Page 31 of Tides of Resistance
Lizzie sighed. There was a never-ending stream of seemingly impossible tasks for her to reach the point of sending a message. She was worried she had bitten off more than she could chew. Who was she to think she could single-handedly outsmart the most sophisticated German listening technology to dispatch their secrets to London? And what’s more, how on earth was she to gain access to these secrets?
In one of her pre-mission briefings, Lizzie learnt that St. Malo was a particularly dangerous spot for agents. It served as the main listening post for the Wehrmacht security services because of its proximity to Britain. TheFunkabwehr—the German radio monitoring service—was coordinated with the Abwehr. No wonder poor Jacques had been caught.
Lizzie’s hand brushed the lining of her coat, and she was reassured when she felt the slight bump of the precious radio crystals. Sophie said she could borrow the red coat as long as she needed it because she had another, so one evening after dinner, Lizzie had used Aunt Giselle’s sewing kit to remove the crystals from her brassiere and then sewn them into the coat and hidden the rest at the house for backup.
Her sister, Evie, had taught her some clever tricks when she volunteered at the charity sewing circle in London, and Lizzie was grateful she had indulged her little sister’s enthusiasm because her skills had come in handy. The trainer at Baker Street had explained how fragile the crystals were, so they had to be stored with great care.
Arriving outside the shabby little bakery, Lizzie didn’t remember it, but that was no surprise as they hadn’t been in the habit of food shopping with their aunt. They were too busy flitting in and out of the gap in the city walls to play at the smugglers’ caves or dodging each other in games of hide and seek in the old house with its nooks and crannies.
The bakery looked as worn down by the war as the locals. The harried-looking woman behind the counter hunched over as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Her head jerked up when Lizzie entered, and she called, ‘We are closed. I didn’t put up the sign, but we’re out of everything. As usual.’
She threw her hands up as she spoke in a typical French gesture, and Lizzie saw she was telling the truth. There wasn’t so much as a bread roll left on the shelves.
Lizzie smiled at the woman. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I was looking for Jacques. I understand he works here.’
It was a brutal thing to say to a mother whose son had been taken by the Nazi regime, but Lizzie had to maintain her cover. The less she involved her family, the better, so it would be too dangerous to mention that Sophie had told her about his disappearance.
Lizzie studied the woman’s face, as she was trained to do, and sadness clawed at her insides. It was as though all the air went out of the woman at the mention of her son’s name, and she slumped in front of her, her small shoulders hunched even lower, and her face a picture of despair.
Lizzie regretted her approach and wished she’d been able to think of a more sensitive way to ask about Jacques, but she had to maintain the appearance that she was a regular customer. It was entirely possible German security agents were monitoring the bakery. One suspicious move and she would alert them to her connection to Jacques.
‘My boy is gone,’ the woman said, her voice laden with sorrow.
The words sounded as though she’d said them so many times, she was close to breaking.
‘Gone?’ Lizzie said, her tone gentle.
‘Yes, gone.Les Bochestook him, and I’ve not had a word from him since.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Lizzie said.
‘What is it you want with him?’ the woman asked, suspicion tingeing her sorrow.
Lizzie’s voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. The door was still unlocked, and anyone could appear at anymoment. She had been in the shop for too long to exit without purchasing something.
‘Do you have a baguette? I have money to pay more.’
The woman’s eyes flitted furtively around the shop. ‘You can see the sorry state of things for yourself.’
Lizzie followed her gaze across the empty shelves and display cabinets.
‘Come back tomorrow at 6 a.m. if you want somepain de guerre. It’s the best I can offer. It’s been some time since we've had the ingredients to make baguettes.’
Lizzie was already familiar with the heavy, dark war bread the baker referred to. Her aunt served it for breakfast, and it reminded her of the War Cake they ate at home.
She was out of time and had to move things along. ‘Jacques said you make the finest baguettes and will have one for me.’
The woman’s weary eyes widened, and she explored Lizzie’s face.
‘A friend of my Jacques, you say?’
Lizzie whispered. ‘I don’t have long. Please tell me where I may find the baguette.’
The woman bent down behind the counter and wrapped a small pastry in a scrap of brown paper. ‘It’s not much, but I keep a few back for special customers. Any friend of Jacques’s is a friend of mine.’
Lizzie thanked the woman and gave her a coupon and paid. ‘It’s very kind of you.’
