Madeleine's War by Peter Watson Read Free Book Online Page A

us.”
    â€œI have no idea. Does anyone? I was once in love with a German.” She sipped some whisky.
    â€œYou
were
? When? What was his name?”
    â€œWhen I lived in Louzac, in 1933—I was fourteen. He was called Rolfe and I thought he was very dashing.”
    â€œAnd…? Did he break your heart? Did you break his?”
    She smiled, but before she could answer, Duncan Kennaway butted in. “Sir, the forecast for tomorrow is not good, not good at all. Instead of doing more fieldwork training, why don’t we switch to codes?”
    â€œAnd use the room overlooking the pines…?” I asked, nodding. “Good idea—yes. Thanks, Duncan. Make sure the one-time pads are available, will you, please?”
    â€œSure. We’ve had a couple of messages from Roland Kemp in Paris, by the way. A list of current French phrases doing the rounds, and a list of collaborationist restaurants and cafés that our agents should steer clear of.”
    He handed over a few decoded telegrams.
    â€œHow’s your mother?” I asked.
    â€œAs well as can be expected, sir. Arthritis doesn’t go away.”
    â€œI can probably do without you tomorrow, if that helps.”
    â€œThat’s very kind, sir, but my mother is well looked after—and she’ll bark at me if I turn up at home when she knows I should be here. A Presbyterian with arthritis is never easy-going and, to be frank, sir, I’m more frightened of her than I am of you.”
    I laughed and so did Madeleine.
    â€œI’ll leave you laughing, if I may, sir. I’m off to bed now, so I’ll wish you both goodnight.”
    He turned and was gone. All either of us could do was call out “Goodnight” to his back.
    I looked at my watch. “It’s—”
    â€œGone eleven, I know.”
    She turned and looked down at the coals in the fireplace. “And thisfire’s going out.” She bent down and kicked some of the few remaining coals with her shoe. They flared into life, but it wouldn’t last.
    She turned back to me. “We were interrupted and I never finished telling you about Rolfe. Rolfe didn’t break my heart, nor I his,” she said softly. “He was a dog, my first pet, a German shepherd, who howled at the moon. He was a bit like you in one way—he looked ferocious, a bit knocked about, as if he’d been in a few fights, but he was really an old softie.”
    â€œI think you are about to get on my wrong side.”
    â€œRelax, Colonel. You’ll know when that happens.”
    She swallowed some whisky and I watched as her throat moved. “Have you ever seen any of Riefenstahl’s films?”
    â€œI saw both of the well-known ones, the one about the Nazi Party rally, and the one about the Olympic Games.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThe Nuremberg rally film was—well, it was impressive and scary all at the same time. They say there were a million people who turned out for that occasion.”
    â€œShe shot two hundred and fifty miles of film for the Olympic Games—isn’t that a-ma-zing?”
    I raised my glass to Madeleine. “You’re impressive, too—knowing all those details.”
    I’d never met anyone quite like Madeleine before, a bundle of talents and surprises, who was as easy on the ear as she was on the eye, and who seemed to grow more beautiful by firelight, when flickering shadows moved over her skin like clouds on a hillside.
    â€œWhy does Riefenstahl fascinate you so much?”
    She shrugged. “I like the way she breaks all the rules. When she started out as an actress, she toured with Max Reinhardt. He was the best director of his day, in 1920s Germany, but he was Jewish. It didn’t matter then, not to her. But then she read
Mein Kampf
, Hitler’s book, and she fell for him, intellectually and emotionally. She wrote to him, asking to meet him—and he agreed! Think of that. Now she