In Enemy Hands

CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

also by

WILMA COUNTS

Willed to Wed

My Lady Governess

The Willful Miss Winthrop

The Wagered Wife

The Trouble with Harriet

Miss Richardson Comes of Age

Rules of Marriage

The Viscount’s Bride

The Lady and the Footman

Dedication

From the Eighteenth Century to the Twenty-first,

America has been indebted to men and women

who have answered the call.

Not all of them wore military uniforms.

This book is dedicated to those who have served

—and to those who continue to do so.

MILITARY RANKS

* The title Gefreiter was also used.

The SS used a different but parallel nomenclature; in the interest of simplicity, I refer to them as merely an SS captain (or sergeant or whatever). Nor do I distinguish among branches of the military—i.e., air, infantry, artillery.

Chapter 1

December, 1943

On the long flight to Switzerland, Erin Forster—OSS code name Robin— reviewed her cover story, anxious lest she forget something minor and betray herself and others.

She was Ilsa Finster, journalist. Her German parents emigrated to Switzerland after The Great War; they had a farm where they produced wonderful cheese. Ilsa had six brothers, one sister, and numerous cousins. She had studied journalism at universities in Zurich, Strasbourg, and the United States. The new identity closely paralleled her own reality by design: she would be less likely to slip up that way. The Forsters had emigrated through Switzerland—en route to America. The six brothers, including three in the United States Army, and one sister were real, too. So were the cousins, some German, some American. Even her educational credentials carried more than a grain of truth.

Cousin Helmut would greet her at the Zurich airport with yellow roses. He would identify her by a bright red beret over her brown hair. That much would be easy enough, she thought.

She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. As usual, she focused on David and what might have been. David. He of the laughing brown eyes. David, with whom she had intended to spend the rest of a very settled life. David, dead after being wounded in North Africa. He, too, had been a journalism major, whose college career—then his life—was cut short by the war. Their dream had been to own a small town newspaper and practice all that was best about professional journalism. Now— No! that way madness lies, she admonished herself. She turned back to the assignment. I’m scared, David. Really scared. But I must do something. Something important. Something worthy.

The full magnitude of what that might be was still a mystery to Erin. Two days ago she and other agents who would work in Nazi-occupied France had reported to the Washington office of General Donovan, head of the Office of Strategic Services.

Your overall mission is to aid the French resistance. They’re doing a great job, the general informed them, "but sometimes their eagerness to get rid of la peste brune—the brown plague, as they call the Germans—leads them to jump the gun. One of your tasks will be to try to keep that from happening."

They nodded and waited.

Donovan continued. "It can be a bit complicated. De Gaulle wants to be sure he will lead a post-war France. Our Soviet Allies are just as determined that their communist friends do so. The Reds want a foothold in western Europe. We’d prefer they not get it."

Sir, while we concentrate on winning a war against the Nazis, the French and the Russians worry about politics after the war? Is that not the proverbial cart before the horse? Snow White asked. With long black hair and a pale complexion, the agent was aptly code-named for a Disney heroine.

Donovan nodded. I’m sure General Eisenhower shares that view. He has his hands full with squabbling generals. Imagine trying to control the egos of Britain’s Montgomery, our own Georgie Patton, and the inimitable Charles de Gaulle!

The new agents smiled in response and Donovan resumed the business at hand. "You’re part of a special operation, code-named Hermes." Messenger of the gods, Erin thought. Donovan went on. Most of you leave tomorrow for England. Further briefings in London will explain your particular missions, then you will parachute into France. Others will enter from the South.

Often during training at the OSS Farm, Erin had felt a sense of eager anticipation. Here in Donovan’s office, apprehension nudged the eagerness.

As if he were a mind reader, Donovan added, I don’t have to tell you you’re on your own out there. If you’re caught … well, I remind you again: spies are not accorded the niceties of the Geneva Convention that uniformed soldiers get.

Condor, also a new agent, but never intimidated by the presence of high-ranking personnel, seemed impelled to add his two cents’ worth. "So—you ladies try not to screw up the works." In the weeks Erin had known him, Condor had always made any word to or about women an epithet.

