The other officer stepped forward. “I am Dr. Maass,” he said in English. “I will serve as medical officer.”
Marian appraised him, and she did not care for what she saw, although noting that his English accent was flawless. He seemed a man too pleased with himself, too smooth, and she wondered how much time he must have spent in England to gain mastery over the language and what information he might have gathered and passed on while there.
She held her hand out with the unspoken message.
After an uncomfortable silence, Maass reached for it and kissed it without a word.
“Now,” Marian asked in German, “what can I do for you?”
Many hours later, a physically and emotionally spent Marian collapsed on the sofa in the upstairs lounge.
“You were brilliant,” Stephen said, “and you were absolutely right about their observance of protocol. They can’t help themselves.”
“We can thank Benito Mussolini for the idea,” she replied. “He forced German visitors to be announced and walk past the grandeur of his surroundings, to approach him across a long, huge office.
“I knew we were winning when I heard them dusting off their boots at the front door. That showed they intended to treat us with respect.
“Besides, Germany wouldn’t send their combat-seasoned leaders to oversee our tiny island. Lanz is an aristocrat. He’s here burnishing his reputation without putting himself in real danger. He’ll never be at the front. We’ll play on that, at least for as long as it works. Now that I know whom I’m dealing with, I’ll research his background. I’m sure we have acquaintances in common. We might even share ancestry.”
The servant girl appeared at the top of the stairs and interrupted the conversation. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” she said. “The operator of the boat from Guernsey came by while you spoke with the Germans. He had a piece of mail for you.”
She hesitated before handing the envelope to Marian. “He wanted to slip this to Mr. Carré to bring to you, but the German officers were a bit agitated and in a hurry. The letter arrived yesterday in Guernsey. He said to tell you that there won’t be any more mail coming from or through the British mainland.”
Marian took the letter, and the servant departed. It had been postmarked in France. When she opened the envelope, she saw that the message inside was scrawled on dirty, wrinkled paper. Scanning to the signature line, she brought her hand to her mouth and gasped. “It’s from Lance.”
Stephen bolted across the room and hovered at her shoulder as she read aloud.
“Dearest Family, I’m alive. I hope Jeremy got out all right. I’m a POW, on a forced march with thousands of British and French soldiers—no, tens of thousands—to Germany. The French people have been good to us. They line the roads and slip or throw us food and give us water when they can, but the guards are a sadistic lot and push them away when they see that happening.
This note has our address on it, so maybe it’ll get sent on. If you are reading it, we owe a debt of kindness to a stranger on a street in a town somewhere in France east of Saint-Nazaire.
I think of you always. Mum, I know I was a handful. I wish I could have done better. Dad, I think of all the cliff-climbing and ball-kicking we did. I miss my brothers and sister so much. Thinking of my family sustains me.
I’ll try to get a Red Cross message to you when I reach a destination.
I love you all dearly, Lance”
Marian Littlefield, Dame of Sark, clutched the letter to her breast and sobbed.
56
Marseille, France
Madame Fourcade welcomed Jeremy, Nicolas, Ferrand, and Anna to her rented villa to the northeast of Marseille. Jacques had stayed in the north to fill in until Jeremy’s replacement arrived.
“We can’t do this often,” Fourcade said, “but getting together to see the faces of friends who go in harm’s way warms my heart.” They sat around a table on a large covered veranda. The city sprawled below them, and the blue Mediterranean glimmered in the warm air.
Fourcade put her arm around Anna. “You were so brave,” she told the old lady, who still peered about with apprehension.
“It was nothing,” Anna replied in a high-pitched voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t have to do much acting.” She pointed at her brother-in-law sitting across from her. “Ferrand’s cousin looks so much like him that at first I thought it was him, and my anger with the Germans is real.”
“Well, we lost a valuable asset when you left that battalion headquarters.”
“Not so valuable,” Anna replied, waving a hand. “Bergmann’s gone. He was the only one who learned about me. The Germans don’t check much on the invisible people who do their cleaning. Someone will take my place and get even better information.”
“Well, you did an incredible thing,” Fourcade said. “That information about Meier’s hostility to the Nazis might have long-term value. I’ll get word up the channels.”
“I must go back,” Ferrand cut in. “I only came to bring Anna.”
“I have to go too,” Nicolas interrupted. “I have to be with my father in this fight.”
“Ferrand, you need to rest,” Fourcade said firmly. “I just met you, so I won’t take too many liberties, but you should lie low, take a breather, eat”—she shoved a plate of meat and potatoes his way— “and get your strength back. You’ve been under killer pressure for a long time. If you go back, we need you in top condition. Nicolas and his father can stand in for you until the team leader from London arrives in a few days.
“As for you.” She turned her attention to Nicolas. “You’ll have our full support. You did a marvelous job getting Jeremy across France and then back up to Dunkirk
