Page 27 of Tides of Resistance
‘I’ll take you there now. You may remember the shop. It used to be called Livres Cohen and is on the Grand Rue. We had to change the name, which was awful, but when this madness is over, we will return the business intact to its rightful owners. We see ourselves as merely the custodians. Of course, the Germans can’t know that, or they’d seize it in a flash.’
‘What they’re doing to the Jews is evil,’ Lizzie said. She bit back the words that sprang to her lips. Every time she came to France, the situation was more horrifying but telling her aunt would only invite more questions about her situation.
They let themselves out of the house, Mijou following them outside after awakening from her cosy spot in the kitchen.
‘This way,’ Giselle said. ‘It’s not far, as you may recall.’
It was a chilly day, with weak rays of sun, and a steely sky that held the promise of more rain, and she was grateful for the red coat and berether aunt had lent her.
Rue St. Vincentran parallel to the high city walls, and they hastened towards the city centre, away from the port. The sight of the huge swastika flags in daylight draped over the medieval walls hit her like a visceral punch in the gut. A shiver ran through her, which had nothing to do with the wind lifting her coat collar. Being in the relative safety of London with her family and the home comforts had softened her, and the brutal reality of life under occupation came hurtling back. She had tried to prepare mentally for what was to come, but she knew from experience that until she was here in the thick of it, she wouldn’t know exactly what awaited her.
Lizzie breathed the fresh sea air whipping in off the coast and steadied herself. It was always difficult to adjust when she first arrived behind enemy lines, and this time would be no different. If anything, it would be more shocking as the occupation was deeply entrenched.
It wasn’t long before they reached the turning onto the Grand Rue, and Lizzie assessed the Intra-Muros, the walled city, with the fresh eyes of a grown woman and SOE agent. It was different and yet strangely the same. An all-consuming anger seized her as she saw German soldiers patrolling the narrow cobblestone street, rifles slung over their shoulders. As they walked, she saw signs in German and propaganda posters in French pasted in the windows of the shops in the tall granite buildings.
A poster with Churchill’s face, which proclaimed:England Is Bombing You,caught Lizzie’s eye. Another poster warned citizens to report suspected traitors in their midst or pay the price. The Resistance was wreaking havoc all over France, and she wondered if there were any experienced networks active in the area. There was only the missing contact she knew of who had been working with the SOE.
It was like she was on the stage of her childhood, with the same rows of shops, but the actors and props had changed. Many of the shops were boarded up or looked in a state of disrepair. The war had taken its toll, and the centre that had been the pride of St. Malo looked like a shadow of its former vibrant self.
There was a tangible fear in the air as locals hurried by, clutching their bags of scant supplies. Perhaps it would be easier than she had imagined walking around the city unnoticed. Everyone seemed so afraid to make eye contact it would be unlikely they would notice a black-haired woman, who on her previous visits was a chestnut-haired youth.
The Nazis had stolen the soul of the close-knit Breton coastal town with the strong maritime spirit, and a wave of sadness washed over Lizzie. Coming back to St. Malo was personal for her, so of course it would be more emotional than her previous missions. If Jack had been in London to prepare her, like heusually was, she was certain he would have warned her of the emotional impact.
Jack.What was he doing now?
‘Here we are,’ Aunt Giselle announced, and she pointed to a pretty little bookshop with a faded burgundy awning.Livres Beamontwas painted across the hanging valance in cream lettering.
The name was also etched in gold on the glass, and Lizzie noticed the residue of a faint C in the middle of the two words, where Cohen must have been erased. Faded French classics were strategically positioned in the window display, and Lizzie scanned the covers as they approached the door.
Then she stopped. A copy ofMein Kampfwas prominently displayed, and the sight of it made her feel physically sick. What was until recently a Jewish-owned business was now forced to promote Hitler’s book about the elimination of the Jews.
Lizzie followed her aunt into the bookshop and saw Sophie immediately. As they approached the counter, her cousin held her finger to her lips discreetly and signalled what seemed an urgent warning to be cautious.
Looking around the shop, Lizzie couldn’t see any customers.
‘Here we are, my love,’ Aunt Giselle said in a loud, confident voice. ‘I brought Rose with me. You remember she is my dear friend Madame Rousseau’s daughter from Paris and has come to recuperate from ill health in our wonderful sea air.’
Lizzie blinked. She had clearly underestimated Aunt Giselle, who had weaved a scenario more compelling than the basic cover story she had shared with her.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not catching,’ Lizzie said, in her best Parisian French, careful to enunciate the sharper vowels. The last thing she needed was for a local to hear her speaking in the more melodic style of French spoken by theMalouins, influenced by their Gallo heritage. Lizzie had practiced morningand night before the mission, and now she snapped into her performance naturally.
Sophie’s eyes widened. ‘Welcome to St. Malo and to our humble bookshop. It is good to have you with us.’
A discreet cough interrupted their discussion. Sophie switched her attention to the imposing golden-haired officer emerging from the shadows of the bookshelves and walking to the counter, holding a book in one large hand.
‘Monsieur l'Officier,’ Sophie said, her tone one of nervous politeness.
Lizzie gulped. His long black leather coat, the SS eagle on his cap and the runes with the double lightning bolts on his collar left her in no doubt of his affiliation.
‘Madame, or is it mademoiselle? Let me be the first of my officers to welcome you to this beautiful city,’ the SS officer said, dazzling Lizzie with a charming smile as if being greeted by an SS officer were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Lizzie replied with graceful deference. ‘Thank you, Monsieur l'Officier. How kind.’ When he continued looking at her, waiting for her answer, she added, ‘mademoiselle.’
‘Very well, mademoiselle, it is. I trust the wonders of our fine coastal air shall restore you to full health.’
The SS officer turned and paid for the book in francs, watching Sophie fumble under the counter for the cash drawer.
With a wave of the hand, he said, ‘Keep the change.’