She glanced around in mock wonder and addressed herself ostensibly to Snow White. Sometimes I feel I’ve been transported into the scenes of a bad movie where you can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys.

Snow White gave a tight little smile and nodded her agreement.

Gathering papers and consigning them to an attaché case, Donovan seemed not to have heard this by-play, but then he said, Welcome to the company. War is never cut and dried—in causes—or participants. Or results. We do the best we can with what we have, We depend on hope and luck, and try to keep one step ahead of the bad guys—whoever they may be.

Yes, sir, the new agents chorused.

He stood, and the others followed suit as he came around his desk. He gave each a firm handshake. You’ll probably never receive accolades for your work, but know this: the government of the United States appreciates what you are doing. Go with God, all of you.

In Zurich, Cousin Helmut met her, handed her the bouquet, and kissed her on each cheek. An amiable young man of medium height, with brown hair and gray eyes, he had a well-scrubbed look and wore a conservative blue suit. As they waited for her luggage, they exchanged pleasantries in German about the family (all fine), the weather (iffy), and her flight (long, but uneventful). Outside, Helmut stowed her luggage in a French Citroen sedan with diplomatic plates. After several hours in the closed atmosphere of the plane, Erin happily breathed in crisp, cold air. Helmut held the passenger door for her, then got behind the wheel. He spoke to her now in American English.

It’s about two hundred kilometers to Bern, so feel free to have a nap, Ilsa, if you are so inclined. My name is Kenneth, by the way—Ken, if you please. I’m to settle you in a hotel in Bern. Around noon tomorrow I’ll take you to meet Mr. Dulles.

Thank you.

Despite glorious scenery and her own nervous apprehension, Erin dozed during the drive.

The next day a light snow was falling when Ken arrived to take her to the promised meeting.

We’ll take a rather circuitous route, he announced. Have to be sure we aren’t followed.

Having negotiated the twists of several narrow streets, he finally said, I think we’re clear. He maneuvered another corner and parked along a solid wall of narrow buildings. Over one doorway hung a metal sign in the shape of a wine glass; simple cut-out letters announced it to be a gasthaus.

Inside, sturdy wooden tables, chairs with elaborate hand-carved backs and antique farm tools on whitewashed walls added to the décor of a plain room with heavy beams. Garlands of pine branches suggested the approaching Christmas season. A huge fireplace offered welcoming warmth. Several customers chatted quietly, but the room was not crowded.

Herr Schmidt? Ken addressed a rotund little man in a white apron.

The waiter, holding a tray of drinks, nodded toward the back. Ken and Erin stepped through an arched doorway hung with strings of beads into a smaller room decorated and furnished much as the front one was. At a corner table sat a man in his late forties or early fifties. He was dressed in black denims, a pull-over sweater, and a brown leather jacket. A pair of goggles lay on the table. Was this Allen Dulles, chief operative of the OSS on the European continent? He rose as Erin entered.

Ah, Fraulein Finster, I presume, he said quietly.

Ilsa Finster, Allen Dulles. Ken’s tone was equally quiet as his eyes surveyed the room.

It’s okay, Dulles said. That door leads to an alley and it’s locked.

Ken held a chair for Erin, then helped her shrug out of her coat. He asked Dulles, How’d you get here, sir? I didn’t see your car.

Dulles grinned. On the back of a motorcycle behind one of our off-duty marines. A wild driver! I’ll go back with you.

Fine. I’ll wait out front to ensure no one’s overly interested in what’s going on back here.

Tell the waiter we’d like a bottle of Riesling and three glasses, please, Dulles ordered.

Three glasses? Erin wondered, but Dulles was already getting down to business. He pulled a small black leather folder from inside his jacket. The waiter arrived to deliver and pour the wine.

When he had gone, Dulles took a paper from the folder and examined it. General Donovan outlined the Hermes mission, I think.

Yes, Sir.

Your own primary mission is extremely important. Critical.

More than others? She raised an eyebrow.

