Page 33 of Tides of Resistance
Lizzie assessed each person who passed her, alert for whatever danger might appear as she wound through the narrow streets. An eerie quiet lay over the centre, which was in sharp contrast to how Lizzie remembered the bustling walled city of her youth. Even though the afternoon was growing late, several women, two wearing black coats and clearly in mourning, waited in straggling queues outside a grocery store on a little side street.
German military presence was heavy, with soldiers dotted about. Some sat outdoors at café tables enjoying the fine spring afternoon, and others were on duty observing the locals. Lizzie avoided eye contact by keeping her head down as she bustled towards the cathedral. Just because she was prepared for an identity papers check at any moment didn’t mean it was any less dangerous, and the more she blended in as a Malouine,going about her daily duties, the less chance her cover would be suspected. Every glance, question or move could bring her to the attention of the Wehrmacht.
As St Malo was a key Atlantic port, since her arrival she had noticed manyKriegsmarinemilling about. Today a bunch of off-duty sailors were rowdier than their army counterparts, as they sat outside a café smoking and drinking, their dark navy blue wool uniforms and white caps clearly defining their status.
Lizzie’s heart thudded that bit harder as she wove her way through the tight webs of the German military, hoping she went unnoticed as just another young French woman. The SOE had trained and equipped her for such a scenario, but the fear never disappeared no matter how many times she faced similar situations.
The longer she spent in London, the more chilling it felt to be dropped back into occupied territory, and it was never more obvious than in the Intra-Muros area. Paris was denselyoccupied too, but there were more opportunities to slip out of sight because of its size. St. Malo was small and contained within the walls, and as a new arrival she felt like she was under a German magnifying glass.
Then the sanctuary ofCathédrale St. Vincent de St. Maloloomed before her, peeking through the buildings, the granite spire set against the blue sky like an old friend welcoming her as she reached the front door of the beautiful gothic cathedral.
The Nazis saw church attendance as a useful tool for keeping the population submissive, and they permitted churches to function. Lizzie breathed more deeply now that she had reached her destination. She pulled open the heavy wooden doors that groaned as she entered the vestibule, and her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. The smell of incense wafted up her nose, and the cool air caressed her skin as she blessed herself at the holy water font before entering the nave. There was a confession schedule posted on the wall, and her eyes eagerly sought Father Guérin’s name, but she couldn’t see it.
Lizzie admired the vaulted ceiling before slipping into a pew and kneeling. There were a few other women in the pews, deep in prayer, but no sign of a priest. Lizzie closed her eyes and prayed. It wasn’t often she went to church with her family in London, but it felt good to be back in a holy space. The cathedral reminded her of Reims, and she thought about how far she had come since that first mission.
After what seemed a reasonable amount of time to be seen praying, she opened her eyes and glanced around, hoping to spot a priest she could ask about Father Guérin. The nave was silent, and Lizzie felt truly at peace for the first time since her mission began. She savoured the feeling and let herself sit there unmoving for a few minutes, as her eyes strayed to the stained-glass windows that filtered in the light and cast ethereal patterns across the wooden pews.
No one entered and no one left, and the sacred place offered a refuge from the harsh outside world. Then Lizzie caught sight of a priest exiting a confessional booth, and she rose and walked towards him.
‘Excuse me, Father, I was hoping to speak to Father Guérin. When might I find him here?’
‘Bonjour, my child. It’s just a few of us now. Father Guérin may be present tomorrow morning for Confession and Mass,’ the priest said, his face creasing into a smile. ‘I will hear your Confession now if you wish.’
Lizzie thanked him and said she must leave now but would return tomorrow. She had hoped to locate the priest today and perhaps even be able to find the radio, but it was not to be.
Patience was a critical quality to be a successful undercover agent, and sometimes hers wore thin, but this was how the game was played. It might take three or four visits for her to even meet the priest, and that was only the beginning. Would he know where Jacques had hidden the radio set, and would he reveal the hiding place to her, even if he did?
