Waiting for the Violins (5 page)

“Dunno. All I’ve been told is that they’re going to send us around all these schools to learn things they don’t teach you back home.” Antonia hefted her suitcase onto the only other cot in the room and began transferring her clothing into a set of drawers at the foot of it.

“Yes, skulky things like living in the woods, breaking a fellow’s neck, jumping from airplanes. Well, if it knocks off a few Jerries, I’m all for it.” Dora slid long legs into a pair of dark-green slacks and slipped on a gray turtleneck. Against her tousled hair, it looked quite attractive, and Antonia was a bit surprised she was beginning to notice things like that again. Perhaps she was finally shaking off the trauma of Dunkirk.

“The airplane part, for sure. But we may not be doing anything as dramatic as neck-breaking.”

“Well, I hope we do. The Jerries banged up my fiancé over in France, so I figure they’ve got it coming. Anyhow, I’ve got water on. Would’ja like some tea?”

“Sounds lovely. ‘Banged up?’ I’m sorry to hear it. Is he all right now?”

“No, he’s not. He’s paralyzed, see? Got him in the legs, the bastards. So the first Jerry I run across, you know where I’m going to shoot him. What about you? You got a beau?” Dora spooned black tea into a teapot and poured the boiling water over it. The fragrance reminded Antonia that she was hungry.

“Uh, no. I was a nurse. You know, one of the Queen Alexandras. I was injured at Dunkirk, so I’ve only just now got back into the battle, so to speak. No time for a beau.”

“Dunkirk! Oh, my, you’re a real veteran, then. Me, I’m just a simple secretary they called up because my mum’s from Marseille and I speak French.”

“I do too, though in my case it’s because I lived over there.” Antonia saw no reason to give details.

Dora poured the steaming tea into two mugs and brought one over to her. “No beau? That’s a crying shame. And now they’ll have us running around in the dirt in khakis. The lads like that.” She blew into her cup and squinted in an attempt at lewdness. “And if things happen in our off time, who’s to find out, eh?”

Antonia forced a smile. The thought of meeting a man romantically in training hadn’t crossed her mind. “Somebody’s been reading romance novels.”

“Hey, a girl’s got to fill up the lonely hours, especially when her fiancé’s incapacitated. If you know what I mean.” She strode across the room to her night table and picked up a battered paperback.

“I’ve just finished this one. Take it. It’s on me. You’ll need something to relax your brain after all the stuff they’re going to pack into it during the day.”

Antonia glanced at the title.
The Grenadier and the Widow.
She settled back on her cot. Well, why not? It was hours before the canteen would open for supper. She opened to the second chapter and read the opening line.

“Oh, Pierre, how I’ve missed you,” the widow murmured, as he sat down on her bed and slid his hand under the covers
.

Ah, it was going to be
that
kind of romance novel.

*

Antonia flipped through the pages of her notebook to review the lessons of the last few days. Across the room, smoking a military-issue cigarette, Dora did the same.

“I had no idea there was so much to know about German uniforms,” Dora complained. “There’s no bloody end to it.” She took a drag and blew smoke sideways. “But I got to tell you, much as I hate the buggers, I like some of the uniforms. The black ones with the high boots are really smashing. Our Tommies, well, I love ’em to pieces, but they’re kind of drab in comparison.”

“You think so?” Antonia studied the pages of SS officers. “Yeah, but according to this, those are only fancy-dress uniforms. In the occupied countries, they’re all wearing gray-green field uniforms like the Wehrmacht.”

“Pity. Have you learned the SS ranks yet?

“I think so.” She stared up at the ceiling. “Let’s see, there’s
Sturmmann, Rottenführer, Unterscharführer, Scharführer, Oberscharführer, Hauptscharführer—
Boy, they really like the sound of ‘Führer,’ don’t they? Then there’s
Sturmscharführer, Untersturmführer, Hauptsturmführer.
”

“And the Wehrmacht?”

“Yeah, but don’t make me name them. They’re all so repetitive.”

“Would you recognize them by their uniforms?”

“Not jolly likely. It took me six months to recognize our
own
men by their insignias.”

“Well, somebody’s got more homework to do, doesn’t she?” Dora smirked. “Okay, then let’s move on to Belgian geography?”