Dulles smiled. OSS sometimes operates in hyperbole. But, yes. We believe some highly placed German officers might be willing to negotiate a settlement to the war.

Negotiate? News reports from Washington and London insist on ‘unconditional surrender.’ No negotiating. Isn’t that so?

It is. Roosevelt and Churchill tend to talk in hyperbole, too. However, both are practical men—and politicians to the core. They’ll negotiate—to save lives.

Erin nodded. But what about the third member of the triumvirate? Stalin is not likely to agree.

At the moment, he’s too dependent on our aid not to agree—reluctantly or not.

And this will affect me how?

If the information is true—and I concede we don’t know for certain it is—the officers involved are very high in the Wehrmacht. According to our intelligence, they are fed up with the Nazis and the way that former corporal, Hitler, is conducting this war. However, they are extremely cautious.

Understandable.

"Yes. We’ve just learned—from what we are sure is a reliable source—that they sent a courier to Paris to work with foreign contacts and serve as a go-between for these officers."

Obviously German. Military? Or civilian? I’m to contact him, is that it?

"Possibly. He is German and he is military. We know that much. And we should like to contact him. But we don’t know—my source doesn’t know—who the devil he is."

Oh. Then finding him should be easy—akin to finding a needle in a haystack, Erin said with false brightness.

Dulles nodded and drank from his glass. Something like that, though we can reduce the size of the haystack a little. This man was transferred to Paris fairly recently—and given the nature of his … uh … secondary assignment, he is probably a captain or above.

‘Fairly recently’ means what?

Within the last few months.

I don’t suppose we have a list of such transfers? she asked, her tone facetious.

He smiled and shook his head. We’re working on it.

Oh.

"We think he may speak Spanish or Portuguese and he may be associated with the office of the military governor of Paris, General Hans von Boineburg-Lengsfeld. But we‘re not sure."

If I should find him?

Notify London with the message ‘Jabberwock lives.’

Jabberwock lives. And then?

Await instructions. But do not—I repeat—do not discuss this assignment, this man’s existence with anyone. No one. We must protect his identity at all costs. He could be our link to an early end to the war.

She was impressed with the gravity of the assignment, but she was somewhat disappointed. All those lessons in explosives and hand-to-hand combat… . She leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands on the table, then said in a matter-of-fact tone, Well, I guess that’s why they issued us cyanide tablets.

Dulles shrugged, took several other items from his folder, and handed them to Erin. The documents you will need to get into Nazi-occupied France. A Swiss passport, identification cards, visa, ration book, and so on. Please examine them carefully for any errors or inconsistencies.

Now?

Yes, now. If we must have any of them redone … His voice trailed off.

She studied them one by one, afraid she might overlook something. They were forgeries, extremely well done. They even looked well used. She sipped sparingly of the wine. They seem to be in excellent order.

They have to be. French officials will make a great show of scrutinizing your papers, Dulles warned. They must keep up a pretence of sovereignty. The real danger comes from the Krauts. They are very meticulous about who and what comes and goes in ‘their’ territory.

She studied the documents closely, but found nothing amiss. Still, she was quiet.

Is there something wrong? he asked.

N-no. How should she broach what was on her mind?

"Seems to be something," he pressed.

Hm. Well. It’s just—I thought I would have a more active role to play in France. You know—sabotage—that sort of thing.

Bombing bridges and tearing up train tracks?

She felt blood rushing to her face as she admitted, Well, yes. From him, those ideas sounded naïve now.

You’ve read too many novels or seen too many movies, he said, then took the sting out of these words by chuckling. "I told Donovan that library at the Farm was too heavy on shoot ’em up, blow ’em up stuff. His tone sobered. This war may very well be won with bombs and brawn and bullets, but it will be shortened only with the use of brains and intelligence."

She was chagrinned. Yes, sir.

"You were specifically chosen for this job because Donovan thinks you have both. Also, you speak both German and French—and you’ve a background in journalism."

Yes, sir.

As she groped for something else to say, a middle-aged man in a dark blue business suit with narrow light gray stripes approached through the beaded doorway. He had dark hair and a mustache that put Erin in mind of photos of Hitler. His smile, though, was warm and inclusive as he greeted Dulles. The third glass.

