In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

The details of the past twenty-four hours came flooding back to her. The complete feeling of unreality that began when she was awakened in the middle of the night by a German soldier, taken to what was presumably Gestapo headquarters; then the almost miraculous intervention of her employer, Madame Armande, resulting in being whisked away and winding up here, at the Ritz, of all places. It was beyond comprehension. To have gone from pure terror to paté de foie gras in such a brief time moved into the realm of fantasy.

The lackeys at the front entrance had opened doors for her. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” they muttered, bowing. Her small suitcase had been taken from her. They had crossed the magnificent foyer and gone up a flight of red-carpeted stairs. The only people they encountered were German officers, some with a lady at their side. Their wives, or maybe not. Then Madame Armande opened double doors and ushered Margot into her suite.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said. “Does it remind you of your home?”

Margot took in the gilded furniture, the moulded ceiling, the heavy drapes, the soft carpet.

And flowers, flowers everywhere.

“Farleigh has a more lived-in feel to it,” she said. “This is pure luxury.”

“But of course.” Gigi Armande looked around with satisfaction. “I know it’s early, but I’ll order lunch, shall I? You must be starving. What would you like?”

Margot was speechless. For too long now, food had been whatever scraps one could find at the market—vegetable soups, rough bread that tasted like sawdust, meat almost never.

“Order what you like,” Gigi Armande had said. “You look as if you need fattening up.”

And like magic, a rich soup, an omelette aux fines herbes, a thin beefsteak with pommes frites, and a dessert of floating island, accompanied by a bottle of crisp Alsatian wine, had been brought up to the room. She was not at all sure of Gigi Armande’s part in this, whether she was a guardian angel sent from God, or a sly accomplice of the Germans, working to soften her up. But she wasn’t about to turn down good food when Paris had been starving for so long.

Margot had forced back her fears, drunk wine with dinner, and been able to sleep, but now with the bright light of day came the overwhelming feeling of despair. She was now quite aware that she was in a beautiful prison and could picture no good outcome. Of course she was being softened up, made to relax so that when the strike came, she would be caught off guard. It was only a matter of time before she was returned to the Gestapo. She wasn’t quite sure whether Gigi Armande was respected enough by the Germans that they accepted her guarantee to keep the prisoner safe or whether she was actively collaborating with them—part of the plot. It made little difference at this stage. All Margot knew was that she had to play along.

She felt the fear rising in her throat. She had to stay strong whatever happened, for Gaston’s sake as well as her own. If there was any chance that he was still alive and that they might release him, then she had to do whatever it took. If they thought she was merely the lover of someone who happened to be in the Resistance, an innocent bystander, she might be all right. But if they went over the flat thoroughly—tore it apart—then they would certainly find the radio. She didn’t think they would find the codebook. The pages were carefully inserted into a cheap novel, placed among other novels on a shelf. But the radio itself would be enough. They would take her back to Gestapo headquarters and attempt to break her. And only the fact that they wanted her alive for a particular mission would be her one trump card. She had to make them think that she would do their bidding.

There was the slightest chance that word would reach the right people about her fate. The small stamped, addressed envelope had been easy enough to slip in among the vegetables she took down to the concierge. She was sure Madame Armande hadn’t noticed as she put turnips and onions into a basket with the letter already lying at the bottom of it, written in pencil, Please mail this for me. The old concierge hated the Germans passionately and had watched with pity as Margot was taken away, so there was a chance the letter would be mailed. There was also a chance that the address was no longer a safe house for communication. Nothing was certain these days.

Madame Armande stretched luxuriantly, removed her sleep mask, and said, “Bonjour, ma petite,” as if it were any normal morning. “Do you wish to bathe first while I order breakfast?”

Margot took the chance, enjoying the hot water and sweet-smelling soaps. When she came out, Gigi Armande was on the telephone. She was laughing. “You are such a naughty boy,” she said. “Until later, then.” And she put the phone down.

She smiled and looked up at Margot. “Breakfast will be here shortly. They make the most marvellous croissants.”

Margot plucked up her courage as she went toward the balcony and stared out the windows. “Madame, I know this might seem impertinent, but why do the Germans let you stay on here in your old suite when the rest of the hotel is reserved for their officers?”

Madame Armande looked at her and laughed. “It is simple. I design lovely clothes for their wives, and I know everybody in Paris. I am useful to them. So they allow me to exist.”

Margot was sure that wasn’t the entire answer, but she said no more. She had just finished several croissants with real butter and real jam, not to mention real coffee, when there was a tap at the door.

Madame Armande called “Entrez” and in walked Herr Dinkslager, the Gestapo officer from the previous day.

“Good morning, good morning,” he said heartily. “What a beautiful day, is it not? The sort of day to be out and about and go for a ride in the Bois de Boulogne. I trust you slept well, my lady?”

“I did. Thank you.”

“I must apologise for the primitive nature of the bed.” He pointed at the foldaway bed that had been wheeled in for Margot. “It was the best we could do at such short notice.”

“There was no problem with the bed, mein Herr,” she said politely.

“Please take a seat.” He indicated the gilt-and-brocade side chair. Margot sat. The German pulled up a chair and sat looking at Margot. Madame Armande remained quietly in the background. “So the question is, what do we do with you now?” He paused. “I have colleagues who are dying to get their hands on you and make you talk, but I myself am a civilised sort of man. I believe we can communicate aristocrat to aristocrat.” He gave her a friendly smile.

Margot said nothing.

“I’m sure you must hate this stupid war as much as I do,” he said.

“We didn’t start it,” Margot replied evenly.

“Of course not. But you must realise that Hitler thinks highly of the British. We are two Aryan peoples, the cream of civilisation. We should be cooperating, not fighting. The Führer would like nothing better than to make peace with England, and I know this sentiment is shared with many of your people. If you could help to bring about this peace, wouldn’t you want to do so?”

“By peace do you mean capitulation? German occupation?”

“A benevolent occupation.”