Espionage was a game of cat and mouse, and at this moment, Lizzie felt like a weary mouse. She reconciled herself to the fact that no breakthroughs would be made that day in the cathedral, but at least she could tick off her first attempt to make contact with the priest. She glanced around one last time, checking she wasn’t being watched, and emerged from the sanctuary, blinking in the bright light.
Hopefully, Sunday would bring her better luck.
CHAPTER 20
Heinrich rose with the sun as was his habit, even on a Sunday. The lazy French did little on Sundays, but Heinrich ran a tight ship. There was no traditional day off for him or his staff, but he let them finish earlier than usual if their duties permitted. Every man needed some rest, but Occupation was a 24/7 duty, and they couldn’t afford to be lax.
On Sunday mornings Heinrich permitted himself the luxury of working from his private wing of the mansion, but he was still dressed in uniform as he sat at the table on the large stone terrace that provided sweeping magnificent views of the choppy sea and the walled city. He was pleased with his morning’s progress so far.
His father had schooled him in matters of discipline, and he still followed the same morning schedule he did as a youth, which was to rise at first light, feed the mind with thought-provoking literature, and then begin work without delay. After that came breakfast, which was the point Heinrich was at now.
His French housekeeper was a timid little thing whom he had tried to put at her ease, but she seemed permanently predisposed to be terrified of him. Why these locals didn’t grasp the good fortune that was bestowed upon them by Germanyabsorbing them into their new empire, he couldn’t understand. You’d think they’d be grateful, after they surrendered so pitifully, but no, most of them refused to look their German rulers in the eye and worse still groups of what they called Resistance were popping up like underground rats all over Brittany.
He shrugged as if making his case and raised his fork to his lips. The sausage and eggs were excellent, better than in Germany before the war, and the fluffy white dough of the baguette melted in his mouth. The German war machine had fine-tuned its systems, and there was now a never-ending supply of the best quality foods requisitioned from French farms.
The rule was Germans ate first, and Heinrich ate better than most. There was a pecking order, and he was rightfully at the top. It was nothing new for him because he was born into privilege, and with his good looks and natural abilities, he always excelled.
He poured another splash of cream into his coffee, which was a taste he’d acquired since living in France. The coffee cream might just be their most worthwhile contribution to society. Now he selected several pieces from the abundant cheese selection laid before him on a large platter and ate another slice of buttered baguette.
As he worked his way through the enormous breakfast, which was lavish on a Sunday, he finished reading the latest report about local criminals and tried not to let the flare of resentment in his gut ruin his meal. It really was preposterous how these peasants didn’t fall into line but insisted on sabotaging the Wehrmacht’s impeccable operations at every opportunity.
Heinrich smeared a big dollop of the finest honey on a fresh piece of baguette and turned another page. The report listed daring underground activities that had occurred recently,mostly in remote countryside and small coastal towns. Thank goodness St. Malo was too heavily fortified for these vermin to get through, and he wasn’t plagued with the menace of these acts of defiance under his nose.
Even so, he saw the attacks as a personal affront. They slashed telephone lines and damaged railway tracks. And obstacles on the rails disrupted trains transporting French goods to Germany.
Heinrich took great satisfaction in the smooth-running systems he had created in St. Malo and the surrounding areas, and these incidents felt like a black mark on his outstanding service. He wasn’t sure yet what action he would take to clamp down on these insurgents, but he wouldn’t tolerate this utter show of contempt for Germany. Of that much, he was certain.
He pushed the many plates to the opposite side of the table and poured more coffee. Then he sat back in his chair and stretched his long legs as he gazed out to sea and lit his favourite brand of German cigarette.
Overall, life was good, and he mustn’t let the occasional setback get under his skin. He imagined one day, perhaps when he was an old man, he would look back on the integral role he played in building theThird Reich, and he would appreciate his grand achievements. In the meantime, he meant to do his best to enjoy his posting in France, despite the challenges.