Dulles stood to return the man’s greeting. Ah, Herr Mueller. Right on time. Ilsa Finster, may I present Karl Mueller?

Mueller pulled out a chair, leaned over to give Erin a firm handshake, and said quietly, I take it this is my new employee.

"Karl is editor and publisher of Der Berner Spiegel," Dulles explained as both men sat down.

"The Bern Mirror. I know your paper, Herr Mueller, Erin said. I like what you do."

Thank you, Mueller said. We hope it will grow beyond a mere weekly after the war. I have seen samples of your work, Miss Finster. I think we can accommodate you Americans. He addressed this last comment to Dulles.

Excellent, Dulles replied. It is vital that Miss Finster have real stories to file and that they occasionally, at least, be printed. The Germans are bound to check on a detail like that.

I am pleased to help, Mueller responded. We Swiss are officially neutral, of course, but I daresay few of my countrymen will be disappointed to see the Nazis defeated.

Good. Dulles rose. Well, Miss Finster, I leave you in Karl’s capable hands. He will brief you on details and see you back to your hotel. It’s best you not be seen with me. You will be given final instructions in a few days. Meanwhile, learn the ropes of a Swiss newspaper. He glanced at Mueller who nodded his agreement.

Erin leaned forward to extend her hand. Thank you, Mr. Dulles, she said politely, but she felt overwhelmed by the assignment Dulles had given her. Well, it was something important, wasn’t it? As Dulles left, she settled back in her chair. Herr Mueller outlined her duties for his newspaper. She would report on life in Paris under the German occupation.

Nothing too political, mind you, Mueller cautioned. Nothing to get you expelled from the country.

Human interest stuff—ordinary people coping with war, she suggested.

Exactly. Mr. Dulles requested you spend a few days in our office and plant here so that you have first-hand knowledge of your new employer. You must be an authentic journalist in Paris. For your own sake, of course, but things could be a bit sticky here, too, were you seen in another light.

A few days later, Ken dropped in at the newspaper office to take Miss Finster to lunch and give her her final instructions, train tickets, and railroad schedules. He also instructed her on contacts in Paris and necessary passwords.

A woman named Berta will arrive at your hotel in the morning to see you to the station. She will inspect your luggage and clothing to double-check that nothing will give you away.

Like what? Erin challenged.

He shrugged. Anything. An American coin, wrong clothing labels, a New York subway ticket. You don’t smoke, so we needn’t worry that anyone might find traces of American tobacco in your pockets or your handbag.

Erin resented his condescending attitude, but she went home that evening and double-checked every single item she would take into occupied France. Even her underwear was authentic. Most of her wardrobe had come from European refugees whose luggage had been lost on arrival in New York—there should be little problem with her clothing.

The next morning Berta, buxom, blonde, and of an undeterminable age, went through the whole process again. She dumped Erin’s handbag on the bed and pawed through its contents of cosmetics, a wallet, loose coins, a handkerchief, and a small notepad. She tore a page from the notepad that was clean but bore the imprint of a note from a discarded previous page.

Can’t be too careful, she said. "What’s this?"

The key to my suitcase.

No. What’s this on the chain?

Oh, my God!

She had overlooked a silver charm for a bracelet, a tiny replica of the Statue of Liberty. David had given it to her the day he asked her to marry him, for that was where he had proposed. It was a link to David, the only one she had on this side of the Atlantic. She was amazed; she had used that key repeatedly, never noticing the charm. Am I forgetting already?

I can’t give that up.

Well, you can’t take it with you, Berta said flatly. She opened a drawer of the desk. Here. Take it off the chain and put it in this envelope. I’ll put it in the embassy safe for you.

Reluctantly, Erin did as she was told, but she wondered if she would ever see it again. The oversight had shaken her confidence. Where she was headed, such a mistake could be costly.

Very costly.