“Easy. Flanders up, Wallonia and the Ardenne down, Brussels in the middle.”

“Who’s the king?”

“Leopold III. Surrendered to the Germans against the advice of his cabinet, for which some condemn him as a traitor, but others hail him for saving the lives of his defeated army. Technically a prisoner of war.”

“What happened to the Belgian army?”

Antonia dropped back onto her pillow and emitted a long sigh. “Oh, please. Can we stop now? My brain’s turned to porridge.”

“Yeah, I’m burnt out myself.” She glanced at her watch. “Crikey, it’s ten o’clock, and we’ve got to be up at six tomorrow. Fifteen minutes and it’s lights out for us.”

“Good. I’ve got just enough eyesight for a few pages of your trashy novel. Let’s see, where was I?” She opened at her bookmark and began to read out loud.

He stood in the doorway of her room. His blue tunic was dusty from the ride, his white jodhpurs stained by the saddle. Belinda pulled her blanket up to her chin. “Dear lady, do not fear,” he said. “No man shall lay a hand on you while you are under my protection.” She was glad for his protection, but the bulge in his white trousers told her she would have to pay for it.

“See? That’s the way to win a war.” Dora rubbed out the butt of her cigarette. “Hero rescues heroine, shags her, and in the morning he drives away the enemy.”

Antonia dropped the book on the floor. “Yeah, but what about us? Who do we get to shag?”

*

Antonia took her seat in the classroom, little units of dots and dashes buzzing through her head. After two months of memorizing Morse code, she was finally ready for real wireless transmitters.

“Welcome to our new ‘pianists,’ the instructor said. “As you are aware, every team sent into the war zone will have a radio operator to maintain contact with headquarters. However, all agents are required to have some knowledge of the skill.

“Please make up groups of two and put on the earphones,” he said. “We’ll start with you, Miss Forrester. You are to transmit this message, and you, Mr. Devon, will receive and transcribe it. Then you will reverse roles. Are you ready?”

Thus began an entire morning of back-and-forth transmitting, at first awkward and error-filled and broken by moments of frustration, then increasingly with ease. At the lunch break, the instructor signaled for them to remove the headphones.

“Very good, both of you. Miss Forrester, you are obviously a bit nervous. Everyone has a distinct ‘fist,’ but for the moment, yours is a bit jittery. We’ll smooth that out in the coming days. We’ll also work on speed. Remember, while you’re transmitting, the enemy’s directional finders can detect you. You’ll want to send your message in less than three minutes and then shut down.”

“Will we be carrying a radio like this?” Antonia gestured toward the black box on the table that they’d been using.

“We hope not. We’ve got our men working on developing smaller versions that can fit into a valise.”

“What about encrypting?” Antonia asked. “Surely we’re not going to transmit open messages.”

“No, of course not. We use what we call ‘poem codes.’ To be precise, the sender and receiver have a pre-arranged poem, like a Shakespeare sonnet. The sender chooses some phrases from the poem and gives each of their letters a number. The numbers make up the key for some cypher that is then used to transmit the message.”

Antonia frowned. “What happens if the agent is captured and forced to reveal the poem?”

“Well, that’s the weakness, of course. Obviously, the idea is to not be captured.”

Obviously.

*

“Sabotage,” the instructor said, pausing with upraised chalk, “is a fine art.”

A soft chuckle went through the room of a dozen students.

One of the men in the front row spoke, a well-muscled soldier whose posture, even when he sat, projected confrontation. “I don’t see what’s so fine art about jammin’ a few sticks of dynamite under a railway track and runnin’ like hell.”

The rest of the class laughed, and the soldier glanced over his shoulder at his admirers.

The instructor was unperturbed. “On lucky days, lads like you can do that, and get away with it. But the tracks are patrolled, and you could get caught. And if you just blow up tracks, the enemy can replace them in a day.” He turned to the blackboard.

“So let’s look at some other tools,” he said, and chalked a list onto the board, naming them as he wrote: “plastic explosives, shaped charges, time fuses, incendiaries in coal piles, abrasive lubricants, land mines disguised as cow dung, and…” he wrote in large letters at the bottom, “especially for you, Mr. Rhydderch, sledge hammers.”

