Madeleine's War Read Free Page A

hair hung down, stuck to her skin. She blew it away from her mouth. “I—am—a—Canadian.” There was another movement of her lips and this time she spat at him.
    Slowly, deliberately, he raised his arm and flicked the spittle off his uniform with a gloved finger.
    â€œVery well,” he said. “You want to play it like that.” Gesturing to the other men, he continued: “Take off her clothes, tie her up again, and put her against the wall over there. She’ll be easier to bury and harder to identify later if she’s naked.” He nodded to the darkness beyond where the bright beams from the arc lights reached.
    She struggled, or she tried to, but the men were too strong for her and, soon enough, she was naked and tied up again, but standing.
    The man with the birthmark changed the angle of the arc lights so that they shone at full strength on the farm wall—a long windowless barn. In front of it, the ground was covered in dark, damp patches. Blood.
    The men manoeuvred Madeleine in front of the wall. Feeling the stickiness of the blood on the soles of her bare feet, she looked down, and a whimper of despair leaked into the night air. She was thinking: How many others had been executed on this spot? And how recently? The two men disappeared beyond the range of the lights.
    The thug with the flame on his face moved forward.
    â€œDo you want a blindfold?”
    She shook her head. She was near to tears. “You don’t understand…I’m a—”
    â€œNo.
Halt! Genug!
Enough. You’ve had your chance. We’re not brutes like you Nazis but we’re not fools either. Fly into a restricted zone in plain clothes?…You were
asking
for trouble.”
    He took a pace back. The two other men had reappeared, this time with rifles. They stood on either side of him.
    He took his pistol out of its holster and held it at his side.
    â€œI ask you one last time: What did you come here to do? What—who—is your target?”
    When she didn’t immediately reply, he raised his pistol and took aim. The other men raised their rifles and did the same.
    She was crying, but then she stopped. She shook her hair free of her face and stood up straight. Tears streamed down her cheeks but she looked them in the eye.
    There was a long pause.
    â€œOkay, give her a blanket,” I shouted from beyond the reach of the lights.
    A woman in a blue nurse’s uniform ran from behind me out of the dark.
    â€œHere you are, dear,” she murmured, putting the blanket around Madeleine’s shoulders. Madeleine collapsed into the woman’s arms, and she was carried away.
    The men in uniform lowered their rifles. One took out a packet of cigarettes and handed them around.
    â€œShe did well,” said the man with the birthmark.
    â€œNice tits,” said one of the other men. “Oh, sorry, sir,” he added, seeing me approach. “I didn’t—”
    â€œWhat are those?” I said, ignoring him. “Craven A? May I?”
    As I savoured the cigarette—very much against doctor’s orders—I watched as Madeleine Dirac was led away. She was clearly bewildered, as was only natural, but I was about to explain everything. First, though, she would be given a hot shower, dressed in her nurse’s uniform, fortified with hot soup—and, if she wanted one, a cigarette.
    â€”
    FORTY - FIVE MINUTES LATER , Madeleine Dirac was shown into my office in the set of buildings that we in the organisation I worked for called “The Farm.” It was true that it had once been a farm and it was still surrounded by three hundred acres of woodland, arable meadows, and rocky cliffs overlooking the shore of the North Sea. But it had other uses too.
    â€œOffice” is rather a grand word for what in fact was—or had been—a stable before the war, and still had one of those doors where the upper half spends much of its life open. Now,