Madeleine's War by Peter Watson Read Free Book Online

moon.”
    â€œDo we do that for everyone whose brothers have been killed?”
    â€œNo, not at all. But Duncan knew a lot about SC2—he devised some of our codes. We couldn’t risk him revealing what he knew.”
    â€œSo it wasn’t really about his mother and his brothers?”
    â€œThat was an added bonus.”
    She was silent for a while as the flames flickered behind her. “That’s not how Duncan sees it. He says you saved both his and his mother’s life.”
    I smiled. “People in the field have to know that everything will be done to support them. That’s why Duncan told you—to ink it into your mind.” I gestured to her frock.
    â€œI like your dress.”
    â€œAll I have with me is two pairs of slacks, two blouses, two skirts, and this frock. It was the frock’s turn.” She gave a slight shiver. “I’m thawing out at last.”
    â€œWhen you’ve finished here, and move down to London, we shall fityou out in French-style clothes, with French labels, in French sizes—centimetres, not inches. Inches would be a giveaway.”
    â€œI can’t wait. I’m tired of looking dowdy.”
    â€œOh, I’m not sure French wartime styles are any better than ours. Don’t get your hopes up.”
    â€œA girl’s not going to be seen in Paris without…without showing a bit of…flair.”
    â€œHow do you know you are going to Paris?”
    She made a face. “Spoilsport! Bordeaux, then, or Lyon, or Louzac, for that matter.
All
French women are fashion-conscious.”
    â€œLouzac?”
    â€œWhere my father came from. Have you forgotten already?”
    Madeleine looked up at me and smiled. Skin as smooth as eggshell, brown eyes as I said before, a brown-gold that reminded me of whisky (a lot of things remind me of whisky), and a furrow between her eyebrows, making it look as if she was always about to break out in a frown. But, after her hair, the fringes of which glinted in the light from the fire, it was her neck that caught the eye. It was long, curved, like that of a newborn foal. It carried her head like a swan’s—the way she held herself she reminded me of a ballet dancer.
    â€œI’ve never been to Paris,” she said sadly. “I love the Paris scenes in that new film,
Casablanca
, where Bogart and Bergman begin their affair, driving around in an open-topped car before the Germans invade. But maybe I’ll never go.”
    â€œOf course, you will. If you didn’t have such eye-catching hair, you’d look a bit like Ingrid Bergman, so it’s only fitting that you go. You’ll love it, the cobblestones—especially when they are wet—the street lights, the smell of the Métro, the Grands Boulevards, with their chestnut trees, and the sidewalk cafés with their waiters in long black aprons, the way they wash their streets with running water that disappears into gutters. Not even the Germans can have ruined Paris.”
    â€œAre you always so nice about the Germans?”
    â€œI can be, yes. Are all Germans Nazis, do you think? I don’t.”
    She shrugged. “When I was a young girl, I wanted to be a dancer. I had a few lessons, got accepted by a dance school, then a small ballet troupe. I loved it but then I twisted my knee—badly—I tore all sorts of ligaments and muscles, and it never recovered completely. It ruined my hopes and I had to give up dance. I was heartbroken.”
    She moved further from the fire. “I’m telling you this because we are talking about Germans and I once read that Leni Riefenstahl started out as a dancer; then she too damaged her knee and had to give up. And look what happened to her—she turned to acting, then made those documentaries. Is she a Nazi, or not? They say she was—and maybe still is—Hitler’s lover. She fascinates me.”
    â€œI wonder what the Germans think of