Chapter 2

January, 1944

The journey to Paris might have seemed uneventful for someone other than a novice OSS agent, nerves on edge. Both French and German authorities meticulously inspected passengers’ papers and luggage at the frontier. When two travelers whose documents failed scrutiny were removed from her car, Erin’s apprehension soared. She forced herself to breath evenly and act naturally. She even managed a smile for a conductor who flirted with her. Passengers endured long delays, not because of winter weather, but because rail lines had been bombed by Allied planes. Sabotage—blown bridges, rails torn from their beds—also caused delays. Others grumbled at time lost; Erin silently exulted. Delays signified blows against the Germans.

Exhausted and longing for a bath, she arrived at one of the stations of outer Paris on a cold, misty afternoon. As she stepped onto the platform—one of three separating tracks—her senses were assailed by the usual smells of a train station—used oil and foul smoke—and the sights and sounds of passengers’ greetings and farewells. Squealing brakes, puffs of steam, whistles, trash on the tracks, and the noise of a departing train added to the atmosphere. She dismissed these details, anxious to find that bath.

German soldiers in gray-green uniforms and clutching weapons were more prevalent here in the capital than at previous stops. A familiar sight now, but still unnerving. As the train she had arrived on pulled away, she saw more soldiers lined up at intervals along another track across the way. There, a train moved very slowly as it passed through the station. Open flat cars transported military equipment—vehicles, artillery guns, ammunition and other supplies. She heard faint cries of anguish—human cries—coming from closed boxcars and she saw hands held out in supplication from air vents.

No! It couldn’t be.

She stood in open-mouthed shock. Stories abounded of Germans purging their own land of undesirables, relocating them to camps in the East. But this was France. And those stories were propaganda—exaggerations. Weren’t they?

Erin recalled an incident four years earlier when she was still a student at Strasbourg, in Alsace. She had gone with two roommates, Ursula and Marie, to Wiesbaden, Germany, Ursula’s home, for a long weekend. Ursula’s brother, Konrad met the three girls at the train station. In an obviously new army uniform, he proudly wore the shiny symbols of a low-ranking soldier and bragged of the might of the invincible German army which had rolled over Poland some months earlier.

Nobody can stand up to us, he asserted.

It certainly looked that way, Erin had thought at the time. Konrad’s pride had brought to mind her brother Alfred proudly showing off his navy uniform. His first leave home after basic training had coincided with her visit home before leaving for a semester of study in France. Later, Alfred, stationed in Hawaii, basked in tropical warmth, as she and Ursula and Marie fought for every degree of heat in their apartment. Now, Alfred lay with fellow sailors at the bottom of Pearl Harbor. She shook her head to bring her mind back to Paris.

But memory would not let go of that earlier winter in Europe. Despite her parents’ objections, Erin had accepted the invitation to study abroad. Her immediate academic goal: to improve her French, though Europe, generating much of the world’s news, was the place to be for a journalism major. The three young women had looked forward to their self-proclaimed holiday.

Always eager to glean details to use in her writing, Erin had observed carefully the conditions and attitudes of people in both France and Germany. The French in Alsace—land tossed back and forth between France and Germany for centuries—took a wary, but stoic view of neighbors to the East. They would not welcome a conquering army—their area had suffered much in the Great War—but they also knew that ordinary life would eventually carry on.

In that spring of 1940, Germans had been confident and proud, eager to show visitors the achievements of National Socialism. Never mind the fact that personal freedoms were denied, that any organization with a whisper of opposition was suppressed, or that certain citizens seemed to simply disappear from time to time. Unemployment was down. Everyone had bread, potatoes, and a bit of meat. Life was good. German pride had been restored.

One afternoon, the three roommates paused in the midst of a shopping excursion at a conditerei where they enjoyed coffee and delicious tarts accompanied by murmurs of "Oh, I shouldn’t, but it’s so good." As they came out of the bake shop, they noticed a gathering of people and some sort of commotion down the street.

What’s happening there? Marie turned in that direction.

Ursula grabbed her arm. We should stay away.

I want to see, too. Erin started walking toward the group. The other two followed, Marie eagerly, Ursula reluctantly.

