Vivi nodded with great reluctance.
After he left them, Vivi felt sick. She hadn’t realised how much she had started to feel for François… Marcus, she reminded herself, with great bitterness. François did not exist! Brushing away tears, she made a decision she would use all the skills she had learned with SOE to find out everything she could. She would not let this Nazi get under her skin.
In the afternoon, as she leaned in to wrap the bandage around his back, his eyes met hers for a minute. ‘I’m sorry I had to lie to you,’ he whispered to her in French, and there he was again, her François. He made her tremble; it was such an easy act he could slip into, and she fought back her feelings. When she didn’t answer him, he gently touched her arm. ‘I hated doing it, please believe me, but we are at war. We do what we have to do.’
She stared at him with disdain. ‘You didn’t need to prey on my hurt and pain just to get information.’
He genuinely looked remorseful. But she pulled her arm away from him before he could say any more.
Vivi held herself back from slapping him. Not just for his deceit, but for the feelings that were still brimming inside her. She wanted to hurt him for putting them there.
Vivi continued to wind his bandage around his chest and he looked at her with surprise. ‘Are you trying to cut off my circulation? Maybe kill one body part at a time?’
He was being light with her, but she was having none of it. She finished her work and turned and left the room without giving him a backward glance.
Moving downstairs, the matron beckoned her into her office again.
‘I’ve just heard from the authorities. The government is sending us another captive in the next day or so. He’s en route. They’ll put them in the room together, and hopefully our prisoner will open up to him, and we will learn more.’ She went on to explain the situation. As luck would have it, a German reconnaissance mission had been shot down in the North Sea, and three men had been taken prisoner. Two were on the way to jail, but one needed medical attention. They would equip the room with listening equipment when Vonstein was taken out for a procedure. The purpose was to try to get Vonstein to relax and chat and then they could glean more information about the enemy.
Vivi nodded and started to leave the room.
‘Vivi.’
She turned.
‘Thank you for doing this. I know how difficult it must be. But we can make a difference, here in this little hospital, if we find out information that can help our boys.’
Vivi nodded and reminded herself, once again, this was why she was doing this: for the good of the country, for all the people that she’d lost. Maybe she could put things right, even in a small way.
23
Present day
The day after she visited the museum in Helford, Sophie decided to book passage on a private boat trip over to France. They ran from the harbour on bank holidays and other occasional weekends so locals could have a few days on the continent and buy cheap wine.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ her auntie Jean asked as they sat eating dinner the evening before. ‘Wouldn’t you rather stay here in Cornwall, relax a little longer?’
She shook her head. ‘I need something to keep me busy. I have things I’m…’ she paused to find the right words, ‘…dealing with in London, and with everything I have been through in the past year I feel as if I need to be doing something more to keep my mind active.’
Jean nodded with knowing, apparently not wanting to ask for any clarification. Since Emily’s and her mother’s death, many people had responded this way when she displayed any kind of emotion. The nodding, the squeezing of her hand, some even quickly changing the subject. No one really knew how to deal with this kind of tragedy. It was too raw and unfair and words just didn’t seem to be enough.
Sophie turned her mind to what she was there to do. Through her research, she had managed to gather a lot more information about the route the Secret Service had taken from Cornwall through France to Paris, via the Helford Flotilla – a group of fishing boats that sailed right from the village – and she was eager to investigate further.
She arrived at the dock early in the morning. There was a brisk chill at the water’s edge, though her group of fellow passengers were in good spirits. Finding a seat close to a window, her mind drifted as the captain of the vessel droned out safety instructions in a strong Cornish accent. Seagulls bobbed and weaved in the surf looking for their breakfast. It was hard for her to imagine what this port would have been like in wartime.
Was what she was doing futile? she wondered. The lawyer in her reminded her there were always so many ways to see a story. But it was hard facts that told the truth, and they were something glaringly missing in Vivienne’s story. Yes, she had gone with the Nazi, but why? Until she uncovered more facts that would help her understand Vivienne’s reasons, she would not be able to settle.
It was a long trip, and as the boat finally approached the small port of Le Diben in Brittany, Sophie shuddered. How strange to think that her great-aunt had known a similar view nearly seventy years before.
As Sophie stepped onto the quay, the seaside town was quiet in early spring, mainly closed for the season, though the cafés, restaurants and gift shops were all open. Sophie had wanted to take Vivienne’s exact journey to Paris. The spies’ course had also been outlined in the museum in Helford and she knew one of the coffee shops, the one written in her aunt’s poetry book, acted as a port of call for visiting spies, connecting them with their handlers and ensuring their safe onward trip. Maybe it would be a good place to start?
The café Sophie had read about was called the Liaison, and it was still open. Walking down the cobbled streets she found it and stepped inside. In contrast to the otherwise sleepy port town, it had a lively atmosphere. Modern art pieces were illuminated by spotlights and loud jazz music was playing. At the counter, a coffee machine was steaming with life as patrons sat along the bar, chatting to the baristas. The smell of fresh coffee and warm pastry reached out to greet her; apple and custard tarts, cheese and ham filled baguettes, and chocolate croissants. Her mouth watered as she made her way to the counter.
In her broken high-school French she ordered a coffee and one of the flaky pastries that was calling to her from a glass counter below the bar.
‘You are English, no?’ the jovial young man behind the gleaming coffee machine asked as she ordered.
Sophie nodded, knowing for sure what had given her away – languages had never been her strength.
‘You are here for a holiday this early in the year?’ he questioned, raising his eyebrows.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m here to do a little research.’
‘Research? In this little fishing town?’
She smiled. ‘I’m actually on my way to Paris. I’m hoping to follow the trail of a relative during World War Two.’
‘The spy network. You are following the trail of the spy network.’ He smiled with knowing. ‘Our café was very famous during that time, did you know?’
‘That I have heard,’ she said. ‘I googled you.’
He laughed. ‘Here, let me show you. We have a special place dedicated to the people that did this.’