They waited.

At last, Sibyl discerned the hum of a distant plane. ‘Here they come,’ she whispered, and the three of them sprang into action, lighting the lanterns, placing them at strategic positions around the perimeter of the field.

The Lysander was above them; it circled once, and then, like a huge white umbrella, there was the parachute, the pianist a black shape dangling below, suspended in space. This time there were no supplies to be delivered. This time, the only delivery would be human.

The pianist fell to earth, shrouded in the billowing silk of the parachute. The Lysander disappeared back into the night. The three of them rushed to help the figure struggling with falling folds of fabric, trying to be free. Sibyl pulled away the material from the pianist’s head and gave a cry of shock.

‘Elena!’

‘Sibyl!’

It was an almost comic repeat of her own landing, when Jacques had pulled away the parachute from her face and they had recognised each other. But now, Elena!

---

Later, in Margaux’s kitchen, Elena explained.

‘I was recruited just three months ago; I’m here as your pianist.’

‘But, Elena – how? To be a wireless operator – well, it takes a huge amount of training. You must only have had a couple of weeks! How can you be a pianist in that short a time?’

Elena chuckled. ‘You think you’re the only one with secrets? I had my secrets too. I told you I worked at the Foreign Office didn’t I? Do you know what I was actually doing, for the four years of the war? I was a wireless operator! Fully trained! I’m an expert in codes and ciphers – better than you. I am one of the people who received the messages of SOE agents, decoded them, passed them on!’

‘That is – that is…’ Sibyl was lost for words, but finally found her tongue. ‘But of course. You have the same languages that I do. Why wouldn’t they recruit you! But that’s marvellous! And now we can work together!’

‘That’s right. But, you know, I didn’t know where you were either, that you were an agent in Alsace. I didn’t know they were sending me to you, and to Margaux. It’s all so secretive!’

‘I didn’t know either, that I’d be coming to Margaux.’

‘Why Margaux, I wonder? They know she has links to Jacques?’

‘They also know I’m the safest person around. My wine keeps me safe.’

‘But, Elena – what about your husband? Your little girl? How could you leave her? Who did you leave her with? Or was she evacuated?’

Elena’s face froze into a mask.

‘My husband – his plane was torpedoed. By Germans. He is dead. My daughter, my little girl… no, she wasn’t evacuated. I couldn’t bear to send her away. But I should have.’ The muscles in her face twitched in the effort to retain the mask.

‘My little girl is dead too. Her grandmother was looking after her at home, in London. A doodlebug hit the house. It was flattened.’

‘Oh my God! Oh Elena! I’m sorry!’

She took her sister in her arms. They cried together, then Elena pulled away.

‘And that’s why I here. To kill Germans. Those damned doodlebugs!’

‘I’m a bit confused… what’s a doodlebug?’

Elena chuckled, but it was a dry, humourless chuckle.

‘A toy of Hitler. A pilotless missile. They are aimed at London and attack randomly. Radar can’t find them. They come hissing through the air and then silence and when they go silent that’s when you have to run for shelter but you don’t know where, you don’t know…’

Elena swiped fiercely at her eyes with the back of her hand. Margaux handed her a serviette and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

‘Now all I want to do is kill Germans. Every last one of them.’

‘Oh, Elena! I – I don’t know what to say.’

‘There’s nothing to say, is there. I’m here now. I’ll be staying here, Margaux, with you. If I may. Acrobat’s orders.’

‘Of course.’

‘My cover story is that I’m a second cousin, from Strasbourg, come to stay with you and help out in the vineyard; I knew the war was coming to Strasbourg, so I fled. My name is Nicole Arnaut. I am by profession a seamstress. You know I was always good at sewing!’

Sibyl remembered. All during the early war years Elena had kept them clothed; she had a gift for reassembling pieces of material into dresses and blouses that could even be deemed fashionable.

‘You can begin with that parachute!’ said Margaux. ‘My underwear is in rags.’

‘Well, that of course has to be secret – but I’m to be looking for work in the villages, patching up clothes and so on.’

‘As if the villagers can’t do that themselves! Really, these cover stories are too ridiculous. We don’t need a seamstress down here. People know how to use a needle.’

‘Well, the main thing is I’m a coward fleeing the war. But my impression is – what I read between the lines – is that it won’t be long now. A few months at the most. But apparently you, Sibyl, are going to help shorten that time.’

‘So – I’m the agent, you’re the pianist – who’s the courier?’

‘We haven’t been given a courier.’

Sibyl and Elena both turned to Margaux.

‘Don’t look at me! I’m not your damned courier!’

Sibyl and Elena said nothing. They waited. Margaux sighed.

‘I’m guess you aren’t giving me a choice.’