Ten or fifteen people of both sexes and varying ages stood in a semi-circle, laughing. As the girls neared the group, it parted slightly; they saw four adults—three men in black suits and a woman in a flowered street dress—on hands and knees.

Wh—what are they doing? Marie craned her neck to see better.

Good grief! Erin said.

Four middle-aged people, on their hands and knees, were scrubbing the sidewalk—with toothbrushes! The woman sobbed as she did so. This was no fraternity initiation prank! Several of the onlookers were young men wearing armbands emblazoned with swastikas. One of these laughed and put his boot to the posterior of a kneeling man.

Put some effort into it, Jew!

The man fell flat; his face scraped against the sidewalk, dislodging his glasses. Blood gushed from his nose. The onlookers laughed louder. Another of them, also sporting the swastika armband, kicked the downed man in the midriff. Erin thought surely he had suffered broken ribs. Two police officers hovering near the heckling group did nothing.

Can’t you stop this? Erin asked in German of one of the policemen.

He shrugged. Why? The sidewalk is dirty.

Well, I— Erin started, but Ursula jerked her aside and there was urgent fear in her tone.

Don’t, Erin. Don’t make a scene. Please. Come.

With a backward glance, Erin responded to her friend’s terror, but she said, Why? Why couldn’t we do something—say something at least?

It would do no good, Ursula replied. We could have been arrested.

Arrested? For what? Erin demanded.

Disturbing the peace. Public disorder. Whatever they said.

They?

The audience for that show were Nazis. They have huge powers. My father works for the city government.

I don’t understand, Erin said.

Marie spoke up. If Ursula gets in trouble, it affects her family.

Even my brother, Ursula said softly.

My heavens, Erin whispered. How did this happen? How did Germany come to this?

Ursula became defensive. Well, it’s not so bad as you make it sound. Who cares about a few Jews, anyway?

Erin closed her mouth and glanced again at the knot of people on the sidewalk. She was appalled by the ugly scene of humiliation and brutality—and that she had done nothing—nothing—to stop it. The fact that, as a foreigner, she could do very little failed to make her feel better. The incident not only put a damper on their holiday, but also forced a wedge in her friendship with Ursula. In the years since, Erin had exchanged letters with Marie from time to time, but she had lost track of Ursula.

She shook her head again to dispel the memory. Transfixed, she simply stared at that train across three sets of tracks in a Paris station.

Here, move along, Fraulein. A stern soldier gestured with his rifle to the exit.

With a backward look, Erin moved.

Encumbered by a shoulder bag and her purse, she dragged her suitcase the length of the platform, thumped down stairs to a passageway under the tracks, and up another set of stairs into the station itself. Outside, she looked in vain for a taxi. No taxis in Paris, one of the biggest cities in the world?

Taxi, Mademoiselle?

Despite the fractured French accent, she recognized the voice immediately. Condor. Surprised and glad to see a familiar face—even his—she gave no sign she knew him.

"Oui, s’il vous plait." Yes. Please.

He took her suitcase, propelled her away from the station, and said, Actually, there’ve been no real taxis in Paris since 1940. They walked perhaps a hundred yards. Your chariot.

Erin stared. The vehicle before her was a tiny toy of a car with only three wheels; a strange contraption on the back spewed wood smelling smoke. She recalled reading of Europe’s solution to acute gasoline shortages: automobiles could run on wood and coal like locomotives.

She watched anxiously as he strapped her luggage to the top. Her meager belongings dwarfed the little car. He announced he was taking her to a small hotel on a back street off the Champs Elysees.

She said, I wasn’t told I would be met, but I’m glad to see you. Are we working together?

No. I was just to pick you up. You are to ‘sit tight’—wait to be contacted.

By you?

No. This is the extent of my chivalry. Too risky. My commie friends are wary of newcomers, especially now with rumors of invasion. Besides, I won’t be here.

In Paris, you mean?

"Right. I’m going north—Normandy—to train maquis. My part of Hermes."

Maquis?

Yeah. You know—French partisans. Guerillas.