He turned to face the class again. “Imagine, if you will, the advantage of paralyzing a train full of German troops and supplies halfway to the front. If you strike the locomotive rather than the track, you have an enormous obstacle frozen on that track, an obstacle that has to be moved before the entire line is operational again.”

He set his chalk on the rim of the board. “Good sabotage is not always dramatic and is most effective if it undermines a large system.”

“Such as blowing up power stations,” the Welshman added.

“Ah, I see you have a penchant for explosives, Mr. Rhydderch. I grant you, a big explosion is very satisfying, but if you can achieve a similar amount of disorder to the enemy while remaining invisible, your life may be longer.”

“What about guns? Will we be supplying weapons?” The Welshman seemed to enjoy being the center of attention.

“Yes. After a preliminary reconnaissance with local movements, we’ll drop containers of rifles, ammunition, other material.” He strode over to a cabinet and unlocked the padlock on its doors. “And since you’ve brought up the subject of weapons, Mr. Rhydderch, we will move on to that now,” he said over his shoulder while he drew something long and metallic from a high shelf.

“This is our weapon of choice for the resisters we hope to inspire.” He laid the object on the desk in front of him. “The Sten gun.”

Antonia leaned forward from her second row seat for a better look.

“Called the MkI Sten T-40/1, it has just rolled off the Enfield factory line. You will note how light it is. Also simple to operate, with a minimum of maintenance. It has a flash-hider, so the enemy can’t target you by the flash, and a forward handle to hold it securely. The stock is a simple double tube that can be rotated forward for stowing. It has a horizontal magazine with a thirty-two-round capacity, and its barrel is just a steel cylinder. Ideal for your average Frenchman to use on the street.”

“And what about us?”

“You’ll be issued side arms. In addition, special missions will also include one of these.”

He laid a variety of knives on his desk. “Obviously the smaller blades are designed for concealment, in these cases in a coat lapel or a shoe.”

“But this is my personal favorite,” he said, reaching again into the cabinet. “The wire shoelace.” He opened his hand, revealing a black cord. “Totally innocuous in your shoe, but once you take it out, you merely walk up behind the target and loop it around his throat. Then, before he can react, you place your knee in his back and pull. He will instinctively grasp the wire and not you. Of course success depends completely on the element of surprise.”

The Welshman interrupted. “When I were a lad, a good fist were all I needed in a scrap.”

“That’s a good point, Mr. Rhydderch. We will give you instruction at another time on physical self-defense, though against armed Gestapo, it will be of limited use. And this brings me to our last point. The ultimate ‘escape,’ so to speak.”

Reaching this time into the breast pocket of his uniform, he produced two items: a lipstick tube and what looked like the cork of a wine bottle. He unscrewed them both, revealing capsules at the bottom, and set them on his desk.

“Suicide ampules. Two of them. We can also conceal them inside coat buttons. I will not dwell on the subject, but the fact is, if you are captured, you can be certain of harsh interrogation.”

One of the students interpreted. “Torture.”

“Yes, torture. So, these contain potassium cyanide. Keep them on your person for critical moments when other escape is impossible and it’s likely you’ll be tortured. If you bite down on them and then swallow, you’ll pass out within a minute or two. Your brain is affected quite quickly, so you feel nothing when your heart stops a few minutes later.”

He returned the capsules to a box. “Agents do get captured. That’s a reality you must be aware of. And no one here expects you to stand up long under interrogation.”

Torture. She hadn’t much thought about that. She wondered if the SOE had a course on that, but the subject had changed, and the others were already standing, ready to view the model locomotive and the display of explosive devices. Nothing like imagining explosions to take your mind off suffering.

She gathered her notes and pens and followed the class out the door.

Chapter Seven

February 1942

“Welcome to RAF Ringway parachute training school, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you’re all ready for some excitement.” The instructor, who—perhaps deliberately—bore a significant resemblance to General Montgomery, paced as he spoke.

Antonia looked around her for familiar faces and spotted the mouthy young Welshman. What was his name again? Oh, right. Rhydderch. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his chest thrown out, stalwart and a bit smug, while she shivered in her oversized RAF overalls.