"I know what maquis are, she said impatiently. I’m just surprised. That’s all."

Yeah. Well. It’s a man’s job, you see. Training people to kill, setting bombs here and there.

Erin did not miss his innuendo. As I recall, at the Farm women were as proficient in such skills as men.

His scowl told her that he remembered as well as she that on two occasions she herself had bested him in hand-to-hand confrontations. He had not taken defeat well.

He waved his hand dismissively. Anyway, while I’m out in the boondocks sleeping on the ground and scrounging for food, you’ll be here in the lap of luxury—probably warming some German officer’s bed.

You truly are a nasty piece of work, she said calmly.

That’s me. A real bastard. He grinned with perverse satisfaction at her response.

As Condor navigated his way through a sea of bicycles and horse-drawn vehicles, Erin tried to see through the mist some of the sights in one of the world’s most exciting cities. But the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe were blotted out by a recurring image of boxcars on a train track.

During the next three weeks Erin cultivated her persona as an eager young journalist. She bought a second-hand typewriter and in the privacy of her room struggled briefly with the unfamiliar French keyboard. She became a regular at the post office from which she wired her stories to Bern.

Following Herr Mueller’s advice, she avoided reporting anything remotely political. Her first story centered on that initial ride to her hotel, and she wrote of the various ways French people coped with transportation and other difficulties during the occupation.

The bicycle has become ubiquitous, she wrote, and does not discriminate as to age or station in life. Grandmothers hop on their bicycles to shop as their grandsons ride off to school on theirs.

Bicycles were also fashioned into rickshaws for carrying passengers—improvised taxis—or had flat two-wheeled trailers attached to transport cargo. Nor was it merely farmers who drove vehicles drawn by horses or mules. The few cars on the streets were mostly occupied by Germans. Occasionally French citizens were allowed a tightly controlled amount of fuel for a specific journey—if German authorities permitted the trip.

She wrote of housewives dealing with food shortages, inventing new recipes to accommodate severe rationing of cooking oil, sugar, and flour. A shortage of shoes was yet another problem; it was solved in part by the use of wooden soles with uppers of woven, crocheted, or knitted fabric, only occasionally of leather. The big drawback to these shoes, Erin noted to herself, was that they made a good deal of noise on cobblestone streets. French men and women out after the curfew were likely to be seen in their stockings or barefooted.

Knowing full well copies of her stories could be in German hands even before they reached Switzerland, Erin kept an upbeat tone to her work. She told of the camaraderie of people sharing rations for a party, and of a general attitude of c’est la vie, that’s life. She did not write of negative factors—of the curfew. For instance, that French people caught out after the stipulated hour were—regardless of their reasons—apt to face a firing squad the next morning if a German soldier had been killed during the night.

Expecting the resistance to contact her immediately, she settled into the hotel, an inconspicuous establishment which accommodated both long-term and short-term residents. Her suite of two small rooms was decorated in a garish combination of flowers and stripes in reds, gold, and green. The bedroom had a sink with a mirror above it and a small tank on the wall at the side produced hot water erratically. The toilet and bath were down the hall. After several days, she began to think there had already been a foul up when her contact made himself known.

Ah, Mademoiselle Finster, the concierge of her hotel addressed her quietly as he held the door for her, you will find the blue Parisian sky welcoming today.

She looked at him, startled, but quickly gave the countersign, The green French countryside welcomes also.

He smiled at her and walked out to the portico with her. A man of some years, with grizzled gray hair, and light brown eyes, he appeared to be giving her directions as he continued the conversation.

I am Pierre. Your contact.

I had no idea.

He smiled. That is as it should be.

You have instructions for me?

We must first establish your cover firmly. We must give the Boche no cause for suspicion. He used the popular French term of contempt for the Germans.

I’m ready now.

Soon, little bird. Soon. He stepped back as a man approached the door. You’ll find it easily, Mademoiselle.

She quelled her impatience. The resistance naturally wanted to be sure she was accepted for what she purported to be. She had registered with the French police and the German Sicherheitsdienst, or SD, an arm of the dreaded Gestapo. Erin felt intimidated as the uniformed figure behind a tall desk studied her papers with a suspicious frown. He kept looking from her to the papers and back again. A portly man, he had a round face, small dark eyes set close together and thinning blond hair. He perspired profusely, though the room was not overly warm. The buttons on his too-tight tunic pulled unattractively. The perfect Aryan male, Erin thought. Here was an enemy, though—one with power. A single word from him and she would be done for. Finally, he recorded information in a ledger, stamped her papers, and passed them back to her with a disdainful gesture of dismissal.

Not even a wilkommen, she observed silently.

After registering with the SD, she was aware more than once of being followed. Thank God for that bit of training at the Farm. The first time it happened, two men tailed her as she left the hotel. She spotted one behind her as she turned a corner; another was across the street. Whenever she slowed down or paused, he seemed to take interest in what she knew to be mostly empty store windows. Another time a couple pretending to be tourists followed her as she explored a church. And there were others. Giving no indication of being aware of her stalkers and making no attempts to elude them, she hoped she had thrown their suspicions off by keeping—so far—strictly to the journalist role.

She indulged her desire to do some sightseeing. In this, too, she had an ulterior motive: to learn the city as well as she could. Who knew what pieces of knowledge might come in handy? As a college student, she had been to Paris before. However, those jaunts had not given her the detailed knowledge she needed now. She had loved the city then and she still did, despite some rather grim changes. She remembered being determined to one day show the sights to David. They even talked of honeymooning here—but that was BTB: before the blitzkrieg.

As weeks and then months had elapsed since David’s death, she found grief slipping into anger. Anger at herself for not nurturing the grief. Anger at David for leaving her. He’d had a choice. He’d volunteered instead of waiting for the draft. He might still be alive—she might still have much to live for—if only he had waited. At least her brother Colin was safe. Thank God for that! Colin—her twin, was back to flying bombers out of Britain. He’d been shot down over France, but with help from French partisans, had made his way back to England. News of his escape had been welcomed by his family shortly before Erin finished her OSS training.

Can’t let you get ahead of me, though, Colin. She silently continued the on-going sibling rivalry, then turned her attention back to the city.

Everywhere were reminders that this was a city occupied by a foreign power. New street signs in German and signs in many shop windows were clearly aimed at the conquerors. German soldiers appeared in every public forum—at concerts, the opera, theatre, nightclubs, museums, cafes, and neighborhood bistros—always in uniform and always, or nearly always, in groups of two or more.

Thus it was that on a return visit to Notre Dame, Erin was struck by the presence of a lone German officer. She nearly collided with him as she stepped from bright sunlight into the darkened interior of the cathedral.

"Entshuldingen sie mir, bitte, she murmured. Excuse me, please. I didn’t see you, she went on in German. The change in light—"

"Das macht aber nicht. he said. That’s quite all right. I was just standing here admiring the stained glass." He gestured to the huge rose window high above the entrance.

She craned her neck backward. Spanning more than twenty feet across, the window depicted various biblical scenes in brilliantly colored glass. Lovely, isn’t it?

Very. Surpassed only by those at Chartres. Have you seen the cathedral at Chartres?

No, I’ve not had a chance yet.

As her eyes adjusted to the interior light, she studied him covertly: a proper German officer in his spit and polish uniform, carrying his hat in his hand in the church. He was perhaps thirty, though not much older, and taller than average, maybe six feet. He had light brown, sun-streaked hair. She noticed an array of medals on his uniform, including an Iron Cross. Oh, Lord! He wore Abwehr insignia! Intelligence. His blue eyes expressed only casual friendliness as he asked, Are you new to Paris?

Yes.

Her adverse feelings towards anyone in a German uniform were heightened by the fact that an Abwehr officer would be especially alert to spies. She had to play this tourist role very carefully. However, he was the first person she had spoken to in something other than an official capacity since her arrival in Paris. Truth be told, if he were French, she would have welcomed idle friendly conversation. But—a German? She recalled the watchword at the Farm: Eyes and ears open all the time. Opportunity comes in strange forms.